Monday, June 7, 2010
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
On the Passage of Time
Oh, hai.
Sooooooo... 8 months go by pretty fast, eh? Is anyone out there anymore?
I am at my desk in the Riyadh Sheraton, avoiding writing a set of implementation plans for technical and vocational education reform in the Kingdom that are due tomorrow. Mind-bogglingly, I have made about 25 trips to Saudi Arabia since April, all while working on this project.
I have a new kind-of-really-amazing boyfriend and a new flat and my very own shisha in which I concoct amazing smoky grape-mint goodness that I enjoy in my garden listening to bugs chirp. I can see the tallest building in the world and the biggest mall on the planet from my bed. I swam with dolphins at the Atlantis last weekend and when you touch them, their skin feels like plastic, which made me suspicious. I haven't really been doing enough dramatic travel recently, but I was in the US in August and sometimes, that's just good enough. I am super excited for cool (read: 90 F at 7 PM) weather and fall/winter running season, which will start with the Abu Dhabi half marathon in November and will end with the Comrades ultra in May, inshallah.
I have had some pretty big drama over the past three-quarters of a year and have drop-kicked a few things, both literally (there was a "hiya!" noise involved) and figuratively ("oh bai!"). However... I sort of feel pretty stable and content these days. Work is okay, life is good, and I just feel... settled.
When I moved to Dubai 2+ years ago, my stock line was that I planned to stay for "a year or two." And yet, having handily passed that milestone, I feel no desire to leave anytime in the foreseeable future. Sure, I've morphed into a more jaded and - if I may say so, gloriously post-colonial - expat than the wide-eyed, eager, aspirationally open-minded keener who moved here in 2007, and I don't necessarily like the implications of that. (In the words of a friend, "I don't think it's good for you to be so full of rage all the time - maybe you should move home?") But... it is what it is, and if it doesn't sound pretentious for me to say this, I think that at some point unbeknownst to me I crossed the proverbial line in the sand where it became easier and simpler and more palatable for me to stay here than to go home.
I mean, homeward-bound I will eventually be. But right now I kind of feel like... this is my life and I don't want to change it. It's not just that there's no "push" making me leave, there's also a lot of "pull" making me stay.
Especially given the new boy. Who plies me with good wine and fattening food and nice hotel getaways and ample spooning and a kind of affection and security and stability that I have never really felt before in a relationship. I find that I keep describing it as "bizarre," but I mean that in a good way.
And that's that. I have an 8 AM flight back to Dubai tomorrow AM and I am still getting emails from my team members at 2 AM Saudi time. Bleh. I will go to bed now.
If anyone is still reading, send me a smoke signal or a carrier pigeon and perhaps I will consider a resumption of this whole "blogging" thing.
Sooooooo... 8 months go by pretty fast, eh? Is anyone out there anymore?
I am at my desk in the Riyadh Sheraton, avoiding writing a set of implementation plans for technical and vocational education reform in the Kingdom that are due tomorrow. Mind-bogglingly, I have made about 25 trips to Saudi Arabia since April, all while working on this project.
I have a new kind-of-really-amazing boyfriend and a new flat and my very own shisha in which I concoct amazing smoky grape-mint goodness that I enjoy in my garden listening to bugs chirp. I can see the tallest building in the world and the biggest mall on the planet from my bed. I swam with dolphins at the Atlantis last weekend and when you touch them, their skin feels like plastic, which made me suspicious. I haven't really been doing enough dramatic travel recently, but I was in the US in August and sometimes, that's just good enough. I am super excited for cool (read: 90 F at 7 PM) weather and fall/winter running season, which will start with the Abu Dhabi half marathon in November and will end with the Comrades ultra in May, inshallah.
I have had some pretty big drama over the past three-quarters of a year and have drop-kicked a few things, both literally (there was a "hiya!" noise involved) and figuratively ("oh bai!"). However... I sort of feel pretty stable and content these days. Work is okay, life is good, and I just feel... settled.
When I moved to Dubai 2+ years ago, my stock line was that I planned to stay for "a year or two." And yet, having handily passed that milestone, I feel no desire to leave anytime in the foreseeable future. Sure, I've morphed into a more jaded and - if I may say so, gloriously post-colonial - expat than the wide-eyed, eager, aspirationally open-minded keener who moved here in 2007, and I don't necessarily like the implications of that. (In the words of a friend, "I don't think it's good for you to be so full of rage all the time - maybe you should move home?") But... it is what it is, and if it doesn't sound pretentious for me to say this, I think that at some point unbeknownst to me I crossed the proverbial line in the sand where it became easier and simpler and more palatable for me to stay here than to go home.
I mean, homeward-bound I will eventually be. But right now I kind of feel like... this is my life and I don't want to change it. It's not just that there's no "push" making me leave, there's also a lot of "pull" making me stay.
Especially given the new boy. Who plies me with good wine and fattening food and nice hotel getaways and ample spooning and a kind of affection and security and stability that I have never really felt before in a relationship. I find that I keep describing it as "bizarre," but I mean that in a good way.
And that's that. I have an 8 AM flight back to Dubai tomorrow AM and I am still getting emails from my team members at 2 AM Saudi time. Bleh. I will go to bed now.
If anyone is still reading, send me a smoke signal or a carrier pigeon and perhaps I will consider a resumption of this whole "blogging" thing.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Out With the Old, In With the New
No, don't worry, I'm not still on about the New Year - I may be tardy, but as a general rule I try to avoid being a day late and a dirham short.
Rather, the shift I'm referring to is out with the old flatmate, in with the new. With the departure of Flatmate E (peace be upon him) on Sunday night, enter #4: Flatmate P, an Aussie who seems perfectly nice (yellow Porsche Carrera aside - whhhhhhhhhy?!) but is just not Eric.
Anyhoo. I'm writing this from Syria and it's kind of nice to be back to Damascus, where I've quickly re-adopted my old October-December routine: up at 9 AM, work from 10-10, gym until about midnight, then room service and iTunes-downloaded American TV until 2 AM or so. Life is so pleasantly monastic in a country where you don't have friends or drama or socializing to distract you!
And on that note... 2 AM is, in fact, approaching, so with that I bid you farewell. If anyone would like to Gchat me tomorrow to commend me for being a good blogger and posting more than once a month, you are more than welcome to distract me from my busy day of, you know, promoting market economies via elaborate PPT slides and wolfing down entire Toblerones from my minibar in 4 bites or less. :)
Rather, the shift I'm referring to is out with the old flatmate, in with the new. With the departure of Flatmate E (peace be upon him) on Sunday night, enter #4: Flatmate P, an Aussie who seems perfectly nice (yellow Porsche Carrera aside - whhhhhhhhhy?!) but is just not Eric.
Anyhoo. I'm writing this from Syria and it's kind of nice to be back to Damascus, where I've quickly re-adopted my old October-December routine: up at 9 AM, work from 10-10, gym until about midnight, then room service and iTunes-downloaded American TV until 2 AM or so. Life is so pleasantly monastic in a country where you don't have friends or drama or socializing to distract you!
And on that note... 2 AM is, in fact, approaching, so with that I bid you farewell. If anyone would like to Gchat me tomorrow to commend me for being a good blogger and posting more than once a month, you are more than welcome to distract me from my busy day of, you know, promoting market economies via elaborate PPT slides and wolfing down entire Toblerones from my minibar in 4 bites or less. :)
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Happy New Year (I'm running on Arab time...)
Oh hai blogging! Yes, it has been quite a while. Let's get down to it, shall we?
So basically. After last we spoke, I went to America for 23 blissful beautiful wonderful days (minus the 2 that were spent in JFK waiting for my snowed-out pre-Christmas flight to Nashville... that really destroyed my illusions about "everything runs perfectly in America" right off the bat, let me tell you). Nashville and New York were both wonderful, and if I saw you in the US (or if we talked, or if we tried to talk... so basically everyone who's reading this) please know how much I love you and how thankful I am for you. That's my holiday message, a few weeks late. ;)
Then, I came back to Dubai. A very, very different Dubai from the city I left way back in 2008. The global economic crisis has finally hit here and hit hard, most notably in the form of layoffs for my 3 best friends in Dubai. Not to mention at least a dozen other friends and several dozen ex-colleagues (thank God I switched jobs when I did). Apparently 1,500 residence visas are being canceled every day as jobless expats pack up, give up, and head home, and the city feels palpably panicky - taxis with no business honk for you anytime you step outside, popular bars and restaurants are empty, 2,000+ cars have been left at the Dubai airport by people "pulling a runner" (as the Brits say) without paying their auto loans, and silent still cranes languish, awkwardly abandoned all over the city.
As much as what has happened in New York and London is scary (and I have plenty of similarly "up a creek without a paddle" friends in those places), it somehow feels worse here because there's no substance to back it up. From everything I understand, the Western markets, ultimately, will rebound - they have the infrastructure and the history and the global interconnectedness and the longevity to bounce back. But Dubai? A pseudo-city that was built on glitz and speculation and fairy dust and leveraged within an inch of its life?! I fear that I can already see tumbleweeds rolling between the half-finished skyscrapers of my beloved desert boomtown.
It will be an interesting ride, to be sure. I have no immediate indications (knock wood, knock wood, knock wood) that I should fear for my own job, but I harbor no illusions about the demand for strategy consultants in a world where companies are struggling just to stay afloat, especially given the effect of falling oil prices (the one place in the world where that's bad news, right?!) on our clients' appetites for frivolous consulting projects. So we shall see. The tentative backup plan is (a) find an "alternate income stream" in Dubai (interpret that as you see fit) or (b) bartend in Nashville until I ride out the crisis. But let's hope and pray it doesn't come to that.
Even if things stay steady with work, though, Dubai is going to be a much sadder place than it once was. Flatmate E, one of the layoff-ees, is leaving town next week and as much as I am trying to stay in denial, I'm forced to confront the fact that not only am I losing my best Dubai friend, I'm also losing the one person with whom I have a real "history" here. Ever since the very first day of my internship back in 2006 - in fact, since before the internship, when we traded emails as strangers in New York and London about wanting to travel to Pakistan and Sudan and Afghanistan during what was meant to be a temporary summer stint in Dubai - E has been my life here.
From our heady no-rules no-responsibilities days as interns, to negotiating job offers and goading each other into moving back, to flat-hunting and car-buying and bureaucracy-tackling, to crazy euphoric spur-of-the-moment financially irresponsible travel, to "real life" (or as close as you come to that in Dubai) and all its myriad ups and downs, E has been with me through this whole crazy adventure, and as many times as he's almost gotten me arrested and/or made me die of alcohol poisoning and/or made me want to kill him for clogging the sink with bacon grease (sometimes they all go together), I can honestly say that I don't regret a moment of the craziness we've shared together.
I think it's rare to meet a person - especially a platonic relationship - who carves out a niche in your life that you know no one else can ever fill, but that's E. Every time I wake up on a Saturday morning and feel a craving to drink secret vodka-tonics out of a water bottle by the pool all day, every time I sit down at the dining room table on a Wednesday night and start clicking through non-functioning websites of obscure African or Central Asian airlines to see where I can go for the weekend, every time I come home from work brimming with gossip about random internecine Dubai political or economic drama that's just begging to be dissected and discussed, I will miss him. And let's be honest, that's about 95% of my time in Dubai. But life moves on, I suppose, as does "life" in Dubai.
In other news, I ran the Dubai Marathon last weekend. Marathon #6 for those who are counting, and it is kind of exciting that I'm now at the point where I'm like "meh... I'm doing a marathon tomorrow, whatevs." I mean, I still have the elaborate and very real wishes for death from miles 20-26, but those can be managed. I ran 3:58, which remains 20 minutes slower than my PR but is 40 minutes (!!!) faster than Dubai last year, which I ran with no training, and 16 minutes faster than Beirut 6 weeks ago. Next stop is the Ras Al Khaimah half-marathon here in the UAE in February, then the Two Oceans ultra-marathon (35 miles, yahoo!) in Cape Town in April, perhaps with another full marathon sometime in between (budget and schedule permitting).
DXB was super-fun because I ran the first half with both New Blonde BFF L and Guy Friend M, and I hung tough with GFM until mile 20. GFM rowed varsity crew at Pr!ncet0n and is an amazing athlete who is very intense about self-discipline and pushing himself and being crazy, so we had a great time sharing dramatic glycogen-deprived musings about influential coaches and sports as a metaphor for life and Why We Run and The Things We Have Learned. (Heady stuff, right?!) At 20 miles he peaced out to finish in 3:48, and I popped in my headphones (for the first time ever in a race) and powered through the last 6 to the tune of "Eye of the Tiger" and "Right Now" on repeat. It was fab. Then we limped home and E made brunch back at the flat for us and a dozen of our mutual friends (see aforementioned lamenting).
And that's that. The inauguration last night was amazing, and I feel a real euphoria about this new path we're embarking upon as a nation - in fact, we were all like "Wait, why don't we live in America right now? Why can't we go help?!" What was less amazing was that someone brought Hennessy (to toast the first African-American president, obvs) and I drank some and became very tipsy and was quite inauguration-hungover despite my hope to the contrary. As I've always said... it springs eternal. And it is, as President Obama so keenly tells us, audacious.
Anyhow, this weekend will be crazy as per usual: I have a family friend from TN in town as of tonight, and E's going-away party is tomorrow night, and we're all going snorkeling in Oman on Friday, and then I fly to Syria on Sunday, and then I think I am going straight from there to a ski trip in Lebanon next weekend.
Distractions = yay. Hope = audacious. Post = long. Sleep = good.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Pomegranate Seeds and Preity Zinta
Hi from Damascus, where I am currently idling away in my king-size hotel bed, eating pomegranate seeds and watching Mad Men only floors away from the venerable JC, perhaps my most admired ex-president. He's in town to, um, meet with Hamas leadership, and I'm in town to, you know, work, so I figure we should be friends. I've been staking out the lobby to try and bump into him, but so far have only met a few young cute very obviously American Secret Service guys... not a bad consolation prize, especially in this neck of the woods.
When I flew here on Sunday morning at o'dark hundred, I was once again amazed by the wonders of the new Emirates Terminal 3, the dreamiest airport terminal ever, both because it is brand new and supermodern and sleek, and [cough] because so far it only houses flights to North America, Europe, and the Middle East. I'm just saying... people actually wait in line, and no one sleeps sprawled out on the airport floor as though they're in a refugee camp [which, in all fairness, they may be coming from/going to]. And there's Starbucks in the terminal, red cups and all - it's like my own personal "reacculturation to the West" travel space.
Sooooo, what's been going on since last we met... basically Syria Syria Syria, eat sleep play eat run, Syria Syria. Last weekend I went to the red-carpet opening night gala of the Dubai International Film Festival, or as we affectionately call it here, "DIFF." We got to the event late which meant we "had" to sit in VIP for the screening of "W" that preceded the gala, which was fairly insanely cool because I had Danny Glover in the row behind me and Oliver Stone in the row in front of me. I had to sit in Preity Zinta's seat (I don't know who she is either, but she's big in Bollywood), which made for a semi-awkward moment when she arrived even later than us and had to sit in Ben Affleck's seat, who luckily hadn't made it to the screening, thus ending the game of musical VIP chairs. The gala afterwards involved a private beach and firedancers/stilt-walkers and lots of free champagne and prominent local men courting, ehrm, Russian women, and run-ins with many people who I didn't particularly want to see... standard Dubai fare.
Anyhow, now I have one last day in Damascus (hopefully with some time to Christmas shop in the souks... expect a lot of Hizbullah-themed Christmas presents this year), then I fly back to Dubai tomorrow morning, and then I fly to Nashville (via Doha and New York) on Friday morning! I am actually not dreading the trip this time around, as I expect Qatar Airways will be 14 hours of movie-watching, seat-reclining, wine-sipping bliss... a nice change from my usual 5-hour layover in Frankfurt/Zurich followed by a god-awful transatlantic leg on United.
Sooooooooooooo... if by the grace of God you are already in America, keep it warm for me, and see you soon!
When I flew here on Sunday morning at o'dark hundred, I was once again amazed by the wonders of the new Emirates Terminal 3, the dreamiest airport terminal ever, both because it is brand new and supermodern and sleek, and [cough] because so far it only houses flights to North America, Europe, and the Middle East. I'm just saying... people actually wait in line, and no one sleeps sprawled out on the airport floor as though they're in a refugee camp [which, in all fairness, they may be coming from/going to]. And there's Starbucks in the terminal, red cups and all - it's like my own personal "reacculturation to the West" travel space.
Sooooo, what's been going on since last we met... basically Syria Syria Syria, eat sleep play eat run, Syria Syria. Last weekend I went to the red-carpet opening night gala of the Dubai International Film Festival, or as we affectionately call it here, "DIFF." We got to the event late which meant we "had" to sit in VIP for the screening of "W" that preceded the gala, which was fairly insanely cool because I had Danny Glover in the row behind me and Oliver Stone in the row in front of me. I had to sit in Preity Zinta's seat (I don't know who she is either, but she's big in Bollywood), which made for a semi-awkward moment when she arrived even later than us and had to sit in Ben Affleck's seat, who luckily hadn't made it to the screening, thus ending the game of musical VIP chairs. The gala afterwards involved a private beach and firedancers/stilt-walkers and lots of free champagne and prominent local men courting, ehrm, Russian women, and run-ins with many people who I didn't particularly want to see... standard Dubai fare.
Anyhow, now I have one last day in Damascus (hopefully with some time to Christmas shop in the souks... expect a lot of Hizbullah-themed Christmas presents this year), then I fly back to Dubai tomorrow morning, and then I fly to Nashville (via Doha and New York) on Friday morning! I am actually not dreading the trip this time around, as I expect Qatar Airways will be 14 hours of movie-watching, seat-reclining, wine-sipping bliss... a nice change from my usual 5-hour layover in Frankfurt/Zurich followed by a god-awful transatlantic leg on United.
Sooooooooooooo... if by the grace of God you are already in America, keep it warm for me, and see you soon!
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Commercialize This
During this holiday season, when we are wont to lament the commercialization and corruption and exploitation of our Western holidays, we can all take some consolation in the fact that, as a culture, we are not alone. The other day while driving around town listening to the radio, I heard a fabulously and unintentionally hilarious ad from one of the local mobile phone networks advertising free roaming service in Saudi Arabia during hajj season. The ad ended with the super-posh British-accented commercial voice saying "May God accept your hajj!" and maybe you had to hear it to appreciate it, but... wow. The incongruity of it all made me laugh so hard I cried.
This was meant to be a longer post but it is past midnight on Friday night and I have just been summoned to go meet Flatmate E and his visiting BF in Deira to go to our favorite prostitute bar (not to HIRE the prostitutes, obvi, but to conduct our every-few-months demographic and sociocultural study of their lives). So a longer post will come later this weekend.
XOXO
This was meant to be a longer post but it is past midnight on Friday night and I have just been summoned to go meet Flatmate E and his visiting BF in Deira to go to our favorite prostitute bar (not to HIRE the prostitutes, obvi, but to conduct our every-few-months demographic and sociocultural study of their lives). So a longer post will come later this weekend.
XOXO
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
Marathon #5
The tale of a city, a 26.2 mile race, and how I learned to stop worrying and love the Lebanese army...
Our story begins at the obscenely early hour of 5:45 AM on Sunday morning, when L and I straggled out of our hotel, into a taxi, and onto a shuttle bus to the starting line. Cold, tired, and nervous, we were of course thrilled to discover that the bus was full of Lebanese men, Russian men, Polish men, potentially Ukrainian men, indiscriminately Slavic men, and maybe even a Kazakh (man) or two. Yup - ambassadors of culture and gender, that's us!
When we finally arrived at the course, I had to rub my eyes in disbelief when I looked at the street signs and realized that we were starting the race from smack dab in the middle of Sabra and Shatila. For those of you that did not spend your senior year of university stalking Lebanon for an ill-fated thesis, and/or are too lazy to visit Wikipedia, I will tell you: Sabra and Shatila are the pair of crazy-ass Palestinian refugee camps where several hundred innocent civilians were murdered under the watch of Ariel Sharon during the 1982 war in Lebanon. It’s kind of like starting your marathon from… I don’t know, Columbine or Ground Zero or the Oberoi Hotel. Inauspicious, you might say. Don't get me wrong, I always feel like crying at the beginning of a marathon, but not usually because I’m in a globally renowned locus of unfettered evil and human suffering.
(Haha, although now that I think about it, I did feel extra weepy at the starting line for Dubai last year…)
At any rate. The sun rose, we stretched, we ate our bananas, and we saw some other Westerners, which greatly assuaged our worries about where the hell we were and what the hell we were doing. We even met a cool (if crazy) 50something American woman who was running her 40th (!!!) marathon and had spent the past two years making a documentary about the race in Beirut and how it’s a metaphor for the resilience of the human spirit. Hmmm.
Before we knew it it was 7 AM, and the starting gun went off at 7:10 AM (Arab Standard Time). What follows is a blow-by-blow of things I remember, as they unfolded (with the caveat that when the body depletes its glycogen stores, mental reasoning is one of the first skills to go… look for that around 25K).
1-3 K: Oh hai marathoning! We feel great! Yay! A charming Lebanese DJ plays “What A Feeling” from Flashdance by the side of the road and it seems – for the time being – to be a great, fun, motivational song. A few hundred meters in, I get passed by a white guy of indiscernable provenance who yells out “HEY! I know you! You were in the Ras Al Khaimah half marathon last year!” Um… okay, crazy. I mean, I was, but wow. We’re 1,300 miles away and that was 10 months ago and you just recognized me from my ass/calves/trademark hair bun. This is the first of three krazy-rando brushes with coincidence for the day.
3-6 K: Second krazy-rando brush with coincidence. We pack in with a tall, cute, all-American guy from California and start chatting him up, only to find out he lives in Kabul, at which point L and I both exclaim with glee “Ooh, we have to play Kabul Name Game with you!” (Ed. note: in what context, other than my life, would that be an actual game people play?!) Turns out he knows like five of my friends from Kabul and is even in a poker group with one of them. I don’t know what kind of shady circles I run in (literally and figuratively) that I would happen upon someone running a marathon in Lebanon who knows my friends in Afghanistan, but I kind of even sketch myself out. Anyhow, at this point we realize we’re running down some kind of “Avenue of the Martyrs” in south Beirut which features posters of different Hezbollah suicide bomber about every 100 meters… tempered by a Lebanese military guard brandishing an automatic weapon about every 50 meters, so the ratio worked out in our favor.
6-12 K: Settle into our stride, leave All-American Kabul Dude in our wake. Look for a bathroom around 10 K, to no avail. Around 11 K a nice race organizer pedals past us on his bike. We ask where the toilets are and he responds, “oh… they were back at the start." WTF?! This prompts a kilometer-long tirade from me, denouncing the Lebanese for not being “solutions-oriented” and failing to adhere to “best practice” of having a toilet every 3-5 K, at which point L asks me to please stop talking like a consultant during the race or else she will yak. Around 12 K, we find an abandoned underground parking garage in which we just barely manage to pop a squat before a soldier kicks us out. Mission accomplished.
15 K: We pack in with Serge, a very cute Lebanese 18 year-old in basketball shoes who is running his first marathon on a whim. He fills me with a little rage because he alternates between sprinting ahead of us and lagging behind, but still wants to chat with us the whole time (total breach of marathon etiquette). I try to convince L that we should leave him, but she makes the valid point that it might come in handy to have an Arabic speaker near us in the field, which it soon does when L needs another toilet break and Serge is able to convince some petrol station owners to let her use their loo. (Tell me, what did I pay a $50 entry fee for if not for toilets on the course? Was I subsidizing the Hezbollah posters?!)
18 K: Some Poles pass us. L speaks to them in Russian. They do not understand her, however Teenage Lebanese Serge does, because apparently his father was a diplomat and he was born in Moscow. He asks her why she speaks Russian and she gets to whip out the all-time best-ever marathon line, the nonchalant "eh, I used to work in nuclear security." We hear "What A Feeling" for the third or fourth time. WHO TOLD THE LEBANESE THIS WAS A RUNNING SONG?
20 K: We pass through Beirut's Armenian quarter, identifiable by the fact that every shop is called something along the lines of "Setrakian's Laundry" or "Dr. Garabedian's Happy Teeth Dental Clinic." That, and the group of festive Lebanese-Armenian police officers who do a little clapping dance for us as we run by.
21K: HALF!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! We sprint the end of the 21st kilometer to finish the first half right at 2:00 (which, had it not been for Toilet Tourism, would have easily been 1:55). Teenage Lebanese Serge falls off the pace. Very soon thereafter, we enter The Dark Place.
22-31 K: The Dark Place. You could say it was our own fault for failing to manage expectations, but based on a cursory glance at the course map, we had thought this part of the race would be along the Mediterranean... which it kind of was, if you interpret "along the Mediterranean" to mean "wedged between a busy highway full of lecherous Lebanese men honking at us from vintage 1970s-era Peugeots and a dank row of old crappy buildings which were only about 50 meters away from the Mediterranean, but obscured any possible pleasant view." Add this to NO spectators, extremely sporadic water stations, and the blazing Mediterranean sun, and you get... well, The Dark Place. I had forgotten how overwhelmingly sad I get during marathons, especially about 13-18 miles in, when you've come too far to quit but you're not close enough to see the light at the end of the tunnel. It's a terrible feeling - like being stuck smack dab in the middle of the grieving process, when you're past the denial phase but you can't yet imagine how you're ever going to get through it.
32 K: 20 miles! I had planned to do my Gu here, but of course there was no water station, so I swallow my tears instead and carry on.
33 K: Water. Gu. Walking, for a bit. We pass a Lebanese woman who I had mowed down with mental judgement at the starting line (okay, she was wearing makeup and fake blue contact lenses and long fake-blonde hair and she was Lebanese - I was right to be incredulous). We cheer her on and I have one of those Great Moments of Marathon Equanimity where I got all "how dare I judge people, it's great that she's breaking stereotypes, everyone should run marathons and then we would all impress each other all the time, LA LA LA" in my head. And then two seconds later I was like "thank God we passed her, I would be so embarassed to get beaten by a Lebanese chick." Glycogen depletion. Sigh.
34 K: Third krazy-rando brush with coincidence - L has an old Italian (?) guy charge her, yelling "S... A... I... S! S... A... I... S?!" at which point we are both like dude WTF is going on and then we realize he's pronouncing the individual letters of the acronym for her grad school, as opposed to just calling it "SAIS" like, oh you know, normal people do. Anyhow, we shuffle along talking to him for a bit and apparently he is the tennis partner of someone she knew in grad school in DC and he picked her out of the crowd. All I have to say is, "Team G-Unit: Attracting Stalkers to a Marathon Near You!"
35-37 K: At a certain point L stops to walk and I stop as well, prompting her to be like "NO GO ON WITHOUT ME!" So I had to be like "NO I'VE WANTED TO WALK FOR THE PAST 5 K" and we kind of have a little mini head-butt about who is slowing whom down, if indeed that is the case, and then we hug and make up and proceed to be like "mmmmmm... walking!" for the next two minutes. When we start running again, I immediately go to The Very Dark Place (not to be confused with The Dark Place) which is actually quite entertaining because it involves thinking pseudo-deep glycogen-deprived thoughts about life and love and struggle and triumph and how somehow every challenge you've ever faced (or are facing, or will face) in your life relates back to finishing this marathon. I imagine The Very Dark Place is kind of like being on psychotropic drugs in terms of the beautiful crystalline false-clarity of the revelations you have while under their influence.
38-40 K: Of course, the organizers pick this point in the race to shoot everyone out onto an open highway that has one lane blocked off (kind of) for runners. Just what you want when you're so exhausted you can barely move in a straight line: a 2-inch margin of error for getting hit by a speeding car!
41-42 K: HOME STRETCH!!!!! L is disturbingly quiet except for occasionally yelling out "Shit! I have nothing left!" to no one in particular, so I start giving breathless speeches about inertia and how by this point we cannot be stopped. Having never run a marathon "with" someone (the two marathons I ran with Lar involved him finishing 10-20 minutes ahead of me), I have to say that it was immensely comforting to have someone next to me in those lonely silent terrible last few kilometers - there is definitely something to the idea that you draw on each other's strength.
42.195 K: Before we knew it, it was over in 4:16:09 - 27 minutes slower than my best time, but 22 minutes faster than Dubai last year, the "reemergence" of my marathoning career.
Postlude: medals, blisters, Starbucks, pastries, showers, Christmas music, 2 bottles of champagne, TGI Friday's (yes, in downtown Beirut), 3-hour flight home.
Next stop: Dubai Marathon, 16 January 2009. A triumphant return to sub-4-hour marathoning, you heard it hear first!
Our story begins at the obscenely early hour of 5:45 AM on Sunday morning, when L and I straggled out of our hotel, into a taxi, and onto a shuttle bus to the starting line. Cold, tired, and nervous, we were of course thrilled to discover that the bus was full of Lebanese men, Russian men, Polish men, potentially Ukrainian men, indiscriminately Slavic men, and maybe even a Kazakh (man) or two. Yup - ambassadors of culture and gender, that's us!
When we finally arrived at the course, I had to rub my eyes in disbelief when I looked at the street signs and realized that we were starting the race from smack dab in the middle of Sabra and Shatila. For those of you that did not spend your senior year of university stalking Lebanon for an ill-fated thesis, and/or are too lazy to visit Wikipedia, I will tell you: Sabra and Shatila are the pair of crazy-ass Palestinian refugee camps where several hundred innocent civilians were murdered under the watch of Ariel Sharon during the 1982 war in Lebanon. It’s kind of like starting your marathon from… I don’t know, Columbine or Ground Zero or the Oberoi Hotel. Inauspicious, you might say. Don't get me wrong, I always feel like crying at the beginning of a marathon, but not usually because I’m in a globally renowned locus of unfettered evil and human suffering.
(Haha, although now that I think about it, I did feel extra weepy at the starting line for Dubai last year…)
At any rate. The sun rose, we stretched, we ate our bananas, and we saw some other Westerners, which greatly assuaged our worries about where the hell we were and what the hell we were doing. We even met a cool (if crazy) 50something American woman who was running her 40th (!!!) marathon and had spent the past two years making a documentary about the race in Beirut and how it’s a metaphor for the resilience of the human spirit. Hmmm.
Before we knew it it was 7 AM, and the starting gun went off at 7:10 AM (Arab Standard Time). What follows is a blow-by-blow of things I remember, as they unfolded (with the caveat that when the body depletes its glycogen stores, mental reasoning is one of the first skills to go… look for that around 25K).
1-3 K: Oh hai marathoning! We feel great! Yay! A charming Lebanese DJ plays “What A Feeling” from Flashdance by the side of the road and it seems – for the time being – to be a great, fun, motivational song. A few hundred meters in, I get passed by a white guy of indiscernable provenance who yells out “HEY! I know you! You were in the Ras Al Khaimah half marathon last year!” Um… okay, crazy. I mean, I was, but wow. We’re 1,300 miles away and that was 10 months ago and you just recognized me from my ass/calves/trademark hair bun. This is the first of three krazy-rando brushes with coincidence for the day.
3-6 K: Second krazy-rando brush with coincidence. We pack in with a tall, cute, all-American guy from California and start chatting him up, only to find out he lives in Kabul, at which point L and I both exclaim with glee “Ooh, we have to play Kabul Name Game with you!” (Ed. note: in what context, other than my life, would that be an actual game people play?!) Turns out he knows like five of my friends from Kabul and is even in a poker group with one of them. I don’t know what kind of shady circles I run in (literally and figuratively) that I would happen upon someone running a marathon in Lebanon who knows my friends in Afghanistan, but I kind of even sketch myself out. Anyhow, at this point we realize we’re running down some kind of “Avenue of the Martyrs” in south Beirut which features posters of different Hezbollah suicide bomber about every 100 meters… tempered by a Lebanese military guard brandishing an automatic weapon about every 50 meters, so the ratio worked out in our favor.
6-12 K: Settle into our stride, leave All-American Kabul Dude in our wake. Look for a bathroom around 10 K, to no avail. Around 11 K a nice race organizer pedals past us on his bike. We ask where the toilets are and he responds, “oh… they were back at the start." WTF?! This prompts a kilometer-long tirade from me, denouncing the Lebanese for not being “solutions-oriented” and failing to adhere to “best practice” of having a toilet every 3-5 K, at which point L asks me to please stop talking like a consultant during the race or else she will yak. Around 12 K, we find an abandoned underground parking garage in which we just barely manage to pop a squat before a soldier kicks us out. Mission accomplished.
15 K: We pack in with Serge, a very cute Lebanese 18 year-old in basketball shoes who is running his first marathon on a whim. He fills me with a little rage because he alternates between sprinting ahead of us and lagging behind, but still wants to chat with us the whole time (total breach of marathon etiquette). I try to convince L that we should leave him, but she makes the valid point that it might come in handy to have an Arabic speaker near us in the field, which it soon does when L needs another toilet break and Serge is able to convince some petrol station owners to let her use their loo. (Tell me, what did I pay a $50 entry fee for if not for toilets on the course? Was I subsidizing the Hezbollah posters?!)
18 K: Some Poles pass us. L speaks to them in Russian. They do not understand her, however Teenage Lebanese Serge does, because apparently his father was a diplomat and he was born in Moscow. He asks her why she speaks Russian and she gets to whip out the all-time best-ever marathon line, the nonchalant "eh, I used to work in nuclear security." We hear "What A Feeling" for the third or fourth time. WHO TOLD THE LEBANESE THIS WAS A RUNNING SONG?
20 K: We pass through Beirut's Armenian quarter, identifiable by the fact that every shop is called something along the lines of "Setrakian's Laundry" or "Dr. Garabedian's Happy Teeth Dental Clinic." That, and the group of festive Lebanese-Armenian police officers who do a little clapping dance for us as we run by.
21K: HALF!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! We sprint the end of the 21st kilometer to finish the first half right at 2:00 (which, had it not been for Toilet Tourism, would have easily been 1:55). Teenage Lebanese Serge falls off the pace. Very soon thereafter, we enter The Dark Place.
22-31 K: The Dark Place. You could say it was our own fault for failing to manage expectations, but based on a cursory glance at the course map, we had thought this part of the race would be along the Mediterranean... which it kind of was, if you interpret "along the Mediterranean" to mean "wedged between a busy highway full of lecherous Lebanese men honking at us from vintage 1970s-era Peugeots and a dank row of old crappy buildings which were only about 50 meters away from the Mediterranean, but obscured any possible pleasant view." Add this to NO spectators, extremely sporadic water stations, and the blazing Mediterranean sun, and you get... well, The Dark Place. I had forgotten how overwhelmingly sad I get during marathons, especially about 13-18 miles in, when you've come too far to quit but you're not close enough to see the light at the end of the tunnel. It's a terrible feeling - like being stuck smack dab in the middle of the grieving process, when you're past the denial phase but you can't yet imagine how you're ever going to get through it.
32 K: 20 miles! I had planned to do my Gu here, but of course there was no water station, so I swallow my tears instead and carry on.
33 K: Water. Gu. Walking, for a bit. We pass a Lebanese woman who I had mowed down with mental judgement at the starting line (okay, she was wearing makeup and fake blue contact lenses and long fake-blonde hair and she was Lebanese - I was right to be incredulous). We cheer her on and I have one of those Great Moments of Marathon Equanimity where I got all "how dare I judge people, it's great that she's breaking stereotypes, everyone should run marathons and then we would all impress each other all the time, LA LA LA" in my head. And then two seconds later I was like "thank God we passed her, I would be so embarassed to get beaten by a Lebanese chick." Glycogen depletion. Sigh.
34 K: Third krazy-rando brush with coincidence - L has an old Italian (?) guy charge her, yelling "S... A... I... S! S... A... I... S?!" at which point we are both like dude WTF is going on and then we realize he's pronouncing the individual letters of the acronym for her grad school, as opposed to just calling it "SAIS" like, oh you know, normal people do. Anyhow, we shuffle along talking to him for a bit and apparently he is the tennis partner of someone she knew in grad school in DC and he picked her out of the crowd. All I have to say is, "Team G-Unit: Attracting Stalkers to a Marathon Near You!"
35-37 K: At a certain point L stops to walk and I stop as well, prompting her to be like "NO GO ON WITHOUT ME!" So I had to be like "NO I'VE WANTED TO WALK FOR THE PAST 5 K" and we kind of have a little mini head-butt about who is slowing whom down, if indeed that is the case, and then we hug and make up and proceed to be like "mmmmmm... walking!" for the next two minutes. When we start running again, I immediately go to The Very Dark Place (not to be confused with The Dark Place) which is actually quite entertaining because it involves thinking pseudo-deep glycogen-deprived thoughts about life and love and struggle and triumph and how somehow every challenge you've ever faced (or are facing, or will face) in your life relates back to finishing this marathon. I imagine The Very Dark Place is kind of like being on psychotropic drugs in terms of the beautiful crystalline false-clarity of the revelations you have while under their influence.
38-40 K: Of course, the organizers pick this point in the race to shoot everyone out onto an open highway that has one lane blocked off (kind of) for runners. Just what you want when you're so exhausted you can barely move in a straight line: a 2-inch margin of error for getting hit by a speeding car!
41-42 K: HOME STRETCH!!!!! L is disturbingly quiet except for occasionally yelling out "Shit! I have nothing left!" to no one in particular, so I start giving breathless speeches about inertia and how by this point we cannot be stopped. Having never run a marathon "with" someone (the two marathons I ran with Lar involved him finishing 10-20 minutes ahead of me), I have to say that it was immensely comforting to have someone next to me in those lonely silent terrible last few kilometers - there is definitely something to the idea that you draw on each other's strength.
42.195 K: Before we knew it, it was over in 4:16:09 - 27 minutes slower than my best time, but 22 minutes faster than Dubai last year, the "reemergence" of my marathoning career.
Postlude: medals, blisters, Starbucks, pastries, showers, Christmas music, 2 bottles of champagne, TGI Friday's (yes, in downtown Beirut), 3-hour flight home.
Next stop: Dubai Marathon, 16 January 2009. A triumphant return to sub-4-hour marathoning, you heard it hear first!
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Addendum
Most of all, I am thankful that my half-dozen good friends and colleagues who are in Mumbai for a friend's wedding this weekend are safe, sound, and not staying in any of the targeted hotels. Terrifying.
On Giving Thanks and Redeeming Douchebags
Since I will probably not have a chance to do any earnest giving of thanks at my Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow night (you know, amidst the manservants and the vieille reserve cognac and the swimming breaks off the shores of the Palm... not so much the situation for earnestness), I thought I would take this opportunity to be thankful for:
1. My indescribably wonderful family who I will see 22 days from today (minus the one with Yellow Fever who's forsaken us for Asia AGAIN... although I'm thankful for her, too).
2. Sam Sam the Weiner Man.
3. The Olde Tyme friends reading this from America, Singapore, the UK, Germany, and other locales who know (or should know) that their willingness to laugh/coach me through life from thousands of miles away (often via Gchat or SMS) makes my day on pretty much a daily basis.
4. The crazy, eclectic group of people who have become my framily (friends + family... any takers?) in Dubai. It has certainly not always been a smooth ride, but finding good people in this town is like finding a needle in the world's biggest, tallest, most expensive 7-star haystack, and I am truly blessed to have found (and hung onto) the ones I have.
5. The chance to live, play, travel, and frolic in a region of the world that I've always dreamed about, frustrating though it may be at times. It's especially worthy of gratitude in an era where the sky happens to be falling a little less here than it is in other places.
6. My great, stressful, intimidating new job, which is showing me - for the first time in my career - the challenges and rewards of working with really really insanely smart people. And earning me lots of frequent flier miles, to boot.
7. Change we can believe in.
8. The krazy (not to be confused with crazy) relationships and "relationships"I've had since moving here. Some have been good, many have been bad, but I've learned a lot from them and I feel like these lessons will coalesce in the not-too-distant future and lead me to a point where "krazy" becomes just "crazy."
9. The way that I will feel around 11 AM on Sunday morning when I look out over the Mediterranean having just run 26.2 miles. The chance to push myself. The memory of being on a cracked-out 3-hour training run a few weeks ago in 95F heat and adamantly deciding that "You Shook Me All Night Long" would be my new theme song because of the lines "she was a fast machine / she kept her motor clean" and more aptly "knockin' me out with those American thighs."The fact that I could knock someone out with my thighs these days.
10. Assorted shallow consumery things that I actually do give thanks for on a daily basis because my life would be bleak and pleasureless without them, including but not limited to: Gossip Girl, Starbucks skinny extra-shot lattes, Target, the Blackberry 8800, the Sonicare 7300 Elite, Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper (even when it costs $1.25 a can because it's been air freighted over from the States), the Asics Gel Nimbus, Cotton Candy LipSmackers, iTunes Genius for realizing that if I like Hilary Duff I might also like Miley Cyrus, Hendrick's and tonic with a slice of cucumber, OPI nail polish, NPR podcasts, the nice folks at Hyundai who designed a $15 SUV that I can repeatedly crash into things without it driving any worse for the wear, and O Magazine which is not my bible but is pretty darn close.
So, to all of these things: I am thankful for you. :)
And to close, a funny story. I believe I've blogged about my across-the-hall neighbor before, he of "I'm a successful 30something barrister, and I play polo, and I drive a $200,000 car, and I'm devastatingly handsome and oh-so-perfectly posh and witty and flirtatious" fame - the catch being that he has a wife and kids who live in London but don't stop him from bringing home assorted blondes at 2 AM, a phenomenon which Flatmate E and I frequently bear witness too. Anyhow, long story short, ever since meeting his "wife and kids" whilst afternoon-drinking at the pool about a year ago, E and I have held him up as the Archetypal Dubai Asshole - so much potential, and yet such a douche - and warned more than a few people to stay away from him. Aaaaaaaanyhow, he's in with our new crew of equestrian-set friends, so as it turned out we ended up having him over for a couple bottles of wine last Saturday night, which of course got messy, which of course led to E and I spilling the beans and telling him in no uncertain terms that the jig was up and we knew he was married with children.
Which led to uproarious laughter on his part and the procurement, via iPhone, of family pictures proving pretty irrefutably that his "wife" is actually his sister and the "kids" are actually his nieces/nephews.
Whoops.
So tonight I get home from Syria and I find the following note slipped under my door:
Thank you for the loan of the wine glass and the sheer quality entertainment on Saturday night. I owe you some wine. I will remedy this week!!
A
P.S. The wife and the kids are doing just fine - they are just disappointed that 007 spent all his money on an Aston Martin!!
HA! Moral of the story: just because it walks like a douchebag and talks like a douchebag and seems to engage in infidelity like a douchebag, doesn't mean it's aaaaaaaaaaalways a douchebag. Just 99.9% of the time. ;)
Stay tuned for post-marathon updates from Beirut on Sunday, and HAPPY THANKSGIVING!
1. My indescribably wonderful family who I will see 22 days from today (minus the one with Yellow Fever who's forsaken us for Asia AGAIN... although I'm thankful for her, too).
2. Sam Sam the Weiner Man.
3. The Olde Tyme friends reading this from America, Singapore, the UK, Germany, and other locales who know (or should know) that their willingness to laugh/coach me through life from thousands of miles away (often via Gchat or SMS) makes my day on pretty much a daily basis.
4. The crazy, eclectic group of people who have become my framily (friends + family... any takers?) in Dubai. It has certainly not always been a smooth ride, but finding good people in this town is like finding a needle in the world's biggest, tallest, most expensive 7-star haystack, and I am truly blessed to have found (and hung onto) the ones I have.
5. The chance to live, play, travel, and frolic in a region of the world that I've always dreamed about, frustrating though it may be at times. It's especially worthy of gratitude in an era where the sky happens to be falling a little less here than it is in other places.
6. My great, stressful, intimidating new job, which is showing me - for the first time in my career - the challenges and rewards of working with really really insanely smart people. And earning me lots of frequent flier miles, to boot.
7. Change we can believe in.
8. The krazy (not to be confused with crazy) relationships and "relationships"I've had since moving here. Some have been good, many have been bad, but I've learned a lot from them and I feel like these lessons will coalesce in the not-too-distant future and lead me to a point where "krazy" becomes just "crazy."
9. The way that I will feel around 11 AM on Sunday morning when I look out over the Mediterranean having just run 26.2 miles. The chance to push myself. The memory of being on a cracked-out 3-hour training run a few weeks ago in 95F heat and adamantly deciding that "You Shook Me All Night Long" would be my new theme song because of the lines "she was a fast machine / she kept her motor clean" and more aptly "knockin' me out with those American thighs."The fact that I could knock someone out with my thighs these days.
10. Assorted shallow consumery things that I actually do give thanks for on a daily basis because my life would be bleak and pleasureless without them, including but not limited to: Gossip Girl, Starbucks skinny extra-shot lattes, Target, the Blackberry 8800, the Sonicare 7300 Elite, Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper (even when it costs $1.25 a can because it's been air freighted over from the States), the Asics Gel Nimbus, Cotton Candy LipSmackers, iTunes Genius for realizing that if I like Hilary Duff I might also like Miley Cyrus, Hendrick's and tonic with a slice of cucumber, OPI nail polish, NPR podcasts, the nice folks at Hyundai who designed a $15 SUV that I can repeatedly crash into things without it driving any worse for the wear, and O Magazine which is not my bible but is pretty darn close.
So, to all of these things: I am thankful for you. :)
And to close, a funny story. I believe I've blogged about my across-the-hall neighbor before, he of "I'm a successful 30something barrister, and I play polo, and I drive a $200,000 car, and I'm devastatingly handsome and oh-so-perfectly posh and witty and flirtatious" fame - the catch being that he has a wife and kids who live in London but don't stop him from bringing home assorted blondes at 2 AM, a phenomenon which Flatmate E and I frequently bear witness too. Anyhow, long story short, ever since meeting his "wife and kids" whilst afternoon-drinking at the pool about a year ago, E and I have held him up as the Archetypal Dubai Asshole - so much potential, and yet such a douche - and warned more than a few people to stay away from him. Aaaaaaaanyhow, he's in with our new crew of equestrian-set friends, so as it turned out we ended up having him over for a couple bottles of wine last Saturday night, which of course got messy, which of course led to E and I spilling the beans and telling him in no uncertain terms that the jig was up and we knew he was married with children.
Which led to uproarious laughter on his part and the procurement, via iPhone, of family pictures proving pretty irrefutably that his "wife" is actually his sister and the "kids" are actually his nieces/nephews.
Whoops.
So tonight I get home from Syria and I find the following note slipped under my door:
Thank you for the loan of the wine glass and the sheer quality entertainment on Saturday night. I owe you some wine. I will remedy this week!!
A
P.S. The wife and the kids are doing just fine - they are just disappointed that 007 spent all his money on an Aston Martin!!
HA! Moral of the story: just because it walks like a douchebag and talks like a douchebag and seems to engage in infidelity like a douchebag, doesn't mean it's aaaaaaaaaaalways a douchebag. Just 99.9% of the time. ;)
Stay tuned for post-marathon updates from Beirut on Sunday, and HAPPY THANKSGIVING!
Monday, November 24, 2008
You Can't Go Home Again?
Wow, has it really been 2 weeks since I blogged? Freneticism, sorry.
The title for this post was actually inspired by a talk I had last Saturday night with Blonde American Friend L's mom. Since parents - or any people of an equal wisdom/life experience/non-douchiness level - are rare in Dubai, I'm always super-excited to stalk visiting parental units whenever they happen to roll into town. (Pointed "ahem" in the direction of Tennessee...)
In that spirit, L & I brought her visiting mom to a friend's dinner party last weekend, where I had a great heart-to-heart with Mrs. G about expatriate life and cross-cultural adjustment. Momma G is an academic who has done research into exchange programs and lived abroad in Australia herself, so it was interesting to talk to her about how, based on typical expatriation studies, the time you're most homesick is about 90 days out, and how it's funny that I really never got super-homesick until I had been here for right around a year, and why that was, and all the different variations in people's international experiences, and how we each adjust to this crazy unwieldy experience of being an alien.
The most interesting takeaway I had from our conversation was what she said about going home. She was just coming from a week of meetings in Qatar with American colleagues who have lived abroad for a decade or more, and she said that across the board, they all say the same thing: you can't go home again. In other words, you can physically go back to the States, to visit or to live, but it won't be the place you left - the people won't be the same as you left them, and you won't relate to your surroundings the same way you did before you went away. After living abroad in the long term, she claims, you'll always be kind of "neither here nor there."
It's interesting, and it's something to thing about as my life here unfolds... there's definitely a part of her thinking that resonates with me, because I do sometimes feel stuck in between. People here can never reeeeeeeeally know me the way that people back home do, but at the same time, people back home can never reeeeeeeeally understand what my life here is like. Interesting.
At any rate, in the fortnight since last I blogged... was in Dubai two weeks ago, Syria last week, Dubai this weekend, and now off to Syria again from tomorrow morning until Wednesday night, when I fly back to Dubai, have Thanksgiving at a friend's house on the Palm (yeah yeah, I was going to cook, but he has hired help... and a 15,000 square-foot villa in which the manservants may roam freely as they cook for us), then fly to Beirut, do some touristy things, run a marathon on Sunday, fly back to Dubai, and finally end up back in Syria on Monday morning, I think via Bahrain because all the other flights are booked and/or don't get me there in time for my Monday meetings. Fun week!
Last week in Syria was good but crazy. 15-hour days are the norm on the road, and after one such day I caused more than a bit of trouble for myself by going on a late-night run that accidentally ended with me wandering onto the grounds of the presidential palace, getting chased by a Syrian army guard who charged towards me with his Kalashnikov drawn, trigger pulled, causing me to drop to my knees bawling, hands in the air, inventing Arabic explanations to get myself out of trouble ("shoo moushkila? ana asfa! ana bint! mafi moushkila!" - "what's the problem? I'm sorry! I'm a woman! There's no problem!" [... which, come to think of it, is kind of reminiscent of my famous admonition to the Italian gypsy children who tried to rob us on a bus in Rome back in 2001: "basta, basta! non va bene!" - "enough, enough! it is not going well!" ... clearly, my linguistic skills are at top form during times of crisis]).
Anyhow! Having survived my gun run-in (and the police escort that drove me back to my hotel when I was released but deemed suspicious enough to warrant supervision), I got back to Dubai just in time to watch the world's largest fireworks display on Thursday night in celebration of the grand opening of the Atlantis (which, ho hum, I've already been to like 5 times... meh, this is what happens when your soft opening and your hard opening are 2 months apart and you live in a town where there's nothing else to do besides scope 5-star hotels). Friday involved champagne brunch at the Ritz then a trip to the new Dubai Mall, where L and I watched some sharks, drop-kicked some ill-disciplined toddlers, and decided - much to our chagrin - that an hour was too long to wait in line for the first Taco Bell in the Middle East. Saturday featured a fast 8-miler (last hard run before the marathon!), some polo matches at Arabian Ranches (um... because we're in with the equestrian set now), and then dinner and drinks with Pakistani-Hollywood friend TK (he of the Seventh Heaven introductions) at the new Address hotel, where one of our dinner companions turned out to be the Today Show correspondent who had just covered the Atlantis opening. Ha. Only in Dubai.
All of which leads me to say... I should go to bed. Because whether or not I can go home again, I still have to go to Syria tomorrow. XOXO!
The title for this post was actually inspired by a talk I had last Saturday night with Blonde American Friend L's mom. Since parents - or any people of an equal wisdom/life experience/non-douchiness level - are rare in Dubai, I'm always super-excited to stalk visiting parental units whenever they happen to roll into town. (Pointed "ahem" in the direction of Tennessee...)
In that spirit, L & I brought her visiting mom to a friend's dinner party last weekend, where I had a great heart-to-heart with Mrs. G about expatriate life and cross-cultural adjustment. Momma G is an academic who has done research into exchange programs and lived abroad in Australia herself, so it was interesting to talk to her about how, based on typical expatriation studies, the time you're most homesick is about 90 days out, and how it's funny that I really never got super-homesick until I had been here for right around a year, and why that was, and all the different variations in people's international experiences, and how we each adjust to this crazy unwieldy experience of being an alien.
The most interesting takeaway I had from our conversation was what she said about going home. She was just coming from a week of meetings in Qatar with American colleagues who have lived abroad for a decade or more, and she said that across the board, they all say the same thing: you can't go home again. In other words, you can physically go back to the States, to visit or to live, but it won't be the place you left - the people won't be the same as you left them, and you won't relate to your surroundings the same way you did before you went away. After living abroad in the long term, she claims, you'll always be kind of "neither here nor there."
It's interesting, and it's something to thing about as my life here unfolds... there's definitely a part of her thinking that resonates with me, because I do sometimes feel stuck in between. People here can never reeeeeeeeally know me the way that people back home do, but at the same time, people back home can never reeeeeeeeally understand what my life here is like. Interesting.
At any rate, in the fortnight since last I blogged... was in Dubai two weeks ago, Syria last week, Dubai this weekend, and now off to Syria again from tomorrow morning until Wednesday night, when I fly back to Dubai, have Thanksgiving at a friend's house on the Palm (yeah yeah, I was going to cook, but he has hired help... and a 15,000 square-foot villa in which the manservants may roam freely as they cook for us), then fly to Beirut, do some touristy things, run a marathon on Sunday, fly back to Dubai, and finally end up back in Syria on Monday morning, I think via Bahrain because all the other flights are booked and/or don't get me there in time for my Monday meetings. Fun week!
Last week in Syria was good but crazy. 15-hour days are the norm on the road, and after one such day I caused more than a bit of trouble for myself by going on a late-night run that accidentally ended with me wandering onto the grounds of the presidential palace, getting chased by a Syrian army guard who charged towards me with his Kalashnikov drawn, trigger pulled, causing me to drop to my knees bawling, hands in the air, inventing Arabic explanations to get myself out of trouble ("shoo moushkila? ana asfa! ana bint! mafi moushkila!" - "what's the problem? I'm sorry! I'm a woman! There's no problem!" [... which, come to think of it, is kind of reminiscent of my famous admonition to the Italian gypsy children who tried to rob us on a bus in Rome back in 2001: "basta, basta! non va bene!" - "enough, enough! it is not going well!" ... clearly, my linguistic skills are at top form during times of crisis]).
Anyhow! Having survived my gun run-in (and the police escort that drove me back to my hotel when I was released but deemed suspicious enough to warrant supervision), I got back to Dubai just in time to watch the world's largest fireworks display on Thursday night in celebration of the grand opening of the Atlantis (which, ho hum, I've already been to like 5 times... meh, this is what happens when your soft opening and your hard opening are 2 months apart and you live in a town where there's nothing else to do besides scope 5-star hotels). Friday involved champagne brunch at the Ritz then a trip to the new Dubai Mall, where L and I watched some sharks, drop-kicked some ill-disciplined toddlers, and decided - much to our chagrin - that an hour was too long to wait in line for the first Taco Bell in the Middle East. Saturday featured a fast 8-miler (last hard run before the marathon!), some polo matches at Arabian Ranches (um... because we're in with the equestrian set now), and then dinner and drinks with Pakistani-Hollywood friend TK (he of the Seventh Heaven introductions) at the new Address hotel, where one of our dinner companions turned out to be the Today Show correspondent who had just covered the Atlantis opening. Ha. Only in Dubai.
All of which leads me to say... I should go to bed. Because whether or not I can go home again, I still have to go to Syria tomorrow. XOXO!
Sunday, November 2, 2008
On the Road Again
Sooooooooooooo. Tomorrow morning I fly out to Damascus to FINALLY start working with the client for my new project. For those of you who are counting, that makes two and a half months and two false starts (Saudi, Vietnam) before things have finally gotten rolling - but hey, such is life in this part of the world. I am super, super excited to be in Syria a lot over the next two months, although it's not exactly the best time to be there as an American working for a US firm... meh, what to do. I'll be too busy hammering out Powerpoint decks in my hotel room to get involved in any political intrigue.
It is, however, weird that I will be in Syria for the election. Anyone know any Yanks living in Damascus who can invite me to their results parties?!
Update on the running front: holy crap, I ran 18 miles tonight. And it didn't even suck! This, combined with 17 last week (which did suck, A LOT, because I accidentally forgot to eat any carbs in the 48 hours leading up to the run... shocking for someone who lives on a diet of pasta, instant noodles, and tortilla chips, I know), 15 the week before, and 12 the week before, means... wow, I'm actually training for marathons again. Who'da thunk it?! Less than a month to go until Beirut on the 30th, so we're right on track.
It is, however, weird that I will be in Syria for the election. Anyone know any Yanks living in Damascus who can invite me to their results parties?!
Update on the running front: holy crap, I ran 18 miles tonight. And it didn't even suck! This, combined with 17 last week (which did suck, A LOT, because I accidentally forgot to eat any carbs in the 48 hours leading up to the run... shocking for someone who lives on a diet of pasta, instant noodles, and tortilla chips, I know), 15 the week before, and 12 the week before, means... wow, I'm actually training for marathons again. Who'da thunk it?! Less than a month to go until Beirut on the 30th, so we're right on track.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Weekend Update
(1) I am watching an episode of "The Hills" and they keep talking about how they're all going to Cabo for Brody's birthday and it's going to be amazing and they're going to party so hard. And every time they mention it, I KEEP thinking they're saying "Kabul" instead of "Cabo" and I'm like "Wait, LC goes to Afghanistan for fun, too?! I always KNEW we would be friends!" Which I think means I live in the wrong part of the world to be watching trashy MTV "reality" shows.
(2) On that note, last night I got to sing Paris Hilton's "Stars Are Blind" on stage at our favorite Filipino club, backed up by the cover band. I think it was one of the best moments of my life. (Friend L was like, "I can't believe you know the words to that song!" and I was like, "Um hi, I know the words to that whole ALBUM... as well as the broader sociopolitical controversy of Paris working with producer JR at a time when he was thought to be dating Britney." Hey, it was during the Dark Year, I had a lot of time to devote to pop culture...) ANYHOW. I also realized last night that this place is our Dubai version of "Cheers" because we roll in (the only 10 white people in the club) and the band literally stops playing to be like "Mr. Eric! Mr. Eric is here! MR. ERIC!!!!" And I, um, get invited up on stage to sing songs. Because that's normal. (File under: Rude Awakenings To Be Had When I Return to A Place Where Blonde Women Make Up More Than 0.001% of the Population.)
(3) I am going to a schmancy group dinner at the new Nobu tonight, so I'm off to hit the gym and then scour my closet for an outfit that says "yes, I am a cute young thing and look how nice my legs are" while simultaneously saying "no, I am not cabin crew for Emirates, and if we could all purposefully ignore the fact that I'm 10 years younger and several million dollars poorer than everyone else at this table, that would be great." The sartorial holy grail!
(2) On that note, last night I got to sing Paris Hilton's "Stars Are Blind" on stage at our favorite Filipino club, backed up by the cover band. I think it was one of the best moments of my life. (Friend L was like, "I can't believe you know the words to that song!" and I was like, "Um hi, I know the words to that whole ALBUM... as well as the broader sociopolitical controversy of Paris working with producer JR at a time when he was thought to be dating Britney." Hey, it was during the Dark Year, I had a lot of time to devote to pop culture...) ANYHOW. I also realized last night that this place is our Dubai version of "Cheers" because we roll in (the only 10 white people in the club) and the band literally stops playing to be like "Mr. Eric! Mr. Eric is here! MR. ERIC!!!!" And I, um, get invited up on stage to sing songs. Because that's normal. (File under: Rude Awakenings To Be Had When I Return to A Place Where Blonde Women Make Up More Than 0.001% of the Population.)
(3) I am going to a schmancy group dinner at the new Nobu tonight, so I'm off to hit the gym and then scour my closet for an outfit that says "yes, I am a cute young thing and look how nice my legs are" while simultaneously saying "no, I am not cabin crew for Emirates, and if we could all purposefully ignore the fact that I'm 10 years younger and several million dollars poorer than everyone else at this table, that would be great." The sartorial holy grail!
Sunday, October 19, 2008
In Which I Further Consolidate My Grasp On C-List Power
These will not go up on Facebook because That Would Be Gauche, but I nonetheless wanted to share these pictures with my new friend Bev so that those of you who grew up watching "Seventh Heaven" could have a chuckle.
She just got married in Ravello and stopped through Dubai to see my friend TK on the way back from from her honeymoon in the Maldives... so obvi, we all had to go out on TK's boat for a celebratory afternoon of dabauchery. (In the case of L & I, we had done a 15-mile training run that morning, which makes for a VERY messy afternoon of nautical drinking... let's just say I'm less sore from the mileage than from wiping out on the boat deck several times.)
Hilarious. At any rate, she's a very sweet girl AND she just released a country album, so we got to talk Nashville which is, of course, a rarity here.
In other news, I am headed to Damascus a week from today to finally work "from the field" on my new project. Yay!
She just got married in Ravello and stopped through Dubai to see my friend TK on the way back from from her honeymoon in the Maldives... so obvi, we all had to go out on TK's boat for a celebratory afternoon of dabauchery. (In the case of L & I, we had done a 15-mile training run that morning, which makes for a VERY messy afternoon of nautical drinking... let's just say I'm less sore from the mileage than from wiping out on the boat deck several times.)
Hilarious. At any rate, she's a very sweet girl AND she just released a country album, so we got to talk Nashville which is, of course, a rarity here.
In other news, I am headed to Damascus a week from today to finally work "from the field" on my new project. Yay!
Sunday, October 12, 2008
On Identity & Adjustment
Do you ever have moments when you literally laugh at loud at yourself?
Friday morning at around 9:30 AM (remember Friday is the first day of the weekend here, so I'm usually still sleeping off my hangover at that hour, shawarma wrappers and stilettos strewn around my bed), I found myself driving down Sheikh Zayed Road.
Yes, that's right. Driving down the highway. In my SUV. Blaring Jessica Simpson's duet with Dolly Parton from her new country album. On my way to meet New American Friend M at the evangelical church he attends. And then to have lunch at the mall with fellow churchgoers.
And all of a sudden I started cracking up behind the wheel, as I realized - isn't this the life that, a year or two ago, I would have told you I left the US to avoid? More precisely, isn't it a scenario that I would have used, not to deride my roots, but to show how much more worldly I am than that? Cruising through suburban sprawl in my big fat car, listening to country music and hanging out with God-fearing people in churches and malls? [Insert over-educated, blue-state, latte-liberal value judgments here.]
And yet, I haven't been happier in Dubai in a LONG time than I was on Friday morning. (As I explained to E last night, "I mean, it's still Dubai, but at least if you meet people at church you know that they're trying not to be assholes.")
Which leads me to believe that... living abroad takes you back to your roots?
What I can't figure out is whether this has happened in a reactionary way ("F this place, how can I make myself most at odds with my surroundings?! Yes, I will listen to country music and go to church!") or just in a natural way ("I probably would have ended up liking country music and wanting to go to church after another 10 years of pseudointellectual postmodern posturing in New York or DC anyhow, but the intensity of Dubai sped the process along.")
I feel like this is all tied in with the fact that I'm starting to negotiate actually "living" in Dubai. I have noticed a qualitative difference (which has probably been apparent on this blog) in my attitude and mentality over the past few months, as I've inched up the ticker from "I've lived here a year" to "I've lived here almost a year and a half." It may seem like a subtle distinction, but I feel like it's only in hitting the year-plus mark that I've been forced to confront some of the realities of my life abroad. That phenomenon is borne out by some of the cursory readings I've done on acclimation and cross-cultural adjustment - hell, it even ties in with the theory of a "sophomore slump" at university, which I knew and suffered through all too well.
In all my previous experiences "living" abroad - 6 weeks in France, 3 months in Italy, 6 months in Scotland, 11 months in England - I've never actually gotten to the stock-taking phase of my life there. I've never settled in enough for the noise to die down, for the bells and whistles to stop going off, for everything to stop being new! and exciting! and different! and just be... mundane, and sometimes very frustrating. And now that I'm at that point, it's very interesting to see where it takes me.
To the unlikeliest of places, it would seem. And yet... maybe not so unlikely after all. ;)
Friday morning at around 9:30 AM (remember Friday is the first day of the weekend here, so I'm usually still sleeping off my hangover at that hour, shawarma wrappers and stilettos strewn around my bed), I found myself driving down Sheikh Zayed Road.
Yes, that's right. Driving down the highway. In my SUV. Blaring Jessica Simpson's duet with Dolly Parton from her new country album. On my way to meet New American Friend M at the evangelical church he attends. And then to have lunch at the mall with fellow churchgoers.
And all of a sudden I started cracking up behind the wheel, as I realized - isn't this the life that, a year or two ago, I would have told you I left the US to avoid? More precisely, isn't it a scenario that I would have used, not to deride my roots, but to show how much more worldly I am than that? Cruising through suburban sprawl in my big fat car, listening to country music and hanging out with God-fearing people in churches and malls? [Insert over-educated, blue-state, latte-liberal value judgments here.]
And yet, I haven't been happier in Dubai in a LONG time than I was on Friday morning. (As I explained to E last night, "I mean, it's still Dubai, but at least if you meet people at church you know that they're trying not to be assholes.")
Which leads me to believe that... living abroad takes you back to your roots?
What I can't figure out is whether this has happened in a reactionary way ("F this place, how can I make myself most at odds with my surroundings?! Yes, I will listen to country music and go to church!") or just in a natural way ("I probably would have ended up liking country music and wanting to go to church after another 10 years of pseudointellectual postmodern posturing in New York or DC anyhow, but the intensity of Dubai sped the process along.")
I feel like this is all tied in with the fact that I'm starting to negotiate actually "living" in Dubai. I have noticed a qualitative difference (which has probably been apparent on this blog) in my attitude and mentality over the past few months, as I've inched up the ticker from "I've lived here a year" to "I've lived here almost a year and a half." It may seem like a subtle distinction, but I feel like it's only in hitting the year-plus mark that I've been forced to confront some of the realities of my life abroad. That phenomenon is borne out by some of the cursory readings I've done on acclimation and cross-cultural adjustment - hell, it even ties in with the theory of a "sophomore slump" at university, which I knew and suffered through all too well.
In all my previous experiences "living" abroad - 6 weeks in France, 3 months in Italy, 6 months in Scotland, 11 months in England - I've never actually gotten to the stock-taking phase of my life there. I've never settled in enough for the noise to die down, for the bells and whistles to stop going off, for everything to stop being new! and exciting! and different! and just be... mundane, and sometimes very frustrating. And now that I'm at that point, it's very interesting to see where it takes me.
To the unlikeliest of places, it would seem. And yet... maybe not so unlikely after all. ;)
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Holy Crap! Marathons
So I am flush with excitement about my newly minted 2008-2009 running plan with New Blonde American Friend L.
It all started with the Beirut Marathon, which we're registered for and running in, inshallah, on 30 November.
Then L got me all excited about the Two Oceans Ultramarathon in Cape Town, South Africa on 11 April, which I have drooled over ever since I opened my very first issue of Runner's World back in, I don't know, 1993, and which I now live in close proximity to (well, okay, an 8-hour flight... closer than from the States).
Then we realized if we're going to be running a 34.8 mile ultra in April, we should probably have a 26.2 miles regular marathon tune-up a bit closer to race day... enter the Dubai Marathon on 18 January.
So this leaves us with the following tagline: 2 Americans, 3 countries, 3.5 marathons, 5 months.
Now what I am about to say might be shocking given that if you are reading this blog you should Know How I Feel About Charity Runners (in 2 words: not good) (or in 2 other words: fat, slow). However, it occurs to me that as a highly limited demographic group in a highly fundraising-friendly environment setting out to do a highly impressive thing, we would be uniquely positioned to raise a boatload of cash for a cause of our choosing.
Which leads me to solicit your feedback! What are some charities we should consider? Ideally it would fit in with a relevant theme - something Middle Eastern or South African in honor of where we are running, something American in honor of our homeland, something for the womyns since we are womyn (ha)... etc.
I am new to this whole "doing an athletic endeavor for something other than my own personal satisfaction" business, so any suggestions are appreciated - email me!
It all started with the Beirut Marathon, which we're registered for and running in, inshallah, on 30 November.
Then L got me all excited about the Two Oceans Ultramarathon in Cape Town, South Africa on 11 April, which I have drooled over ever since I opened my very first issue of Runner's World back in, I don't know, 1993, and which I now live in close proximity to (well, okay, an 8-hour flight... closer than from the States).
Then we realized if we're going to be running a 34.8 mile ultra in April, we should probably have a 26.2 miles regular marathon tune-up a bit closer to race day... enter the Dubai Marathon on 18 January.
So this leaves us with the following tagline: 2 Americans, 3 countries, 3.5 marathons, 5 months.
Now what I am about to say might be shocking given that if you are reading this blog you should Know How I Feel About Charity Runners (in 2 words: not good) (or in 2 other words: fat, slow). However, it occurs to me that as a highly limited demographic group in a highly fundraising-friendly environment setting out to do a highly impressive thing, we would be uniquely positioned to raise a boatload of cash for a cause of our choosing.
Which leads me to solicit your feedback! What are some charities we should consider? Ideally it would fit in with a relevant theme - something Middle Eastern or South African in honor of where we are running, something American in honor of our homeland, something for the womyns since we are womyn (ha)... etc.
I am new to this whole "doing an athletic endeavor for something other than my own personal satisfaction" business, so any suggestions are appreciated - email me!
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Out of Africa
Back from Uganda and there are no spider babies in my bag. Whew.
I know I'm a broken record but hey, I rarely take a trip I don't love, so I'll go ahead and say it: amazing. We spent 2 days in the bush - Murchison Falls National Park, to be more precise - and 2 days in transit back and forth from Kampala (6+ hours on unpaved mud roads but tooooooootally worth it).
It was my first time in really "middle of nowhere" Africa and I LOVED it, especially in contrast to disturbian (does it count as a word if it was coined by a Rihanna song?!) Dubai. The two nights we spent at the Nile Safari Lodge were absolutely sublime - game drives all day and wine on the banks of the Nile all night, with fabulous fabulous company. (Sadly, New Guy Friend M - the erstwhile potential crush - was outed the first night. Another one bites the fairy dust.)
Pictures shall be on the Facebooks soon.
The only lowlight of the trip (and it is actually quite hilarious, in retrospect) was a brief and possibly psychosomatic Lariam-induced freakout where my heart started beating really fast and I kind of felt like I was going to throw up and have my head start spinning around my body - or in L's words, I "went all Heart of Darkness on everyone." Needless to say, I'll shell out the extra cash for the less side effect-inducing Malarone next time I'm in a malarial zone (although at $10 for Lariam vs. $125 for shmancy-pants Malarone, a little bout of kraziness seems to be a wise economic trade-off).
At any rate, I heart African adventures and I can't wait to get back. Next trip, potentially for Eid Al Adha in December: Rwanda or Eritrea. Game on.
I know I'm a broken record but hey, I rarely take a trip I don't love, so I'll go ahead and say it: amazing. We spent 2 days in the bush - Murchison Falls National Park, to be more precise - and 2 days in transit back and forth from Kampala (6+ hours on unpaved mud roads but tooooooootally worth it).
It was my first time in really "middle of nowhere" Africa and I LOVED it, especially in contrast to disturbian (does it count as a word if it was coined by a Rihanna song?!) Dubai. The two nights we spent at the Nile Safari Lodge were absolutely sublime - game drives all day and wine on the banks of the Nile all night, with fabulous fabulous company. (Sadly, New Guy Friend M - the erstwhile potential crush - was outed the first night. Another one bites the fairy dust.)
Pictures shall be on the Facebooks soon.
The only lowlight of the trip (and it is actually quite hilarious, in retrospect) was a brief and possibly psychosomatic Lariam-induced freakout where my heart started beating really fast and I kind of felt like I was going to throw up and have my head start spinning around my body - or in L's words, I "went all Heart of Darkness on everyone." Needless to say, I'll shell out the extra cash for the less side effect-inducing Malarone next time I'm in a malarial zone (although at $10 for Lariam vs. $125 for shmancy-pants Malarone, a little bout of kraziness seems to be a wise economic trade-off).
At any rate, I heart African adventures and I can't wait to get back. Next trip, potentially for Eid Al Adha in December: Rwanda or Eritrea. Game on.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
There is No Hate in my Heart Today
The sun is shining and the roads are empty and the cranes are still and I'm working from home in sweatpants in honor of the holiday and the Pakistani delivery guy who brings me my coffee from the cafe downstairs just told me "Eid Mubarak!" when I answered the door (not in a "F you, this is an Islamic country, I'm going to rub it in your face" kind of way but in a sweet, genuinely excited kind of way).
And it kind of feels like Christmas morning, if only Christmas happened on the first perfect day of fall when you wake up and for the first time in 4 months it's not 95F outside, but a breezy 80 or so.
This place ain't all bad. ;)
So all I have to do today is finish this presentation, go to the Canadian Hospital to get my yellow fever shot (don't ask), and then I'm Uganda-bound tomorrow morning with L, sipping Bloody Marys on our Emirates flight to Addis Ababa where we will pick up the boys, who left a day early thanks to the last-minute holiday declaration and are enjoying a 24-hour layover in Ethiopia en route to Entebbe / Kampala.
Please, Ethiopia for Eid is SO last year... the Horn of Africa is all played out, it's time to go Sub-Saharan. [To be said in the officious tone of the 17 year-old JAP hostess who worked with me at Peacock and told me "David Yurman is all played out, I'm moving on to Bvlgari."]
And with that, back to work!
And it kind of feels like Christmas morning, if only Christmas happened on the first perfect day of fall when you wake up and for the first time in 4 months it's not 95F outside, but a breezy 80 or so.
This place ain't all bad. ;)
So all I have to do today is finish this presentation, go to the Canadian Hospital to get my yellow fever shot (don't ask), and then I'm Uganda-bound tomorrow morning with L, sipping Bloody Marys on our Emirates flight to Addis Ababa where we will pick up the boys, who left a day early thanks to the last-minute holiday declaration and are enjoying a 24-hour layover in Ethiopia en route to Entebbe / Kampala.
Please, Ethiopia for Eid is SO last year... the Horn of Africa is all played out, it's time to go Sub-Saharan. [To be said in the officious tone of the 17 year-old JAP hostess who worked with me at Peacock and told me "David Yurman is all played out, I'm moving on to Bvlgari."]
And with that, back to work!
Monday, September 29, 2008
Eid Mubarak!
Only in the Muslim world...
The Saudi clerics have - in the 11th hour! - finally seen the moon and announced that Eid is tomorrow, thus meaning that today is/was the last day of Ramadan.
To use an ecumenical expression from my own culture, hallelujah! Holy month, we barely knew ye.
But honestly though. Can you imagine not knowing what day Christmas was going to be until 8 PM the night before?
"Should we put out milk and cookies for Santa? NO NO NO, Jerry Falwell hasn't seen the Star of Bethlehem yet! Advent continues!"
The Saudi clerics have - in the 11th hour! - finally seen the moon and announced that Eid is tomorrow, thus meaning that today is/was the last day of Ramadan.
To use an ecumenical expression from my own culture, hallelujah! Holy month, we barely knew ye.
But honestly though. Can you imagine not knowing what day Christmas was going to be until 8 PM the night before?
"Should we put out milk and cookies for Santa? NO NO NO, Jerry Falwell hasn't seen the Star of Bethlehem yet! Advent continues!"
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Operation Nuevo Thunderbolt
Long time no update! Back from Singapore, you know the drill, check out the pics on Facebook. It was a great trip, wonderful to see old friends, and definitely fraught with emotion: as much as J & P's marriage does restore my faith in loving, healthy, functional partnerships, it also makes me realize how faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaar I am from that point in my life - I cannot even put enough "a"s in "far" to express that to you.
So yeah, back in Dubai, trying to end my fight with this city which should be a lot easier once (a) the weather cools down, and (b) Ramadan ends. I have faith (but not proof) that both things will happen soon. This weekend we went to the Aquaventure water park at the new Atlantis resort (yes, brought to you by the same people who created that famous high school spring break haven in the Bahamas) on the Palm. It was fun and it kind of reminded me of being in Florida, which was great given my weird cravings for Americana as of late.
Also notable from the weekend was our taxi ride to check out new hotspot Zuma, during which the following conversation occured:
E: Are you from Pakistan?
Taxi Driver: Yes.
E: From where in Pakistan?
Taxi Driver: Peshawar
E: Peshawar, there's lots of terrorists there, huh?
Taxi Driver: Yes.
E: Are you a terrorist?
Taxi Driver: No. But my two brothers are in the army and they were killed in a terrorist attack last week.
E: [stunned silence]
Taxi Driver: You know who is responsible for terrorism in Pakistan? The USA. If the USA wanted, in one month they could get rid of all the terrorists in my country.
Yeah... just your average start to a night out with friends. Honestly though - what a reality check, especially for my oft-documented (although sometimes merited) visciousness to taxi drivers here.
At any rate. I am going to Uganda for 4 days at the end of this week for Eid, which is extremely exciting. We will see either gorillas or waterfalls but probably not both as we don't have a ton of time and we also want to soak up the krazy-bustling-African-capitalness of Kampala. I'm traveling with E, New Blonde American Friend L, and another new American guy friend M, who we like A LOT because he's already assigned us all roles to play in his proposed reenactment of Operation Thunderbolt at the Entebbe airport (I get to be Idi Amin, SCORE!), but who sadly is age-ineligible for a crush because he is Princeton '05 which makes him, like, 12?!
So with that, off to buy malaria pills and and Lonely Planet East Africa during lunch!
So yeah, back in Dubai, trying to end my fight with this city which should be a lot easier once (a) the weather cools down, and (b) Ramadan ends. I have faith (but not proof) that both things will happen soon. This weekend we went to the Aquaventure water park at the new Atlantis resort (yes, brought to you by the same people who created that famous high school spring break haven in the Bahamas) on the Palm. It was fun and it kind of reminded me of being in Florida, which was great given my weird cravings for Americana as of late.
Also notable from the weekend was our taxi ride to check out new hotspot Zuma, during which the following conversation occured:
E: Are you from Pakistan?
Taxi Driver: Yes.
E: From where in Pakistan?
Taxi Driver: Peshawar
E: Peshawar, there's lots of terrorists there, huh?
Taxi Driver: Yes.
E: Are you a terrorist?
Taxi Driver: No. But my two brothers are in the army and they were killed in a terrorist attack last week.
E: [stunned silence]
Taxi Driver: You know who is responsible for terrorism in Pakistan? The USA. If the USA wanted, in one month they could get rid of all the terrorists in my country.
Yeah... just your average start to a night out with friends. Honestly though - what a reality check, especially for my oft-documented (although sometimes merited) visciousness to taxi drivers here.
At any rate. I am going to Uganda for 4 days at the end of this week for Eid, which is extremely exciting. We will see either gorillas or waterfalls but probably not both as we don't have a ton of time and we also want to soak up the krazy-bustling-African-capitalness of Kampala. I'm traveling with E, New Blonde American Friend L, and another new American guy friend M, who we like A LOT because he's already assigned us all roles to play in his proposed reenactment of Operation Thunderbolt at the Entebbe airport (I get to be Idi Amin, SCORE!), but who sadly is age-ineligible for a crush because he is Princeton '05 which makes him, like, 12?!
So with that, off to buy malaria pills and and Lonely Planet East Africa during lunch!
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