“eye of the storm”

Yesterday, I saw my first sandstorm from safely within my 5th floor flat.  It was an awesome sight, much like the morning fog that blinds us on the way to school on many mornings these days. Except that it rolled in so quickly, no creeping in on little cat feet, more like a tiger pouncing.  A baby tiger playing at the kill, but a tiger nevertheless.  Enough to realize that I don’t want to be walking around outside in the desert if another, mama tiger, should decide to feed.  Seeing other people’s photos, I realized that it was much spookier being in it.  I was supposed to go camping, but my bronchial infection saved me. (Fine dust + germy girl children + rather sucky immune system = sick me, again.) Indoors, I stayed.  Calm, quiet, while all around, the earth lifted up and blew around me.

Living in the UAE does feel like living in the eye of a storm in so many ways.  The Arab world is going through many difficulties.  Tunisia ousted it’s 30 year president.  Egypt is attempting the same feat. Yemen also continues to experience protests.  The Islamic world, which overlaps the Arab world, is in strife.  A recent bombing in Afghanistan, protests in Jordan, constant tension between Israel and Palestine.  Albania.  Saudi Arabia to our west, Iran, Iraq, Pakistan to our north.  Pirates in the waters to the south, and of course civil wars, Nigeria, and Kenya. Thailand. Damaging storms in the Philipines, Sri Lanka.  Peace is scarce.

And yet, I feel safe.  

At home, a beloved politician was shot.  Many innocent people hurt, some killed.  Home isn’t any more safe.  It was shocking.  It was something completely unacceptable.  Part of that comes from the luxury, I believe, of having the sense of well-being that we can enjoy in the western world.  “Peace” used to feel like an ideal, although I was raised in it, lived in it, still live in it.  It’s hard to appreciate fully unless you have a physiological experience of the alternative.  Not that I have.  But I share roads with people who have, I share shopping aisles and urgent care waiting rooms, housing areas. I’ve talked with Egyptians, Tunisians, Filipinos who have family going through so much heavier stuff than my own family has had to experience.  Yes, the U.S. is not as rosy as many people in the rest of the world tend to believe, but I have to admit, I am grateful that my family does not have to live in daily fear for any of us.  Yes, things might happen.  Might happen anywhere.  But, all in all, my people don’t have to live with the constant adrenaline overdrive on.  We are lucky, lucky people.  Usually.  I thought being closer to these places would prove to me that it isn’t as intense as we are led to believe through our media.  The oppositie is true.  It is intense.  It is everywhere.  

I feel safe, but I’m also aware that the storm’s eye can move.  This country has been friendly and kind to me, indeed.  And, although I don’t choose to live with fear, I remember that someone who lives here told someone I know that his brother, who is Taliban, smuggled himself into the UK.  Who knows if it’s true.  All I do know is that our hosts here are friendly.  I don’t always know that our fellow expats always are.  Every once in awhile, a pair of eyes the color of steel will shoot a penetrating look out from under a dark turban, straight at a westerner.  It might be that that person is merely curious.  I don’t know.  I haven’t asked.  I won’t assume anything, but I won’t dismiss caution either.

Our hosts are so accepting, and so quiet about any disapproval, that it can be easy to forget that we need to be aware of staying respectful in dress, behavior, lifestyle.  It can be easy to just act naturally as we are used to at home.  Sometimes, though, there are reminders that I need to pull back.  Quiet stares at my wild hair remind me that if I’m not covering, I should at least pull it back.  It has become more comfortable to wear layers, even if it’s awfully hot, to mask the curves.  When people don’t look, take it as approval.  Women are kinder the more I cover, sometimes talking to me in public.  Mostly, people are just kind all over, and so helpful.  

I feel safe, but I also realize that there is no reason to get comfortable.  Enjoy what I can about being here, but don’t be shocked if I am asked to leave because a student accidently saw my ankle.  That’s extreme, perhaps.  My school is more tolerant, but I do hear stories of things happening, beyond a person’s control, and that person is then asked to leave.  

Speaking of leaving, I’m looking at possibilities for a March get-away for a week.  Beirut has a huge draw for me.  It’s supposed to be the “Paris of the Middle East.”  Paris itself is another thought.  Maybe Cyprus, maybe Seychelles.  Nepal was a thought, but I’m saving that until later.  Istanbul, maybe. Pretty sure Paris will be it, but I’m still exploring possibilities.  Anywhere I go, I’m checking weather and I’m checking political climate.  There are security warnings everywhere.  It can’t be avoided.  Is the world really more volatile right now, or is it just that I’m more aware of it all?  Hasn’t it always been in strife somewhere?

I’m writing this, not because I feel fear, but more as a reminder to myself to stay alert, aware of my own person and others, and to never assume that things will stay the same.  Maybe some of this is from watching the BBC coverage of things going on in the world.  I swore off of daily NPR back home precisely because it makes me so peevish.

Nice having a tv for the first time in a long time, but maybe I’ll balance out with some movies as I get over this respiratory infection.  

Until next time...I wish you safety and peace.  

Special thanks!

Quick shout-out to mimiintheworld.wordpress.com/ - thanks for the kind words and referrals!

("Mixchel should really blog more. Her posts come at a rate of about one a month and don’t deal in specifics, but she approaches living on the other side of the world with a kind of zen mindset. And she conveys the discombobulation of working in a society quiet unlike the US in its most basic tenets. With humor and appreciation.") 


Much appreciated.


Check it out, those of you who haven't.  Mimi gets to the nitty gritty of what's up around here.  :)


Thanks to all of you who are reading and sending friends my way. 

"mixchel in wonderland...err...maybe lalaland is more apropos"

So, there’s that feeling that you need to go backward to go forward.  (Or, is it forward to go backward?  I always mix that up.)  I’m nearly five months into this thing, and it feels like I’m just getting the hang of things.  Then, of course, something happens to make sure I don’t get too cosy with that feeling.  Either externally or internally, I still feel like I’m upside down.  Not that I’m complaining.  Rightside up is so overrated.

I’m doing things for the first time in a long time that I really shouldn’t be doing anymore.  Like running out of gas.  Yup.  Haven’t done that since I first started driving.  I’d love to blame it on a different kind of gas gage than I’m used to, but really, I just have less brain power available than I did even before making this move, it’s all so loaded up with newness.  I wish the goofiness stopped there, and I’d like to tell ya all about it, but I seeing as how I really like being here, like writing this blog, and some of what I have to tell ya about will just have to wait for the book deal.  (Okay, that might be a wee bit presumptious of me.  So, how about I tell you over coffee one of these days, okay?) I just hope that I get my head on straight soon and remember some basic, universal principals on how adults should function.  In an Islamic country. Oh, yeah. That would be good.

Lucky for me, there are many welcoming, kind strangers who have been generous enough to let me lean on them.  Help getting my bricked iPhone fixed, getting my curtains fiasco straightened out, haggling for furniture, waiting for furniture, advice on getting a car (Yay!  I might have a lead on getting a car!  And...no...I won’t have to do it all by myself.)  Help in getting myself home, when, errm, I wasn’t exactly able to on my own, errm.  Thank you, shukran, a thousand times over, to the generosity of strangers, nay, new friends, expats and locals alike, for steering me in the right direction countless times.  

I am slowly getting things set up for a life here.  It’s taking a long time.  Mafi internet still!  (No internet!) No tv either, but hey, I haven’t had that for twenty years, so that one doesn’t bother me much.  Maybe I’ll write more without something else to numb my already short-circuiting brain.  I am routinely calling to complain, but it isn’t doing a lick of good.  (Routine is good for getting brain power back. I’m supposed to know these things.  That piece of paper that says “Masters” on it says so.  But I was kinda hoping for routine more, oh I don’t know, life affirming, than calling daily to bitch and complain.)

The Curtains Fiasco.  I am in the process of buying curtains, yes.  There is a lot of boring that supplements the fun.  Yin and yang of life, right? Curtains, you might agree (unless you are an interior decorator or a real homey sort), land smack dab in the center of “boring.”  With a rather bland thud, I might add.  Not even a good juicy splatter or a glass-shattering crash.  Hoo boy, not this time, though!  Not boring.  Not a comedy!  More of a trajedy, really.  

It all started back in the good old days of my good intentions.  The same good intentions that said I should tip even if it isn’t a tipping country.  Many, many expats are not as fortunate as I.  (Many are significantly more.) But, you know, I wanted to keep to good juju flowing.  I wanted to give a little side “gift” to someone who may need a little extra for doing me a favor.  So, on some advice that the man had done a decent job with their curtains, I decided to ask him to help out in my place, too.  Seemed fine.  Gullible me.  I made the first mistake.  Gave him some money up front.  Seemed okay.  He called, we agreed on colors.  (“Whatever you do, make sure it’s not shiny or gold or floral.  It won’t go with anything I have.”)  Fast forward to coming home, to gold, flowerly, and yes, very shiny curtains, 500 dirhams later, and he, refusing to fix the problem.  I ended up threatening to tell his boss that he had done this.  A dangerous and bold threat over which he could lose his job, and subsequently, his residency visa in this country.  Didn’t know I had it in me. Suddenly, the curtains CAN be returned after all.   Funny how that works.  Yet, I still have the darn things.  I’ve almost given up at this point.  Meanwhile, I bought ready-made ones, asked for help from someone at the apartments.  Cheaper and way, way easier.  Live and learn.  I feel like a fool, but the only true fool is one who repeats the mistake.  My only mistake was wanting to believe I could trust.  Sad, sad day, when the words of others who have heard this story seem like wise advice, “don’t trust anyone with your money.”  Geez.  What an ugly reality.  Even sadder when they ask which nationality the person was, only to confirm their suspicions.  I hate stereotypes, but I sure hate them worse when someone of the culture proves the negative stereotype right.  Big, massive, enormous, UGHH. Still, if you’re moving here soon, email me and let me know which hotel you’ll be in so I can do some healthy warning against trusting the employees that seem so trustworthy to do sidework.  Please, for your own sake, do it. Besides, it’s illegal anyway to do work outside of your contract.  You can get in trouble for hiring someone to do it, too.  Safe side?  Just don’t.

When things like this happen, you really take inventory of your values, and you realize that so many of them are just the privilege of the lifestyle/class/culture you are from.  Things like helping those with less, organic vegetables, taking vitamins, going for dental cleanings, picking up your own trash, things that are so obviously “responsible” in my native world are not the same in a different context.

The Arab teachers seemed embarrassed that I would kneel to the floor to pick up a pencil.  There are servants for that.  You do things like that, you risk making their jobs moot.

Organic?  Only on imported, packaged things from the US and the UK.

Vitamins?  Why?  Did a doctor tell you that you are dying?  

Dental cleanings.  Just get a new, full set.  They’ll be prettier anyway.

Tip people?  They will sense a bleeding heart, and see how much they can get out of you.  

I can still only half-understand, or half-buy in to this mindset.  I do get that I need to be more flexible with my understanding of things, though.

Sometimes I seriously feel like I’ve become a massive version of myself. The experiences are so rich!  I’m writing again.  I can see that book on the horizon.  I’m writing poetry and short stories more often now.  I love that.  Doing a lot of introspective work.  Don’t love that so much, but it needs to be done. Keep reminding myself that in the end, I will be a better person for it all.  Other times, like with the curtains experience, I shrink down.  I mean that emotionally and intellectually. As always, leaving behind loved ones is super hard.  Hard not to feel like the decision is a selfish one. Same feelings as always, I guess it’s just more pronounced in such a shiny and colorful new backdrop.  

And again, like little Miss Alice on her journey into a strange new land, I keep getting distracted by more interesting things. (Playing in the desert, visiting lands I’ve never seen, trying things I’ve never tried.)  It’s hard to remember the goal.  (Umm...wha’ was it again?  Oh yeah, debt control, saving money for the next step of the journey.)  Yeah, but truthfully, a big part was travel and adventure, so I’m not truly that far off my mark. Besides actually owning a piece of real estate somewhere some day (mountain town?  lakeside? Buenos Aires? Palapa bar on the beach in Central America?) and helping out at home when I can, travel is my only goal.  New experiences.  Constant classroom of life.

For instance, I’ve learned that here, the shisha (called hookah in western places, which is the pipe and not the stuff you smoke), isn’t smoked by caterpillars.  It is a nice diversion, though, even if it might be better with enormous talking insects (no cockroaches, please).  (Anep, grape, is good.  Rose is my favorite, still. I like the Lebanese style, where the smoke journeys through an orange before it gets to your lungs.)  

I do get a lot of “Who are you?” questions.  I’m not allowed to be from the United States.  Not acceptable.  I don’t mean that in a political way.  It’s just that no one believes that anyone is actually from there.  I try to explain my heritage as best as I can, but it’s hard when you don’t really know yourself.  Sometimes I say that I’m “Mexican, but not from Mexico.”  Sometimes, I say I’m native.  Yes, sometimes I do.  Sometimes, I say I might be part Lebanese or Syrian, based on my mother’s last name.  I think what people see that make them wonder is my olive skin tone.  I really don’t think that comes from the European or possible Middle Eastern genes.  I think that’s truly native of the Americas.  Some people still want me to be “Spanish,” which I have never considered myself.  Since all those fancy p.c. nomenclatures that we take on during our higher education years are simply dismissed by people living in this part of the world, maybe I’ll just start saying that I’m Aztec.  Tee hee.  I like it.  

These nights, I think I see a Cheshire grin in the sky.  Here, the cresent moon is a sacred thing which appears on mosques everywhere.  I don’t have any valuable insight about that, though.   Have I mentioned how beautiful the Arabian sun is?  Can I just mention it again? Every single morning, and every night, it is astounding.  Hard not to stare right into that luminescent blood-orange sphere.  As much as I love the sunsets back home with colors that can sometimes rival the aurora borealis, it’s the sun itself here that is gorgeous, distinct, like something out of a movie. (I’ll get right on it.)

At this point, I wouldn’t be totally surprised if a white rabbit with a stopwatch lead me to a nonsensical tea party.  

(But, I lead myself away from the nonsensical tea party that’s stuck back in the USA.  I’m so, so sorry, Americans!  I’m so disgusted with all the ignorant and violent language being hurled back and forth.  And violence.  Tucson.  You  are in my heart.  Ms. Giffords, I send you healing to come back as a stronger peaceful warrior than you already were.  American health care system, I send you healing to create means to treat the mentally ill. I cannot help but remember a local woman who a few years back disappeared.  She had been so active in the community.  Then, something happened and she became mentally unwell, homeless, and uncared for.  I don’t know what happened to her.  I know community people tried to help.  I think family might have tried.  And yet, where is she?  Is she taken care of now?  Is she still alive? Why isn’t there a place for people like her, and for that awful, sick young man who held the weapon at that supermarket, to heal, to be safe? To keep the rest of us safe? So, so heartbreaking.)  

But, anyway, back to Lala land in a hotter desert on the other side of the planet.

And, as distractible as I am right now, and without a ton of foresight left (hey, maybe I’m just learning to fit in), my path is taking wild tangeants.  See now?  There is reason behind my having virtually no target with my writing today.  It was planned.  Well, okay, indulge me, we can all pretend that it was.  Imagination is good for the brain, right?

As screwy as I feel, and as unsure of my future as I ever was, it’s quite a ride.  And, in my defense, I have not once locked myself out of car or apartment, like a few friends I know of.  (Hotel room doesn’t count.)  Oops.  Hope I didn’t just jinx myself.  

Hey, what’s that there?  A little cake? (Some of the Arabic treats are super tasty.)  A bottle of something liquidy? (Is it chai?  Turkish coffee?  Arabic coffee?  Local honey?)  What do you think, should I have a little taste...?

"listening to teaser and the firecat"

Morning has broken, and I’m here in my apartment with the miss-matched curtains, procrastinating the dishes from last night’s gathering of the teacherly kind.  Awesome people.  All the people I’ve met are what truly make this experience, and me, so much richer.  

Ah, Cat Stevens.  The future husband of my childhood.  Yousef Islam.  Guess that won’t be happening afterall.  As heartbroken as I am, ya just gotta roll with life changes, ya know what I mean?  Still, listening to Teaser and the Firecat is as homey as it gets for this stray human.  If I ever change my name, I think I chose “Rubylove,” after my ultimate favorite song.  Okay, so some may feel he was a little harsh on that Rushdie character.  Don't know the whole story. (Still haven’t read that book, seeing as how I don’t like following hype.)  So what!  He’s making music again, that's what!  Right where he left off.  

Tuesday.  Rubylove Tuesday.  Perfect.  

I’m happy to discover again and again that those things - music we listened to, Sunday morning breakfasts (toasties, by many other names, is toast with an egg in the hole in the middle), rainy days - stay with me wherever I am.  Parents, those family rituals are so important.  Varied experiences are great, but ah, those rituals create grooves in the brain and in the heart that last a lifetime.  Not much has been stable since then in my life.  Not complaining, I love that.  but, it makes those times that much more important.  Thank you so much, Mom, Dad, Bro.  The best family I could have ever asked for.  Dang, getting all sentimental.  It’s Cat’s fault.  Maybe if I laugh just a little bit...

But, I’m here in my life in the Emirates, mostly extremely happy.  Missing people is the hardest part, but seeing them all the time and feeling like you aren’t following your path is a worse tragedy. All you younger folks, I always worried that I’d be the one person that would reach the 30’s/40’s with nothing to show for it.  You know, the one who gave up on their dreams. Who gave in to the mentality that you have to settle for what you’re handed. But, it’s never too late. It might be hard on some people when you do that, but inevitably, it’s best.  For you.  And for them.  It isn’t about money.  It’s about passion.  What does your soul, genetic make-up, that impetus you came into this world with, what does it tell you to do?  It isn’t the same as anyone else’s. We all know it’s better to live it out, right?  The recipe?  One-half effort, one-half openness to change and to letting go.  Only two ingredients.  As for the others, when you do that, you might become some sort of mini-prophet, the one who reminds them of their own true path.  

True paths don’t have an end goal.  In fact, it’s better if they don’t.  Living your great TRUTH is not a means to something, it is the something in itself. A path is a path is a path.

I’m even feeling like I might finish that novel during some long stay in Morocco.  There’s still a chance I’ll learn to play saxophone.  To play on that fire escape at 3am in NY city.  Those were on my list way before “bucket list” was a term.  And maybe I won’t, but you know what I’ve regained?  The great possibility that they CAN, if I chose to follow through.

Anyway, that aching sense that I should be doing something else, looking for something I’ve lost, it’s still there.  That must have been what took me walking around the neighborhood without permission when I was little.  (I did find $5 and Eddie the paperboy’s house, but neither one was quite what I was looking for.)  I’m finally starting to realize that the longing will be there for as long as I’m here on this beautiful precarious stone floating in space, even if I’m fortunate enough to put a footprint on every last inch of land.

Maybe that’s Mystic Me talking.  Today, there are Buddists and Muslims who have special holy days today.  All kinds of roses in this garden.  Maybe that’s the exploring I need to return to today, searching for the question “why?”  “Laish?” "Limotha?"

Well, I know we don’t take the material things with us, and I have no idea what sort of memories will be ours after all this is finished, khalas.  I think it’s the living for now that matters.  How to make a life rich with experience, love, and happiness without intentionally hurting anyone, including yourself.  Seems like all religions in the world kinda boil down to that.  I wish that for all of you in your own lives. That you have found or are finding your way back to that road you make by the footsteps you take.

Oh, if I ever lose my fingers, middle, index, pinkie, pointers...yes, if I ever lose my fingers, oh aaaay aaaay...I won’t have to type no more...

"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.