Polish home cookin'

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

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

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

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

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

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

The best Christmas pageant ever

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

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

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

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

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

Shrimp and grits

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

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

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

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

The arc of history gets personal

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

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

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

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

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

Happy birthday, Mimi!

Your Oman itinerary, day 3 (and 4)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your Oman itinerary, day 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your Oman itinerary, day 1

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

Nonetheless, here they are:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why you should visit Oman

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

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

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

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

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

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

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