"tidbits/giggle fits"

Sometimes, I stop trying to understand much, and just observe. Usually, it ganders a smile. Sometimes, a giggle or two.

Wearing black invites people to speak to me in Arabic. Must be my olive complexion. I better start learning more soon!

I’m now “Spanish,” since I’m supposedly not "really" American, and should trace my genetic heritage through my father’s line. (By that reasoning, I’m probably Middle Eastern after all, ya know, the Moors, et al.?) But, apparently, according to Islam, you’re supposed to trace back through the mother’s line, too. (So by that reasoning, I’m German. Or Lebanese or Syrian. Yet again, Middle Eastern.) Either way, I’m still the mutt that I thought I was. A mutt who likes to sit on the floor and eat rice and yoghurt with her hands.

“Aywah!” I took this phrase to mean “rock on witcho bad self, sista!”, but apparently it means an affirmative “yes!” A little more straightforward. Mmm, I think I like my interpretation better. Goes better with the attempts to dance and sing using muscles I've never used. And wine. Goes better with a nice bottle of Shiraz. (Hey now, I OFFERED to share!)

If you have a question, ask it multiple times. Of multiple people, all nationalities. You’ll get multiple answers, and maybe a thread of understanding in there somewhere.

30% window tinting on cars is the high limit for expats. More for locals. Is that for the modesty of the people inside? By that reasoning, it’s understood that expats have no modesty.

Expats can’t own trucks without a local sponsor. NO HAULING OF THINGS ALLOWED! Apparently.

Trying to drive away from someone flirting with you in a car is only encouragement to get chased. Erghh. A whole hour wasted.

AND when you call the police to ask for help, they ask for the driver’s plate number. Ummm. He’s...following...ME.

How do you get to - ? Simple. It’s a right, then a left, then the first left, then a 3/4 turn at the roundabout, go under the bridge, then another right on the main street, then the first little street. Oops. Missed it. Ah, well, I’ll try to go shopping tomorrow instead. I think I still have an egg left.

79 degrees Farenheit warrants down jackets. 74, hats and gloves. Then the little ladies in my class get hot and ask to put on the air conditioner. (Today’s lesson: Can you say “layers”? Can you say “peel the layers”?)

Sleeping in a Bedouin tent under a star-littered sky is pretty close to perfect. Yup.

There is a jewel-encrusted Christmas tree at the Emirates Palace in Abu Dhabi. And a stuffed pregnant-looking Santa suit at the Lulu’s Hypermarket in Al Ain. (Really, ya guys don't have to accommodate other cultures THAT much!)

Thankfully, National Day decorations are still up. Neon 39s (for the number of years that the UAE has been a country), flowers, bows and butterflies. Cute! I'd love to meet the artist. (Actually, she might be in my third grade class.) I need to get a camera with a flash so I can take a picture of my favorite lawn decoration: a happily running Emirati guy in khandoura with a flag in his hand. So cute!

There is still sticky residue from the gallons of National Day stickers all over the cars. ALL over the cars. Next year, I'll try to get more pictures.

I could add to this list for ages. “Super deedooper fun,” is all I can add right now.

"internationalist...yeah, that's not the best name, but..."

6751...er, was it 5761...West San Miguel. It was a chant I learned as a little person to remember my address. It was painted on a rock that we took with us when we moved from my first home. That stone, the last remnant of that fleeting and frivolous confidence that belongs only to innocent children who know, just know, that they are completely secure and completely loved. Ironic, isn’t it, that a rock, symbolically and tangibly, should be my anchor to such an thing, something so dream-like and intangible as a memory. But, it’s a memory that is the foundation of who I am. Isn’t that crazy? We build ourselves on the foundations of a dream of what once was. Yeah. Who needs anything more solid than that. If that isn’t good enough, I don’t think anything can ever be.

As I sit here in this UK-based cafe drinking my Italian espresso served by my new friend, a Philipino barrista, having just left my Egyptian friend, listening to classical European guitar overlapping with the sounds of the morning Islamic prayers piped into the whole shopping center, eating my croissant, I think about that old neighborhood and how it came to be that today, I can feel so utterly content and at home, across the marble, a mere three months new to this place, in a desert less comfortable than my own desert.

I think of the Korean family across the street who inspired the name of one of the first family dogs I can remember: Toki (meaning “rabbit,” apparently), whose counterpart was a cocker spaniel named Yolanda.

I think of my surrogate grandparents, a German couple. They were the ones who, unlike my blood relatives, were there for my first steps. Mr. and Mrs. Jay, who were and still are, in my cloudlike memory, a whimsical but manicured garden with whirly-gig bird mobiles, butterfly collections, the smell of mothballs and the sound of a cuckoo clock.

My mom was friendly with the Puerto Rican lady down the street, until, after calculating my revenge at age 4 or 5, I gave her son a bloody nose for all the times he had bullied me.

I went to school with Greeks, southerners, and countless other cultures. It was one culture to me. Or rather, each family had it’s own culture and that seemed normal. We were the “Mexicans,” although none of us had been born or had ever lived in Mexico, except for my mom for a few weeks at a time in her youth.

My mom’s community college friends in my youth were African-American, Chilean, south and central American of many lands, Saudi, Persian, and I don’t know who else. I think I was too young to really know who was who. They just were. So many cultures. I remember the music and art, incense, languages, and foods stimulating my senses. Wonderful.

I never knew how lucky I was. It was just life. It was a stew. Not a melting pot. Guess the heat wasn’t on that high.

Over the years, I noticed more and more that this is not typical in the world. Either there are neighborhoods, pockets of people preserving their cultures out of pride, or protecting out of fear. Or, there is the dreaded assimilation, where culture is lost. For years, I had these two ideas to gage myself by, and sadly, came to the conclusion that I must be one of the assimilated. Awful. Language lost. I can’t even make a decent pot of beans or a tortilla that doesn’t resemble the shapes of the places I’ve visited. College taught me that, that I must be one of the lost, assimilated ones. Mexican-American studies. Minnesota. Yeah.

But, ya know, I realize that there is another cultural experience that isn’t talked about. (Or maybe it is, and I’ve just been out of school too long.) It’s a fleeting experience, hard to capture. It doesn’t last. Can’t last. This short-lived culture is what I’ll call Internationalism. Yeah, it’s a weak name, maybe too pretentious, most likely means something else entirely to someone, I know. Help me out. Come up with something better. Or just let me know that it already has a name. Anyway, it’s the culture that I most belong to.

I crave the experience of learning about others’ ways. I love eating different foods, smelling different smells, hearing about different sayings, herbal remedies, observing different customs. My heart aches to think that these things will disappear some day. Or worse: that we will experience them through the PF Chang's, Disney movies, and kitschy tourist knick-knacks. Please, no.

I do, unfortunately, believe it’s fleeting, this International culture where everyone shares their own, peacefully, respectful and respected. It’s one that exists in the memories of Glendale, Arizona in the 1970’s, when farmland began to give way to the suburbs, and the many migrants came to find a new and better life. It exists here, in the Emirates, a country some six months older than myself. Both she and I are still working on getting this whole thing sorted out. After many years, homogeny will set in, perhaps, either by segregation or assimilation, but in those precious moments before that happens, is this magical time when people from across the globe gather, light of newness and hope glowing in their eyes, light of openess, or curiousity at least, towards each other. This is the culture I crave and love. That brief moment of sharing without losing sense of self. What a beautiful thing it is.

So, as crazy, and sometimes reason-free this place can seem, I love it here. Maybe the placement of stoplights behind the spot where you’re supposed to stop seems pretty wacky. Maybe having five or more different means of getting your ID card, but no one to tell you the best and easiest way leaves you feeling like, “ooh, shouldn’t that be a job?” Maybe having so many qualified doctors around who can’t practice medicine because they don’t have the right high school class on their transcripts seems kinda silly. Maybe the lack of nutritious food and toothbrushes in the richest part of the community seems a little odd. Maybe, maybe a lot. Still, it feels right, all these different people from different ideals, wearing different dress, silently or directly trying to figure each other out, is just so...real.

Brief. Fleeting. Movement. Change. Just the way I like my life.

Here’s an ad I just saw at the cashier of the local store: “Order now: Fresh UK Halal Turkey for Christmas.” Hmm. Now that I’m eating meat again, think I should order one? I even have a rotisserie in my oven. I’m sorry, my “cooker.”

"on traditions, gatherings, mournings, and celebrations"

(This is a month old, but I'm sticking it in here anyway!)

The food. It’s so good, I can’t handle it. Seriously, hummus used to be a dietary staple. Not a hint of mold in my plastic tubs. I was devout. But, wow, it’s so rich and creamy here, I can only eat it on special occasions. Same with the eggplant hummus that I can’t quite catch the name of. Fresh juices with mint, pastries with thyme and olive oil (my new favorite), or with onion and spinach, stuffed grape leaves, kibbeh (like a meat version of falafel), samosas, saffron rice, cofffee with cardamom. I’m not positive what is Bedouin and what is another culture’s contribution. Even the the “traditional” desserts have a grain of some sort, sugar, rose, cinnamon. None of which grows here. Maybe it’s all traditional, in that it’s all nomadic. The spice routes have been around for a heck of a long time. The tradition of sharing.

Like today, a local colleague has gotten her master’s degree, a very rare thing in the community I’m teaching in. I think it might be a first for my school’s Arabic teachers. When we greeted her with our congratulations and mabrooks, she told us in that joking/not really joking way, that no one would be excited for her, so she had a caterer come in to feed us all so we could all be excited for her. We chuckled with her, but there’s a deeper truth in that, I suppose. Education doesn’t mean the same thing for a woman here as it does in the states. It means putting off marriage and children. It means possibly educating yourself out of a husband, since fewer men than women go for advance degrees. But, she’s lucky. After turning down marriage proposals during school, she has one now. She doesn’t know him yet. Some newlyweds won’t meet their new husbands until after they sign the papers and the ceremony has already occured. Then, everyone gets fed. (Hope I get invited to that wedding! I hear the women’s dresses under the abaya are outrageous in their opulence.)

It is a tradition, however old, I don’t know, to share food to celebrate a milestone in your life. We see that in our western weddings. Here, it is more pervasive. Gifts are not given by guests. Except perhaps dates and chocolate. Three dates, I was told by a colleague from Oman as she held a plate out to me, when I ventured into the Arabic teacher’s lounge to say hello. Three dates for health or luck or welcome. (Hey, there’s a local food - dates! I’ll let you know about seasons of the date when I move into my apartment. My kitchen and living room windows overlook a date palm plantation. And a future mall. And an amusement park. And the Omani border with Buraimi.)

I’ve been watching the farming progress from my kitchen window. I don’t know, beside the dates, what they are growing. Here’s what I can gather: first they scrape the dust, then they lay down some gauze, and *POOF!* plants appear! A lot of irrigation, of course. I have no idea what they do for nutrients. Maybe it’s in the water. Nothing starts from seed, by the looks of it. It’s less fertile than Tucson, but they manage to grow things here.

Eventually, I’ll start my window boxes. The usual staples: tomatoes, mint, raddish, greens. I need to order some heirloom seeds, but, in my mom’s fashion, all sorts of napkin scraps with cast-off seeds are laying about, waiting to be stuck in a little planter. A little tradition of our own easily carried across the globe.

In the meantime, I’m full of good food tonight, and a promise of a special digestive tea herb tomorrow to help digest. (Can’t wait to learn “traditional” herbal medicine here!) I heard the master’s recipient might be providing breakfast tomorrow as well! I wonder, is the amount of food shared directly linked to the importance that the provider wants attached to the event? Certainly seems so.

The other weekend in Dubai, as I was waiting patiently for my tango fix, I was lucky enough to watch the meeting portion of the wedding. Bride, in all white with what looked like a hand-crocheted kerchief on her head, I wondered what of the ceremony was truly Bedouin and what was adopted from other cultures. In my fantasy, the kerchief, at least, was an heirloom from someone’s great grandmother, from before the times of hotel steps and elevators, from before the time of the adopted black abaya and shayla, and from before the time of so many of us, western onlookers. The music definitely was traditional. That’s what caught my attention first. I heard drums blending into the sounds of recorded tango, a live reggae band and another live Irish band. Quite a combo. The drums didn’t seem to fit and seemed to get louder. Looking over the balcony, I saw two column of men with drums strapped to them, dressed not in the flowing kandoura, but in cloth pants the color of the desert and some sort of shirt that seemed to wrap all around them. They started to sing. Chant, really. It’s quite amazing to hear. Nothing like the Arabic music on the radio. There are canes that they beat. It’s feels ancient, at least to my modern brain. Like the grito, every once in awhile, one of the musicians who is good at it let’s out a high-pitched tongue-flappin’ yell. I’m sure it has a name. You’d know what I’m talking about if you heard it. Fantastic! One of those experiences that makes every cell of your body respond with “wow, this is real, this is new to me, I’m alive!” Fantastic, indeed. I joined in the rhythmic clapping. How could I not? Not much of a tango night for me, but worth the visit to the hotel.

One of my students is a drummer. I asked if her family were all musicians, and she shrugged it off with a nod. Of course they are, what else would they be? She’s a natural. She has no idea how hard it is to do what she does, since she’s done it for as long as she can remember. And, the morning assembly music for the national anthem is sounding and better and better everyday thanks to her.

The morning assembly. (They do that in Mexican schools, too. I’m sure other places, but I’m still working the parallel here.) My girls line up. They recite some things. They have their nails checked. (For cleanliness? I asked. Apparently, it’s to prevent injury from scratching at each other.) They sing their new anthem in alliegance their infant nation. They hear a morning prayer. They talk into microphones that are more static than amplification. They might watch a skit or compete to answer a question. They flap their hands all about while jumping up and down for a handful of seconds. Hysterical! What they heck is up with the hand-flapping, I have no clue. I’d love to think of it as an attempt at exercise, but, yeah, really, it has no resemblance. Resemblance to a bug in diress on its back as it struggles to upright itself, maybe, yeah. As musical a people as they are, so far, I haven’t witnessed a lick of dancer’s rhythm. (Come to think of it, drummers and dancers really do have very different experiences of rhythm. Do you not agree?)

Right now, we are still in the mourning period for Sheikh Saqr of Ras Al Kaimah, one of the other emirates. He was ninety. His youngest son, who has been acting on his behalf for years, has taken over. There was a mass exodus to that emirate, but there is no viewing of the body. No one will make pilgrimages to visit his grave. It isn’t done here. Not even the late, great Sheikh Zayed who made the country what it is today is visited, although his tomb lies at the Sheikh Zayed mosque. The family have access, but they have no need to go.

In some locales, a week or more of mourning means no work. Abu Dhabi is not taking part in that. Here, we are still showing respect by not playing music. No morning assembly, just straight to class. Not that I’m complaining. I can leave my balcony door open to the night, because the bands in the club downstairs are on hiatus. No Christmas musak in the hotel at breakfast. A blessing, as you might imagine, in more ways than one.

Soon, it will be Eid, and there will be more gatherings and more food. I’ll have to plan my own, on that eventful day when I actually receive my furniture allowance. Until then, I’ll keep chipping away at getting settled in the ways I can. Finding conversational Arabic classes, getting my UAE ID card, getting my driver’s license, going to yoga, and buying a bed for starters. That way maybe my apartment and I can have a celebratory overnight visit together soon.

"i'm so confused!"

There is a good reason why I haven’t written in awhile. I’d like to keep it simple, but simple is just not an active part of my vocabulary these days. My mind is all in a muddle most of the time. Well, at least this country and I have something in common!

And for some reason, my title reminds me of John Patrick Shanley’s “Moonstruck,” so I’ll have you join in my confusion by making constant references to it, although it really has absolutely no bearing on the UAE or my experience here, except, perhaps, for it’s mooniness.

I think I hit on a key to “getting” the culture here: it’s a reactive society, not a proactive one. (Except if it’s behind the wheel in one of the many roundabouts!) I’m used to the western world value that a person’s work ethic is based partly on the ability to think ahead and plan for the “what ifs.” Things come together, eventually, but foresight is not a skill that lives here, except as an expat. It can be terribly frustrating for many of my collegues, and me too, with our western “plan ahead” ideals. It’s unfathomable that a whole country can function without having learned that ability. For example, on a recent evening, hundreds of teachers gathered happily, to get their apartment keys. It took about half an hour (and only five teachers) later for anyone to realize, "hmmm, at this rate, we'll be here until 10am.") Reactive decision-making, not proactive.

This is where I value the craft of teaching more than I ever have before. Some things don’t come naturally. Some things have to be taught.

Something someone said awhile back makes sense, and keeps me from losing my own cool: if someone here gives you their word that something will get done, it will definitely get done. I think what’s happening when people lose it, is that they don’t realize that. Things definitely have a different time table, but requests have not been forgotten! They just work on a different time table...and clock...and calendar...) The essence of time itself is different here. (“Why do you make me wait? It’s la bella luna! Aaaooooou!”)

There was a recent article in a local rag (which I’m reading a lot of now, since I pounce on any scrap of information I can get about this place.) A Taiwanese hospital basically kicked out some UAE patients, due to unpaid bills. Who was responsible for paying those bills? The gov. So, us teachers (also known by something like “habla,” and professors by “ustaad.” Hey, didn’t I write something about that...Sorry, another tangent.) Anyway, the teachers aren't the only ones waiting. (Waiting for passports...waiting for visas...waiting for paperwork to get internet, utilities, cars...waiting for money, keys, apartments...)So, anyway, it really IS affecting their relationships with the rest of the world, and that is a problem. Growing pains of a baby nation with massive britches.

I have an inner civil war occuring right now. I’ve been hired to bring in effective education. Cool. But, my being here, just my being in the presence of my wee ladies, changes their culture. It changes their perception of the world. Not wearing a shayla, and I’m not a scary monster. Worse, I’m actually kind of fun. It’s a threat. There are worse threats out there than me, perhaps, but those are on television and on the movie screen. I’m live theater.

I’m not the only one with an internal conflict. I’ve been given a classroom. I’ve been given a lovely place to live (soon), and nice hotels to live in until that can happen. I’ve been told by my principal that she wants us to be happy. (Imagine that. Human happiness as a priority.) I’ve also been told that if the student’s don’t love me, find another job. Love and happiness are more important than learning. That’s what I’ve been told. Hmmm. Does there have to be a divide? (“Somebody, tell a joke!”)

So, anyway, I’m highly, highly confused. They want me for my knowledge of western education, but they don’t want the western education...err, something like that...

Here’s a riddle for you all: what preserves a culture, all the while, allowing it to remain a major player in the global community? If you discover the answer, or even a clue, please post it on the blog! (Before it gets censored!!!)

Before I go off to plan another lesson (making predictions, text-to-self connections, perhaps,) a last quote from Shanley’s fantastic script: “We aren’t here to make things perfick. The snowflakes are perfick. The stars are perfick. Not us.”

“let’s consult the moon”

It can be gratifying to live in a land so ruled by the sun and the moon.

It’s been a pressing need for me, for quite some time now, to live somewhere where being the best, most efficient little cog in the machine is not the ultimate goal. Even in Tucson, where the pace of life is significantly slower than most places in the western world, there is still this urgent need to do more, do better, in less time than ever before. We know: in the midst of the US’s current economic situation, we still are exposed to the media praise for companies that have raised their efficiency. Read this, “fewer people, more work.” We are a society of aspiring Super People. But, we’re not. We are still the same species that used to have one breadwinner per family, used to close our business doors one day per week, used to take siestas, used to, used to, used to. I’m not being a romantic and pretending that life was better then. I know better, every era has it’s blessings and it’s difficulties. And, as much as I aspire to fulfilling my own super powers, Super People Syndrome looks like this: heart disease, anxiety disorders, depression, obesity, cancer, how about “restless leg syndrome,” and I’m sure you can add a plethora of others. (My not-so humble opinion, of course.) But, is that really okay? To what end?

Here, in this land, we are in the midst of the holiest of months, the ninth month, Ramadan. Without going into a detailed explanation of it’s raison d’etre, it is a month that closely follows the phases of the moon. How beautiful is that? How in touch with the world we live? (“How noble in reason?”) But what strikes me most is that we just heard yesterday that Ramadan will end, and that Eid will start tomorrow. Today, it’s that no, not really, Eid preparation will start tomorrow, and Eid will start Friday. Tomorrow, we might hear something different. It’s all based on the special council set up to decide these things, based on moon phases. Even the most important holiday, with the seemly most clear-cut beginning and ending times, is not really real until it’s really real.

Prayer times change by minutes, by location, each day. It’s printed in the newspaper. Based on the sun. School prayer times are different, and that’s up to a different authority.

And that’s exactly how the rest of life is too, and from what I can tell, is the one thing you can absolutely count on. Change, the only constant. My long-standing motto. And here, it’s a way of life.

I’m getting my salary advance, but not really. But now, really, only later, and with my furniture alllowance, but okay, not yet, okay now it will, and now it should be before Eid, except if it isn’t. I’m getting a car at this time and this price. Except if I’m not. I have plenty of minutes on my phone, but where are they? But, it says I used them, but I didn’t use them. Fix it at this place, but we can’t, well, we can, come back after 8pm, but maybe not. You’ll have a week, no, by Friday, except for Eid, so by Monday, but Monday is that other thing, okay, so you won’t have any time at all to set up your classroom, just go in on the day the kids show up and ask the principal what you should do. And although the number one rule in classroom management is that you have an organized and ready room, and the number one thing that the schools want us to stress in classroom management, and how's that again..?!

Following me yet?

Just roll with it. Everyone else does. I should absolutely get the keys to my new apartment, except that I’m not, except that I am, but, but, but...maybe I should spend some time consulting that ol’ hunk o’ cheese in the sky. Unless it's really a man in the moon. Or should I be asking the sun after all ...

It can be frustrating to live in a land so ruled by the sun and the moon.

But, truthfully, it only rattles you if you’re still trying to earn your Super Person cape, or if you’re running low on cash. Shway shway, slow down, like water...

What else can I say? This is good.

"really, Nescafe should be illegal"

Hey all! I haven’t update in some time, so here’s a little of my first glimpses into my new home’s culture:

The call to prayer is beautiful, but it’s not transforming me. It’s a good clock, though! Oop. There it goes as I type. 12:30ish. (It changes as the sun changes through the seasons.) I should stop, probably, and be holy and all, but I’m still me. Spiritual in my very every-day way.

I’m reminded a lot of Mexico! The architecture (not the elaborate city stuff, but the houses, with their fences enclosing little blocky villas with lots of ornate ironwork, etc. Everyone’s the same color (as me!) And, the landscape! I expected to be shocked, but the road between Abu Dhabi reminds me a lot of driving in northwestern Mexico towards the Gulf of California. Sand, little ranches. Add a lump to the back of a burro, and I’d barely be able to tell where I was.

(I’m also remembering a student of mine, such a cute lil’ fella, with a speech issue, that in his super I’m-so-cool way, would announce that that his family spent the weekend at the “Dyoons,” aka the sand dunes in California. Yah know, where Star Wars was filmed?)

Coffee. All who know me understand my devotion to the Great Bean. It stands to reason that I move to a country where it’s the national drink, right? And the cardamon! Ah! The cardamon! That combo is absolutely “home” to me. Okay, so c’mon, UAE, why, oh why, is Nescafe even allowed in the country?! That’s not coffee! It's coffee...product! Coffee...food! (Ala cheesefood, right?!) Not okay. Luckily, I packed what is important - teaching material, a few long-sleeved garments, my grinder and some fair trade beans. I think I have cardamon in there, too. All Will Be Well.

I’m approaching the subject of Islam with kid gloves. I really do want to learn more about it, and already have a great respect for it. What I’ve been able to digest about it is just lovely - it’s about tolerance, peace, moderation. So different from what fear mongers would have us believe. What I haven’t been able to digest, well, is a little harder. The reason I say this, is that we had a recent opportunity to hear a lecture that was a little off-putting. Reflecting on my reaction, I know it’s more a reaction to the lecture style (and subsequently, to the educational system as it has been). So, I went from visiting the most beautiful building in the world (Sheikh Zayed Mosque) to hearing a very academic, heavily “persuasive” (read “abrasive”) paper read word-for-word at the end of an already long day. I really shut off. I had the feeling I was being yelled at. I had the feeling our lecturer was being very defensive. But, I have reflected carefully, and I think that he’s just learned to lecture “correctly,” just as he was taught to do.

Now, I’m remembering what I’ve been told about education here: the first “schools” were in the mosques, for boys only, and for teaching (memorizing) the Qu’ran. Rote learning is the the tradition here. But, this country is just a couple of years older than myself. They're going through some major shifts, just as I am. I’m coming in to teach teachers, by example, that exploration and play do promote learning and creative thinking. It's a big job. I can't wait. I can't wait to understand what they have to teach me.

I have also witnessed the kindness and openness of the Emirati people. Other teachers report nice experiences of nationals asking about their heritages. Another lecturer on the same evening as the other really brought home for me the willingness to share with others. She could barely speak English, and yet, there was the effort to do so. For our comfort. I can only make the same effort in return.

By now, I know the name of my school, but I don’t know if anyone in my school speaks English at all. Part of me hopes that is the case. I’ll be relocating to my new home this next week, and school starts soon after. I know for sure that my work is cut out for me. I am so excited, I can hardly contain myself!

Off to Dubai for a look-see. Until next time!

"the camels welcome you"

So, I’m here after 20 hours of travel. No jet lag to speak of. (Could that be the B-12 shot working?) No luggage lost, although some gained (more on that later). No lack of absolute luxury. I have one day off before starting my work orientation, so I’ve got a few things planned: study my Arabic, maybe go to the spa, take in a 3 hour hatha yoga class, maybe tag along a mall trip, now that I realize how inappropriate most of my tops will be for work, maybe write, maybe read some teaching materials, definitely give a lot of thanks.

I can’t tell you how kind everyone has been already. There’s a lovely calmness here. I know some of that is the “honeymoon” phase of culture shock, , but really, I feel so taken care of. Could it be that the education council greeted us right off the plane with roses, walking us through every step necessary so that I didn’t even have to think (or pick up 120 pounds of luggage by myself) after our long travel? Could it be the lovely young lady from Jordania that freely gave advice about driving and living in Abu Dhabi before our bus ride to the hotel? Could it be the fabulous hotel staff that welcomed us with warm, wet towels and herb-infused mango juice? Or maybe it was the great night of sleep in the fluffy bed after talking with my dear ones on skype. Maybe a little of all of that. Or maybe it’s the camel milk talking.

Uh-huh, I did try camel milk this morning. Not bad, actually! Surprisingly a little less pungent than goat milk. Can’t say I’ll need to repeat the experience. But, if that was all there was to drink, pretty sure I could keep it down. (By the way, did you know that a thoroughbred camel can cost $750,000? Heard that recently. I wonder if I drank thoroughbred milk?!) Ah, the land of milk and honey. And...other not so pleasant things...

So, I said something about luggage “gained.” I probably should explain that, huh? Okay, so, when my luggage arrived, I took a rather perfunctory glance through, to see if my health supplements made it through customs. (There are strict regulations against having pharmeceuticals without a prescription. I wasn’t sure if some of what I have would be considered that or not.) Well, everything made it through, luckily. When...(funny, I don’t remember packing anything in a wadded up napkin in my luggage...) I retreived something rather nasty looking from amidst my abayas and my westerner clothing. It was what appeared to be a flower ball tea, but somehow not. Brown, kinda round, kinda wet, and definitely herby smelling. Gross. I threw it out right away, but then started wondering...what the heck IS that thing?! What if it’s some creepy illegal somethingerother that someone planted on me?! Should I flush it? Should I report it? My dear friend Eli suggested that the camels had given me a welcome gift. Hey, why not, everyone here is so welcoming! Finally, though, she talked some sense into me and confirmed what I thought it might be all along - some bag checker’s nasty old chewing tobacco. Why it was in my luggage, I will never know.

Reminds me of a recent conversation with another dear friend, Jen, who spent a school year teaching in China. She gave some sage advice: some things, we will never understand, and the key is to just be okay with that.

Oh. “Key.” Just reminded myself. I already lost one of my room keys. I’m gonna go look for that now.

Until next time!

"man jobs"

I’m still in the United States yet, with only a handful of internet-search keywords and picture clues about Abu Dhabi, the UAE, the Muslim world, to tell me what I’m getting myself into. How do I prepare for this, besides updating electronic equipment, packing up, and ditching my tank tops and shorts for clothing that will cover my physical self away from my new world?

One of the things I’ve done is to take myself on a solo backpacking trip. Very lovely experience, very grounding, very meditative. Met some nice flora, some edible(peppermint, yucca, grasses of various sorts), and met some fauna (deer, raccoon, an amphibious campmate, a merganser) along the way. Avoided the poison ivy and resident bear and rattlesnakes. Soaked in natural hot springs, bathed in cold mountain streams. Sang songs to myself. (Why is it that I never get GOOD songs in my head? Always those sappy old 70’s love songs with very little musical value ...) Encountered people claiming to care about Ma Nature (biology students) who were the most disrespectful camp neighbors I have encountered in the back country. (Please, don’t walk into someone else’s camp site and pretend they aren’t there! A simple “hello” will suffice! And PLEASE! Don’t shine your flashlight into someone else’s tent at night! Luckily, I also encountered lovely people, like the young couple, on their prenuptial week in the woods. Overall, my lil’ sojourn was delightfully necessary for my sanity and health, and I have renewed my faith in my personal “church,” existence itself on this natural planet, whose molecules have been my own, will become my own, and return again when it’s time. I am not only intertwined with the natural world, I am of nature. How I treat it, other conscious beings, I treat myself.

But, I digress. What I really wanted to write about is a frontier of another sort, one that I have feared beyond any bear encounter while equipped with peanut butter sandwich in hand. What is this great challenge of which you speak, Michelle? Cars.

Cars? Yes. Cars. The buying and selling of them. Until now, this was “Dad” territory. In this western world, in this age of “anything you can do, I can do better” post- women’s lib, where male and female roles have crossed and melded so much, it is no wonder that there is such confusion on how to treat each other anymore, what’s acceptable, what’s not. Now, I’m not saying that I’m moving to the Arab world because I prefer strick gender guidelines. I’m as “lib” as they come. I have my own silent struggles, such as with my own gentlemanly father who holds doors for women and walks on the street side of a sidewalk. Okay, “struggle” is a strong word. “Awkwardness” is more appropriate. (It isn’t that I think it’s wrong for him to do it. I simple can’t understand why it isn’t as nice for me to return the favor!) So, I’ve always tried to do things for myself without depending on males to do for me. And yet. There is this car thing. I have to sell my car. EEEK. Daddy! Help!

How many of you know the percentage of women in car sales in the United States? The statistics from 199...oh, I’m kidding, I really don’t know of any studies being done on that yet, but seriously, how many of you have dealt with a female dealer or private seller, or private buyer for that matter? I’m sure they exist, but so far, ALL of the inquiries I’ve gotten are from men, and, get this, all of the ones I’ve had actual conversations with are looking to buy a car for a wife or a girlfriend. So, I’m NOT insane. It IS still culturally ingrained. The last “man” job in the western world: car buying and car selling. Women, if you have ever handled a car transaction on your own, I hereby deem you “Bad Ass.”

So, did I ask Dad for help to sell my car? Oh, heck yes! And it still might come to that, if my e-ticket comes and it hasn’t sold yet. But, I’m trying to cut a new tooth here, and why? Well, here it is folks: I am going to buy or rent a car soon. In an Muslim country. On my own. Scary in the United States to infringe on another gender’s territory? Yes. Scary in a world where women don’t really even SPEAK to unfamiliar men? Need I say...YESS?!?! I can’t say more about that, since I really have no clue how that part will play out. I’ll letcha know.

So, as far as selling my car here goes, I know all will be fine. I’ll sell Palomita, my lovely dovely, my little piece of popcorn, my dependable Toyota who has served me well (under 76,000, mostly highway miles! It’s got a 6-cd changer, all the maintenance records and PINSTRIPPING, just in case ya know someone who might be interested). I’ll jump through some red-taped hoops, try not to say the right things the wrong way, and send her off to a new home. Just like those last boxes of books and camping equipment that I need to comb through and pack away, it sounds like a more daunting job than it will be. I have faith. My very own brand of it. And all will be as it needs to be. Inshallah.