Eid Mubarak!

Ramadan ended last night at sundown. I sort of expected a collective cheer or a particularly jubilant call to prayer, but the evening proceeded normally. This morning, I went to the gym (Yes! The gym!) and was amazed to find the little cafe open and a bunch of sheikh-garbed guys downing orange juices and coffees. In public.

It was weird to see people eating so blatantly. It's weird to know I can too, if I want. I've been in the UAE for about two months, and one of those months has been Ramadan. It's hard to remember what it was like before. Will kids start leaving their plastic water bottles in class again? Will the regular school day seem long? (We still get out at 3:20, so I doubt it. But after a month of 2:10 dismissal...) Will I think less about food or more? How long will it take to forget about the last month's restrictions? Everyone seemed to adapt so quickly back on September 1. Maybe reverting back to old habits will be just as seamless.

As I write, families are gathering throughout Abu Dhabi, exchanging gifts and feasting. K and I are thinking about grabbing some lunch. At lunchtime. What a concept. Tomorrow, I'm told, will be the equivalent of December 26, with malls open early and post-Eid sales. We don't go back to school until Sunday, so there are still a few days left to sight-see, kick back and, yes, eat in public.

Eid Mubarak!

Primal shipping

I saw the global economy up close today. It felt a little like visiting a slaughter house. My consumer illusions are gone. I will never look at a shiny UPS truck or the stacks of stuff in Target the same way again. Cause I know what it looks like before it's unloaded, unboxed, dusted off and prettily displayed. I've seen the backstage of capitalism run amok.

I have been to the port.

The thing is, the Port of Abu Dhabi isn't even that big, as ports go. But it's still acres and acres of container-covered tarmac; rows of semi trucks lined up at the gate; forests of shipping cranes 40 stories high, and machines shaped like capital Hs, like something out of Star Wars, that roll around on huge spindly legs and crank up containers five, six at a time. Guys in dusty jumpsuits loading and unloading. Guys in nautically inspired uniforms inspecting, stamping and fee-collecting. Guys in slacks and short-sleeved dress shirts, jostling for position in the endless lines at the miles of counter, waiting for forms to be written (handwritten!) in triplicate and stapled in the correct order.

Then there was me. I had the school's pick-up, the heroic school driver and four boxes and a duffle bag to find in all that commerce. Find it I did, in a warehouse right out of the last scene of Raiders of the Lost Ark. But it couldn't be mine without two hours of red tape shuffle. I stood amid the various groups of guys, the only woman in the whole place, and marveled that the richest country in the world still processes customs using ditto spirit masters. It's a fancy name for those things you put between sheets of paper when you want the writing from one paper to show up on the other one. I saw them used today for the first time since second grade. It got me thinking about the hard facts of development. This is a country that can afford computers, training and tech maintenance. (This is a country that can afford the Chrysler Building.) And yet...it must take more than money and will to upgrade from spirit masters. I wonder what it takes.

I did a lot of wondering today, as I carried my ever-growing stack of documents back and forth between groups of guys. I went from the warehouse office to the customs shed to the main customs building and back again too many times to count At each new counter, I was treated with the utmost respect and ushered to the front of every line. (Women in the UAE typically go to the front of the line, especially in situations where very few women are present. This was certainly one of those situations.) It was impossible to get frustrated because it was clear everyone was doing their best. It was very possible to get confused, and I forgot to get the right color paper twice and didn't have the right stamp once. I even got a refund when one inspector accidentally charged me for an inspection I didn't get.

Speaking of inspections, somewhere in the process, I managed to convince another inspector not to go through my boxes with a fine-tooth comb, as is done with all personal shipments for the sole purpose of weeding out material that doesn't jive with Islamic culture. Knowing my audience, I opened my duffle bag and pulled out some underwear while the school's heroic driver mumbled, "Only teaching papers and supplies for children" strategically under his breath. The inspector told me to zip everything back up and stamped the next form vigorously.

Despite the success of our inspection tag team, the driver did convince me never to ship anything by sea again, if I could help it. He did this by recounting the joys of picking up air freight every time we got into the truck to go back to the customs shed (or another now-familiar location.) "So quick, so quick," he would say longingly. "And everything is inside."

At the very end, though, it was quick. I got the last stamp and handed the final form (blue) to the warehouse guy. The forklift guy lifted my tiny little pallet (pallet-ette) into the pick up truck. I gave him $3 (which turned out to be too much. Whatever.) and we sped out of the port.

Though my boxes were scarred and lopsided, only two picture frames broke and four stemless champagne glasses made it across the ocean completely intact. So, I'll raise one of them to the port, to the guys, to the science fiction machinery, the spirit masters, and even my very short smuggling career.

Beaks at the bank

The ladies' section of the bank was hoppin' this morning. I went today because the ATM at the mall ate my card last weekend. Long story, short: It said I entered the wrong PIN three times. I didn't. What I did do was dash to the bank during my prep period last Sunday, applied for a new card, then went back today to pick it up. It wasn't there, and I was tempted to feel as though I'd wasted a chunk of Saturday morning trying to understand 1) why the bank can't issue me a new ATM card without a lengthy application process, 2) why my card now needs 10 days to arrive and 3) why no one can explain how the ATM ate my card in the first place.

Except. The women with the beaks were at the bank.

A very few Emerati and Omani women-of-a-certain-age wear shiny, golden face masks that look for all the world like beaks. Or fake moustaches. (I found the woman pictured here on Google images. Her mask is a bit askew, but you get the idea...) Usually, I can go weeks and weeks without seeing even one. Today at the bank there were three! What a treat! I discovered that the masks hook around the ears, somewhat like glasses, that they clink when the women lean in to give each other Euro-style kiss-kisses on the cheek, and that the beaks are probably much more comfortable than wearing a full veil (as some women do) because they don't have to breath into fabric, but still have almost the same modesty coverage.

So why doesn't everyone wear a beak? Another Google search didn't reveal much. A colleague told me face masks (gold or plain black cloth) are worn only by certain tribes. Another person assured me young women these days wouldn't touch them with a 10-foot pole. Anecdotally speaking, I haven't seen a woman under 55 wearing one. But what I don't know is if women "graduate"to the beak or if the older women have always worn them, but now the younger generation is failing to follow suit.

The women at the bank withdrew huge stacks of small bills and clinked out of the branch while I waited behind them to get a week's worth of cash by interacting with an actual teller, as though it were 1970 or something. Just a bunch of old-fashion girls at the bank on a Saturday.

It's only a Muslim moon

Ramadan was supposed to end on October 1 this year. Then, sometime last week, the Islamic powers-that-be announced that it might end on September 30. Just yesterday, we discovered that, in fact, the last day of Ramadan would be September 29. Which means we've been granted two extra days of vacation with no natural disaster involved. This is what happens, I guess, when your holidays depend on the phases of the moon.

Eid al-Fitr marks the end of the holy month of Ramadan. Literally translated, it means celebration (eid) to break the fast (al-fitr). The day is calculated by the sighting of the new moon, which begins the 10th month of Shawwal. The date varies slightly from country to country. I spent a good deal of time on the Internet researching why the moon pops up one place a day or so ahead of another, and came up with nothing. It's a mystery. But what isn't a mystery is that most countries have moon-sighting committees that decree when they will (or won't) see the moon and end Ramadan. October 1 was the agreed-upon date until recently, when it moved up those two days. Gotta love that Muslim moon...

During Eid, people dress up in their nicest clothes, go to mosque for special Eid prayers, get together with family, eat a lot and give to charity. At school, we've been collecting rice and cooking oil for needy families in Abu Dhabi, for example. There is an official three-day holiday from work, though we are getting almost the whole week. Eid Eve is also a holiday, but people spend it getting ready since it is technically the last day of Ramadan.

This is actually not my first Eid, but it is the first time I've had more than 12 hours warning. I remember sitting in my little house in Cameroon waiting for Eid to come. Back in 1998, Ramadan was in March, and there weren't a lot of school holidays looming on the horizon. I lived the part of the country that was predominately Christian, so was surprised to learn we would have the day off. In fact, I didn't even know it was coming until a small group of students knocked on the door and wanted to listen to my radio to find out if they'd have to go to school the next day. We huddled over my small boom box together until the announcement came over the airwaves. The Muslims had seen the moon. It was like a snow day. We all cheered, slapped high fives and took the rest of the night off.

Now that I have six days starting Monday (and am over my regret at not planning a longer vacation--but how could I have known?), I'm going to sleep in a lot, be a tourist in Abu Dhabi and get out to see more of the country, including Dubai and the desert around the oasis of Al Ain. Pictures and details to follow...

Say, it's only a Muslim moon
Sailing over the Arabian Sea
But it wouldn't be Eid, baby
If you weren't here with me...

(inspired by the song "It's Only a Paper Moon" by Arlen et al)

Kentucky Fried Iftar?

There is a small billboard on the road leading to school that advertises KFC. In the ad, a grinning guy dressed like a sheikh (pop quiz: what's the formal name of his headgear?) is holding a classic bucket of fried chicken. The text suggests in both English and Arabic that KFC, a few buttermilk biscuits, some slaw would make a fabulous Iftar dinner.

Iftar is the celebrartory meal that breaks the day-long fast during Ramadan. A traditional Iftar usually involves a roasted sheep, pita and various chickpea dips. But an Iftar can be anything, as I discovered tonight. Restaurants all over town (not just KFC) host buffets, stock special dishes and lower prices to tempt hungry fasters into their doors.

Tonight, I attended my first Iftar dinner at a nearby restaurant along with K and a bunch of folks from school. Along with stuffed peppers and saffron rice, there were french fries, a fabulous pasta dish and tiramisu for dessert. Although, the Prophet Mohammed (peace be upon him) did not himself enjoy cesaer salad and orange Jello in the Arabian desert many Ramadans ago, I can understand why his followers today might want to. (It's also now official: Jello desserts are a fully interfaith phenomenon and are not limited to church potlucks.)

In fact, K reminded me as we were picking at our chicken and dolmas that we eat traditional Iftar food all the time. It's the cheapest and best stuff around (not surprisingly), and it's not rare to plow through several bags of fresh pita a week, a couple pounds of olives and a pile of chickpeas, both raw and hummused. What was fun about this Iftar was everything that wasn't Middle Eastern.

It's making me look forward to my second Iftar, which will be Tuesday night. All the new teachers have been invited to meet the board. Usually, I wouldn't be looking forward to a meet-and-greet with the money people, but now I can't wait to see what we're having for dinner.

Alternate reality at the local pub

A lot of adjusting to the UAE has been getting used to those alternate reality moments. You know what I'm talking about. They're a staple of classic sci-fi or fantasy. The hero steps through an archway/ducks into a wardrobe/unlocks a passageway and all of a sudden there is a shimmer or an eerie musical cue--and everything is the same...yet different. Close but not quite. Archetypal. Not real but based on someone's idea of reality. The UAE is like that. Sometimes I forget I'm across the world and not in some large, coastal, mall-filled city in Florida that didn't make it on the map. Then I hear the call to prayer or see guys swirling around in long white robes and ghutras--and I remember I do live on a gulf. It's just not the Gulf of Mexico.

Last night is a good example. It was Germany's birthday (a colleague who also lives in the Dorm), so a bunch of folks went to the Sheraton down the street, which is also the site of the nearest bar. The bar in said Sheraton is a pub, actually. And, well, it looks like any other pub, except...different. Based on someone's idea of Pub, with dark wood and ceiling fans and comfy, leather club chairs (Everywhere! There wasn't a regular chair in the place.) A central bar with an artistically worn surface. Beer signs. Huge plasma TVs playing soccer. A menu that featured burgers, fish and chips, Guinness onion soup. The only difference was the name. Rather than the Camel's Hump or the Oil Well or whatever, it's called Third Avenue. (For no apparent reason. It's located on Sheikh Zayed I Boulevard. But I've already talked enough about how address-challenged this city is).

Anyway, because it's Ramadan, the place didn't open until 7 p.m. and we were the first ones there. By the time we left, it was packed. With exactly the faces you'd expect in a big-city pub on the equivalent of Thursday night: young, mostly white, well-heeled-looking groups of men and women, drinking, chatting and (alas) smoking. It might, in fact, be the last pub in the world in which one can smoke now that both England and Ireland have gone smoke-free. K leaned over to me halfway through the evening and whispered, "Can you even tell we're in Abu Dhabi? We could be anywhere." She was so right.

Then we stepped out into the steamy evening and walked back towards the corner of 9th Street.
The sidewalks were crowded with people going about their business as if it were mid-morning (Fact: you can get a dentist appointment or go car shopping at midnight during Ramadan.). All the signs were in Arabic and English. Mosques were lit up florescent green (also for Ramadan?) with a little red light on top of each minaret like a cherry on a sundae. And we couldn't have been just anywhere. We had simply emerged from an alternate reality back into reality reality.

It's interesting to cross cultures so many times in a day, as opposed to just once upon arrival in a new country. The period of adjustment becomes more pliant. Traditionally, you land somewhere and proceed to adjust. Some adjustment periods are longer or more stressful, but it's a linear march from clueless to clued-in. Almost 7 weeks ago, I landed and am adjusting and re-adjusting, depending on where I am, what I'm doing and what it looks like. It hasn't made the process harder or easier, just weirder. In fact, I think it will always be like this. I'll never get used to The Way It Is in the UAE (as I did in Cameroon) because there is no one way.

I wonder if that's how people feel when they come to the States because we, too, are a country of countless cultures and aesthetics. Or maybe I feel this way simply because Abu Dhabi has patterned itself after American-style cities (wide roads, skyscrapers, apartment high-rises, etc.), so I feel at home even though I'm not. What do you think?

Turn, turn, turn

I meet with a small group of students every day from 10:15-10:35 during a period called Oasis. It's a poetic term for advisory. We are supposed to use the time to bond and take a break, perhaps under metaphorical palm trees, from the desert that is middle school. Or something like that. It's a cool program. I've never had a formal advisee group like this, and it brings back fond memories of my high school advisers. I hope to be as wise and mellow as they seemed to me way back then.

My group is all 6th graders, and most are my students (though some are in the half of the grade I don't teach). I have kids from Texas, and kids from Beirut. One kid from Holland. Another from Turkey. Two from Jordan. One from India. One from Michigan. Some still look like 4th graders; some are 11 going on 16. So far, I have trained them to sit on the cushions in my room and listen to each other for about 1o minutes. This is an achievement I'm proud of because 6th graders are not renowned for their sitting-and-listening abilities. This group is super sweet and corny, though. They make it easy.

Every day we have a check-in question, and usually the kids come up with it themselves. We've had all the classics: what's your favorite candy? What's your favorite singer? What's your favorite TV show? (A disturbing number of the boys claim to watch "Prison Break" on a regular basis. K is watching it as I type, and I can barely listen without flinching. Kids should not be watching this show!)

Today, the question was what is your favorite month and why? (The girl who came up with it was very proud). We had perhaps our deepest conversation yet. Many kids chose their birthday months, but several chose the months that reminded them of home. We heard about Lebanon in the spring, and Grand Rapids over the 4th of July. Most of the responses started, "I like this month because that's when we go to ______________(insert name of their home here)" Many mentioned presents, parties or fireworks. Even more mentioned rain, that precious commodity that's such a rarity here. January and December were the top months, and not just because of Christmas.

Ex-pat kids are often referred to as Third Culture kids because they roam so much that no place feels like home. I was fascinated that my students' sense of home was so closely tied to the seasons and the way the world looks when they are in the place they feel most safe.

My favorite month used to be whenever it was the most sunny in the Bay Area. Now that I live in the desert, I'll be watching for my favorite time of year here. Maybe it'll be when I can walk along the Gulf without my feet sweating. Maybe it'll be the day I turn on the hot water heater. Probably it'll be some quirk of the seasons I can't even imagine.

What season makes you feel most at home? What is your favorite month, and why?

I heart mosques

Today I discovered that the Sheikh Zayed Mosque, the newest and biggest mosque in Abu Dhabi, is open to non-Muslims for tours twice a day! This makes it one of only two mosques in the whole country accessible to the general public. Tours are in the middle of the morning and not on weekends, but I'm already counting the days to Eid break when I can go. (Eid Al-Fitr is the holiday that marks the end of Ramadan. It's September 30 this year and we have that Tuesday-Thursday off from school.)

I love mosques. Love them, love them, love them. I'm the daughter/step-daughter of two Presbyterian ministers and an Episcopal priest, so maybe a lifetime spent feeling at home in churches and cathedrals has turned me into a connoisseur of holy ground. Mosques feel as comfortable to me as any soaring Gothic nave. Maybe more so. Here's why...

• Mosques have domes, which make their interiors rounded and expansive. It also means they have columns and high arches, which again add to the airy, open feel. Not only that, but domes often have high, clerestory-like windows at the top, allowing light to stream down in warm, picturesque shafts. I could spend all day admiring the natural light under the central dome of a big mosque.
  
• Mosques have acres of carpet--and nothing else! (In fact, Sheikh Zayed Mosque has the largest carpet in the world!) No pews. No lectern. No altar area. No choir loft. Just carpet. Some of you have heard the story about my trip to the world-renown Blue Mosque in Istanbul. While eavesdropping on a British art historian tour guide, I noticed three little boys tumbling around on the antique carpet like it was their own personal playground. As a PK (preacher's kid), I could appreciate their level of comfort inside a place of worship--and I loved that their father looked on indulgently while his kids shrieked with delight and turned somersaults. In the Turkish equivalent of Westminster Abbey. Whenever people get all weirded out, thinking that Islam is some scary religion, I remember that scene.
• Mosques don't have any representational art (a big no-no in Islam) so they are instead filled with intricate tiles, inlaid mother-of-pearl designs, beautiful Arabic script and other decor. This is a lot harder to make cheesy than a picture of Jesus. (I love Jesus as much as anyone, but you have to go to Italy to find a decent representation of Him.) The Sheikh Zayed Mosque in Abu Dhabi is done to death, as you can imagine (semi-precious stones, heaps of marble, etc.). But in the pictures I've seen the sparkly designs are swallowed by the sheer size of the airy, open, dome-y space. I'll let you know how it looks in person when I visit.
• Mosques have graceful, multi-tiered minarets. Minarets are also the source of the call to prayer, one of my favorite things about living in a Muslim country. The call to prayer in Abu Dhabi is broadcast to the city's 2,500+ mosques from a central location (soon to be moved to the Sheikh Zayed Mosque). The recording of the muezzin, a smooth, melancholy tenor, is the best I've heard anywhere. It's not as dramatic or loud as prayer time in Turkey (when the call seems to echo through the streets) or as insistent as the little green mosque next to my host family's compound in Cameroon, but it is beautiful.

I realize I'm posting this on September 11, a day when the horrific actions of a few Muslims poisoned so many American minds against a faith as diverse and sacred to its followers as our own. When you come visit Abu Dhabi (you are welcome anytime!), we will go see the Sheikh Zayed Mosque. We will chill on the carpet under the dome, wrapped up in the scarves they issue at the door (or you can bring your own, if you want). We will marvel at the natural light and swooping Arabic script on the walls. We will stroll through the expansive courtyard; we will listen to the call to prayer in the shadow of the minarets. And you will see what I mean.

The meaning of back

I like Back to School Nights. If they were earlier in the day, they'd be perfect. As it is, getting home at 10 p.m. after a full day is made worth it by the chance to talk about how great the kids are (and perhaps make it worth it for parents to troupe around the school after a full day of their own). Back to School Night is too short a time to get into the nitty-gritty and too early in the year to have much to gripe about anyway. Everyone walks away with a warm glow--and that goodwill is money in the bank if things get hard down the road.

The Back to School Night here was different only in the sheer volume of parents who showed up. They took up almost all the chairs in my room, which had been set up for a 25-minute presentation by my buddy teacher, Ocanada and I. I teach humanities to half the 6th grade. She teaches math and science to the same bunch. (I call her Ocanada because she once campaigned passionately in favor of playing the Canadian national anthem during graduation at her former school near Toronto.) My partner teacher, Aussie (who has been mentioned before) is the humanities teacher for the other half of the grade. It's kind of a cool set up. Teachers share kids with one colleague and subject matter with another.

Anyway...our parents were a virtual United Nations of smiling faces. Before we started, we had conversations going on in Arabic, Dutch, German and every sort of accented English (Australian, British, American, Canadian). Many of them were first-time middle school parents, which can be as awkward a parental stage as adolescence itself. Let me hear from the moms and dads out there, but I can only imagine how it must feel to watch your child grow from a bright-eyed, apple-cheeked mid-sized kid into a furtive, sulky middle schooler. As is often the case, these parents nearly collapsed with relief to discover that Ocanada and I had seen it before and, yes, it would all turn out OK with just the regular amount of groaning and gnashing of teeth (yep, talking about the parents here, not the kids...)

It felt good to present a united front with Ocanada--we are very much on the same wavelength. I don't always feel that way here--and I'm not sure why. Is it the size of the school (about 90 teachers in grades K-12)? The lack of intensity surrounding the work? Or maybe this is what you get when people have work-life balance? They don't have to be in each other's pockets all the time. So they can do things like leave school at a reasonable hour. And, on the other side, keep materials to themselves or look at you a little funny when you suggest that everyone have the same classroom rules. It works both ways, but it seems to work.

Because at the end of the day what's cool about teaching is that the sum of all those little parts doesn't even come close to representing the whole. A group of smiling, somewhat nervous middle school parents; a bunch of 6th graders waiting outside the classroom door before school; the super-corny quotes; the kid who wedged himself in his own PE locker; the one who called herself the Swedish meatball; the cheers when I pull out the read-aloud book--these come closer. I'll let you know if I find the rest...

Running hot not cold

I want to mention this before it cools down too much more.

Of course, "cooling down" is a relative term. Low 100s now feel utterly livable, especially when there is no humidity. I step out of the building at 6:45 or 7 a.m. to catch a cab to work and have lately been cheered by a noticeable drop in morning temps. Mind you, it is already well into the 90s at 7 a.m., but recently it's been dry and the air has been moving (to call it a breeze would be going way too far, even now).

So, in light of the signs of changing seasons, I wanted to let you in on something everyone in Abu Dhabi knows, and everyone in the northern climes may find hard to believe. There is absolutely no need for hot-water heaters in this place from June to October. It's not a question of not wanting to take a hot shower; it's a question of not being able to take anything else. There is no cold water to be had. In fact, when one wants to take a hot shower, one jumps in and turns the faucet all the way to cold. Out pours deliciously warm water that steams the mirror and gets the job done. Putting the faucet on cold simply means the water will come in straight through the pipes and not via the water heater (which is the European kind you have to turn on and wait for 20 minutes for it to heat up). This water, straight from the pipes, is warm enough to fill your Jacuzzi. Every time.

As many of you know, I lived in Cameroon, a country in central Africa for two years. Never, even in the hottest, most tropical parts of the country or in the driest Sahel region up north was it ever hot enough to get hot water running out of the pipes. Assuming one had pipes that water ran through. The Arabian Peninsula is a whole new level of sustained heat. I'll be sure to let you know when I have to use my hot water heater again. Anyone care to guess the date?

Ramadan phenomenon: sneaking off to the liquor store

About a week before Ramadan, I paid $100 for the privilege of being allowed to purchase alcohol in the UAE. My liquor license is about half the size of a passport, complete with photo and passport-like pages. Supposedly, over the course of a year, the pages will be filled with evidence of my sojourns to local liquor store, as foreign a locale to the citizens of the UAE as Amsterdam or Peoria.

The best liquor store in town (and the only one I've been to so far) is actually right around the corner, across a parking lot, down a side street and in the second alley after the construction site. It looks for all the world like an old-fashion gay bar, with a very discreet sign and completely blackened windows. Inside is a duty-free shop wedged into a heavily air-conditioned brick cellar. The whole place is filled with alcohol from all corners of the globe, including a small, expensive shelf of California wine (the South African, Italian and Australian stuff is much cheaper) and decent selection of beer and hard liquor.

It shouldn't feel any different than heading down to the local Carrefour grocery store or to Ikea. But it does because it is so clearly not a part of the culture here. K and I went today and were advised by a colleague to be discreet about carrying the bottles home during Ramadan. To be honest, it's hard to be any more discreet than ducking down an alley and emerging with a bag made from no-way-can-you-see-through-this black plastic. I walked extra carefully so as not to clink even once. No one on the street raised an eyebrow or said a word.

As for the prices, they are also surprisingly reasonable. I was expecting to have to save up, but a decent bottle of Australian wine--or prosecco, my favorite type of Italian champagne!--costs about $15. More than I'd spend at Trader Joe's, but not crazy. Beer is sold by the bottle, as well as the six-pack. A bottle goes for about $1.50.

Apparently, every time I make a purchase, someone in the store is supposed to stamp or mark my little black alcohol passport with the amount I spent. (Presumably brand preferences and state of my palate go unremarked). I can only spend a certain amount per month (but it is ridiculously high--I'd never exceed it). So far, though, I haven't been carded. But I dutifully carry the license in my bag. Being caught buying liquor without it is a big no-no, punishable by all sorts of things including mad fines and jail time (but mostly fines). Don't worry...I won't duck down the alley without it.

The magic couch has landed!

Almost exactly one month of waiting, the magic couch has arrived! (Although with the foldy table!) I am now sitting ON SAID COUCH in my very livingroom, typing on my laptop just like the millions of other people worldwide with an apartment full of Ikea furniture.

Full is perhaps an exaggeration. My livingroom is on the spacious side and right now it has three pieces of furniture in it (two from Ikea) and that's about all it's going to have. My beloved godparents showed me the less-is-more school of interior decorating this summer, and I'm a faithful convert. (Plus, since when have I ever wanted a lot of furniture?) I think I'll get a carpet for the floor--nothing super fancy or Turkish, but woven and colorful enough to add some local color. (Check out the drawers in the foldy table--and K's cute purse...)

Pictured here is the magic couch in magic mode. The bottom piece pops up and the entire couch turns into a double bed. Check it out! There is also a whole secret storage compartment underneath the divan section of the couch (the part that sticks out).


The low coffee table is from the same non-Ikea place where K got her table and chairs. It's also the same place I got the leafy shelf thing (pictured below). If anyone has any ideas of what to put on it, post them here!

Ramadan phenomenon: no sipping allowed

People really and truly do not eat in public during Ramadan. In fact, the penalties are severe and include possible arrest. At school, it's amazing how quickly everyone has made the transition.

Kids, being kids, used to leave their plastic water bottles all over the classroom. After school, I'd inevitably corral some blameless child to recycle the 3-4 bottles on the tables--or end up doing it myself. Day #2 of Ramadan, there is not a water bottle in sight. Which is perfectly appropriate--and remarkably responsible for 11 year olds. K and I went to soda machine today and brought a plastic bag along so we could transport the cans anonymously through the halls. I then hid it behind my computer, when I wasn't taking sips practically under the table in an effort to be discreet. Yesterday, K ate lunch huddled in a storage room adjacent to her classroom. Today, Aussie asked during the team meeting if we'd mind if she ate a banana (none of us are fasting). Food is not supposed to leave the cafeteria or the staff room. In fact, the binds have been drawn to hide any eating faculty members who might be glimpsed through a small window in the hall.

This is my first Ramadan. Before yesterday, I would take a few sips of water during class, carry around a diet Coke at the end of the day and think nothing of finishing my lunch in the hall. Now, in just 48 hours, I remember to take a plastic bag to the vending machine. Sixth graders have significantly altered their habits (is a holy month that only 25% observe the trick to curing 6th grade issues?) I actually asked a kid if it was OK to put on chapstick in public. What did I want her to do? Issue a fatwa on the spot? (A fatwa is any religious opinion or ruling on an Islamic point of law, and it's not always a death sentence, like the one issued on Salman Rushdie.)

What is it going to be like after 28 days of this?

Ramadan Kareem!

The best translation of the title is Happy Ramadan! The holy month of started this morning at sunrise. I've learned a lot so far and am bound to learn more as the lunar month progresses.

Ramadan so far...

1. School schedules change, sometimes significantly. Our school day went from 8:10-3:20 to 8:40-2:10. Whoa! Some local schools start as late as 10:30 or 11:00 and get out at 4 p.m.

2. You can't eat food or drink water in public. At school, that means the cafeteria (located under the gym in the back corner of campus) is open, and food is off limits everywhere else. The water fountains are on (some schools turn them off), but kids are told to drink discreetly. About 25% of our students fast, which does not mean that only 25% of our students are Muslim. About 50% of our students are Muslim, but only half that number keep the fast. However, elementary students, mostly 4th and 5th graders, are among the 25%.

3. People gain weight during Ramadan! Every person I've talked to who fasts has told me this. I've been equating Ramadan with the Christian observance of Lent. It's true that Ramadan is also about reflecting on what you've given and gaining a deeper appreciation through self-denial, but there are significant differences. Iftar is a celebratory meal to break the fast shortly after sundown, and, from all reports, people go nuts. Meats, cookies, dumplings, the works! They eat again around 1 a.m. and some get up for one last meal before sunrise. In Saudi Arabia, the whole culture essentially becomes nocturnal, with everyone sleeping and lounging during the day and shopping, playing sports and hanging out all night. (Some Muslims have told me this rather breaks the spirit, if not the letter of the law.) Given the diversity of the UAE, things didn't seem a lot different today, in terms of traffic on the street, and folks going to work. Restaurants are closed during the day, but things seem business as usual so far. Or maybe I'm projecting my hopes into the air because I want the magic couch to come on Wednesday as scheduled.

Super corny quote of the week: "OK, OK, we can put the Ferris Wheel next to the volcano and the holy temple." (overheard in social studies as the kids were designing their own civilizations for future archeologists to uncover)