Polish home cookin'

It's looking like food ranks high on the list of exciting things that have happened to me this holiday season. Maybe that's always been the case, only now I have an audience for it. My friend B, who has known me longer than almost anyone, says I'm truly a blogger if I take pictures of food and write about it (see his comment in the shrimp and grits post). It's a valid statement, but it's not going to stop me...

I've been in NYC for the past few days, visiting K and her family in Brooklyn, and seeing M, college friend, true compadre and one of the most passionate, yet low-key and omnivorous foodies out there. (I've seen him beam with as much pleasure at the thought of street food in Mexico as he did when anticipating a meal at Chez Panisse.) He was psyched to join K and me at a Polish milk bar in Greenpoint, next to the Slavic and Polish Culture Center and well off the beaten path. K and her family were adamant that we go to a proper Polish restaurant, but M and I insisted on an authentic experience at the stolowka, a Polish cafeteria complete with homemade dishes, plastic trays, formica tables, ladies in hairnets and the news from Warsaw on the TV. The food is better and cheaper--and the next closest milk bar is 8,000 miles east. Why would we go anywhere else?

Eastern European food has a reputation for being hearty, bland and starchy. This is undeserved in the case of Polish food. True, the cabbage and potato make frequent appearances (along with a harvest of internal organs), but they are accompanied by often striking flavor combinations. At the stolowka, we had pea soup and two speciality soups: clear borscht with ear-shaped dumplings stuffed with mushrooms, and a highly spiced tripe soup. I loved the delicate, vineagery borscht, and M couldn't get enough of the meaty, spicy tripe (which I also liked, but not as much as the borscht). We rounded things out with a plate of meat pierogies and a plate of K's favorite stuffed cabbage with tomato sauce.

I felt a special kinship with the pierogies, having helped K and her mom make them in Brooklyn the evening before. We made the potato and cheese kind, rolling out the sticky dough K's mom made on the counter top. I watched her the whole time, trying to figure out the correct proportion of flour to egg and water, while she mixed and kneaded effortlessly. K and I stuffed the dough pockets with a savoury potato and cheese mix, which we then boiled and fried. We ate them with finely chopped onions. Delish! At the stolowka, the pierogies were boiled, not fried, but still served with fried onions.

Other culinary highlights of NYC include Polish donuts stuffed with jam, pickle soup (yum!), blood sausage, and a dizzying array of Polish candy and cookies, too numerous to name, but many featuring the best gingerbread I've ever eaten. We also tasted what other cultures do with cabbage and dumplings during a trip to a Korean restaurant (a K family favorite), where they have some of the best kimchee in town.

We head back to Abu Dhabi on New Years Day, so you'll get a break from foodie posts, and I have enough delicable memories to last well into 2009...

The best Christmas pageant ever

The Christmas pageant at Grace Cathedral in San Francisco is an extended metaphor of what I love about being a liberal Episcopalian. Families arrive about 30 minutes before the service. Their children choose their roles (angel, shepherd, wise person--all genders welcome, naturally) from a lavish pile of costumes collected over the years. Each angel has a white robe, wings and a halo. Each shepherd has an array of earth-toned tunics and head wraps to mix and match. The wise folks have it best, in my opinion, with a bazaar's worth of fancy fabrics, turbans and crowns, along with gold spray-painted lumps of wood to represent the gifts. (Goddaughter Caroline in angelic regalia)

After everyone suits up, the bishop reads (and extemporizes) the basic Christmas story. Mary and Joseph (the only preassigned roles) troop up the center aisle with Mary on a rented pony guided by its shepherd-clad handler. A mom (dressed as an angel) places the baby Jesus-of-the-year on Mary's lap, then hovers close by. Last year, my hefty, six-month-old nephew played Jesus. This year, an Asian baby of about the same age filled the role with equal aplomb. As the story progresses, the congregation sings hymns to match the action and the angel choir (about 30 girls and the occasional boy ages 3-10), the flock of shepherds (at least 20) and the wise folk (25 extravagantly clad pre-teens, one of them carrying a large, sequined star on a stick) make their appearance and crowd the alter area. Everyone mills around, mostly quietly. There are a few real goats that enter with the shepherds (though the pony quickly exits stage left after dropping off the BVM). These provide some entertainment to the younger members of the Nativity scene while the bishop continues the familiar tale. (This is a pic of Mary surrounded by wise folk at the Grace Cathedral pageant two years ago, but the scene today was similar.)

The whole thing takes about 45 minutes from start to finish. As one of the clergy says, it works beautifully every year no matter what happens. It's impossible to make a mistake or do it "wrong." Kids feel comfortable and welcome--they are also much more likely to absorb the message while dressed in a cool costume and sitting at the bishop's feet rather than stuck in an itchy church outfit out in the pews. Parents feel comfortable and welcome--and are also much more likely to absorb the message when their children are excited and occupied. It's everything good about a church where the spirit of the law usually trumps the letter of the law and where awe inspired by a live goat at the communion rail is valued alongside awe inspired by the Baby J. No one has to be anxious or rehearsed to death in order to pull off an exuberant rendition of the Greatest Story Ever Told. Even the prayers come from the kids. One young shepherd brought down the house when he told the bishop to pray for "a smart president." The bishop assured him (accompanied by cheers and applause) that his prayers had already been answered.

This year I took my scarily precocious goddaughter, who wanted to dress up as a lamb, but settled for a pair of angel wings as long as I dressed up too. She was interested in everything: the empty stable set before the play started, the arrival of Mary on the pony, the baby, the manger, the fact that we were in Bethlehem, even if we were just pretending. During the pageant, we positioned ourselves to pet the goats, took a quick snack break (a tangerine) and had a good look at the Holy Family, the bishop and the star on a stick. Afterward, we got our candy canes and found the pony, along with every other member of the angel choir (ie: little girls, ages 3-10).

I could talk about the wonder of seeing Christmas through the eyes of a child, even an almost three year old who can find Romania on the globe and wants an accordion for Christmas (I'm not kidding and, yes, she's getting one.) But that's not what I was thinking about. I was thinking about how free my goddaughter was to approach the pageant in the way she wanted with as many questions she wanted (she's definitely going through that "why" phase). She could make her entrance, take a break, come back, ask more questions, wander around and check out anything that caught her attention. It was so cool to watch her questions lead to more questions--there probably isn't a better way to encourage religious inquiry in kids, or any other type of inquiry for that matter. I'll see her again in a few days and plan to ask her what she remembers most about the pageant today. Maybe she'll put down her accordion long enough to answer. I wonder what it will be. I'm voting for the goats, the baby or the candy cane. What more do you need for the best Christmas pageant ever?

Shrimp and grits

Although I've sampled a wide variety of cuisine in the past months, from heart-shaped falafel to kebab any which way to amazing homemade chicken curry, I had a true culinary experience today. While at lunch with my stepmother, I sampled my very first plate of that good, ol' North Carolinian concoction: shrimp and grits.

If you've ever traveled in the South, you know about grits. They are made from hominy (a close relative of corn) and come in yellow and white. Though they have a low-brow reputation (elevated in recent years thanks to retro nostalgia), they are actually in the same food catagory as some mushrooms and all escargot, in that a plate of grits is a mostly tasteless delivery system for things that really do taste good. (I'm now typing under the desk to avoid being rotten-tomatoed by offended grit connaisseurs and Southophiles, but this Californian stands by her statement.)

The plate of shrimp and grits I had today proves my point, but it doesn't mean it wasn't delicious. On top of a pile of mildly-flavored yellow mush the consistency of Cream of Wheat (that'd be the grits) was layered bubbling cheddar cheese, generous bits of bacon, a pile of plump shrimp and a generous scattering of artichoke hearts. The grits provided the (extremely) subtle base for this load of flavorful goodness. Anything stronger would have ruined the effect.

Which is why I recommend shrimp and grits to anyone traveling in the Carolinas. And encourage all and sundry to let me know just how wrong (or right) I am about grits. (I promise to respond to all comments...)

The arc of history gets personal

I traveled for more than 30 hours to make it home for my maternal grandmother's 90th birthday last Sunday. And, although it was brutal and the only thing that got me on the plane to West Coast after landing in at JFK was the support of K and her mom and a chair massage in the depths of Terminal 7 (truly the best $40 I have ever spent), part of me marveled that I could fly from Arabian Peninsula to California in about the time it used to take my grandmother (in her youth) to travel back to college in North Carolina from her home in New Jersey.

Both of my grandmothers are still living (the paternal one is 94). They are sharp as tacks, though a strong wind could knock either one of them over. As I've moved into my mid-30s (sigh), it's been very cool (and not a little reassuring) to watch them age so gracefully and in remarkably good spirits. The world has changed so much in their lifetimes, and they have rolled with it. They are of a generation that viewed progress as mostly inevitable and technology as universally good, but they still deserve mucho credit for their openness and curiosity, especially my 90-year-old grandmother, who has become more progressive politically and socially as she's aged.

It is also mind-boggling to think, given how far we have come within the lifetime of this grandmother, what unimaginable things are in store for us in the years to come.

In my grandmothers' lifetimes, homes have gone from gas lighting to electricity. Kitchens have moved from ice boxes to refrigeration. Telephones, cars, frozen food, mass-produced anything, to say nothing of computers, cell phones and email, are everywhere. Massive labor-saving devices like washing machines, dish washers, vacuum cleaners, and microwaves changed lives. Such work was, of course, done by hand when my grandmothers were girls (and still is in many parts of the world. My years in Cameroon gave me a profound appreciation for washing machines in particular. Doing heavy duty laundry by hand is an incredibly long and arduous chore). There have been more than a few revolutions and movements that accompanied and/or fostered these technological advances. And they have made real gains despite how discouraged some of us often are at the slow rate of change. Women were granted the right to vote the year my grandmother was born, and this year a woman ran for president. Jim Crow ruled the South and the country was 40 years away from the Civil Rights Movement in 1918. This year an African American (whom she voted for) became president. True, 2008 has been a banner year for progress, but there have been growth spurts throughout this and the last century that come into especially clear focus when viewed through the lifetime of one close family member.

So what's next? I remember sitting my History of Mass Communication class in 1993 listening to my professor predict Blackberries and iPhones. I'm chagrined to say our group of college sophomores was more than a bit incredulous. Maybe in 20 years, I thought. Try less than 10. What could possibly be in store for us in the next 50?

Happy birthday, Mimi!

Your Oman itinerary, day 3 (and 4)

Dream of camels and old mud brick, but wake up to your last morning in Nizwa. On your way out of town, make a stop at the Nizwa fort, which you may have been putting off cause it's right there, and there were other things to see.

The Nizwa fort is definitely worth a stop, regardless of the number of forts you've already seen. Unlike Jabreen Castle, it is fully developed as a tourist site, complete with interpretive panels throughout the building, and a museum that details Omani traditional crafts and farming methods. The round tower still has the slots which they used to pour boiling date juice down on invaders, as well as the trap doors built into the stairs, also meant to slow invaders.

After exploration and excellent photo ops of the mosque and town, JL bought a hand-woven goat-hair rug in the gift shop, which was something she'd been looking for all trip. Apparently, those lucky enough to rent a 4WD have the chance to be sold a rug at the very top of Jebel Shams (see day 1). Those of us without the gear power have to resort to the market.

We headed for Muscat after the fort and made good time through the mountains. I kept expecting the contours of the land to smooth as we neared the ocean, but the jagged hill followed the freeway through the extensive suburbs all the way to the Mutrah neighborhood with its corniche and semi-traditional souq.

Muscat is unlike Abu Dhab in almost every way. Where Abu Dhabi is a bustling metropolis filled with skyscrapers, chrome and Lexus SUVs, Muscat is a sleepy port town with low apartment blocks, old-fashioned wooden doors and dusty Toyota Corollas (ours didn't feel out of place).

Lonely Planet has a lovely walking tour that takes the visitor from the fish market at the top of the corniche, through Mutrah and the port area to the old town where the disco palace of Sultan Qaboos (pictured left) and the original city gates are located. Until 1970 these gates were closed each night at dusk, and handily shut the inhabitants of Muscat (Muscateers?) inside. Today, as I mentioned, Muscat sprawls for kilometers, but the old city remains. The corniche (and walk) offers a lovely view of the harbor, several surrounding forts, two well-manicured city parks and a huge, white viewing station shaped like an ornamental incense burner. Every city needs one. Right off the corniche is a jewel of a museum on the history of Muscat and Oman, which includes interactive exhibits on prehistory all the way through the modern renaissance. There was also an amatur photography exhibit while we were there featuring stunning photos of the landscape and people.

The highlight of any trip to Muscat, though, is a trip to the Mutrah souq. I called it "semi-traditional" because it looks to the Western eye exactly like an old-time souq. It has narrow, covered alleyways lined with shops selling Omani handicrafts as well as necessities like shoes and plastic buckets (and mosque alarm clocks). In fact, its ceiling and stucture aren't all that old, though a souq has stood on the same site for centuries. JL and I spent many a hour walking the alleys shopping for souvenirs like scarves, wool or raw silk jackets from Kashmir (JL bought two and I bought one) and a variety of silver jewelry, woven tops and wooden frames.

I loved the vibe of Muscat. I loved the low buildings, the cute, tiled mosques in the old town, the souq and the museum. I loved the slower pace of life and the rooted intentionality of the place. There were a few building cranes in Muscat, but none of them were along the corniche, arguably the tourist center of town. This part of the city isn't being developed (at the moment). It's the way the Muscateers think it should be--and it remains as anchored as the sultan's yacht, the unloading container ship and the dhow floating in the harbor, all symbols in their own way of the capital of Oman.

Spend a day or two in Muscat, but don't leave without seeing the Grand Mosque, which is open to non-Muslims from 8-11 a.m. It has a large central dome, colorful tiled niches, a huge carpet, stained glass in geometric patterns and a huge central chandalier. And while they didn't have abeyyas to hand out, they did have a woman guard who wrapped my scarf tight enough to nearly cut off the circulation in my neck. Nary a wisp of hair escaped.

At the end of our Oman adventure, JL and I pointed the rental Corolla back toward the mountains and the UAE. Though we had only driven six hours, I felt as though I'd been to a different world. I found myself looking at the UAE differently, too. I saw less of what reminded me of the States and more of what linked it to the truly foreign country I'd just visited.

Your Oman itinerary, day 2

Greetings from Muscat...you will end up here on day 3 of your Oman adventure, but there is still plenty to do in the Hajar Mountain region, using the beautiful fort town of Nizwa as your base.

On Day 2, get up and enjoy the breakfast buffet at your new and improved hotel that has a clean bathroom, clean sheets and a floor without several layers of dust (not to mention a breakfast buffet with bowls of fresh pineapple and watermelon!). Rejoice that you are able to take a shower without worrying what will crawl under your skin and fester there for years, possibly.

After Day 1 (see previous entry), JL and I drove about an hour to the town of Sinaw, southwest from the mountains and into the scrub-and-acacia-tree desert. The town of Sinaw has a market where Bedouins (who still exist in Oman) have long visited to sell their livestock and buy supplies they can't make themselves. JL was psyched about seeing the Bedouins, though neither of us knew any identifying features that would allow us to spot them. Nonetheless, we set out, gamely, as you will when you come to Oman, point your own car toward the acacia trees and hope for the best. We got an early start, always a good idea, as most markets get going around 7 a.m. and close with padlocked finality around the noon call to prayer. (Very cute kids who asked sweetly for a picture at the Sinaw market.)

We got to Sinaw on the look out for Bedouins and, to our extremely pleasure, saw camels right off the bat (they are also much easier to identify). There was a row of them, slotted like SF parkers along the low wall of the livestock souq, which was in the middle of this particular market (rather than outside the souq itself). These were real camels, sold by men wearing real turbans and daggers (the curved khanjar dagger is a decorative part of a traditional Omani male outfit). JL and I (the only tourist in the market as yet) took many, many pictures of the camels as market-goers looked on patiently. For them, it was the equivalent of someone ooohing and ahhhing over a line of cows or horses or any other working animal. In person, camels remain as cute and doe-eyed as they look in photos, with their impossibly long, sand-proof lashes and white or light khaki fur. The camels parked at the Sinaw souq seemed even-tempered, even mellow. Nonetheless, I kept out of spitting distance, and I recommend you do the same.

We made a tour of the souq, then left to browse a nearby market we'd passed on the way into town. It turned out to sell mostly women and children's clothing, a garage-sale-like set up where clothes were spread on blankets or hung on temporary racks. I wasn't planning to get anything until I noticed a blanket featuring the decorative cuffs Bedouin (and other Omani women) wear on their pants. These are intricately embroidered or handsewn with silver- and gold-colored thread mixed in with bright green, yellows and reds. I didn't know (until I saw them displayed on the blanket) that the cuffs were sold separately, sort of like legwarmers and attached (am still unclear how) underneath pants, which stop right above. I squatted down to admire them and ended up being offered a wide variety of cuffs, as well as pants with cuffs attached, by two older women who weren't speaking Arabic. JL and I could only assume they were Bedouin, which was confirmed when a rather snobbish Omani man asked us in English if the women were bothering us (because "these people are illiterate"). We assured him that they weren't bothering us--they were selling us decorative legwarmers with pants attached. In one case, bright pink with gold paisley pants attached (see left of the photo above). Their literacy skills didn't really come into it, plus they were very nice.

What ensued was one of those scenes designed to brighten up a few minutes of a routine market day as a distinctly non-Bedouin in an Old Navy hoodie (me) tried on a series of Bedouin ankle cuffs, discovered that her ankles were too chubby (this despite one fashion evolution that included zippers sewn into the cuffs, much like your pair of acid-washed jeans circa 1988) and ended up being dressed up in scarves by several highly amused women, including the blanket's proprieteress. The hoodie came off, replaced by a lovely scarf I never would have chosen for mysel (but love). Out came other head pieces (gold and jingling, though I passed on those). There were lots of smiles, pictures taken, money exchanged (though much less than in other markets) and for a moment vast cultural boundaries seemed to relax just a bit while a bunch of women sold and bought clothes. Thus emboldened, JL and I returned to the main souq for a go at the traditional Omani caps. We met a man there who was equally pleased to show off his wears as we described our male relatives (and the size of their heads) to the best of our ability. After we had made our purchases, he offered us Omani coffee, strong, black and flavored with cardamom. (me and the hat guy with coffee cup)

As the market was winding down, we headed off to our next stop, the ghost town in the middle of the still-bustling area of Massah. The traditional walled, mud-brick town had been gradually abandoned over the years, yet was still standing near the city center as the modern town grew up around it. JL and I had the place to ourselves (we got the info from tourist booklet issued by the Omani Ministry of Tourism, not the Lonely Planet--and now you know, too!) We walked the narrow streets, stuck our heads into crumbling former houses and businesses, and took lots of shots of pointed archways leading to more archways and out into the ever-present date palms on the far side of the wall.

We returned to our wonderfully pleasant and sparkling clean hotel for a few hours of reading and relaxing before driving into town to find dinner (the buffet of the previous night was delish, but pricey).

Next on the itinary: mellow Muscat, the Muscateers, walking through Omani history and souq shopping extraordinaire.

Your Oman itinerary, day 1

Because, after you read all about Sultan Qaboos, you will surely want to be on the next plane to Oman, I wanted to share a few highlights of my itinerary. This is the Oman in Four Days With A lot of Driving Mountains and Coast Tour. There is much to see in this lovely country, and my suggestions represent the merest fraction.

Nonetheless, here they are:

Day 1: Drive to the beautiful mountain town of Nizwa, which is dominated by a lovingly restored fort (see previous entry), complete with a squat round tower built by the imams who ruled this part of Oman in the 17th century. The mosque, with its green and blue tiled dome and minaret, stands right outside the fort, which also houses the traditional souq (a must-see!) On Thursday mornings, there is a livestock souq, which JL and I were privileged to witness. It featured mostly goats and cattle from the surrounding region, paraded through an open area outside the main souq (for obvious reasons of cleanliness). Men wearing dishdashas and the traditional woven (and jaunty) cap or pastel turban gathered to bargain and inspect, but a few women also dove right in. Traditional Omani women from Nizwa wear brightly colored head scarves, long tunics, baggy trousers with intricated embroidered cuffs and black, beak-like masks (similar to the gold ones worn by some women in the UAE). Unfortunately, there were no camels at this livestock souq.

After the souq, drive to the Al-Hoota Cave (the name alone is worth the price of admission). Nestled in a barren moonscaped wadi (valley), this cave was discovered in the 1950s during the Jebel Wars and was a hideout for noncombatants. Since then, it has been restored and lit--all the better to reveal its cool stalagmite and stalagtites, especially the formation shaped like a lion. Most of the cave is underwater, and in this water live very small blind fish (they have evolved so that they no longer have eyes!) If you are luckier than JL and I, the cute zippy train that takes you down to the cave's entrance will be working. Otherwise, you'll have to walk along the tracks, which isn't so bad. No photos in the cave, but you can take photos along the track, so pay no attention to the signs that ask you to leave your camera at the front desk (like we did).

When you finish up at the cave, the village of Misfat is just a short 20 kms away. This is possibly one of the coolest places in Oman, if not the whole world. The entire village is surrounded by the same moonscape as the Al-Hoota Cave. Except, the village itself is in a wadi with a natural spring, which runs year round. As a result, you drive up a barren mountain and turn the corner into a lush valley where bananas grow! I am not kidding! The villagers have devised an ingenious system of irrigation canals and terraced farming that allows them to harvest bananas, oranges and other non-desert crops. They have also (generously) opened their village up to tourists who are guided through the place on well-marked trails (that are also used by the villagers, of course). The greenery is stunning--and less than a kilometer away, it is easy to tell where the water runs out and the barren rocks begin. JL and I hiked down the wadi and back up around the other side before heading as close to the top of Jebel Shams (a nearby mountain) as we could go

It turned out we couldn't get far (nowhere near the summit in our rental Corolla) but we drove until the pavement ended, and we got out and took pictures. The craggy peaks rose in all directions. I'd recommend a 4WD, if you can swing it because the view from the top would have been truly stunning. As it was, we turned back around all too soon and pointed the car toward our final stop of the day: Jabreen Castle.

Jabreen Castle sits in the middle of a desert plain, a huge structure and former residence of a powerful imam in the 16th century. The site has been restored but is still being developed as a tourist destination. So, it is in that cool stage where everything is open and looks great, but there are not the distractions of a gift shop, safety rails, Do Not Enter signs, guided tours and crowds of people. JL and I played in the castle for about an hour, climbing any staircase we wanted, peeking into rooms (finished and unfinished) and creating our own postcards without any competition from (or need to mimic) the real thing. We both decided that we wouldn't mind having a castle of our own, especially one with so many back passageways and little rooms. As I find myself in these desert forts and castles, I think a lot about what it must have been like to live there. As someone who has never craved much furniture, I love, love, love the rooms full of carpets and lounging pillows rather than couches and chairs. I love the thick clay-mud walls made to keep the place cool in the summer and hold the heat in the winter. I love looking out the windows at the date palms in the distance. The desert, whether it's in Oman or California, is a peaceful, gorgeous place, especially (I realize) in December when there's a cool breeze blowing off the mountains and it's possible to leave the house without melting.

JL and I did all of that in one day--our first full day in Oman. The very, very first day was spent driving from Abu Dhabi, settling in to our horrible, gross, dirty, yucky hotel, making plans to change hotels and trying to find some dinner (which we did, eventually, though it took a long time). The above itineray was our first day as actual tourists, and, though we packed a lot in, we arrived back in Nizwa in time to do some Interneting and shopping. Our new-and-improved hotel served us much better (in addition to providing a yummy dinner buffet) and got us ready for Day 2.

Stay tuned: camels, Bedouin fashion, Omani coffee and ghost towns are coming up next!

Why you should visit Oman

As many of you know, I'm in Oman with my old friend JL. Like many countries on the Arabian Peninsula, Oman has a Cinderella story that involves emerging from the desert into the modern age in 30 years or less. Oman, however, has blazed its trail without the help of much oil wealth. So, what it doesn't have is sparkling towers, sleek hotels or well-stocked international grocery stores (outside of Muscat). What it has instead is a sultan with a plan and the ability to inspire his people to get the job done. It also has had space and time to shape its own future without oil companies and oil politics gumming up the kitchen with too many cooks.

True, I've been here all of two days, but it's enough to have developed a deep admiration for the place. JL and I left Abu Dhabi on Wednesday morning and drove for the border just on the other side of Al Ain. (It was very hard to leave K and Teni behind, but Teni's UAE visa prevents her from leaving the country and re-entering on the same trip.) Truly, it was the strangest crossing of an international border I've ever experienced. We practically had to beg the UAE to issue us exit visas (which involved much milling around an unmarked office) then drove about two hours out of our way to implore Oman to grant us a corresponding entry stamp. Along the way we were helped by a series of friendly young men in crisp white dishdashas and low-key turbans in a variety of pastel-patterned hues. When we finally got our visa (no hassle, just a lot of driving and faith that surely someone would eventually care that we had entered the country), we pointed the car toward Nizwa and the startlingly beautiful and toothy Hajar Mountains. (The view from midway up Jebel Shams, one of the tallest mountains in the Hajar range.)

We drove through scrub desert, rock desert and soaring painted desert, along neatly paved roads with clear signage in both English and Arabic. In 1970 there was about 10 kms of paved road in the country. Now there are thousands of kilometers, most lined with street lights. In 1970, there were seven doctors. In the whole country. Now, there are hospitals and clinics (also clearly sign posted). In 1970, there were two primary schools. Now, there are universities, which admit women in numbers that any nation in the region should be emulating.

They call it the Omani renaissance--and when I say "they," I mean, the Omanis themselves call it the renaissance. They experience what has happened in their country in the lifetime of so many as a literal rebirth. And they give credit, with smiles on their faces and without a trace of cynicism or irony, to Sultan Qaboos bin Said, who took control from his father in a bloodless coup in 1970 and hasn't looked back. Without the flush of wealth or strategic importance that so benefitted his brother Arabians, he has marshalled his resources and enacted the vision that should be the first chapter in any book on development. I'm sure the man isn't perfect. But he's earned the deep respect of his people (and this visitor). Omani men at the livestock souq in Nizwa

Because what he did first, they say, was rebuild Oman's forts. When I post pictures, you will see a sample of Oman's forts, often nestling among date palm oasi or perched upon hilltops. The forts, to Qaboos, were the soul of the nation's history, so they were what he he poured money into. He grounded Omanis in their past before he asked them to step into the future. He had been educated in England. Most of his people didn't know how to read. But they lived and worked beside crumbling symbols of their heritage, so he shored them up--a literal and figurative bulwark to help them withstand the coming waves of change. What kind of a genius is this guy? He also started an annual "meet and greet" tour where he goes out (in sultanic style, to be sure) and sets up camp all over the country where real people can bring their requests to him. It's said (though I have no way to confirm this) that if you ask for electricity to come to your village, the necessary materials will arrive within the week. What's more, Oman is FULL of Omanis (unlike the UAE, which is about 80% expat). The shopkeeper, taxi driver, Internet cafe worker--all Omanis. (A restored fort near the corniche in Muscat.)

Now don't get me wrong...Oman is not a utopia (for one thing, it's hard to find anywhere to eat). And it's still a developing country, for the most part, unlike most others in the region. But it has managed to leap hurdle after hurdle on the road to the 21st century with its heart and soul intact, which I find utterly stunning in today's world of short-sighted decisions (mortgage crisis anyone?) and uber-capitalist priorities (umm...mortgage crisis anyone?)

I'll be writing more and posting pictures in the coming weeks. But feel free to Google Oman and/or Sultan Qaboos in the meantime and add to the conversation.

The Grand Mosque!

The Sheikh Zayed Mosque in Abu Dhabi is stunningly white with gleaming minarets rising above a nest of egg-cup domes and acres of courtyard surrounded by colonnades and reflecting pools. The cool, marble corridors host a garden of inlaid flowers and intricate Turkish-inspired designs. The interior sparkles from top (multi-colored and multi-crystaled chandelier) to bottom (the flora and fauna on world's largest carpet). K, Teni and I went this morning--a long-anticipated visit to one of the only mosques open to non-Muslims in the region.

We arrived at around 11:30 in our recently acquired rental car. I was worried that we'd get there too close to the prayer that falls around noon, but it turned out to be perfect timing. A few small groups were visiting, but the place was free of large buses and tours. We parked in the mosque's still-unfinished lot and made our way through sand and the landscaping (still under construction) to the pristine marble of the building. The mosque compound is surrounded by reflecting pools (totally finished). The deep blue contrasts nicely with the gold and white even on days like today when it's too windy for a mirror-like surface on the water.

But the best part of the visit was yet to come. I can hardly describe my glee when a guard directed us to a counter where they were handing out abeyyas to all women visitors! Abeyyas! As you regular readers know, the traditional Emerati dress has been a source of endless fascination these past four months. I couldn't believe I was actually going to get to wear one.

The ladies doling out the abeyyas at the mosque used K as the measuring stick for our little group. So Teni and I looked like we'd been let out of the harem in our big sister's clothes, while K glided around as if she'd been born to wear the thing. It was thrilling nonetheless trying to get the head scarf just so and move around without tripping over the hem. As this picture shows, I had some initial difficulties (it was very windy) before more or less mastering the wrap-and-secure technique. Abeyyas are also less hot than initially suspected. They are made of a very thin material (at least the ones they handed out at the mosque), and flow nicely with one's clothes underneath.

We wandered around for awhile, admiring the designs and flipping through copies of the Koran on shelves along the walls of the vast interior. We also shamelessly arranged half a dozen abeyya shots each for our Facebook profiles. I mean, how often does one get to wear an abeyya in the world's newest, fanciest mosque? Plus, we practically had the place to ourselves. As I mentioned, there were few visitors, all of who seemed to drift away as the minutes passed. Suddenly the call to prayer echoed through the building and we realized we were the only ones inside except an older man in full prayer mode. We tiptoed out the side entrance, since the front door had already been closed (oops). We strolled around the courtyard before heading back toward the main entrance. I didn't want to relinquish my abeyya, but we couldn't very well wear them out into the parking lot.

But, in a way, we did. We metaphorically wore them all day as we thought about how cool it was to stand in a holy place and admire the dedication and faith of the people who built (and are still building) the mosque, and the people who visit and pray there. Respecting Emerati traditions reminded us that there are traditions to respect--that the city may be full of malls and McDonalds, but it is also driven by something other than oil wealth and designer brands. It meant a great deal to be able to experience it firsthand today at the mosque.

Thanksgiving Abu Dhabi, part I and II

This Thanksgiving weekend held a bunch of firsts: first traditional feast for Teni from Trinidad, first sweet potato and marshmallow experience for K (who loved it and demanded the recipe--score one for American comfort food), and the first time cooking more than soup in Abu Dhabi for me (roasted carrots from the family cookbook!). We actually went to two different feasts with different vibes--Thanksgiving #1: International Turkey Day , and Thanksgiving #2: Midwest meets the Middle East.

Thanksgiving #1 took place at the apartment of Madame L, our closest homie and Arabic teacher. She has friends visiting from the States, and invited us to a quiet dinner and game night with them, her husband (a fellow Californian) and a neighbor or two. Imagine our surprise when we got there to find at least 15 people from our school, her husband's school and half their building. But what else is Thanksgiving for? We had one representative from Massachusetts, but almost everyone else came from distinctly non-Pilgrim environments: Romania, China, Canada, Alaska, Poland, Morocco, Trinidad, Dominican Republic and France. People dressed up and stood around drinking red wine, discussing travel, work and politics, and admiring the view of the city from the ninth floor apartment. Although Madame L's husband lovingly prepared all the classics, the crowd treated it as a buffet, though there was some exclaiming over the pumpkin pie. (L-R: Teni, me, K, Madame L, and her two visitors)

Thanksgiving #2 happened today among the teachers in our apartment building. We were in charge of bringing a hot veggie dish and rolls. The rolls we bought at the grocery store, along with a Dutch oven, Pyrex glass dish, three pounds of baby carrots, 30 cloves of garlic and two lemons. The roasted carrot dish in the family cookbook is super simple and super good. It felt like Thanksgiving-meme, cooking and chopping (I even wore an apron), then taking a covered dish and two plates of rolls upstairs to where our building mates had gathered. M's (music teacher at school) parents are visiting from Kansas and they had spent the day baking pies from scratch (having imported Karo syrup, pumpkin puree and marshmallows on behalf of the woman who brought K's new favorite dish). Others brought green bean casserole, mashed potatoes, salad and homemade cranberry sauce. Someone went around with a video camera asking everyone what they were most thankful for. We gathered in the livingroom where our hosts had pushed the table against the coffee table and cobbled together enough chairs to give everyone a seat at one long, but multi-level table. It was crowded and loud and totally Thanksgiving. I had one of those ex-pat moments (very briefly) where I missed home because I felt at home so far away from home. It didn't last long because someone passed the pumpkin pie, and it was time for dessert.

Taking wing

I'm convinced that you don't really arrive in a place until you show it to someone else. It's like becoming an older sibling or getting a promotion. All of a sudden, you realize you've 1) developed a wing and 2) now have someone under it. Instead of being the wide-eyed newbie, you are the expert. You also realize how deep the groove you've been in all these months has truly become.

K's friend Teni arrived last night from Trinidad. She may be the only representative of her island to land in Abu Dhabi this year, and she wasted no time on small inconveniences like jet lag, rising this morning at 7:40 a.m. less than 12 hours after touching down from Port of Spain via Miami and an unscheduled 20-hour layover in London. She wanted to explore the city while K and I were teaching, and explore she did.

She got a lift from a friendly driver named Hasan who offered to drop her at the nearby mall. (Random offers of rides are common enough to have happened to K twice, but I have yet to be so favored.) Once there, Teni discovered the roller coaster and checked out the bowling alley, neither of which K and I have set eyes on, despite visiting the exact same mall almost daily for the past four months. Tonight we dragged her back, to go to the Mexican restaurant, then took a walk along the Corniche. We pointed out the landmarks and marveled at the beautiful weather (I was comfortably wearing jeans, a t-shirt and a pashmina--this is a huge change from even a week ago.) We said at least three times each that the city was growing on us. Now that's it's breezy and pleasant (as opposed to a sauna on steroids) and approaching the long December break, it's easy to look up from the daily grind and appreciate the city, the walks to school in the early morning chill (yes, there is one), the roller coasters in the mall (child-sized but quite extensive), the cheap taxis, the act of opening windows rather than turning on the AC, and the time to show off the city to visitors. My college friend J comes next Sunday. By then I'll be a hostess expert.

It is cool to be at the point where things feel settled and almost home-like. This is also a totally-not-subtle hint to all of you out there contemplating a visit. So far, Teni says she has had the best vacation of her life (over ice cream on the Corniche). Come on over! You'll be glad you did...

On the list of things to ponder

As most of you know, I'm here in Abu Dhabi for a constellation of reasons, many of which revolve around teaching. Last June I left an intense urban charter school I helped found and to which I was passionately (but perhaps unhealthily) attached. I came to my current school to explore new ways of being a teacher in a completely different environment. The experience so far has not shaken my conviction that urban education and/or underserved student populations are my fundamental vocation as a teacher. At the same time, I've enjoyed teaching my current students tremendously and am learning a great deal about how privileged kids are educated from the perspective of a teacher.

The most obvious thing I already knew: much of the education of middle/upper class students does not happen at school. It happens at home, on trips, during extracurricular activities, and via family members, tutors or the Internet. Underserved kids learn a lot outside of school, too, but the information privileged kids pick up actually helps them in the classroom. That being the case, one of the things I'm thinking about now is how a dedicated teacher can influence a student's life outside of school and inspire kids without the helpful bulwarks of parental involvement and/or resources to pursue school-based education with as much confidence and comfort as their privileged peers. I learned at my previous school that the school itself cannot do it all in a way that's healthy to staff members or, some may argue, the kids themselves. But nor should teachers throw up their hands or schools assume they are powerless. The question is what is doable and which of the things on the doable list are most effective? Clearly, I have no answers to this, but I've been mulling it over this week. This trains of thought was inspired by my first round of parent-teacher conferences at my current school

The content of the conferences was identical to any set of conferences I've ever had: "Joe is a such an excellent student;" "I wish I had a classful of Marys;" "Johnny is so bright but he's not working up to his full potential;" "Susy needs to slow down and not rush through her work;" "Bobby should socialize at lunch and concentrate in class;" "Betty is easily distracted--is she like that at home?" "I'm concerned about Teddy's reading level/sentence structure/organization skills." The only difference was the parents. For one thing, they made appointments themselves, arrived on time and signed up in droves. My teaching buddy Ocanada and I talked non-stop from 12:30-4 p.m. on Wednesday and from 8 a.m.-4 p.m. Thursday (excluding a 45-minute lunch break on Thursday). At my former school, we called parents, made the appointments, called again to remind them and, if that didn't work, showed up unannounced at their doors to talk about their kids. This doesn't make those parents horrible people--there were countless valid reasons why they didn't show--but that lack of direct involvement did affect their children's education. Can a school enforce parent involvement? Should they? Does essentially forcing parents to show up do any good? Is there another way for the school to fill in this particular "involvement" piece if parents are unable to hear student-specific messages from the school and reinforce them at home? Does the school change to accommodate the parents if the parents are unable to accommodate the school? How does the school change? My former school is part of a nationwide movement that is killing itself (and I'm not being entirely figurative here) to be different in a way that serves all kids. But they did this by taking the regular model of school and piling on time, dedication and accountability (hence the knocking on doors when parents don't show). But do the radically different factors that affect parenting across social classes mean that schools serving these populations should look and feel just as radically different? And how should they look? Is that discrimination or the essence of true service? I have no idea whatsoever. I've just been thinking about it a lot this week.

Of course, I'm starting from the assumptions that all children deserve the highest quality education regardless of whether or not their parents show up--or have to be dragged--to parent-teacher conferences, even though we all know that students whose parents show up will do significantly better in school as we know it. If that is not your automatic assumption, you are reading the wrong blog.

The question is which part/parts of the act-of-parents-showing-up-for-conferences is the key to a student's subsequent success, and can this piece of the educational puzzle be isolated and replicated in some other way? Can something else just as effective take its place?

Let me know if you know...and if you haven't thanked your parents for showing up at all your conferences through the years, add it to your Thanksgiving list this week.

(Thank you, mom, for showing up to every conference and advocating for us at every turn. xo)

Rain in Arabia

It rained today and the temperature dropped to 78 degrees. Does global warming elsewhere mean global moistening here? People were alternately shocked and gleeful. K and I were drenched on the way to school because we thought the storm clouds couldn't possibly mean, well, a storm. It poured for 20 minutes, then the sun came out again. But not before thunder boomed, kids splashed in the courtyard outside and various city blocks shorted out because the infrastructure isn't built to tolerate the wet.

And you think Californians can't drive in the rain...

It was cool to see water fall from the sky again. And also cool when it stopped, though I was among the few to think so. I'm teaching at the only school on the planet where kids look forward to rainy days...

Name changes and knees

I haven't written in a week, and don't have the excuse of being in Turkey with the kids. I think I'm still getting over the name change, which most of you agreed was necessary, and I know in my heart was the right thing to do. But, alas, it has affected the experience of writing this blog. As RR, I don't quite feel that same whisper of sand, subtle sway of a camel, breeze blowing through my head wrap as I crest a dune with my trusty Bedouin guide that I did when writing as (my last name) of Arabia. Not that there is a Bedouin, camel or dune anywhere near my 2nd floor apartment above a down-low bathhouse and a Lebanese bakery. But you get the idea...

I'll get over it soon, and get back into the rhythm.

Speaking of rhythm, I've started running regularly on the Corniche (that clean Gulfside promenade a few blocks from my apartment--see pic below). Yesterday, I busted out the roller blades. Since my usual demure workout pants (sweat capris) were in the wash, I put on some shorts.

It was the first time I've showed my knees in public since arriving--and that is including the days when it was hotter than the ninth circle of hell and twice as humid. I have seen plenty of women, mostly European and Asian, flaunting shoulders and even mid-thighs in the malls and restaurants. But I haven't been one of them.

I was amazed at how exposed I felt walking down the sidewalk in shorts (the baggy cotton touched the tops of my knees but didn't cover them). I have never thought about my knees before. I have never thought about anyone else's knees before. It has never crossed my mind how many strangers' knees I have seen or how often or under what circumstances--or if they've seen mine. But my attack of modesty made me realize how much I've absorbed of a culture where grown women never, ever show their knees in public (in fact many of them were power-walking down the Corniche in full abeyyas, veils and Nikes). It's not that I'm ashamed of wearing shorts, but I understand the cultural context now. And I realized strapping on roller blades and zooming along the Gulf, knees blazing, was going to render me a bit out of step with the local scene.

I did it anyway. I had walked all that way, and I know that showing my knees is not all that serious, in the grand scheme of things. In Abu Dhabi, no one says a word, even if they do stare. Plus, there were plenty of women along the Corniche wearing a lot less (since it's also the main access to the public beaches). I had an impromptu race with a Pakistani guy on a bike. (I kept skating past him, and he kept pedaling to catch up.) In the end, he won...but barely.

6th grade road to ruins

I have walked the streets of Ephesus and sat in the same amphitheater attended by Pythagoras. I've checked out remarkably well-preserved architrave sculptures and hugged at least one Ionic column. And I didn't do it alone. Last week 68 6th graders, 12 other adults and I explored Turkey's "Road to Ruins" along the Mediterranean coast. If it was Greek or Roman, over 2,000 years old and in pretty good repair, we saw it. Didyma, Miletus, Ephesus, the hill town of Priene where Alexander the Great once had a house overlooking what was then the coast. Myth, legend and good, old-fashion middle school social studies melded in perfect harmony, much like the golden numbers used to construct the shrines, arches and triumphal gates we visited. (Here I am with Medusa's head, which used to be part of an architrave on the temple of Apollo in Didyma.)

Of course, if you ask the 12 year olds, they remember playing truth or dare on the bus. eating chocolate pudding for dessert and shining flashlights at their roommates to wake them up. All very age appropriate. And yet each one gave a detailed speech about one of the structures or sites we visited, despite knocking knees and the potential life-threatening embarrassment in front of their friends. They did a great job, for the most part. Many of the talks attracted groups of retirees (the only other people touring Turkey at the moment), as generous and adoring an audience you'd ever hope to find, even the ones who didn't speak English. I had to brief a group of kids at one point about how to handle cheek pinching, hair ruffling and even exuberant embraces from perfect strangers. Life-threatening embarrassment reared its pre-adolescent head again, which delighted the grandmas and grandpas all the more. (Here is the famous library of Celsus in Ephesus, a queen among ruins.)

The highlight of the trip for me, besides traipsing around the old stone and listening to my students impress the cruise-ship crowd, was watching a play put on by each of the two drama elective classes. The brilliant drama teacher, Mrs Aussie H, had the kids adapt a myth to perform in the great amphitheaters we'd be visiting. One group chose Persephone and Hades. The other did Narcissus and Echo. Both plays were designed to be staged without props or scenery, so the kids themselves played those roles (linking arms to provide a throne for Zeus; standing in as trees or a stormy ocean, etc). I can safely say that nothing as inspired has played in the great theaters of Miletus and Ephesus in the last millenium. The German Elderhostel group in Ephesus was particularly taken with Persephone and Hades, especially the daring portrayal of Zeus by the shortest boy in the grade. In Miletus, Narcissus and Echo brought down the house with their reworking of Aphrodite into a SoCal mall rat named Aphroditzy who went around proclaiming, "You are, like, so cursed." (The great theater of Miletus is pictured here.)

We also held a mini-Olympics in the hippodrome in Aphrodisias and a debate in the bouletarion (town hall) in Priene. The question of whether or not to stop for Turkish apple tea was resoundingly approved by a council of the people of group A. Every day, the hotel packed us a lunch, which ate amid the ruins or on the beach of the Aegean (the weather was stunning for the time of year). Every evening there was an activity from movie night to a traditional and modern Turkish dance show by a youth sports club in the town. One early morning activity (unplanned) was watching Obama's thrilling acceptance speech. We adults had struggled out of bed at 6 a.m. expecting to see the returns, only to find that the election had been decided! Our cheers woke the kids. There were only two American teachers on the trip (myself being one of them), but most of the parent chaperones were American--and the non-Americans (Canadians and Australians, mostly) were as interested in the outcome (and as pro-Obama) as we were. My fellow American, a Republican evangelical from Texas won the diplomacy award for not raining on our parade, even though Obama had rained on hers. But she did draw the line at videotaping the kids cheering for Obama on the grounds they might be victims of peer pressure. (As a 6th grader in the Reagan era, I never knew a Republican kid to bow to peer pressure, but kids these days might be different...)

Partisan politics and stunning election victories aside, the trip was organized and ideal for the age. The kids had a blast and, I'm glad to say, were excited to be there and grateful for the opportunity. I was grateful right along with them. Like the 12 years olds, this trip changed me. After a few days of the bus leaving on time, the kids chatting happily (ie: non-dramatically or meanly) in the back and the site presentations flowing smoothly, I lost some of my (very deep) aversion to field trips. After the chaperones were able to sneak off to shop for souvenirs one evening (leaving just two behind), I was almost completely over it. When we made it back safely with all the passports and all the kids, flying through the night, changing planes and passing through customs in record time, I was ready to do it all again next year. I'll bring more money for beautiful Turkish pottery and much less anxiety about what could happen. (A detail from a statue in Ephesus--and a reflection of my internal serenity as I contemplate next year's trip to Turkey...)

PS: I have more pics of the trip. If you are not on Facebook (where they are posted) and would like to see them, send me an email or comment below.

Where I'm going/where I've gone

Tonight I leave for a week along Turkey's ancient Mediterranean coast with almost all of the 6th grade (@ 70 kids) and 12 other adults. We are following the famous "Road to Ruins" according to my cool friend who has taught in Istanbul for the past four years. This particular road will lead us through Ephesus, Priene, Aphrodisias and Didyma where we'll view a wide range of ancient amphitheaters, temples, columns of the Doric, Ionic and Corinthian variety, agora, architraves, collapsed gates, no-longer-running fountains and (to the glee of the kids) ancient public latrines you can still sit on today (but not use.) The kids have each been researching one of the sites we will visit (34 in all, including the toilets!) and they will give a tour-guide-style speech on their particular topic. We have been practicing all week, and they know their stuff. As long as all the index cards make it into suitcases, I'll be happy. Once I know that's happened, the rest will be fairly painless. The adult-child ratio on this trip is ridiculously low. The only thing I have to worry about is making sure the kids know their pediments from their friezes and stop giggling whenever they have to say "Aphrodisias." (An ancient town with a stunning hippodrome, not a love potion.)

Massive numbers of pics to follow. Stay tuned...

The other thing is that I'm changing the name of the blog. Let me be clear that I love the name of the blog. My friend and former colleague Rapp convinced me that this was the name--there could be no other. Alas, I'm bending to the realities of our modern life and doing what I can to stay completely honest with y'all--and still get hired for future jobs, even though this is a chipper travelogue with some educational musing thrown in, and not a bitch session.

The more tech savvy among you will point out (correctly) that things stay cached in Google for years and years, and people may still be able to find this even if I do change the name. But I'm still going to do it. Because the attempt at anonymity should count for something. I'm not asking to be found if I call this RR of Arabia. Including my whole last name (along with pictures) just isn't trying that hard. Although, if you can convince me that the original name really isn't going to get me crossed off my dream job's shortlist (whatever that turns out to be), I will gleefully change it back.

FYI: you can find the blog by Googling my name + UAE or the now-former name (sigh) of this blog. You won't find it by just Googling my name.

Grab a friend's hand and promenade

Abu Dhabi has a long, Gulfside promenade called the Corniche that runs the length of the city between the municipal beaches the and primary road along the water (think Lakeshore Drive, if you are familiar at all with Chicago). It has been spruced in recent years into a spotless jewel of a place, well-lit, well-shaded (in parts), utterly walk- , bike- or roller-blade-able. Unlike the beaches, it costs nothing to stroll in the evenings. K and I took a turn last night and got a snapshot of our fellow city residents along with skyline views.

There was a rainbow nation of families, some with tots on bikes or trikes. There were joggers and bladers taking advantage of the evening breezes (it gets down into the 80s these days, and it's scary how temperate it feels). There were women in abeyyas, tennis shoes and iPod earphones power-walking in their veils. There were men in bathing suits and towels slung around their necks; teenagers giggling; working women still in uniforms strolling in pairs; moms lugging coolers and a few bored security guards.

As always, there were groups of southeast Asian and Arab men walking around holding hands. To jaded American eyes, the way men worldwide hold hands can't help but look homoerotic. And when I say worldwide, I mean worldwide, not just a few from out-of-the-way places that haven't heard about modern homophobia yet. Guys throughout Africa, the Middle East and southeast Asia hold hands with each other without thinking twice. They interlace their fingers, or hold on to a few fingers, adjusting and re-adjusting their grip in a way that's shockingly (to us) intimate. But they are not big homos (for the most part). They are just holding hands. (Much like our soon-to-be former president pictured here...)

There was a lot of hand-holding going on on the Corniche on Friday, and most of it was male-male. I'm always most intrigued by hand-holding etiquette in groups of young men walking together. In a posse of, say, five or six guys, two will be holding hands as they chat with their fellows. You'd never see the same group all hand-in-hand (sort of like a moving game of Red Rover). In fact, you never see more than two guys at a time holding hands. I suppose there's not room on the sidewalk. But I can't help but wonder how a guy decides which of his friends to hold onto. His best homie? The closest guy to him at the moment he feels like holding hands? Is it OK to switch who you're holding hands with over the course of a given evening? Do you hold hands with the person you're chatting with? Or the person you want to pull into the conversation? Of course, if you really are a 'mo, you're totally psyched. You hold hands with your boyfriend in public and no one blinks an eye...

Naturally, I was on the lookout for women doing likewise, but didn't see much. Women walk arm-in-arm in greater numbers than they do in the States, but they don't hold hands like the men.

Feeling the zen

So after my laudatory post about how secure everything is in this country, my wallet got stolen yesterday. I'm 99.999% sure the Ikea deliverymen took it during the few minutes K and I were in her study extolling the virtues of her new furniture (and an amazing poster of NYC that covers most of one wall--pics soon!). But I didn't actually see them do it. I just know I had my wallet when they arrived, and didn't have it when they left.

After calling the store to let them know, calling the credit card company (ridiculously nice woman on the phone), calling my mom and my stepmom to enlist them in the cancellation party, stressing about losing both my UAE and my US drivers license and all the US dollars I had here (about $80), high-impact freaking out for about 3 minutes and slow-burn freaking out out for most of the evening, I'm now surprisingly calm. It's the mother of all pains, but it's OK. I still have my cell phone, liquor license (priorities, people!), checkbook, ATM card from my UAE bank and (please send vibes) a way to get a replacement UAE license without my US one.
K was a total brick. She's the one who called the store, talked to the actual deliverymen twice and let me use her land line to do some major long-distance dialing. Yay for allies and friends in foreign places!

I've had things taken out of my purse and various apartments and living spaces broken into. My Saturn was stolen twice. My Beetle's car windows were shot out. Each invasive, damaging incident has brought on a low mood and deep doubts about the basic goodness of humanity. This time, though, it didn't, despite the fact that I lost more materially than I have before (since my car was found both times). I braced for it this morning. I expected to wake up dragging. And it didn't happen. In fact, I would characterize my day today as above-average.

Maybe all the zen-master-of-letting-go practice is working. Maybe I no longer believe in the basic goodness of humanity anyway? What do you think? (And please send DMV vibes...)

Restaurant regular (and irregularities)

Last Friday, I made myself ridiculously happy by lunching at Cantina Laredo, a California-style, Tex-Mex restaurant located in the mall at the end of 9th Street. Today, as I dragged K back again for their warm, wafer-thin tortilla chips, first-rate salsa and lunch combos, I realized I have lived here long enough to have a favorite restaurant; the kind that serves food I anticipate throughout the week and savor whenever I visit, then count the hours until I can go back.

It's the food and the ambiance, but mostly the food. And it's no coincidence it's Mexican, which is rare here in all forms, but especially in the high-quality/high-value category. It probably couldn't win a blind taste-test with your favorite burrito joint in the States, but here in the Arabian desert, it is something special. This California girl is most excited about the salsa, which they must make themselves (fresh, peppery, just the right amount of bite). They have a complete menu of Mexican favorites and a guacamole-making ritual wherein a waiter makes the guac for you right at the table (like fancy restaurants used to do with caesar salad back in the 80s).

The restaurant itself has tables, but the walls are lined with comfy booths (love booths!). The waitstaff is attentive and chipper. One's soda glass is often replaced with a fresh one (with plenty of ice! Europeans, take a lesson...) before it's halfway drained. (This strikes me as a waste, but you can't fault their enthusiasm).

Cantina Laredo may be a little piece of California Tex-Mex on the shores of the Persian Gulf, but there is one thing that is classic Abu Dhabi. The menu features a page labeled "cocktails." There is what looks like a full bar at one end of the restaurant with a range of glasses for every occasion. It's tempting to get excited at the sangria on offer or the pina coladas. Unless you know better, nothing on the menu leads you to believe that you will not be served a margarita in the classic sense. But you won't because none of these cocktails have even a part-per-millionth of alcohol in them. Jose Cuervo has not crossed this particular border.

This, by itself, is not surprising. Alcohol here can only be sold in hotel bars and restaurants and, as mentioned previously, you need a special license just to buy it. I can only imagine the red tape involved in selling it. What's surprising about Cantina Laredo's cocktail menu (and thousands of others in the city) is the unabashed way they refer to grape juice with fruit in it as sangria or orange juice and seltzer as a mimosa. I mean, really...these words are steeped in alcoholic implication. They don't exist on their own. A mimosa is not a mimosa without champagne. It's just orange juice--there's nothing more to say. K and I sampled some of these mocktails today and found them pleasant fruit-juice drinks, served with slices of fruit on the rim in tall, icy glasses. But the whole time I was thinking, Why have a dry restaurant if you're going to put so much time and effort into pretending you're not? Are the locals I saw chowing down on enchiladas and fajitas fantasizing about the drink they can't have when they order a margarita or mimosa? Are they playing make-believe as they sip, like young kids who pretend to "smoke" their pretzel rods or pencils? After all, the drinks would be just as yummy with names like "Effervescent Orange" or "Pineapple/Coconut Dream."

I'll have plenty of time to mull this over because I plan to return to Cantina Laredo soon and continue my research. If you have any ideas about what's going on, let me know...

Arabic evenings

Last night, K and I had our first Arabic lesson with cool colleague, Madame L, who is also a French teacher at school and used to teach at a boarding school right outside of Boston. That's right. She's fluent in Arabic, French and English, though her first language is Arabic. Being fabulously trilingual is not that uncommon, I hear, when one is Moroccan (as she is), but it's still totally impressive. And even though Moroccan Arabic is significantly different than modern standard Arabic (which is, again, different than Gulf Arabic), Madame L is teaching us the standard version.

So now we know half the alphabet and how to say hello/how are you/what is your name/my name is and good-bye. More or less.

Arabic is a beautiful written language, and sounds cool, too. It's not as gutteral as I initially thought. There are, however, three H sounds that are fundamental to learn and difficult for the native English speaker (me) or native Polish speaker (K) to master.

H #1 sounds just like the English H in "hello." Yea! A phonetic cognate!

H #2 is the sound you make when you blow onto a window it fog it up.

H #3 is gutteral. It has a lot in common with the H in Polish. It also has a lot in common with the sound of clearing your throat. It's actually easier than the fogging-up-the-window H because it's strong and obvious. H #2, when done incorrectly (ie: most of the time) just sounds breathy, like Marilyn Monroe singing happy birthday with every word.

In addition to the three Hs, there are various "th" sounds. And two "sa" and "da" that are exactly the same (as far as I can tell), except you say one more forcefully than the other. K compared the forceful versions to the sound accompanying a vigorous karate chop.

I've been told Arabic is a highly associative, poetic language. Arabic lessons are much the same. Last night was an exercise in mastering new sounds, then coming up with a host of metaphors and creative phonetic spellings to help us remember what we were learning (karate chops, fog on glass, etc.). We are also practicing how to write our letters, right to left as good Arabic students, and many, many times, like 1st graders learning the alphabet. My goal right now is to move from drawing my name (which is somewhat complex. K's is much easier) to writing it with confidence.

Our next lesson is in a week! I can't wait to learn the other half of the alphabet...