The one behind the wheel

I'm freckling, which hasn't happened since I was a little kid. Matches the reddening hair. Probably an indicator of not enough SPF. But the sprinkling of kid freckles across my nose also matches my frame of mind, out exploring and not being too sure or too comfortable, but going for it anyway. Being a grown-up kid is cool. Because I get to drive.


Driving around Dubai (and we generally have to try twice, maybe three times to get where we're trying to go) is an adventure all in itself. When I manage to go directly to a place it's a major victory, and a bright spot in the day. Hey, I take it where I can find it. Early on, when Mike brought home the rental car provided by his work he said slightly proudly, slightly sheepishly, "Well, my very first time driving in a foreign country and I got a speeding ticket."

The speeding tickets here are given automatically by roadside cameras. You either pay them when you renew your driver's license or, like us, when you pay your monthly rental bill they're added on along with toll charges from the highway. A speeding ticket costs about 100 Dhs, $33 USD. It doesn't affect your insurance in any way and you have to get a lot of them to have any sort of real consequence. So they're not a big deal.

Our little white rental car (which looks pretty much exactly like all the other little white rental cars) beeps several times if we go above 120 km/hr, and Thomas beeps back at it. Some cars apparently keep at it, but ours is polite and gently reminds us. Thomas often requests the beep when Mike is driving.

We miss our Honda CRV from back in the states and, more importantly, it's turning radius. Lots of traffic circles and legal U-turns are the way of the road here. Car shopping is something on our horizon, not immediately important, but something to think about. Here we know we'll be getting something much bigger than we'd ever drive at home.

First, we want to be able to seat 6 for when we have guests. (No visitor is going to want to drive this unless they absolutely have to. )

Secondly, I've read that if a young man is going to die in an auto accident he is more likely to do some here in Dubai than anywhere else in the world. So we want something second cousin to, say, a Sherman Tank.


Mike had an experience the other day while he was driving home from work. He was going about 140 km/hr (about 86 mph...this is out in the desert where there's nothing but road and sand and few penalties for speeding of any sort), when an SUV came up behind him as though he was standing still.

There was a car beside him so he floored it and jerked his car over in front of the car next to him ---the SUV never slowed and blazed past him, he just barely getting out of the way. Mike couldn't believe the other driver didn't lose control of what he thought was a Yukon, not exactly a sports car. Then the other driver was gone, leaving Mike gripping the wheel tightly and trying to unclench his...teeth.


I had somehow glossed over in my memory the fact that although Mike had been to Dubai before, he'd never driven here. So riding in the car the first few times, no matter what happened, I felt perfectly relaxed and safe. After all, we were in experienced hands. Then Mike said something to his family back home about being new to driving here and I did the "whaaaaaaaaaat?!" thing. "Ack! I trusted you!" and so forth. Three weeks later it's no big deal.


Arabs are very fatalistic, and so far as driving goes, one has very little choice but to adopt the same method of survival or stay home. So far this has worked pretty well for us.

Mostly I relax, occasionally muttering things under my breath like "big jerk". There is jail time involved if one employs the middle finger, so I'm happy that's not a habit I engage in on the road. As lanes are optional, and motorcyclists making the Seattle courier cyclists look sane, I just go with the flow, Dao driving, like water flowing over rocks in a stream. (I will, however, be thrilled if the kids don't learn the word "crap!" from me by the end of the week.)

I have yet to drive in a visibility-limiting sandstorm, but they have been present often enough that I know I will sooner or later. I hear the trick is to slow way down and turn on your blinkers. Mike and his co-workers out in the desert are always on the lookout for them, knowing that a sandstorm will increase their commute time exponentially.

Driving along the main highway, the Sheik Zayed Road, there are particularly large portrayals of the rulers of the UAE, either huge signs or pictured on skyscrapers, very much larger than life. The Maktoum family united and rules the UAE, with an incredibly forward-looking view towards moderation, infrastructure, environmentalism, and honoring Islamic values. Impressively savvy folks, these. We haven't completely sorted out who is who yet in the photos, though it seems obvious that the Sheik, (pronounced "shake" not "sheek") who strongly resembles a fierce falcon, is the big guy.

There are always workers squatting on their haunches next to the roads in a way that I think would require some sort of circus training for a westerner. I am not only impressed that they keep their balance, but am astounded that this seems comfortable for them. One time I saw a man squatting on the 2" wide top of a concrete barrier under the overpass on the main highway, cars whizzing past at freeway speeds and greater. Yikes.


In the greener areas you see men holding hands, a sign of friendship (men and women holding hands is unusual, though we have seen it in the malls in the more-relaxed Dubai city), waiting patiently in groups under trees, all in the matching coveralls of their employer, though sometimes offset by brilliantly colored scarves wrapped around their otherwise bare heads. Bare heads and darker skin almost always signify a worker; it is only the Arab upper class who wears the red checked guthrah, and they are never seen with the workers.

Now that I think about it, I've yet to notice a single turban here. I wonder why that is. I'll have to pay attention and ask more questions.

Often the workers sleep while they wait for whatever it is they're waiting for, and more often than not they sleep smiling, stretched out like cats or sprawled spread-eagle on the grass.

The inevitable and multitudinous construction sites along the road are invariably marked with polite, apologetic signs and lined with cable. This cable is bedecked with thousands of red and white streamers that not only flutter in the breeze, making it harder to discern traffic movement, especially around the traffic circles. but also makes me wonder about the poor soul who had to tie all those on.

So while I'm getting as comfortable as one can with driving here, and truly, drive-related incidents that would totally freak me out back in the states aren't even a blip on my mental radar now, I still avoid rush hour like the plague and am anxiously awaiting the end of summer: the onslaught of the usual number of inhabitants to return to the UAE, swarming and clogging the roads.

Me and my buddy, the yellow lavender-filled chicken on the dashboard, will deal.

Walkin' on the sun

It's our weekend again. Friday morning we went out as a family for an "American" breakfast. American, I dunno, but it was certainly very good: toast, chicken sausage, fried eggs, mango juice, and grilled tomato followed by coffee. So grilled tomato is more of a British thing, so what? Mike got to try out Turkish coffee for himself. We carefully poured into the tiny cups from our ibriks, (there's a photo on Aug 4th post or you can research this intriguing phenomenon by following this link: http://coffeegeek.com/guides/turkishcoffee thanks to Lino Verna). Mike took a sip.

"Whoo! That's stout!" He gasped. I had him try my sweetened version. "I'm not sure I like it." Hmm. Each to their own. I raved at him for a moment about how you can actually feel the coffee bean oil texture in your mouth, then decided perhaps this was a more for me sort of situation.

Bethy had made quick friends with a beautiful little cinnamon-skinned girl from northern Africa at the table next to us. She had the same hair as Bethy's, longer and shiny black, but with the same loose curls at the end. The two of them found each other immediately and began discussing the finer points of My Little Pony and to a lesser extent, Care Bears. Bethy's new friend had a wonderful accent, and her English was impeccable.

As Bethy had crammed her "what to bring" toy box with almost exclusively My Little Ponies back in the USA, this was a great friend for her.

Her new friend had a "Starcatcher" pegasus that Bethy hadn't seen before, and we parents cracked up at the discussion of which stores in the mall might carry such a pony, even though this particular winged pony had been brought from Africa. The two of them dressed and undressed a baby doll, (which included a lively and protracted discussion about which was the pee and which was the poo hole of said baby), and compared the My Little Pony DVDs that they favored. At the end of the meal, the little girl gave Bethy two silver bracelets and a Disney Princesses photo holder. Bethy gave her the choice of any of her brand-new and just sharpened colored pencils (aqua and pink went to their new home). There was a lot of hugging.

In the afternoon we braved new roads, drove several wrong turns and interesting loop-de-loops in pursuit of a noble goal, one which travellers have sought at great personal risk and expense for thousands of years. Spices.

The Spice Souk is near Dubai, Creek, really a saltwater lagoon in place of the creek Khor Dubai that was deepened and it's banks reinforced in the 1950's. The creek appears to be overflowing these banks with dhows (boats), some 4 deep in places, and their goods spilling out onto the docks. Everything from refrigerators to mysterious bags piled in heaps in an completely unfathomable system that apparently works.

The Spice Souk immediately inundates your senses with exotic smells and the bright colors of spices and dyes. The narrow walkways are lined with the open containers of spices and bordered with small stores, and the vendors invite you into each one "Come see, Ma'am, please come in Madam" .

This Souk is a place I've really been looking forward to exploring.

First there is incense, frankincense resin tears in pale golden piles, then orange-gold saffron and a multitude of curries, which have stained the fingers of the vendors yellow. There are piles of dried rosebuds and heaps of nutmeg, peppercorns, indigo, sulfur, cardamon, cloves, cinnamon bark, anise stars and many mysterious spices that I couldn't even guess at.

The vendors were very friendly "Where are you from Madam? Ma'am, what is this? This is dark lemon ma'am. This is zataar (thyme) Ma'am. Bezar, ma'am. Very good for fish."

I settled on a merchant and Thomas immediately began begging for chocolate. The young man opened a container of chocolate rocks from one of the shelves and let Thomas eat some. Then some more, so of course we bought that. I selected from the dizzying array some finely ground dusty pepper and a few cinnamon sticks and a nutmeg. All were sealed in bags and presented graciously, between bouts of playing with Thomas and trying to answer my questions. I told him that we had moved to Dubai and that I was looking for a friend who could provide me spices and help me learn about how to use them for cooking. Ah! He said. He was a mixture of shy and well-versed merchant, talking with me knowledgeably about the spices and their uses, silent otherwise, allowing us to touch and smell everything.

Thomas tried to use the a scoop to ladle out some dusty pepper for himself as I was paying for our goods (I hadn't bargained too strongly with him over the prices, spent less than $5 USD in the store), and was quickly and gently saved from himself by another friendly fellow who worked there. "No, no baby!" Little boy cuddling was extracted as payment for services rendered.

Mike had spent all this time trying to find a parking space, and now we tried to regroup. Though it was late afternoon and the shadows in the spice corridors were giving some respite from the sun, all of my concave and convex parts were easily discernible thanks to the puddling sweat. Mike had Bethy, I had Thomas, and though there were cell phones involved, we had a difficult time finding one another. Apparently if one wishes to buy a handbag (Jimmy Choo! Chanel Ma'am, we have these handbags for you! Come see! ) the dark alleys along the street between the Spice Souk and the Gold Souk are the place.

Constantly we were asked where we were from. The response "United States" drew blank looks, and we had to answer "We're Americans" to get understanding. Oh yes, they knew Americans.

By the time we were together again the kids were hungry and cooked and there were inquiries about a bathroom by Bethy. Back by where Mike had finally negotiated a parking spot (and was now arguing with the man that he'd already paid for it once) there were clean public bathrooms. Much to Bethy's horror there were no western potties. This is the child who refused porta-potties on a regular basis, so even with mommy gamely demonstrating the use of the squatty potty and squirter, no go, so to speak. (How do you dry off? ---you don't---Ew! Gross!!!)

As we drove away the call to prayer surged out and over us in full throat from two different mosques. (You may wish to turn your volume down). Filmed from our car (as are many of my photographs, actually), I hope you can hear as Bethy and Thomas both say "That sounds nice."

By the sea, by the sea, by the beautiful sea...

We went to the beach today, and it was blissful. Breeze, lovely water, white sands.

I'm saying these things now because I know you won't want to hear them next February.

Thomas figured out a new game. He'd picked up a pretty big rock in the parking area, back by the trees and shade, and carried it all the way out to the water. He threw it in the water, then flung himself after it like a golden retriever and fetched it, getting happily soaked in the process. Returning to the sand, he threw it back out into the water and repeated the gleeful fling and chase several times. Rather like golf, actually.

Then he figured out that he needn't return to shore, so he threw and splashed around with his friend the rock for the rest of the time in the warm salty water.

Bethy was torn between constructing the perfect sand castle and collecting more shells. Thomas has been a little bit clingy again, very lovey and kissy, so it was nice for both kids to get out, run and play, even though we had to get up pretty early.


The little guy is terrified of the vacuum cleaner for some reason, and comes running to me to be picked up the moment it's in the vicinity. Today he screamed in total terror. I've never seen him move so fast. The room guys feel terrible about this and we're working together to desensitize him slowly and gently.

We've gotten him to the point where he'll push the vacuum as long as someone is holding him, but he seems to forget the exposure therapy as soon as the evil killer vacuum shows up again.

"Tohm-aaas, Tohm-aaas" the room guys soothe as he runs howling to me "up UP pick me UP!"

The funny thing is, he loved the vacuum we had in the USA. Had a little one just like it and would vacuum with me, go figure.

I went running with a new-ish acquaintance again tonight, Graham from the UK, originally, anyway. He is a super nice guy, the one who I'd written to from the USA and had reassured me that not only was it OK for me to run but that he'd set me up with someone to go running with if he was in the UK when we arrived. He's the organizer for the Dubai Road Runners, and is involved in several other running, marathon, and triathlon groups here.

A liberal and compassionate fellow, he amazed me with his understanding of US politics and his commentaries on sociology and his views on his fellow countrymen and women here in the UAE. While I didn't agree with everything he said (didn't argue much; too busy concentrating on things like sucking in oxygen, not falling over and not dying), I was very impressed with his world view and got to see for myself a westerner who has been in the Middle East for a long time and has maintained my policy of respect for everyman and interest in the culture. This was really reassuring, and he's going to help me a bit with Arabic.

"They've a great word for winter here", he grinned "شتاء shita"

"As in, we're in deep shita right now?"

He also told me the words for the other seasons, but I rather liked that first one.

We ran on a soft track that circles Safa Park, a beautiful green space with the Burj Dubai looming in the distance, trees, mosques, even a camel in a pen, I think for the children to pet. One circuit is a bit more than 2 miles and he moves out pretty good. (Keep going, almost there, keep going, almost there I mentally chanted over and over ) There was his car. I had survived.

I stayed upright, walked with him while he got himself some water (mine was nearly gone, I was holding it in a death grip). After a minute of striding around he sized me up and said "Are you all right with that or would you like to go another round?

Now I was really in the shita!!!!

So we did it again. Never have I prayed so hard for anything as I did for him to turn on the air conditioning as when we finally got into his car.

"You know," he said, "you really should wear shorts."

Since I seem to be fixating on potty talk, check out this model:

"Mom, what is it?"

Thomas was circling enthusiastically. "Potty! Is a potty!"

Bethy's face was priceless, especially when I explained the squatting part. Luckily for her there was one western version hidden away in the furthest stall.

See the sprayer there? That's for cleaning. Thomas is quite intrigued by those. Every potty has one, and if I manage not to get doused by him in a public stall I am going to be really, really happy.

Most of the villas we've looked at have had your regular potty model, and also a bidet. Bethy was all excited about the bidet.

"Look! Look! A little bath for Thomas!"

Now Thomas thinks it's a little bathtub for him. Sigh.

Dang dang dang went the trolley...

The room guys (and I'm so sorry, I still haven't learned their names, despite many many efforts to hold them down long enough to memorize their name tags) were really intrigued by our conversation with Colleen and the family over Skype yesterday.

"Oh my God, this technology," one said, "this is so good, Ma'am. It is very very good." and they asked all sorts of questions as I tried to explain how far away our families are, who the people on the laptop are, how tall the trees and mountains are in Washington State, how cold the water is.

The last bit was a bit difficult considering my lack of fluency in metric and Celsius.

My brother, Rich in Bethel, Alaska mentioned that its 44F there. Awesome! It was 44C here!

There is one marked advantage to the metric system. I bought a scale, which of course is in kilograms. Since it takes 2.2 lbs to make a kg, not only is that number substantially smaller than in the US, but it takes a lot more for the number to shift up or down. Works for me.

Bethy and Thomas figured out on, oh, day one that the reception area is always stocked with Red Delicious apples. They had to take one every time we went through the lobby.

Pretty soon our hotel room was filling up with apples marked with three or fewer bites. I began to make applesauce out of self defense, (and horror at the quantity of apples being thrown away). The staff seems to think the kids are the most wonderful things, and love giving them the apples. One day we went down there and there were no apples.

One look at the stricken looks on the kids' faces sent the doorman striding to a back room, entreating, "Wait, Ma'am, please wait."

Shortly thereafter he reappeared, carefully polishing two apples.

Yesterday the reception staff moved next door to the building that's being reopened. We're sad about this for two reasons. One, the apples have gone next door too. Second, we really enjoyed having our room face an entirely empty set of balconies.

The staff were particularly apologetic about the apples moving away and today when we walked over there to get some, they also presented Bethy with a red rose.

The villa hunt continues. We were this close to getting a house yesterday.

We liked it, it wasn't exactly what we wanted, though it was very nice with a grass back yard, mature garden and trees, view of lakes from both the front and back. All white and marble, of course, as are all the homes. This having been said, we weren't excited about it, but we thought that it was the best we could do with the amount of allowance we had from the company for housing. (I know, I know, life is harsh...)

Then Mike called me. He'd heard a rumor that the company housing allowances were going to go up. Last time the went up 15%, and that would be enough for us to get the house we really want if we shop around and hit it just right. The thought is that the increase might even be retroactive. Mike is the master of risk assessment, in my loving opinion, so I left it up to him. Should we settle for the smaller house that we liked or take a chance on finding something we love?

We decided to wait, and I'm pretty happy about it. As you should be, since the guest room just wasn't big enough for our tastes. You never know, you might end up coming out here to see us!

With the predicted extra allotment we're hoping to get a villa with a real maid's room. This means we're back to thinking about whether we can afford to sponsor a maid. I even have one mentally picked out. A patient, thorough, gentle woman from Indonesia who loves kids and to cook would be perfect. (I can dream, can't I?) Thanks to Bill for introducing us to Indonesian cuisine, by the way...

Shopping the other day at the local grocer, all of the sudden the front wheel came clattering off of the grocery cart (here called a trolley) and skittered away. This was a new one for me. I'm still trying to adjust to the lack of seatbelts for the kids on the trolley, so a jettisoned wheel seemed par with the course.

One of the stockers immediately came to my assistance and tried to get the recalcitrant wheel back on, to no avail. So he dashed off and brought me a new trolley, carefully transferring the groceries from one to the other, and bringing a group of other interested employees who stood around talking about the excitement.

We went to Geant store, the Dubai version of a Fred Meyer, as far I can tell. This is a really big store, and there you have to pay to use a trolley. I had carefully watched, and what you do is shove the dirham (about the size of a quarter with a similar value) into a little slot on the handle and this releases the chain that attaches it to the next trolley and you're good to go. That's the theory, anyway.

I wrestled with the thing for awhile, gave up and asked another woman for help. A NZ kiwi, she reassured me that yes, these things were a pain and we went along the line of trolleys trying to find on that would release it's hold on it's neighbor, shoving in and removing the dirham as we went along. Finally one came off, and I thanked her and happily loaded in the kids as she wheeled away. As I was finishing getting the kids in another woman approached me. Could I please help her with the trolley system? She was new here from Scotland, she said...

When we got back to the hotel we ran into one of our room guys who's been transferred away from us on the 5th floor to the 2nd. I asked him how he liked his new job "No, no, I do not like it Ma'am", he said. He had come in very early, it seemed, and was leaving early as well, with his day off being tomorrow. He reminds me strongly of Ponch on CHIPS, great smile, better hair, and he was wearing his off-duty clothes, a perfectly pressed shirt and slacks. I told him he looked handsome and he responded the way a 12 year old boy might, ducking his head and murmuring "Thank you Ma'am, thank you."

I would have loved to ask him what he does on his day off, but I didn't want to keep him from it. So he hugged Bethy and kissed sleeping Thomas on his cheeks and then asked if he could carry the grocery bags for me. Here he was, all duded up and ready to go, and he still wanted to take the time to help us. I sent him on his way with a smile and a nandi and we both said we missed seeing each other.

Then I lugged the bags and conked-out Thomas up to the room and felt pretty dang good about it.

The heat is on...

You know how I know it's really hot out there?

When we come into an air conditioned area it feels really refreshing, chilly enough to make the kids complain about how cold it is. Then we spend some time inside, and it starts to feel kind of warm, first comfortable, then maybe a little too warm, maybe even sweat a little. Then we go back outside. YOW!

"Too awt! Too aaaawt!" sings out Thomas, especially as he's being buckled into his car seat.

I often see cars with the engines running as the owners go inside to do their errands for however long, so they can come back out to cool seats. Good thing gas is so cheap...

I know it's hot because I look forward to sandstorms when the sun is blotted out for a while and if we're not actually in the middle of a big one we can go hang out in the pool even though it's the middle of the day. Here's a video of a small one we had the other day. It's the "fog" you see in the distance. All the clothes hung up to dry outside blow away. Must get clothespins. The fogging of the lens is from the heat and humidity, despite all that wind.

\

I've read Bethy the riot act about crayons in the car, (and only have the cheap ones...Crayola will melt like that) and Mike says he's been told not to leave a mobile phone in the car as the batteries can, and apparently will explode and cause an inferno.

I mentioned before that we never go anywhere in the car without a frozen bottle of water, a bottle of water with electrolytes, and bananas. The diaper bag may be forgotten, but we had better have water! Mike and I have studied up on heat exhaustion and heat stroke and how to treat them, since the kids in particular are at risk with their smaller body size.

According to the CDC, "Temperatures that hover 10 degrees or more above the average high temperature for the region and last for several weeks are defined as extreme heat." Let's see now, the average high temperature for July and August in Seattle is...75 F. The average high temperatures for Dubai in July and August are 114 and

116 F.

Hmm, guess that qualifies. The long pants or skirts that I wear (to be appropriate) don't really help the situation, but I have to tell you, the Emerati women wear pants tightly fitted at the ankle (sirwal) under the floor-length dress (jillabeela) and the black cloak (abaya). Then they most likely cover their hair with the shaila and sometimes their entire face with the nikab that only shows their eyes. The burqa mask may be worn underneath this to cover their mouths. I would suffocate under all this!

I was surprised and gratified that these garments are not the plain black I had envisioned and thought I knew from photos and television. They are beautiful, embroidered or with sequins all around the edges in elaborate designs, sometimes all black shimmery, but I've even seen pink sequins . Mike loves to see the women in the full outfit with just the small horizontal opening for eyes and glasses.

If you watch surreptitiously you can see the women before and after a meal carefully and discretely rearranging their facial covers, and in the ladies restroom the veils often come off. I feel pretty special that I get to see their faces, though I make sure never to approach anyone without their full headgear on, lest I should make them uncomfortable. I do say nyah-nyah about it to Mike, though, being the mature adult that I am.

The look of just kohl-rimmed eyes showing beneath the veil is intriguing and mysterious, and the abayas, I have to tell you, are figure flattering, up to a point anyway. But how they don't all keel over from heat prostration is completely beyond me!

I finally got my hands on some sweetened Turkish coffee. Words almost fail me. It was like drinking the dark, rich, gorgeous soul of coffee. So, so tasty. I must learn how to make it, now, if not sooner.

One important tip, though, is not to swig that last mouthful. Very chewy and gritty, those grounds.

Monday was an interesting day. Mike was off to work by 4:45 again, and as he walked out the door he mentioned over his shoulder, "Natalie, there's an...army of ants. Bye!"

There was indeed. Small, nonthreatening, but a definite swarm coming in under the door in a steady stream. I put on my shoes and surveyed the situation. Deciding that it was time to call in the troops I called guest services. "So sorry, Ma'am, I will tell housekeeping immediately Ma'am. Is there anything else, Ma'am?" Nope, I said. Just the ants, please.

3 hours later I was deciding that maybe housekeeping wasn't coming immediately. I had tucked my feet up on the couch and was making sure the sleeping children weren't being carried away by a well-coordinated bevy of ants (OK, so actually the ants stayed on the marble flooring and are pretty harmless little critters), so I dialed "0" again. Turns out that housekeeping doesn't actually get here until 8 am, so I guess I was foolish to expect them. Silly me.

When they did get here my guys went to town for us, vacuuming everything, scrubbing and spraying furiously, and also called in an exterminator to come in while we were gone for the day. Not a single intrepid little ant remained when we returned. A little bit sad, a lot less crawly.

We headed out to what we've christened the Big Blue School (Gems World Academy Dubai -resembles something out of Dr Seuss) and I actually drove straight there. Without directions. This calls for a whoo-hoo.

Emboldened, I kept driving and found the scrapbooking store. Two for two! Pretty soon I'm going to get some serious attitude. This feeling of elation continued right up to the point when someone mentioned how nice and light traffic is during the summer.

Dang.

My Mom wanted to post this comment on the last blog entry: "Ah so very sweet. I'm so proud of you and the way you are being a great guest in this country. Love, Mumsey"

This would be a good time for confessions. Moms tend to elicit that response in me, actually.

My language studies are not going as well as I might have hoped. I am able to meet and greet many people relatively well. (Emphasis on the "relatively" part of that statement) Well enough that it creates a sort of problem.

Now folks are momentarily fooled into thinking I can have a conversation with them in their native tongue. Their faces brighten and they lean forward and a stream of incomprehensible words wash over me. Then I confess to them as I am to you.

Apparently the next phrase I need to learn in each language is "I don't speak ____ " (Tagalog, Arabic, Hindi, Punjabi, Urudu, Swahili, Malayalam, Farsi, you get the idea). What's funny about all this is sometimes I don't know what the language is, just what to say to whom.

What I love about all this is that people are so willing to put up with my ineptitude and carefully talk me through the phrase I've asked for, even patiently helping me get it written down when it's a real mouthful. Like Bethy, some days I wish for "Aloha".

I've run into some "why bother" backlash from some expats. I could live my whole life here without interacting with Arabs if I liked, I'm told. Everybody speaks English. Why bother try to learn the local customs, why bother to speak a few words to people in their country's language? Why fret about trying to wear the right clothes, to act the right way when you'll never blend in?

Why? Why?!

Because I didn't travel exactly halfway across the world to stay in exactly the same comfortable little world. Because I'm not looking to blend, but to represent Americans (and Westerners) as not being self-centered, xenophobic, small-minded, well, jerks. Not all of us, anyway. Who's with me on this?

I have a lot to learn, and am approaching this opportunity humbly and with gratitude, and I can only hope I never become complacent or jaded in this wonderful new place.

To make up for my rant, here is a somewhat poor quality video of a certain little boy and one of his favorite pastimes. I present to you: More Gecko.

Not too particular, not too precise...

Within the last week I have finally figured out the laundry machine. At least I think so. I won't gloat, or it'll put me back in my place with more pink and blue clothes that didn't start out that way. (I think there may have been some dirham bills left in a pocket that contributed to that little fiasco, but I can't be sure). Please keep in mind as you continue to read, that this is a really nice residence, so the appliances are not necessarily to blame for any shortcomings.

Feel free to shake your head at me or roll your eyes via the computer as needed.



I've included a gratuitous photo of one of the massive balancing acts of crane species for you engineering types to hold your interest while I founder though my list of mechanical sorts of things that seem beyond my control.

Beyond the mysterious two-button potty flush technique, the drains in the bathroom have also surprised me. If one drains, say, a bath quickly, one better not have left clothing on the floor. The water bubbles up from beneath onto the tiles and gurgles in the sink on it's way out. "Oops, should've warned you about that", said Mike.

Now he tells me.

The oven has also been a challenge, and one that, I'm slightly ashamed to admit, I've avoided as much as possible. There are no words to assist in it's use, just pictures. Anyone who has assembled something made in China with pictographs to assist knows how I am feeling about this.

There are numbers to set the temperature, but for this USA girl, I need a special parking sticker to make up for my Fahrenheit upbringing. (Mom and Dad, it's not your fault! You did your best!) Fortunately there are computer programs online to assist in conversions from F to C and, even better, grams and ml from cups and ounces.

(I will soon have two sets of measuring implements and am hoping someday to be recipe-fluent on both sides of the Atlantic.)

In the meantime, the family is doing awfully well on eating out and leftovers, should I really put this much effort into fixing what seems to be such a great system? This having been said, I feel that I am really earning the food that comes out of the oven, which is quite satisfying.

However, on a day like today where once again we're craving that Aussie beef in the form of cheeseburgers, I need only address the stove top, and that's been easy.

At the grocery store we pick up those glorious eggs in multiples of 5, and milk in 1, 2, or 3-liter containers. I have to read the milk containers very carefully to figure out the fat content. The milk here is quite good, and to avoid confusion is labelled "COWS MILK".

There were shrimp for sale the size of lobsters. See Bethy's head? Those suckers were HUGE. (120 Dhs.)

I wouldn't have had the first clue what to do with them. Cocktail anyone?

Here's a quick survey of some other prices:

Bananas are 3.95/ kg ($0.49 /lb)

2 heads of garlic cost 0.30 Dhs ($.08!)

A bunch of mint: 1 Dhs ($0.33) I have to forcibly restrain myself from buying more.

2 kiwis: 2.90 Dhs ($0.80)

A yellow pepper (here called "capiscum") costs 4.90 ($1.34) the red and green are more.

Lettuce, however, runs 69.95/kg. ($8.65/lb) this was the least expensive lettuce, too.



I treated myself to a small (100 g) box of loose red bush tea (rooibosch) for 17.50 ($4.77)

The kids favor the (chicken) hot dogs wrapped in a sweet dough (2nd shelf from the top) and Bethy swears she'll never eat any other kind of hot dog ever again. You see the vegetarian pizzas, chocolate croissants, British pasties and meat pies, all between 3-5.50 Dhs ($0.82- 1.49).

227 g of Colby jack cheese (8 oz) was 21.00 ($11.45/ lb)

5 huge rounds of flat Lebanese bread (like extra large pizza-sized really good pitas) 3 Dhs ($0.82)



A regular bag of M&Ms is also 3 Dhs, but as you know I go for the UK chocolate, and that tends to be slightly less pricey. American goods are generally the most expensive, but I couldn't care less where it came from as long as it tastes good.

I was looking and looking for radishes and finally asked for help. The gal looked at me strangely, caught herself, said "This way Ma'am, here are radishes" and pointed to a big pile of white things the size of my forearm.

They were tasty, by the way.

I still have to use a credit card to pay for groceries since we haven't gotten an ATM card for me yet. This means we pay an extra percentage for the USD-AED conversion by the bank. The process of acquiring one has been interesting.

Mike had several people working on it for him, calls were made, favors called in, and when we finally got it, all excited about being able to get cash, the holiday hit (Eid Al Isra' Wal Mi'raj -the Ascension of the Prophet Mohammad) and the ATMs were drained of cash by the time we got there!

Dang.

I'm settling in purchase-wise: coffee store, check, used book store, check, scrapbooking store located, (though not yet visited, like I have time for that!), lots of places to develop film, library is on the list. Bethy and Mike picked up a cute little red "mobile" (cell phone) for me, (though they had to go back again with his passport to be allowed to buy the sim card to make it work).

I can even get to the beach now, though perhaps not the one I originally headed out for... What more could a girl possibly need?

Actually, a house would be nice, and we go nearly every day to view one. "Go looka house!" says Thomas.

The villas are very beautiful, but the rental allowance from the company, perfect 9 months ago, has now fallen behind the market. Markedly. So we keep looking.

A 3 bedroom with tiny maid's room, study (aka guest room, for those of you prone to travel) and a small yard can easily cost 300,000 Dhs to rent for a year. Yup, coming up on $100 thou.

Every day the prices go up as the summer marches on, and houses go fast. They are beautiful houses though, creamy white interiors, marble kitchens and marble staircases that make us worry even more than the marble floors for Thomas' noggin.

We will be dropping some dough on rugs, that's for sure, oh darn. I'm pretty sure we can get some awfully nice Persian carpets here. (They're everywhere!)



I got gently but firmly reprimanded (again!) by the room guys for letting Thomas go out on the porch to eat a popsicle. Well, hyuk, hyuk, that's how we all cool dohwn 'round these here parts..

Actually, here's Thomas' true heritage: future engineer, for sure. Check out the multitasking. He already knows his way around in the car better than either of us, and always tells us when we're almost home, regardless of which direction we come from. Pretty good, kid.

I should ask him for help with the oven...

She says, let's go

Saturday morning, the last day of our weekend, I headed out to run on the beach. I almost made it to Jumirah Beach Resort, but at the last minute I somehow ended up on an overpass that I didn't see coming...

This is pretty much the story of my driving life, which is not as inconvenient as it might sound. Who wants to end up exactly where they were going every time, anyway?

I ended up running on the Umm Suqueim Beach, about a km or so away from the Burj Al Arab on it's island. Not a bad view at all, in my opinion. That and the beautiful sea, of course.

I found it interesting that on the beach no one gave me a second glance, whereas near our hotel I am the object of much curiosity. I had read that men stare at western women here, and that it makes some women very uncomfortable. I'm fine with it. Men look at women in the USA just as much, but there it's often ogling, (sorry guys!) whereas here it's genuine friendliness or, more commonly, frank curiosity, the sort of open looking that you would expect from a child; no sense of underlying motives.

This jaunt to the beach was my first "long" drive, and the most important thing I learned was not to come to a full stop at a stop sign. "STOP" actually translates to hesitate slightly or annoy other drivers. The green lights often blink before they turn yellow, and some have counters to let you know how many seconds it will be until the light changes. Though the stop signs may be taken as polite suggestions, running a red light carries heavy penalties.

The yield sign, however, translates to U-turn or traffic circle immediately ahead, go for it!

In Houston Texas, I decided that the way to survive the highways was to drive as though no one could see our car. Here it seems like the popular method is to drive like a hopped-up senior citizen who's too old to care all that much. Go as fast as you want, straddle the lanes, turn whenever you like, regardless of which lane you're in. U-turns are often the only way to get somewhere. Actually, this works really well for someone who isn't terribly familiar with how to get around! In the states I'd have been far too embarrassed to take an exit at the last possible second, crossing several lanes to do so. Here, it's the norm. It's so nice to fit in culturally.

Bethy and Thomas have learned to love waving to the laborers in buses carrying them to and from the construction sites. These men work under conditions that would be unthinkable to the rest of us, and what is truly hard to comprehend is that they have it better here in many ways than they do back in their homeland.

In case you are visualising two rich little blond kids amusing themselves at the expense of the downtrodden worker, couldn't be further from the truth. The men light up when the kids wave to them, smiling big grins, waving back enthusiastically, laughing and bringing the rest of the passengers into the fun. Bethy took these bus photos at a stoplight, and then waved some more at them. "Hi! Hiyeee!" the kids chorus.

I'm sure these men miss their families terribly. They are undoubtedly working so hard here to make their lives and their relatives' and children's lives back home bearable. So we encourage the kids to wave, and perhaps brighten up someone else's life for even a moment or two.

I was talking to our baristo, Cesar, about his family. He, like everyone else in the coffee shop, makes a big fuss over Bethy and Thomas. Back in the Philippines he has 10 children, and he gets home to visit them once a year. As gently as I could, I asked if it is difficult for him to see families like ours, together and happy. He said simply, and with dignity, "Ma'am, it is a pleasure to have you here. We are always so pleased to see you and Bethy and Thomas."

I tipped him especially well that day.