Adventures in Abu Dhabi

Sneaking Away for an Afternoon

2011-12-19T06:00:00.000-08:00

It's not so hard to get out of the bad Abu Dhabi and over to the good Abu Dhabi. It just takes a little initiative and some effort.
For the lazy among us, sometimes that's easier said than done.
I had an unusual weekday off today, and decided to take advantage of the lovely winter weather and head to the beach. I just wanted a good place to sit outside and read. We are so seldom outside here, and this time of year that's a shame.
I didn't go to lay out -- sometimes that's too complicated. Swimsuit or shorts? Sunscreen or not? Family beach or regular beach? Rent a chair and umbrella or sit on the sand?... I know, first-world decisions, of course.
Instead, I went to one of the cafes that line the Corniche, and sat in a comfortable chair (above) with a view of the bay and its turquoise waters. I ordered a coke and some fries, so they would let me stay awhile and settled in.
The powers that be seem to have removed the 40-foot portrait of whatever sheikh had previously been on a billboard on Lulu Island (below), which made the view nicer, frankly.
If you can put yourself in a "normal" sort of setting, away from the bustle and contradictions that are the UAE, it's not too hard to pretend you are somewhere exotic and desirable.
A colleague recently wrote about going to Lulu. It's technically off-limits, but nobody enforces that rule (a recurring theme here, to be sure). If you can get yourself there, weather by private boat, kayak or jet ski, the sands are lovely and there are hammocks under thatched palapas -- only I'm certain they aren't called palapas here.
I was thinking I'd like to figure out a way to get there.That would truly be good Abu Dhabi.

Bloom Where You're Planted

2011-12-19T05:47:00.000-08:00

Having passed two-plus years here, I don't hate it as much as I used to. Now, living here has been upgraded to "don't really like." That's an improvement, right?
It took a trip to France (and several weeks of interesting travel) for me to really examine my current situation. Ultimately, I have a job I like and one that allows me to lead a comfortable, interesting lifestyle.
In the last six months I have been to California, Sri Lanka, India and France. That's not going to happen with any regularity once I move to, say California or France -- the two places I'd most rather be.
So a big part of adjusting to life here is learning to take advantage: eating on the terrace at the Lebanese restaurant, for example, or going to the beach when the weather is nice; getting out of town when it isn't. And I'm fortunate enough to have those options.
Friends and former colleagues tease us about all the time off we have. For me, it's especially dear. I had seven weeks of vacation when I worked in France, and I've been an expat for 10 of the last 12 years, so I've really come to value that perq. Going back to two weeks off seems cruel and unusual. I don't think I'll ever manage to do that.
This isn't so much count-your-blessings as a bloom-where-you're planted. And it's taken me a long time to do that.
Should I get the chance to move back to Europe, will I do it? You betcha. But until then, I'm figuring out ways to not waste my life wishing I was elsewhere.

An Abu Dhabi Miracle

2011-10-02T04:27:00.000-07:00

When we arrived in Abu Dhabi lo these nearly (gulp) two years ago, we inherited two plants on our patio.

When we moved, we took them with us. I have not particularly nurtured these plants, but I have enjoyed them. The first time we took a long trip, I was careful to move them inside and put plastic over them just like my mother taught me, creating mini terrariums.

Goodness knows how long these plants have been around. They get watered once a week by the housekeeper and then promptly forgotten.

And that's what I did when I left for my last vacation -- I forgot the plants. When we came home, the little plant/tree (above) was nothing but sticks. I mourned. It was all my fault. Three weeks in the searing heat with no water.

But I didn't throw it out. I'm not sure if it is because I was too lazy (an obvious option) or because I had some hope it might come back. Paul thought there was a good chance it would come back. (Actually there are two of them, and I think the other is gone for good, it's on the right.)

So, here we are a month or so after our return and we have a healthy, leafy, blooming tree-plant.

It's a miracle.

Is Facebook Killing the Blog?

2011-09-17T04:30:00.000-07:00

I imagine there are plenty of bloggers out there who write daily, especially those with a following. The mommy bloggers, the travel bloggers -- those who don't just write what occurs to them, but have a thought-out concept.

My blog is neither a must-read or a destination blog. Nobody comes here daily to see what big thoughts I'm having. I don't impart any real wisdom.

My trouble, as I've mentioned before, is that by the time I sit down to write the idea is gone. Or worse, all that's left is the idea, and none of the detail.

And this is where Facebook comes in. I have a thought, I post it. I try not to be too banal (although goodness knows I don't always succeed). But it allows me to put down the idea and I don't necessarily have to expand on it. The idea is enough.

Take the cereal episode. I have been wanting to write about cereal for months now. I'm sure nobody cares about cereal, but let's face it -- it's my blog and I write what I want. I have no idea if anybody reads it.

The cereal situation here is weird: all the versions that around when I was a kid are in stock here, but, as in so many other countries, I can't find any plain Cheerios. And this is what I put on my Facebook instead of writing 200 words about Sugar Pops, Apple Jacks and Trix. And the whole idea came about when I was trying to make Rice Krispies treats for a colleague.

Is it lazy? Yeah, probably. But I don't really have a solution.

Today I blogged for the first time in a month. Twice. My Canadian colleague seems to have found the solution. She writes short little items and posts photos. I could probably learn a thing or two from her,

Coupon Mania

2011-09-17T04:21:00.000-07:00

Back in June I wrote about my fascination with Groupon/Cobone/GoNabit/Living Social. I had just come back from a fabulous steam, body scrub, massage treatment and was floating on air.

Since then, I've had a few more experiences and I think the novelty is wearing off. In the beginning, there were loads of deals for beauty and spa treatments. Most of them were for new, well-kept spas and salons. The recent ones, however, have been less impressive.

Today's treatment was in direct opposition to the one I raved about: No steam, weird naked scrub, less than relaxing massage. Although I must admit, the "express facial" left my skin feeling nice. In fact, all three treatments left my skin feeling nice, but there wasn't really a spa experience.

Nobody offered me tea, or a robe, or a shower. There was no soft music, candles, soft lighting. Instead, I was serenaded by adult non-contemporary music (Dan Fogelberg and John Denver anyone?) that was accompanied by my massage therapist singing. The background noises were the employees' (owners'?) children chasing each other through the salon, a blaring TV and the sound of blow dryers.

Paul had a massage the other day, and it included a mani-pedi. I thought he'd really enjoy it. I got one for him and one for me. It was at one of the few co-ed spas in town and he went first. It sounds like the men's area was just an add-on, with leather-looking wallpaper to make it more masculine, It turned out to be a thai massage (more manipulation than relaxation) on a mattress on the floor (that was a little too friendly, as well) with untrained (male) technicians giving him a bad mani (bleeding cuticles!) and an inefficient pedi (no exfoliation??) I am reluctant to use my voucher.

We have one more massage voucher for him, and it's at a men-only spa, so it should be more professional. But after this, I think we may be out of the beauty coupon game.

Making a Rest Stop

2011-08-11T23:26:00.000-07:00

I've been obsessing about public bathrooms since we left Abu Dhabi for our California vacation.

It started at the brand-new Terminal 3 at Abu Dhabi Airport. I figured wow, a new terminal, good, clean bathrooms -- which was not really the case in the old terminal. Sadly, it's not the case in the new terminal, either.

There is water on the floor, there aren't enough stalls, it's not very clean and people are washing their feet in the sink. I realize this is an important part of prayer, but usually there's a place other than the public bathroom for this. It was almost as bad as the bathroom at the Bahrain airport, just newer.

So I decided to keep track of public bathrooms as I traveled on this trip.

Next stop Chicago O'Hare. Amazing bathrooms. Plenty of bathrooms, plenty of stalls, and really clean. They have those plastic covered rotating seat covers, and everything is touch free. I can't believe I'm raving about a bathroom, but there you go.

So I checked out the bathrooms at a gas and fast food stop on Highway 5 in California. A bazillion people and still, a clean bathroom. Dodger Stadium? Still cleaner than Abu Dhabi.

It took a bathroom at the county fair, outside the demolition derby arena, to find something remotely comparable in badness to the bathrooms at the new Terminal 3.

How wrong is that?

A little too much care

2011-07-12T08:27:00.000-07:00

There is, obviously, great debate going on in the United States about health care and health insurance. And it's interesting to me that different countries handle it in different ways.

It used to be something most of us never thought about. You worked for a good company and you got good health insurance. It wasn't complicated. And as time has passed, now if you get health insurance at all -- you're grateful, no matter how meager the benefits.

When I left a part-time job at the NY Times, I was eligible for COBRA. The monthly payments were $1,400. I think I paid $50 a month to get it while I was employed. Once I was out of work, it was roughly half my monthly pay. The value of my job was entirely the cost of the insurance.

I got a new job that had lesser health insurance, and I was just happy to have it. While I was under that coverage, I actually had to use the insurance, something that hadn't really happened when I was younger. My co-pays over the years have ranged from $10 to $35 per visit, and other things are extra. My hospital stay, I had to pay a $500/day co-pay -- in advance.

Before that, in France, there was nationalized health care. I didn't use it that often, but the entire bill was rarely ever more than 40 euros. In fact you could call a service that made house calls, and it only cost 40 euros. (And here is a good assessment of European health care, in my experience).
Largely, however, the French have a very non-interventionist attitude toward treatment, but they do love their medications.

Here, we have a perfect example of insurance abuse -- the worst of American problems and a lot of the bad bits about France.

My insurance was excellent when we got here. It covered almost everything, and was valid anywhere in the world. Paul had a late-night emergency room visit shortly after we arrived and there was no wait and no charges. The insurance was downgraded last year and everyone is complaining about the newly initiated co-pay which is a whopping $6.80. And that includes treatments.

Last week I got sick. There was tonsilitis raging through my office, along with a few more itises. Almost everyone was sick, and those who weren't were on their way. When it was my turn, I went to the doctor, prepared to pay my $6.80 and get my antibiotics. At 46, I have had had sinusitis, tonsilitis, bronchitis -- all enough times to know what I have and what I need.

But here, the doctor can't let you go without ordering tests. I've had blood taken three times in less than two years. And this time was no different. The doctor ordered a CT scan. For a sinus infection. I was sort of baffled (and this is why healthcare is out of control!!)

In the US, the doctor would have said yup, you have an infection. Take these antibiotics and drink lots of fluids. End of story. Even if the doctor wanted to prescribe a CT scan for a sinus infection, there is no way the insurance company would approve it, and the co-pay would be hideously expensive.

In France, they would have ushered you out the door before you finished explaining your symptoms, prescription in hand.

So the CT scan. Apparently it showed a blockage, which seems rather obvious since I had acute sinusitis. The insisted I go see an ENT. There aren't really any family doctors here, so they do a booming business in specialists. I can honestly say I've never seen one before. (And after today's experience, I'm not likely to again).

The doctor said yes, the CT did indicate a blockage, but it looked like congestion. (Duh). I'm not sure the referring doctor clued him in about anything. So the ENT decided to take a look for himself. First thing he did was numb my tongue and throat and poke at my tonsils. "You have chronic tonsilitis, he said. Lots of scarring." Um, thanks ... kind of knew that, and I'm for my sinuses.

He looked into my ears next. Didn't like the look of that and flushed my head with a power house. Loved that, too.

But the best part was when he numbed my nose, and stuck a six-inch tube up it (both sides) to take a look around. No problems with the sinuses. (Surprise -- I was sick a week ago and on anthrax-level antibiotics, I'd be stuned if I still had an issue). He said there was some slight swelling, it seemed worse on the right side and decided there was slight deviation. Then he proclaimed I had chronic rhinitis. This is exactly what my pediatrician told my mom when I was 6.

So far, I learned nothing new, and had six inches worth of tubes stuck up my nostrils.

The problems that still remained -- post-nasal drip and laryngitis. He had no real explanation or solution for that. He did, however, stick that $#%#%% hose up my nose again to see if maybe it was my larynx. Did you even know that you could see a larynx by looking up someone's nose? My sense of anatomy is crucially off, apparently.

So, 40 minutes, some discomfort and $6.80 later, he gave me a prescription for actifed.

The national health insurance company is going to go bankrupt at this rate. I know the American system doesn't work, and I know this one doesn't work, either. Maybe France is the middle ground.

Do y

All Steamed Up

2011-06-21T05:29:00.000-07:00

I assume we here in the UAE are late to the Groupon/GoNabit/Cobone online coupon party, but boy am I having some fun with it.

Every day some new fabulous deal pops into my e-mail box, and more often than not it's for one sort of spa treatment or another. This city is lousy with day spas, fancy and otherwise, and a new one seems to appear every week. Even without a deal, by Western standards these places already give good value. A higher end (not the fancy hotel spas) place will run you about $60 for a one-hour massage. The place I usually frequent, which is middle of the road, charges $38.

I go to my regular place, um, regularly, for the basics: pedicure ($13.50), leg waxing etc. Every once in a while I'll treat myself to a massage (or, get one of those 20-minute neck and shoulder massages while I wait for my toes to dry -- about $10)

So when I got a deal in the mail offering me a really nice body scrub and 1 hour massage for $40 instead of $109, when I usually pay that just for the massage, I jumped at it. And I've been jumping for weeks: mani/pedi/massages for $13, facial, body scrub and massage for $27 ... it keeps going.

Paul doesn't usually get to benefit, because we have many more women's salons than men's. There are only two that I know of, for men, and so he has to go to those -- which are fancy -- for find a hotel or gym that offers unisex service. Then the offer came in the e-mail ... 1 hour massage at the chiropractic center for $27 instead of $68 and I jumped on that twice.

My colleague turned me on to this, and she's a big participant. Probably too big a participant if she's honest: gold facials, slimming body wraps, hair straightening treatments. But it's so much fun!!

I just got back from my one hour body scrub and massage. It was great. I also realized this is the second time in two weeks I've been in the steam room (the Turkish hammam) -- after oh, about six or seven years. It's great for my sore muscles and so good for my skin, even without the scrub. And the massage was lovely. Whole thing took about two hours, and it was a super way to spend my day off.

There are a few more treatments I have to use before we head off for our summer break. I can't think of a better way to spend my days off.

A Mini-Break

2011-06-15T13:06:00.000-07:00

When I lived in France, from 1999 until 2007, I had the good fortune to do a lot of traveling.

In the beginning, I didn't expect to be there very long, and so tried to take advantage of the proximity to so many cool places. I took long weekends whenever I could, and tried to visit many places. Those of you who know me well will not be surprised that after a time, I returned to my favorite places in lieu of new discoveries; I've always preferred the known to the unknown. Adventure is not my middle name.

But I did have a bit of regret when I left, that there were two places I never got to visit: Istanbul and Dubrovnik. Silly, really. Just never got around to it. I missed more than a few other places, but haven't really regretted that.

So when Paul suggested a quick (5-day) trip to Istanbul, I didn't hesitate. I'd heard only good things about it, and upon arrival made up my mind about it instantly: I loved it.

In fact, I would put it among my favorite European cities. How can anyone dislike a place that is filled with rooftop terraces, nice wine (a pleasant surprise) and marvelous sea views? The place was made for me. Couple that with the slightly exotic Asian influence and I'm there.

And did I mention the tile? Having made pilgrimages to ceramic centers across the Mediterranean and into North Africa, again, this place was made for me.

Paul's blog, oberjuerge.com, has many more details of the trip. I, on the other hand, suffer from an inability to blog after the fact. Someday, I'm sure, I'll be able to think of what I want to say and it will instantly be transmitted to this site. Hey, it could happen.

Taking a break from the heat and desolation (in my opinion) of the UAE was marvelous. It was my first time out of the country since October and we picked this time specifically to combat the oppressive heat of the season here. Neither of us has had more than two days off since the fall, either.

The weather was perfect, the sights were stunning and I felt right at home. Can't ask for much more.

Photos on facebook, for those who are interested.

A Very Very Long Story

2011-06-09T12:52:00.000-07:00

This is a very, very long story about what happens when you're not rich, not white and are part of the underclass in Abu Dhabi. (And when I started writing this, several days ago, I was pretty agitated, as you will no doubt notice.)

The UAE is Orwellian in so many ways, but in this particular case, all animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others.

There are very specific labor laws here and for the most part they are designed to protect the employee. Many companies flout these laws with impunity, no matter the size of the company or the education level of the employee. For example, it is illegal to hold an employee's passport, but you won't find a single lower-class worker who has possession of his own passport. Managers tell them their passports are "safer" when the company keeps them. I've heard that it happens at a certain newspaper as well -- you are allowed your passport when it's time to take vacation, but if you don't return it upon arrival, you don't get paid. The keeping of passports is a way employers keep employees from absconding, among other things.

When we arrive, we all sign contracts. Companies are not allowed to change the terms of the contracts without the signature of an employee. But they do. All contracts are in English and Arabic -- and I can't say for certain that both say the same thing. Another example: A certain company has in its contract that its employees are entitled to a particular level of insurance. This year, I imagine in an effort to cut costs, the insurance level was reduced. That was a violation of the contract, but what were the employees to do?

To solve these problems, there is a Ministry of Labor and a Labor Court. Anyone has the right to file a complaint against his company. But that is an intimidating concept for most people, especially those who don't speak English or Arabic well, or those who can't read. And a large part of the population falls into that category. I know I would be reluctant to get tangled in the system.

Filing a complaint doesn't cost anything (other than a small copy fee) to file, but most people don't know that. And the folks at the labor office aren't very free with that information. It is not unusual for them to tell you that it is very expensive and you shouldn't bother.

So now you have a little background on some of the issues that crop up when you work here, especially in a blue-collar job.

Which brings me to the tale of Benjamin, our wonderful taxi driver. In March he told us he had decided not to renew his contract and he was going to go home in May. He was so well-liked by his employer that as the time drew near for him to leave, they asked him to stay longer. He agreed to stay two extra weeks. When those two weeks were up, he turned in his car, waited for the company to pay his end-of-service gratuity (a sum that is supposed to make up for the lack of a pension) and to issue his plane ticket home.

On his last day, he asked us which of his back-up drivers we preferred, and he arranged a seamless transfer. We missed him, but we were glad he was going to be able to see his family. Most lower-level workers here get to go home one month per year -- sometimes one month every two years. Unlike us, they cannot split their time (and the company would only pay for one trip home in any case).

Benjamin had a special arrangement with us, and he was available whenever we needed him. I never had to stand in the heat when it was time to go to work, and he was always on time. In return, we always paid him more than the meter read.

The life of a taxi driver here is not an easy one. Their official contracts say they are only allowed to work 8 hours a day, 6 days a week. That never happens. Never. Because their base salary is about $270 (and in fact the contract they must sign upon arrival gives them a lower salary than the one they signed in their home countries -- a particularly odious form of bait and switch ) they are under tremendous pressure to meet monthly quotas. Most of them work six days, some work seven. If they miss the quota, they are fined. As a result, most drivers work 12 to 18 hours a day.

Benjamin usually worked seven days -- he said he preferred it to sitting in his accommodations without anything to do. Drivers, like other low-level workers, generally live on their tips and send the rest of their salaries home to their family. A movie, for example, would be out of the question.

Companies provide accommodation for the men, but many complexes are squalid, with too many men in a room, sharing facilities. Earlier this year, Benjamin was moved to his third accommodation in three years. He was pleased because even though there were six men in his room, there were only 12 or so sharing one bathroom, and this new place had a cooking facility. He was slightly less pleased that he was living very far from town.

The taxis drivers of all the companies have, at one time or another, staged protests and strikes of a sort because of contract disputes. Retribution is swift. Quotas are raised, bonuses are smaller than promised, rules are changed. It does not matter if you are a good or loyal employee.

After two weeks of no Benjamin, we asked if he was finally home. The new driver said no, that the company was refusing to pay for his return ticket. This outraged me. Partly because of the illegality of it, partly because of the immorality of it, and partly because if I had been looking forward to going home for three months and was stuck here with no job in a room with five other people in 100+ degree heat and nowhere to go and no money to do anything I'd be pretty pissed off.

When we heard about it, we called him and asked what was up. He said the company would not pay for his return ticket (although according to UAE law all companies must repatriate their workers) because he had resigned. They were also withholding his end-of-service payment until he showed them a ticket. This was a new rule the company had instituted in the wake of a recent labor dispute in which the quotas were raised for the drivers. Many drivers resigned as a result and the company said any drivers who resigned in the future would not be entitled to a ticket home.

But Benjamin was caught in a bit of a Catch-22. His contract was for an undetermined duration. He had to resign in order to leave (or be fired). But if resignations were not permitted, there was no way for him to leave without having to pay for his own ticket. If the contract held, he would be here in perpetuity. It made no sense.

He asked us for advice. We told him to file a complaint with the Ministry of Labor. He went there and was told not to bother, that it would take too much time and was much too expensive for him. We told him this was not true, and suggested that I go along with him when he filed. A colleague of mine, a former labor rights reporter, said "Never underestimate the power of the White woman."

He didn't want to file and so we offered to pay for his ticket home. It was not a large sum of money for us, but a huge amount for him. He refused. I asked a Filipina colleague to intervene and after speaking to him she told me he was going to meet with the Philippines labor officer and did not want to take any money from us. At this point, he hadn't worked in at least three weeks, and was essentially stranded.

Benjamin didn't want to impose, and went to the court without me. He asked me to translate the complaint first (it was only in Arabic) and I discovered after getting it done that he needed to bring certain documents that nobody mentioned to him. Things went surprisingly well. The woman at the labor office said it was clear the he was entitled to the ticket. He should go back to his company, she said, and arrange the settlement. She added that if he wasn't satisfied, he should return to the court.

His company refused to settle. They insisted he was responsible because he had resigned. In fact, he sent a letter of resignation as a courtesy to the company to let them know he wasn't going to renew his labor card, which was due to expire in June. He assumed, incorrectly, apparently, that if his visa was up, then his contract was up. Nobody at his company did anything to disabuse him of this notion.

He went back to the court, and the woman wasn't there. His company's representative arrived before he did, and by the time he arrived, the rep and the court official had been speaking for some time. They both agreed he wasn't entitled to the ticket.

At this point, he was running out of options. It is possible that if he had let my colleague, who speaks Arabic, and me go with him the first time it would have been settled. It is also possible that if he had thought to ask the woman official to make a notation, to put in writing that he was entitled to his ticket, that it might have made a difference. It's impossible to know.

I took his contract into my office, conferred with an editor who had some experience reviewing contracts and with a court reporter. Both insisted he was entitled to the ticket. The only alternatives were to let us get him a ticket or let us get him a lawyer. We got the lawyer. He was willing to take on the case pro bono and seemed confident.

They arranged to meet at the court at 11 the next morning. The lawyer was two hours late, which made Benjamin very nervous. I was not in a position to leave work to be there with him, as I had at the lawyer's office. The lawyer's English is heavily accented. According to Benjamin, he lost the case again. I called the lawyer who said no, they were just appealing, and that Benjamin should meet him again at the court. I explained this to Benjamin, who didn't really believe me, I don't think, but I was sure. After speaking with the lawyer I sent a text to confirm the appointment.

By this point, Benjamin was ferrying us around in place of our driver. His brother lives in Abu Dhabi and had loaned him his car. You may be asking, if his brother (who is a nurse) lives in town, why didn't he help him. We wondered too, and it's too complicated to go into here.

Time was very short -- we were supposed to leave for Istanbul and Benjamin was taking us to the airport. It would be late at night, about 1 am. I was worried because if the lawyer thing didn't work out, Benjamin would have only two days from our return to leave the country before facing fines. We wouldn't have much time to help him find a solution.

And on the way to work that morning, he told us his brother bought him a plane ticket home. He had decided not to fight it anymore. I think he was worried about the fines. I also know his mother called his brother, yelled at him, and the brother bought the ticket. I called the lawyer and thanked him, and cancelled the appointment.

At the airport, we thanked him for his good service to us, he thanked us for helping him (although we didn't, in the end). I wish he had accepted the ticket from us. I understand completely why he did not want to.

Today, back from vacation, we asked our driver if Benjamin had left the country. Yesterday, ma'am, the driver said. We were pleased to hear it.

It turns out, as well, that the general manager of his company was fired this week. I like to think that Benjamin's official complaint was a factor -- it is rare for the drivers to actually get that far in the process before giving up. But we'll never know.

We have promised to look him up should we find ourselves in Manila.

Gallup Explains it All

2011-05-25T11:24:00.000-07:00

A recent Gallup poll of 18,000 Gulf citizens has revealed some interesting things about the folks we live among.

Emiratis are thriving, they contribute widely to charity and the women are well educated.

And, according to a story in The National, 36 per cent of Emiratis would not object to having a non-Muslim neighbor.

Of course that means 64 per cent of them don't want to be anywhere near us.

Countries like Lebanon and Egypt had very high interfaith acceptance, which has been attributed to the fact that they have lived among different religious cultures for a long time.

There are more than 200 nationalities here in the UAE, which makes for a very multicultural environment. And a very small local population.

A few people were optimistic and said they enjoyed living in such a varied society. But even a well-known cultural advisor frowns on mixing. "People prefer to live among their own because it's one of the ways to keep your identity and not have it diluted," he said.

So instead of welcoming us, teaching us their culture, the majority prefer to keep to themselves.

We are, after all, just the hired help.

If the Pants Fit ...

2011-05-25T11:22:00.000-07:00

But they don't.

Just an update on the previous post. The tailor can copy like nobody's business. But a copy of something that doesn't fit ... that just becomes a lovely new pair of pants that still don't fit.

Live and learn -- I knew it was too good to be true.

But boy that dress is nice!

A Perfect Fit

2011-05-10T04:06:00.000-07:00

So I had this brilliant idea. I have many of them, in fact, but usually they all turn out to be considerably less so in actuality.

I decided to have some clothes custom-made at one of the gazillion tailors we seem to have here in Abu Dhabi. Firstly, because we have a wedding coming up and I need a new dress. And second, it's been hard to find things that fit well.

Shopping here isn't so good, however. You have the Gap, Banana Republic, Zara ... fine for casual clothes, less fine for nighttime wear. It's better in Dubai but lately going there has not been practical. (Like driving to LA from San Bernardino, but we have no car) Also, the style this summer seems to be very short skirts/dresses, which is ironic given the neighborhood. A colleague of mine was wearing a very nice dress, exactly what I was looking for, at a party and she let me borrow it so I could have a copy made.

I asked around for a tailor, and one was recommended. I suspect you can go to almost any place, but there is usally a small peace of mind that comes with going to someone who has been recommended. I visited the tailor, he told me I had to go find fabric, and told me the amounts he needed for each piece (while I was going, I figured I would get some pants made -- copies of some I already own, but made to actually fit.) It was kind of a hassle going to two separate places, simply because it's already so hot here, but the textile shops are amazing. So many beautiful fabrics, most not at all appropriate for regular western wear, but still.

I laid out all the clothes I wanted, and they asked what I want. But not in English, so that should have made me a little nervous. Still, the place was recommended by someone reputabe. I soldiered on. What I wanted to do was try on the clothes to show where I wanted the adjustments made, but either that's not done (the tailors are men, we're in a Muslim country, blah blah) or he didn't get it. He did take my measurements. He tallied it up, the prices were more than reasonable ($68 to make a copy of a calvin klein dress plus fabric costs, bringing the whole thing to about $85) and he told me to come back in a week.

On Saturday I went back to the shop. The guy looked nervous when he saw me. The clothes weren't ready he said. Could I come back tomorrow? I was kind of annoyed because it was he who set the pick up date, not I. I certainly didn't expect a dress, a skirt and three pairs of pants to be ready in just one week. He gave me some ridiculous excuse, apologized, asked if I could come back the next day. Well, no, I said. It's a work day. Ok ok ok he said. Tonight. Come back tonight at 8pm. I said well, I'm working tonight, too. (I don't know what I expected him to do -- if the clothes weren't ready they weren't ready ... I was just annoyed). I said fine, and went on my way and started to wonder if having them rush was really a good idea.

He called me about 30 minutes after I left the shop, and wanted to know which fabrics went with which pants, and did I want them the same. This sort of baffled me. The same? Well, yes, the same only the new ones would fit. I said I wanted the black fabric for the trousers, the softer fabrics for the other pants. Same-same he said? Same pattern, yes, I said, but different measurements. I should have known at this point I was in trouble. He called me again at 8:15 to tell me that the clothes still weren't ready, but he promised them by 9. Since I was working until midnight, I just said OK.

Sunday morning I went back. He was quite pleased with himself as the clothes were finished. They looked beautiful. The fabrics I picked were perfect for the styles. I wanted to try them on to make sure everything was right, though, since the measurements had seemed cursory. No, he said magnanimously. Try them at home, if there's a problem come back. (Why not, he's not the one paying for the multiple cab rides back anc forth.)

The clothes are under my desk all day at work. I'm dying to try them on. I'm so excited. At first look, they are all perfectly identical copies. And here's where the trouble comes: Tailors here are a little better at copying than at creating. When I got home, I tried everything on. The dress was nearly perfect (he only need to make it a bit larger across the back) but it gaped a bit at the armholes. No problem. Then I tried the skirt. It was made of jersey, it was uncomplicated, perfect.

Then came the pants. If I had wanted pants that didn't fit I could have gone into my closet and grabbed any of five perfectly lovely pairs. Now I had three more. I was seriously agitated (this seems to come up a lot) and rather than stew all night, as I (and Paul) knew I would, I went back to the tailor.

He greeted me happily and I said these pants don't fit. He blamed it on me. He said well I called you and you said to make them the same. Yes, I said, but the same pattern, not the same size, that's why you measured me. He said he had lost the measurements and that's why he called. The whole thing was a bit bizarre, probably made worse by the language barrier. I insisted on trying on the pants to show him how they didn't fit. The first pair were obviously too small. The second and third pair -- he argued with me. Oh, they're fine he said. No, I said, I can have them sit on my hips and have the crotch halfway to my knees, or pull them up higher and have a huge gap in the back. Not fine at all. He came back with the universal "No problem" . We'll fix it, he said, come back in two days.

I'm pretty sure they won't be able to fix the pants properly. Fortunately it wasn't a huge expense. The dress had been the main thing, and it fit very well and was made nicely. I won't go back in just two days; I'll definitely wait until the weekend.

And I learned yet another lesson about brilliant ideas ... most of the time they're not. I also realized that the tailors here can copy anything, but the trick is to find one who can make something from scratch. So that's next on my list. If it actually works, it's a great way to buy clothes and get exactly what you want.

Another fabulous Abu Dhabi lesson learned. I wonder sometimes how long I'll have to be here to figure it all out, and then I realize the answer is that I'll never figure it all out -- because I won't be here long enough.

Inshallah.

You Have Got to be Kidding Me

2011-04-29T05:17:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I had a serious meltdown.

I have been trying to find a specialist doctor for several months now, and they are in short supply here. Perhaps because men outnumber women so substantially. I have made several appointments which were canceled after I arrived. I have gone to the walk-in hospital only to be told there were no doctors working. And calling a variety of medical centres, I was told that sort of doctor was not a part of their practice.

So when I found a place called the Women's Health Centre, I was relieved. Finally, I thought. I was a patient at a women's health center in Long Beach and had extremely positive experiences there. The doctors have great people skills and there is always chocolate around. I was in for a very unpleasant surprise.

It is possible, I will concede, that the doctors at this Women's Health Centre are wonderful. But I never got the chance to find out. I called yesterday morning to see if I could be seen that day. Do you want a male or female doctor the receptionist asked? I said it didn't matter as long as I could come in today. The woman said fine, come in now and it will be no problem.

She did not take my name or number, or give me any instruction. I'm used to the name and number thing -- here it seems like the only people who keep track of you are the beauty salons.

So I show up at the centre and my number is called immediately. I am (foolishly) optimistic. I sit down with the woman and she says what is your phone number. I tell her its my first visit, and the phone receptionist told me to come in right away. She says she will have to start a file for me.

Then she drops the bomb. She needs my passport. I don't typically carry my passport, and now that I have an Emirates ID -- which surely has far more information about me than my passport -- there is no need for it. I tell her I don't have it with me, and ask if she'll accept the ID. She says no.

And then: She says she needs A LETTER FROM MY HUSBAND AND A MARRIAGE CERTIFICATE. Sorry to shout here. But let that sink in a minute. I am at a women's clinic as a married woman (Yes, she did ask) and I am not there for anything illegal (like birth control for a single woman).

I'm flabbergasted. I'm agitated. I say, that's ridiculous and I leave in a huff. Fortunately, my taxi driver has not gone far and he comes back to get me and take me to work.

Once back at work, the shock starts to wear off and I totally lose it. Perhaps some of it was the annoyance of asking for a passport. But then I start to realize that it's not anger I feel, but humiliation. I am a grown woman, here in the UAE on my own visa, with my own health insurance and I must have my husband's permission to see a doctor?

I have a meltdown. It's not reasonable, I know. I might be willing to admit that it may have been hormonal, but I can't get past it. I can't deal with the fact that I have been dismissed this way, by a woman, in a healthcare facility that is for women.

The more I think about it, the more upset I get. I go outside and call a doctor I have seen before (but really did not like -- there seems to be a consensus among women in my office; it is nearly impossible to find a competent and likable doctor). The office says she's working a half day, and will be there until 1pm. It is about noon at this point. I ask if she could possibly see me right now. The receptionist says, well, the doctor isn't there. I said, but she's working until 1, right? And she says yes, she's working from 11 to 1 (and since when is that a half day, but whatever) and she hasn't arrived yet, even though her earlier patients have, so she can't see me.

I am seriously having trouble keeping it together. I haven't been able to talk to Paul, because he's in an interview. I really need to talk to him. He can usually talk me off the ledge when I get like this. But he's not around. And that makes it a little worse. I have to tell him what happened.

Then, two dear, dear, colleagues and friends step in. I recount the story to them, we go outside to talk about it and they are absolutely outraged on my behalf. I'm frustrated because all I want is a doctor's appointment. Why should that be so difficult?

One is a health reporter and the other is just a seriously fierce woman who happens to have great connections. They decide a particular doctor at a specialty hospital is the answer. The health reporter calls up and pretends to be me, and requests an urgent appointment. She makes sure nothing is required other than my health card.

Then the seriously fierce woman calls the owner/president/chief bottlewasher at the hospital and explains the predicament. He assures her there will be no problems, I will get the VIP treatment.

I take off from work again, I go to the hospital. The receptionist is very nice to me. She asks for nothing but my insurance card. I wait my turn for the doctor, and I see a very nondescript man walk into her office. (It turns out he's the big-wig my colleague called). He walks out and she immediately calls me in. She is very no-nonsense. There is no chatting, there is just an explanation of the problem, an exam, some tests and some prescriptions. Fifteen minutes and my problem is on its way to being solved.

Before they downgraded my insurance, this all would have been free. On my way out, I am asked for a Dh25 co-pay ($6.80). I go to the lab, I go to the pharmacy (where I don't pay for the drugs) and I'm done. It has all taken about 20 minutes, start to finish.

When I get back to the office the two women ask me how it went and if everything was OK. They are very, very kind. In the meantime, they have found another doctor they think I will like more, for the next time. My health reporter colleague tells me this is why she goes to Jordan for her healthcare, which means she has neglected her health. It explains why another reporter goes to Lebanon for her healthcare. They assure me there won't be anymore humiliation. I feel nobody has ever done something so kind for me.

It takes me all day to sort of get calm. I can't figure out why I'm reacting so badly, but ultimately it doesn't matter. I just am.

You think that it's the big things that can get you down: being a woman in a man's job, being a woman in a male-dominated society. But those are the easy things. It's being treated like you have no say in your life, having someone demand your husband's permission before you can receive healthcare that's really a devastating experience.

And it makes me feel bad for the single women with serious problems here. It's no wonder so many things go unreported or are not taken care of: the possibility of humiliation is too great.

Oops, We Did it Again

2011-04-26T10:53:00.001-07:00

Last week some friends and colleagues got together for a Passover seder.

This time, we were seven in total, five of us Jewish. (Last year just two Jews -- sounds like a song title)

The interesting twist this year was that the woman who hosted us was someone I met after blogging about last year's seder. She found me on the internet and said hey, let's meet. She and her husband were for a time, and we've seen them socially several times. (Very nice people despite her television background.)

As a bonus -- and as opposed to last year's event -- we had matzoh. It was year-old matzoh, one of the woman had the box her mother tried (and failed) to Fed Ex in time for our seder last year, but it was matzoh nonetheless. No Wasa crispbread for us this year! But a complete and accurate seder plate. Someone even hid the afikomen, but we drank too much and forgot to look for it.

I downloaded a proper haggadah onto the Kindle, as opposed to the silly one we had last year. To be honest, it was pretty awful. We all agreed that next year (and I do hope there is no next year, if you know what I mean) we will use our beloved Maxwell House haggadahs. Each of us who is traveling home in the next year will be sure to bring back one or two. My intention is to make it an Abu Dhabi tradition to pass them along to other MOTs when it's time to leave.

The festive meal was good, the company was good and the dessert was fabulous. Matzoh ball soup, really great charoset, amazing mustard mashed potatoes and an incredible coconut fruit tarte. You'd think after all these years I'd be used to the usual Passover dessert, but this one is the best I've ever had.

My host, the TV woman, thought it would be funny to film us conducting the seder as the call to prayer went off. It was only slight weird. I think we're all so used to the prayer call, that it took a while for us to realize what she was doing. Video available only upon request.

At the end, I couldn't help but wonder -- next year in Jerusalem?

Comments

2011-04-26T01:33:00.001-07:00

Not that many of you (or any) often leave comments here, but in the future I will not post anonymous comments. It certainly is anyone's right to disagree with something I write, but they must put a name to it.
Hey, my blog -- my rules.

Who Needs Disneyland?

2011-04-09T06:44:00.000-07:00

If you want an amusement park, in this neck of the woods, you have about two choices: Ferrari World and Wild Wadi water park.

Ferrari World's rides -- especially its rollercoaster -- are often out of service, and $61 is pretty steep for a place without a rollercoaster. The water park is in Dubai,.

So for our thrills and chills, we take taxis. Driving here is a blood sport, and it's every man for himself. Primarily because we have so many cultures coming together. So many cultures that have bad drivers.

Throw in speed and testosterone and it completes the picture.

Why let someone back out of a parking space or switch to your lane when you don't have to. By the same token, why bother turning right from the right-hand lane when you can do it from the far left -- it's no big deal cutting off three lanes of traffic. And you can do it all without signalling. You have an SUV. It's your right.

And if you're brave enough (read: stupid) you can drive down the middle of the street or the wrong way, if it gets you where you want to go faster. It's all about the driver.

Last weekend there was a 127-car pileup on the Abu Dhabi to Dubai highway. Yes, there was fog, but it was also just before 8 on a Saturday. Only one person died, but 59 were injured. It could have been so much worse (and apparently was, in 2008) Did I mention that tailgating is a national pastime?

I think about these things every single time I'm in a taxi. It might be sport for the drivers, but for the passengers, it's an (unpleasant) thrill a minute.

We're All Wet

2011-04-09T06:33:00.000-07:00

For a country that has almost no rain -- one day this year, perhaps four last year -- we have had an unreasonable amount of flooding and leaks in our apartment.

The first place was not sound and our windows were under water run-off from the roof. It flooded the day we moved in, and several times afterward.

Once we moved to the new place, I had hoped my days (or Paul's, whatever) of mopping up were over. Then the new washing machine flooded the kitchen. Apparently, when it was installed nobody bothered to hook up the water hose. Problem solved.

But the biggest problems have been air conditioner leaks -- other people's (through our roof) and our own.

This morning, I saw the stain on the rug, then we heard the water running down the wall. Paul got a pot to catch it and we both mopped the floor. I was glad it hadn't ruined the furniture ... the only nice things we have in the house.

I don't know why water was pouring out of the air conditioner. Paul seemed to know. Tomorrow he will call the caretaker to have it fixed. We are lucky there is another air conditioner in the main room, and a fan to dry it all out.

Ants and water. I miss a solid house.

The Non-Existence Of, Uh, Me*

2011-03-25T07:26:00.000-07:00

Or, words you can't say on Arabic television.

I can't believe I'm writing about this topic again, but I just saw the most bizarre thing on television today.

Here I am, on my day off, watching Glee (a rerun) on Fox. We have lots of Western TV shows here, most a season behind unless you buy the premium channels.

Anyway, there's a scene where Rachel is trying to tell Quinn that Finn is not the father of her baby. A little background for those of you who don't watch. Quinn was president of the chastity club, so Finn was a little surprised by the pregnancy since they never had sex. She attributed it to "that time in the hot tub". In fact, she cheated on him with his best friend, Noah Puckerman.

So Rachel goes up to Quinn and "innocently" tells her the story of her uncles or whoever having a baby and needing to get it tested for Tay Sachs, and surely Quinn had done that, right? Quinn has no idea what she is talking about, and Rachel says: "Oh, silly me. It's only a problem if one of the parents is (SILENCE)."

Uh, OK. Jewish was just erased as a swear word would be on this station. I'm a bit baffled.

In the next scene, Quinn is talking to Puck and says "We need to get an appointmen to test for that (SILENCE) disease."

Are you kidding me? We don't say the word Jewish on the television? On a Western show? I have gotten used to the idea Israel does not exist on any maps in the UAE (I don't like it, but I accept it -- the Emirates do not recognize them as a country), but it's one thing to deny the existence of a country and another to deny the existence of an entire religion.

Is it like Beetlejuice, where if you say it three times fast something bad will happen?

Wow.

Update: Next episode, “Yeah, she looked like Pippi Longstocking, but, like, Israeli.” Only Israeli was bleeped. I'm sensing a pattern.

Politically Correct?

2011-03-23T09:46:00.001-07:00

I thought hard before writing this, and the words don't come easily. I've written and erased at least four sentences so far. Do I really want to write this down?

Living in the Middle East has its challenges, and as a woman -- and a Jewish woman -- I've felt the need to occasionally keep a low profile. I didn't really expect to have to do it in the workplace, however.

My colleagues are, almost overwhelmingly, anti-Israel. My newspaper most definitely is. It's difficult to be in the middle of all of it, and I never say a word. Talking about Israel in this environment is like talking about abortion in the US. It will just get ugly and nothing you can say will change anyone's mind.

Yet it is impossible to escape. I sit near the editorial team -- hardcore pro-Palestinian folks. I don't think they are two-state solution people, either, although I may be wrong. I've stopped listening because, frankly, it makes me ill. Paul says now I know what it's like being the only Republican in a Democratic profession. I suppose, sort of. But this goes much deeper. And it is relentless.

I am not a hard-core "Zionist," but I wanted nothing more in college than to spend a year abroad in Israel. I believe Israel has the right to exist, obviously. I think there should be a two-state solution. I don't support the crazy settlers, and I think at times both sides are equally insane. I think peace is necessary but I'm not sure it's possible. Above all, I do not believe it is a black and white issue.

I also have colleagues who do not believe any of this. American colleagues, British colleagues especially.

I am careful how much I reveal about my religion to most people; my colleagues with an Arab background seem to be the most tolerant. I work closely with two women who are of Palestinian descent. An Egyptian who sits nearby knows, but only because we've talked about Halal vs Kosher. I don't think any of them have a problem with me.

Then, yesterday, a colleague was telling me about a book he was reading: From Beirut to Jerusalem. He seemed surprised to find it was objective. He wanted to recommend it, but he couldn't think of the author. Some Jew, he said. Another chimed in, yeah, a Jewish name.
It was the New York Times' Thomas Friedman, one of the best-known columnists in the US.

Some Jew? Seriously?

Today, he called across the desk to chat with me. That's what we do in the newsroom, make observations, talk about the news, whatever. But he said (and I am paraphrasing here because I was a. stunned at what he said and b. stunned that he assumed I would agree) "I can't believe the Israelis are shelling Gaza like this. The Israelis are awful. They're so craven. I hate them."

I should have said "Colleague, I'm not the best person to talk to about this." Instead, I said nothing. I didn't know what to say. I didn't want to get into it. I have to listen to the anti-Israel stuff all day long. I have to make an effort not to read it in my newspaper. In this neck of the woods, Israel is responsible for all the world's evils. And I have to wonder, if you're anti-Israel, are you anti-Jew? Does it come into play? Can you separate the two?

I've decided I will speak up the next time it happens -- and it will happen again. I hope my colleague will have the good grace to be embarrassed, at the very least.

But sometimes, I find it hard to live here.

Something to Read

2011-03-08T10:43:00.000-08:00

I just added a new blog to my blog roll -- A Canadian in Abu Dhabi. It's written by a colleague and she has some interesting viewpoints about life here in the desert.

And her "Overheard in the Newsroom" quotes are always funny. I regret (am proud?) to say that occasionally some of them are mine.

Oh, and if you haven't checked out A Road Well-Traveled, you should. That's written by a friend and former colleague who is now based in Kabul. Her perspectives are always fascinating.

Enjoy

Minutiae

2011-03-08T05:33:00.000-08:00

Everyone says I don't blog enough and I always say it's because I don't do anything blog worthy. The truth is, on my day off I usually go to the grocery store and occasionally will go out. End of story.

But from time to time, I get ambitious. This isn't really blogworthy, either, but hey, you asked for it.

My day was planned out: Benjamin, my taxi driver, would pick me up at 11, I would go to get my driver's license, I would head out to the mall because the mobile mammogram people were there (yes, TMI but it's relevant), I would get new glasses because I can't read the tiny print anymore and I'd be back in time for a dinner date with Paul. Perfect.

Then the kinks came into play. Benjamin, who can usually wait for me, had to be somewhere so he just dropped me off. It turns out I didn't have all the documents for my driver's license (see previous post) and so I had to go out in the street to find a cab, which took a while, then go to my office to get the papers and go back to the license office. That killed a good hour.

Got the license (And you may be wondering why I have a driver's license when I have no intention of driving. It's because in my ever-optimistic fantasy life I have great hopes that I will someday live in France again and they have a reciprocal agreement with the UAE to exchange licenses; California does not. I am totally serious about this).

Then went out to find a cab, again, to take me to the mall. I'd been meaning to get the mammogram taken care of -- as with all things -- and since it's International Women's Day, there was a special mobile mammogram truck at the mall offering free mammograms to women over 40. Sadly, I qualified.

When I get there, though, I find out they aren't open until 3pm. I'm not sure if they were open and I didn't get there in time, because of all the screw-ups of the morning, or if they were only open from 3 pm onward. It doesn't matter, though, because it's 12:45.

I'm trying to figure out how I can kill two plus hours. It's not a very good mall. I decide I'll get an eye test -- which I'd been meaning to do (do you sense a pattern here?) and get new glasses. They have three optical stores there and they all suck. Designer names are important here, so most of the stores carry designer frames. But those are all really expensive -- like $270 -- and I'm used to Costco prices. My insurance will only cover $136 of anything I decide to do, including the exam and/or the lenses. It would be different if I had found anything I liked, but I didn't. What appears to be in style are frame-less glasses. With my prescription that doesn't usually work so well. And have I mentioned it's hard to see how your glasses look when you aren't wearing your glasses? Exactly.

So I give up this pursuit and decide to go home. Thwarted in all my good intentions. I call Paul and he suggests a movie. I hadn't thought of that. Turns out a movie I'm actually interested in seeing starts in 20 minutes, and I figure I can wait that long.

It turned out to be a great idea. I love going to the movies when the theaters are empty. There were 141 seats in this theater and three people. It's just quiet and relaxing and you get caught up in the film and the darkness ... It was just really good for me. Totally calmed me down.

Afterward, the mobile mammogram thing was open, got that done and voila -- some things actually done and accomplished on a day off.

Next: Getting glasses.

Getting Legal

2011-03-08T05:14:00.000-08:00

Last week I got my alcohol license renewed. Like most things around here, the actual doing is easy, it's the prepping that takes some work.

Today, I got my driver's license. The Abu Dhabi police run a super-efficient "DMV" type place. You make one stop, they take your papers, you get a number, they call you, bam -- license done.

But again, it's all in the prepping. To get a license, you need a copy of your passport (easy) and residence visa (easy). These are required for just about everything, so I have copies around. You need you Emirates ID or proof that you applied. You need a letter from your employer saying they do not object to your having a driver's license. You need a mug shot. Got one. So far, these are the same things I needed for the liquor license.

But you need a copy of your US license translated into Arabic. That's what the ubiquitous typing shops around town do. They translate documents from whatever language into Arabic for various legal documents.

See, you knew there was a catch.

That is usually not a big deal. There are three across the road from my office. Only one was willing to do the translation. I have no idea why. It usually takes a couple of hours, and this took a couple of days because of the Prophet's birthday and some other inexplicable (as in not explained to me) reason. So, finally got that.

Now, it was a matter of taking the time to go. The "DMV" is nearby, unlike the alcohol license center at a police station halfway to the airport. They're open from 7 am to 9 pm. I decided to just do it today, since I had a rare weekday off.

I gathered all my documents. I had been keeping them in one place so I wouldn't forget anything. I got there, a woman asked me for a few things that Paul hadn't mentioned, like a mug shot. Then she sent me to wait for an eye exam. (Which the doctor fudged -- I didn't pass it) He never mentioned that, either. I thought it was a bit odd, but if nothing else, bureaucracy here is never consistent.

After the eye exam I got sent to the license window, they called my number right away and I was on my way.

Except I forgot the translation of my license. The one key piece of information I had to have. The woman at the front desk assumed I was renewing an existing license, since I didn't have that paper, and so never said anything.

But where were the documents? They should have been with the others. I called Paul, he looked in the only two places I would put them and they weren't there. Which means I had left them at work. I called a colleague, she looked in my desk and of course, that's where they were. I had picked them up during a shift, stuck them there without thinking and promptly forgot about them.

So, I went back outside to find a taxi that took me to the office to get the paperwork and then take me back to the license place. The woman at the reception sort of smirked at me when I came back, this time waving the translation. She gave me a number, it was immediately called, I paid my fees (which, by the way, are less than the fee for the alcohol license, which is good for just one year), and I had my license in hand within five minutes. It's good for 10 years, so I won't be doing that ever again.

See, just like I said -- easy as pie.

So It's Getting a Little Interesting Around Here

2011-02-28T08:45:00.000-08:00

You might have noticed there's been a political shift in the Middle East.

And I have to tell you, it's pretty fascinating having ring-side seats. When the troubles started in Tunisia, it seemed like just another scuffle in North Africa. But after a few days, things really started to happen and everyone took notice.

When the protests came to Egypt, I was transfixed. I could not get enough news fast enough. I made the leap into the 21st century, signing up for Twitter just so I could have minute-to-minute (or second-to-second) access to news. I never really got Twitter before, but for something like this -- wow.

We cynical journalists began a pool to see when Mubarak would step down. A week passed with no winners and we figured the protesters would finally go home. But they didn't. This was so important to them, something we all take for granted, and they were determined. Freedom as the US knows it doesn't exist in the Middle East, and it hasn't for a long time. Imagine any one of our last six presidents with a 30-plus year term. It wasn't just students, or trouble-makers, or intellectuals. It was Egyptians, and that was something to see.

A friend of mine who lives in Kabul was inexplicably drawn to Cairo at this moment. She had to see the revolution. So she packed a small bag, made some contacts and went. It was her misfortune that after nearly a week there, Mubarak stepped down the following day.

After Egypt, there was talk of a domino effect. Who would be next? Would it come to the Gulf? Just in case, the King of Bahrain offered payments of $2,500 to each citizen. Surely that would make folks think twice about protesting.

Bahrain, like the UAE, is known for being pretty stable. They have a quasi-legislature with representatives from the minority Shia population. But Egypt gave people ideas. Surely if a peaceful protest worked in powder keg countries like Egypt and Tunisia, it would work in Bahrain. Until the police fired on their own people.

Libya was next. The chaos has been coming fast and furious, and I still can't get enough information. Because Libya is a totalitarian government, there was no foreign press in the country when their protests started. Their protests, too, started out peacefully, until their insane leader decided that bombing his own people was a good idea.

Libyans who were able to communicate with the outside world begged for attention. They wanted to know why nobody was covering their plight. Meanwhile, journalists were desperate to get visas to cross the border. A CNN journalist was the first to get into the country. I don't believe he made the crossing legally.

Libya has rather put a whole new face on things, hiring mercenaries to kill its own people. That, I think, is what helped save Egypt -- it was a conscript army that would not fire on its own people.

But the Gaddafi family is certifiable. I get that the father is a nutcase. But the son ought to know better, no? (My prediction --Gaddafi the elder dies, at the hands of a former loyalist, and Gaddafi the younger ends up being tried for war crimes)

Shortly after the incidents in Bahrain, Saudi Arabia essentially paid off its populace, too. But there are rumblings on the blogosphere that it is too late. There is supposed to be a Facebook-organized protest in March. I don't think anyone thinks Saudi protests will be peaceful.

In the UAE, several influential sheikhs made a tour of the poorer Northern Emirates. It was time, they said, to meet with the people. I suppose one could draw that conclusion.

And now Oman. Considered the most stable of all the Gulf countries, protests there are entering their third day. We are about 100 miles from the border of Oman, and the protests are in a port city away from Muscat. But Oman is not a large country. It is about the size of North Carolina. Or the size of Yemen (which is having its own problems and is also a neighbor of ours)

Omanis want jobs. A third of their population is expatriate workers, but Oman is not a rich country. People there are not content to spend time sitting around, and their educated populace is frustrated. I do not know if Omanis would do the jobs that expatriates do. But I do know they drive taxis, something you would be unlikely to see in any other Gulf country.

All of this is a long way of saying yeah, we're watching. We're OK. We're not particularly worried, but we're certainly paying attention (as is the government).

I told Paul the other day that this was the most exciting thing I had witnessed in my life. He was incredulous -- What about the Berlin Wall and all of Eastern Europe?
And maybe this isn't as momentous. But I was 25 and living in California. I had never been to Europe. I worked in a Sports section. It just wasn't relevant to my life.

But this -- I feel like I'm in the middle of history. I don't know how it will turn out. As Paul says, these things aren't fast. It takes time to see if these countries will be able to pull it off. For those who aren't plagued by protests, I think they will make more concessions to their populations. Maybe not great ones, but each step matters.

Nicholas Kristof of the New York Times tweeted: If democracy is OK for the US and Israel, why isn't it OK for the Middle East. It's an excellent question.

I worry that the American media is portraying this as a Muslim uprising. In fact, there has been very little religion involved in this, aside from in Bahrain, where the Sunni minority rules the Shia majority. (And despite claims to the contrary by Gaddafi's son) Sure, religion is a part of life here. But that's not what is driving the protests. It is the freedom of movement, from one Arab country to another. The option for a better life. For less corruption. For more jobs.

And this, my first post in over a month, is my long-winded and rambling way of saying don't worry about us ... we're watching from afar, and taking nothing for granted. And meanwhile, I'm glued to the internet, watching history being made.

Getting Things Done

2011-01-25T01:42:00.000-08:00

I had a mid-week day off, something rare of late.

Everyone wants to have weekends off, but it's so hard to accomplish anything. Shops are either closed most of Friday or they're packed with other people who have weekends off. So Tuesday was the day to get things done.

I had grand plans: Go to the place that sold me the ESPN card and get it to actually work. Shop for groceries. Get the caretaker to bring in a plumber and fix the sink. Get out of the way of the housekeeper. Get a "free" blow-out at the hair-dresser (some special offer for January) Get a pedicure. Go out with girlfriends. It was all very carefully choreographed to meet certain times and appointments.

And then it all went to hell.

I got back from the TV guy and not only was it not "fixed" I had fewer channels than when they started. I called him, he said he'd come by at 1. That was when I scheduled the pedicure. Phone call to the salon to cancel.

Then I find the caretaker, and tell him I need the sink fixed. He says the plumber will come around 2 or 3. So I call and move the hair appointment to 4. I figure maybe I can get a pedicure after, if they have any openings.

The TV guy, who comes by on his lunch hour, actually shows up and the caretaker arrives at the same time. They chat a little in Arabic. I wonder what it's about. I think it has to do with the satellite on the roof judging from the gestures, but nobody fills me in.

I really want the plumbing job to be finished by 3, because he's making huge mess and the housekeeper comes at 3. I'd like him to be out of her way. And then I can get out of her way, I hope, and fill my afternoon with pampering, and my evening with fun.

But the way things have gone, I'm not making any hard and fast plans.

Paging Nick Flier

2011-01-08T02:05:00.000-08:00

There is a reason I have had, essentially, one hairdresser since 1986.

In all that time, I have only been unhappy (and by unhappy I mean mildly annoyed but I got over it) with Nick's results once. And this is the same hairdresser who convinced me to cut my hair short by cutting a chunk of my hair short.

He took care of me through all lengths and styles, and was the first one to color my hair. It came out beautifully. I like to call it magazine hair. Even when I lived in Paris, I managed to get home twice a year to have Nick do his magic and then just muddle through in-between.

But if it were just a matter of finding someone to cut my hair, it would be no big deal. Hair grows back and I don't get too agitated about it. But as I am, ahem, aging a bit, I'm in need of a good colorist these days.

Make that desperate.

This summer I was made an unintentional blonde -- a Lebanese thing, I think. A lot of Lebanese women here end up blonde, it's like a thing or something. I was going for highlights, I thought. I know blonde covers the gray, but I didn't need that much coverage!

When I went to Paris in October, I had my Australian hairdresser there fix it. She did my hair for my wedding and is a rock star. She put on a color that covered the blonde and all was good.

And when it was time for a touch-up, I thought I had a fail-safe system. I would take the instructions from the Paris hairdresser and give them to the woman here.

How hard would that be? It's just paint by the numbers at this point.

Harder than I thought, obviously. I came home with nearly black hair. You know when the managing editor of your newspaper walks by you as you walk in with a new haircut and says "Hmmmmm, interesting" that you're in trouble. I can't say nobody noticed. Everybody noticed.

I hated it. I hated it every day for the last month plus and finally I couldn't stand it anymore and decided to do something about it.

I asked a few people for recommendations and came up with Waleed. I have seen Waleed's work (although I should mention the last place had been recommended as well, but not for color). The last place was frequented by demanding Emirati women. Maybe they don't go for color?

Waleed works in a fancy Western-style salon in a fancy Western neighborhood I didn't even know existed.

In order to fix the problem, first he had to destroy it. He stripped out all the color in my hair, and then re-colored it. That can't have been good for it. But it's shiny and smooth and, essentially, my normal color. No highlights. No blonde. Just a chestnut brown with a little auburn in it as the sun hits it.

It cost a bundle, even by Western standards. All I can say is I sure miss Nick.

Love, Peace and Joy

2010-12-19T13:12:00.000-08:00

This greeting card customized with Smilebox

Paradise Found -- Or What Passes For It

2010-12-11T08:03:00.000-08:00

Sadly, I take few pleasures from life in the Gulf. But going to the beach in December is one of them.

It is the start of beach season here. After an eight-month summer, the lovely weather has finally arrived. Families are out and about, hitting the parks and beaches.

The country inaugurated winter with a four-day weekend last week, and I stayed away because of the crowds (ok and because we were moving and I was sick). Instead, I went to the beach today and it was beautiful. It wasn't a really nice day -- too much smog -- but being at the beach alleviates all that for me.

When I'm stretched out on a lounge chair, with a book (or a kindle) in hand, listening to the water lap the shore, there's nothing better. No matter how many times in my life I do this, I don't think I'll ever stop being surprised at how therapeutic it all feels.

We plan to make the most of the winter. Maybe get a barbecue for our new, more-spacious patio. And I plan to spend more time at the beach.

A New Year's resolution.

Another Paris Interlude

2010-10-23T06:44:00.000-07:00

Yes, yes, I realize it's been more than two months since I blogged. You see, I get these ideas and then ... I know, you don't care. You just want to see something, anything, written in this space.

I get that. Really I do. And my intentions are good. But I get an idea and then when I get to the computer ... I'd like to say it's age related, but I'm just kind of bad at remembering.

We are finishing up a three-week trip to France that has been very relaxing and easy-going. One week house hunting in the south, in the Languedoc region, and two weeks in Paris. The house hunting was interesting, but not terribly fruitful. And because two job leads fell through, not entirely practical, either.

Back in the city it feels like home to me. I'm oddly comfortable here. I probably wrote that in the previous post, too, and it remains true, even though the Paris of summer -- empty, warm, endlessly light -- has disappeared in October.

We went to the food fair -- my parents' excuse for visiting us here during this trip -- and came back with armagnac, foie gras and lovely fig chutney. And some death trumpets. Those are deep black mushrooms with an earthy taste and a bit of a chewy texture. The mushrooms have been one of the highlights of this visit. Being here in the fall brings with it so many good food things: pumpkin soup, fricassee of wild mushrooms, roasted figs ... It's my favorite time of year.

We also had the opportunity to go to Deauville to watch a friend's horse race. The horse, George, didn't finish in the money, but she is optimistic about his future. See below

In terms of being optimistic for the future -- what other options are there? We've had so much time to think lately, and ponder options and wants and needs. We're sort of sure what we want, we're not entirely sure of how to get it, and yet I am certain we will.

How's that for optimism?

Comfortable Again

2010-08-17T03:32:00.000-07:00

We interrupt the usual Abu Dhabi whine-fest to detail the joys of being back in Paris.

Paris is a funny place. When I left, in 2006, I definitely needed a break from it. I suspect that is true of all cities, and maybe all places. Sometimes you just need to deal with a completely different set of circumstances.

In the last year or so, especially after we spent five weeks here last summer, we have been trying to return permanently. Paris, it is clear to me, is where my home should be. I am more comfortable here than I am in California. I know this place, and it suits me.

All sorts of ideas are cropping up in my efforts to figure out how to get back here, more or less permanently. How long must I work in Abu Dhabi to afford living here without constant work? What sort of company can I start that will fund a meager lifestyle? Is there anyone who needs a freelancer with my particular talents?

We stayed in the 11th arrondissement when we arrived. More than ten years ago, when I first spent time in that neighborhood, it was awful. Sketchy and dangerous. Now, it's more vibrant, a little more gentrified, a lot more expensive. There are still some dubious characters hanging around -- it seems to be a favorite spot for 20-something junkies and their dogs -- but it's nothing like it was in 1998. Or even 2004.

Part of this neighborhood wandering we are doing is to try to suss out where we would like to live. Some if it is pure daydreaming, but the reality is if we come back here, we won't be able to afford the old neighborhood -- the 7th -- and that's a shame.

Each trip back here we find new opportunities and get a little closer to life goals we weren't aware we had. And it's been a fabulous adventure.

(Fill in the Blank) Need not Apply

2010-08-04T06:12:00.000-07:00

In the US, while we still have pay disparities between men and women and, I'm certain, between people of different races, it is nothing compared to what goes on here in the UAE.

It is not unusual for someone to advertise a job and say "Indians only" or Filipinos, for that matter. And your nationality is the key to your pay. If you are from the west -- Europe, North America, Australia -- you can command a salary far higher than someone with similar experience and education.

Salaries here at the paper run the gamut. And there are definite rumors that those journalists from the sub-continent are not paid as well as those from Great Britain for doing equal work. A colleague's wife is a naturalized American citizen from Russia. She was applying for a job, haggling at the point of salary. The manager, a Singaporean, was unwilling to pay her more than he, himself, made. And he told her he could get a Russian cheaper. She stubbornly told him that she was American, not Russian. It's a curious thing: citizenship determining salary.

This plays out in all fields. Filipina maids can earn more than Indian maids. Families are particular about which nationalities they have in their home. There is no great equalizer here -- everyone speaks English, those who are educated are often well-educated. I suspect at some point, skin color comes into play, too. But with the nationality looming large, it's hard to see.

Picking Through the Plastic

2010-07-30T07:36:00.001-07:00

The amount of packaging here, for food products, is phenomenal. At our home, we go through an appalling amount of plastic wrap and plastic containers and foil and wrappers. We do recycle the containers by washing and reusing them, but there are so many other things we have no control over.

When I go to the grocery store, if I have bought any fresh food, I will emerge with between seven and ten plastic containers. Each one of these will be double-wrapped in plastic wrap. If the food is meat of some sort, then it will be on a styrofoam tray, wrapped in foil and then wrapped in plastic wrap. Muffins come in cupcake papers, in cardboard cupcake holders on top of styrofoam and wrapped in plastic wrap.

It's pretty awful.

And what made me think about this is actually cookies. There are some sugar wafers they sell here that I like. They appear to be made in Dubai, (the company is based in the UAE_ but imported from Lebanon. They also have English, and Spanish on the label. That kind of throws me -- the Spanish.

But perhaps their origin explains the packaging. They are sealed in a foil packet, and then put into a cardboard box. Then they are wrapped again in a foil-type wrapper. Because they are sugar wafers, they don't hold up well in the humidity. This is the only explanation I can think of.

Yet there is no question that everything here is over-packaged. Coming from a culture where it has been drilled into us to recycle and re-use, it's maddening to find the trash filled only with plastic and packaging. And it makes me feel guilty, because I know better.

But recycling is a long way off here. There are recycling bins in some places, and some neighborhoods claim to recycle. But anecdotal information tells us that the recyle trash bins go into the same truck with the regular trash. And if even if the municipality supported recylcling ... where would this happen? We have no recycling plants.

I still think there must be a better way. I have no idea what it is, though, so I do my part by re-using my plastic forks and washing my plastic containers. a

Random Thoughts

2010-07-29T10:42:00.000-07:00

Random and pointless musing:

It takes a bit of ingenuity to live in a foreign country. It's not that it's difficult, per se, it's just that things are not always done in a manner you are used to.

After living in France so long, I know the French tricks by now. For example, you can't buy aspirin in a grocery store, you must go to the pharmacy. And if you forget how much income tax you owe you can simply go to your local tax bureau and ask them. You can buy stamps at the post office -- or at a bar that sells cigarettes. I had a whole list of these things, but of course now I've forgotten them.

(And an aside: this is why I haven't been blogging -- I get ideas and then forget them by the time I'm anywhere near the computer)

In any case, Abu Dhabi is no different. You can get just about anything you want here -- it's probably better, even, than the US in that sense -- but you need to know where to look. And, of course, that's the trick.

We are staying downtown for the summer, as I'm sure we've mentioned, in a high-rise apartment. Below us are dozens of tiny shops that sell hardware and materials. I don't know exactly what they sell, but they seem to pack a ton of stuff into their little shops.

Like other cities (Hong Kong, for example) the businesses here tend to cluster. We are in the hardware neighborhood. Several blocks over is the cellphone neighborhood, and closer to work is the tailor neighborhood. In these little enclaves, there are dozens of the same businesses. I don't have any idea how this works, in terms of competition.

In any case, I have gone to the little stores for various things, never knowing until I get there if they will have what I want. Tonight, I needed a light bulb. I'm pretty sure I could get one at the big supermarket, but I already did my week's shopping, and I'm not going back until I have to.
Keep in mind, too, that the temperature hasn't dipped below 95 in months, so when I go out, I plan it pretty carefully.

I decided I would go to the little shops tonight, after work. Somehow it seems a bit cooler at night, even though it isn't, really. So I walk over and out of six shops on the nearest side street, five are closed. I forgot that it is Thursday night, and while big shops are open later, small shops close earlier. And these shops cater to builders and handymen; Friday is the one day they take off.

I walk into the store, a bit tentatively. There are faucets and electrical adapters and drills on the walls. I have been to a store like this and had keys made and bought drill bits. Almost nothing is accessible by the consumer. The man behind the counter takes the proffered light bulb from me, and turns to the jam-packed wall behind him. Then, he slides out a hidden shelf filled with light bulbs.

He takes down a package of bulbs, opens the box, compares the bulb to mine and says: "Only frosted." My bulb is clear. I think a minute, and figure well, at least it will last until I can get to a place that sells clear bulbs. Remember, it's (and I've just looked this up) 97 degrees, feels like 118 ... I'm not interested in turning this into a project.

So I say fine. He says four dirhams. I think I've misheard him -- four dirhams is $1.09. For two specialty light bulbs. I give him a five, and he gives me back two -- saying there's a discount. There's always a discount, and I never know why or when. Prices are incredibly flexible here.

Now I have two lightbulbs. That's the whole story. I thought it would be more interesting. But it's not.

Wait till I write about shopping for clothes.

No Drinking Problem Here

2010-07-10T00:23:00.000-07:00

I was aware of the unusual circumstances surrounding alcohol before I moved here. To wit, only non-Muslims may drink legally, and one may drink publicly only in hotel bars and restaurants. (This is a slight oversimplification, but you get the point).

In any case, I made sure to pack my trusty corkscrew. It's a waiter's corkscrew, with a double notch and it makes it easy to take the cork out -- no strenuous pulling.

Interestingly, though, I have rarely used it. Not, of course, because I am not drinking. Ha. But because almost all the wine available here has a screw top. It's a bit weird, and at first it doesn't seem like you're drinking wine. I like the ritual of pulling the cork, the satisfying pop it makes when it comes out.

But I have to say -- the screw tops are pretty easy. And on those rare occasions when we don't finish a bottle, we just put the top on and open it later. It keeps quite nicely.

As I mentioned, we are staying downtown, at the home of some friends. The apartment is well-located, about a half-block from a very large liquor store. You wouldn't know it was a liquor store, of course, unless someone told you. There are no windows or signs indicating what it is. It's just a red building.

I went last week, and took a colleague's just-arrived wife with me. I have a liquor license, and she doesn't (yet). So we went on a bit of a spree. There was a sale, with wine 40 percent off. Since the tax on wine is 30 percent, that can make for some well-priced bottles.

I have not seen many familiar labels, outside of the Australian wines. But it's been fun trying to pick and guess what might be decent.

One especially amusing grouping of French wines caught my eye: a Longue-Dog (with a picture of a dachshound) and a Chat en Oeuf (a cat sitting on an egg). I thought the puns were hysterical. A Languedoc and a Chateau-Neuf; how incredibly clever.

We opened the Longue Dog last night --it is a grenache syrah blend, a vin de pays d'oc or a tablewine. Blends, and wine made from out-of-region grapes in France are not afforded any AOC designation, but that doesn't make them less good.

In any case, the bottle was originally priced at Dh35, or about $9.50. Wine doesn't get much cheaper than that here. Plus the 40 percent off made it a bargain.

It was actually very good. Drinkable, smooth ... no complaints here. So I will buy it agian, and be amused when I do so. And next, we will try the Chat en Oeuf.

Packing and Moving and Moving and Packing

2010-06-24T02:24:00.000-07:00

How did I get into this seemingly never-ending cycle?

I have vowed, many times, never to move again. This, of course, was never going to happen, but I never expected this.

Since I left France in 2006 (where I stayed put, essentially, for seven years) I have moved from Paris to Long Beach to Highland to Long Beach to Hong Kong to Long Beach to Abu Dhabi. Within these moves, there were two long-term stays in Paris, one month and three monts, each of which had several subset moves. In Hong Kong, there were three moves., and in Abu Dhabi, so far, two.

Now, we are preparing for another move. We have been asked to house sit for friends who are fortunate to have the entire summer off. They live downtown, a neighborhood we find too crowded, but they have a 14th-floor three-bedroom, three-bathroom palace. We figured why not -- our place is small, a change of scenery would be nice. They have two couches!! And a kitchen!! With a real stove!! Cold water in the showers!! And, best of all: no ants.

We have had an ant infestation since the weather turned super-hot (as opposed to merely really hot). They aren't in the kitchen, thankfully, but they are everywhere else. Climbing up the walls, in and out of outlets in search of ...water? cooler climes? They even drag their food inside to eat it. No kidding -- several times we have seen ants eating a dead bee or some such in our entry way. They have come inside to dine.

We have been reluctant to use poison because it's already hard to breathe here. And our home remedies (Windex) work a little. So there are ants that appear on my computer, and on my arm when I'm on the couch and across the coffee table and in the newspaper. It's maddening. They are tiny and very, very fast.

But back to the move. So now we are preparing to move into this new place until early September. For the time being, I'm packing just enough to get myself to work until my next day off. We don't own anything here, really, so it's just like getting ready for a vacation.

At least that's what I tell myself, as I realize that moving is inevitable in my life these days. Just like death and taxes.

I'm So Hip

2010-06-16T05:47:00.000-07:00

There is an expression among women that goes a bit like this: "That (fill-in-the-blank) will go right to my hips."

I've heard it all my life, but it was never an issue for me -- until this week. I was lucky enough to be a skinny girl most of my life. Until I turned 30, and since then it's gone a bit downhill. But I've never been one to worry about dieting or food, really.

Then came the Italian vacation. I didn't worry then, either, and came home to discover that after two weeks of amazing pasta, pizza, pastries and a little gelato, my pants didn't fit. It's not that they were snug. It's that they didn't fit. None of them.

How did I not notice this as I ate my way down the Italian coast? Easy. I was wearing skirts or yoga pants the whole time. Pure comfort. If I had sen it happening, I might have eased off the Italian pastries. (OK, who am I kidding? I adore Italian pastries. My only saving grace in Paris is that I don't like French pastries).

While I acknowledge that I am fortunate it hasn't happened sooner, it still kind of freaks me out. How does that even happen? Two weeks? And in this case, it really did go right to my hips. Not my butt (where it usually goes), my hips.

I refuse to buy new pants, so I'm just going to have to get rid of the weight. A former co-worker said that one time, upon return from an Italian vacation, "my ass was so big I swear I could see moons orbiting its sphere."

So, it's back to salads, and good intentions. No booze, no pasta, no pastries to be sure. I've got to get rid of this extra weight -- in just six weeks I'm heading to France.

I should have stayed at work

2010-05-14T15:40:00.000-07:00

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Off work an hour earlier than usual, why not take advantage and go shopping? Real shopping, not grocery shopping. Pick up a few things I need.

I neglected to take one major thing into account: it was Friday night. Like a Saturday at home. What do you do in a country where there's nothing to do? Go to the mall.

Clearly, I was not the only one who had this idea. But I'll skip all the good parts and go straight to the trauma. And I'm not even counting the part where my taxi was rear-ended in a traffic jam trying to get to the mall.

No, it happened at the end. My colleague calls and says he and Paul and some others are going for a drink after their shift ends in 10 minutes. Do I want to join them? Sure.

So, I go outside and it's so humid my glasses fog over. Once they clear, I think I must still be having problems because what I see is roughly 70 people in a line for a cab. I also don't see any cabs. Not a one. None in the distance. None dropping people off. Zero.

I start to consider my options: Wait in line or take a bus. This mall is too far from home to walk back (about 1o miles), and I decided to go at the last minute and I'm wearing rubber flip-flops so even if I were closer, it would be a bad idea.

I go back inside for 10 minutes thinking maybe my timing is just off, that people are leaving in a big surge and things will normalize. Might as well wait somewhere cool than stand outside. When I come back there are now 100 people waiting for a taxi.

There are buses, but the system is Byzantine and there are no routes posted. Each bus has an end location, but that's it. I start to consider it, because I figure once I get somewhere more populated, a taxi won't be a problem. But then I remember the fare is 1 dirham, and I don't have any change. So I stand the line a while longer. Another 35 minutes or so. In this time, I have seen exactly three taxis come through. And there are another 50 people in line now.

There is also a huge crowd at the bus stop. As each bus pulls up (and there are only four), people run to get on. The buses supposedly run in 20-minute cycles, but they aren't regular cycles. So there is a mass of humanity cramming onto the bus that I think I want.

I finally decide to check out the bus option. See if maybe I can give them more than exact change, and let them keep the rest. When I get to the bus, which is not going anywhere near where I want to end up, I just decide to get in with about 60 of my closest friends. I actually get a seat, which is lucky.

Because I will be sitting in it for nearly two hours.

Not only are there no taxis, everyone is trying to leave the parking lot at the same time and there are too many cars. Imagine a Paris transit strike in 95 degree weather combined with the end of a game at the LA Coliseum. Nothing at all is moving.

Something is weird, but I can't tell what it is. Is it simply that it's Friday night? Is it that strange carnival across the road that suddenly appeared? And why isn't there any incoming traffic?

And, as I had two hours to ponder these issues, I figured some of it out. And this part makes it more ridiculous. One of the city's soccer teams played its last game tonight. I assume it won, but it doesn't matter, because it clinched the league title days ago. Tonight, however, is the night everyone decided to celebrate (and by everyone, I mean Emirati men-boys who drive overpowered trucks and SUVs and rev their engines and hang out the windows and sun roofs).

In the 90 minutes it takes my bus to go 500 meters and get out of the parking lot I also notice that traffic along the Corniche, the nearest main artery, is stopped dead. I'm not close enough to actually see it, but I can see the lights. And they're not moving.

It's the men-boys again. They are cruising and mucking up the traffic.

(An aside about traffic: It is the great equalizer. Even rich people in fancy cars can't pay their way out of traffic jams)

Eventually my bus gets to a place I recognize, so I get out. But now there is even more traffic because the cruisers have been diverted. And still there are no taxis (because there is too much traffic!) It's getting ridiculous.

I call Paul and ask him to come and pick me up because I can't get a taxi. Although as I'm waiting for him, they close the road I'm on and I realize he won't be able to get me. So we arrange for me to walk about a kilometer up the road (yes, in flip-flops and yes, now I have a blister between my toes) so that he can get to me.

At this point, I'm walking alongside the men-boys, who are blowing air horns, spraying me with silly string and throwing firecrackers. I am not enjoying myself. Not even a tiny bit. And have I mentioned it is 1:30 in the morning?

Just as I've about had it, an Emirati woman leans out of her SUV three lanes over and tells me to come over and get in. She is actually concerned about me. At the same time, I get a call from Paul saying he is in a taxi just behind me. I thank the woman, wave her off. She tries to insist. I try to tell her my husband is behind me. Finally, I get in the taxi.

And three and a half hours after I first walked out of the mall, I'm finally home.

A Handful of Sites

2010-05-12T08:49:00.000-07:00

The longer I'm here, the more great blogs I come across. Recently some friends were teasing me about reading so many blogs, but hey -- that's a hobby, isn't it? (I don't think it's any less valuable than knitting in a place where it's 90 degrees at midnight)

In any case, feel free to take a look. The newest details the um, adventures, of my friend who has just moved to Kabul to help teach reporters to put together an English-language wire service.

Another describes life in Dubai -- and her life, with three kids and lots of staff, isn't remotely like mine.

Anyway, things I like to read.

(Speaking of which, two acquaintances recently published novels, and they come highly recommended. You can find them on Amazon. The Imperfectionists, by Tom Rachman, a former IHT colleague, and The Night Counter, by Alia Yunis, an Angeleno now teaching at Zayed University.)

Both are already on my Kindle, but I'm recommending them on word of mouth, because I'm saving them for my upcoming vacation and both have gotten raves.

My Mini Staycation*

2010-05-07T10:02:00.000-07:00

*photos added

I needed a break. Even though my real vacation is just three weeks away, and I've only been working full-time since October, it has felt like ages since I've had a vacation.

Seven weeks a year and then a bout of unemployment will do that to a girl. Not to mention split days off since New Year's.

So I scouted around for a hotel in town that would feel out of town. We contemplated Dubai. Hotel deals are great here for weekenders, but not if you want to go on Wednesday and Thursday -- the days we had off. (Did I mention it was also the first time Paul and I had the same days off since we arrived?)

So this is what I did. On Wednesday I slept late and went to the beach. Good start, eh? I finished a so-so crime novel (An aside here: Who thinks Jesse Kellerman only got a book deal because his parents are Jonathan and Faye? Me.) and just generally relaxed. I was going to rent a lounge chair and an umbrella, but it was overcast, so I spread out on my towel. I also contemplated having a little lunch in one of the great boardwalk cafes that have cushy couches and swing seats -- but no, I wasn't hungry. This is the benefit of vacation: you can change your plans at will.

When I got home Paul and I got ready to go to a swanky bar for good-bye drinks for a colleague of ours. I'm sorry he's leaving, actually. But one day he woke up and decided he'd had enough. That happens a lot.

On Thursday I went to the mall. Sounds not so special, doesn't it? Well I actually went shopping. Usually, I have a very small window at the mall and have to do the grocery shopping in a certain time-frame. The sole reasons for this are crowds and taxis. Too much of one and not enough of the other. But here I was in the middle of the day. Leisurely looking at long skirts and cute tops.
Of course then I did do the grocery shopping (hey, the family still has to eat, right?)

After, I came home and got cleaned up for our "Big Night Out". The coup de grace of my staycation. We had made reservations at Bord Eau in the Shangri-La Hotel. The best restaurant in town at one of the nicest hotels. I really like that area because it feels out of town and it really isn't -- about 15 minutes away.

We hoped to get there for sunset, but I lagged. But we caught the tail end of it, and I'll post pictures ASAP. The view from the hotel area (there are three hotels, all pretty nice) is of the private beach area, an inlet of the Arabian Sea called The creek, and the Grand Mosque. Also some ugly construction, but it was my fantasy vacation, so I saw what I wanted to.

We arrived too early for our reservation, and so decided to wander along the beachfront. Then, to the rooftop bar of a restaurant called Pearls and Caviar, for happy hour. The space is lovely. Big sail-cloth ceilings and couches to lounge on. There was soft techno ambient music playing, and three couples a huge, circular space with the large bar in the middle. No one had to sit near anyone else. The back of the bar was roped off, presumably for VIPs, for later in the night. Bottles of expensive Champagne and vodka were chilling.

Part of the point of the happy hour, we assumed, was to get people there early, when it's still empty so that it isn't. (That made sense, right?)

So we lounged, sipping very nice mojitos and looking at the water. And we pretended we were somewhere, anywhere, else. I don't think we made a decision as to where we were. But we weren't in Abu Dhabi. That was the plan.

After cocktails, we strolled back to our restaurant. It's a newsroom favorite among a certain crowd and they said they would put in a good word for us. That good word got us an excellent table by the window with an equally excellent view of the water and the lit-up mosque. A stunning room, very opulent.

This was going to be our big splurge. Instead of the hotel, we opted for a fancy meal at a French restaurant. But splurges here are more like what real restaurants cost in big cities. Not so horrible. And I had a plan: The newspaper was offering a gift certificate to various fancy restaurants worth Dh500 if we subscribed to the paper for a year. The yearly cost is Dh300. We planned to subscribe eventually, so now was the perfect time. Free money. for a fancy staycation dinner.

We were greeted warmly in a city not know for its service. We were offered complimentary glasses of Joseph Perrier champagne, with a bit of raspberry liqueur. Kir royales. Some lovely nibbles.

The waiter read the menu to me while I held it, turning the pages he described everything on offer. After, the maitre d' came by to see how we were. He asked me in French and I replied in kind. Someone must have tipped him; it was entirely pleasant and made the whole thing even nicer.

I opted for the five-course tasting menu. Paul, who is much more sensible than I, opted for far fewer courses. I also decided to do the wine pairing. I have never done a tasting menu, and done a pairing only once, but not for so many courses. The food was flawless. And the pairing was lovely. My only problem is cocktails+champagne+five tastings = a little too much to drink.

The menu, briefly, for those who wonder: An amuse bouche of roquette and ricotta in pumpkin veloute. Another amuse bouche, I suspect just for us, of lobster and morelles in a light curry sauce. OMG.

My first course: Pan-seard foie gras in a gingerbread crust on finely chopped chestnuts. It was paired with what tasted like a Sauternes, but I didn't catch it when the waiter mentioned the name.

Second course: A pair of perfectly cooked scallops in a lovely sauce and nope, I don't remember any other details. I remember thinking the portion was perfect. The wine was a completely non-oaky Chardonnay from, I think, Australia.

Third course: Monkfish with tapenade and a choice of vintage olive oils to eat it with. I chose French, one that had something to do with Alain Ducasse and one that was Belarussian. The latter was the most flavorful. The monkfish, which I had actually been warned off, was very nice. It was served with a Chablis.

Fourth course: A small Black Angus filet served with peas and the restaurant's famous mashed potatoes with truffle oil. Sublime. I haven't had steak in maybe a year and I eat almost no beef here. Delicious. Paired with a very nice Medoc.

Fifth course: I asked if I could have the cheese course instead of the dessert. Of course it was no problem. Five cheeses, including a St Marcelin and a Fourme d'Ambert. Some not-too-toasted toast, and it was fabulous. As was the glass of Port it came with.

I was full at the finish, but not stuffed. I do regret having had so much to drink, only because I think it was a bit excessive. But it didn't ruin my meal -- not by a long shot.

After, the bill, with the help of the gift card, was extraordinarily reasonable.

Paul escorted me out of the hotel, poured me into a taxi and I happily went to sleep.

The perfect staycation.

What's That Smell

2010-05-02T03:34:00.000-07:00

I had never thought of myself as having a particularly keen sense of smell. But in the last few years it has become increasingly clear that I do.

I can walk into a market and smell ripe peaches and strawberries and be filled with delight. I think my sense of smell has helped with my sense of taste -- nearly 70 percent of what we taste is related to what we smell. I like to think I can identify different ingredients in my food.

But it's not all roses out there.

I am also finely attuned to unpleasant smells. Paul can never smell these things. He says he's blessed. (Yesterday at work, I told him one of the stray cats must be annoyed; I was certain I smelled cat in one of the hallways leading outside. He didn't notice)

But forget pet smells and other unpleasant things like Metro stations or foreign taxi drivers. The thing that bothers me most is the smell of mildew.

One summer in Paris I was plagued by the smell. For weeks, everywhere I went it overwhelmed me. I was sniffing everything. It wasn't my clothes. Nobody around me ever noticed it. It was driving me mad. Finally, with the help of a very understanding friend, I realized it was me after all. My hair had mildewed.

Yes, it's gross. I know. It must have been during the heat wave in 2003 and I was always hot; it was impossible to cool down. So each morning I would take a cold shower and go out with my wet hair tied up. This went on for several weeks. Ultimately, it never dried, and thus the mildew. Ewww, huh?

That particular smell isn't one you encounter often in the states, because people have dryers in their home. There is usually no problem of leaving the clothes in the washer too long (and if you do, you know right away) and clothes dry fully.

This is not the case here. Clothes never dry fully. Even when they are put outside in the heat, there's always a dampness to them. And always a dampness in the apartment. It doesn't feel damp, but I can smell it in my freshly washed clothes.

It drives me crazy to put on clothes that smell like this, even faintly. And at work, it's not uncommon to sit near someone who also has that smell. How does everyone else not notice this?

One solution may be to send everything to the laundry, instead of just sheets and towels and clothes that need to be ironed.

The other might be just not to breathe too deeply.

A Sunny Outlook on Life

2010-04-25T13:24:00.000-07:00

It's hard to say why I don't like it here in Abu Dhabi.

It can't truly be the weather -- that hasn't kept me from France, and as cold as gets in Chicago, I think I'd find that city very livable.

It isn't the job -- granted, I have had the luxury of three different assignments in six months, but I've enjoyed all of them and am very happy to have landed with my current gig. So work is peachy.

And it isn't the Teeny Apartment (at least not the teeny part). Paul and I have different schedules and manage to stay out of each other's way. Sure I'd like a bigger place, but that wouldn't make me love it here. Even with a grand kitchen.

So what is it about a place that makes it livable and likable? I wish I knew. If I could pinpoint it, maybe I could solve the dilemma.

For each reason I think it might be, I have an argument to counter it. Third world? I love Mexico and Morocco... Rude people? Hello Paris Metro. Nothing to do? I don't do all that much anywhere I live.

So here I am, with a good husband, a good job, good health insurance and making some tax-free money every month. I have the freedom to travel and I'm close enough to all sorts of interesting places.

Maybe it will grow on me. Maybe I will learn to love it.

In the meanwhile, I'm hoping to learn to make the best of it and look on the bright side.

That's one thing Abu Dhabi has going for it: plenty of bright side.

A Handful of Party Photos

2010-04-20T01:00:00.001-07:00

For those of you who didn't catch the link on Paul's post about The National's birthday party (or on Facebook) here they are.

Making Me Sick

2010-04-19T10:57:00.001-07:00

Food poisoning is a serious issue here, and I fear it's only a matter of time before I get really sick.

Paul and I have gotten ill at least five times in the last six months. Nothing severe, but food poisoning nonetheless. And from curious sources: A strawberry, non-dairy smoothie; packaged, unexpired couscous salad; freshly made hummos from the deli counter (although it may have been in the fridge for about three days after I bought it).

I'm not talking about shellfish -- I think you take a risk with that every time. Nor am I thinking of street food -- I've been to a few dicey places and had no trouble at all. And street food, in fact, has never made me ill.

There is a government campaign going on to try to combat the problem. It's widespread enough that people die from it here. Some children in Dubai ate bad Chinese food a while back and that got people's attention. Especially when, after an investigation, they let the restaurant reopen.

The problem isn't just lack of hygiene, although that's the beginning. It's also the heat. And the distance your food travels. And how it gets to you from wherever you buy it. The sign in the hot food part of the supermarket advises people to eat their food within two hours. On the other hand, if it takes you two hours to get home and it's 90 degrees out, I wouldn't really pay attention to that window.

Some of the problem, too, is culture. Certain cultures like to keep their kitchens a certain way. International cleanliness standards go above and beyond anything most of us do at home. We all know how many really good Chinese restaurants have B food ratings. It's less a concept of being unsanitary than not being familiar with new rules.

After a raid by health inspectors here the other day, a restaurant owner was very put out that he was cited for not having color-coded cutting boards: one for meat and one for veggies. He also didn't understand why he should use a clean rag for, well, cleaning.

Milk has a short shelf life here -- about three days before it expires -- but you can smell that, so you're a little safe there.

It's not as easy as it seems, to avoid getting sick here. Again, there is the heat to contend with. For eight or nine months of the year, temperatures are 90 or above. That means you;ve got to get to your transportation pretty quickly after you leave the grocery store with any chilled items. No waiting for the bus.

The grapes I bought the other day were wrapped in plastic and must have been wet -- the day I went to eat them they were completely moldy along all the stems. Things come from so far away and they use so much extra packaging here, you just have to be really careful.

No matter how careful you might be -- it's all just a crap shoot.

It's a Small World -- But We Already Knew That

2010-04-17T12:40:00.000-07:00

In January 1994, I flew to Atlanta to interview for a job. It was a memorable trip for two reasons: I was there the day of the Northridge earthquake and Atlanta was in the middle of an unusual cold snap and an ice storm.

The sports editor drove me around town, giving me his best pitch for a move to Atlanta. It seemed such an alien concept to me. In the end, I accepted a job with the Los Angeles Times.

If you had told me then that I'd end up in France -- a place I had never been to -- in five years I would have laughed. And if you had told me in 2006, when I left France, that I would end up in Abu Dhabi -- well, it's beyond my imagination.

Which brings us to 2010. Here I am in Abu Dhabi, thousands of miles from Atlanta and Los Angeles, and I'm about to go work in the sports department for the first time since 1999. And for the same editor who interviewed me in Atlanta.

Small world indeed. Or, behave well, because what goes around surely comes around.

Passover: Abu Dhabi-style

2010-04-01T13:47:00.000-07:00

It wasn't the weirdest Passover seder I've ever been to -- that honor goes to one that ended with a joint passed around the table -- but it was certainly the most makeshift.

I tend to lose track of time here. I'm off on Wednesdays and Fridays and the week starts on Sunday ... I'm always confused. My Mom gave me a heads up last week that Passover was looming. She may have asked what I was going to do.

What indeed. First, I had to find out if there were any Jews at my newspaper. And if you're reading this in the US, you're laughing out loud. No US newspaper has a shortage of Jewish journalists. (Ask anyone: we run the media). Certainly, any English-language daily with 250 editorial employees should have more than me, right? Well, it turns out it does. One more. There are rumors of a third, but if she doesn't want to be named, who am I to out her?

Personally, I like to think I keep a relatively low profile even as a Jew in America. Here, I'm very quiet about it. I had to note my religion on my visa application, but it doesn't appear on the visa itself. Local opinion seems to be "We like Jews just fine -- we just don't like their (i.e., Israel's) politics".

In any case, I made a quiet inquiry and found a religious fellow-traveler. I introduced myself and asked her if she had plans for Passover. She'd been here a few years, I'd been told, so maybe she knew of any other Jews. She said she had no plans, but agreed to try a seder and she invited some others. In the end, we were six: two Jewish girls, one non-Jew who had been in a Jewish sorority, two non-Jewish husbands, one girl from Northern Ireland and a Canadian.

There were rumors of a Passover care package being Fed-Exed from Ohio, but it did not arrive in time. But it's the thought that counts, right? The hostess couldn't find brisket so she made some sort of very tasty smoked meat that looked like brisket. When you live abroad you discover different cultures cut their meat differently. (Kind of like pork steak in Missouri; what part of the pig is a steak?)

There was a nice charoseth made with almonds, and tzimmes -- carrots and raisins simmered with honey and cinnamon. I was making coconut macaroons for dessert, so all we were missing was matzah.

Yeah, the important part. We used Wasa flat bread instead. Obviously that violates the rule of the law, but we felt it was in keeping with the spirit of things. We were making the effort. Surely that counts for something?

I downloaded a Haggadah onto my Kindle. It was called "Ina Gadda Haggadah" and it's like a Cliff's Notes version of the real thing. Perfect, actually, for Passover newcomers. It explained things, had the prayers and songs, and then a few jokes for good measure.

Paul noted the absence of the hills and rams and lambs part though, oft-remarked upon by my brothers.

We all took turns reading and enjoyed the company of new friends. Isn't that in the spirit of Elijah?

It felt a little naughty, to be honest. Sorta underground.

There is no prohibition against what we did. As long as we were in a private home, we could do as we pleased, religion-wise.

But it wasn't your everyday dinner party in Abu Dhabi.

And We're Back

2010-03-31T07:24:00.001-07:00

OK.

I didn't realize it had been more than a month since I posted. Time flies and all. And thank you, Michael, for your heartfelt admonishment. I fear once you finish reading this you'll realize I wasn't joking when I said I had nothing to say!

This is the deal -- it's not that nothing has been going on, it's that I can't really write about so much of it. Either it's inappropriately personal, or it has to do with work -- and that's a no no. Or even the country. That's kind of a no-no too.

So, herewith some drips and drabs.

I'm obsessing about vacation right now. Most of you won't relate because you're in America and you're content with your two or three weeks every year, if it's even that good. And your bosses begrudge you even that much. But it's been more than 10 years since I was limited to that kind of vacation time, and counting the part-time and unemployment eras of my recent life, I've had it awfully easy.

Now, I haven't had more than two consecutive days off since early October, and I haven't had two consecutive days off since early January. So I'm really looking to get away.

We are fortunate to be able to take time in late May to go to Italy. I am WAY looking forward to that. Sorrento and Sicily. Sicily is likely to be a little to warm, but what the hell, at least there's stuff to see. And things to eat. And good company. It all sounds good to me.

But now, I'm dying for a mini-break. What we should have done was booked a three- or four-day trip to Istanbul, as our friend Robert did. Take advantage of winter prices and just bug out of town for a couple of days. I went to make a booking for mid April, and prices have doubled. It's crazy. So it's probably not an option.

So I came up with a new idea. What if take a pretend vacation? Stay here in Abu Dhabi in a hotel with a private beach or go to one of the fancies in Dubai -- we save on air fare, we feel like we're far away .... So that may actually happen. I'm aiming for next Thursday. And then I'll post pictures -- like a real vacation!

* * *

You know those shoes little kids have with roller skates built into them? I hate them. I'm certain that as a kid I would have loved them. Now, it's like having a cat underfoot all the time: It's all I can do not to trip over a kid everytime I'm in the mall. Children here aren't particularly well-behaved or even supervised, and they're always underfoot. (Or, as I saw today, on the tables in the food court). And they weave in and out on those stupid roller shoes.

What a cranky old lady, I know.

* * *

I had to replace the power cord on my laptop today. Not a huge deal, fortunately. On the other hand, it's the second time and it's quickly making my bargain laptop much less of a bargain. But the machine itself seems to be trucking along. (Fingers crossed)

Anyway, unlike Hong Kong, where I thought it would be easy to get computer stuff, here it really is easy. I stayed away from the small computer stores, mostly because of (in)convenience as they're all downtown and instead I went to the mall. Got what I wanted right away. Bingo!

Because it's already hot here -- we had two plus-100F days last week, and the avg temp the last two weeks has been low 90s -- running errands takes serious planning. And there's no question I take the easiest way, which is get my taxi driver to take me to the mall and try to accomplish everything possible in that same mall. One trip only.

* * *

Last night they recovered the body of a dead sheikh, who was in a glider accident in Morocco on Friday. He was one of 17-odd half/whole brothers of the ruling sheikh. We were pretty sure he was dead, but nothing could be done since there was no body. So everyone at work has been on pins and needles, waiting for the announcement, which we feared would come at a particularly inopportune time. That was almost the case -- because we had been waiting so long, when news came it was early enough we could scramble and make the paper come together.

In any case, we began a three-day mourning period this morning. And under the heading of how does this affect us, the self-centered of the world ... it means the bars are closed for three days. No alcohol. No upbeat music on the radio. No cultural events. No alcohol. Oh, did I mention that? It's a particular problem because we have a handful of colleagues leaving these last few and upcoming weeks, and so parties to throw and attend. One of them was scheduled for Friday night. Not anymore. And this colleague is going to Kabul, where I doubt she'll be having any raucous parties.

But hey, we're journalists. And more than a few of us are hard-core, hard-drinking Brits. (OK, more than a few of them). Where there's a will, there's a way.

Tomorrow: the Passover seder in the Arab country.

I Can't Complain

2010-02-23T11:44:00.000-08:00

It's been a pretty decent week.

Got a pedicure the other day ... nice when you wear sandals all the time. Skipped out early yesterday for cocktails on the beach at sunset. Got a massage (Valentine's Day gift) tonight after work, my Friday. Treated myself to Indian street food. And I plan to head to the beach tomorrow.

Nope, can't complain at all.

The massage was great. It was in a hotel spa downtown, an oasis of calm in the middle of chaos that is that neighborhood.

Afterward, I went in search of vada pao, sometimes called wada pav. I know I said I hit the Indian food wall the other day, but not really. I've just cut back from many times a week to once or twice.

My colleague has been writing about delicious Indian street food. Here and here. (And yes, this is the same woman who gave me the most valuable information to date: How to make papadam in the microwave.)

I finally find myself in the right neighborhood and I ask the doorman at the hotel where to find the vegetarian snack restaurant. He asks someone and tells me to go down the street and it's right next to the El Dorado theater.

This is good news, because I actually know where the El Dorado theater is. So of course, once I find it, I discover it isn't the right one. It's actually a satellite version, much smaller and specializing in sweet Indian street food.

I call my colleague, apologize for interrupting her personal time and tell her I don't see what she is talking about on the menu. She asks to speak to the guy behind the counter. They speak ... I don't know. Hindi? Bengali? Probably.

He hands the phone to me and she says: You're at the wrong one. Ask him for directions to the restaurant. I hang up and think this isn't going to work out so well, since I had to call her in the first place because the guy didn't speak English.

He tells me "Straight, right at ADCB. Very tall building." So you know I've mentioned the whole address and directions thing. These directions would work much better if I had any idea what the ADCB building was. And I didn't. And telling someone "very tall building" means little when you're in a downtown area filled with high-rises.

Meanwhile, I've received a text -- after I've set off -- that says: Tell him to give you precise directions to their main spot, on Salam Street, behind the ADCB bank's HQ. I'm mumbling to myself. Precise directions? He doesn't speak English. No directions here are precise. But whatever.

Onward I go, undeterred. I cross the busy street via the underpass and make my way toward the water. I'm going straight. The last building before the big-dig construction site that is Salam St seems to have an ADCB on it. I turn right. I'm along the side of the building, next to where Salam St would be if it weren't a gigantic construction site and there is nothing behind this bank building.

I look to my right and see a gas station. I worry that the restaurant is actually across the construction site, on the other side of Salam St. But nobody told me to cross the street. So I wander some more, discover a Thai restaurant I had been wondering about (Aha! There's the Royal Orchid!)

Finally, I find it. By behind the bank building what everyone really meant was behind the bank building and through a construction area one street over and back two blocks through a parking lot.

Of course. But I've found it! Victory!

The waiter is nice (I have been warned that he might not be, and not to take it personally). He brings me a bottle of water, gives me some time to look at the menu, and I look for the wada pav, as it's called here (as opposed to what it seems to be called in Mumbai). There it is, right where it's supposed to be. By now I've forgotten what wada pav is and just know that I want to try it.

I order one, for Dh4.5 ($1.23). Spicy, medium or hot, he asks. Medium.

I am surprised when it comes out. It's an overstuffed sandwich that I am apparently expected to eat with my hands since no utensils have come with it. Imagine a dinner roll -- sort of like the sweet, doughy ones they used to have at Kentucky Fried Chicken. (I'm sorry! That's what they remind me of!) Between the two halves is a fried potato pancake, chunky and golden. There are chopped onions and chutney in there somewhere. The whole thing has a sweet and spicy delicious taste. Flavors I've never had. It's very, very good. I think if I were to discover this at a street stall, I would be amazed.

The waiter asks if there is something else I'd like to try. I get another text: If you are feeling really hungry, order a masala dosa. So that's what I ask for. There are more than 80 items on this one-page menu. I recognize only a few words -- aloo (potato) gobi (cauliflower) and daal (lentils) .

My masala dosa arrives. I don't know exactly what I expected, but this wasn't it. A fried crepe, slightly sweet, stuffed with seasoned potatoes. And it comes with three sauces that, presumably, I am supposed to pour over the crepe, or dip into. I'm not sure which. I get a spoon and a fork, but no knife. And the thing is huge. The first one was a small sandwich with big filling. This is a folded crepe the size of a large plate.

It was unusual and tasty and I can't wait to go back for more. Afterward, the waiter gave me a take-away menu and marked some things I should try next time. He explained that one column was south Indian and another north Indian.

My colleague's final words: That place is a treasure trove! Will require multiple visits.

Air Mail

2010-02-15T12:14:00.001-08:00

Journalists know better than anyone right now that the internet is where it's at. And being far away, we don't know how we'd survive without it; e-mail and Skype are essential.

But that doesn't mean I'm ready to forsake regular mail.

I'm not sure Abu Dhabi agrees with me, though.

Trying to mail a letter here is a serious undertaking. There is one main post office and two (rumored) smaller ones on the island. The Emirates Post website says there are 15 post offices in greater Abu Dhabi. We have only ever seen the one main post office.

What it doesn't say, and nobody outside the post office seems to know, is how much it costs to mail a letter.

We have managed much of our correspondence by e-mail, but AT&T, that legendarily difficult organization, insists that we mail them proof that we live in the UAE. They insist on, among other things, a postmark from the country. (They also insist on a utility bill, which we don't have, but that's another story).

When we left California we had some time left on our AT&T contract. We asked them to cancel our service at the end of the billing cycle, so there would be no weird outstanding partial bills. We told them where we were going. We said no, we couldn't simply transfer our accounts to someone else. (Who wants someone else's old account??)

Many months later, they are still insisting on $150 for breaking our contract because we haven't (yet) satisfactorily proved that we live outside the country.

In any case, that was the genesis of my post office issue.

How much postage did I need to send a letter to AT&T in Baton Rouge, LA? I had a handful of stamps left over from my first weeks here, when I thought I might send postcards (that was when I thought there might be postcards of something -- anything -- to send). What I had was three stamps worth 350 fils and three stamps worth Dh2 each. I thought I could probably put all of them on the envelope and it would get there. But I wasn't sure.

So I asked a member of our office staff. Not only did she have no idea how much it costs to mail a letter, she didn't know that 350 fils is Dh3.5. She kept insisting that it was 1,000 fils to a dirham instead of 100. She went to another colleague. She didn't know either. I asked at least a half dozen other colleagues. Surely, I thought, someone had sent a letter, a birthday card, something -- home?

But no.

So the woman finally told me to call the mail room. The guy in the mail room couldn't have been less helpful. He insisted it would cost Dh90 ($24.50) to send a letter. I balked. He insisted again. I said look, I want to send a letter to my Mother (I was trying to make the point that it wasn't a business letter) and he said well, that's what it costs. I said seriously? For a letter? And he said, essentially, hey, if you want to know how much a letter costs to mail, go to the post office and leave me alone.

I went to the Emirates Post website to see if the information was there. Nope. No postage rates. Not even for a letter within the UAE. It helpfully gives you the definition of a letter, and a post card, but not how much it costs to mail one. (I did finally find that I could send an aerogram for Dh2. Who knew anybody even used those anymore?)

So I called the post office. And they were actually helpful!! The postal guy told me it was Dh11.5 to send a letter to the US. Joy! I happened to have Dh10.5 worth of 350 fils stamps, and three Dh2 stamps. I could send my letter. While I had him on the phone, I asked if there was anyplace other than the post office that I could buy stamps. He said some supermarkets carry them, but he couldn't tell me which ones. Mine, I know, does not. A small but not quite complete victory.

The post office is not near our house or the office and requires a special trip even though it isn't far by distance. It's just not in an area where we ever are. And there are very few post boxes on the street. I may have seen two since I've been here. Remember, too, there is no home mail delivery. So mailing a letter is almost as difficult as buying stamps (and requires going to the post office, just the same).

As it happened, I went to dinner with a colleague and the restaurant was right behind the post office. Which was open until 10 p.m. And which didn't have long lines. And which was staffed by someone fairly friendly.

I showed him my letter and he added up the stamps. Dh11 he said. That's what it costs (so the helpful guy on the phone was helpful ... but not right). I had Dh12.5 pasted all over it, so I was good. I expected him to hand me back the letter, and he surprised me by taking it to mail. And while I was there I bought some more stamps.

Now, I might be the only person in the newsroom who knows how much it costs to send a letter. But I might also be the only person who needs to send one, too.

A Mini Break

2010-02-10T05:44:00.000-08:00

We went to the beach today, and it was just gorgeous.

This week, the weather has been especially cool by local standards, and it has felt very much like SoCal. Crisp and clear, with daytime highs in the low 70s and night-time lows in the low 60s.

For our shared off day, previous plans we had fell through so I asked Paul if he would go to the beach with me. He likes living near the beach, but he doesn't really like the beach itself, per se. So on the rare occasions he goes, it's because of me. But the beach, to me, is a healing and magical place. There is no such thing as a bad beach day.

I considered it my Valentine's Day gift. Who wants flowers and chocolate when you can have the beach?

The beach here has clean, fine sand and turquoise and pale green water. On a weekday like this, it's mostly moms and small children, with a smattering of foreign tourists. It's incredibly relaxing and the best part is it's like being on vacation.

As I sat on the sand I imagined I was far away, in some exotic desert island locale. I know that literally, all that is true. Abu Dhabi is is an exotic desert island. But not in a destination vacation sort of way.

Yet it still surprises me to go from the world where I live to the world of the beach -- it's like traveling hundreds of miles away.

We sat together for some time, watching people learn to wakeboard or swim a bit, although the water is considered cold this time of year. I fell asleep in the sun and Paul eventually went up on the boardwalk to read in a chair in the shade. We were both happy. Afterward, we had some ice cream.

A perfect day, and just a 15-minute cab ride away.

Baby! (It's cold outside)

2010-01-28T07:35:00.001-08:00

It's all relative, of course, but it's a bit nippy here today.

Highs in the 60s with a brisk wind and it feels like ... well, I don't know what it feels like. Not like a SoCal autumn, that's for sure. That chill is crisp and brisk. And not like a Long Beach summer's eve, either. It's humid here, but not that damp.

What I do know is the wind went right through my thin, long-sleeved T-shirt.

And the cab driver had the heat on when I left the office.

But don't worry about me; Paul says temps will be back up where they belong -- in the 80s -- in just a day or two.

p.s. Yes, I am wearing my Ugg boots

The Cost of Living

2010-01-27T06:17:00.000-08:00

Before we came here, we were warned that the city was expensive. We steeled ourselves for the worst.

In fact, the worst came in the form of rent prices, among the highest of any city in the world. We live in roughly 400 square feet and we pay a little less than $2,000 per month, but the apartment is furnished and it includes utilities (and, supposedly, maintenance). We'll see some of the savings, sure enough, come summertime when the A/C is all cranked up. It should be mentioned, too, that our rent is substantially lower than what most people pay for an unfurnished one bedroom in a decent neighborhood. But our space is less, too, it's true.

It's not unusual for grown people to share homes, with multi-bedroom apartments housing multi-roommates. Some of this has to do with the fact a lot of people are here sans spouse or other. But most of it has to do with the price of the apartments here and, more importantly, the scarcity of housing.

The problem is less one of high-cost housing so much as low-availability housing, and in the end, that's all that matters.

But the rest of daily living almost makes up for it. First, there are no taxes. No renter's tax, no sales tax, no income tax, no gas tax, no sin tax. (OK, a little sin tax: An alcohol license is about $80 per year, and alcohol is taxed at 30 percent). So the money I make is what ends up in my bank account and the price on the meal I'm eating or the new shoes I'm buying is what I'll be asked to pay.

It's pretty cool.

The tricky part in figuring this out, and why it has taken me three months to really come to grips with it, is the currency exchange. The UAE dirham (not to be confused with the Moroccan dirham) is worth 27 cents in a fixed exchange rate with the dollar. So there's a lot of math. This was a problem, too, when France was still using the franc. And that currency fluctuated, so prices changed all the time. Add in metric measurements for things and it takes a little work to get to the price of things. I believe I had the same three-month revelation in Hong Kong when I finally figured out the proper exchange rate there.

So I might balk at the concept of something costing Dh100, but it's actually $27, and when you figure my microwave (Indian made!) costs Dh128, then it's a wow! moment. But there's definitely a psychological barrier to a Dh100 bill when so many things cost less than Dh20 and nobody here likes to give change. This isn't helped one iota by the fact the cash machines dispense 100s, if you're lucky, and 500s and 1,000s more often.

It's like buying a candy bar at home with a $20 bill.

Which brings me back to my original concept of the cost of living. Each week I go to the bank machine, take out a whopping Dh1,300 and the machine almost always gives me Dh1,000, Dh200 and Dh100. You can't just go to the corner grocery with that kind of cash.

And after the bank machine I go straight to the grocery store to get some change. I've found myself in trouble a time or two, waiting too long to get to the cash machine and having only Dh100 for a cab to get me to the bank. That actually doesn't work, so I have to go to a medium sized grocery and buy something stupid, like a loaf of bread, which costs Dh3.50, so I can have change. I try to remind myself that everyone should have the problem of too much money.

Anyway, I've been going to the big grocery store after I hit the ATM. This has been a weekly thing, due to work schedules. And my grocery bill for a whole week runs about $60. I bought 54 items the other day, and only four of them cost more than than Dh10: Milk (Dh10), a Greek salad for lunch (Dh11.25), 8 oz of sliced butterball turkey (Dh18.50), and some cheddar cheese (Dh17.75). I also bought yogurt and sliced cheese and bread and several prepared meals, a variety of fruits and vegetables, some cookies and some bottled water and the most I paid for any of it was a little over $2.

And I thought making the transition from French groceries, which are reputed to be expensive, to US groceries, which are, was tough. Going from food prices here to those back home is going to be one huge jolt of culture shock.

It extends to other parts of my life, too. In Hong Kong, our housekeeper was cheap -- $8.50 an hour. Here, it's reaallly cheap: $6.80. And, just as is it is California, it's off the books for everyone. (My housekeeper has a regular cleaning job at a company; she does housework on her own time, and as far as I can tell cleans for at least half a dozen people in the newsroom).

After picking up some laundry the other day, I was muttering about the cost - Dh25!! Then I realized I'd had a full set of sheets and pillowcases washed and ironed, two pairs of pants and two men's shirts. Gulp. $6.80.

Taxis are a bargain. Flag fall is Dh3 (81 cents) and a trip from work to home is $1.50. With a tip, it's $2.70. Because we have our own drive to work, we pay a bit more -- a whopping $5.50 because he shows up every day at the appointed time, seven days a week.

So yes, we are living well while living frugally. And it's a nice reality.

The Provenance of Food

2010-01-23T07:00:00.000-08:00

It's something I've been thinking about for a while, and going to the Indian Food Festival on Friday made me think of it again.

Where does your produce come from? And how do you make a choice? In France, the markets are required to tell you the provenance of the produce. Of course it usually varies with the season. Strawberries in February are usually from Spain and they don't come from France until a few months later. Just like winter fruits in California come from Chile.

But here in the UAE, it's not as simple as what's in season. They don't grow much here in the desert, although more than I had thought as evidenced by this feature on locavores in The National last week. Of course dates, but apparently carrots and eggplant and zucchini, too.

A colleague has an Abu Dhabi blog and he writes about something similar there, at Abu Dhabi Do!

I am particularly fond of bananas from the Philippines. They are sweeter and more flavorful than bananas from South America, in my opinion. (Of course, this is all just my opinion). I started eating them last year in Hong Kong, and here I have a choice. Bananas from the Philippines, from India or from South America. There are two brands: Chiquita and Estrella. I prefer the Estrella bananas.

And it's not just bananas. I prefer Indian pomegranates to Tunisian or Egyptian ones. They are sweeter and juicier. I also usually prefer tangerines (or mandarins or clementines -- they vary) from Egypt, but those from Pakistan, which are lately on sale, have been pretty good. The ones from China are very tiny, and seem hardly worth the effort.

I can choose from Omani or Jordanian eggplant, Arabian potatoes and mangoes from Thailand or India. There is a huge supply of produce from the US and from Europe, but aside from the French apples, I don't usually bother. (An exception being celery, because a lot of places don't grow eating celery, they have cooking celery, and the US is an exception).

We are seeing a lot of summer fruits from South Africa right now: Peaches, nectarines and apricots. And as the price is going down, I can tell we are getting closer to the season.

There was a better-than-usual selection of produce from India this week: Green cardamom and bitter squash and tapioca and gigantic yams. I have no idea what to do with any of this. But I took some pictures. I wanted to try some of the more unusual fruits: jack fruit and snake fruit, which looks like it has snake scales on it. But I was discouraged by someone who knows better.

But it's something to think about, knowing where your food comes from. The bigger surprise -- to me -- is that there is such a difference.

The World's Longest Palindrome

2010-01-22T07:48:00.000-08:00

Somebody told me today that Malayalam -- the official language of Kerala, India, and a language spoken by 35 million people world-wide -- is the world's longest palindrome.

It isn't quite; it's one of a few that are the same length in English, and a Finnish word for soapstone dealer is officially the longest.

But never mind. Malayalam is spoken by over 773,000 people in the UAE, a country of only 5 million residents.

And I'm thinking about this because I learned the Malayalam word for saunf, a Hindi and Urdu word for fennel . In Malayalam it is called peruncheeragam. In Tamil it is shombu.

In English, it's called: sugar-coated-fennel-seeds-they-give-you-after-dinner-at-an-Indian-restaurant-that-taste-like-Good-n-Plenty.

This is all part of my quest to have some of the delicacies of Indian food in my home so I don't have to wait to go out to eat. I learned all these words so that I can go to the grocery store and, if I can't find what I want, I now know three different words in four languages that someone at the supermarket might understand.

Phew.

The Subcontinent Groove**

2010-01-21T07:07:00.000-08:00

*This is long and disorganized. Bear with me, please.
**Link added to Indian Food Festival

Indian food.

I have it at least once a week, but I probably think about having it five times a week. I don't have enough free time to try all the things I think I'd like to.

I'm not sure if it's serving as a replacement for Mexican, or that Lebanese is now so plentiful at home I don't feel the need to make a special effort here. But it's what I think about. All. The. Time.

And today I made a breakthrough: A colleague gave me a basic do-it-at-home Indian 101 primer.

It started when she went out to cover the Indian Food Festival. She called in to check with me (I'm her editor) and said, "And it smells so good here!!" And then I said, "Well then you should bring me some!" And she did.

She arrived with three kinds of biryani (rice dishes), a dried beef dish (spicy), a cauliflower dish (it must have a real name) and some Indian sweets. It was a ton of food, and she was right, it did smell good. We shared with the others in our cluster (lest you think two of us ate four tubs of rice plus)

This venture of course opened the door for me to ask lots of questions. It's very multicultural here, and I don't think anybody minds answering questions, but I don't want to make assumptions. My colleague is Candian by way of Calcutta. I know from things she writes that she is a foodie.

She got me special rice with cashews in it. Nice. I discovered that the grocery I usually go to is known among subcontinenters as having quite good prepared Indian food. When the tea boys (men from Bangladesh and India) asked where she got it, they seemed pleased, and knew that we would share with them.

Every week Paul and I go to a restaurant called Nihal and every week I get the lamb vindaloo. After experimenting a bit in the beginning, I'm now afraid to try anything else because what if i don't like it as much?? If I were going five nights a week, I might be -- maybe -- willing to experiment. Switch it up a bit. But mostly, no.

So this gave me a chance. I have another chance next week when two of the interns who worked at the paper are taking me to a good Indian restaurant. I have decided to put my fate in their hands and eat whatever they order. But more on that after it happens.

Anyway, my colleague is amused that I like this food so much. I ask about the beef. Isn't that a bit unusual for Indians? No, she says, the Muslims eat a lot of beef. She goes on to tell me about some Goan pork curry at a place she knows. Pork? Yes, because Goa has lots of Portuguese influences because it was colonized by Portugal. I had heard about the great fish curries from Goa, so this was new, too.

So she decides to write down for me how I can eat Indian at home without too much cooking, since my kitchen is so sad. She tells me how to cheat with frozen parathas, and says I can cook them in the frying pan without any oil. And now I know that "aloo" means potato!

Next up: pappadam. I believe I may have mentioned this previously. She reveals that I don't need to fry a pappadam, no sirree, I can just pop one into the microwave and it will crisp right up. I cannot believe my good fortune in learning this. She tells me to look for a brand called Lijjat made by women in small villages in India, with a label in Hindi. The package is yellow and red.

(Please click the link to Lijjat, it's a fascinating history of seven semi-literate women from Gujarati who started a cooperative business that now employs 42,000).

So, for the pappadam, she says: Put only one in at a time, don't cover it, don't put it on anything. Microwave it for two minutes.

And don't worry if it smokes. Because it will clear up right away. Um, yeah.

I'm off tomorrow, and headed to the Indian Food Festival to check out the goodies. I have a recipe here for easy spinach curry, and if you leave a note or e-mail me, I'll pass it along.

Meanwhile, I'm going to buy some frozen parathas, some uncooked pappadam and I'm settin' up the microwave.

Afterward we can all have saunf.

The Teeny Tiny Apartment

2010-01-06T23:11:00.001-08:00

More photos here at least until I can get them on Flickr, which is blocked in the UAE.

A Tale of Two

2010-01-03T09:36:00.001-08:00

There are two interns who sit across from me at the paper.

One is Bangladeshi and one is Indian. They were both born here and neither is Emirati.

Their parents came here in the 1970s in search of a better life for their families. The grandfather of the Bangladeshi girl came even earlier, and would split time between Abu Dhabi and his home village. Both girls have two countries and none at the same time. Neither has spent any considerable time outside of the UAE, yet it is unlikely they will stay here. Each holds a passport for her ethnic country.

The UAE has no policy to naturalize citizens. It is happy to welcome immigrants to work, and even their families. As long as they leave.

There is a mandatory retirement age of 60 here and it applies whether you are Emirati or not. It is possible, from time to time, to get an extension of perhaps two years. But in the modern world, most people don't retire at 62. And while most anyone is welcome to work here, that's where the hospitality ends. Once a person has no job, that's the end of the line. Thirty days to leave town before the visa expires.

So imagine that you are one of these girls. You have friends and a community here You have attended college here. You would like to find a job, but as all over the world, jobs are a little more scarce than they used to be. You would like to plan your future, but you have no idea where that future will be. You are Emirati, but you're definitely not. Once the fathers of these girls retire, the girls must leave too.

They contemplate their options and try to think of places they could go. They are tourists, strangers really, in their "home" countries. And soon they will not be welcome in their adopted country, the only one they have ever known. There is a two-tier system here even for those who contribute to the society, who helped build it up. There is Emirati and there is not. Two families can live side-by-side, working at the same jobs at the same rate of pay and if you look closely you can see the discrepancies. Until recently, only one could own property. One will have a generous retirement. One will have free schooling for his children. One will have access to a marriage fund. And the other has to leave when the work is done.

Thoughts Get in the Way

2010-01-03T09:20:00.001-08:00

I get several good blog ideas every day, but rarely when I actually sit down to write.

In the last few hours alone I've thought about young people who live in the UAE, Indian food, the lifestyles of people here who work very hard and where I might like to vacation. I'm sure I've covered Indian food (and have I mentioned how much I like it?? How and I can't imagine tiring of it?? Oh, yeah. I have). And nobody but me cares where I'd like to go on vacation. So that leaves me to dwell on the other two topics.

In a sense, they're related. So let's see where this takes us.

Most people who come here do so for money. For a job. For a better way of life for themselves or their families. The lucky ones, I suppose, get to bring their families with them. They are certainly in the minority. Most of the people who live here are foreigners; about 85 percent. The idea for so many is to leave their small villages to come here and work very hard and live very frugally and send home as much money as they can. It is not an exaggeration to say that entire towns and villages in the subcontinent are supported by those who work in the Gulf.

We run lots of stories about this. How there are more than 300,000 Filipinos here legally, and another 200,000 maybe not-so-legally.

Sixty percent of them are skilled or professional workers, 25 percent are in the service sector and 15 percent are household workers. Our taxi driver and our housekeeper are Filipino.

Works from the subcontinent, though, outnumber all the others. And as bad as their jobs may seem to me, with bad pay and worse conditions, these jobs are better than what they can find at home. And this is something I try to keep in mind. I am far from my friends and family, much the same as they are. But I have Paul with me. And we have a small home, but we are not living six to a bedroom, or 24 to an apartment. The weather here is miserable nine months of the year, but we work in an air-conditioned office. We, too, are trying to save our salaries and send money home. But not like some of these workers.

It is not unusual for an immigrant worker to make around 2000-4000 ($544-1088) dirhams a month. And to send home all but 200 dirhams. We plan to stay for maybe 18 months. These workers plan to stay for many years. To stay long enough to put their children -- whom they rarely see -- through school. To feed their families. To build a home for when they must go back; one big enough for several generations. To provide dowries for their sisters. And when you consider that making $500 a month working six (or seven) days a week with one month off every two years is better than what you can do in your home country, you've got to wonder about the conditions in those home countries.

So this is its own land of opportunity. People come here for their own little slice of the economic pie, no matter how small. And we are all the same, but all different. I try to remember this every day, and I don't always succeed. I try to be grateful for this opportunity and for my good fortune.

It's probably not a bad way to start the year.

(To be continued)

It's Beginning to Look A Lot Like ...

2009-12-23T06:37:00.001-08:00

Happy Holidays

2009-12-23T06:35:00.000-08:00

Trying to Get Legal

2009-12-23T03:02:00.000-08:00

This is a country that has lots of rules, in terms of personal behavior, and few rules in terms of safety.

I cannot buy alcohol in a shop without a license and to get that license I need a letter of permission from my employer. The same holds true if I want to, say, get a driver's license. Or change jobs.

On the other hand, apparently I am free to let my child ride in the front seat of the car, standing up against the dashboard. Or to let said child hang half-way out the window or stand up through the sun roof. Forget about car seats; I've never seen one here.

The regulations for building safety here also are few and far between, although the government is making some headway there. In its efforts to be business-friendly, the country is quite worker unfriendly.

But I digress and that's a whole other post. This is about me trying to get some booze for the holidays.

A colleague told us during Thanksgiving that he'd found an easier path to getting an alcohol license. One still needed three photos, a copy of the visa and passport, an employment contract and a "letter of no objection" from one's employer. But instead of driving all the way out to Khalifa City, the license could be obtained at a Western-style grocery store.

This was good news. In early December I asked the newsroom manager for my letter and I figured I'd get around to the store sooner rather than later. She produced it within a few days and it was valid for a month.

Today I had a doctor's appointment nearby the grocery store and could run both errands in the same outing.

But. (And there's always a but here)

It turns out that the grocery no longer provides this service to its customers. I seem to remember hearing that at Christmas-time something happens. I'm not sure if the government steps in and says, "Whoa!" or if the owners of the market don't like the volume, or if it draws too much attention to them and they've been doing it sort of surreptitiously .... Regardless, on this day, they were not providing the licensing service. I needed to go out to Khalifa City police station, the clerk said, and handed me a form.

Khalifa City is a good 25k from my home, and I was a good 10k farther away at that moment. The clerk was encouraging, telling me it wouldn't take long to get the license this way -- same-day service, apparently, as opposed to going through the grocery which might take a week. And they were open till 3 p.m. she said, so I could get there in plenty of time

That, as you may have deduced, is the key part of this discussion.

So I manage to get a cab with few hassles. Good start. He is willing to take me to Khalifa City, and more importantly, willing to wait there for me while I get the license. Khalifa City is a suburb of Abu Dhabi. It's off the island, and is a collection of large villas that cater to Western expats. (Or, as my taxi driver none-too-subtly suggested, only white people live there). But it has few amenities, in terms of shops and restaurants and there are almost no taxis available. While we are in a residential neighborhood now, we are not really in the suburbs.

Anyway, the taxi driver says he'll wait for me, and suggests that I check all my documents and fill out the form before I arrive. As I'm doing so, I realize I don't have the necessary photos. Everything here requires photos, and I spent the better part of an afternoon yesterday trying to get them. It's not that it's difficult, it's that the shops that provide them close from 1-5 and I never seem to remember this.

Again we encounter the time-frame issue.

The taxi takes me past my house, I pick up the photos and some extra documentation, just in case, and off we go out to the boonies. Past the lovely Grand Mosque, past the new sports stadium and almost to the airport.

I get there, the taxi parks, I go in and find plenty of people sitting around doing nothing ... except for the person who handles the alcohol license. That person, clearly, has gone home. Or gone somewhere. Too bad, the Emirati behind the counter sings to me. Closed! I say, but I thought you were open until 3? Now it is only 1. I admit that I kind of beg. Are you sure? Really, I was told 3, I say. Come back in the morning he says. I ask him to check my documents; I don't want to come back a third time. He waves me off to another colleague, who only says to me that she doesn't handle the licenses, come back tomorrow. They both vaguely wave to a third colleague who is praying in the corner.

(Yes, I see the look on all your faces )

I wait for him to stop praying. You're not supposed to watch people pray. It's considered rude. So I sit down so as not to be so obvious. He sees me out of the corner of his eye when he gets up, but tries to avoid me. I call out to him and ask him to look at my documents. He clearly speaks very little English. He hands me a form. I tell him I already have the form. I ask him to look at my documents, please, to see if I have everything. He says come back tomorrow in the morning.

Dejected, I leave and the taxi driver is surprised to see me so quickly. Finished already he asks? No, I say. They're closed. At 1. He feels bad. Where to, he asks? Home, I say.

We chat a bit in the car. He tells me where I can buy alcohol without a license. He likes to drink a little, he says. Whiskey with his friends on his day off. He asks me how the license is supposed to work. I know that he cannot afford to buy alcohol in the hotel bars and restaurants. I don't need a license, necessarily, but it will be good to have. He gives me his phone number so I can call him in the morning, if I want to go back.

When I get home, I realize we have driven nearly 70km. In a town this size, that's a lot. The taxi bill is ridiculously high by local standards. Just under $30 with a tip. My daily trip to work costs $2.70, including a very large tip.

And I still have nothing to drink.

Listening For the Call

2009-12-20T00:22:00.000-08:00

The call to prayer is a fact of life here in Abu Dhabi. It is broadcast five times a day.

I like it, for the most part. It gives me an idea of the time (dawn, mid-day, afternoon, sunset, night) and it is a pleasant melody. It reminds me of a cantor chanting in a synagogue, oddly enough.

The call here seems different than in other Muslim countries I've visited. My recollections of Marrakech and Cairo are that the recordings are high-pitched and scratchy. Not at all pleasant.

Here, there is a mosque approximately every 300 meters -- at least one in every residential block -- so it is unusual to be out of range of the call. A person is not expected to cross a major street to get to the mosque. And if you have to go five times a day, it needs to be convenient.
(Let's leave aside for the time being the question of how anyone gets any work done ...)

At the newspaper, there is a mosque down the street, and a special mosque for workers of our company (not unusual). The speaker is right outside the entrance where I sit, so I hear it all the time. I'm often surprised to hear it, as in "Huh, it's already 7 p.m.?"

Our new apartment is about 150 meters from the mosque in our block of villas, and the sound bounces around our little patio. Our apartment is U-shaped, with the patio between the two sides. We keep the windows open this time of year, and the call to prayer is really the only thing we hear outside of the chirping birds and the hum of traffic from a nearby major road.

But I didn't expect to hear it quite so loudly in the morning. when we were at the hotel, we could hear it through the double-paned glass, and I only heard the noon-time call. Paul would know he had stayed up too late if he heard the morning call.

For the last few days, I have been woken by the call at dawn. It startles me, and incorporates itself into my dreams. Clearly, I'm not sleeping very well if it's waking me. I suppose it's a better way to be woken than having a cat poke me in the nose. It's slightly more subtle.

And I always know what time it is.

Moving House (As the British Say)

2009-12-16T06:17:00.000-08:00

Well.

No gmail access (and thus no blogger.com access) for two days combined with a move equals me being behind in blogging. At least, that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

We moved over the last of our stuff this morning before work. This on the heels of a huge Ikea run and a grocery run, in addition to more crap then we thought we owned. And we haven't bought anything since we've been here, so why was there so much stuff?

Let's recap: We signed for an apartment we said we didn't want. It took us three days after the lease began to get keys. ("I've lost them. No, I have them. No, I've lost them. We need to call the locksmith. Come another time.) The apartment flooded on the fourth day. We started to move on the fifth day, by which time the inch-plus of water covering the floor had been cleaned up. More moving yesterday. This morning we moved out of the hotel. Now we just have to unpack -- and there's nowhere to put anything.

The apartment is furnished, so I was able to get most of the things we needed in one long Ikea trip. But just because a place has furniture doesn't mean it's move-in ready. So I shopped for sheets and towels and blankets and pillows and dishes and silverware and glasses and pots. We have the bare necessities now. And bear in mind I have no storage, so the necessities really are bare.

Today I picked up the laundry -- all that new linen had to be washed, and we have a machine but no dryer -- and tonight we'll sleep there.

Phew.

The laundry episode was a bit amusing. When I dropped it off on Monday, it was all still in the package. The laundry guy didn't seem to mind. We were lucky to discover (OK, it's not luck -- we asked around) a laundry right behind the office, making it quite convenient. Our new place is in an entirely residential area, making it nice and quiet, but less convenient for getting things done.

So I drop off the laundry and I ask the guy does he want me to take everything out of the packages. No, he says, no problem. "No problem" is a mantra here. Nothing is ever a problem (especially, I imagine, if you have a lot of dirhams). We count the things: 6 pillow cases, four sheets, a comforter cover, four bath towels, four hand towels. Done.

He asks my name. I say Leah. He says two days. I say Wednesday? He looks at the calendar and says yes. I say do I need a receipt? Some sort of paper? No problem, he says. I say you'll remember me? Yes, he says. No problem.

I returned today, and found the laundry, like so many small shops, is closed from 1-4. Sometimes even until 5. My third trip out side, I discover he's finally open. I walk in. He says Leah! I say hello. He says six pillow cases, four sheets, eight towels and goes in search of something under a table. Out he comes with my laundry, nicely packed and stacked in a re-usable shopping bag.

I'm pleased it's all there. I'm pleased he remembered me. I'm surprised, too. But sort of not. This often seems to be the way things work here. Mysteriously.

We hadn't discussed price yet. Fifty-two dirhams he says to me. I fork it over. All my linens washed, dried and ironed for $14.

Aggression and Testosterone

2009-12-12T07:23:00.000-08:00

Anyone who knows me knows that I like men. I've worked in male-dominated departments for years with few incidents. I don't think I've ever been accused of being a feminist man-hater.

Having said all that, however, I've come to find myself quite ill at ease in this male-dominated society I now live in.

I am surrounded by men and more than that, I am part of a society that seems to have no place for women. And certainly not Western women.

There is an aggression here that is unsubtle. You see it on the roads, and in the sheer numbers of men out on the streets. But I don't fear for my safety; I fear for my visibility and my sense of self.

In this society, I don't really exist. And that's weird. And rather than inspiring me to step up, it has made me shrink back. Serious business deals aren't done with women. The real estate agent addresses Paul and I'm just in the back seat of the car, along for the ride.

Women here wear the abaya for religious and cultural reasons. It protects them from the prying eyes of men who are not related to them. And I actually get that. But it also puts them in the background. They are shadows that fill in the margins around the men.

And so I struggle to find my place among all of this.

Junk Mail -- Any Mail Will Do

2009-12-07T05:04:00.000-08:00

I've been looking fairly compulsively at my mailbox at work lately. And I know this is silly, because who would send me mail?

But it's not entirely , because there is no national postal system here, in the way that people in most other developed countries think of it. Yes, you can send mail to and from the UAE, but where it ends up ... depends on how you address it. Because there is no street address system here.

For example, I live in the Sahara Residence 9 on Electra St. If you send mail to me at that address, there's a good chance I would get it. And my laundry, Atlas Cleaners, lists its address as: Behind the Green House Building on Najda. If you don't know where the Green House Building is, you're out of luck. (And behind is rather relative -- there is a two-sided alley "behind" the Green House Building)

My company has a PO Box for mail, and so everyone has everything sent to that address. And while the system seems odd to me, it also seems to work. I actually received mail addressed to Leah and Paul, The National, Abu Dhabi, UAE.

And that was from my bank.

I don't have an address for our new apartment. The broad description on the contract is Street 19, Flat No. 11, Al Muroor. When I go to sign up for Internet service, I will also tell them the sector and plot number -- in the hopes they will find me.

There are rumors that a new mail system is forthcoming. But it won't be based on addresses, it will be be based on GPS coordinates. That should be interesting; one wrong number and your mail ends up in Namibia.

This is not to suggest, either, that the mail works well going out. Stamps seem available only at the post office, and I have seen just one of those. A colleague tells me they are available at certain hotels as well -- but not mine. There also are very few post boxes. I tried to mail a letter from work, but was told there was no option for that. Which is funny, because you would think if mail comes in, at some point it goes out. But nevermind.

We discovered when we finally were able to get a stamp and mail a letter that it takes three weeks to get the U.S.

Maybe they use carrier falcons.

(And for those of you who would like to send us real, actual mail, this is how best to find us: The National/Abu Dhabi Media Company/PO Box 111434/ Abu Dhabi, United Arab Emirates)

Thanksgiving, Part II

2009-11-25T14:01:00.000-08:00

I did it! And it was awesome!!

I actually pulled off a Thanksgiving dinner with all the trimmings (except pumpkin pie -- my fave) for six people.

And it was all thanks to my Mom's super suggestions and advice, and Paul's invaluable help. I just don't get how all you Thanksgiving makers make all those dishes simultaneously. I ran out of hands a few times. Paul jumped in to make the mashed potatoes while I finished up the gravy, green beans and stuffing (and entertained and early-arriving guest).

Phew.

One bottle of Champagne, four bottles of red wine, one 12-pound turkey, seven potatoes .... you get the drift ... and one meal with five contented companions. We were five Yanks and a Brit, and we talked some shop -- the one thing we all have in common -- and a little about our adopted country and what the holiday was about. But it was just nice to do a dinner in a home. A dinner party. A special dinner party.

You don't really need the details though, as you're all about to embark on your own. So as I wish you all the best for a wonderful holiday, I will leave you with this anecdote.

I'm cooking the turkey, we're about halfway into the time. I hear a switch click and about five minutes later realize that not only was my water not boiling, but the turkey had stopped bubbling.

I thought this was weird. Who would guess that you could turn off the main gas line from outside the kitchen. In fact, from a switch that is (and was) right next to the door to the bathroom. Which has no light switch inside.

Well, you can.

I finally made the connection between the switch and the fact the oven turned off -- and then had a bear of a time (and a bit of a panic attack) trying to get the oven back on. I was only halfway through cooking!! What would I do with a half-cooked turkey??

Our hostess, who might have known what to do (but really, I don't think so), was sound asleep. I wasn't about to wake her. We had already invaded her apartment to make the dinner.

Now this wasn't the first issue with the oven. The night before, on the advice of my mother, I tested the oven to see if cooking times were accurate, if it had any weirdness, and it did. In fact, the night before I was planning to make a cake to test the oven. When I set the oven, it never got hot. Again, a dilemma. And again, my hostess was not available.

It turns out with this particular oven, a well-regarded brand (Siemens), you must leave the oven door open for three minutes so that the pilot light can catch properly. Never heard that one before. I eventually figured it out, the cake was fine (it cooked on the fast side), and I had an idea of how the oven was running.

So with the turkey, I made sure to leave the door open at the start. But now, I had no gas. The switch was on again, but that made no difference. Finally, we found the door to the gas panel, and there were some convoluted directions. It seems that we could restart the gas by turning various nozzles and switches and get it started again. The diagram explaining all this bore no resemblance to what we actually did.

After a 15-minute delay, we managed to turn the oven back on. Phew.

That was the only major mishap (OK, Paul, who was taking the turkey out of the oven -- which was by now two inches deep in boiling turkey juice -- almost dropped it when the oven rack slipped and he had only tea towels to hold on to the roasting pan. And I dropped the leftover cake on its head on my way home.)

But considering I had a handful of pots and utensils not quite meant to do what we needed them to do (too small, too big, too shallow, too deep) the whole thing turned better than I could have hoped.

Hurrah!!

(check this link in the next day or so to see photos)

Thanksgiving, Part I

2009-11-24T05:59:00.000-08:00

As many of you may have read on Paul's blog, I decided to make a Thanksgiving dinner for a handful of people.

(We're doing it on Wednesday, because we're both off that day. When you do Thanksgiving a. abroad and b. in the newspaper business, you have it as close to the day as you can with the most people available.)

For most of you, this is not terribly remarkable. But it's my first turkey. And Thanksgiving is absolutely my most favorite holiday. I find it sad that I have missed Thanksgiving at home oh, about 9 of the last 12 years. My friends in Paris put together amazing Thanksgiving dinners, and I think my all-time favorite was the rotisserie turkey we got one year. But ultimately, I like my Mom's best. Always have, always will.

And so, in a bit of a panic, I called her the other day to let her know the plan. She was very calm and encouraging. I really appreciated that last part. I was pretty pleased that we managed to find all the necessary things for the meal, but frankly, I've always stuck to the cranberry relish and pumpkin pie as my contributions. I don't know the first thing about turkey, gravy or stuffing.

After studying recipes on the web and talking to my mom (her advice: follow the directions on the turkey, don't forget to clean out the packages that are inside and don't stuff the turkey your first time) I think I can do it.

Right now, I've just finished prepping the gravy and it smells so good! It makes me really enthusiastic for the rest of the meal.

I'll leave that on the stove for a few hours, and afterward, I'm heading to a friend's house to test her oven. It's beautiful and brand new, but I don't think she's used it for anything other than toast. So i'm going to bake a chocolate cake (couldn't find brownie mix) just to make sure it's all good.

I'm so excited!!

I Love to Say Vindaloo

2009-11-20T08:57:00.000-08:00

I've been making my way through the menu at the Indian restaurant across the street.

Paul and I share one night off, and we go out. We've been to Nihal three times so far, and are planning to go until we get tired of it or until we move, whichever comes first.

So far, for main courses, I've stuck to the lamb: Masala, Korma, Vindaloo, Roganjosh. (And now you're thinking well, that's four and she's only been three times. Paul got lamb once, too!)

I like the vindaloo quite a bit and it has potatoes in it. The rojanjosh has thinner sauce, but better quality lamb. The Korma is more of a traditional curry (or what I think of when I think of curry). I swear there was coconut milk in it, but all the recipes I've seen say the meat is marinated in yogurt and that's what makes it so creamy. In any case, the meat in the Korma was of a really low quality. It was tasty, but gristly and chewy. I don't know if that was unusual, or if the different sauces are designed to mask the qualities of the meat.

The restaurant also serves Chinese food, and what they call Continental food. I'd like to try the Chinese -- the Indians here have a decent reputation for Chinese -- but not at the expense of my once-weekly Indian. And Continental, it turns out, just means fish and chips.

Paul has mostly stuck to chicken. Last time he got the Chicken Tikka. He likes curry, and Indian food, almost as much as I do. But he's allergic to something in the curry, so ordering for him is tricky. By process of elimination, we think he is allergic to cayenne pepper. So if he asks for his curry not spicy, he doesn't usually have a problem (or hasn't so far).

We've also had the lentil soup, the spinach soup, the vegetable samosas and naan. Oh, how I love naan. And we haven't even tried the stuffed naan yet. We always end up with too much food, but that's fine by me: It mealeftovers for work the next day. I'm still looking for a different appetizer. The samosas are made with a biscuit-like crust, and are pretty heavy (considering that inside the biscuit is yellow lentils and maybe peas?) Dinner for two of us is never more than $20, and it's only that expensive because we're trying to sample different things.

But my absolute favorite part of the meal is the papadam. Oh how I love papadam! They are thin, crisp wafers/bread made of lentil flour. I think they should sell them in the store or a bakery or somewhere. I'm pretty sure they're fried, so that rules out making them at home. (Speaking of Indian food at home: Have you all tried the Indian Roti that Costco sells? Those are easy to make at home and so yummy!)

I think Trader Joe's -- or maybe it was the Monoprix in France -- had mini papadams in the chips aisle. But they were flavored, and they didn't really taste like real papadam. I think they have a pretty short shelf life, like they get soggy if they aren't eaten right away.

So I haven't yet figured out how to get more papadam more frequently. On my way into work, I see a shop sign that suggests the shop sells papapdam, but the store is always shuttered.

As to when I'll get tired of Indian food? I'm pretty sure we'll move first.

Looking for a Place to Call Home

2009-11-16T10:00:00.000-08:00

House hunting is something I was actually looking forward to. It's always a treat, I think, to see how other societies live. And the chance to stock another household -- especially with inexpensive furnishings -- was appealing to me. I would get to nest all over again.

I had heard that the housing market in Abu Dhabi was tight and that affordable places were practically non-existent. Having had a nightmare of a search in Hong Kong, I was expecting this. What I didn't expect was the difficulty in actually seeing places here in Abu Dhabi.

There are three ways to find an apartment, from what I can tell: word of mouth, online listings or an agent. But the agent doesn't work quite the way you'd expect. An agent will only show you properties he (or she) represents. So if I see a place online that looks appealing, I have to contact the particular agency that handles it. And then the problems start. Bait and switch is definitely an issue here. It seems that whatever apartment you see an ad for has just been rented. But there's another one that's almost as good ...

Also, I'm not comfortable in this society -- whether I have reason to be or not -- going to viewings alone with a man. This means I have to drag Paul along, whereas in the US or even France I would simply find a place I liked and then bring him in at the end. Much easier.

I'm not sure either of us has mentioned this yet, but there are no proper addresses here in Abu Dhabi. You identify where you live by the closest known landmark. It's not unusual for someone to give you party directions that read like this: Walk behind the White Furniture building until you see a pile of dirt. Go around the dirt to a pathway on the left. Cross the street and go over the fence. The house you want is on your right.

So, if I find a place online that I like, I have to find it. This can't be done by taxi, really. I have to get the owner or the agent to pick me up and take me to the apartment. Again, a very specific commitment that both of us must make.

I have seen eight apartments. All but one were in villas and several were of new construction. The construction standards here appear shoddy. I think because there is a lot of pressure to get things up., the finishing touches are often missing. Frankly, it feels like the fancy vacation homes in Mexico. Almost complete but not quite. (Nice ironwork on the stairways, but the steps aren't edged properly, for example).

The first two places were spacious. They had really high ceilings and roomy rooms. But they were too far away, just off Abu Dhabi island in a place called Between Two Bridges. These places would require a car. They were also a little pricey. Not by local standards but by my budget standards. (We are here, after all, to try to save a little money.)

(An aside: apartments are paid for by the year. Yes. One check. For the whole year. Fortunately, the company will take the apartment and then take the rent out of our paychecks. Phew. Imagine trying to come up with $25K in advance??)

Next we saw an apartment owned by the company. We had hoped to get one of these, but the only one(s) available were two bedrooms and too expensive. I noticed when we looked at that apartment that one of the bedrooms had a lock on it. That's because people here tend to share apartments. Sometimes whole villas. One of the options we (briefly) considered was renting a room in a villa with a colleague. He is here and his wife is back in England. The other tenant was moving to Dubai. I never had much luck with roommates when I was younger. I'm having trouble imagining it at this stage of my life. But it's quite common here -- and was moreso, when apartments were scarce.

We heard a tale the other night of four employees -- photographers, perhaps? -- who had a four-bedroom villa with a small building in the back. They made an arrangement with a Filipina woman to stay there for free, and in return she cooks for them. Sounds too much like a fraternity house.

But I digress.

The upside of the company apartment was its proximity -- 10 minute walk -- to the office. The downside was its location in a fairly undeveloped neighborhood filled with furniture makers and dirt roads. And the price.

So I went back online and started to make more inquiries. I found a place that, until today, had been a front-runner. It was offered by the landlord (thus no agents fee) and it was within walking distance (100 meters or so) of the office. It was in a nice neighborhood and had fancy cars in the garage, so probably the neighbors were fine. So what, you ask, was wrong with it? Well, it was billed as furnished. This translated into "whatever the last tenant left behind." It was all decorated. Each room had walls painted in brilliant colors: hot pink, turqoise and canary yellow. But still, it was really close to work.

The next place we saw was a bait-and-switch. It turns out the apartment that was advertised was still occupied, but we didn't know that until we arrived. It was in a great residential neighborhood, a good start. So the landlord took us up three flights of stairs to the top of the villa. It was a nearly-new apartment, with tall ceilings and big rooms. It also had a great wraparound rooftop terrace. And a price tag 40,000 dirhams (nearly $11,000) higher than the apartment that was advertised.
Too bad for us. By the time we saw the originally advertised place, we'd been ruined by the lovely spacious one.

It didn't help that the other one was ground floor, with low ceilings, and bad carpet and a hole-in-the-wall kitchen. The landlord said it would all be cleaned up, and that he'd pull out the carpet (which covered granite floors). But I don't think so.

On to another set of apartments and another agent. Another aside here -- we have had dealings with agents and landlords from Saudi Arabia, Jordan, India and Syria. Sort of sums up the UAE.
The last two apartments: The first was in a nice neighborhood, and very close to a good mall (good mall = good grocery store). It also was close enough to a big road that taxis wouldn't be a problem. The apartment was relatively new, but badly built. It was spacious, on the second floor of a villa, and had big windows. We liked it well enough. Certainly more than anything else we'd seen.

Then, on to the next one. Here's where there's a little more trickiness. I thought we were going to see three apartments, but after seeing the second one, it turns out the third one -- the one I had originally expressed interest in -- was rented. Like magic. Things like that seem to happen here.

But here we are at the last apartment, and it may truly be the last one. We liked it. It's pretty close to work, although not really walking distance unless the weather is really comfortable. It's very tiny, but is indeed a one-bedroom. The kitchen is small -- most of the kitchens here are not very impressive -- and is part of the living room. But the place is furnished, and has wardrobes and the furniture isn't awful and if I want new furniture, the landlord will take away the old. And there was a washing machine! And a little patio out front! So this is where we stand.

Do we take the tiny but cute place? The price is right, and so is the location. But is there a better place out there?

We don't have to move for another month, but we also don't want to get caught short. And Paul is loathe to be dragged to anymore places once he's found one he finds acceptable. Having looked at all the online ads, I know that there aren't a lot of options in the price range we're looking at. I know there are a lot of really awful places out there, and we've been pretty lucky so far.

I'm used to knowing instantly when I've found the right apartment or home, and that was not the case today. But it came close.

We'll post pictures when we finally make a decision.

Abu Dhabi Photos

2009-11-13T02:17:00.000-08:00

Finally got around to taking -- and posting -- some photos.

As you'll find out, there's not a whole lot to see here. But maybe this will give you a little taste.

The Feeling of Fall in the Air

2009-11-12T04:21:00.001-08:00

The weather has cooled here, finally breaking 90 degrees. It's all the nicer because the humidity right now is under 50 percent and there's a breeze. It's actually pleasant.
As much as I hated going out when I first arrived, I now want to spend as much time outside as possible. I went to the beach on Tuesday, and it was just a really nice day. The beach, unfortunately, isn't open yet; it's still under construction. People nearby told me it would open Nov. 16, so I'm looking forward to that. Instead, I sat on a really nice outdoor deck and had some ice cream and read my book. I was a little overdressed for the beach. You can't very well stand on the street in shorts and a tank top and hail a cab. So i had on linen pants and a tank and a button down shirt covering it, and packed beach clothes in a tote.
But it's one thing to sit on the ladies and family beach in a tank top, and another to do so on a deck. So there I sat, all bundled up.
This isn't unusual for me.
I wear long sleeves almost every day, and often have two shirts on for better coverage, so I've been looking forward to the cooling trend. As hot as I feel when I'm outside, I try to look at the women in full abayas -- black ones -- and take comfort that I'm not as covered up as they are.
We have a dress code of sorts at work. The idea is to dress modestly, so as not to offend Muslim sensibilities. That means sleeves to the elbow for women and skirts below the knees. Because the office is so cold, I just go ahead with the long sleeves and wear pants. After a while I layer on sweaters and scarfs as needed. What I'd really like on weekends -- when it's particularly cold in the office -- is my Ugg boots. But I can't imagine wearing them on the street.
People say it will be comfortable like this until March, at least.
That would be amazing.

Groceries!

2009-11-11T06:25:00.000-08:00

Going to the grocery store here is a treat. There are several little groceries on almost every street -- probably four small stores within a few steps of our hotel -- and I haven't spent much time in them. I would imagine they're like a corner grocery in any big city.

But the big groceries, the ones in the shopping malls, are pretty amazing. They are what the Europeans call Hypermarkets, with groceries and dry goods and clothes and electronics. And the grocery sections have a vast selection. The yogurt aisle will rival any I saw in France. (And in France, a yogurt aisle is like a U.S. water aisle)

The cost of living here is high only because the cost of housing is high. Food is not a major expense, unless you opt for one the many fancy restaurants in the hotels. But that is the case in almost any city.

I do our weekly shopping on Wednesday, usually. It's the day off I share with Paul. I like it when he goes with me, because it's easier to handle a week's worth of groceries with two people and no car of our own. But he shops like a guy: He goes in, gets what's on my list, and gets out. I like to look at all the amazing things. That's how I find all the new treats I bring him, like teriyaki flavored rice crackers. So while I appreciate his help, I think I'll probably go on my own next time.

Because Abu Dhabi is an expatriate city, there are goods from all over. In the Lulu Hypermarket, located in the Al Wahda Mall, the array of vegetables, for example, is incredible. You can get four kinds of eggplant and three kinds of pomegranates and a host of things I couldn't identify if my life depended on it. I like that each item has, under the price, the country of origin. I don't know what makes Tunisian pomegranates half the price of Indian ones, though. I can figure out why the perfect tomatoes from Holland are so much more expensive than the imperfect ones from Yemen. But I don't know that they taste better. And for the life of me, I don't know why lettuce is so astonishingly expensive.

Often, in foreign shops where you can get products from home, you pay for the privilege. This isn't usually the case here. A can of soda is 27 cents. You can get cereal and cake mix and Nestle's Quik and Peter Pan peanut butter at about the same price it costs in the U.S. (or less, in the case of cereal). French-branded yogurt is more expensive than local (which is 27 cents for about six ounces). And local cheese is cheaper than imported cheese. But it's still cheaper than at home. I paid about $11 a kilo ($5 a pound) for sliced Dutch cheese. But Feta cheese from Saudi Arabia is 11 dirhams (about $3) a kilo.

Prepared food is astonishingly cheap. I can get a small container of hummous or labneh or cut-up fruit or olives for about $1. A six-pack of fresh pita bread is 27 cents. So there is definitely an incentive to bring my lunch to work instead of ordering out.

What I'm not used to is doing the shopping for a full week, and not cooking. We're still in the hotel, and while there is a full kitchen, there is no stocked pantry. So cooking is often more trouble than it's worth. (And I find I'm missing key things, like a frying pan or a carrot peeler.)

So it's too bad I don't have the outdoor markets I had in Paris, but I have something different here. Next, I hope to find the equivalent of a souk with spices and teas. Abu Dhabi is so good about bringing the world here, I just wish I could find more of the UAE in Abu Dhabi.

Drive Me Crazy*

2009-11-11T06:23:00.000-08:00

We have decided not to get a car here in Abu Dhabi. At first, it was for practical reasons. Why get a car when taxis are (supposedly) readily available and quite affordable? It seemed like short-term, it wasn't a good use of resources.

But now, the reason we won't get a car is the traffic.

Imagine an entire city populated by 16-year-old boys who have just received their licenses and are driving SUVs. Now you can begin to picture Abu Dhabi. Drivers give no quarter. They are extremely aggressive. The goal is to be the first one to the next light. And then there's the honking. You honk if the person in front of you stops too quickly (nevermind that you are the one tailgating). You honk if someone doesn't go *before* the light changes. You honk if you even suspect someone might want to get into your lane. Sometimes, there is no obvious reason for the honking.

Presumably all the drivers here have driven in their home countries. Presumably, too, the rules of the road are similar. Yet most other countries do not have the reputation for dangerous roads that the UAE has.

The blocks here are very long, and there is often no way to cross except at the light. This makes jaywalking desirable, and terribly dangerous. To thwart jaywalkers, the traffic authority has placed wrought iron barriers with pointy tops along the medians, to keep people from crossing the median on foot. But in the places where one is allowed to cross freely, there are always people darting across the road. And I swear drivers speed up when they see pedestrians, just so they can swerve and honk. It's crazy. And as traffic backs up, it is common for pedestrians to try to cross between cars. Most of the major streets are four lanes on each side, so it's kind of tricky to cross, even when the cars are stopped.

And because the blocks are long, the only way to get to the other side is to make a U-turn. U-turns are very big here. And it makes crossing against the light especially dangerous. So when crossing, you have to look out for the right-hand turners as well as the U-turners. The crossing light, in theory, saves you from the U-turn drivers. But you're on your own for the right-hand turners.

There are merge lanes on the right side of the road where the side streets intersect. In most of Europe, the traffic on the right has the right of way. That never happens here. It is not unusual for two cars to try to turn right at the same time. And then, for some inexplicable reason, they stop dead. Drivers don't wait until the way is clear, and they don't go fast enough to get out ahead of the oncoming cars. On the other hand, you will never see an oncoming car slow to let the merging car in. He will always speed up.

Paul says it's clear the taxi drivers do not own their cars, because they abuse the transmissions by going into overdrive between lights *my brother-in-law Alan says the proper term is "kickdown."

And the other reason not to have a car is parking. That is truly something to see. There are parking areas between the main streets and behind the buildings and shops. Cars park diagonally, as in a normal lot. But cars also parallel park in the middle, between the two diagonal lanes. And sometimes there is a double line of parallel parked cars, making passing quite difficult. This does not keep people from using the parking lots as streets, either.

The whole thing makes driving in Italy, or New York City, or even Hong Kong, look like child's play.

Mmmmm, French Fries

2009-10-31T08:22:00.001-07:00

I splurged on dinner tonight.

Usually, I try to make something to bring in to work, but I'm not often successful. Paul eats sandwiches, but the lunch meat here is a bit, uh, processed for me. The turkey is smoked and of course there's no ham. In the lobby of our office building is a Gloria Jean's coffee kiosk. They also sell salads and I get one about every other day. The lettuce in the grocery is very sad looking, and I figure it's a good way to get vegetables with some regularity. So that takes care of lunch, but by dinner time I'm hungry again and have usually gone through my supply of "healthy" snacks: a yogurt or some grapes or some pretzels.

Everyone knows that newspaper editors eat badly at work -- it's the nature of the beast. When you work from 2-10 -- spanning lunch and dinner without a break -- your options are few.

Here at the paper someone often will place a take-out order, and Chinese seems to be especially popular. This surprises me. In a typical week I've seen people here order Chinese, Thai and Vietnamese. I can't understand why they're skipping all the good stuff! I was very happy last week when someone opted for Indian at my not-so-subtle suggestion: "Is there a good Indian place around here?"

Tonight I went to the tiny falafel shop about a hundred yards away. It has one tiny table and a guy behind the counter. There are schwarma spits in an adjacent window. It's a zillion degrees in the little place, and the kitchen is in the storefront next door. The counter guy opens a little pass door to communicate with them. He puts a bowl in and they put stuff in the bowl.

I'd been there before, and there was a bit of deja vu to Hong Kong when I looked at the menu. Seventeen items on the English side and 34 on the Arabic side. I've seen enough middle eastern food to know that "not for you" is probably not gonna be a problem. And I wonder what those extras are. (It can't be the chicken livers, which I swear I will get one time, because those are on the English menu).

I ordered an Arabic mix falafel. The regular falafel is mashed into a split pita, with some tahini and a bit of cucumber/tomato mix. It costs 3 dirhams, or 82 cents. Mine was much fancier and costs a whopping 9 dirhams -- $2.45. To make an Arabic mix falafel, you use half a pita, smash in some falafel, put on some eggplant slices, four french fries, the tahini and cucumber and what looks like coleslaw. Then you wrap the whole thing in some sort of thin Arabic bread like a burrito and put it on the panini grill so it melds together.

Back to the french fries, though. I love french fries. Especially French ones but also the kind I get at the mid-east style kabob places in Paris. I don't know why they're so good -- I know they aren't cooked in bacon grease, which isn't halal. But why would they be so much better than U.S. french fries? Anyway, french fries. I wanted some. So I asked the guy behind the counter, who really doesn't speak English, for french fries. Do you have french fries I said. Soda, he asked? French fries, I said. Falafel he asked? French fries. Then another guy popped his head in and said French! to the guy behind the counter, who still didn't get it. I gave up. I saw the guy put them on my sandwich, so I'm pretty sure they have them. If they were on the menu list (or at least the English menu list) I could point to them. But for now, no french fries.

Instead, the guy picked up a Kleenex, used it to grab a falafel ball, and handed it to me while I waited. It was warm and tasty. I appreciated the gesture.

And now I'm trying to find out how to say "french fries" in Arabic.

All of Life is Logistics

2009-10-29T07:15:00.001-07:00

It took me 40 minutes to get to work today, and I live just 5 kilometers (3.1 miles) from the office: 20 minutes to get a taxi and 20 minutes more to negotiate through traffic.

We are trying to decide where to live, and this certainly is a factor.
On Tuesday evening, I went to look at two different villas -- my first foray into house hunting. They both were large and appealing and relatively affordable, traits I'm led to believe are rare here. But they were also just off the island of Abu Dhabi, in an area imaginatively called "Between the Bridges." Between the bridges also means "pretty darn far from anything."

What makes that particular area appealing for most expatriates is its residential feeling. The neighborhoods are desert suburbs, with three-story villas lining each brand-new road. But you have to have a car to live here, and that's something Paul and I agree on: Neither of us wants to drive in this city or even in this country.

Every day is like Mr Toad's Wild Ride, and I can't figure out why people are such bad drivers here. Traffic-related deaths in the UAE are behind only Afghanistan and Iraq, and alongside Niger and Angola. That is, it is probably the most-developed country with the worst traffic accidents.

Living in the "suburbs" can make for a nice quality of life, but as in California, if you spend all your time on the road, then that quality is already diminished. The agent said we could arrange for a regular driver to take us to work, but what about groceries and errands? Even walking a few hundred meters (which I find to be a conservative guess) is not an option in this heat.

We have also ruled out Dubai. The neighboring emirate has a lot going for it. It has a thriving nightlife and lots of activities. Its beaches are lovely and the rents are much more affordable. But it's a 90-minute drive away. No dice.

So I'm starting my search. I don't know exactly what I'm looking for, only what I'm not. I would like to be near work and near a taxi stand. I would like a clean neighborhood without too much traffic. I would love a nearby park. An ocean view is probably out of my price range, but I did see an ad that looked too good to be true: 1 bedroom, 900 sq feet, with a sea view, near a good mall and affordable. I can only guess what's wrong with it. I'll surely call and see.

I had thought we had plenty of time to look since our temporary housing (a one-bedroom hotel room of about 650 sq feet) is good for two months. But others have suggested it will take nearly a month to do the paperwork, and if getting a bank account has been any indication (yes, non sequitur) they are all right. So I've looked a bit online, and made some notes. Colleagues are passing along tips about neighborhoods ad agents.

Let the search begin.

Two Weeks In ...

2009-10-28T05:44:00.001-07:00

So I'm here in the middle of the desert, trying to get a handle on this place. A poor man's Las Vegas? Not really, because we're sitting on a ton of oil. A less-polished Las Vegas? In many ways yes, although the hotels here are gorgeous and the quality of the restaurants there is good. There is definitely not the same aspect of excess and the sin part of it isn't as obvious. We who drink alcohol, for example, are hidden away in the Westernized hotels or private homes. The conspicuous consumption exists; but it's hidden away behind tall walls and black abayas.

It is difficult to describe a city that is at once both cosmopolitan and nearly third world. There are lovely buildings and gardens, there is a sense of business in the air. But there are also men -- workers -- loitering everywhere, laying on the grass, trying to find some shade. Internet access is expensive and difficult to get. The police are well-hidden in a police state.

There is no overt censorship, for example, but self-censorship works nearly as well. The concept of writing a blog while working for the paper is a touchy one. I know we are not supposed to have them without prior approval. Because I am read almost entirely by close friends and family, whose numbers likely do not reach triple digits, I am continuing to post. If I get banned, I'll simply send out mass e-mails to those who are interested. But in the meanwhile, I am careful about what I write and I do not post from work.

I don't love it here; but I don't hate it either. After two weeks -- admittedly a very short time -- I'm at best ambivalent. I like my job and I like the people I work with. I'm keen to earn a good salary. But I feel constrained by the climate and the culture. I dress more modestly than I ever have, yet I'm constantly aware of being stared at. It isn't just warm here, it's hot. Still-in-the-90s hot. Hot as in "I'll just stay inside until it's time to go to work, thank you" hot. As a result, I'm bored. No Internet at home yet (we need residence visas); bad cable; almost caught up on books, which I am rationing. On workdays, it's less of an issue. I work 2-10 and I sleep late. The idea of even venturing a few blocks to try to find a yoga class is daunting. It's not easy to walk here or to drive here. Cabs are cheap, but not always plentiful (like around prayer time; many cabs are driven by devout Pakistanis). Nothing quite like standing in the hot sun with long sleeves or a sweater hoping to catch a taxi so i can go somewhere to walk.

I haven't seen the gulf/sea/bay -- whatever it is -- in daylight hours. It's been too hot to go anywhere and take pictures. We have had some lovely night-time adventures. We went for drinks last week at The Brauhaus, a German (obviously) bar in the luxury Beach Rotana hotel that was celebrating Oktoberfest. We went with colleagues and sat on the outdoor patio. There was a light breeze which mad the 80-plus degree temperatures feel quite pleasant. Paul remarked that it felt like a Club Med: Lots of well-to-do foreigners in an exotic location. I believe the feeling passed fairly quickly.

We had a fabulous meal at the same hotel, in a restaurant called Finz that stood on stilts in the water. We had a table overlooking the sand and water, and the food was very good. We started with rolls shaped like starfish and made with seaweed, and more made with squid ink and sea salt. They came with three dips: butter, crab butter and seaweed-labnah. (And speaking of butter, we had a mustard-butter mix at The Brauhaus that was really interesting).

My rambling point, and I do have one, is that I am neither content nor discontent here. But I do feel a bit in exile. I suppose that's to be expected. "They" say it takes a year to get comfortable. A year!! And in the recesses of my bad memory, I forget how I struggled to adapt in Paris, which now seems like a second home. (And my mother points out I struggled to adapt in Santa Barbara and Missouri ...) The trick is to find our niche here. To make a home as best we can and to work around the tricky things rather than trying to fight through them.

Wish us luck.

Tea Time

2009-10-23T05:07:00.000-07:00

There are times in my life when I feel particularly American. In France, I felt most American when confronted with a lot of nationalism. Here, just now, I feel it keenly in the office and in the shops. The caste system of India apparently has migrated to Abu Dhabi with the Indians, and I'm not comfortable with it.
Perhaps this has to do with my own social standing -- very solidly middle class.
At work, we have "tea boys" who are, in fact, men. They wear uniforms and silently move among us, offering tea or coffee served just the way we like it. Others on my desk seem quite pleased at this service. The idea is you pay a sort of gratuity monthly (50 dirham per month, about $14, is recommended) and then when you get to your desk in the afternoon your hot beverage arrives just as you like it. I don't drink coffee or tea and so I'm at a loss as to what to do here. But it's more than that. I don't like being waited on like this. One of the men came over to me the other day, after I'd been studiously avoiding him several days. He asked "would you like water, madam?" I did, in fact, want water -- I had been outside longer than usual and was very hot.
But it's no chore for me to get up, walk 30 paces and get it myself out of the machine. So I didn't know what to do. I said OK, yes, thank you. And he said quietly "two dirham." Now water from the machine costs 1 dirham (27 cents), so I guess the two dirham (the plural of dirham is ... dirham) includes the gratuity. I handed him a five dirham note. He brought my water, and then some time later, came back with four dirham. Since we had said two, I wasn't clear what I was supposed to do. I think I should have said please keep the rest of it for later in the week. That, I suppose, would have been the proper thing. But I got nervous. Already uncomfortable with the entire arrangement, and not wanting to make a big deal out of this (and yes, I realize it already was too late) I just waved him away generically with the change. And all of this is over 27 cents. But it's more than that. It's the servant aspect of things. While there have been many, many times in my newspaper career where I haven't had time to get up for the bathroom, much less for a bottle of water, this is not one of them. It's different, though, when a friend is already going to the machine and picks up a soda for you, too. I don't know why, it just is.
And then it extends to the grocery store as well. Our first trip to the grocery store, the boy (and he was a boy) grabbed our shopping cart and pushed it across a major street and down the block to our apartment. Yesterday, the boy bagged my groceries and I remembered reading that I was supposed to tip him, but I couldn't remember how much. I asked the cashier about home delivery for groceries -- things like water and other beverages are too heavy to lug, even if it weren't 90 degrees out. She told me they didn't have that, but that the boy could take the water to my home. I had taken a cab to the store; this certainly wouldn't work. I saw later, while waiting for the taxi, that other people had the grocery boys wheel their carts to the cab stand, wait in line with them, and put the groceries -- water and all -- into the trunk. For a mere five dirham.
I understand that these guys are trying to eke out a living. They wouldn't be here doing what they do if they had better options, would they? What I don't know is how formal their relationships are with the newspaper, or at the grocery. Have they been hired? (And yesterday, one of them came by with an envelope that said: "The tea boy is going on vacation for two months. Donations accepted.") Did they just show up, because this sort of thing is common in this part of the world? I don't know. There is nothing like this, in the States.
I don't think I'll get used to this anytime soon, and I'm sure it's the American in me.

Stay Tuned

2009-10-19T02:46:00.000-07:00

We're having some Internet issues here. Nothing major -- it's just that we don't have any. There is the cyber-cafe in our hotel, but no access in our apartment.

Today I went out to the Etisalat compound -- the Emirates' official telecom company -- to try to sign up for service. I had a letter from the hotel allowing me to have the Internet access in my place, but that didn't satisfy the Etisalat people. They want a permanent residency visa, and we don't have those yet. Moreover we don't expect them for a month.

So for now I am exploring alternatives. There seems to a way we can get a mobile modem that allows us 10GB per month but I have no idea how much 10GB is in terms of our daily usage, and at the high price they are asking ($135/month), it might make more sense to use the cafe. On the other hand, I just did the math and if 10GB is sufficient, then it's a wash.

If those of you who are far more computer savvy than I have any suggestions, please don't hesitate to send them along.

The Long and Winding Road

2009-10-17T02:57:00.000-07:00

And so the adventure begins.

We arrived after 24 hours of traveling and the first thing we did was go out for a drink. About par for the course, I'd say. A friend picked us up at the airport, and we met up with another soon after. Look at us: Brand new country and already we're social butterflies.

I like to think I'm already acclimated: went to sleep after midnight, stayed asleep for seven-plus hours. Got up and started to do things. The truth is, I'm utterly discombobulated. I know we are 11 hours ahead of California, but frankly we were traveling so long and through so much weird times (leave the house at 6 a.m., arrive in NYC after dark, at 5:30 p.m. local time. Get on the red eye to Abu Dhabi, fly all night, arrive the next night at 8 p.m. ....) So I'm pretending that all is fine and I'm on schedule. I'm also pretending that I wouldn't give anything for a nap right about now (it's 2 p.m.)

We start work tomorrow, Sunday, and meanwhile we have a host of errands to run. First on the list: get an internet hookup. We are staying in a hotel for the next two months, and while the accommodations are not luxurious they are more than comfortable. But we have to get online. The hotel has given us an official document that says we have permission to have Internet installed in our room. I still have to figure out where to go to get the ball rolling.

Right now both Paul and I are sitting in the downstairs internet cafe typing away. We've become so accustomed to our laptops -- with all its secret documents and passwords attached -- that it's quite foreign to be on another machine for personal use.

We managed to hit the bank and the grocery store this morning ... stocking up on bread and cereal and milk and yogurt. It wasn't a big store and the kinds of things they had were varied. If I knew how to cook Indian food, I'd be in pretty good shape. I didn't find any sandwich meat, but I did see Pakistani mutton. Grocery prices seem pretty reasonable.

It's hot outside, in a humid hazy sort of way. Not utterly uncomfortable, but not pretty. I have no clear sense of direction yet, and would love to see the ocean, but don't know where it is. I'm trying to decide what to make of things here, and I've decided it's much too early to tell. There is a lot of traffic, crossing the street is hazardous, buildings are unremarkable. It feels like a third-world country with some money, but there is little coherence.

It feels less crowded than Hong Kong, and much less convenient. I haven't seen the ubiquitous food stands and store-front laundries. It might be a factor of my location, but I just don't know.

There are lots of men wandering/loitering outside. Perhaps it's cooler outside than wherever they live. There are no bars to congregate at; maybe it's a way of hanging out without spending money. We haven't yet seen a lot of women. The Emirati men are notable by their traditional dress: White gowns with red checked head coverings. It is quite obvious that men are the majority population here. Also, that foreigners are a majority as well.

Now, mind you, I haven't been here even a full day yet and first impressions are often deceiving. I guess I'll give it a few more days :) ...

Next up, we get cell phone numbers and internet access -- check out the mall and get ready for a full day of work -- the first in many months for me.

Tonight we'll study our style guide, finish reading the day's newspaper (it's very nicely designed, and has a great Saturday magazine), and get used to the idea of a daily routine.

I can't wait!

So, Abu Dhabi

2009-10-06T10:06:00.000-07:00

By now anyone who reads me knows how much I love to pack. And that's just for a trip. Imagine me trying to pack up my belongings and my home.

And now stop laughing.

Moving a household -- whether or not you are taking your furniture with you -- is no small endeavor. And moving to another country is even more logistically challenging. I have chosen to focus on the logistical stuff -- address changes, bank accounts, bill paying, cat removal -- but that still leaves all the other stuff to be done and if you think I'm purposely avoiding it, you're right.

We are approaching D-Day. That is, delivery of the storage truck. We figured if we made a specific date then we'd have to abide by it. So the truck arrives on Monday at 12:30 p.m. and whatever we want out of the apartment has to be packed and ready by then.

It is, not surprisingly, a daunting task. Our concept of what is precious to us -- and what can be left behind for renters -- changes daily. I am working across the apartment from the collectibles and pottery to the kitchen, with dishes in between. The display cases are empty, so now on to the china cabinet. We also have realized we have woefully, laughably underestimated the number of crates/boxes we will need. We haven't even considered the books yet, although we will have to.

Because it took until last week for the company to send us visas, we weren't ever certain about our departure date and so it was easy to procrastinate. And now, even though we still don't have the tickets in hand yet we know we are leaving on Oct. 15 and that is only 10 days away. OK nine.

So today I'll do a little bit more and then find some excuse to stop. I figure if I can do one set of cabinets each day i'll make it. But I'm keeping my fingers crossed.

New Home! (For Sidney)

2009-09-22T12:38:00.000-07:00

If all goes as planned (and yes, I know I'm tempting fate!) Sidney will be on his way to his new home on Sunday. In Little Rock, Arkansas.

My fabulous sister-in-law Kati Garcia (soon to be Kati Grabham?) has offered to make room in her home and her heart for Sidney. I'm not usually this sappy, but hey, this is Sidney we're talking about.

Miss Kati arrives in San Diego on Thursday to get married, and told me to have the cat ready for transport on Sunday, when she heads back home. Pending the OK from the vet on Thursday -- and he is doing very well these days, so I don't anticipate any issues -- I'll send him via LAX, he'll get on her plane at Dallas and she'll pick him up in Little Rock.

Don't you just love happily-ever-after??

Please Rescue Me

2009-09-17T18:42:00.000-07:00

This has been a difficult post to write. While we are looking forward to our new adventure in Abu Dhabi, Sidney can't join us.

He's just too old to make yet another trans-oceanic trip -- especially one that will take 20 hours. Many of you know that Truman didn't survive the trip home from France, and that was three years ago now.

So yes, I'm trying to tug at your heart strings and hoping one of my very few readers will know someone who can offer a good home to Sid. He needs lots of love and attention and will give it back in return.

Despite his size -- 21 pounds -- he's very gentle.

I love this cat more than I can describe, and those of you who know me know I wouldn't do this if I didn't have to.

Drop me a note if you have any ideas. I've already reached out to his vet and am planning to paper Long Beach with posters.

Thanks so much

Up Next

2009-09-06T13:01:00.000-07:00

Our fabulous five-week run of funemployment is winding down, and we have new and exciting things on the horizon.

The most important thing we accomplished here in Paris (aside from perfecting the art of doing nothing) was that we found jobs!! Both of us!! Working for a newspaper!! In Abu Dhabi. (note lack of exclamation points). Truth be told it will be, I am sure, another in what has been a long string of adventures for us.

As with Beijing, Hong Kong and Paris, I have plans to continue blogging. It's likely there will be the stray post from Long Beach, most probably dealing with the logistics of yet another overseas move. We expect to settle in sometime in mid-October.

So stay tuned.

Come Over for Dinner

2009-09-04T00:07:00.000-07:00

Putting on a dinner party seems daunting, but it gets a whole lot easier when you have the helpful french merchants to help you plan it. We decided we would have a dinner, and that I would cook. We had had people over on previous occasions, but not at the current 17th arrondissement apartment. Because the Marais apartment is used primarily as a vacation rental, it isn't set up all that well to cook. But the place we're in now has someone living in it full time and so there were actually lots of pots and pans and utensils.

Ultimately, this meant instead of roast chicken from the butcher I was going to make a real dinner. Cook, in fact.

I decided to make magret de canard aux peches -- duck breast with peaches. Now Paul always gets nervous when I make something for guests that he hasn't seen me make before, (I think I'm a pretty good cook, he is occasionally skeptical). But I have made this before, it was just a long time ago, and in my own kitchen with a gas stove and an oven I knew well.

First stop was the butcher. Going to the butcher here is actually a pleasure, rather than a chore. You tell the butcher what you want, and then you can ask for little tips. How long should I cook it? Do you think it's better to put it in the oven or in a pan on the stovetop? And the butcher is always happy to oblige. 14 minutes he said. 7 minutes each side -- whether in the pan or under the broiler. It's my choice, he said -- no difference. That alone would have been helpful. Then, I asked him what he though I should serve as a side dish. I said I had planned to serve it with peaches and he said are you going to use butter to cook them? Of course, I said (although last time I think I cooked them in some of the duck fat). Well, he said, then you don't need anything else. Another side dish would be too much. The peaches were sufficient.

And then, the ultimate. He prepped the breasts for me. I was a bit concerned at first, because it was a straight butcher and not a bird butcher. So he didn't specialize in duck breast, but more in beef and porck. Thus, the duck came prepackaged. But he took them out of the package, cut off the excess fat while leaving plenty to cook with, then scored the fat twice and showed me how to slice it when it was ready. I was just so pleased that he'd done all the hard work. In the end, all I had to do was get it cooked -- whether in the oven or in the pan. My choice, of course.

(A side note here. Those of you who have had roast duck, perhaps in a Chinese restaurant, know there is very little meat. The difference between a magret and a fillet -- both are breast meat -- is that magret comes from ducks fattened to make foie gras. Thus, the breast is very large -- the size of a good-sized chicken breast, in fact, and very meaty. Duck is more like red meat than like poultry.)

The we went to the wine store. I told the owner what I was serving, and asked him to recommend a wine. He asked if I wanted a red and I said yes. Not too expensive, I added. He scanned his reds, thought a minute, then picked out a E4.50 wine and said "This one." He never tried to upsell me, or convince me to get something I didn't want. I asked him for something and he gave it to me. It's a neat trick, isn't it, to actually get what you want. Then I asked him if the E20 Champagne was any good. It was a few euros below all the others, and I was trying for something good but again, not too expensive. Oh yes, he said. That one is excellent. Again, no effort to make me feel cheap, or feel bad that I wasn't going for a big-name Champagne.

So far, the hardest part of the dinner was done. All the figuring out of stuff. I added some very nice cheese, including a Normandy Livarot made with Calvados, some great bread from the now-open bakery across the street (and it was still warm when we bought it!!) and knew we'd have a dessert from one of our guests. That's the other thing I've learned in France. I used to try to do all of it myself, and now, when someone asks if they can bring something, I let them. Usually a dessert, because that always seems like such a hassle.

In the end, we had a lovely meal, with very good company. We had two bottles of Champagne and three and a half bottles of red. We had a view of the Eiffel Tower through our floor-to-ceiling windows, one of our guests brought a marvelous Bourdeaux which we had with the cheese course, and we oohed and aahed over the darling tarts brought for dessert. (the lemon tart with lime shavings was amazingly good).

Life here can be incredibly civilized. I know in my heart it's impossible to duplicate this sort of thing in California, and believe me, I've tried. It just goes against everything in American culture. We don't want to linger over dinner, talk about non-work topics with our friends, invite interesting people over and see what happens. We don't want to drink too much wine, or drive too far to get where we're going, or interrupt our TV schedules.

And it's a shame.

In any case, life is different here -- even cooking dinner for friends -- for both good and ill. And as reluctant as I am to leave, I think I'd like to do it before my current love affair with Paris comes to an end; before we have our first inevitable fight.

Random Paris Thoughts

2009-08-29T07:30:00.000-07:00

I have all these ideas when I'm walking around, and of course when I sit down to write I can't think of anything (except to brag about my new iPod!)

So, here goes: A random collection of things I've been thinking about the last week or so.

The bananas in Hong Kong were the best I've ever eaten. ... Food prices in Paris seem higher, but upon weight conversions, etc., really aren't any worse than Ralph's. ... The Fran Prix in the Marais is markedly more expensive than the Monoprix in the 17th, which seems slightly counter-intuitive. ... At the Paris Plage festival, there was a big old jungle-gym type thing that was incredibly dangerous to my American eyes, and all Paul and I could think of was: The insurance for that thing must be really high! ... The best thing about the Marais, to me, is that we are half a block from one of the best bakeries in Paris, and get to enjoy fresh and still-warm baguettes daily. ... I found a butcher at the Bastille market who sells the most amazing roast chicken I've ever eaten. ... I am realizing that all I have to say is about food. ... I love having fresh flowers in the apartment, but all the florists are still closed for the summer. ... Speaking of closed, doesn't it seem a bit odd that a shop that specializes in ice cream would be closed for the month of August? ... We had dinner at one of our favorite restaurants, right at the base of the Eiffel Tower. I never get tired of going there. ... I find my French has come back rather well, but I can't grasp certain vocabulary words that used to come easily (like puree for mashed potatoes -- but maybe it was the wine) ... Everyone raves about the efficient Metro system here, but it is the bus system that is the real star of public transportation. You get a mini sight-seeing tour with every trip. ... It's amazing to see the population of a neighborhood triple as summer comes to an end.

Summertime, and the Living is Easy

2009-08-28T03:41:00.000-07:00

It's a funny thing about memory. While I enjoyed my time in Paris, I'm not sure I ever decided, consciously, "I don't want to leave Paris." I guess I always imagined I would, in the beginning, and then it turned into a sort of resignation. "I've been here seven years now, probably just going to stay."

In any case, I found myself thinking this morning, while walking through the Marais, "I don't want to leave Paris." We have had a perfect confluence of events here. Empty streets, beautiful weather (today is especially gorgeous) good times, good food, ultimate relaxation.

When you are on vacation, it's easy to forget what December is like -- short and dark days -- and to ignore the daily indignities that go with city living.

We are all too aware that our remaining time is short, and I'm not exactly in a panic, but I certainly am reluctant to get back to reality -- whatever that entails.

One thing is sure: We will do this again.

Something for Nothing

2009-08-25T08:17:00.000-07:00

Since we arrived, some people have been offering free 10-minute massages on the Pont St. Louis. It seems to be a crazy concept: A visitor sits on a little canvas stool and someone gives them a quickie 10-minute body massage. After walking by a half dozen times, I decided to give it a go.

It wasn't a hot day, so that wasn't an issue. And it wasn't a weekend day, so there wasn't a big crowd. I just sat in the chair and the woman got ready for my massage. It's free, she said. And we don't do your front and you must leave your clothes on. (As if ... I'm sitting on a public bridge!)

And then she proceeded to knead my neck and shoulders, then my back, then my arms and legs. I was totally blissed out, as you can tell from the photo.

I tipped her E1.50 (which is what happened to be in my wallet) and she asked me to sign a petition asking (the city?) permission to conduct this public service in the winter, in the Metro. And presumably not on the train itself .

What better publicity than a free trial of something like this? I think perhaps it was organized by a massage school in town, although I'm not certain. They gave me a slip of paper with an email address, presumably to make a paying appointment. They also had the url of a youtube video.
The blurb with the video says:

Un super concept de Convivialité Citoyenne et Job de complément pour Etudiants, Chômeurs, Retraités. Formation rapide et gratuite, y compris à distance.

Roughly translated, and my French friends will be sure to correct me if I err: A super idea of of citizen friendliness and a side-job for students, the unemployed and retired people. A quick, free course is available, and can be taken by correspondence.

What a way to de-stress from the rigors of city life!

If You Wish Hard Enough ...

2009-08-24T07:25:00.001-07:00

You may recall my iPod has been relegated to an iPaperweight. Big red X of death and all.

Well, I got an extremely pleasant surprise (OK, a really exciting surprise) when my sister- and brother-in-law arrived in Paris over the weekend and gave me a shiny new iPod for my birthday. Seems they read my sad blog entry and thought of the perfect gift.

Honestly, it's too much. I hadn't wished for a new one -- it's an extravagance right now -- and figured I'd just use my old one on batteries once I got home. Having said that, of course, I can also say: "I love it and am thrilled to have received it!"

It's a shiny silver iPod Classic with 120GB of space. More than I can listen to in a month. And so now I will sync from my laptop, maybe put on some photos, download a movie or two ... and I'll be good to go.

Maybe You Can Go Home Again

2009-08-20T07:53:00.001-07:00

We are settling in so nicely here in Paris that I almost don't feel as if I'm away. Obviously I don't have my apartment and my things, but I do have Paris, and that turns out to have been mine all along.

I am surprised at how easily I fell back into the rhythm of daily life here and accepted all the little differences that occur to distinguish life here from life in California.

I know, too, that if I stay long enough I will find the daily annoyances that used to drive me crazy and will, again. But for now, I am reveling in it. Someone forces me off the sidewalk? Quelle suprise! No bakery open in the 17th for blocks and blocks? Of course, it's August. It helps that I do not have to work, nor navigate my way to and from anywhere on a regular basis. I can simply enjoy the city on my terms, and I have been doing that.

Earlier in the week we went to the Parc Monceau so Paul could run. It was my first time there, even though I'd known of it forever. But it's not in "my" neighborhood, so I never really had cause to visit. It's lovely there, and I was surprised by all the hustle and bustle. We were there late morning, around 11 I'd guess, and there had to be 30 joggers out, crowding the path around the park. I felt like I'd stumbled into a race.

There were kids visiting, too, from whatever daycare/daycamp/dayschool. I love watching little kids on excursions here. They hold hands in pairs or trios and have name tags pinned to their shirts. Then they snake around on their way to getting where they're going (in this case, it was the duck pond.)

I can't -- and won't -- compare living here to living in Long Beach. It's not a fair comparison as each has its own charms. While I'd love a local park in Long Beach where there are no homeless people taking up all the benches, I'd also love a beach in Paris that wasn't man-made and planted along the Seine.

You take what you can get wherever you are, I think. And right now, I'm taking all I can from Paris.

Hanging Around

2009-08-13T10:04:00.000-07:00

When we said were going to hang out in Paris, we really meant it. If we do any true, touristic sightseeing, it will probably be accidental, or maybe out of a sense of obligation near the end of our stay. As in: I always did want to see the Chateau at Fontainebleu.

For now, we're just taking in the sights around us, and, as usual, I marvel at all the things there are to see. (And, within the next few days, I hope to post some photos on flickr)

We are in the Marais, always chock-full of people and interesting shops. Walking over to the Bastille area today I passed a man singing opera in the arcades of the Place to Vosges, very near to the fancy Pavillon des Reines hotel. (video to come)

The last several days there have been rock concerts at the Hotel de Ville. There is always something going on at Paris Plage, along the quay. We found free massages offered by massage students on the bridge between the Ile St Louis and the Ile de la Cite.

Of course, this is summer, but that doesn't always mean there are more things around. In fact, because a good number of locals get out of town, it often means there are less. The outdoor markets, for example, are sparsely populated by merchants and there are no weekend markets that feature, say, arts and crafts or brocante.

Still, it's a feast for the eyes, and I love just walking down the streets, looking at different neighborhoods and hanging out.

Maybe we'll take a boat ride one day, and manage to hang out and sight-see in one fell swoop.

The Day(s) the Music Died

2009-08-13T09:38:00.000-07:00

My iPod died on Saturday, but it took several days for the coroner to pronounce.

It began by jamming, and not producing sound. The first shop fiddled with it and up came the red x of death. He shook his head sadly, and said I might have some luck with another shop. I tried a specialized Apple shop, and the guy gave me a sad smile as he listened to the off-track whir of the hard drive.

Now I have an iDoorstop as my brother Dan said. Or maybe an iPaperweight.

I don't fault Apple so much -- it fell off the bed, albeit it was a short fall. It's possible in the last 18 months it has banged around and this was the final straw. But it does seem to me that iPods are so ubiquitous there must be many accidents like this and they probably should have a lifespan of more than 18 months.

I love my iPod, and I loved my iPod before this. I never would have guessed it, but I was made for an iPod. When I lived in Paris full-time, I was rarely seen on the street without the earbuds. My own personal soundtrack for life.

My first one, one of the early generations, had some battery issues and while it plays it doesn't hold much of a charge. Paul got me a new one for Christmas in 2007 and I fell in love with him all over again. There was no gift that year that I wanted more. And this one was inscribed, which made it all the more special.

The guy at the store conceded that iPods weren't made to be repaired and the cost to even try would be more than getting a new one -- especially in the U.S.

And if this one weren't sentimental, I'd probably just turn around and buy a Nano on my return -- something within my budget until I decided to go back to the Classic that I have. Either way, I won't make a decision until we get back in September.

Until then I'm just kind of sad about it.

Evolution of an Evening

2009-08-07T08:07:00.000-07:00

One of the things that happens here, that doesn't happen quite so often at home, is the accidental social event.

Last night we dropped by a friend's place, where we will be staying later in the month, to meet the woman who is there now and sort of get the lay of the land.

We parted company five hours later.

It was innocuous enough: we came in off the street rather warm and she offered us something to drink. Some Rose? Some red wine? Water? Orangina? We opted for Rose, and after taking a brief tour around the apartment, we sat down to chat and drink and have some nibbles. (All good Parisian hostesses offer a little something with the wine.) We finished the Rose and moved on to the Cahors. By the time we finished that bottle, (effortlessly, I must say), I looked at the clock, saw it was 9:30 p.m. and decided we should probably eat something.

We had a change of venue to the brasserie down the street and settled in for more conversation. That's the other thing: you get to meet some fascinating people out here. This woman, with whom I have several friends in common, graduated from the same University as I did. Her husband worked at the IHT a few years before I arrived, but it is her tale that is most interesting. She initially wanted to cover Latin American affairs at the Miami Herald back when women didn't really do that. She got a Ph.D in International Relations so she could do it, and still they were reluctant.

Many cities and university professorships later, she is teaching journalism in Abu Dhabi. How's that for a grand adventure?

We both ordered moules frites, one of several things on my must-eat-when-I'm-back-in-Paris list, Paul ordered a salad, and we talked for another two hours.

That's the fun of it -- we thought we'd stop by to check out the wi-fi connection, and closing in on midnight we were on the Metro back to the Marais. We didn't overstay our welcome, or impose on her plans ... it just sort of evolved, as things like that so often do here.

Accidental social event indeed.

Twinkle, Twinkle

2009-08-05T15:40:00.000-07:00

We were invited for dinner tonight, to the apartment of friends who live in the 7th, mere blocks from my old stomping grounds. While I'm enjoying the variety of a new quartier, I really do miss the 7th and its wide boulevards, numerous trees and open spaces.

Dinner was nice, Nicola made a tarte aux pommes avec confit de canard (apple tart with shredded duck) and I got to see one of my favorite kids in the world -- her son Luke. We also were introduced to her new son, Ben.

On the way back to the metro, as we were crossing a street I looked up and saw the Eiffel Tower twinkling. This is the first time since we've been back that I've seen it -- lit up or not. My heart thrilled. All these years later and I still love the Eiffel Tower.

It doesn't hurt, either, that Paul proposed to me underneath it, and as it was twinkling. So I don't mean to be all sappy, but it was definitely pretty cool. If I see it another hundred times in my life I won't ever tire of it.

LAT Update

2009-08-05T15:34:00.000-07:00

The woman house-sitting for us in Long Beach e-mailed to tell us the Los Angeles Times called, and asked if we would subscribe -- for 50 cents a week.

Because she answered the phone, and not I, she said "No, thank you." Were it I who received the call the answer would have been: "I would pay you $4 if you could get it to my door."

But you all know that already.

Ah, Paris

2009-08-05T01:54:00.001-07:00

We're actually here and I think sometimes, maybe you can go home again.

I've got this strange dilemma: Paris-Long Beach, Long Beach-Paris. They are two very different places, and offer me two very different things. But I'm equally at home in both of them, for now, and glad to leave one for the other, if only temporarily.

Tuesday evening, once we had settled into our Marais apartment (ok, Liz's Marais apartment -- and for those of you wishing to visit Paris, I highly recommend her place.) We went to the ATM, went to the grocery store, found out one of my favorite bakeries is open the whole month! And then we strolled over to the Ile St Louis.

We were hanging out on the quay, enjoying the magnificent weather, watching people line up for Berthillon ice cream (and did I have my camera? sadly, no). The summer flavors are here: peche de vigne, fruit de la passion, fraise de bois, pamplemousse. Each mouthful offers an amazing flavor burst that's hard to describe. You can tell that the flavors are only offered in season, and made from real fruit.

Afterward, revelling in the still-light sky at about 9:30 p.m., we met up with a great friend of mine, and had some wine and Badoit and good conversation. She and Paul got into a really good discussion of philosophy, of all things, and that was sort of their point: She could name a half dozen well-known philosophers, he none. And how that was a cultural thing.

When we finally went to sleep, I marveled at how I could be in one of the noisiest quartiers in the city, yet it was silent outside because we're within the courtyard -- no sirens or cars or people like in Long Beach.

We have more to do today -- find me a sim card for the cell phone, head over to the Luxembourg Gardens so Paul can run, meet up with friends for dinner.

And so much to enjoy.

Adventures in Paris

2009-07-30T09:22:00.001-07:00

We're hitting the road next week, again. Paris-bound for the rest of the summer.

Once I started blogging, I wished I had done this in Paris as I was getting to know the city. Now I have the chance to know it in a different, more leisurely way, and from different neighborhoods.

I hope you'll check in from time to time to see what we're up to.

The Loss of a Newspaper

2009-07-29T21:49:00.000-07:00

This week we finally gave up on the LA Times. It had nothing to do with the cutbacks, although we have noticed how thin the paper has gotten. It had everything to do with the fact the circulation department, or what passes for it these days, couldn't manage to deliver it.

If it seems to you that we should be the last people who should be canceling their daily newspaper, you would not be mistaken. And we have replaced it, for the time being, with the Long Beach Press-Telegram (a shell of its former self, but that's another post).

If you were to look at our delivery records, you would find that at least twice a week we would call for a replacement paper because someone had stolen ours. The circulation department seemed not to notice the unusually high replacement rate. And oftentimes, the replacement paper wouldn't come, either.

I got fed up a few weeks ago and asked to cancel. The rep apologized, and asked if I would be willing to give them another chance. They would deliver the paper in plastic with my apartment number on it. I agreed. The next day, the paper came wrapped in plastic with my apartment number on it. But that was the last time.

Two weeks more of spotty service, more annoyance and another phone call. Would we be willing to give them another chance? No, I said. I gave you a chance. They suggested it was my fault because I live in an apartment, and they couldn't deliver to my door. I told them if their delivery agent purchased a key, then all the subscribers in our building could have the paper delivered to their door, thus solving the problem of stolen papers. (I discovered during this process that my paper was not the only one to disappear). The rep asked if a supervisor could call me, and noted the problems in my file, recounting back to me the troubles I'd had.

I didn't want to cancel the paper. How can I tell people they need to continue to support print papers if I cancel? So I agreed, again.

The supervisor never called, the paper arrived sporadically, and when only half of the Sunday paper arrived this week (clearly someone had picked through it) we gave up.

I called yesterday to cancel the paper. The rep asked if I would give them another chance. I said no. He asked if there was anything they could do to keep me and I said no -- all I wanted was to get the paper I was paying for.

We didn't ask for a discount, or for our money back for papers we didn't receive. We didn't ask for a special deal or special treatment. All we wanted was the paper. A seemingly simple request.

Maybe it's not so much that nobody wants the paper, but that nobody can actually get it.

And by the way -- our Press-Telegram arrives at our door every morning, wrapped in plastic.

Welcome to Utah?

2009-07-24T22:04:00.000-07:00

We have encountered the weirdest phenomenon here in Utah. A rash of unfriendly, aloof, unpleasant locals.

And this is weird because Utahans have a reputation for being warm and welcoming. Inside the national parks, the employees have been just great. But outside, it's been odd. Maybe because these are small towns -- but the volume of visitors has to be really high. And it's not your typical locals hating the hands that feed them like you find in the beach towns or the ski resorts. People in those places aren't known for being friendly. Utahans are.

We have had dismissive hotel clerks and rude waitresses and candy-shop owners who clearly aren't interested in our business. Lest you think we are uptight city folk, we'll let you be the judge.

Waitress to restaurant customer: Hold on, I only have two hands! Waitress to restaurant customers who have just been seated: Are you ready yet? At another spot -- Me: Are the bagels fresh? Her: I have no idea. At the candy store: Me: Do you sell candy by the piece or only by the pound? Owner: I prefer to sell it by the pound, but I guess I could sell you a piece. At the sporting goods shop, regarding rental equipment: Unless they close the canyon, no refunds and that's just the way it is.

Some of it is the delivery. And maybe we're overly sensitive. But we're a New Yorker and a Southern Californian; we're used to brusque. This was just unfriendly.

We haven't encountered any rude tourists. And I'm guessing the behavior of the localss isn't as obvious to the hordes of Europeans visiting because it's a cultural thing, and they don't know any better.

But it's too bad -- the personal experiences have almost overwhelmed all the great things we've seen and it doesn't make me want to recommend Utah for anything other than its sights.

Having said that, if you find yourself in Springdale, Utah, in the middle of Zion National Monument, go to the Pioneer Restaurant for an awesome, well-priced steak dinner and ask for Ashley as your waitress.

And skip the candy store.

Technological Mix-up

2009-07-22T21:07:00.001-07:00

This is a bit odd: Great cellphone reception at the Grand Canyon, no Internet access. Zero cellphone access at Bryce Canyon (and in the surrounding towns) and free wi-fi in all the hotels.

Picking Pretty

2009-07-22T20:56:00.001-07:00

I am blown away by Utah. Driving from the Grand Canyon to Bryce Canyon I saw some of the most amazing scenery I've ever encountered.

After touring Bryce, I found myself comparing it to the Grand Canyon. The GC is, in fact, quite majestic. It's lovely. But it's just ... oh, I can't even put my finger on it. But I feel "guilty" for not being as fascinated with it as I think I should be. Yup, it's pretty. You bet, it's pretty cool. Now what?

But Utah, oh my. With the colors and the hoodoos and the arches. Maybe it's slightly more accessible, right there on the the side of the road, as you drive past and it's up-close and more personal than that vast, gorgeous canyon.

It's sort of like Brad Pitt and George Clooney: There's no denying they're both handsome and sexy, but for most people, one stands out over the other.

There must be a more adequate way to describe this! I wonder if I post a photo of each, you'll be kind enough to help me out.

Raining Cats and Dogs

2009-07-21T20:50:00.000-07:00

Liz and I left the 114 degree climes of Las Vegas on Monday morning about 10 a.m. on our way to the Grand Canyon. It was already hot and we weren't sorry to see the neon behind us. We were tooling around in our PT Cruiser and heading southeast (?). Driving past Hoover Dam was cool; I've never been. Lake Mead looked a bit weird. Not quite clean, although it may have been the way the sky was reflecting on the water.

We had heard the forecast of scattered thunderstorms, but didn't think much about it. About 50 miles into Arizona, the Emergency Broadcast System broke into our Classics radio station to warn about flash flooding at mile 28 and back to the Nevada border. We took note, and were glad we were clear of it.

Then we took a closer look at what was ahead: Huge thunderclouds in the middle, obvious rain coming down in shadow from the clouds in that weird Charlton Heston way; a major duststorm to our right and beautiful clear skies to our left. We weren't sure what awaited us. Liz oohed and aahed at the lightning and I, who don't like it, just hoped it stayed on the horizon. I'm a flincher and that's all I need at 75 mph, thunder claps.

But we drove right into an incredible storm. I can't believe how hard it rained. It was one of those summer downpours that comes down so hard, it usually lasts only about 20 minutes. But not this one. We drove through a horrendous storm for 100 miles. Fortunately there wasn't a lot of traffic, and I was able to drive slowly and hydroplaned once. At one point, though, I had to pull over. I absolutely couldn't see a thing -- and Liz had to guide me to the shoulder because I wasn't sure there was one. It was kind of hairy, actually.

When we finally got to the Grand Canyon, six-plus hours after we left Vegas, it was clear again. Temps had dropped to the 60s and we got to walk around the Canyon, which is just stunning. Liz had the foresight to sign us up for a Sunset tour and so we got on a bus that stopped at some amazing vistas and we had a knowledgeable tour guide giving us the scoop on all the stuff. He knew that sunset was at 7:43 and said he was certain of only one thing: Not that we would be able to see it with all the clouds, but that it would, indeed, set.

We got a pretty nice sunset, but not the spectacular canyon colors we had hoped for. But we weren't terribly disappointed.

Liz booked us a room at the Bright Angel Lodge, a series of cabins along the rim of the canyon. We're about 15 yards from the edge, I'd guess (although at this point, if I were telling the story to Paul, he'd say: "You have no idea how far 15 yards is, do you?") *It's actually more like 100 feet. She got up at 5:30 a.m. to go on three-hour hike. I had the idea of sleeping a bit later and still enjoying the morning light in the Canyon, but apparently people who stay here don't sleep. They talk loudly and are out (and in and out and in) the door between 5 and 6:30. I finally got up, cleaned up our stuff and was outside and it was still just 7:45 a.m.

It's pretty here; it's peaceful; it's nice nature for a city girl. Next stop: Bryce Canyon.