Foggy Abu Dhabi!

It’s Fog Season in Abu Dhabi!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is what 100 percent humidity looks like.

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

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

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

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

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

Thoughts on National Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Landmark Tower shows its UAE pride

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

Silly string?

Well, yeah.

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

Pimped out rides

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

And the beauty of it?

All are welcome.

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

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

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

From the UAE, with love from the Air Show

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

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

My pimped ride

Barefoot in the Desert

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

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

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

But I digress.  

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

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

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

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

This time, we were communing with the place.

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

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

Early morning shadow play

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

Desert 'Waves"

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

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

Into the Empty Quarter

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

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

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

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

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

The Happy Camel of Liwa

This gorgeous one-humped, white wonder lives out on the Art Hub farm in Liwa. A farm that has several rescued salukis, a few desert farm cats, a couple of horses, an ATV, a swimming pool and one gigantic sand dune.

This ain't no mirage, just camel at an oasis within an oasis...

On My Bookshelf: Mother Without a Mask

Recently I read MOTHER WITHOUT A MASK, a book about the early days here in the UAE (which can be picked up at many book shops or supermarkets in Abu Dhabi). It was written by Patricia Holton, a woman who came from New York (just like me), married a Brit (just like me) and somehow, through the confluence of passion, work and fate, ended up being deeply connected to an Emerati family during the 1970s and 80s in Abu Dhabi and Al Ain.

It’s a phenomenal read if you want to understand the Emerati people and culture as she goes into her experiences with this family as well as traditions, stories and wonderful and compassionate explanations about the Emerati people (and people of the Arabian Gulf). For instance, why women wear burkhas, why sometimes important information is only offered up on an 'as needed' basis (a great insight into how business negotiations are done) and what an Emerati wedding extravaganza looks like. 

Holton also spent her time in the UAE during the time of transformation, and she writes about the changes to the place and people with a wistful preciseness. Reading it gave me a real sense of just how quickly things have changed here in the past forty years.

One passage in particular really called to me. In it, the author is visiting an area in Oman with her Emerati ‘son’ and another family friend and is overwhelmed by the experience... by how distant it is from her other life:

“What was I doing there? How did I get there? How did it all happen? There I was sitting on a wall with a young Arab Sheikh and an old Omani villager, sitting on the wall of an open mosque under date palms growing out of the cleft of a mountain a thousand miles away from nowhere. Ten thousand miles away from home. What was that song? That American folk song? Ten thousand miles away from home? I was living it out.

Was I the same person who had once sat wreathed in her grandfather’s cigar smoke listening to talks of the Indians? Was I the same person who stood watching white clouds scud over a blue New England sky…? Was I the same person who lay disobediently in the dolphin net of a schooner watching the green Long Island Sound cut under the bows?

Where was that child? Absorbed? Forgotten? How did she grow older and find herself here? Strange. Strange. What was the touchstone of my life? How was the pattern weaving? Towards what end?”

Some writers (including myself) write and write and write until the story reveals itself. But sometimes the story is real life. For Holton, when the invitation came to host two young Emerati ‘royals’ in her London home one summer and then accepted an invitation to have the hospitality returned with an invitation to visit the son’s family in Abu Dhabi and Al Ain, a whole new life story began to reveal itself.

I doubt she has gotten rich off this book (and she goes to great lengths to protect the family she spent time with), but what she has left is legendary. Young Emeratis look to this book as almost a history of the UAE’s transformation era and of earlier times.  And until recently it was the only book written by a UAE expat (though technically, she is probably best described as a former frequent VIP visitor).  

Tonight I find myself sitting in the ‘camp’ at Art Hub Liwa (I’m a writer in residence for the International Historical Memory Festival), watching the sun play on the sand dunes where a large scale art work of Sheikh Zayed bin Sultan Al Nahyan shines. There is comfort and community here. But there is also isolation, heat and ants nipping at my feet. Just out of view is the massive and massively gorgeous Empty Quarter (Rub’ al Khali). And suddenly I feel so minuscule, like the time I was in a plane flying 35,000 feet high over Japan looking down at waves washing along the Island’s shoreline trying not to freak out at being so high, so far away and so completely out of control.

It's times like this that I think about Patricia Holton (she’s become my hero of the moment). With a series of ‘yes’ decisions, she saw a new and exciting world begin to unfold to her little by little and suddenly a new chapter in her life revealed itself and became immense.  

I love that she realized in the moment that this was something different, and special, and wrote about it. And she had those scary ‘what the hell am I doing here' moments and wrote about those, too. Instead of feeling alone, when I read that passage I feel like I'm actually okay, and it's normal to feel this way. Afterall, we’re all in it together out here in what I lovingly call ‘the sandpit.’