On Becoming So Spursy

“If they always disappoint you, why don’t you just support another team, like Chelsea or something?”

That was me, back when this New York City gal started crossing the Atlantic with her then new steady boyfriend who happened to be a Tottenham Hotspur supporter (along with two generations of his entire family). We were commiserating over a pint at the Irish Cultural Centre following a disappointing loss at White Hart Lane.

From the glare I got from John (the beau who would eventually forgive me and become my husband) and his first cousin (who still hasn’t forgiven me), I had only begun to realize just how deep support of one’s English Premiership team runs – not to mention the ground I’d have to make up if I wanted to be welcomed into the family fold.

Over the years, I’ve tried my best to support Spurs, sort of following along but not really keeping track of their top players, their managers, their trades, or their standing in the table.  And while I named my first cat after former Tottenham striker Mido (I had witnessed his stunning two goal debut in 2007 at White Hart Lane), I admit that it wasn’t so much because I was a die-hard Spurs supporter, but because I knew that by naming the cat after a Spurs player, John would be more likely to embrace the new orange tabby in my life – and that calling a cat 'Klinsmann' just didn’t have a good ring to it.

Over the past two years of living in Abu Dhabi, I’ve found a whole new love for the 'beautiful game,' mainly due to living in a far more forgiving time zone, combined with what's become of this blossoming young team just hitting its stride.

With many Premier League games starting as early as 8 a.m. in NYC on a weekend, getting up and making my way to a sports bar that showed the Tottenham game felt like too much heavy-lifting.  To say that I’m not a morning person is an understatement. My friends, former work colleagues and even my husband know that there’s an unspoken ‘do not disturb’ sign that hangs over me until ten in the morning. Also, the weekend trains in Manhattan are notoriously slow… or non-existent, making it an hour or more endeavor to get to a spot to watch a game when during the week the same trip might only take 25 minutes. Even further, on the rare occasion that I’d make it to watch a game, the guilt of being in a bar that early and the unwritten obligation to have a beer as a way of thanking the establishment for showing the match, was even to this enthusiastic beer drinker -- a challenge.

So fast-forward four time zones ahead of the UK, and suddenly watching English football has a whole new aura.

Here in the UAE, watching the footy is predominantly an evening activity, which often falls on a Saturday. With our work week starting on Sunday, it has become a nice way of winding down the weekend either at a local sports lounge, or at home with a nice meal.

Even our cats support Spurs.

Also, here in the UAE there are TONS of footy fans.  While ‘back in the day’ supporting English football in New York City was kind of a fringe activity (that has recently become the new hipster thing to do -- along with things like playing shuffleboard), the UAE is kind of like a Little Britain, there are tons of British expats here, and I’ve met gaggles of ManU and other football supporters. Also with local investment in teams like Etihad’s Man City, NBAD’s Real Madrid, and Arse-*al’s Emirates Stadium, there’s always something to talk about when you’re following the footy here -- there are even ‘supporter clubs,’ where you can meet up with like-minded football fans to watch a game together.

Abu Dhabi Spurs Supporter's Gathering, All Two of Them

On another note, the football coverage on BeIN sports (out of Doha) has been great for me. Suddenly I understand the meaning of off-side (okay, I may still be working that out), and I can follow the commentary (“That foul was rubbish!”), and I can even catch a glimpse of my man Mido all grown up and working as a pundit on the Arabic version (and will even tune in on Saturday, to see him shave his head as a result of the Leicester win.)

But also, the confluence of Spurs’ strength that has brought Tottenham to the top end of the table has been the biggest gift of all for this once wishy-washy now die-hard Spurs fan. Last year as I began to awaken my senses to the beauty of football, we saw the beginnings of the brilliance of Harry Kane. This year we watched as he fumbled during the first few games, then literally got his footing to become the highest scoring striker in the league this season. I recently took the time to learn how to pronounce 'Pochettino' correctly, and began researching the Spurs’ manager’s past, seeing where this new style of fast play and not taking crap from the other team has emerged. I began to fall hard for all of the players… following the bromance between Dier and Alli on Twitter, adoring the work of Son, Lloris, Vertonghen and Dembele on the field… and oh, when Lamela pulled off that rabona…!

I even began singing “We’ve got Alli” -- for no reason at all.

I just don't think you understand...

While books by Nick Hornby and movies about Arse-*al are verboten in our household (Hornby's a Gunner, “Never red!”), John had gone out of town this season and I surreptitiously watched the movie Fever Pitch. Not only did I finally ‘get it,’ but I later found myself waking up on Valentine’s Day not wishing for flowers and candy, but hoping for a Spurs win that day against ManCity. (They did. And I was happy.)

What I didn't realize was that I had fallen in love. 

Our passion for Spurs this year got so intense that John and I went to watch the team play in the Europa Cup in Baku. And there wasn't even a question when John had a chance to go watch Spurs versus Dortmund. I sent him packing, it's just what you do.  

Over the past few weeks, Tottenham has felt the pressure, being a young squad and the last team standing a chance to nick the top spot of the Premiership from Leicester. I’ve felt the pressure too. Last week, Dele Alli got a ban after being targeted on the pitch by West Brom. Even though his ban was legit, I was spitting nails at the whole episode, of how he was goaded after just being handed the Player of the Year Award on the field.

And this week, Spurs' chances at winning the league were dashed by Chelsea and the team earned a record nine yellow cards during the game. All deserved, but the Chavs were hardly playing fair… or nice. And me? I was gutted. First cheering and jumping around the living room at the two goal lead, then crushed in the ruins as it all went to hell in the second half. 

Thinking back to that afternoon at the Irish Centre, I knew it all went with the territory, but I had never 'felt all the feels,' about a sports team before. I didn’t cry, but I did grieve at how hard Spurs fought, at how beautifully they played this season, and at how overlooked they have been when everyone keeps talking about the ‘fairy tale’ that is Leicester. 

Because for me, the real fairy tale, the true romance, is with Spurs. 

Me So Spursy.

So even though the last game of the season hasn’t yet been played, and we're still working to hold off another league rival, I’m already counting … just 101 more days until the next season begins.

Come On You Spurs!

It Rained in Abu Dhabi Today

No big deal, right?

Well, yes, actually, it is a very big deal in these parts. So far this season we had one other day of rain, I think sometime in December. Then a bit of a sprinkle, for about two minutes, in October.

Before that, the last time it rained was last January... so we probably won't get rain again for another nine or ten months.

Crazy, right?

I remember back in the States one time when I was in Los Angeles and it rained. The place went nuts. It seemed like just a normal, rainy day, the kind you get fairly regularly in New York. You'd wake up, see the grey sky, grumble a bit, then put on the rain coat, bring the umbrella and leave behind the good pair of work shoes.

But in LA, people stopped working. There were warnings and alerts and live broadcasts of newscasters in the street discussing the rain, with people making goofy rain-dance gestures in the background, all for a bit of rain -- all quarter of an inch of it!

I laughed at this stuff, but now, it's happening to me.

A rain-soaked downtown Abu Dhabi.

This morning I woke up, saw the grey and wanted to dash out and do the Snoopy dance in the streets.

Rain! Glorious, beautiful, Sting-singing 'I dream of rain, I dream of gardens in the desert sand' kind of rain.

And then, I just wanted to curl up, drink tea and read the paper in front of the window while watching it pour.

I don't even drink tea!

That said, we all celebrate the rain in different ways, and next time, I may celebrate it this way...

Woot!

This is Boz.

This is Boz.

Bozzie.

Boz-Man.

The Bozter.

Boz-Meister.

Bozzie-Moto.

Baaaaaahz.

He is our fourth (foster-ish) kitten currently in residence.

John spotted this Birman on his daily walks to work. Since he’s a purebred, it means this kitty wasn’t born on the streets – he was put there.  Over the course of a few weeks, John would stop by and say hello and feed the cat (who we originally called Fluffy) and give him some attention. Fluffy could be found in a few usual spots, the most common was in front of a shuttered storefront where he could capture the cool air-conditioned air escaping from a crack underneath the doorway. Because even back in October, the days were still hitting highs of 110, with 85 percent humidity – not good for a long-haired, fluffy cat.

Next door was a beauty salon and the lovely Filipinas who work there also kept an eye on him. Many times John or I would stop by and ask if they had seen Fluff. They told us that after his morning walkabout he usually wouldn’t be seen again until around 6 p.m.  Then one day, John came home and said a couple from the neighborhood had taken him in to their villa…

Problem solved.  Or so we thought.

A few days later, Fluffy was back on the street.

And we were back to feeding him.

Then Fluffy disappeared again, and we learned that another couple had taken the cat into their flat.

Done and dusted, we figured.

But a few days later, with the fur ball back on the street, we realized we figured wrong and in the interim, we had scooped up Patchi (an Arabian Mau) and were wrestling with the idea of bringing yet another kitty into the fold. What were we becoming? A kitty halfway home?

Apparently, yes.

One weekend while John was in the UK, I went for a bike ride and spotted the poor little Fluff-monster. He was getting mangy and matted. I saw the injured paw John had mentioned, along with an infection building. I saw the weary look in his eye… and headed home to bring back the carrier to get the fella out of harm’s way once and for all.

Before I left, I knocked on the door to the Beauty Salon and told the ladies that I was taking the kitty away.

They laughed at me.

“He’ll be back,” they said, as they reminded me of his history with the other area cat rescuers.

“No, no,” I said. “We’ll get this sorted. We’ll clean him up and get him a home.”

The ladies giggled, stroked the big, dirty, hairy cat and humored me, “Bye bye kitty. See you soon.”

When I got him home, he was obviously stressed, so I left him in his own space with food and water and litter, and quiet cat bed for him to rest.

In the morning, I opened the door – and he was nowhere to be found.

And when I say nowhere… I mean NOWHERE.

Not under the bed. Not behind the curtain. Not behind the dressers. Not under the blanket. Not in the laundry hamper. Not in the closet…. Okay, maybe after about 15 minutes of further looking, and really considering going BACK to the salon to see if he had somehow escaped and made his way back there, I found him tucked into the tiniest of crawl spaces in the back of the closet, behind a few pillows and under a suitcase.

Boy, could that boy hide.

A few days later and some time for Fluffy to gets his bearings and it became clear – this big furball had quite a set of vocal chords. It wasn’t the sound of a cat in heat per se, but he was very yowl-y. He also had the hint of a ‘quack.’ No seriously, this gorgeous abandoned cat quacks (and I will try to post video of it here.).

Shortly after his visit to the docs for his paw and shots, he went in to get fixed. I asked if maybe his neutering might help with his *cough* vocal manner.

Thank goodness for the astuteness of our doctor at British Vet – he picked up on my question and was quick to diagnose the Flufster with cystitis – a bladder inflammation. With a round of anti-inflammatories, and his, um, procedure, he’s quieted down… a bit. But when mealtime comes, there’s no doubt, the boy likes to sing for his supper.   

So we had to call him Boz. Not only because of his crooning ways, but because Boz Skaggs is one cool cat. And so is this kitty.

He continues to surprise us as he comes out of his shell. Usually super cool and somewhat stand-back-ish, last week he began jumping up on the bed and rolling on his back, looking for a cuddle. 

Yesterday he began playing with a feather toy and showed us how nimble he is. 

I'd say if he were really a person he’d be Chris Hemsworth, but John thinks he’s more like The Dude in the Big Lebowski – giant paws, kind of shuffling about from room to room (with that little quacky-chat/rant thing going on) and always on the search for good food, or a White Russian.

We think Tessa might be in love with him. They get on pretty well… playing a bit and Tessa batting her kitten eyelashes at him. Or at least letting him have first dibs at the plate at mealtime.

With the New Year we’ll see what happens for our two fosters. The expat families who have been away for the holidays are coming back, and hopefully we can find some good homes for one or both of them.

If you’d like to adopt Boz or Patchi, let us know. We're very discerning about who we will place these precious pets with, but we are also open to shipping these kitties back to friends in the States knowing that there are wonderful homes for them among our peeps. 

In the meantime, Happy New Year!

Oops, We Did It Again

We thought we had sworn off cat fostering...

'Patchi'

But then, there we were, taking an innocent stroll through the streets of Khalidiyah, when we came across a purebred Birman, looking so out of place – no street posse (cats find little packs to hang with here) and little street smarts (oblivious to car traffic) – that by the time we got home John and I pretty much convinced ourselves that if we were able to scoop up ‘Fluffy,’ we’d have him cleaned  up and rehomed in no time.

So day after day, John has been walking past the location where we first met up with Fluffy on his way to work. Despite one or two sightings, every time we went around with our rescue cat carrier we’ve come up empty, unable to locate the elusive Fluffy despite the sightings and encouragements of local shop workers and neighborhood folk.

Then on Thursday, as we headed out for the evening, a young sprite of a kitten came bounding at us right outside our own building.

“Oh crap,” I said.

Because this kitten had all the telltale signs of being recently unencumbered by its human. She was clean, super friendly and (worst of all) blissfully ignorant of the dangers nearby -- namely the highly trafficked parking lot right outside our door and the bus stop where a kitten underfoot might not fare too well.  With Fluffy our main focus and running late to meet up with friends, we quickly put out some food and water, gave the kitten a little ear rub and went on our way and decided we’d figure it out if we came home and she was still there... 

She wasn’t.

But yesterday, after another failed attempt at finding Fluffy, we came back to the apartment, with empty cat carrier in hand, and there she was – the little kitten sitting in front of our apartment building door, looking as if she was just waiting for us.

“What are we going to do?” I asked John, as if I didn't already know the answer.

After a few cheek rubs, John suggested I go upstairs and bring down some more kitten food. But this 'little babe' (as my cousin would say) already knew the score. Forgoing the cat carriers, she strode right into the building walking right past the security desk. Then with little hesitation, she stepped onto the elevator, barely flinching as the elevator doors closed and we headed up. At that point we had no other option than to invite her in for lunch…

Less than ten minutes later she had cleaned off her plate (as well as Mido and Tessa’s), had a long drink of water, and helped herself to the litter box. Then just like a little Goldilocks, she then settled down for a nap…

'And this one was just right.'

Over the past year and a half, we’ve helped get two kitties off the street (and sadly put one kitty out of her misery when she was hit by a car in front of our building – RIP little girl). It’s not much, just check out The Cat Man of Abu Dhabi. Many cat people here do far more, but we do what we can, including feeding the cats on the Corniche -- trying to keep it all manageable and Mido and Tessa content. It’s also never easy for me to give these little loves up (there are many tears on my part), but our resident cats Mido and Tessa are pretty clear about their feelings of another permanent kitty in their brood. Besides, when I hear stories about our rescues in their new homes, it fills my heart. One kitty would have ended up trying to survive in an underground car park. She now lives with a family who is crazy about her in Dubai. The other was trying her best to stand her ground on a small patch of grass on one of Abu Dhabi’s busiest intersections. She is now living on Saadiyat with a cool young cat mom, complete with an outdoor terrace.  

For now, we are calling our latest foster friend Patchi, because of the unique dark patches on her pristine white body, and because she was found outside of the Patchi 'boutique chocolate shop,' while we get her health checks in order and find her a home. We’re also still keeping an eye out for Fluffy and have resigned ourselves to the possibility of setting up a small halfway house for kittens if we need (one stray per bedroom). 

I guess it's all part of being a crazy cat lady in Abu Dhabi. And it goes without saying, if you'd like to adopt Patchi, just drop us a line (free shipping for the folks at home!). :)

Expat Paparazzi

One of the strangest phenomena of the Abu Dhabi ex-pat experience is what I call the 'Expat Paparazzi.'

At first I wasn't sure if this was something borne out of an overall society trend of posting everything we do on social media, or as one of Dubai's top travel marketers explained to me as "having to constantly justify our decision to live here to the people back home." 

Whatever the reason, I was, and still am, astounded at the number of pictures taken whenever a group of expats get together (particularly, but not exclusively, with women). 

Go for coffee with new expat friends? Snap a photo! Go for coffee with old expat friends? Snap a photo! 

Yoga class? Snap! 

Tuesday morning golf? Snap! 

Pool date? Mani-Pedi? Book club gathering? Snap! Snap! Snap!

Sure, at first I saw the excitement. “We’re in a new place! Doing new things! With new-found friends!” But after a while, any time somebody called out to me to gather for a photo, my eyes began to roll. 

"Not this again," I thought. 

At first I assumed this was a sign that my inner jaded New Yorker was clouding my bright, shiny, new expat exterior. That said, I kind of understood it. Despite all the comforts and unusual number of similarities to home, the reality is that living in the UAE *is* an exotic, less than one-percent of the world's population kind of experience (especially if you stick around for the summer... and Ramadan). And there are mosques and camels and palm trees and things that, after awhile, don't feel so extraordinarily foreign when you live here day-to-day, but do make for extraordinary photo displays 'for the people back home.'

But posing for a group photo after going to see a movie??? (I mean, come on, right?!)

Recently, however, I began to have a different view on the whole Expat Paparazzi thing.

You see, now that I'm about a year and a half in to our 'new' life in Abu Dhabi, the never-ending turnover of the place is starting to have its effect on me. When I first arrived, I found the transitional nature of the place surprising, but refreshing. I knew no one, and that brought freedom to me because for the first time in twenty-five years, I was a blank sheet of paper. As a person who lived her life up until that point looking for ways to stake roots, here I was among an entire community of people who didn’t like to see grass grow under their feet. It was eye-opening, awe-inspiring, electric.

But this summer it happened. Those people who I started out with in Abu Dhabi were suddenly packing up and leaving. For some, it was planned and we saw it coming for months. For others, it wasn't planned, necessarily, but part of a chosen way of life as an expat. Simply put, a new, more lucrative offer had come their way. And for others, just like anywhere, you just never know when you'll wake up and walk into the boss's office and say, ‘enough,’ or when the work just won’t be there any longer. Unfortunately in the UAE, there's no such thing as waiting around for another opportunity. Without work, you are politely pointed to the exit sign, so you quickly, (and for the most part) quietly pack your bags and move on. 

In the past three months I have 'lost' about a dozen fabulous women from my core group in Abu Dhabi to their new outposts and adventures. In fact, I have lost so many people that I don’t even have a core group anymore! (Ha!)  

In some ways I feel like the kid whose mom forgot to sign her up for summer camp. If I'm honest, it’s been a rather dull summer, and I keep waiting for everyone to come back, only to remind myself that that won’t be happening. And sure, I’ve used my quiet time wisely, regrouping on my goals (for the umpteenth time), sticking with the golf and screenwriting. 

So now when it comes to the 'Expat Paparazzi,' and someone jumps up and wants to take a group photo, I'll understand the meaning of it more. I realize that maybe it's not about the social media and the 'look at me, look at me' aspect of it, but of the fleetingness and the 'here and now' of it.

Because those fast-found friends, the ones I was laughing like teenagers and swinging golf clubs with? The ones with the itchy feet who are so full of life and adventure that they've broken me wide open to new possibilities in my own life? The ones who I’d never likely befriend in NYC, but who have proven to be the greatest of allies and have shown me new ways to look at my world? Well, those fabulous people may not be here next year, next month or sometimes next week.  

Or maybe, I will be the one with the itchy feet and be next to move on.

So, from here on in, I’m embracing the Expat Paparazzi.

I’ll be the one throwing myself in the middle of the group photos. Snap!

I’ll be the one smiling big for the cellphone camera. All six iPhones at a time. Snap! Snap! Snap!

I’ll be the one looking around and taking in -- really taking in -- the people I'm sharing the moment with. Snap!

And not just here in Abu Dhabi. When I visit home and spend time with my nearest and dearest peeps, too. Snap! Snap!

And sure, my Facebook newsfeed may run over with group photos this fall. But that whole part of it doesn't matter so much anymore. I won't be as embarrassed about it as I have been in the past. It reminds me of a time several years ago (when I was using a Polaroid), when a friend told me that if I wanted to make friends with someone else, all I had to do was take a picture with them. 

"It’s not about the photo," she said, "but the moment shared."

Snap.

Ramadan Redux

I can hardly believe it myself, but not only is it my second Ramadan in the UAE, but I’m already finding we’re halfway through the Muslim holy month.

It’s strange what a difference a year makes. Last year during Ramadan I found myself nervous about the whole event. There was a sort of self-consciousness on my part about not fully understanding Ramadan, a feeling of sticking out as a Westerner, and a constant worry about making a giant gaff. I even had dreams about committing a Ramadan faux pas. In it I am struck over the head with a blunt object, only to wake up and find myself drinking water and dressing immodestly and ending up in Ramadan jail. For the record, there is no such thing as Ramadan jail, though the leering look of observers can be punishment enough so people need to be and are very mindful in these parts). 

A date and camel's milk is the traditional
way to break one's fast during Ramadan

And while my self-consciousness has pretty much abated, Ramadan does still remind me that I am a minority here. That’s not to say that I’m the only tall blonde shiksa in Abu Dhabi – believe me, we’re a dime a dozen. But when three-quarters of your community is observing a month-long fast, you feel it. You feel it in the flow of the day, in the demeanor of the people (ALL people, not just those fasting) and you feel empathy for what people might be going through.

With the focus off myself, I’ve found that I have a much keener sense of the hunger among my Muslim neighbors this year than I did last year.  

There were the first days when I was out with my running club and all along the Corniche (a waterside promenade that is a popular gathering place for everyone in the city), workers such as taxi cab drivers, security guards and well-heeled Arab families set up both simple and lavish picnic Iftar meals, waiting for the sundown call to prayer to break the fast. No matter who you were (my running group was waiting to be able to drink water), the sense of anticipation was palpable as people gazed at the sunset. Of course, it was the runners who guzzled fast and furiously when the prayer finally started a bit after 7 p.m..

Then there’s the security guard in my building. A burly and devout Muslim man, as I pop in and out of the building throughout the day I see how his look and demeanor change as the daytime hours wear on. The bright morning greeting turns to a mere grunt and nod as his eyes sink into his hungry head. By late afternoon I do my best to avoid him.

There was also the evening when John and I pulled up to a popular hotel for a quick bite before a movie and outside in front, cars were practically left abandoned in the porte cochere as those observing the fast bee-lined for the massive Iftar buffets in a specially constructed Ramadan tent that can be as opulent, popular and well-attended as the famed Dubai brunches (minus one very noticeable feature -- alcohol).

Waiting for the sun to set in Al Ain

But once that sundown call to prayer arrives, it’s feast time. While the fast is recommended to be broken with a glass of camel’s milk and a date, followed by a larger meal a bit later, extended families gather in the nighttime hours, coworkers mingle at corporate-sponsored Iftar tents at the posh five-star hotels, and even the tiny storefront kebab shops in our neighborhood stay open late and do brisk trade (for instance, the local Kentucky Fried Chicken stays open until 4 a.m., many other places are open until 2 a.m.). 

In fact, our local newspaper reports that a local hospital is currently seeing up to 50 patients in their emergency rooms each evening during Ramadan. Of course, it’s not the fasting that’s driving them to the ER, it’s the gluttony that follows – eating too much, too quickly.   

Now that I’m in my Ramadan groove, I try to avoid everything from about 3 p.m. until 7:30 p.m.  -- in the same way I always avoided rush hour on the subways while living in NYC. Driving on the roads is dangerous – what with the road rage and exhausted drivers drifting in and out of the lanes.  Even just walking the streets can be tough. Seeing people so obviously hungry, tired and worn out makes me want to reach out and give people a hug (and slip them a candy bar, though that would not be looked upon positively). Then there’s the hubs, who seems to have to partake in the fast as collateral damage for working during Ramadan. While work hours are shorter and there are special places for non-Muslims to eat in the office, many people just take the time off. Not John, and unfortunately he doesn’t come prepared to get through the day (nearly all restaurants are shuttered during the day). In other words, I don’t send him off in the morning packed with a sandwich (bad wifey).

As for me, I keep a low profile and stick to the outer edges of the community. I spend the days writing (I finished a screenplay draft!), check out the very few places I can go for lunch, play lots of golf (mainly for the post-golf clubhouse dining) and despite my best efforts of using Ramadan to do house projects like organizing my clothes closets and cleaning out my computer of old files and trying my hand at painting, I find I slow down my pace just like everyone else.

Ramadan Mubarak!

Excess Baggage: The Reality of Expat Luggage

It was about a year ago when I flew over the Arabian Gulf and landed at the International Airport to do a recognizance tour of Abu Dhabi.

Having escaped the polar vortex plaguing NYC and stepping off the jet into 80 degree warmth and streaming sunshine, I reminded myself not to tell the hubs I was already sold on the place. By the time I reached baggage claim, the day-dreaming had started when I spotted a woman who, based on her English accent, subtle tan, and inordinate amount of luggage -- was obviously an Expat wife.

Looking at the suitcases piled so high on her cart that they reached over her nose, I imagined them filled with fabulous fashions -- Pucci dresses for day and sparkling Vera Wangs for night. I imagined designer golf gear and yoga pants with brand names only fit to be worn by people like Victoria Beckham. I imagined that that would be soon be me, a glamorous Expat wife crisscrossing the globe with my fabulous life tucked in a trunk… a Louis Vuitton trunk, at that. I envisioned dazzling pool parties, epic brunches, decadent evenings in five-star hotel ballrooms. Truth be told, I may have even entertained the thought of having an occasion to wear a tiara. Yes, a tiara...

Fast forward a few months, after I shut down my life in NYC and began to settle in to my new Abu Dhabi existence and spent a few weeks of indulging in the ritual of the “flight of the Expat wife” (when non-working expat housewives head out of the Sandpit to enjoy the cooler summer temperatures of the UK and USA), I was back at John F. Kennedy Airport with three large pieces of luggage filled to brim to check-in. The conversation with the ticket agent went something like this:

“Do you have any dangerous liquid or anything flammable in your bag?”

“No.”

“Batteries?”

“Nope.”

“Explosives?”

“Definitely not.”

“How about car parts?”

“Car parts?”

“Yes, car parts.”

“Well… as a matter of fact…”

Yep, not ball gowns. My bags were running over with car parts.

I won’t get specific here, but the parts were very much questionable, and I would end up spending the next hour or so with the TSA fellas getting my bags and their contents pre-cleared before the airline would approve taking them onboard.

Standing with the TSA, I found myself in the awkward position of not only explaining my car parts, but also feeling judged by obvious lack of dress gowns (and tiaras) that were making room for far more important things like:

• Three cases of cat food (that’s 72 cans, people!),
• Liquid concentrated chicken and beef stock (because the canned stuff is absent here),
• My favorite cooking pan,
• My oversized Starbucks insulated coffee cup for iced coffee,
• My cheap but oh-so-awesome vegetable slicer-dicer doohickey,
• An array of vitamins and health supplements,
• Six sticks of deodorant (hey, you get stinky in the Sandpit!)
• My big fluffy winter slippers (because the air conditioning is hell on my always cold feet),
• A pair of salt and pepper shakers I bought from the Duty Free trolley on our trip home from Australia… That look like rocks (don't ask).

…And an England hat.

The reality of my excess Expat baggage.

What kind of life these TSA guys must have pieced together from this stash was almost laughable. 

And yet, this is reality of the excess baggage of the expat housewife.

John always tells me as I begin to spin into a panic about luggage and being able to get everything in, “If you forget something, you can always get it there.”

And indeed, Abu Dhabi does have EVERYTHING…

Except our cat’s favorite flavor of Fancy Feast…

…and I don’t seem to be able to cook meals as well in any other skillet than my beloved pan…

…and that vegetable slicer? We go way back.

There are just things, little touchstones from home, that after being out here in the expat world, when you reconnect with them you find you suddenly just can’t live without. It’s like the scene from THE JERK, when Steve Martin announces he’s going to leave his wife and all his worldly belongings for a simpler life:

And while one of the things we did when we left NY was to get rid of the clutter and commit to living a more ‘minimalist’ life, there are just… things… that are hard to live without.

So now when we go back and forth, we end up packing as light as we can and putting in an extra bag so we (or rather, I) can bring back those beloved items that make me feel a bit more connected to my life at home.

• My favorite wool sweater, ratty fleece and ripped shorts for house-lounging;
• That running club t-shirt with the NYC reference that once had little meaning but now speaks volumes to others about who I am;
• My most favorite dog-eared writing books.

Of course, the problem becomes what will go back when the time comes...  

We recently attempted to purchase a cocktail bar (it didn't fit in our elevator) from a couple who had lived in Abu Dhabi for seven years but whose contract -- and thus time -- in the Sandpit were up.

When I went to check out the bar, the place was filled with a heavy cloud of emotion. I was greeted by a teary-eyed woman who escorted me through a villa full of the remnants of still palpable memories of her UAE life. Book cases filled with travel guides to ‘far off’ places like India, Sri Lanka, Egypt and Jordan – all a mere puddle-jump away. Rugs and kilims from Turkey, Iran and the carpet souq down the block. Camping gear for desert excursions among dunes and camels a mere hour’s drive away.  A shisha pipe. The dark wood, well-worn bar. 

“We had many great parties with this bar,” she said. “So many friends… we celebrated… everything.”

At that moment, I wished I had had that tiara to place upon this woman’s head. Even without an evening gown in sight, to me she was a belle of the expat ball, having spent her time in the region embracing all it offered -- and digging in the emotional dirt of living fully in a very temporary space.

Despite my lack of ball gowns and party frocks, I realize even if my bags are packed full with mundane items like cat food tins, skincare products and car parts (yes, car parts!), life at the moment is BIG! And there would always be baggage of some sort to deal with.

It’s not just part of the expat life. It’s part of ANY life.

It just goes with the territory.

  

Foggy Abu Dhabi!

It’s Fog Season in Abu Dhabi!

I had no idea what ‘fog season’ was. Here I was drifting along and marking time by glorious sunny day after glorious sunny day, when suddenly one morning I woke to pull back the drapes and revealed a wall of fog so thick outside my window, I couldn't see the street twelve stories below.

A room with no view: Abu Dhabi's famed Hyatt Capital Gate Hotel

When I first got to Abu Dhabi, I thought I was moving to a place where I would, for the most part, enjoy perpetual summer. After one of the most hellish winters anyone in the Northeast US had ever experienced (hello, Polar Vortex!), I was ready for life in the sun, with just one season, and with the only real difference being the change in temperature. Turns out though, that just like Eskimos have fifty-plus words to describe anything from wet to powdery snow and from sleety to icy snow, you can also break Abu Dhabi’s perpetual summer down not just in to ‘hot,’ ‘really hot,’ and 'really effing hot,' but into seasons within the season of constant heat.

For instance, when I first arrived, it was March. And it was summer. The kind of summer we are used to in the Northeast United States. It was in the mid-80s and not humid. It was, in a word, wonderful. In more than one word it was glorious, heavenly and wonderful and I was the happiest girl on Earth having to make the choice each day of whether to wile away the daytime hours at the beach, or on the golf course... or both.

Then came June, and the only way I could find to describe the heat in late June, July and August in Abu Dhabi is by referencing the whole “This One Goes To Eleven” bit from THIS IS SPINAL TAP. 

As you could imagine, the heat in Abu Dhabi goes to eleven come the summer months, topping out at anywhere between 125 and 130 degrees and making you seriously worry about the real possibility of spontaneous combustion. I have a vivid recollection of walking to meet a friend for lunch, less than a ten minute walk away. Halfway there, while standing on the median of the road hiding in the shade of a street sign waiting to make my way across three lane of traffic, I began to wonder whether I should turn back. Truth was I wasn’t really sure I could actually make it on foot without dropping dead on the way. Even worse, if you decide to take the car then you worry that the tires might melt. (I'm not even kidding.)

But then… September arrives. Relief, right? Well, sure, if you just measure things by temperature and not humidity. Because September’s humid season in Abu Dhabi is akin to what T.S. Eliot wrote about the month of April. The cruelest month, September in Abu Dhabi has the ability to break one’s spirit, because just when you think the temperatures have subsided and life is going to be bearable again, the humidity wooshes in to extend the misery. This is the season of wondering what the point is of showering only to step out and feel completely soaked. It's the season of sapped energy. And the season of fogged up window panes... and spectacles.

This is what 100 percent humidity looks like.

Come October, though, and things get better. Legend has it that once three sandstorms have passed through, the Gulf goes back to the glorious temperatures that make going to the beach heavenly. And really, it’s heaven straight through until… well, until now, Fog Season.

It’s early January and it’s embarrassing to say this, but, it feels a bit chilly. I know I’m being a baby, especially seeing photos of snow storms back home, but even more so because I’m putting on a fleece and whining about the cold -- when it’s 75 degrees outdoors. Even worse, I’ve become that person who puts on the seat warmers in the car when it’s 68 degrees out at 8 a.m. (though I’ve always been a sucker for seat warmers, even in August, so maybe it's just a good excuse).

But the wall of fog, is well, pretty wonderful, as long as you don’t have anyplace really important to go. Driving can be treacherous and there are terrible accidents due to low visibility along the E11 road that links Abu Dhabi to Dubai. Flights get cancelled again and again and again. Still, I love it. I never thought I’d say it, but it’s nice to have a break from the endless string of sunny days. It makes for amazing views and photos.

Plus, it's just nice to know that Abu Dhabi is more than some one-season, one-heat wonder. 

Abu Dhabi's Grand Mosque, barely visible through the fog.

Thoughts on National Day

Back when I was in elementary school (or maybe it was early in junior high), we learned about the concept of ‘Nationalism,’ the belief, creed or political ideology that involves an individual identifying with, or becoming attached to, one’s nation.

At the time, I didn't really think much of it.  I was the first generation daughter of an immigrant from Germany. An immigrant, who, as family lore has it, was so focused and headstrong about leaving Germany and getting to America from such a young age, that his mother actually learned English so that she could teach my Dad in hopes that it might help his chances of actually getting to the place. 

I guess because of my Dad’s story (and similar stories of immigration by my mother’s parents) it never occurred to me not to love my country -- deeply and enthusiastically. I was an All-American kid and speaking German in our house was verboten. I loved hot dogs and carried the American flag with a sense of honor in the Bicentennial Day Parade. I memorized the words to the Pledge of Allegiance as soon as my brain could manage it and took great pride in earning one of those Presidential Physical Fitness Awards complete with a patch and certificate and the president's signature on it (that I still own and cherish).

But fast-forward a few decades and take a big step back… back to my view of my home country from my new place in the UAE, and, well, it’s not all Bruce Springsteen and Fourth of July fireworks any more. These last few months have been a strain for my home country. A government in gridlock. The Ebola scare. The snow disaster in Buffalo and rains in California. Ferguson. Eric Garner. The never-ending shooting sprees. The Sony hacks. It’s been painful to watch from afar, as if every day brings a new reason to ask oneself, “What the hell is going on over there?”

And yet, I still love my country and my home with all my heart.

That said, there’s something about the breath of fresh air that is the United Arab Emirates.

Earlier this month we celebrated the UAE's National Day. This is the UAE equivalent of Independence Day, but without the secession (though there may have been a slight booting out of the Brits if you read through the lines of revisionist history). The United Arab Emirates is just forty-three years young (younger than me, gasp!) and yet the place has developed at an astonishing pace and is one of the world’s richest and most dynamic emerging powers in the world. (Whoa, I need to cut back on the Kool-Aid!).

Landmark Tower shows its UAE pride

The run up to National Day includes the appearance of cars being decorated with the flag and images of the nation’s founding father and leading sheikhs. There are massive light displays from buildings and along light posts, and large, landmark buildings draped in UAE flags (I'm talking flags that hang 15 stories). There are also fireworks. And air shows. And silly string.

Silly string?

Well, yeah.

Pretty much anyone who wants to partake in the revelry heads down to the Corniche on the day, where they watch the air show with some pretty kick-ass fighter jets, check out some military equipment on display, drive in an unofficial parade of pimped out cars, or stand on the curb and shoot silly string at each other while wearing funny hats, silly glasses and sequined and sparkly garb with UAE colors. 

Pimped out rides

It’s Fourth of July meets the Puerto Rico Day parade meets Carnival meets New Year’s Eve all wrapped up into one.

And the beauty of it?

All are welcome.

Doesn't matter the nationality, we all celebrate National Day in the UAE

You see, this is not an Emirati-only day. Down on the Corniche, the Emiratis are joined by the Pakistanis, the Filipinos, the folks from India, as well as the Brits, Aussies and Americans. We all celebrate, dress up and wave our UAE flags. And it’s exciting. I mean, in the days that led up to National Day, my heart swelled, my chest thumped. I was a kid all over again looking forward to the fireworks, flying UAE flags from the car and just generally getting pumped up.

Beyond the fun of the day, I guess the reality is that in a very short time I have developed a fair amount of national pride for the place. I know it isn’t perfect (I know, I know! But show me a country that is!). But it’s young and hopeful and so damn full of promise here, that’s it’s hard not to get caught up in the possibilities.

From the UAE, with love from the Air Show

So bring on the silly string while I send out hugs and well wishes to my true homeland.

I love you, and miss you, and hope with all my heart that we can get through this rough patch soon. 

My pimped ride

Barefoot in the Desert

The early morning knock at the door came hard and furious. 

It was barely five a.m. after a night that that went into the wee small hours and included a wonderful Arabic meal, great conversation, star-gazing, and a scorpion sighting. It was time to get to the desert.

This is the weekly Friday morning ritual at Art Hub Liwa, where I have been fortunate enough to be selected as the ‘Writer in Residence” for the International Historical Memory Festival – an art event taking place throughout the month of October with more than ten artists from around the globe (Iran, Italy, UK, Thailand, Australia and more) exploring the history of the UAE and the Transformation Era through their works of art.

But I digress.  

One thing you need to know about me is that early mornings are not my thing (and that sound you just heard? That's the yowl of agreement from my husband). But this was one of those moments where I remind myself that there will be plenty of time to rest when I’m dead. Or that the early bird gets the worm. Or at least fresh coffee… or something.

Here I was in Liwa, with a chance to walk in the desert at sunrise thanks to Mr. Ahmed, the owner of Art Hub, and moreover, an Emirati gentleman who is affable, generous and eager to share his country and culture with all its visitors.

One by one, we emerged from our rooms set in a campus quad meets oasis setting that is the Art Hub Liwa facility, quietly took that fresh Arabic coffee offered, and piled into Mr. A's Land Cruiser. When one last straggler managed to emerge from their slumber, we raced against the sunrise to the point where Liwa Oasis fades into the foothills of the largest sand desert in the world – the Empty Quarter.  

While I had been to a desert before – Death Valley, the Sonoran Desert of Baja and Arizona, and even Moreeb Dune down the road and the red sands of Al Ain, this was the first time I actually WALKED in the desert rather than view it from the air-conditioned coolness of a car, rushing by at 50 mph or dune-bashing with quick stops to jump out for requisite photo-ops.

This time, we were communing with the place.

Mr. A led our early morning walk, instructing us to kick-off our footwear and go barefoot. To the east we could see the first break of light, while to the west, the moon began to sink behind the horizon.

Walking barefoot along the dunes gave me a whole different perspective. You see, the desert isn’t hard. It’s soft. My first step was taken gingerly (worried about glass shards and dangerous desert critters emerging from the sand). But the sand was pristine, cool and silky underfoot. And through this we walked nearly a mile with the sand giving way and at the same time standing firm with each step.

Early morning shadow play

Depending on the wind, the atmosphere, and probably a thousand other factors I haven’t even thought of, in the early morning hours in the Empty Quarter there is almost a dance – of color, light and shadow – as the sun rises the desert moves, moment by moment – and suddenly you realize that those peaks and dips are actually waves. They have motion. They are in constant flow.

Desert 'Waves"

It’s with this flow that you come to realize that the desert is alive. I mean vibrantly so. Up close walking in the dunes you’ll see the tracks of a gazelle, the slither marks of a snake, the scampering footprints of a gecko and tufts of green from desert plants bursting and flowering from the dunes. 

It’s hard to put the camera down on a walk like this. There’s just no comparison. I’ve been to Uluru (Ayer’s Rock), and while I admit that it rained on the morning that we trekked out in the pre-dawn to capture the red sunrise that’s promised in all the Australian travel brochures, nothing comes close to seeing a desert sunrise in the Rub’ al Khali.

Into the Empty Quarter

As we walked, I felt like I was in a half dream state. Mr. A led us up to the top a large dune. And there, just over the ‘ledge’ was a stunning valley, full of desert shrubs and flowers, along with a bright and beautiful red kilim set atop the dune with a gorgeous breakfast spread.

We sat down and had our meal, quietly in awe as we looked over the deep valley full of green, thinking of the past people who lived here. Seeing it up close, its life and luster, I could see why people have made a place like this – with all its exterior harshness and secret softness -- their home. 

Sheikh Zayed Sulṭân Âl Nahyân once said, “He who does not know his past cannot make the best of his present and future, for it is from the past that we learn.”

In a way, Liwa represents one of the geographic hearts of Emirati history and culture. Over that weekend, I learned about the Liwa oasis, about the water that was once just five meters below the sand’s surface, and of how the Bedu lived and thrived in the region. Even though it was harsh, the desert was good to them, the harshness protected them. To them the desert was soft, at times cool and colorful, and always full of life.

Art Hub Liwa is beginning to offer weekend retreats at their compound at the edge of the Empty Quarter. Here’s an article about the Art Hub Liwa festival I’m currently participating in, and details on the overnight desert experience available. If you have the chance (and don’t mind getting up before dawn), it’s one of those once-in-a-lifetime experiences not to be missed in the UAE.