You were meant for me...

One thing I never expected to do here is to fall in head over heels in love with the way Arabic looks. The gorgeous calligraphy, the way it is written, especially as it is done in art and the Qur'an; fanciful shapes of birds and animals, beautifully bordered, reminding me of the Book of Kells, I love it.

It is said, and I believe it, that Arabic calligraphy is the foremost expression of Arabic art, perhaps because figurative art has been restricted. (Interestingly, both pagan Celts and Islam also turned to knot designs for expression, perhaps because of their similar restictions on depicting the human form).

I flop and falter trying to read it, struggling even with everyday Arabic, (and I'm talking picking out individual letters, not actually understanding the meanings of the words!) let alone the artistic interpretations, but I can, and do, appreciate its swooping, graceful beauty regardless.

The nicest, and certainly the easiest way I have found to enjoy Arabic is to wear jewelry that incorporates Arabic calligraphy. You would think pieces would be easy to find here.

Surprisingly, not so much, but I have found a few, (all of which are pictured) and, importantly, people to help translate them for me.


Besides quotes from the Qur'an, which I don't necessarily feel are appropriate for me to wear, (out of respect for Islam), they say things like, if you are beautiful, then the world will be beautiful to you and think good thoughts. I gave one as a gift that said, simply, happy.

I also had a pendant custom made: my name, phoenetically spelled, could not have been thrilled to find a place that would make such a thing, and for a reasonable (Dubai) price. My sister Julia had one crafted for her too when she was here, in a teardrop shape, and it is stunning. Here is mine:

"ee-l-ah-t-ah-n"

(reading from right to left, you remember)

I have definitely noticed that with all the bling flying around here, that my tastes in jewelry have shifted; on a our trip back home last summer, I went into Shane Co to have my rings cleaned and checked, and as always, I wandered around to look at the pretties. Before, I always thought, wow, how lovely, maybe someday, golly that's a big diamond. Now, I looked in the cases and thought everything looked teeny, like little girl jewelry!

Apparently not all my education under the influence of Arabic tastes has been good for me. Or perhaps just not good for the family budget. I'll do my best to restrain myself.

Wish me luck.

In the meantime, I can't wear one of these without getting complimented by a friend or passer-by, or quizzed as to exactly where did I find my jewelry? That's a nice thing.

I am all for nice things.

Wild women do...

Huge sensitive viewer alert! All my veggie, PETA friends, I love you, but please consider not reading on.

OK, I warned you.

*****************************

"I don't believe in Valentine's Day."


Ooh, these be fightin' words. Mike said this February 12th, 48 hours before the day and I knew I had him.


Immediately I had a plan. Now, my form of vengence is...well, a little different. No, I did not lock him out, refuse to do his laundry for two weeks (yikes -there'd be no tidy whitey underwear for sure!) or any of those other crude sorts of revenge.

Oh, no, no, no: no fun in those; the plan was to get him something really good for Valentines day and watch him squirm.

It worked like a charm.

My evil plan was this: I called the wife of John, one of Mike's favorite cronies and our resident Tall Texan and asked her if she'd gotten anything for him. (They have a new baby and I figured she was probably pretty busy). Nope. Great!

So, I asked, how about if we send our men on a crabbing hunt out along the Mangrove islands of Umm al Quwain? They can drink and be manly men and we can look cool for thinking it up.

She went for it. After all, what Texan doesn't like to drink and kill things?

It was a go. Mike was both happy and felt like a schmuck for not getting me anything. Ha. Perfect. I'm thinking solitare diamond earrings for our tenth wedding anniversary.

It could happen.

Of course my plan also led directly to the joke that we gave our husbands crabs for Valentine's Day. Personally, I thought that was kind of funny, but then, I'm kind of funny.

We ended up recruiting a third coworker for the trip, Nathan from Oregon, a young guy always ready for an adventure. Why not?

There was supposed to be a driver for the would-be crabbers, but, this being Dubai, things fell through on that point. Now the boys needed a designated driver.

Someone who wouldn't mind going up to Umm al Quwain, someone who was game for jumping into dark waters with a trident and at the same time someone who could be sober while putting up with these guys while they drank.

That someone...was me.

I would be the short one on the left there, then Mike, Nathan, and John. For perspective, Mike is 6 feet tall.

Happy to do it. The guys had a particularly hard week at work, it was time to let them relax.



They did some necessary prepwork before setting out, involving fermented forms of hydration and the Wii Mario Cart driving game. As soon as our babysitter showed up we set out, driving about an hour and a half to the emirate of Umm al Quwain to the north.

I like Umm al Quwain. It's sparely populated, has pristine beaches, extreme sports, and always, always camels alongside the road. There isn't a lot there, but what's there is quiet and real.

the crab boats

We settled beneath beachside huts to wait for dark, after getting our lifejackets and canvas, rubber-soled shoes, relaxing with a view of the beautiful salt waters and islands, these all the work of Mother Nature. No artificial, man-made islands here. There was a breeze, and lights strung prettily above the tables.

The boys continued their great and noble quest to uphold the American Tradition of combining drinking with hunting, which annoyed the hotel staff somewhat. The guys weren't being overtly obnoxious, but they weren't exactly being discrete either. Close to obnoxious. At one point a staffperson came over and informed John that outside alcohol wasn't permitted on the hotel grounds. John grandly replied that he would just finish the one beer he had.

John (in the Cowboys sweatshirt the other two disdained from wearing), drinking that "same" one beer that lasted hours. Amazing, a miracle beer.

Also amazing how the empties in the backpack multiplied. Three men worked hard on this program, and made much progress. I did my best to continue in the role of driver. I figure that includes turning a blind eye and trying not to cluck too much like a mother hen.

I was wrapped up in my own thoughts, wondering if I'd be able to do it. Stab a crab, I mean.

I've never hunted anything in my life, with the exception of fishing (OK, and thrift stores, my guilty and much-missed pleasure, but nothing dies in that scenario), and for the fish I prefer catch and release. I've yet to be able to bang a fish against a rock myself to end what seems to me to be an awfully idyllic life. I catch spiders, sure, and then carefully put them intact and alive, outside to continue their small lives.

The sun went down and we were herded with quite a few other people to the boats. We had envisioned having our own boat and guide, but instead found ourselves with 15 others in a watercraft, chugging out towards the Mangrove islands beneath the stars. There was a large Pakistani family and a Speedo-wearing componant of Russians of both genders. (Some looked better than others in their chosen garb, I can tell you.) The American riff-raff (that would be us) were placed in the front of the boat and got the majority of the spray over the bow.

It felt like a subtle revenge. Probably was. Personally, I was loving it like a Golden Retriever with her head out the car window, fur and tongue flapping in the breeze.

That's a metaphor, by the way.

We were out in the middle of the waters when the guide (who was supposedly going to give us instructions) stopped the boat and told us, "OK."

Nowhere near the shore of any of the dark forms of the islands, I thought perhaps this was his version of humor. But no, after some hesitation one of the Russian girls jumped off the boat with a shriek into what turned out to be knee-high waters. She was handed a light on a long rubber cord for peering through the water and a long stick with three prongs at one end. This business end of the stick was obviously for stabbing a crab...or anything else so foolish as to hang around long enough.

Well, alrighty then. We heaved ourselves over the side into the cool salty waters, leaving the Pakistani family onboard to try their luck over the side of the boat. Not us, we were out for some serious real crab huntin'. None of this wussy staying on the boat stuff for us.

I saw a sly shadow of something creeping sideways near my feet that looked crab-like, and gave it a tentative nudge with the trident to see what it would do. It skittered, and without even thinking about it I stabbed it right through with a crunch and lifted my prize out of the water with a primal yell of triumph and shouts of disbelief from the others.

I waited for guilt, regret, anything, as I grinned like a moron and trooped my catch over to the box on the boat where we wrestled it off the end, wary of the still-waving pinchers.

Nope. No guilt at all. I couldn't wait to find another one and try again.

So much for the gentle gender. Bring on the crabs! This was so Hemingway I could barely handle it, and was completely surprised by the amount of pure glee I felt.

I liked it.

We waded, half pulling , half being dragged by the boat. Sometimes the water was barely to our ankles, sometimes chest deep. There was coral to watch out for, and rocks that did their darndest to look like crabs, and holes that would catch you (which probably scared the hell out of whatever was living in them) and fish, so many small fish that would skitter over the surface in silver blips and dapples.

Larger fish shot away from us in a whoosh, leaving behind only a sandy trail clouding the waters to show where they had gone. There were barracudas and ribbonfish, hammour and what we thought were eels. The lights moved through the water as we strained our eyes looking for dinner on the claw.

Then, HA! I got another one. More shouts of disbelief. That brought the boat's total to three. John in particular began quizzing me as to exactly what does a crab underwater look like? Aw heck, it looks like a crab! A gray, clawed creature going sideways as fast as it can from the wackos with sticks.

The Russians were annoying the boys with their bossiness, (of course the guys responded less than diplomatically with construction site attitude, language and volume) and also continually crowded us, even though they had the entire area around the boat, which was being pulled far too fast for us to see much of anything.

I sacrificed being close to the lights for being able to walk away from the group a little bit, where I could hear the nighttime sounds from the Mangrove islands, the peepings and churrings of unknown insects and creatures, and also to keep from churning the sands where the guys were trying to find their own crustacian prey.

Then Nathan stabbed something in the water that exploded in a confusing mass of ink , spraying everywhere and blackening the water all around. Flopping mightily on the end of his trident was a cuttlefish, relative of the octopus. The cuttlefish, too, was added to the box, all of us being careful not to touch the hot battery right next to it.

Next Mike let out a shout and stabbed frantically and repeatedly into the water, John and Nathan pouncing a moment later. John's trident hit its mark, with Nathan's a second later, both of them then engaging in a shouting linebacker-esque match of "Gerroff!" "It's MINE" "Back off, you ___!" "I'm making sure you don't lose it you ____!" (insert your favorite expletives here) with Mike plaintively protesting in the background that he should get (expletive) spotting credit.

I was laughing so hard I could barely stand upright. The crab was literally falling apart by the time I snapped a photo of John holding it aloft (he having won the tussle by dint of being an enormous guy,) and it went into the box less than intact.

Mike thought he caught one later but upon examination it turned out to not only be a baby crab but also to have been dead for some time. We quietly put that one back in the water.

Somewhere along the line we all got back into the boat and moved to another location, again wading through the dark waters, looking for movement. The boys were throwing their tridents like spears, trying to harpoon fish as they swam speedily and wisely away. I got one more crab, for a grand total of three, and resigned myself (happily) to the admiration and teasing by the other folks when I think the entire boat only came up with five or six total. And a cuttlefish. Which never made it to the table but was an impressive catch nevertheless.

The ride back was dark and wet and, bliss, cold, which I was totally into, but the other passengers were not, so I sat with my back to the wind near the front of the boat blocking some of the wind, and enjoyed it. We passed the jackets we'd brought to the two mothers cradling their young children, demonstrating that we weren't all bad. The Pakistanis made conversation with us but the Russians were busy, sulking I think.

One of the Pakistani women assured us that there were lots more crabs in the summertime, and that with the warmer weather if we came back we would really love it.

I loved it just as it was. Being outside, being a little chilly. Fantastic.

The boat dropped us off at the beach where the incredible fragrances of curries and cooking meats tantalised us, mixing with the tang of salt air and the scent of night jasmine.

We dried off and loaded up our plates, food tasting it's best, as it always does outdoors after exercise and excitement. Mutton, aloo, eggplant, hummus, flatbread, rice, cucumber salad, and so forth. The stars of the evening, the crabs, also made their way to our table, and the boys dutifully dug in.

Here I broke what I have always held to be one of my firmest beliefs: I think that if you hunt and kill something you should eat it.

But the resort hadn't cleaned the crabs. There was no sauce, no butter, just...the crabs. Full of crab poop.

I couldn't do it. I even offered some of the crab to the numerous stray cats circling the tables but they turned up their noses in disgust and fled.

I could hardly blame them. I felt the same way.

After much thought and mentally trying out several rationalisations I decided that it was OK to not eat the crab since they would undoubtedly make it into the crab soup the next day.

We decided that we must come back and try crab stabbin' again, this time chartering our own boat and on our own terms, so we can go the speed we want and stay out as long as we like.

I bought the guys shots of whisky, partially to appease anyone for their bringing and drinking their own alcohol, and partially as a thank you for a fabulous evening.

The clock was inching toward midnight. John and Nathan slept the entire way home, while Mike and I rocked out in the front to Nickelback and laughed together over the events of the evening.

It was nice to learn this about myself: that I could, ostensibly, provide some sort of meat beyond the styrofoam plastic wrapped stuff I pick up in the supermarket for the family. Is it wrong to feel...satisfied by this knowledge?

There is also a certain strange comfort to knowing that I went out and did well on my first hunting trip.

And it was, without question, the best to be the one to bring in the most crabs.

Even though I didn't eat them.

In the garden...

Last year I lost our Pakistani gardener, Ajas.

I know, even a small man like him is kind of a major thing to misplace, but it happened.

No, I didn't fire him, nor did he fire us. In fact, I'm still not quite sure what happened.

I should explain further; if you have a garden, you have a gardener. We were very happy with Ajas, (pronounced Aay-jazz,) Thomas and Bethy adored him. They would run out every morning to take him out a bottle of water while he was raking up the bright, papery bougainvillea blossoms that had fallen onto the lawn.

I don't know what it is, but while we drink the tap water the maids and gardeners absolutely will not. Go figure. Therefore I always have to make sure we have some bottled in the house.

The kids would give hugs to Ajas, discuss the flowers, and "help" with watering the grass and plants, and he and I would also exchange a few pleasantries each day. Once a month I would pay him 200 AED ($54) for his coming six days a week to keep our yard from becoming a sandpit.

Which trust me, without the guilt-inducing amount of desalinated water that gets dumped on it, it would.

Ajas and Thomas, 2008

We would beep the horn gently at him if we saw him out on his bicycle while on our errands, his bike always with the water from us wedged into the handlebars. I had thought surely others would offer something to help with the heat and thirst, but it seems not to be the case.

Sheesh, the things cost maybe a quarter apiece, and it gets bleeding hot out there!

In other words, we had a pleasant, low-key, working relationship.

My experience has been much, much better than that of my Scottish neighbor, who told me that people were knocking on his door claiming to be his gardener and asking for salary quite often. Not having sufficiently familiarized himself with his gardener, he wasn't sure who was whom and kept paying out until he caught on that he'd been found out as an easy mark.

It was very hard not to grin when he told me that.

Pretty telling when the Pakistanis can outfox a thrifty Scotsman. To resolve the problem my neighbor fired his gardener and found a new one to start over with, though the old one and his friends kept coming back in a display of impressive persistence for about 2 weeks until they finally gave up their former golden goose.


One day Ajas started showing up with another man, who he introduced as his brother, Aman. (Ah-mahn) For two weeks the men worked side by side in the garden. Then...no more Ajas. Aman has a great smile, but about as much English as I speak Urdu, so there was little chance of asking him where Ajas went. I thought Ajas had little English, but compared to his brother he was fluent.

Every morning I would say "good morning Aman," and Aman would say "good morning madam" nod, and smile, and if I said anything else he would smile and smile and answer me yes madam over and over, until I gave any extra communication up as a lost cause and would leave him in peace. Which was a relief for both of us, I am sure.

Thomas and Aman 2009

We have a small yard and I can do my own gardening, thank you very much, if I want something done that is difficult to explain. I like the small scale weeding the kids and I do, and I potter around with new plants to try out, and plant all sorts of seeds from our fruits and vegetables to see what comes up. (Pumpkins, peppers, squash, and basil, yes, potatoes, definitely not. They turn into mush.)

There are drawbacks, of course. One is that I have no key to my own walled garden, which is therefore accessible to us only through the house, and rely on the gardener to remember to lock the door behind him to keep kids and turtle in. Another is that the pineapple tops I plant to try and grow my own apparently offend. These get removed when I am not paying attention.
Aman was as gentle and thoughtful as Ajas with Thomas, with the one exception that he liked to douse Thomas with the hose. This could be annoying if one was planning to, say, go out the door in 5 minutes. I never had the heart to tell Aman not to do it, though. Thomas always loved having it done, and that grin from the both of them was worth the inconvenience.

One time the kids broke Aman's rake. I yelled at them and then spent the evening going around to every store I could think of to buy a rake. Of course none of the local places had one...why would anyone need a rake when the gardeners are so affordable?


Shamefacedly, I waited for Aman in the morning, ready to confess my children's misdeeds. Lo and behold he showed up with a new rake. Apparently the old one had already been broken, but I decided to offer to pay for it anyway. How much? I asked him. His face absolutely bloomed and he asked for a seriously inflated amount, which I gave him. What the heck. What's the use of being a "rich" expat if you don't get ripped off for a good cause now and then?


At Christmas he gave us a card. That seems to be a tradition here, the Muslim gardeners giving their employers a card which is blank inside except for the manufacturers printed message of holiday good cheer. On the outside of the envelope was carefully written: from Hussein.


Apparently Hussein is from Amman, Jordan. I felt like an idiot; I'd been calling him by the wrong name for 6 months, and he was too polite to correct me. I thanked him for the card and apologised for making a hash of his name. He seemed to find the whole thing funny. But then, he always seemed to find everything I said or did funny. Or had a nervous habit of smiling constantly to keep the white woman in her pyjamas from bothering him for too long.


About a month ago, Hussein suggested that madam would like more flowers in her garden for the spring. Well, of course she would. Marigolds? He queried, asking after painful minutes of sign language and both of us confused, for 35 dirhams for the soil and 35 for the plants, just under $20 USD.


However, day after day, no marigolds. Hmmm.
I asked, he said soon, Inshallah, and so forth.
Some days, (Muslim friends, I beg your forgiveness) it seems Inshallah means "not a chance, my friend." Just going with statistics, here.


Then, one day recently, he said to me, Ajas coming, madam. Tuesday he is here. Am very happy madam.


I am happy too, you must be pleased to see your brother again, I told him.


Wednesday, Hussein, formerly known as Aman, was nowhere to be found, but there, with his wonderful crinkles around his eyes, and not even five feet tall, was Ajas. We welcomed him back with open arms.

Ajas and Thomas with their mowers this morning

(I keep waiting for the day that Thomas wants to ride his bicycle pulling his lawnmower beside as we always see the gardeners doing.)

Then mid-month, Ajas asked for his salary. Here I had a little problem. You see, Hussein never did plant those marigolds, but he took the 70 dirhams. The money wasn't the issue here, so much as setting a precedent. I told Ajas what had happened, and handed him his salary, minus the AED 70, explaining that he must get the rest from his brother. Ajas looked very worried and apologised profusely again and again. (There are many gardeners, and fewer expats to go around, you see). I smiled nicely and after that nothing more was said about it.

Gaggle of gardeners

Every day Ajas and I say hello to one another and he tells me about the good rain and the very hot too hot sun madam. At this point one of us fetches him a drink. Now and then we discuss family, our homeland, even politics in a limited way, but mostly our two sentence daily conversations are about the good work of growing a garden, and the passing of days.

I'm glad he's back.

Winter wonderland...

One of the more prominant "we can do anything we please" landmarks here is the indoor ski slopes and snow playground called Ski Dubai. So it may be 120 degrees, and, you know, desert, outside. So what? We have snow anytime we want.

That attitude makes me kind of happy in an utterly irresponsible and giddy sort of way. Quite frankly, you'd have to be awfully cynical to not grin at Arabs cavorting in the snow, the abaya-clad women sliding around on innertubes, and kids who have only ever seen sand now all bundled up, sledding, rolling around and throwing snowballs at one another. For me, seeing a group of Middle Eastern kids making snow angels for the very first time of their lives is up there as a pretty great experience.

Ski Dubai rises from the Mall of the Emirates along our major freeway, Sheikh Zayed road, in a distinctive silver curve that can best be described as massive, about 25 stories tall, beneath which we locals know is a convenient place to park your car out of the sun. It's enormous as it holds the slope, including several runs, the ski lift, and a Swiss-esque chalet halfway up where, reportedly, you can get the Emirate's best hot chocolate. Apparently among the foam and cream and marshmallows it has gooey wet M&Ms in it.

I like the ice sculptures, and the pine trees dusted with snow, well, who knows if they're real...that's not really the point. Reality is not the point. At all.

Ski Dubai provides all the equipment, as well as helmets, snowsuits, boots, and photographers to document the experience, the works. Ski instructors at the ready, you can do as little or as much as you want in the snow. It's an impressive operation.

Every visitor to Dubai must go and look at this place at least once, stand in front of the enormous windows and get a photo taken. For more advanced viewers in the know it's especially nice to sit in one of the surrounding restaurants and watch snowboarders getting funky in the pipe and skiers fly off the jump, the experience being further enhanced if happen to be enjoying one of Apres' inventive cocktails while looking out over the scene.

You can even pretend it's cold outside.

Now you know all my tricks.

Bethy getting geared up

For some reason our family hasn't actually gone into Ski Dubai yet, but Bethy has. Once on a school field trip and then she came home the other day with an invitation to her classmate Arya's "cool" (of course) birthday party...at Ski Dubai.

Now, the way it works here is that you invite all the kids in the class to your child's party. This means we have lots of parties to go to and lots of presents to buy, so I decided early on the thing to do was to buy lunchboxes or backpacks with characters the child likes and fill them with art supplies. Kids here have lots of toys, I like the creativity angle.

For Arya, a child I couldn't immediately place in my memory, I went and bought a pink heart Disney Princesses lunchbox and filled it with sparkly, fruit scented, and more Princess art materials. No girl would be able to resist, right? Even found a Princesses bag and put shiny tissue paper on the top and a big pink bow.

Bethy had just enough time to get off the school bus, change into pants and a long sleeved shirt before it was time to go to the party. I asked her if she wanted to see what "we" got Arya.

Her face immediately fell at the wealth of fluffy pink girliness. "Maaaahm!" she wailed, "Arya won't like THAT! He's a boy!"

Oh, crumbs. Best laid plans.

Thomas has, on more than one occasion, burst out with "we are SO late!" as we're getting into the car. Wonder where he picked that up from? Anyway, this time it was extemely appropriate when he let it rip.

"What does Arya like?" I queried Bethy as we made a desperate last minute scramble to our neighborhood Hallmark.

"He told me he wants an iPod", she replied, all innocence.

Er...

Despite having to make the emergency stop for a suitable "boy" gift, (emphatically NOT an iPod!) speed wrapping and the inevitable Thursday afternoon traffic (Thursday being the end of the work week here), we managed to make it to the Mall of the Emirates, somehow found a parking spot, and got Bethy to Ski Dubai where she was sufficiently wrapped up against the cold and had what was obviously a fabulous time out in the white stuff.

Bethy running around in the snow at Ski Dubai

And that was before the magician and the (mmm) birthday cake.

I would also like to say that Arya liked his gift very much.

Even though it wasn't an iPod.

Where can you find pleasure, search the world for treasure

The month long Dubai Shopping Festival ended yesterday. Not being a fashionista, I have watched with disbelief, for a second year, and got the heck out of the way as tourists flooded in, people who literally traveled across the world to come shopping here. That's serious sale devotion.

No, I don't get it.


Nor does it bother me that I don't get it. I got kicked out of the froofy girly girl ew-I-broke-a-nail-shoe-fetish-girl club long ago.

I think I'm currently a member of the relatively-free-from-stains-mostly-matches-and-I don't-have-toilet-paper-sticking-to-my-shoe club.


For us, and I think for many the Dubai resident, DSF is mostly about picking up the odd bargain, avoiding the malls after noon, and going to Global Village. Out in the desert, Global Village is a collection of individual outdoor shopping pavillions combined with an amusement park.



There were 31 pavillions this year at Global Village, each one representing a country. Essentially these are outdoor market stalls gathered together that you wander through. And wander, and wander some more. Sort of like Disneyland without the ultra cleanliness or lines.


And hey, it only costs 10 AED ($2.72) to enter. That right there kicks Disneys tuchas.

The kids and I went first to the Lebanon pavillion to look for honey, and then to Palestine. I had to get the heck out of there as the beautifying potions ladies with their authoritative manner and black abayas were descending on me like a flock of vultures. God only knows what they would have gotten me to buy. As it was I escaped with merely an overpriced nail buffer.

Er, in case I broke a nail or something.

Hey, I was desperate. I had something like 4 creams slathered on me (they grab your wrist and firmly hold you captive while slapping lotions and potions on exposed skin) and they were coming after me with a do-it-yourself facial hair removal system that looked like a flimsy cats-cradle on sticks. Eek.

You've heard of the technique for getting away from a mugging by throwing a wad of money in one direction and running the other?

I didn't have to do that.

But it was close.

We escaped to the Philippines pavillion, those friendly and approachable folks who call me Madam and give me the illusion I'm in control again. Thank God for them. Bethy bought a light summer dress for 20 AED and a set of 4 Bakugans (apparently the latest and greatest Japanese toys which she and the kids at school are very into) for less than one costs in the stores. Thomas got some Pixar Cars PJs for next to nothing.

Bethy with the poofy cushion seller. (India)
She couldn't stand it any more and put her new dress over her school uniform.

Though I dickered and wrangled a bit, I know I'm a wuss customer compared to, say, any woman of Arabic heritage. I am not even sure I want to be able to inject that amount of scornful venom into my voice when I respond to the "first price" offered. It is a game played for keeps, and best left to the experts. As it was, I was willing to pay the prices asked, (which were super good compared to 'everyday prices') so no one got hurt and everybody was happy.


From there we crossed the river canal to India where we spent the next two hours, never even making it to anywhere else, so enchanted were we by the craftworks and merchants. Bethy and I overpaid for some henna designs painted on our hands, I was so dazzled by the women's outfits I couldn't say no. Did I mention I am a total pushover?

Of course I did.

Thomas, however, made no bones about running away shrieking when one of the brightly garbed women tried to henna him. He knows it's only for girls!

We girls got our henna freehand painted, but you can also get it stamped, apparently, and as they had no change for me (what a shock) I bought three of the little printing blocks for 10 AED. It was that or a really crappy plastic toy that would have broken within minutes and probably put an eye out.

Not so into the pirate look for the kids. Or me, for that matter.

Thomas followed the sounds of drumming to a seller who also played haunting tunes for us on a wooden flutes called bansuri and venu. I watched him long enough to realise that the simple flutes would require lots of practice before they were pleasant to listen to; best to not purchase one. Thomas chose a cylendrical drum he loved with the hide of some unfortunate animal thickly rolled over the ends, the body painted turquiose and yellow.

What household couldn't use another drum for a 3 year old, I ask you?

I had been looking for some extra large decorative pillow covers and in our search we met this shop keeper:

With whom, as you may gather from the photo, we became good buddies.

Initially I described what I wanted and he ran off, returning with armloads of beautiful shimmery fabric blue cushion covers resplendant with fantastic designs. Enough time had elapsed that we'd just started to wander off to demonstrate that we're not the sort of easy mark who would wait in a stall all day to buy something.

I introduced us, having the kids speak a little Hindi to help with getting a good price, and we ended up talking at length. We settled on prices early on, then, and when finished got down to serious business. We'd already spent about half an hour with Mairaj, and I invited him to join us for tea.

He accepted, then disappeared again, returning with four fragrant teas and a huge warm Naan bread which he'd paid for, I scolded him and all four of us hunkered down on his carpets to eat and talk.

Talk about where we were from, he telling us all about Kashmir in India, his new wife who is angry with him for having come to Dubai to try to make a buck so soon after they got married, how he loves the color green and how he worked in Dubai for many years, learning his exceptionally good English, but how his employer had left the country, thus cancelling his visa, and now he only gets to come to Dubai on trips like this one.

Of course I was babbling back at him about how tall the trees are in Washington State and what the mountains and weather are like. The kids were climbing all over the stall, dirtying his wares, for which I apologised many times, to which he repeatedly waved away my concerns. He also paid only the most minimal attention to potential customers who came by, answering their questions briefly, and certainly not making any sales while we were there.

This made me feel terribly guilty and we did the apology-hand-waving-dance again, which he won with the easy grace that speaks of much practice.

After probably an hour and a half with Mairaj we finally said our goodbyes, he pressing carefully written contact information into my hand in case our family ever makes it to Kashmir.

The kids went on a manually pushed whirly ride for 5 AED apiece, a steal compared to the midway rides offered, and probably far more fun for them too. We bought one more thing, a tall squishy cushion for the playroom, which was carried out to the car for us by a young man who didn't look like he weighed much more than Bethy but was twice as tall. I kept thinking he would topple over.

A few days later we had a sandstorm during the day, followed by an almighty windstorm and downpour of heavy rains after dark. The next morning I was appalled to see the headline on gulfnews.com: Indian pavilion collapse in Global Village kills 1.

Very little information in the article, other than one person had died and several others were hurt.

Mahraj had given us his Dubai contact information, and I sent him an "are you OK" sort of text message.

Many hours went by.

Then, thankfully, my phone beeped.

Here is his message, with original spelling:

I am fine by the grace of almighty

hope u will be also happy

it is true that yesterday was little cyclone in Globle Vilage

wind was so fast that it through out some shop keepers products out

but in my shop there was some customers

they hold my products and table and bring them inside

so that saved my things

wind was so fast some women were hurt near gate no 4 so was it

take my blessings

best wishes love to kids

mairaj

I think I'll keep that one.

I want to ride my bicycle...

The sand is blowing fiercely outside, coating everything with a gritty pale patina. Thomas was concerned about his bike and we gave it a good wipedown this morning, though within minutes it was covered again. A sandstorm day is not unlike a snow day back home: after the novelty has worn off it's good to sit inside and let the weather do what it likes without us. We watch the palms whip in the warm winds, the bright papery bourgainvillea flowers get scattered, and the ribbons of sand snake across the road.

I had to tell Thomas, sorry, not a good day for cycling, buddy.

Bicycles are one of my favorite photography subjects. They are romantic in the way that train travel and afternoon tea are. The sand wore us down a little, and I don't feel terribly wordy,(yeah, yeah, I know, mark this day on the calendar), so instead of my prattling away at you, let me share some photographs of bicycles from around Dubai. There's nothing particularly special about these, they just make me happy.

"cool bike" it says. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, after all.

a gardener's bicycle with his tools wedged into the handlebars

bicycles waiting patiently
along the piles of cargo by Dubai Creek

an early morning cyclist in Diera, wearing the flowing clothing typical of a Pakistani man

Have a lovely weekend, everyone. I'm going to go have a nice cup of tea.

How sweet it is...

This sign says...bloomingdales.


Oh yes, it does. See the font? It's the same. Writen right to left. That first letter on the right is a baa which makes the "b" sound and then there's a laam...I think, and then the next two make the ooh sound..oh, for crying out loud, it's above the just-opened, long awaited store next to the sign in English. My Arabic is pathetic, but I'm pretty sure they got it right.

Now, some of you out there might wonder if perhaps you don't know me after all. You are wondering, is she truly excited about Bloomingdales opening in Dubai? She's not exactly a clothes horse...

This is true.

(OK, I did go see if they have those cute cotton panties that cheekily say "bloomies" across the, well, cheeks, and I will go thorough hell and earth for the right, probably geeky, T-shirt. Can't be denied.)

Why, then, you ask, did I have my non-bloomies panties in a bunch to get out there?

Inside the store is a branch of the legendary NYC Magnolia Bakery

and HERE is an ultimate truth about this girl:

Big time.

Like Captain Ahab, I venture forth in search of my own personal version of the elusive white whale. There's no revenge involved, though the levels of desperation and insanity could be argued.

The search for the perfect cupcake.

Here in Dubai I have tried Kitch Cupcakes, Sugar Daddy, the Cake Bar, bakeries, cafés , and so forth. Rare is the cupcake in Dubai that has escaped my clutches. In my near-holy quest (so it's more Monty Python than Crusade, so sue me) I have yet to find one that rivals Seattle's Cupcake Royale or (in hushed tones of reverence, please) Trophy Cupcakes.

Drat, drooled on the keyboard again.

I hate that.

(Here is Trophy's website if your computer keyboard is relatively inadvertant salivation-proof: http://www.trophycupcakes.com/ You'll see what I mean.)

It's a sad, sad day for the intrepid adventurers when the cake is dense, or the icing far too sweet, or ugh, made with substandard ingredients, or they want how much for a cupcake, again?! I haven't found that one cupcake place I simply can't resist, that perfect little bit of sweetness and indulgence that makes me weak at the knees. But we persist in searching.

The human spirit, the siren call of discovery and adventure cannot be denied, thus Thomas and I press on, undaunted.

enticing display of teas at Bloomingdales, Dubai

In this spirit, my little comrade in arms and I went on a sweet expedition to the Dubai Mall to track down the Magnolia Cupcake (sp. cupcakus sexinthecityum tastii).

Going to the Dubai Mall means you should pack comfy shoes (no Jimmy Choos or Manolo Blahniks...they have shops within crawling distance of Bloomingdales there should the Carrie Bradshaw need strike...thank God I am immune to such obsessions), and plan on about half an hour from getting into your car in the parking lot to emerging out onto the street when you try to leave, such is the magnitude of this mall.

In New York City people stand in long lines to try these cupcakes. I'm not willing to stand in a line for cupcakes. Well, maybe a little one, no more than 8 people ahead of me and only if the staff are quick...where was I again?



Oh yes, anyway, we got there in the morning on a weekday and there were no lines. Just the beautiful storefront, friendly staff, and cupcakes.









I was a little bit surprised that there were exactly 4 flavors. Vanilla with vanilla or chocolate frosting, or chocolate with vanilla or chocolate icing. I had intended to get a vanilla regardless, since that is the true taste test in my opinion, but I'd also skimped on breakfast, thinking there might be a few flavors I simply couldn't choose between and oh darn I would have had to get a few....maybe pretend to take them home like a reasoned person but actually, in all likelyhood, gleefully eat them in the car with Thomas.



Nope. Just four flavors, so we got one chocolate and one vanilla. With sprinkles.



Oh well. The sprinkles made up for a lot. Though I had been secretly hoping for a lavender lemon cupcake...or a chai tea cupcake...

A girl's gotta dream.

The two of us sat by a fountain near the ice cream parlor (apparently the frozen yogurt is another huge draw for foodies) to enjoy the spoils of the mission.

As an aside, did you know the British call them fairy cakes? Isn't that lovely?

These were.

The vanilla, well, it was divine, and at 10 AED the best priced cake I've encountered in Dubai. Not worth waiting in a huge line for, nor braving the mall for...not exclusively, anyway, but definitely worth stopping for. Mmm. We whacked our two cakes in half to share. I realised very quickly that I was breaking some sort of universal directive and went back to get coffee to go with my cupcake.

Behind the counter, debating the merits of having plates ready to put the cakes upon or to assemble them individually as the orders were being filled, was a gal about my age with an American accent and huge flower tatoo on her arm.

Being the quiet, reserved type, I asked "you have a Magnolia tattooed there...are you some sort of cooking celebrity from New York?" She smiled, "No, it's a Rhododendron."

I jumped up and down a little. "Are you from Washington State?!" (the Rhodie is our State flower, and yes, I am probably a total geek for knowing that one).

We both jumped up and down and Elizabeth from Centralia introduced herself. The South African and Fillipina staff members looked on, bemused. The two of us went on and on and ON about the Country Cousins Restaurant just off I-5 in her hometown, which Mike and I both consider a sin to drive past without going in and having chicken fried steak, at a minimum. Sisters in Foodie-ness, worshiping at the same church of...well, whatever it is.

I was going to have plain coffee, but who would say no to a latte personally foamed by a fellow Pacific Northwesterner?

Not I.

Thomas, eating sprinkles

High from the encounter, I devoured every crumb, bought myself the above tshirt, and felt pretty darned good about the world in general.

Bloomingdales display and Thomas (with his little stuffed doggie Zaki)

Life...is good.