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!