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.
May 10, 2011
April 29, 2011
You Have Got to be Kidding Me
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.
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.
April 26, 2011
Oops, We Did it Again
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
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.
Hey, my blog -- my rules.
April 9, 2011
Who Needs Disneyland?
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.
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
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 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.
March 25, 2011
The Non-Existence Of, Uh, Me*
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
