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!

Hometown Pride

“I’m from New York.”

That’s how I usually introduce myself. 

Back home in New York, we love the Yankees and hate the (Boston) Red Sox, think our pizza is better than Chicago’s, and can’t comprehend why anyone would want to live any place else in the world other than in “The City.” It’s what we call ‘hometown pride,’ and whether you’re a born and bred New Yorker, or a transplant, one wears their New Yorker-ness as a badge of honor.

As a ‘born and bred’ New Yorker, leaving the city was one of the biggest hurdles in starting a new life in Abu Dhabi. With life so fast-paced and cut-throat in New York City, when one has the opportunity (or is pushed) to leave, it’s hard not worry that people will see one’s departure as some sort of personal failure. 

So nearly two years into my ‘new’ life in Abu Dhabi, I’m still a New Yorker, but I’m feeling a different kind of hometown pride as well. Recently, Dubai was dubbed the best city in the Middle East for expats… beating out Abu Dhabi for the top spot in the region.  Upon reading this news, I can’t deny I got my back up a bit.

Showing my pride when America's favorite morning show aired live from Abu Dhabi.

For people who have never been to the UAE, Dubai and Abu Dhabi are as similar as they are different. Sure, we’re both part of the United Arab Emirates.  And both cities are dynamic, progressive even. But Dubai and Abu Dhabi have totally different vibes and it’s hard to explain the differences to people who don’t live here or haven’t visited before.

I often compare Dubai and Abu Dhabi to Los Angeles and New York. Dubai’s geography is vast, the city extends for miles and miles and the traffic on Sheikh Zayed Road is as notorious as LA’s 405. A city of superlatives, Dubai is glitzy and has a star-struck element that lures the world’s top celebs. In that way, Dubai verges on being like Las Vegas and I think that’s where Westerners forget that there are certain rules of etiquette that need to be honored here – you can’t just get all sin-city in Dubai. 

But I digress.

On the other side of things, Abu Dhabi is the capital of the Emirates, and is the seat of power for this very, very powerful nation. Unlike the sprawl of Dubai, Abu Dhabi’s heart is on an island laid out on a grid, much like Manhattan.

While Dubai shows its wealth with tall glass buildings, Abu Dhabi celebrates its strength with its verdant riches. And while you may be wondering how a place might demonstrate its deep pockets through planted trees – just try growing a lush rain forest in a desert and you’ll understand completely. Much like New Yorkers revere places like Central and Prospect Park (green space where investors could be prospering with prime real estate), in Abu Dhabi we enjoy an embarrassment of green spaces, whether it’s the Al Ain oasis, the modern Mushrif Park, or the drive along the palm tree-lined section of Sheik Zayed Highway -- that abruptly stops when you cross over into the emirate of Dubai.

Where Dubai has a fast-paced mindset that centers around tourism, media and real estate investment – fast-talking, fast-paced and young; Abu Dhabi is deep into oil, culture, finance, and, well, oil. It’s stately, quiet and proud. 

For the most part, people who live in Abu Dhabi don’t like the idea of living in Dubai, and people in Dubai wouldn’t dream of living in Abu Dhabi.  Truth be told, Dubai and Abu Dhabi have what I believe is an unspoken rivalry that plays out in interesting ways. 

For instance, last year Dubai came out with this cool video about the ‘super cars’ in its police fleet: 

Soon after, in advance of the Fast & Furious film, a video popped up showcasing Abu Dhabi’s cops using similarly fast cars, helicopters and cutting-edge technology to keep our place safe (and yes, the technology is real):

And it kind of goes like that here. 

While Abu Dhabi has Etihad Airways, Dubai has Emirates…

While Abu Dhabi has Emirates Palace, Dubai has the Burj al Arab…

While Dubai has the Burj Khalifa, Abu Dhabi has the Grand Mosque…

And while Dubai has its epic brunch, Abu Dhabi has, well… The Dubai Brunch. 

Okay, you can't win them all.

The Grand Mosque

*** 

Recently I went back to the States for a quick hit of New York City living and to get a fix of my fabulous forever friends. Though I understand it's still winter, New York seemed dark, dirty and dangerous. Moreover, I felt out of step with the place. Unlike my New York-self, I didn’t have a thousand places to be or a million things to do. Living in New York, I was always busy, busy, busy. But this time, even the dogs seemed like they had more urgent places to be than me.

For the first time since living in Abu Dhabi, I didn’t feel like New York was home and I was just temporarily away for a while. And it's okay, New York may be home again at some point in the future, for now, I’m clearer about my present place in the world.

On the return flight to Abu Dhabi, a fellow passenger asked me where I’m from. 

“I live in Abu Dhabi,” I proudly replied.

  

But I’ll always be a New Yorker.

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.

  

You've Got Your Ramadan Problems, I've Got Mine

It’s been two Saturdays since John and I sat on our couch looking down along Electra Street watching a flurry of activity as Ramadan commenced.  We learned enough to not be surprised that the supermarket was doing brisk trade, but when we saw the cars triple-parked, lights flashing, with a chaotic charge of kundara-clad men and abaya-fied women heading into Starbucks for one last caffeine fix before the holy month began, I have to admit, we had a bit of a chuckle.

Since the start of Ramadan, I have felt a bit guilty about laughing at that frenetic sight. The tone that came over my neighborhood by the very next morning when I said good morning to my normally gregarious doorman and normally friendly shop workers at the dry cleaners was certainly a more somber one. So when John sent me a link to a BBC article about #RamadanProblems, a new trending term on various social media platforms, I felt a bit of relief.

When I’m not fed for a few hours (say, five) my blood sugar crashes and I go into a state that the hubs and I have come to term ‘bitch hungry.’ 

Bitch hungry, anyone?

You probably know the signs. Cranky mood, spinning eyes, on the verge of a meltdown at the slightest of triggers -- like if someone merely looks at me funny. Oh, and when I’m 'bitch hungry,' I find humor in absolutely nothing. For this reason, John can usually be found with a stash of granola bars at the ready whenever we go on a road trip or are out and about for a few hours… just in case.

So when I read about these Ramadan problems, I was impressed. Not only could fasting Muslims manage to last fourteen plus hours without any food or water, but they could LAUGH about it as well.  That said, this is my first Ramadan in a Muslim country, and if I plant my tongue firmly in my cheek, I guess you could say, I have a few #RamadanProblems of my own…

This... Worse than the white man overbite.

For starters, every day for me is like one big blonde moment. I find I’m constantly checking myself before I go out. Am I dressed modestly enough? (Yep, shoulders and knees are covered.) Am I eating a candy bar? (No, it appears not. I’m good to go.) Am I sure I’m not eating a candy bar? (Yes, no candy bar.) Or walking down the street with a slice of pizza in hand? (Nope, nope, they only do that in NYC, I’m good.) Then I slip on out to meet a friend and as I wait in the searing sun I think, “Oh, I should just pop into this store and get a bottle of water, since it’s so damn hot out.” And then I think, "DOH!" Because I can’t drink water in public. And really, I do something like this every single day.

Another Ramadan problem I’ve been faced with is going to the supermarket.  In the morning it’s fine. There’s still a sense of sanity, but one day I made the mistake of going in the afternoon and it was mayhem. What I didn’t realize is that despite the fasting, somebody’s got to prepare the evening and morning meals (iftar and suhoor). So not only are you dealing with people’s mounting hunger (ever on the lookout for those spinning eyes), there are so many large-scale family gatherings that afternoons at the supermarket is like food shopping right before Thanksgiving or Christmas -- a complete madhouse (and a complete madhouse for thirty days!). And while I maneuver through it pretty well, allowing people to cut me at the produce line and not even bothering at the ‘deli’ counter and keeping clear of people with their carts overflowing with food, all I can think is how pathetic I must look with my small shopping basket of cat food tins and a medium-sized slab of salmon to cook dinner for two.

What’s really noticeable is that during Ramadan, Abu Dhabi is a sleepy seaside town during the day that becomes pulsing and alive at night. After sunset, if you’re Muslim, there are iftars to attend, shisha to be enjoyed, family to gather with, and shopping to be done (not for food, but for fun stuff like electronics and clothes). At two in the morning there’s bustling street traffic and the shops and the malls and even my dry cleaning shop closes around one in the morning.  I haven’t hit up the malls at night since I prefer to avoid the crowds, and we haven’t done iftar, because if you’re not fasting the feeling I get that it’s probably just like going out for an Arabic meal, buffet style – and I hate buffets. But still, having a strong memory of my ‘party’ days back in NYC, there is this sense of ‘missing out’ on the fun. FOMO, my friends call it. Fear of Missing Out. But when you’re not Muslim, you really can’t expect an invitation to the party.

So really, Ramadan for the non-Muslim in the UAE is just a series of small inconveniences in exchange for some bonuses as well. The pubs may not open until after sunset, but there’s no music allowed so you can have a decent conversation with your spouse or friends. You may have to watch out for the driver who floats from lane to lane delirious with hunger or sleep deprivation, but the roads are overall quieter and less traveled (during the day at least). And while there are very few restaurants or cafes open, I can still buy bacon by the basket full.  

Being here for Ramadan was discussed as a ‘really big thing.’ I guess what I’m finding is that while this is starkly different to anything I have ever experienced before… it’s not difficult, or unbearable. Of course, that's easy for me to say as I eat a cookie and a full English breakfast at whim, but out of sight.

What I have learned is that as different as we are in our faith and practice of it, we’re all just people, doing our thing, getting by with a bit of humor... so we’re really not that different at all.

I just hope I don’t run into my fasting, b*tch-hungry nemesis any time soon.  ;-)

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.