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...

Having a home decor

Packed away in my shipment (retrieved about a week ago at the port. See entry below), were some items that have helped me finish off my livingroom, so I am now officially decorated (for the most part. I mean, is anyone ever truly finished?) My godparents introduced me to the less-is-more school of home design this summer, and I'm a convert, as you will see.








It's a new thing for me to have a decor. I've enjoyed the process (primarily because the school gave us a settling-in allowance, so I didn't have to spend my own money. But also because it's been fun to mull over catalogs, talk about color schemes, surf websites to check out professional designers--and then go ahead and pick out furniture I really liked and marvel how it ended up coming together). I'm particularly thrilled (though can take no credit) that the poster from the Picasso exhibit here in Abu Dhabi this summer goes so well with the Cameroonian mask I bought on Thanksgiving Day 1996. Who can plan a thing like that? (Well, maybe some people can, but I can't. I bought the mask cause there is a grinning lizard on the forehead. I bought the poster with no thought of the mask. The home decor planets just aligned...)

That being said, I'm glad things are unpacked, hanging on the walls, and there is nothing major left to find. The only thing I'm truly considering is an accent wall. Any ideas for colors? What about which wall? Channel your interior interior designer and let me know...

K also got her couch (after months of waiting for the covers to arrive), which now looks stunning with her classy, non-Ikea dining table. Check it out!

The pork room

Yes, this is a post that can be read to grandmothers...

There is an European/North American ex-pat grocery store called Spinney's in Abu Dhabi. Most grocery stores here are a veritable United Nations where the world meets to buys milk, eggs and toilet paper. These fine-food outlets are modern, convenient, reasonably priced and feature amazing prepared-food counters with Filipino delicacies, Arabic shwarmas, homemade Indian fare and the ultimate olive bar. But Spinney's is considered an ex-pat grocery store because it's small and not much use, really, unless you really want certain brands (like Minute Maid orange juice) or certain specialty items (like Pop Tarts).

Or pork.

Spinney's has the bacon. And the Spam. And the sausage. And the proscuitto. It's all located in a back room behind a thin plastic curtain and a large identifying sign above the door: Pork Room. They have pork chops and pork loin. Spirals of kielbasa. Batons of salami. Ham slices for sandwiches. Fried pork rinds (who eats those things, much less imports them?). Cans of pork and beans. Vienna sausages. Lil' smokies. I had no idea there were so many different pork products until I saw them in one place.

I'm not a huge fan of pork, and I actually prefer the beef pepperoni they serve on the pizzas here. But you can't go into the pork room at Spinney's without buying some of the genuine article. K and I got some German salami with peppery edges. We will definitely go back to get bacon (for which there is no adequate substitute).

You need to understand: all these items, which you hardly notice on the shelves of your local Safeway or Trader Joe's simply don't exist here, except in the pork room at Spinney's. In the regular grocery stores, there's beef pepperoni and chicken mortadella. Cubes of ham substitute in the salad bar (in case you wanted a faux chef salad). But no pork. Not ever under any circumstances. It's not that people who don't eat pork simply choose not to purchase it. They choose not to look at it. There is no other white meat. Perhaps they'd prefer if it didnt' exist. And it almost doesn't, except in the pork room.

A thick packet of long-distance democracy

I voted today, and got that warm glow that comes from participating in a democracy, no matter how screwed up. The city of San Francisco did me the honor of mailing the four, 11 x 17, double-sided pages of California ballot all the way to Abu Dhabi. It caused a minor stir in the staff room when I unfurled it from the mailing envelope.

Those of you who are Californian--or who have been Californian--can picture the pages and pages of tiny print. Those who aren't Californian may have heard of the epic size of our ballots. The state's initiative system allows pretty much anyone to put pretty much anything on the ballot, as long as they get enough signatures for their wacky proposition or initiative. Which in California just isn't that hard. In places like Illinois, you can go into the little booth and pull a lever. In the Golden State, you get a voting guide the size of a Ph.D. thesis.

I didn't vote for many propositions this year since the voter's dissertation didn't come with the absentee ballot. Obviously, no on the anti-gay and anti-choice ones. Obviously, yes for the San Francisco initiative that proposed to name a sewage plant after George W. Bush (C'mon people! If we're going to have an initiative system, let's support having fun with it.) Mostly, though, I'm glad I got the ballot in time and was able to vote for Obama/Biden. It might not be the best time for the economy or foreign policy or, well, anything. But the system still works well enough to get a ballot across the world and back again.

Needless to say, if I can vote from the Arabian Peninsula, the rest of y'all have no excuse whatsoever. If you're not registered, go do it! If you are, get out and vote. And, if you're a Californian, be thankful that we didn't get all the way to Proposition Z this year...

More Al Ain pics

Some more pics from the Al Ain trip.

The gate to the Al Ain Oasis (a dense date palm plantation)











Me at the Palace Museum posing with hanging pottery; Me looking down the well; The old fort; K relaxing with the Koran

Oasis day

Al Ain (rhymes with "sane") is a sleepy oasis town about 2 hours from Abu Dhabi. K and I rented a car and drove there today to take in the desert landscape and local museums. After five days of sleeping in, reading, unpacking my shipment, doing some further home decorating and chilling out, it was time to get out of town.

It was my first time driving in the UAE, and I was nervous. The drivers here come with fearsome reputations. Two colleagues have already gotten into fender-benders, and traffic accidents are the leading cause of death in all seven emirates. The guidebooks are plastered with warnings about speeding sheikhs in Porsches and death-defying taximen. I gripped the wheel of our rented Camry a little tighter than usual as I merged into holiday-light traffic and pointed west to the desert. Turns out I didn't have anything to worry about. There was plenty of room on the road for Porsches, Range Rovers, Mercedes and K and I tootling towards the desert at a conservative 100 km/hr.

The desert...wasn't. The much-beloved Sheikh Zayed, founding president of the UAE who served from 1973-2004, is famed for "greening the desert." And green it, he did. All the way from Abu Dhabi to his hometown of Al Ain. K and I were expecting rolling dunes, the glare of the sun off the white (or orange) sand and maybe a picturesque camel on the horizon. What we got was a grass- and palm-filled median strip and a dense border of scrubby trees along either side of the eight-lane highway. When we did catch a glimpse of a dune through the trees, it felt like a major achievement.

Al Ain itself is much smaller than Abu Dhabi and it's two interesting museums are well-worth the trek down Sheikh Zayed's desert-garden highway. The first is an old fort full of pictures of how Abu Dhabi, Dubai and other now-bustling metropoli looked way back in...1962. Answer: desolate, shack-filled fishing villages. And this was four years after oil was discovered. It is absolutely fascinating to think what has happened in a mere generation or two. The other museum was actually Sheikh Zayed's childhood home, one of several palaces in the region. It was interesting to notice the Arabian definition of a palace--yet the compound of simple two-story buildings would have been the height of luxury when everyone else lived in a goat-skin tent. The Al Ain Palace Museum, as Zayed's homestead is now known, is a major tourist destination for foreigners and Emeratis alike. Which provided lots of opportunities to sneakily snap photos of women in abeyyas and ghutra-wearing guys.

I have really wanted to show you all traditional Emerati dress in its natural habitat, so to speak. But you don't go around taking pictures of people just because they look like sheikhs. And, if you asked them, they might get offended. Even worse, their deepest suspicions about ignorant Americans would be confirmed instantly. Surely, relations between our two peoples would continue to deteriorate and all because I wanted a picture of a man in a ghutra. So, K and I did that thing where one person pretends to pose, coincidentally in front of a group of black veils and sheikh-like head gear, the true subjects of the photo. As you can see, we were trying to be super-sneaky. As you can also see, we were less than successful.

Imagine our total shock, when an abeyya-clad woman asked to take a picture of us! I am NOT making this up! She had a fancy Nikon with a zoom lens, and damn if she didn't ask to take a picture of K and me with her friend. So, of course, K asked her to take another one with her camera. Voila! An Emerati woman wearing an excellent example of a fashion abeyya. Note the sparkles on the cuffs and veil. And K and I as western women tourists, complete with Crocs and baggy t-shirts. I can only imagine what this nice young woman is writing on her blog tonight. Feel free to channel her in a comment below (beverage of your choice when next we meet to the winning entry...).

Moments like these are the reason I travel. Get out, see a palace in the desert and palm trees on the highway, spend an hour trying to sneak around with a camera, and end up grinning next to someone who did what you couldn't. Then go back to what's familiar and try to fit people into neat little boxes according to their language, religion or outfit of choice. It never works.

I watched a little of the first Obama-McCain debate, and there was much going back and forth about who has met which foreign leader. But what I want to know is who has met which foreign people? Who has had to cross cultures? Negotiate boundaries? Remain flexible and appreciate what's given rather than what's planned? I always get into the most trouble when I stick to The Plan rather than going with the flow (most of you know the story of how I got myself, 45 students and 9 teachers arrested in Cameroon. How, for those of you who don't? By being a control freak). The stakes are certainly higher when you're the president. Which candidate has more experience doing that? Hmmm? I know I'm preaching to the choir here, but we all know who I'm talking about...

But enough about the election. I'm kicking back and thinking about Al Ain, about driving through the greened desert, about the fort and palace, about the cool abeyya woman who made our day. K and I were too amazed to even ask her name. I wonder what she's thinking right now...