If you've enjoyed RR of Arabia, check out the sequel! New location, new format, same blog style. The adventure continues at http://robersontrain.blogspot.com.

Hope to see you there...

The UAE and me

Tonight is my last night in the UAE. I've dug through the layers of the two years here and have come full circle. My apartment is as empty as it was when I arrived, jet-lagged and clueless 22 months ago. I'm repatriating a lot wiser in more ways than one. If my last post was a heartfelt journey through the deeply personal, I think I'll leave on a jauntier note.

What I'll miss about the UAE (besides people, that is a given...):

--The call to prayer, especially the sunset edition. Unlike many places, Abu Dhabi broadcasts the call from a central location, so every mosque starts and stops at the same time. This increases the volume, though you don't get that "multiple clock tower" effect of many calls building, overlapping, then slowly fading away. Here, every call has a different style or setting (not quite a tune). The evening call to prayer starts out with a mournful, sustained, three-note sequence sung by one heck of a tenor. It's beautiful, and I have not heard it's like anywhere else in the Muslim world.

--The Corniche. This Gulfside promenade is a perfect walking path/people-watching venue where the whole world meets, from the richest CEO to the poorest construction worker. Everyone in Abu Dhabi can take a stroll down the Corniche.

--Funky architecture. It started with the sailboat Burj al Arab (that iconic hotel in Dubai) and has gone on to

encompass buildings that twist, lean and look like Frisbees. And they haven't even build the Louvre and the Guggenheim yet.

--A dash of Gulf excess. Just a dash. Though Ski Dubai and the water parks make me a queasy if I think about them too much, there is a certain Gulf panache around here that even Vegas can't touch. Maybe it's the three Porsches regularly parked on my street (not to mention the Mercedes, Beamers, Lexi and even a Bentley and Ferrari) or the full-on fireworks displays put on from time to time by the neighbors. Maybe it's the free concerts and lavish art exhibits; the bling on women's abeyyas; the tallest building in the world, the man-made islands in whimsical shapes, the chilled pools and dizzying array of fine dining options. Or, let's face it, every blade of green grass in this desert nation. Like all excess, it's not good for us. But there is something admirable in the self-confidence it takes to pull it off.

The UAE is such a wonderfully strange place--a country that has emerged from the desert in a generation and continues to find its way through the twists and turns of our era. I will always be grateful for the chance to see it in its prime. Thank you, Abu Dhabi.

With love,

RR of Arabia

New leaf

I'm moving back across the world in less than a month, a fact I conveniently forget much of the time, as I enjoy the last few weeks of the school year, walks with K on the Corniche, the ritual weekend cappucino and my favorite supermarket chicken biryani for lunch. Soon, though, it will be impossible to ignore the looming deadlines, the packing to be done and the hard goodbyes. Transitions have never been easy for me. Unlike the broken-in fuzzy slippers of the present, the Great Unknown of the future seems to glower in the shadows, and my hamster brain spins all sorts of what-ifs. I also get sad, regardless of how right the change seems to be. A chapter of my life will end when I board my flight to Austin in the early morning hours of June 8, and nothing in this lifetime will bring it back. I have friends, admirable, brilliant, well-adjusted people, who cannonball into the pool of life's changes with a c'est la vie and a rebel yell. I'm the one easing into the shallow end, squealing and clutching the ladder.

And surely the same one, 10 metaphorical minutes later, paddling around, hardly remembering what the fuss was about.

I'm old enough now to know this. For the past few months, I've been slowly peeling away the layers of my life in Abu Dhabi and living with the blank slate of the next step. Without losing too much sleep. I have sorted stuff, researched shipping methods, packed a few boxes and given away my furniture. Soon, the boxes will go, the bank account will be closed. My residence visa will be canceled; my cell phone deactivated. I'll leave a forwarding address for the school and pick up my last check. I'm not looking forward to saying goodbye, but I'm at peace.

I have learned so much these past two years. So much that I can hardly remember the person I was when I arrived, though I've recovered a few artifacts while packing that serve as reminders. I found an untouched bottle of 200 Wellbutrin tablets tucked in my bedside drawer, a vivid symbol of the year I spent on anti-depressants before easing off of them just two weeks before leaving for Abu Dhabi. I brought them with me just in case, but I am no longer dealing daily with unrelenting feelings of failure and shame. I came across the copy of The Giving Tree, a good-bye gift by a former colleague given with love and the very best of intentions as I was leaving San Francisco. To her, it was a tribute to the sacrifices I made for her and for the school where I worked. She even got our team to sign it, like a yearbook. What she didn't know was that I have always hated the story of The Giving Tree, with its co-dependent tree and sociopathically grabby boy. I will keep it always as a reminder never again to drain myself of life until I become nothing but a stump.

Today, I feel the opposite of stump-like. I feel balanced in a way that leads me to believe that I will not get sucked down the workaholic rabbit hole when I start my new job in Austin, even though I will be working for the same type of school as before. And it's not just because I've had an easy schedule at a well-funded private school for two years. It has helped to rest, but I was rested after the first semester. It didn't make me feel at home in Abu Dhabi. What's made me feel balanced as a person and a professional has been the discipline of setting boundaries and sticking to them--and discovering that I can still be an effective, respected teacher and a full member of the community. It feels weird to call what amounts to saying no repeatedly a "discipline," but that's what it is. Not becoming department head. Not leading my grade level team when asked. Telling my principal and the curriculum coordinator that I didn't want to return to administration until they stopped asking. Saying no to subbing for my whole first year. I came to Abu Dhabi with the goal of being a classroom teacher and learning about how to live without burning out. Period. Turning off all the "should" voices and sticking to that has given me a huge boost of confidence. It's almost as though I now believe I can take of myself. Whether I do or not remains to be seen, but I know I can. Whereas I wasn't so sure before, given my years of Giving-Tree-like self abuse.

Not that Austin is a lateral move. Abu Dhabi was the bunny slope of boundary setting. That's where the well-funded private school thing does come in. Austin will be different. The needs of the community and the realities of public school teaching in a state that is currently writing bald-face lies into the social studies standards will be a true test of this new resolve. I have learned that I am healthier and happier when I put boundaries in place and stick to them. I'm confident I can do that. What I haven't had practice doing yet (as much) is sticking to those boundaries in a situation where I feel other people may be adversely affected (in the short term) by my decision. Is it all or nothing? Could the Giving Tree have stopped at her leaves and smaller branches or is it one big slippery slope? Should you only give what you can renew easily or is a life of "sustainable tree management" acceptable (ie: sacrificing a little more now and then, but intentionally and sustainably)? OK, I might be overdoing it with the Giving Tree metaphor here, but you know what I mean. I suppose finding out is the next step in this journey toward a balanced life in a helping profession. I'm sure I'll get plenty of practice in Austin...

Burj-eye view

The Burj Khalifa (nee Dubai), the world's tallest structure as of this minute, is a sleek, mirror-plated skyscraper that towers above the UAE's newest (and biggest) mall/hotel complex/condo community. This weekend, I traveled to the top on the world's fastest elevator (64 mph!) with K and her brother, who is visiting. My brother, who visited two weeks ago, had previous made the trip solo, but his descriptions and pics couldn't do justice to the experience of being 1, 450 feet above a city without the aid of an aircraft.

The trip also provided an interesting view of the Dubai, both literal and figurative.

To get to the observation deck of the Burj, visitors first must find the access point in the maze of the Dubai Mall, which opened about this time last year to much fanfare. It features an aquarium, underwater museum, a dancing fountain (a la the Bellagio in Vegas), an ice skating/ice go-carting rink (ice go-carting?), an organic grocery store, every shop you can imagine from the four corners of the globe and the country's only Taco Bell. Once you locate the Burj entrance, you are ushered through a metal detector and down several long, windowless corridors that feature displays of the building process and reminders of how far Dubai has come in such a short time. One 3-D exhibit includes an old Bedouin-looking man with a falcon peering off into the "distance" where Dubai slowing (and digitally) is taking shape before his eyes. In the final panel, a comet is shooting into space, implying, perhaps, that not even the sky is the limit. This exhibit ends in a white wall and the line for the elevators. (pictured above is a new of the fountain and the hotel/souk complex right next to the Dubai Mall. You can see where the development stops right at the top of the photo)

The elevators. The lead up, already Disneyfied, infuses the wait for the elevator with a pre-roller coaster feel. The line is even organized into switchbacks, like at amusement parks or airports. There are two elevators that lead up to the observation deck, and there are three different staff people who eyeball guests to avoid overloads. (This may be because an unlucky group of tourists were stranded between floors for 45 minutes in February, forcing a shutdown until just a few weeks ago.) All the ultra-modern decor and careful prep add a frisson of thrill. It makes the elevator ride itself a bit anti-climatic, despite the dim lights, blue flashing arrows and a space-age soundtrack. It was almost impossible to detect any motion, though my ears popped several times. In a mere 30 seconds or so, the doors soundlessly opened and we stepped out onto the platform.

I'm pleased to report that building technology has changed over the years so much so that I could barely detect the motion of the tower from its 124th floor. (The Burj has 160 floors in total.) More than 15 years ago, my father and I clung to the inner walls of the Sears Tower observation deck; he because of the heights and me because of the very noticeable sway on that Windy City day. Although it was windy, the Burj barely moved at all. K explained that tall buildings, including the Taipei 101 (designed by the same people as the Burj) now feature a huge steel pendulum built into the top of the building to counteract the sway. Whatever it was, it worked like a charm.

Dubai spread out before us in all its glory. Sort of. Around the Burj were a thin cluster of skyscrapers lining the main highway, a low strip of housing developments, a few parks and malls, and then the vast expanse of desert stretching out as far as the eye could see. From 1,400 feet, the urban miracle of Dubai looked a little like one of the those movie sets of the Old West with buildings lining Main Street, but nothing but scrub just beyond the swinging saloon door. I experienced the double vision that often accompanies a trip to Dubai. Despite the manic expansion and shiny new feel of the place, I can't help but overlay a more tumbleweedy scene, as I imagine the years creeping by and the money running out. Dubai is doing everything in its power to stave off that day (as is Abu Dhabi), and I don't want to cast aspersions on their efforts. But you don't have to spend much time in the UAE before you get the feeling that large numbers of people just weren't meant to live here; that everything is necessarily temporary because eating 95% imported food, drinking desalinated water and being encased in an air-conditioned bubble for so much of the year simply isn't sustainable. It casts mega-projects like the Burj and the Dubai Mall in a different, almost melancholy light.

Or maybe it's me who is melancholy, since I won't be living in this strange, intriguing place for very much longer. I won't miss the out-of-synch feeling of it not quite being real. I will miss the audacity of the world's tallest building emerging from the sands.

The tao of softball

This post is about fate, karma, change, chance and the physics of force, speed and momentum. I'm not talking about the big universe of supernovas and shooting stars. I'm talking about the universe contained on a green diamond between two baselines, one of the most deceptive simple places on Earth, but one that contains constellations of events that Einstein himself couldn't tame. There are places that boggle the mind, because they are both real and magical at the same time. Venice is one; your neighborhood softball field is another.

This weekend, the JV girls team at my school traveled to Doha, Qatar, to play a tournament with five other international schools in the region. We went last year and got third. We went this year and took fifth (even though we were the only ones to beat the team who came in first). The fact was, we had lost our experienced pitcher, and a single season is not long enough to train another, given the number of regular-season games before the tournament (three, two of which we won). Standings and scores, however, are almost beside the point when discussing softball. As a coach, I know I'm supposed to want to win. And I do want to win, because winning is more fun than losing if that is the paradigm on the table. But this weekend, I was blown away by the beauty of the game well before the match that decided our last-place ranking.

My love of softball reaches back to elementary school and an early appreciation of a single basic truth: Softball is a game of skill, strategy and strength, like all sports. And softball is so much more than muscle mass and a good playbook, which is where the magical part comes in. In softball, anything can happen, and often does. The weakest player can tower above the greats in the blink of an eye. A whole game can turn on a butterfly effect, like the centimeters that separate a foul from a base hit or a ball from a strike. After practice is over, pep talks given, warm ups completed and the game begins, all a player or a coach can do is sit back and watch it unfold.

I most love the small moments, the hero moments, like our right fielder catching a ball up against the fence to prevent a grand slam: the crack of the bat, the endless arch of the long ball, the collective intake of breath from both dugouts...then the reach of the glove and the look on the face of a struggling player who realizes what she has done. It's a scene that's been rhapsodized and romanticized by writers and filmmakers through the years until it seems a cliche to non-fans--and yet I promise you, Hollywood technicolor cannot touch the true victory of such a moment. I would argue strenuously that no other sport so graciously distributes access to pure triumph. Softball throws open the curtain and allows anyone to step into the spotlight normally reserved for superstars.

It's no accident, then, that baseball and softball are common metaphors in the American narrative fueled by a rabid belief in progress, achievement and hope, along with a dash of kooky optimism. That the game is pretty much confined to the New World, and not just philosophically, is clear as a coach of an international-school team where some of the girls have been playing since kindergarten, and others aren't quite sure which base is which. One of my favorite players, however, is a sophomore and a native of Spain who is so thoroughly European that she threw a fit when I told her my shoe size was 8 1/2 rather than 38 (the Euro version). Yet she has played this most American of sports since 6th grade (having learned it here) and wouldn't dream of skipping a season. She also leaps into the air to catch a fly ball, regardless of her field position, jumping toward it, even as it races to her. It's a technique that lends itself to graceful plays, along with the occasional dramatic miss. Softball, however, is not a game where you tell your players to stop moving toward the ball, regardless of how artistically they choose to do it.

I returned to school today and had to face the questions, from the athletic director as well as other competitive sorts. In the league my school is in, last-place finishes are not common occurrences, and no one expected us to lose (including us, obviously). We'd had the best season in a long time. I understand the impulse, and tried not chafe. For competitive people, it's embarrassing to come in at the bottom. It makes me sad, though. I couldn't rewind to the moments that would allow them to move past the many walks of our rookie pitchers and arrive at our victories. The catches and leaps. The physics of tag outs, slides and line-drive shots. The confluence of fate and skill that leads, time and time again, to Possibility with a capital p. For me, the magic contained in those moments transcends the outcome. I wouldn't trade it for the world.

Bangkok hits

I'm not even going to try to say anything new about Bangkok. Millions of travelers (including most of you) have already experienced this pulsing, organic capital on the banks of the Chao Praya River. I say 'pulsing' because light and sound careen off the soaring, windowed walls of skyscrapers, down along the elevated Sky Train tracks and vibrate among the temple towers and tin market shacks. I say 'organic' not in the environmental sense, but to evoke an image of the vibrant green of the tropics meshed with the tentacles of urban sprawl all seen through a steamy haze of wet season humidity.

Bangkok is a living city, and there's nothing cooler than a living city, where history can co-exist with people who are alive right now, and need to get from point A to point B, find a podiatrist, buy toothpaste and hold down a job. As with many living cities worth a visit, the modern and the traditional meet in Bangkok in fascinating ways. People make sweet offerings of bottled sodas (complete with straws) as well as incense and marigolds at neighborhood shrines. Ronald McDonald's hands are molded into a respectful greeting at the door of his restaurant. The malls and the old-style markets are both packed, as are the temples and the bars. Writers much more skilled than I have pointed out Bangkok's seeming contradictions through the years (see the lyrics of "One Night In Bangkok" from the musical Chess for a nice summary), but what do you expect of any place after customs melt, blend and change over centuries? It's simply a function of being alive, organic, if you will. And, as previously mentioned, Bangkok tops the charts in that particular category.

It has also, apparently, inspired an outbreak of purple prose, so I'll back down a bit and resort to a list of Bangkok's greatest hits as experienced by K and me over six days, much of which was spent at a teaching conference (useful, but not your typical Bangkok, although the Royal Orchid Sheraton is quite a lovely experience, I won't lie...), with a few days at a much more low-key hotel in the exact middle of the Red Shirt demonstrations near the Democracy Monument. Impassioned speeches and calls to action (in Thai) added to the uplifting soundtrack of the trip, which also included international backpacker techno tunes and traditional Southeast Asia stings.

Suan Lum Night Bazaar--Come for the cheesy T-shirts and faux ninja stars, stay for the fish spa! Bangkok's biggest and most wholesome (ie: lots of Gucci knock-offs and not a pimp in sight) night market might be a tourist magnet but it attracts plenty of Thais looking for bargains in the four square blocks of flea market tents. Interspersed between the "teak" Buddhas and racks of flip-flops are islands of calm that offer massages and spa treatments for the price of a Starbucks latte. The fish spa, my personal favorite, features a jumbo tank of those little sucker fish--and they're not just for algae anymore! Your dead foot skin is a tasty alternative, and they detach from the glass walls of the tank in droves as soon as you stick your tootsies in. It feels like an assault of tiny pecks, super ticklish at first, soothing after awhile (pictured left are my very own feet, mid-spa). Also highly recommended: 60-minute foot, neck, shoulder and head massage for $8.

Jim Thompson's House--Who doesn't know a Jim Thompson? This particular Jim was an ex-CIA agent turned textile promoter who came to Bangkok, re-introduced the Western world to Thai silk, cobbled together a compound of eight gorgeous traditional Thai houses then disappeared without a trace in the hills of Malaysia. Conspiracy theories abound, to be sure, especially given that his sister was murdered the same year. The latest, though, is that he was accidentally hit by a truck driver who hid the remains for fear of reprisals. The fascinating back story adds allure to the small museum, Thai art exhibit and pleasant cafe his former residence has become, thanks to preservation efforts by his foundation and the Thai government. K and I were told by fellow tourists that the house was "expensive but worth it." It cost $3 to get in, which hardly breaks the bank in my book, but whatever. It was worth it, especially the ancient Chinese porcelain training potties and the warm wooden floors.

Wat Pho--You haven't lived until you've seen a Buddha recline like the one at the famous Wat Pho. His golden ear alone is almost as tall as I am. All told, the famous mega statue stretches 46 meters (that's 101 feet!) from headdress to heel. Also at Wat Pho are beautiful tiled prayer halls, playful garden statues, lavishly decorated monuments to various kings, and rows and rows of smaller, upright Buddhas in various states of repair, about 390 in all!


Cooking with Angsana--It has long been my dream to 1) go to Thailand and 2) take a cooking class. On our last day in the city, K and I visited the home of Angsana, a Thai cook and savvy businesswoman who has set up a cooking school in her back room. Like the more institutional set ups, Angsana buys the raw materials. Unlike the bigger schools, K and I did all the chopping, pounding, slicing and dicing ourselves (pictured below left). Not to mention the shrimp-head-decapitating, deveining, peeling and sauteing. And the mortar and pestling. And the wok-frying. In other words, we actually cooked for three hours with a chef on call to demonstrate, give advice and step in before a certain someone (me) scalded the heck out of the coconut milk. For one-on-one Thai cooking instruction, there's no one better in the city, I'm sure. Angsana charges a reasonable rate for a private lesson (K and I paid about $60 each, which included a cute apron, recipes and, of course, all the supplies for our luscious three-course meal). Unlike chez Jim T., Angsana really is pricey for Thailand, but K and I both agreed it was well worth it (and $20/hour seems reasonable for private cooking lessons) as well as respectful of Angsana's time. Plus, we were both in awe of her business model: offer a service people want and will pay for, host it in your home, do something you enjoy all day, all within three steps of your two year old and elderly mother. What kind of dream job is that? We were happy to add to the win-win-win of it all.

Tuk-tuks--I heart tuk-tuks! Scooters with a back seat zip around Bangkok with death-defying speed (when not caught in traffic jams). For a mere 90 cents to $3.20 per ride, they are an excellent deal as well as great fun. Again, the Lonely Planet is unnecessarily dismissive, in my opinion. Sure, the drivers will quote a ridiculous price up front, but the law of supply and demand (tuk-tuks are everywhere) gives the rider the upper hand in negotiations, and almost every price comes way down. We also gladly paid a bit more to prevent a "stop" at the cousin or uncle's store (also best negotiated up front). In the end, haggling for a tuk-tuk ride proved more efficient than the regular taxis. The taximen of Bangkok are either the only professional drivers in the world who cannot navigate the major landmarks of their own city or (much more likely in K and my opinion), intentionally get lost to run up the meter. We found, mysteriously, that metered taxi rides cost about the same no matter where we were going. Strangely, once we adopted a tuk-tuk strategy and decided on a non-metered price up front, the taxi driver never once lost the way.

Though there are worse things than getting lost in a city like Bangkok. In a few days, we could only scratch the surface. Which only means there will be more to do next time...Any suggestions? Please leave them here!

A burj by any other name...

This Saturday, the JV girls softball team that I coach had a double-header against our "cross town" rivals in Dubai (and the only other softball program in the country). The girls went 1-1 with a strong second game. Our two new pitchers (8th graders) are off to a solid start, and we have a shot at victory when the opposing team visits us on April 8.

But that is not the main topic of this post. The main topic of this post is our planet's newest tallest building, which dominates the view from the softball field at the American school where we played. Last year when our teams faced off on that same field, the tower was known as the Burj Dubai, and was still skeletal at about the 145th floor. This year it loomed over us throughout the day, the hot sun blazing off its smooth, glassy surface; its tower rising into the sky, a good 1,046 feet taller than its closest rival (the Taipai 101).

It also had a new name.

The Burj Dubai was renamed the Burj Khalifa sometime between the summer of 2009 and its opening on January 4, 2010. This is also, as you might recall, about the same time that Dubai's debt crisis hit with forecasts of gloom and doom for this once-shining light of x-treme capitalism. Burj is the Arabic word for tower. Khalifa is the name of the president of the UAE and the head of the royal family. Of Abu Dhabi. Not coincidentally, said sheikh had just approved a $10 billion transfer into Dubai's empty coffers.

Those of us who heard of the renaming and know a bit about politics in these here parts laughed ruefully at the news. Because the UAE might present a united front on the international stage, at, say, the Olympics or the U.N., but back at home, the emirates lead decidedly separate lives. They have their own royal families whose hands-on style of governance is a constant reminder that this country remains a patchwork of tiny sheikhdoms. Renaming Dubai's symbol of economic prowess after the sheikh of Abu Dhabi is tantamount to renaming the Boston Red Sox, the Boston Yankees. Yet as extreme as this comparison may seem to baseball die hards, it only hints at the vast amount of crow that had to be eaten by Dubai in order to suck it up and agree to the name change. You can only imagine the conversation as it unfolded. I've attempted to recreate it here, cutting through what must certainly have been days and days of ornate Arabic and desert etiquette.

Abu Dhabi: We have about $10 billion lying around and for the good of our collective image, our honor as Emeratis and to keep the creditors from tearing us all apart bit by bit, why don't we lend it to you. More tea?

Dubai: Don't mind if I do. Here, try some dates. Wow...that's really cool of you guys. How can we ever repay you?

Abu Dhabi: These dates are delicious! Well...there's just this one little thing...

And so the Burj Khalifa was born. No one has yet added 'The biggest naming gift in history" to the list of the tower's many world records, but it must be up there. So far, the Burj has been plagued by vacancies (30,000 apartments and nine different hotels!) and dodgy elevators (which, when not stranding tourists between floors, shoot up and down at speeds of 60 km/hr). But, it IS the world's tallest building. At least until the next one comes along...