A few more Palace pics!

Looking up at the central dome. Yes, it's real...






One of the pools at the Emirates Palace. In the UAE, pools have chillers, not heaters, and you're just as bummed if the chillers aren't working as you are in the States if the heater's not on. The chillers in the pool were perfectly set (of course). When I got out of the pool, I forgot for a second that it was 110 outside. While in the pool, it was cool, not freezing.




The other pool at night.







K's toes in the Persian Gulf and me standing on the shore. As mentioned previously, the Gulf is pristine...a lovely, clear turquoise-y blue. You would have no idea by looking at its (very) warm, shallow waters that it touched war and/or massive oil drilling on all sides.

Meet me at the Palace

This past weekend, K and I briefly joined the ranks of the rich and famous (and possibly criminal) as a guest of the Emirates Palace, Abu Dhabi's seven-star resort and multi-domed, marbled, gold-leafed and crystal chandeliered extravaganza.


Needless to say, someone knew someone who got us teachers (about 4o from the school) an incredible deal on their cheapest rooms (which still go for $1,000/night normally). For the price of about $230/night, we common folk could stay in spacious, poolside rooms with 60-inch plasma TVs, jacuzzi tubs, walk-in showers, finger bowls (with rose petals), well-stocked fruit baskets, a remote that controlled everything with an "on" switch and a butler available at the drop of a hat. Not to mention the acres of pool, pristine shoreline, restaurants and other facilities we had access to. (Pictured here is the view from the room.) With K and I splitting the cost of the room, it was almost a bargain...

Staying at such a self-consciously luxurious place was a little surreal (on top of the fact that I was staying there in the first place). The Emirates Palace was finished just last year as the city's answer to Dubai's seven-star property, the swanky--and architecturally superior--Burj Al Arab. Yes, that's the one Tiger Woods was hitting golf balls off of. It's shaped like a sail--and you can't even get in to gawk without a room or restaurant reservation (making the cost of a look-see about $140, the price of the cheapest meal available). This battle of the seven stars is something that could only happen in the UAE. Everywhere else, five stars is the agreed-upon max, and somehow the people at the Ritz still sleep at night. But once Dubai invented and started waving around its seven-star designation, Abu Dhabi wouldn't settled for less.

But they did it their way. The Emirates Palace is open to the public (unlike the Burj al Arab). In fact, one of the highlights of this weekend was going to the Picasso exhibit in the hotel. It was a seven-star show (imho) and featured hundreds of works on loan from the Picasso Museum in Paris. It was incredible to walk through gallery after gallery, which included several studies for well-known paintings and a large collection of cubist painting and sculpture. And you didn't have to be a guest at the hotel to see it. The whole thing was free to the general public.

Not that anyone is renaming it the People's Palace. There is more decorative gold than I've ever seen in one place. The hallways practically glow and the main dome is a marvel. The virtual army of concierges, butlers, guides and guest service folk come from all over the world and are always on hand, saying good morning, offering to be of service and handing out roses (we each got a bouquet for checking in and a single, red rose when checking out). And they'll do it in any language you'd care to speak. The specialties, though, are English and Russian. Apparently, the place is packed with Russian mafiosos cleaning up their ill-gotten gains. This according to the middle school principal, who claims he was told by a less-discreet employee. One Russian don apparently stayed in the $25,000/night VIP suite for a month. You didn't hear it from me.

I won't lie...I got my mafioso on a little in the spirit of the place. I drank a $20 mango daquiri at the swim-up bar with a bunch of colleagues. K and I ordered room service three times (actually, it was the cheapest way to buy food in the hotel). I only called my mom in a panic once about tipping etiquette, and, from then on tipped like a champ. We went night swimming in the huge pool with mosaics on the wide, circular bottom and collected shells along the Gulf shore. By the time Saturday rolled around, we were utterly relaxed and growing accustomed to lounging around.

We took a black Audi from the Palace (the only kind of cabs available). We had our weekend bags and the red roses as a memento. By the time we stepped out of the car across from Khalidiya Park, the whole experience had faded into unreality. It shimmered into the heat mirage on the road along with the departing Audi, speeding into the distance.

Go to the back of the branch

Today K and I went to get our ATM cards. To do this, we had to go to the school's exact local branch, which was down the road in a small shopping center. Apparently the National Bank of Abu Dhabi organizes its branches like elementary schools or old-fashion parishes, and we were in this particular branch's "district."

When the taxi dropped us off (Allah bless that man for picking us up. The humidity is back...), we realized that the bank branch was really two branches: one for ladies and one presumably not for ladies (but also not labeled one way or another). This caused a long (and hot) moment of confusion. Not gender confusion but social role confusion. Did we, as Western women, count as ladies? Would waltzing into the ladies section in our workaday capris and short-sleeved tops bring unwelcoming stares from behind abeyyas and veils? Would choosing the non-lady side cause a different kind of offense? Would we get nasty looks? Patronizing smiles? Instructions to go to the back of the branch? (The ladies branch was located around back, near where the cars line up to go to the drive-up ATM.)

We finally decided we were many things, but no one could claim we weren't ladies (at least not by looking at us). We walked around back, past the Baskin & Robbins, which shared that side of the building. The menu looked like it could have been flown in from Peoria--and here we were, walking into a bank segregated by gender.

There was no one in the ladies branch, except two abeyya-clad tellers, one of whom helped us right away. I guess we chose the right side.

The thing is, most public spaces here are not segregated by gender, not even government offices. When I went to the DMV to get my UAE drivers license, I sat on the plastic DMV chairs next to men and women from the four corners of the earth. A row of seated abeyya women behind a huge bank of desks helped anyone whose number flashed on the screen (Yes, they had the plastic chairs, the numbers and everything. I think the whole place came in a box marked "DIY DMV.") The point is, everyone mixed. If you wanted a drivers license, you sat next to whoever was there first and waited until your number was called. It was the same when we got our TB tests at the hospital, and our retinas scanned at the airport.

So why banks? Now that I've been to the back of my branch, I've noticed that most banks are divided. The National Islamic Bank. The National Bank of Dubai. They all have ladies branches. Maybe it has nothing to do with Islam but rather with years of experience successfully managing wealth. Maybe it's the women who don't want their husbands or fathers around when organizing their finances.

No offense, guys.

Following directions, A-Z

If you've ever given directions and hoped they'd be followed, you might appreciate this. I'm a little concerned that only teachers will truly get this, but I had to share.

We had a fire drill this morning, almost first thing. Nice when it's a million degrees outside, right? But since it's been dry, the principals decided to go for it. I give my first period class advance warning cause I want to train them how to line up in alphabetical order (which we were supposed to do well before the scheduled fire drill, not five minutes before. Sigh...this made it a zen master of letting go drill for me...). Anyway, we practice lining up in alphabetical order. While they are standing in their line, I do the corny 6th grade thing and tell them to memorize the face of the person in front and behind them. And they do the corny 6th grade thing of actually staring at each other and making bug-eyed, I'm-memorizing-you faces. Then I say, "OK, great, let's go ahead and sit down." Which they do. Right where they are standing. I mean for them to return to their seats. Instead, the entire line, to a kid, plops down on the floor. They don't exchange confused looks. There is no, "Why do you want us to sit randomly on the floor, Ms. Roberson?" I said sit down, so they sat, still lined up, in an awkward space between the desks, the wall and the door.

I didn't laugh, but I wanted to. I remembered all the conversations I've had with fellow teachers about giving clear directions. I thought I'd been clear, but...

I'll admit, I played it off and had them shake each other's hands and continue their memorizing act for about 30 more seconds. They dropped so quickly and willingly. I didn't want them to feel weird for misunderstanding me or--and I'll be totally honest--start questioning my directions as a matter of course. I know, I know! You non-teachers are right! All we want is for kids to follow us blindly! Like robots! In all seriousness, I did think it might be a language issue, but the native English speakers dropped as fast as the non-native speakers. Finally, I told them to return to their chairs. About a minute later the fire alarm sounded. They lined up A-Z and walked out like champs.

There are two morals:
1) give really, really, really clear directions.
2) I'm going to have to keep myself honest because I'm not sure if these guys are going to be much help.

A bite and no crime

I've wanted to talk about food and public safety for awhile now. These are two elements of daily life that are noticeably different in the UAE. Housing in Abu Dhabi costs about as much as New York or San Francisco (alas), but crime rates and food prices don't follow suit. And I'm not just saying that to get y'all to come visit (though you WILL have a free place to stay...)

Actually, I didn't believe it until I saw it myself. This past March, some miscreant in San Francisco shot out both the windshield and back window of my VW Beetle. When I mentioned the incident to a friend living in Qatar (the country right next door to the UAE), he wrote, "That would never, ever happen in the Gulf." Although I pointedly shared this with anyone who feared I was moving to a terrorism zone, I was dubious. Runaway growth, massive wealth and a large service economy is a perfect recipe for petty crime and general yahoo-ery, in my humble opinion. My Qatar friend, a US diplomat, was surely sheltered from reality.

Or not. In a city the size and shape of Abu Dhabi (you've seen the pictures: apartment buildings shoulder-to-shoulder, skyscrapers, malls, wide streets filled with cars and taxis), there is very, very little crime. Not only is there hardly any actual crime, there is a pervading sense of security. I don't know why this is true because I have seen exactly one police car since I landed, but something is clearly working. Colleagues leave their cars unlocked. One woman at school told a story today about leaving her wallet in a restaurant and returning a day later to claim it, and her money inside. No one seemed surprised by this. I have found myself doing things like leaving my purse in the shopping cart and walking off in search of an item, only realizing later how risky it should feel.

And, speaking of the grocery store (how's that for a segue?), food quality and food prices here are probably the most reasonable I've seen anywhere in the world. Western-style supermarkets are pretty much the only option, and most are European chains (Carrefour, Lulu, Spinneys). While they're low on traditional culture and exotic character, they are high on value and service, with prices to match any souk. In the mall at the end of 9th Street, the grocery store Lulu has this salad bar-by-the-kilo sort of thing. Load up a good-sized plastic container full of lettuce, veggies, chicken, legumes and feta for the equivalent of, oh, $3. Obviously, the Middle Eastern food is a steal, with containers of hummus, kalamata olives or a dozen dolmas for $1. A gallon of milk or a loaf of bread (whole wheat, freshly baked, sliced to order) costs about $1.50. (Camel milk is even cheaper.) But imported stuff is also reasonable. To be honest, I don't buy that much, but I got a package of Atlantic smoked salmon for about $4. Not even Trader Joe's (which I do miss somewhat desperately) can beat that. Oddly (or maybe not) broccoli is the only vegetable that's almost impossible to find and crazy expensive when it shows up. I saw it yesterday for the equivalent of $5.50/pound! Think about it the next time to buy those florets.

I didn't know what I expected before I came. I didn't know if the whole city would be dripping in gold and soaked with inflation, or if all this famed Gulf wealth was just a mirage. I do know that the government is working overtime to keep prices stable, and that a gallon of gas sells for about $1.70 ( a huge, recent jump) where across the border in less-obnoxiously-loaded Qatar it's still under $1. This place is not immune to the laws of economics. But they are doing something right.

If you know the secret to the UAE's low crime rate and food prices, do share...

A walk through the park

The park across the street is a square block of green grass, gazebos and playground equipment in a city where most open space is being filled with large, air-conditioned spaces like high-rise apartment buildings and malls. This particular park is manned by a small army of green-jumpsuited workers who keep the paths swept, the trash off the ground, the fountains bubbling, the light fixtures painted and the grass green (no small feat when it's 105 and bone dry).

K and I walked through the park for the first time this morning because 1) it was dry, not humid, 2) it has been a long time since I've been outside willingly and 3) the park has been filling up in the evenings, after being utterly deserted day and night for the first three weeks we were here. Probably because of the break in the humidity. It's been nice to hear children shouting with delight and adults laughing alongside the typical honking and brakes screeching of city life.

These are pictures of the area around my apartment and the Khalidiya Childrens Park. It costs 1 dirham (36.5 cents) to get in and only families and ladies (ie: women) are allowed. There was no one at the entrance booth to take our money today, so we got in for free. Note my apartment building in the background of the first pic.

Planning a trip to Jordan? One of my students wrote in their intro letter: "I also love going to Petra with its dazzling sites, nerve-racking climbs on donkey back with drops to certain death, and the ascent to ancient tombs." What more do you need in a vacation?

Attack of the red ants

I have these cool pillows for kids to sit on, which I inherited from another teacher. (See the Classroom Pics entry for evidence of their coolness). During our first read aloud on Wednesday, kids reclined on the cushions like so many very small Buddhas until one girl gasped and started sucking on her finger. She'd been bitten by a red ant. Soon, kids were seeing red ants everywhere, and there was a very controlled killing spree on the carpet before we retreated to our seats.

That night I bought the biggest can of Raid I could find at the supermarket in the mall at the end of 9th Street.

After the kids left on Thursday (which is like Friday) I sprayed the bejesus out of the cushions. I expected red ant corpses to come flying out, but there was a decided lack of carnage. Then I pulled back the cushions where they met at the corner of the wall. And came across an ant hangout, fast becoming a colony. Jackpot.

They'd arrived at their new home (ie: behind my cushions) through a hole at the base of the corner where the two walls met. They were streaming in and looping round just below the cushion line. It was a miracle that I didn't see them before. I let them have it with the Raid, great, billowing clouds of the stuff. At the end of the frenzy there were hundreds of ant bodies, inexplicable little piles of sand (had they brought it with them?) and one lone, very large cockroach scurrying for cover. After dispatching it, I went off in search of the Magician's Assistants to help me patch the hole and stop the madness once and for all.

The Magician himself would have patched the hole. The Assistant I found was more concerned with the piles of sand and mass of insect bodies. Despite several attempts (using universal hand signs) to communicate my distress over the ant access point, he left in search of a vacuum. While he was vacuuming, I dashed up to K's classroom and got some of that sticky stuff you put on the back of posters instead of tape. I used that to plug the hole. We'll see if it works. I left my classroom smelling like poison, but cleaner than it'd been since I moved in.

What is the question?

At the end of my first week teaching, I find myself a little blue. The kids are pumpkins. My colleagues are chill. My principal is supportive. The school is solid. My first parent meeting 1) was scheduled in advance by the parent 2) started early and 3) involved a succinct 20-minute conversation about the kid's academic progress. In other words, I have a pretty dreamy job, and I'm not complaining at all.

Yet I feel a little blue. What's up with that? So, the kids are easier. I knew they'd be. So the school is larger and has more resources, especially in the sheer number of adult bodies on campus. Again, no shock. I don't resent the privilege of these kids because they are as much a product of the inequalities in the world as my former students. These kids are the winners, but they are not to blame. (Though there is blame aplenty to portion out. Please vote for Obama and anything that will help kids this Nov.! It's not nearly enough, but it's a start.) Political commentary aside, I made a completely conscious decision to travel across the world and live in a new country--and I knew I'd be teaching the winners as a result of that choice. I had a lot of reasons for doing so, but I came into this with my eyes open. It was never my intention to equate the work we did in Bayview/Hunter's Point with the work I'm doing here. I thought I had made peace with that. And I have, in many ways.

Then I realized what it's been like to plan this week. I realized that for five years I have thrown myself into the curriculum, digging into concepts with the tenacity of a wolverine. It was vital that I find the key buried in the abstractions that would unlock the door for my students--the door to that magic place where their own knowledge and what they needed to learn melded into a solid building block that would outlast the class period or the week. For five years I planned around the question: what will unlock the door? Because the door was often shut (plenty of other doors were open, but the one I dealt with were closed tight and hard to find--sometimes they had been slammed long ago by previous teachers who hadn't bothered to look for them).

This week I've been approaching planning the same way and feeling kind of useless. There is not the same urgency. Duh, you may be saying. I know! I reply. But then what is my question? If I'm not unlocking the door and digging with the ferociousness of a wild, backwoods creature, then what am I doing?

Do NOT give me a corny answer. If you're going to say: well, this is your wonderful opportunity to push them farther and challenge them even more! Don't say it! Give me a question instead. I don't have to have the same intellectual challenge as I did in the city, but I'd like one, if it's possible. I'll keep thinking...let me know if you have any thoughts...

Technically 9th Street

The street technically known as Ninth Street in Abu Dhabi begins at the corner where my building is located. It ends at the shiny new Khalidiya Mall. K and I walked down 9th Street today in the dry heat of the evening, when my cheeks turn rosy red but my feet do not sweat (huzzah!) It's funny to hear people talk about the weather on dry days because the words "pleasant" and "actually not that bad" are thrown around as if it weren't 112 outside.


Check out my building! My balcony is the first one up from the Alafiya Gents Bath and Saloon (yes, THAT one). K's is the one right above it. We are the only two teacher apartments that face both the corner of 9th Street and (better yet) the park. There is enough room on the balcony for one person to stand and wave like a general reviewing the troops. There is not enough room for a chair, even a small one.


Further down 9th Street is the dry cleaners and a string of shops that specialize in selling the sheik head wraps, much more respectfully known as ghutra. There is also a stationary store, two restaurants, and a cafe where men gather (in their ghutras) to smoke the hookah pipe (tobacco only!) and play cards. This evening, maybe because it was dry, most proprietors were standing in the door of their shops with their fronts to the sidewalk and their backs to the A/C. Presumably, if their front gets too hot, they can turn around and cool off, kind of like an inverse campfire. At the end of the street is the mall, where there is an excellent Indian place in the food court.

The UAE has taken both malls and food courts to a whole new level. Sure, the Khalidiya Mall food court has McDonalds and KFC, a Baskin and Robbins, a Chilis and a Burger King, but it was also constructed with full kitchens behind the little booths so that some non-global-conglomerate places (like this Indian place) have plenty of room to cook right on site. McDonalds, on the other hand, has a vast cavern behind the warming trays and probably a cranky executive somewhere who is upset about having to pay for all the extra space. The food actually prepared in these kitchens is several steps above typical food court fare, yet sold at typical food court prices.

What happens, though, is that the Emerati and other Arab families who flock to malls and food courts inevitably arrange their ghutra- and abeyya-clad selves around a tray of Big Macs and fries, while the obvious foreigners (K and I among them) feast on the treat of freshly prepared Indian or traditional Middle Eastern. I guess everyone wants something different when they go out. I'm not saying this to get on my purist high horse, having ordered Dominos not once, but twice this week. (It tastes the same, only the pepperoni is better cause it's all-beef--no pork byproducts here!)

Two more things, somewhat random:

• Lest anyone doubt the profound corniness of 11 year olds: I assigned my students the previously mentioned "real homework" of writing a personal letter of introduction to me. My favorite was the girl from Stockholm who titled hers "Swedish Meatball." I could not possible make this stuff up.
• Roberson of Arabia uncensored: Someone commented on yesterday's post and then deleted it. Which is totally cool. But I got a few emails wondering why I deleted the comment. I didn't and won't ever. Just so you know.
  

First day!

Let me begin by saying that I did not ruin any copiers today.

Let me continue by saying that I'm now the teacher in 6th grade who is known for assigning "real" homework on the first day of school. I think the direct quote (as reported to me by the music teacher) was, "Ms. Roberson went ahead and assigned us homework tonight. Not half homework like some teachers, but real homework."

Thank you very much.

I may be stressing the kids, but I have never been as calm after the first day of school as I am now. The day went well--but more than that--it was mellow. In fact, it was so mellow it couldn't have gone badly. Does this make sense? There was nothing I could possibly have done (within the realm of normalcy) that would have resulted in chaos, mass disrespect, bullying, violence, craziness or anything else teachers fear regardless of how many times they've walked into a classroom. I have taught many classes that have gone well (as anyone still teaching after seven years can say). I have never taught a class in which I almost didn't have to be in the room.

True, it was the first day (and, true, I did not leave the room, nor consider it). BUT, as someone who has helped build a school from the ground up, I've been racking my brain for reasons why such a profound sense of comfort and at-homeness seems to permeate this school building. It had nothing to do with orientation. In preparing for this year, we teachers had the kind of discussions all teachers have: classroom norms, parent communication, what to do about late work, will kids be allowed to go back to their lockers after lunch, etc. etc. We didn't talk about school culture. We didn't talk about how to make kids feel at home. They arrived on the scene this morning and just did. It was impossible for me to distinguish between the kids who were brand new (about five in each class) and the kids who had been at the school for years.

The only thing I can think of is also the only substantial difference between my current students and my former students. None of my kids were angry this morning. Some were silly. Some were shy. Some wanted to make sure everyone knew how smart they are. Some read well. Some needed help sounding out words. Some spoke with accents (Dutch, Arabic, German, Texan, just to name a few). But none were angry. My former students had plenty of reasons to be angry, most completely out of their control (which is enough in itself to make anyone mad). These students don't. Or, if they do, I didn't see it today. Maybe kids who feel safe and comfortable walking into the gate bring that feeling with them to class. Maybe we didn't have to talk about creating that sense in the kids because it exists already, thanks to their privilege and life circumstances.

These are first day thoughts. I don't know if this theory is correct or how it will develop as the year goes on. If you have any comments/theories or ideas, please feel free to post them here!

Melting and firming

This is not a post about how hot it is here. (In fact, it was a dry day today--about 114, mind you, but not humid.)

This is a post about meltdowns, literal and figurative.

This is a post about how on the day before the first day of school, after a week of prepping and classroom beautifying and team-building with my new colleagues, I tried to make two overhead copies of my seating charts. One came out perfectly. The other melted in the machine. Onto the copier drum. Do you know what happens when plastic melts on a copier drum? 1) the copier becomes useless, 2) the drum must be serviced, if not replaced and 3) it is really easy to freak out and go to one's principal, not quite crying and not quite hyperventilating at the same time. Not to mention 4) the whole school is down a copy machine the day before school starts.

You can imagine how the day could have ended for me. Fortunately, it did not.

• K was fantastic after receiving my initial panicked text and prevented me from dramatically sending an all-school email taking responsibility for the screw up and throwing myself at the mercy of all. She also stuck by me until I stopped shaking.
• The principal reacted with zen-like calm (as I was mentally blowing into a paper bag, I was also mentally taking notes for when I find my way back to being a zen master of letting go)--he put an "Out of Order" sign on the copy machine, pointed out that the school has three more and suggested that getting a copier repairman to come in was not even that serious.
• Two of my colleagues (Aussie and Generous J) were also fantastic. Generous J even told me to shake it off immediately because how was I supposed to know (true) and at least I didn't plug a 110-volt laptop into a 220-volt outlet like her friend did and fry a $3,000 piece of equipment. (This would not be the time to mention how much copier drums cost, if you happen to know...)

By the time I left campus, I had shaken off most of the urge to throw myself off the Sushi Building and/or insist that all copy repairs from now until the end of the semester be taken out of my personal salary. I felt the warm glow of support from K, the principal and my colleagues. I felt on firm ground in a place I've only been in a very short time. Not a bad place to be in for the first day of school.

Sizing up

There were a lot of kids around today for middle school orientation. It was thrilling to finally have them in the building, if only for quick tours and a Q & A session with the principal. Some of them are new to the school and the country (one girl landed three days ago). All of them are new to the middle school. There was a lot of sizing up on all sides.

My first impression of my new population of students (middle class world travelers, ethnically and culturally diverse) was that kids are kids. They are shy at first. Some make sweet, awkward comments. Some refuse to speak or look you in the eye. All are polite and demure upon first introduction. The French teachers who share my room, Madame F and Madame L, were aflutter with welcome (in French, bien sur). This reduced most kids to helpless giggles, except the kid from Montreal who busted out with a charming little speech about his summer vacation. Madame F (Quebecoise with a vengeance) was delighted. The other kids looked a little agog, as kids do, even middle class world traveling ones.

The new kids were toured around by hand-picked 8th graders called PALs (peers as leaders). And while it's true that kids are kids--the kids here are smaller. Much smaller. Maybe they shrink in the plane on the way over. I don't know. My first faux pas was mistaking an 8th grade boy for a new 6th grader. I felt bad until my partner teacher, Aussie (guess where she's from?) made the same mistake. In fact, I've been mistaking 8th graders for 6th graders all day, but keeping my mouth shut about it. The 6th graders, unsurprisingly, look like very petit 5th graders. I was worried about fitting them around the tables. Now I'm wondering if anyone will need a booster seat.

School starts for real on Tuesday, August 19. Send good thoughts...

Beating the heat: a few pics and camel's milk

Remember when I said shortly after arriving that the heat was bad, but nothing that the good, ol' U. S. of A couldn't do just as well in places like Florida and Texas? Remember that? Apparently, we landed in somewhat of a "cold" spell. Those first few days, for example, one's sunglasses would not immediately fog up in the humidity upon exiting a building. One's feet would not sweat slimy puddles in one's shoes while walking across the hall. One could take a photograph in the middle of the day without water condensing on the lens.

For the past week, it has been uniquely, Arabian-peninsula-is-like-no-other-place-on-earth hot--and one could certainly expect foggy glasses, soggy feet and wet lenses. Every time.

Hence the lack of city pics. It's not worth it even to post a foggy example because it shows up as white haze. I took the following pictures from the air-conditioned safety of K's apartment (her view is the same as mine, though one story higher). More will follow as it gets cooler.

As promised: the sushi building! It has a car dealership on the ground floor and offices above (note the giant chopstick holder on the top, hence the name). It is a landmark we newbies have been using to orient ourselves around the city because it can been seen from most places, including my livingroom. Shout out to colleague M for coining the name. This picture also showcases the very nice park across the street from the apartment building.


The mosque across the street. The call to prayer from its minaret is among the more demure I've heard. It doesn't wake me up (good), but sometimes I miss it in the evening (disappointing). The call to prayer is one of the best parts about living in a Muslim country (imho).

In another effort to beat the heat, I tried camel milk today. (When in the desert, do as the Bedouins...) These days, it's widely available at the grocery store, alongside the regular milk, soy milk and goat's milk. It's slightly sour, but mostly nutty. I think it'd be great as chocolate milk, but that's not on offer. Something else for those cute suggestion boxes.

Getting there from here

I promise to take city pics this weekend! Prominently featured will be the Sushi building (stay tuned...) and the mosque down the street, along with my apartment building, Al Jezira bakery downstairs (no relation to the news network) and the co-op grocery in the park.

Landmarks mean a lot around here because there are no street addresses in Abu Dhabi. This is somewhat remarkable, given that the place emerged whole from a box marked "DIY City" about 30 years ago and is built on a grid. Furthermore, the streets have names--logical names like 6th Street, 34th Avenue and Sheik Zayed I Boulevard. There is even a method to the naming: streets run east-west and avenues run north-south. My apartment building is technically on the corner of 26th Avenue and 9th Street. The nearest grocery store is technically on 13th Street at 32nd Avenue.

Why do I keep saying technically? Because when taking a taxi to go to school, I tell the guy "behind the BMW dealership" (which is actually about two blocks away). Going home, I say "across from Khalidiya Park." When I told Ikea where to deliver the magic couch, I gave them the name of the neighborhood (pronounced Cal-a-dee-ya) and my cell phone number--they'll call when they get close, and I'll talk them in. I've seen this work (K did it when she got her dining room table), so it's not some citywide delusion. But why? Even if there is no residential mail delivery (and obviously there's not), a city full of cabs where every restaurant (even McDonalds) delivers needs address numbers. Most businesses have cute little suggestion boxes near the checkout. Maybe I'll start a campaign.

Computer update: it's here and in my possession! Not only that, but my classroom is now home to the 6th grade laptop cart. At this school, they call the carts COWS (computers on wheels) and give them cheesy names. Mine is Moozart, in case you were wondering.

PS: My mom pointed out that anything called a COW would certainly have a cheesy name. We're a family of comedians, let me tell you...

Classroom pics!

The Magician came through! Check out the classroom! Desks! Chairs! Whiteboard! Lockers! Nary a stray shelf in sight!

As you can see, it could be a classroom pretty much anywhere, though note the huge A/C vents above the board and the very, very small windows. The cushions in the library nook are courtesy another teacher, but are so comfy I may get some for my apartment.

I feel landed and--best of all--cheered at the prospect of being a lot less control freaky cause clearly the whole world didn't collapse when I stopped stressing about it.

Computer update: Sigh. The word now is "as soon as we get it." I accepted a loaner from the students cart after refusing one for days--somehow thinking if I didn't have one that my own would magically appear? Zen masters of letting go accept loaners...

Little by little

Classroom update: the desks and chairs have appeared! The pile of locker shelves has diminished! The maintenance crew leader--I'll call him the Magician--came in while I was clapping my hands with glee and promised the white board would be next. I gave him a huge mental hug, knowing that to actually hug him would be a cultural no-no. But, best of all, I believed him because of the desks, chairs and shelves--and because I'm becoming the zen master of letting go. But mostly because of the desks and chairs.

Classroom pics soon!

Computer update: still nobly waiting until Tuesday.

Apartment update: Still empty except for those two little Ikea chairs. The magic couch and foldy table still scheduled to arrive Sept. 3 (the day after Ramadan starts! Eeek! I've been assured absolutely nothing gets done for an entire lunar month! But, because I'm a zen master at letting go, this hardly worries me at all. Not.) I can always eat at K's. She got her diningroom table and chairs today--beautiful wood with stylized carvings along the edge of the table and down the middle of the four matching chairs. Not from Ikea, needless to say.

There is this French expression: petit a petit l'oiseau fait son nid. Literally, it means little by little the bird builds his nest. But the best English translation is slowly but surely or one step at a time. I like the French version because of the nesting connotations and because there are so many different timelines out there. And yet, slowly but surely, things will get done.

Taming the control freak beast

(For those of you who have worked with me before; for those who know me really well (and who will know me better after reading this); and for those who understand what I'm talking about here even if you've never met me.)

It's impossible to have a new job in a new country AND be a control freak. Alas. I know this in my head, but my reflexes need to catch up. They still fire automatically when something needs to be done. I find my body moving quickly down a school hallway, only to realize I have no idea where I'm going or what to do once I get there. For the past five years at my former school, I helped determine "the way we do things here." (I also knew where everything was.) Now, I'm learning a whole new set of procedures (not to mention a new building layout) that--sigh--someone else has figured out. Often, I find myself in a place (literally and figuratively) where I can't move forward without help. OK, I'll be honest. This happens all the time. It happens because other people know how to do something or where to go, and I don't. Where it gets really weird are the situations when...wait for it...it's their job to do it for me. Eeek!

The following scenarios have tested my control freakness in just the past 24 hours.

1) My classroom has no desks, no chairs, no white board, and sets of lockers with piles of locker shelves stacked up on the side.
What I was told: draw a floor plan of the room as I want it and give it to the maintenance crew leader who will see that my room is arranged thusly, and the lockers completed.
My impulse: whip out the screwdriver and start assembling. Find the furniture supply room and start hauling. Who cares if it's 110 degrees in the shade--school starts in 9 days!
What I'm going to do: the floor plan (check!), bite my nails, trust that it will get done...hyperventilate a little, bake brownies for the maintenance crew, go back to trusting that it will get done.

2) My school laptop is not ready yet. Since this is a Mac campus and I have a PC, it's hard to get started (doing anything!) without the laptop.
What I was told to do: wait until Tuesday.
My impulse: panic. Hunt down the tech guy and find a way to get the laptop this minute (shout out to K for soothing words after bearing the brunt of the panicking part).
What I'm going to do: wait until Tuesday...look enviously at my colleagues whose laptops are ready. And wait until Tuesday.

Professionally, this is a lot of what I came here for--to figure out a way to let go, to trust the process and myself enough to allow things to get done on a timeline that differs from the one in my freaky head. To depend on other people maybe a little without feeling as though the world will collapse onto my very shoulders. That kind of thing. Having a maintenance crew step in is wonderful--but "maintenance crew" is just a stand-in for "anyone with a different timeline that may, actually, be as good or better than mine but how would I know if I have to control everything all the damn time?"

Crossing cultures is always a good way to bring these issues to the fore. There are few situations where a person is LESS in control than in a new country. Though I sometimes find it hard to relax, I don't find it hard to accept the reality--and necessity--of this. After all, what is a colonizer if not a control freak with a lot of power and no perspective? And I'm not a colonizer. So, I'm taking lots of deep breaths, freaking out privately (or to K) and reminding myself that the (many, many) opportunities to practice letting go is good for me. Maybe in the same way lima beans are good for me. But good nonetheless.

The homos downstairs

(Not a post my mom will print out for my grandmother...)

The homos downstairs #1: Apparently, the men's hammam (Turkish-style bath) downstairs is quite the down-low scene, if you know what I mean. (Although I will say that not all Turkish baths are hotbeds of homosexuality and to think otherwise casts a sexualized, Western eye on a very cool bathing tradition). That being said, this particular bathhouse looks more toward San Francisco than Istanbul, according to the colleague who lives on my floor (the one with the adorable daughter) whose husband is Emerati (but, one assumes, not a frequenter of the bathhouse downstairs).

The homos downstairs #2: There is also an excellent cafe/bakery downstairs, right next to the hammam, in fact, that does a booming business in Middle Eastern cooking, delivering their kebabs, falafel and flatbread pizzas all over town in cute little white vans. Its vast menu is published in both English and Arabic and is creatively translated in places. A particularly striking translation is the name of everyone's favorite Middle Eastern chickpea dip...which they spell h-o-m-o-s on the menu. Homos is offered in a wide variety of ways, including "homos with meat," "homos with pine" (I think they mean pinenuts...), "homos plate," (a personal favorite), and "misc homos" (haven't quite figured that one out yet).

So we have bathing homos on one side and homos at least four different ways on the other. It seems we've moved to the Castro of Abu Dhabi...

Apartment pictures: "Before"

For the curious: these are pics of my apartment! Actually, they are pics of K's apartment, but mine is identical down to the (very limited) furniture in the bedroom (provided by the school). My apartment is on the second floor (along with a returning teacher and her adorable daughter), K's is on the 3rd, two colleagues are on the 5th, and two more are on the 6th (the top floor). Folks on the top floors have amazing views of the park across the street and even the Gulf, at times. We on the lower floors have huge windows and big livingrooms.

You'll notice that there isn't much there--these are definitely the "before" pictures. The "after" pics will have to wait for the furniture...

Speaking of the furniture, the chairs pictured in the livingroom are mine--from Ikea! My foldy table and magic couch (mentioned previously) won't be delivered until Sept. 3 (mouldering in a warehouse in Dubai. They will be delivered by truck, not camel, but apparently the journey between the two cities takes just as long when hip, Swedish furniture is in demand). K's table (from a real furniture store) is being delivered on Tuesday, so we won't have to picnic for too much longer.

My apartment is considered the worst housing compared to the other apartments of teachers at my school, which is amazing to me. This place is way above average. I love it, love it, love, it--especially the natural light. Check out all the windows!

Shopping on jet lag

I have been to Ikea exactly three times in my entire life--all of them with people I love very much. The first two times (in the States), I got into pissy "whatever...whatever" fights with my hapless (but well-loved) companions and, in one case, ended up crying. I have nothing against reasonably priced and hip Swedish furniture. But Ikea is too much of everything, for WAY too long a time. Enough to make anyone (I think) stuff-blind and cranky.

The third time I went, however (this very Tuesday), I learned the secret to shopping at Ikea. Do it jet-lagged.

My new school is savvy to the fact that its new hires are moving across the world AND starting work. The first three days of orientation were low-key bureaucratic stuff in the morning and shopping all afternoon. We were driven around in school vans by the saintly bus driver and the whole admin team, who waited patiently and heroically (laptops and cell phones humming) in mall after mall while their newest staff members stocked up on the necessities of life. Ikea, of course, was a featured stop.

Not only did I skip through the store free of creeping irritability and frustration, but I actually found two major pieces of furniture that I wanted--yes, wanted--to buy. Neither were in stock, actually, and I didn't go home with much, but that's not the point. I made it through Ikea AND wanted to buy two, major somethings. (For those of you familiar with the catalog, it's a table called Norden with a foldout leaf and a set of drawers running down one leg. In birch. And a magic couch (I forget its name) with an entire little bed/couch extension hidden underneath that can be rolled out and popped up, transforming the whole thing into a 1) double bed or 2) place where more than one person can lounge comfortably. This avoids the one-person-can-stretch-out-one-person-has-to-sit-up-with-the-other-person's-smelly-but-well-loved-feet-in-their-lap syndrome. I love this couch. I plan to get it in dark beige.)

We went to other malls and other stores on Wednesday and Thursday...they were all full of stuff and full of UAE folks doing their shopping. I learned that I can, maybe at some point wear a tank top (since several women--both Asian and European--were sporting them in the mall), but I'm still going to be respectful and avoid it. I learned that some Emerati men will ask if you if you want to go to the front of the line at the Indian restaurant in the food court, and some will try to cut and intimidate the woman who is just trying to take your order. ( I knew they were Emerati men cause they were wearing the traditional (ie sheik) garb. ) I learned that abbeyas, while all black, come in many different cute cuts and styles, including deep pink sequins along the head scarf (and always the chic shoes peeking out from the ankle-length folds). I learned that the cell phone guy in the Carrefour (Walmart) in the Marina Mall (big, big mall in Abu Dhabi) is sweet and will tell you not to buy the fancier but ugly phone because it's ugly, install your SIM card, get you about $50 worth of free minutes AND change the language settings to English and not Arabic. (But how cool would it be to text in Arabic!)

And if you think all these "cultural" experiences are trippy in that they involve very familiar things happening in slightly different, through-the-looking-glass ways then you understand what it's like to move from the USA to the UAE at this time in history.

Welcome to the kalidescope

My first glimpse of Abu Dhabi was the international terminal at the airport. We emerged from a low, tube-shaped hallway into a domed arrivals hall covered with a dizzying kalidescope of tiles and supported by an enormous, fluted column (similarly ceramic-ed). I'd been traveling for 30 hours, so remember the moment in a series of images, as kalidescoped as the decor:

• a Filipina woman in a silver-bangled halter top (hey! I thought we couldn't show off our shoulders, much less cleavage and belly buttons),
• a group of women cloaked in black abeyyas, one talking on a cell phone.
• men who looked like sheiks (men who probably were sheiks) in long, white dishdasha shirt dresses with scarves around their heads affixed by black cords at remarkably jaunty angles.
• blinking lights, buzzing phones
  
• the swoop of Arabic script on the signs,
• long lines, the wrong line, then the right line,
• opening one eye wide for a high-tech retina scan (my first!)
• flinching at the thunk-thunk of low-tech rubber stamps on my passport and visa.

I arrived at my new apartment around 12:30 a.m. There are three other new teachers in the same building, K among them. The luxury of being able to talk into the night with such a close friend after each new day is a gift beyond measure. The whole building sits above a men's hammam (traditional Turkish bath), a bakery and a dry cleaners. It's a far cry from my Peace Corps experience...no cement floor or tin roof here. Instead, the floor is hardwood-esque, the livingroom is about the size of my place in Burlingame; there are two bedrooms and two bathrooms, both with tubs (!)--and, joy of joys, large, rectangular, east-facing windows look out over the street and to the park across. The upper floors in the building have a Gulf view (I'm on the second floor), but my windows are the biggest in the building. In the morning, light streams through--hazy, pale yellow light filtered through the thick, humid air. It's hot outside, but not as hot as I'd been led to believe. Not heart-stopping hot. Just Houston/Florida/the worst of East Coast humidity and sunshine, oppressive but not unbearable. I'm getting used to the icy feeling of my sweat cooling in the a/c of school and home. I thought I would be writing to you all about the depth and breadth of the heat, but I don't have much to say. It's really, really hot. But that's all.

I feel like a stranger but also like I belong. This might be because I'm one of 30 new teachers coming in this year, and so surrounded by people going through the same thing. It might be because K is here too and deconstructing the wider world is nothing new when we are together. It also might be because I've studied Abu Dhabi for so many months, taking advantage of Web images that didn't exist in the same way the last time I moved abroad in 1996. The buildings of the skyline are like old friends; the street names ring a bell--and all the restaurants (from McDonalds to Trader Vics) and the stores (Ikea, Ace Hardware, etc.) look like home. Then I see a covered women with a full veil with high heels and pedicured toes peeking out from under the folds of her abbeya. And it's so cool because this woman, a walking symbol of modesty and respect for both cultural tradition and religious expectations, is wearing four-inch stilettos and Hot Rod Red on her toes. As if anyone needed another reminder that there is nothing black and white in the world, even a woman in a black abbeya. But no one would need that kind of reminder in Abu Dhabi. It's just that kind of town...

Coming attractions: some pics, Ikea as an international phenomenon and on not being a total control freak