Road Trip: It's Getting 'Hatta' Here

It's getting hot here. Not in the way where you're psyched to be hanging out with your friends at outdoor cafes in little tank tops and drinking rose wine full of carefree thoughts and wispy feelings. No. It's not like that at all.

It's more like a worry, the heat. I'm trying to figure out how to get around it... how I'm going to walk to the supermarket without keeling over dead, or spontaneously combusting. It's not like I didn't know this would come. It's just that I have never actually 'felt' 111 degrees in the shade. Now I have, and it's only getting hotter. And for a gal who always loved summer, gets into a funk when it ends and has been known to curse all other seasons, all I can say is - be careful what you wish for...

So, in advance of the heat, John and I set out to the Hatta Pools in Dubai/Oman with a group called the Sandpit Hash House Harriers (best described as a 'social' running club). It was their last overnight excursion for the season and seems to be a much looked forward to annual event. We were in.

The drive from Abu Dhabi -- taking the scenic route -- was just about three hours. The drive included crossing the border into Oman in Al Ain, driving along the stunning Al Hajar mountain range.

The road to Hatta. Glad it's paved!

Instead of camping like we did when we helped celebrate the Al Ain's 30th year of hashing antics in the desert, we took up residence at the Hatta Fort Hotel, a darling spot with the 'throwback' feel of a family resort in the Poconos that has been transplanted to the Middle East. There was a fish pond. Bungalow rooms. Continental cuisine (onion soup, prawn cocktail and flambes made tableside). Two swimming pools. Welcome glasses of orange juice. And just about the nicest staff ever.

But the hotel wasn't why we were there. We were there for the wadis... the dried river beds and carved out rocks with water still running through them to explore. We met up with about about 15 other hashers and set off, caravan-style through the town of Hatta then pulled off to the pools... then we parked, got our act together and floated down the first of two wadis...

We lined up along a rock-carved slide and each took turns plunging in, wearing our shorts, t-shirts and footwear. From there we kind of swam along until it got shallow, walked a bit and then plunged in again.

[Okay, okay... here's the thing. The guidebooks and stuff warn Westerners about bringing valuables to the pools. We read that cars get broken into, passports and wallets stolen, etc. Also, since I was going to be wading or swimming in the wadi, I couldn't bring my camera. Therefore, if you want a good sense of the Hatta experience, please refer to this uber-cool video below...FAST FORWARD to 1:45 for wadi wading.]

After the first wadi, we had a bit of a regroup and then proceeded to the second section. It was here that I decided not to continue on. Apparently there was a rather large narrow jump to maneuver, and quite frankly, like the guidebooks said, the water was, sadly, polluted with empty water bottles, orange rinds and food wrappers. All I could think was how sad that such a beautiful spot could become so... trashed. It's like another 70s throwback, how folks handle their litter here.

After the pool adventure, it was back to the hotel and a bit of a hanging out for the evening.

Then the next day, John and I took another road excursion... hoping to make our way up to Fujairah. Armed with our cell phones and map, we hit the road and followed the PAVED parts until they turned into UNPAVED parts.

Of course, this left me nervous. There were lots of rocks so I was worried about changing flat tires in the 115 degree heat. And even though there were homes here and there, I don't know, it kind of made me nervous in the same way that driving down a dirt road in the middle of nowhere in the U.S. might feel... like something could go terribly wrong.

Luckily for us, the only danger we encountered were these 'free range' camels...

And goats...

But here was the road... [It's times like this that I thank god my mother isn't on the Interwebz!]

Deliverance, Middle Eastern-style.

When we finally made it back to civilization, we headed to Al Hayl Castle just outside of Fujairah. 

There, we were met by a 'guide,' who, to be honest, seemed to be making things up as he went along. "This place, for people shower... shampoo, razor, conditioner." Hmmmm... 

Still, the place, which we still can't determine whether its 300 years old (according to the guide) or built in 1930 (according to a brochure that was given to us as a memento by our guide), was pretty cool. 

The fort at Al Hayl Castle

John taps his fingers, he doesn't suffer poor tour guide information gladly...

Our guide explains his wealth of useful information, 'The big man uses the big door, the children, the little door...' Really, we didn't have that much of a problem with this, except for the pretty aggressive shakedown for a larger tip than we had given after the tour...

Anyhoo, back on the road, we hit up downtown Fujairah... which looked like what downtown Abu Dhabi might have looked like twenty years ago...

Downtown Fujairah

A drive along the coast of the Indian Ocean (the waves were rough because of a tropical storm that had been heading to the area)....

Indian Ocean, Fujairah's Corniche

Then back to the hotel and poolside in the late afternoon.

Hatta Fort Hotel...
Where you can hang at the pools, play mini golf, hike the on-site mountain top,
check out the koi pond and peacocks... or do nothing at all. 

Our bungalow.

It was a lovely weekend and one of the things we've been told is that it's important to get out of town every few weeks. Not only because there is so much to see, but because a little decompression from Abu Dhabi 'city/work life' can be a very good thing.

The town of Hatta.

 Til next time!

Superstar, Supermarkets and Shangri-La

About a month after my arrival in the UAE, I learned that blogger ManhattanMama was giving a lecture on New York University’s role in the UAE. I went along and it was a fantastic talk that swirled around a number of subjects including the UAE’s vision, the Emirati people, the education process, Frankenstein, what it means to be female here, day-to-day expat life and what they might think at home and so many other things that I wished I had taped it.

Afterwards I went up to chat with ManhattanMama in a small group of other new expats and one of the things she asked us was ‘Have you cried in the supermarket yet?’

At the time, I thought it was such a strange question. I mean, sure, I had experienced the frustration and chaos of not knowing that I needed to get my produce weighed and priced BEFORE going to the cashier. And I had also survived the one or two glaring looks (scowls actually, and I think I might have heard growling) by women who I suspect thought my cart was getting a bit too close to theirs, but whateves, right?  So, I kind of shrugged at ManhattanMama, not really sure what she was getting at.

But fast forward a few weeks and one day, there I was, standing in front of the abbreviated pasta section of the local Spar supermarket, trying to remember the difference between Spaghetti No. 2 and No. 3 (and wishing the box just said 'angelhair' like it does back home) when it started…

“Long ago, and oh so far away….”

A familiar song over the supermarket sound system. A song and soundtrack supposed to cheer shoppers to buy more. Then came the sad clarinet, the grieving sound of brass and violins, and the wistful croon of Karen Carpenter. My lip quivered. I started wincing.

“Loneliness is such a sad affair….”

And then, well, I lost it.

An open, unrestrainable weepy crying jag as I pretended to study the ingredients of a box of macaroni and cheese.

What the hell was happening? Where were my tissues? I didn’t understand. Everything was FINE fifteen minutes ago… I was having a great day. It included golf. And new friends. And sunshine. WTF was going on here!?

And then it hit me. I was homesick. 

@!*$#!*$#!!

Seriously?

Earlier in the week, I had to say goodbye to a friend who was visiting me in the UAE from home. 

Having the time of my life when my BFF was in town.

There were lots of tears the evening of her departure, but I knew that would happen. I’ve never been good with goodbyes. Following a fantastic time catamaran sailing, visiting the mosque and dune bashing, as she and her niece packed up their things I had this sudden urge to pack my bags as well. I wanted to just continue the fun on the plane, head back to the States, flop into my bed back in NYC, recover, and just get back to my life.

My former life, that is. 

When I was a kid at summer camp, they used to tell us that homesickness wasn’t ‘real.’ But I’m here to tell you it is. It’s a low grade heaviness that sits in one’s throat and chest, and wells up into tears at the strangest and most modest of triggers…

Like when I hear The Carpenters.

Or when John and I watch DVD episodes of Person of Interest and Blue Bloods and with each new scene I try to pick out the NYC spot where it’s being filmed, and if I recognize it, then I think about what the spot means in my own personal NYC history. The Brooklyn Bridge, a park in Washington Heights, a tree-lined street in Hell’s Kitchen… The Dive Bar.  (Sigh.)

Or when I went to the Gap store at the mall and spotted a t-shirt that said, ‘Montauk, as East as it Gets!’ And suddenly I see a painful irony. Montauk is… was, my turf, afterall, growing up on Long Island, lifeguarding on its beaches and spending many, many, many summers out on its east end. 

Based on my world view at the time, Montauk was ‘As East as it Gets!’ 

Until I moved to the Middle East, that is.

Oh, the IRONY!

While I’m no expert in getting over homesickness (no 'Ten Tips!' here), I know what has worked for me over the past few weeks is keeping busy, but not to the point of being ‘overwhelmed.’ You can busy yourself to exhaustion here with all the expat activities, so I’m taking care to take plenty of time outs, as needed.

The other thing I have done is just let people know if I’m on the verge of a crying jag that I’m feeling homesick. This has resulted in a lot of great talks with great women who have been there and completely understand.

But one of the best things I did was write a note to a few friends basically saying ‘Hey! I’m homesick!’ And their response was awesome. ‘Hey! That sucks!’ they said. But then they filled me in on the day to day things going on in their lives, the things they would chat about to me if were together out for a run on the weekend. And that felt… well, great.

I don’t expect you to have pity for me. Seriously, I know these ‘expat problems’ probably sound worse than ‘white people problems.’ I know what I signed up for, and I knew that this might come with the territory.

The reality is, as pretty a place this is, it’s still real life. Despite the pretty photos, this ain’t no Shangri-la. There are bills and work and worries that mingle in with the glamour, glitz and exotic-ness of the place. And, like anything, you gotta take the good with the bad.

The Fabulous Life: Golfing with Ferrari World as the backdrop

So everyday, I get up and try to find some grounding. Lately it’s been reading a chapter of a book. And when I get up, I put on my big girl pants and think about the good stuff, the great new people I’m meeting, the great golf courses I’m playing, the prospect of work in my future, the latest screenplay I’m writing, the big and little adventures I’m having with John, our beautiful cats, and the great little spot with a waterview we call home, for now.

So yeah, even though there will be times when I will find myself crying in the supermarket, recently I also found myself in Dubai -- sexy, fast-paced, swinging Dubai -- driving past the Burg Khalifa with that ‘oh-my-god-pinch-me-now-because-I can’t-believe-I’m-really-here’ feeling. Everything was good. Really good. And there was a kick-ass song on the radio…

And it wasn’t The Carpenters.

Because that sh*t has been permanently banned from my playlist.

Licensed and Dangerous

I recently got my UAE residence visa!

And I just got my drinks license...

And I also just got my driver’s license…  

It’s like turning 18 again! I’m licensed and dangerous, people!

So for starters, my residence visa means I can stay here with the hubs. YAY! The uncomfortable part of the visa is that my official occupation is ‘HOUSEWIFE.’

For those of you who know me (and my lack of domestic goddess skills), STOP LAUGHING.

For those who don’t know me well, or at all, I find things like the residence visa, drinks and driving license to be some small karmic joke. Because when it comes to driving (for women) and alcohol (for everyone) while it’s allowed, there is a bit of process to be able to do both here in the UAE. You see, in order to do either, you need to be licensed. 

Okay, fair enough. Pretty much the same as home, right? Well, here it goes just a bit further for women.  Because in the UAE, you also need to get permission (which they call a ‘no objection’ letter) from your husband to drive (if married, or here on your spouse’s visa). And in order to get your drinking license, you go under your husband's license.

Does this bother me?

Shrug. 

Am I going to make a big deal out of it?

(Seriously?) Okay, in truth, I’m a bit of an Alpha-Gal. I married after 40, and have always been g*d-d*amn independent and all that. Really, my marrying was like the Taming of the Shrew. So yeah, having to get the okay from my spouse stings a little.

Maneuvering through the licensing and the husband permission slips, I find I have to keep myself in check a bit and be polite on the feminist front. I realized that I a lot of times here I have to take into account the world views that I’m surrounded by. To me or you (reading this someplace in the West), this licensing stuff may seem restrictive and wrong. But from where I am now in the Middle East, next to a country where the women MUST wear abayas and cover their heads in public and NOBODY can drink alcohol and the women not only can't drive cars, but they can't even drive a motorized golf cart if they are out on the links. So in truth, I think I've got it pretty good. In fact, when I compare things here to the place next door, I consider myself lucky to be in a place that’s so progressive. 

And yes, there are many women on the road. And yes, plenty of Emirati and other women from other Arab nations drive. And talk about girl power, Range Rovers seem to be the Emirati female vehicle of choice, when not being chauffeured in a Maybach, that is.   

But I digress…

When it comes to driving, I’ve been enjoying cab rides all around town (at dirt cheap prices!). In that way, it feels a lot like NYC in that even if you have a car, most of the time it's just easier to take a cab. The only time I really want to use the car is when I'm golfing because the cabbies don't really know their way to the golf courses, and for a while, neither did I.

This has made for rather interesting encounters with local cabbies. Somehow, I managed to get a lot of new cabbies when I arrived, the ones who were on their second day on the job. Together we’d manage the roads, me pulling up my google map on my phone and co-piloting -- not always getting the directions right. In fact, one morning instead of ending up on the driving range for a golf lesson, my cabbie and I ended up taking a driving tour of the horse stables adjacent to the golf course at the Abu Dhabi Equestrian Club. Driving around large flower planters meant to keep the cars from going too fast wasn’t how either of us expected that morning, but it was fun teaming up, getting through it together and finally getting to the place I needed to go.

John was great when it came to getting my driving license. He managed most of the paper work and he brought me to the DMV. I suspect this is because I'm not known to be a morning person (we showed up at 7:30 a.m. when the place opened). Showing up unfed and uncaffeinated meant I was primed for a public meltdown. So John kept me calm, coached me through, and we were in and out in fifteen minutes.

It’s definitely handy to have driving privileges, but the driving here is definitely on par in terms of ‘craziness’ as New York City. No, there aren’t as many traffic jams or pot holes, but the driving style is different. You've got drivers from the US, UK, Australia, New Zealand, India, Pakistan, Africa and other places in the Middle East all trying to get places in a hurry. You never know what side of the road the driver would prefer to be on, or if the driver’s other car is a Lamborghini… or a goat… so you have got to be always anticipating the other guy. Always. 

When it comes to drinking… Up until now I’ve enjoyed just giving the hubs a list of goodies I’d like from the discreet little liquor shops in the neighborhood. These shops are the ones with no windows and obscure names like 'African and Eastern' (which I originally thought sold artwork and furniture from Africa) or 'Gray Mackenzie & Partners' (which I first thought was a men's clothing store, night club or law firm).  

I figured that getting the drinks license wouldn't be too much of a big deal. All puffed up from having my resident’s visa and driving license, I jumped on the 'Special License' web site and began filling it out. In no place did it say that I needed to have my husband apply for it on my behalf, providing his 'no objection,' but when I got to the part about my occupation and income the quiet realization came over me that this wouldn't be an independent endeavor, but one which the hubs would have to do for me and provide permission for...

And yeah, I kind of growled at this... But an alcohol license is sort of a must have if you like to imbibe without the worry of the authorities. They ask for it at the shops and you never know when the bar you're in gets raided (kidding, this isn't the Lower East Side. Bars DON'T get raided, at least not the ones I've been to… yet.) Also, if you’re a visitor, you can drink in the hotels and other designated ‘tourist’ spots.

So, yeah! I’ve reached a few major UAE milestones. 

My residence visa… my driving license AND my alcohol license. 

Drinks are on me, peeps!  

That is, if the hubs has 'no objection.' ;-)

Dune Bashing (is NOT) for Sissies

So, the first time I went dune-bashing, it was just three days after I arrived to the UAE. We had friends blasting through as they were commencing a month on the road on their way back to the States after an expat stint in London.

Me? I was fresh off the plane after breaking down our lives in NYC. I was exhausted. Unfocused. When the idea arose to go dune bashing, I didn't think much of it. I thought it would be little more than an afternoon drive in the desert. A meander over the dunes with a stop to take pictures with camels and sunsets and stuff, then a relaxed dinner at an outdoor camp.

John and me, frolicking in the dunes before my first bashing experience.

Our guide met us at a nearby hotel and we piled into the Toyota Land Cruiser. When he went inside to get the other participants, he came back out with a worried look. Behind him followed a man with a toddler in tow and a woman in full burkha trailing with an infant, maybe eight months old. We rearranged our seating to accommodate them and the babies sort of confirmed what I thought, what we had ahead of us couldn't be more than a mere “Sunday drive.”

The gentleman turned to ask us where we were from.

We hesitated. “America?”

He smiled. “I’m from Saudi. America good!”

Whew.

And we were off.

As we headed toward the dune region on the way to Al Ain, the rush hour traffic disappeared. It was already an interesting drive, so I figured it was already money well-spent whether or not we actually 'bashed' any dunes in the process. Besides, how many people get to say they went dune bashing with a woman wearing a burka?

When we reached the camels, we all piled out and took the obligatory photos. I half expected that at this point, our burka-mom might be left behind with the kids, but no, aside from being told to strap the seat belts on over the children sitting in their laps, we were all now in a convoy of about a dozen Land Cruisers and the drivers and other tourists were raring to go.

As we pulled off road, things got hairy pretty fast. I’m not sure how fast we were driving on the gravely sandy road that ran along the fence of a private farm, maybe sixty? As we hit the dunes, we drove in line, and while we drove slower… slow and meandering aren't words that comes to mind.

If you haven’t noticed from the photos, these dunes aren’t small. They range in size from about 30-50 or even 60 feet high, and we hit them at easily 40 mph, sometimes straight up and then down, other times driving across them at a 45 degree angle, then sliding down the dune as the weight of the cruiser loses its tug with gravity. When you drive straight up the dune, you are looking at nothing but sky, never to be sure what lies over the lip of the dune. My fear was that there would be another Land Cruiser coming up the dune from the other side. 

As we thrashed through the dunes, a desert roller-coaster of sorts, being jostled all the way, suddenly, I was wondering why there wasn't a waiver to sign.

Then I began to wonder what the hell I was thinking when I signed up for this... Afterall, my worst fear has always been that I'd die in a car accident. Here I was, pushing my fate. What the hell was I doing here? And more importantly, WHAT THE HELL WERE THESE SMALL CHILDREN DOING HERE!???

With every harrowing turn, careen and churn through the sand, I SCREAMED.

Oh, I screamed. BLOOD CURDLING SCREAMS, people.  

I was terrified.

And even worse, I was scaring the children.

So I tried to cover up my screams with laughter… which just sounded… well, psychotic.

And that’s when our burka-mom broke out her i-Phone. Clutching her infant in one arm and with the bouncing toddler still hanging on to his dad’s lap, she started madly fiddling with her phone.

“Holy cow, she’s checking her email,” I thought.

Then burka-mom hit the screen of her phone and suddenly we were dune bashing to music. And not music from the soundtrack of Fast & Furious. Nope. From what I could tell, and from the reaction of the children, we were listening to the Arabic equivalent of Barney the Dinosaur!

Obviously, burka-mom was trying to drown me out. Now I was terrified and mortified all at the same time…

My life passing before my eyes...

I should have learned from that experience that I’m not cut out for dune bashing, but with my friend Jean and her niece Erin visiting and excited by what they had heard about the adventure, once again we headed out to the dunes outside of Abu Dhabi.

Our driver, Zahoor was a real character. He told us he had been living in the UAE for thirty-five years. Erin, who was sitting up front, then asked him how long he had been driving.

“Oh, first day,” Zahoor said.

We all laughed, then once again drove out of town, took photos with the camels and headed for the dunes.

Me and Jean, thinking we can handle it.

This time I figured it would be easier. After all, I knew what to expect. I knew what was coming. Easy peasy….

Until Zahoor single-handedly proved to me that he is perhaps the most skilled and scariest of drivers in the Emirates. Yep, Zahoor made my last trip suddenly seem like that Sunday drive.

Oh, he hit the dunes fast and hard. There were long sprays of sand that blocked the front windshield. Sand also kicked up from the rear wheel.

And every time Jean and I screamed for our lives, Zahoor just laughed and drove harder and faster. Here was a man who finds great joy in his work. His work of terrifying tourists seeking outdoor adventure in Abu Dhabi, that is.

To Zahoor's credit, even though I was certain I would die, I thought it would be because of a heart attack, not from any mis-handling on Zahoor's part. He is truly a dune-bashing extraordinaire. 

Jean was suddenly unsure about this.

Here’s a video of dune-bashing…. it gives a good sense of the whole experience (belly dancers and all).

I’d say that if you’re coming to the UAE or anywhere where dune-bashing is available, and you’re in good health and don’t have any next of kin to worry about, then for sure, you’ve got to dune bash at least once.  

As for me, I’m officially retired.  :)

It's Easy to Get to the Falcon Hospital...

If you're a falcon. 

Recently John and I paid a visit to the Abu Dhabi Falcon Hospital. No, we haven’t adopted a falcon. There was no ‘falcon emergency’ involving a local falcon and our two cats. It’s just one of several ‘only here’ kind of things you can do here in the Emirates. So we decided to do it.

We bought tickets online and headed out from our apartment for the 10 a.m. tour. The driving directions looked easy. Dead easy. We’d just jump on the road, aptly named Airport Road and head out toward the airport. Then a few exits before the airport, we’d take the exit marked ‘Falcon Hospital’ (in both English AND Arabic ) and bah-da-bing… we should be right there.

Easy peasy, right?

Well, no.

Instead of following the road sign for the airport, we followed the signs for Al Ain, thinking that the road signs would eventually turn into signs for the airport. When I thought we seemed uncomfortably far away from the airport (tipped off by the planes taking off further and further away) I pulled up my map app on my cell phone and discovered that we were pretty much halfway to Al Ain and not anywhere near the airport. Nor the Falcon Hospital.

The thing is, it’s no easy task to just get off on the next exit and turn around around here.  Here, there are fly-overs that lead to nowhere, on roads that haven’t been built yet, and there are long, long stretches between exits. Taking a wrong turn is no simple affair. So after pulling over and regrouping, we figured out a way to backtrack, that would take us along the ‘back roads.’

“We have plenty of time,” John said.

But really, we didn’t. The tour started in fifteen minutes. (And I DESPISE being late.)

We started along the back roads which under less time pressures would have been considered pretty interesting. There wasn’t much to see (which can actually be interesting coming from NYC), and at one traffic roundabout, men gathered with their livestock – goats and sheep in the back of Toyota pick-up trucks, doing brisk trade. It all looked so provincial, until we drove a bit further and I saw the sign for the slaughterhouse. At which point I wondered why I haven’t become a vegetarian yet.

Moving along, we got closer the Falcon Hospital, at least according to my Google map app on my cell phone. We were less than a mile away. In fact, we could see the Falcon Hospital’s distinctive steel roof in the distance. Another roundabout and a left turn, followed by a quick right and we’d be right there, we thought.

But we weren't even close. 

Unfortunately, the quick right turn actually ended up leading us to some sort of middle-of-nowhere car dealership souq thing. Had we been in the market for a BMW, Land Rover, Ford or Infiniti, we’d have been in the right place. But this area was all boarded in. The place we wanted to get to, that we could see through the slats was the Falcon Hospital.

“It’s right there,” I said. “Probably less than a mile away,” I said.

“Sure, as the falcon flies,” John quipped.

But we couldn’t get there from here.

“Can’t you just… maybe drive across the open land over there,” I asked.

I mean, there was nothing there. Just dirt. Sandy dirt. It was RIGHT THERE. We could see it. Maybe we could just park the damn car and walk across the sand field, I thought. But we don’t know the rules yet about stuff like that. And it was hot. And I had visions of keeling over with dehydration and vaporizing into mere skeletal remains.

So instead, we kept driving around the perimeter roads of the Falcon Hospital. And by perimeter, I’m talking roads within, oh, say, a ten mile radius all with a perfect view of the place we couldn't get to… or so it seemed.

Finally we came up on the main highway that leads to the airport AND the Falcon Hospital.

“There’s the sign for the Falcon Hospital,” I said.

“Is that the sign for the Falcon Hospital,” John asked, joking.

“Yes, this exit. There’s the sign.”

“This sign?”

“Yes. Please, this… right. Right here.  Right. Here.”

“Are  you sure it’s this exit?”

Now, I knew John was just taking the piss.

We made the right, turned in, followed the signs and, ahem, easy peasy, we arrived at the Falcon Hospital, a mere 45 minutes late for the tour.

When we signed in at the desk, they couldn’t have been nicer, or more apologetic about our experience. Despite all the great road signs AND great directions on the website and descriptions on other websites, they told us that it happens quite often, as if there’s some sort of ‘Falcon Hospital Directional Vortex.’

In fact, later, when I shared this tale of the wrong turn with a new friend here, she said she got lost driving to the Falcon Hospital too. 

So if you go to the Falcon Hospital, make sure you follow the directions, or take a Toyota Land Cruiser and hire one of those skilled dune-bashing drivers to get you there if you take a wrong turn.

But really, if you make it to the Falcon Hospital, you’re in for a treat. It’s fantastic. We met the ‘falcon patients,’ mostly checked in for minor ailments (we watched a procedure for what I can only describe as a ‘falcon pedicure,’). We also got to hold the falcon, visit their outdoor aery and visit the state-of-the-art falcon operating rooms.

Pretty awesome! Here are some snaps:

Patients in Waiting

Falcon Doctor Readies the Patient

Falcon Under Anesthesia

Falcon Pedicure

The Falcon Hospital is a great place for kids...

Even this one!

When we left, we immediately set the GPS for home.

If you decide to visit the Falcon Hospital, give yourself plenty of time to get there. And just in case, here are directions. You may want to print them out.  

Enjoy!