Water World

It rained last Saturday night and Sunday. When I went to work, the emergencies were extensive as this amount of rain doesn't fall at once in this part of the world and the city simply cannot drain fast enough. Leaks on roofs that prohibited air conditioning from running, etc. All the maintenance guys were soaked because they don't own raincoats or umbrellas.

This was also the weekend of my first sailing lesson. It hasn't rained in the 14 weeks I've been here and just in time for my first sailing lesson, the heavens open. We had the lesson anyway and had to successfully exit a forced capsize in order to proceed to lesson # 2. The sailing academy is on a quiet stretch of beach where the jet skis don't really hang out. After 16 hours of instruction, one can move onto private lessons and then take the racing instruction. This is the 3rd city where I live by the water - it's high time to learn these essentials!

I was invited on an 80 foot dhow the day after the sailing lesson. A dhow is a handmade wooden boat with design origins dating back centuries. Modern dhows are equipped with a single engine that makes getting in/out of the marina easy but once out, the sail is raised. The particular pleasure of this invitation was that an Omani crew would work the dhow and they play a bagpipe, drums, and finger cymbals, and sing while they work.




This is a typical dhow against the 21st century skyline.


























Nothing but joy on that vessel.

Holiday Season

Acquiring the liquor permit before Thanksgiving was high on my list and my boss and I spent the better part of 3 hours obtaining them the Tuesday before Thanksgiving. The traffic was hell and the line to present the application took an hour. One must enter a small, enclosed office and present a letter from the employer confirming position and income. The application form asked for the usual personal information and oddly enough, there was a line inquiring about religion.

The permit comes with a hideous photo snapped in the tiny office grimly lit with florescent light and one emerges and goes to the other side of the building where after clearing a turnstile, familiar cartons of wine, liquor and beer are immaculately displayed and the music is cranked up to club decibel. There must be behavioral studies demonstrating that after a morose administrative exercise, one is prepared to spend money and will likely spend more in a festive atmosphere. There are no lessons lost on capitalist opportunity here...

While at the checkout, I cracked up at the music, as "Staying Alive" by the Bee Gees was blaring at the very moment that millions of the faithful had made their way to Saudi Arabia for the annual Haj that week despite the global recession and the threat of swine flu, and I was making my first alcohol purchase with a newly minted license - a pilgrimage, indeed.

My cranberry sauce didn't happen at Thanksgiving. I expected the most difficult procurement bit would be the bottle of Pinot Noir my killer recipe requires. Lots of turkeys in the freezer section of several grocery stores but not a cranberry to be found. So my sauce was a hybrid of rhubarb and blackberry, which rocked despite the sourcing adversity.

Shockingly, there's Christmas trim in the stores - about as ugly a representation of cheap ornaments and Santas as I've ever seen, all made in China. There are some sad-looking trees with boxes wrapped underneath. Some shops display handmade ornaments made in Indonesia but they also aren't the best examples and look machine-produced with a touch or two by hand. The British Christmas pudding in a red box has been part of a front display at the expensive grocery store catering to ex-pats since October. The Reese's cups are in the green and red foil. It would be better to abandon these attempts to make the westerners feel at home...after a frankincense facial, I am going to the W for Christmas brunch on Christmas Day. If there's wind, we'll go sailing.

Insh'allah

http://encarta.msn.com/dictionary_/Inshallah.html

You need no fluency whatsoever in Arabic to discern that expression, embedded frequently in the spoken word through the Middle East. My apartment is an ongoing drama of the insh'allah factor in these parts.

First, the water in the kitchen ran a bit orange once the tap had been engaged for several minutes - most noticeable when doing dishes. The engineer didn't do much about it when I went to the trouble of demonstrating the issue and then I sent the Sales Manager to look at it, who didn't run the water long enough to see it turn orange and concluded that I was mad. Then I dragged him up again, one week later, avoiding all contact with that water source in the interim as if it was public safety protocol, and convinced him that the heating mechanism in the water heater serving the kitchen was corroded and therefore giving off that color. I then got a new one.

Fast forward a few weeks to the cold water resolution in the master bathroom (see previous post), which then turned into a steady drip on the toilet seat. Once the drip was fixed, the water started running faintly orange in the tub; the water color being ironic because the furnished apartment includes two ultrasuede couches in the most insipid shade of coral on the color wheel.

The place is owned by two Muslim brothers - one a devout follower that refuses to strike the liquor license and serve alcohol in the restaurant as he considers that revenue dirty money. I say he give it up and take the buckets of income such a provision would net and clean the bloody windows. And this, reminder to all, is considered a luxury hotel residence adjacent to the water with views to the skyline, which would be stellar, if they would wash the windows.

It's Thanksgiving in 2+ days and I am surely one of many Americans that have been putting off obtaining a liquor permit until a crisis moment; my crisis being two-fold with the travails of the apartment and the bottle of Pinot Noir I need to make my world famous cranberry sauce for Thursday. I expect an hour-long line out the door in addressing this urgent matter of personal administration and haven't yet checked to see if they sell cranberries in the Middle East. Insh'allah.

driving unhallowed machines and vehicles on the road

Yep. That's the language on my first moving violation. Didn't get a ticket or receive anything in the mail for getting caught talking on my mobile phone without an earpiece while driving . The citation is tied to my license plate on the Ministry of the Interior web site, where one can look up the menace-to-society infractions racking up against one's Resident Permit. An orderly system indeed.

Behold my washer/dryer newly installed in the kitchen. Yes, installed. The building engineer knocked at 6:30 in the morning this week and brought in a new model and when I asked why he hadn't pushed the machine under the countertop, he claimed that he's not allowed to cut out the particle board disguised as wood, feigning to be a baseboard. Instead of having a meltdown, I tipped him and thanked him profusely and walked straight into the facilities management manager's office at work and persuaded him to come to my apt with another guy this weekend. Tomorrow, I will bring them the canvas tote bag that will conceal the electric saw that will do away with the obstruction preventing the washer/dryer from being pushed under the counter. There's a PVC pipe to trim, too; feels a little Sopranos-like.

I was moved to corporate housing around about 6 weeks after my arrival. The building is a hotel with a tower for hotel guests and apartments for residents. None of the apartments have an oven as the owner is either a moron or the intended market was for business residents eating out every night, or hopefully defaulting to the restaurant on the premises. The a/c does not regulate for the three bedrooms despite there being temperature instruments with LED screens; they are always "on." I went to London for business last week with a cold and came back with a lingering cough that was not going to heal soon with a/c blowing directly on me all night.

There are two bathrooms in this fine flat - one in the master and one in the hallway. The master shower had very poor water pressure and the temperature was tepid, at best. Upon returning from London and once again facing tepid showers with anemic water pressure and non-stop air conditioning, I called for the engineer to come up and find a way to turn off the air. He flicked a switch on the electrical panel and then I directed him to the bathroom since the air was such a quick fix.

He pulled away one of the dropped ceiling panels and we discovered that the water heater was missing. I took a picture of the water pipes meant to be connecting to the water heater and emailed them to the sales manager, referring to a recent TIME OUT advert where the building positions itself as a "taste of luxury." A cold shower is hardly luxurious, I wrote. This flat costs almost double my former Williamsburg loft with views to Wall Street in Brooklyn so I am outraged by the perception of "quality" in this place. In about 12 hours the water heater was installed. Now I am dealing with a slow leak...from the new water heater. It never ends.



And then there's Thanksgiving next week ...I am invited to the big boss' house for a dose of Americana that evening and I am supposed to bring my world famous cranberry sauce, which calls for a bottle of Pinot Noir. I don't yet have my liquor permit so I will have to take a day off to get it because I can't show up without my sauce and I can't make it without the booze and I need a permit to buy said booze....not to mention the dry white I should tote along for the unfortunate bird, processed somewhere in Australia or Eastern Europe and put on a plane for the ex-pats to enjoy in the Arabian Gulf with little regard to the obscene carbon footprint facilitating the commemoration of the violent displacement of the Native American.

I am starting to feel like nothing surprises me anymore - it hasn't even been 90 days. I would kill for a bottle of Goo-Gone, in case Santa needs some inspiration.

The Ladies

I am living/working in a western-friendly Arab state where a steady and significant stream of ex-pats inhabiting the place have prompted the indigenous women to cover up with the black abaya and sometimes the niqab as an expression of preserving their national identity and culture. There is an ongoing, passionate debate regarding women's dress in some parts of the Arab world, with the unfortunate recent example in Khartoum of women prosecuted for wearing offensive trousers that apparently revealed too much of the female form; they were sentenced to 20 lashings each. Britney would have a tough time in those parts.

In a recent issue of The Economist, there was a short report about the contentious issue of the niqab.

. . .

No shame in showing your face
Oct 15th 2009 | CAIRO
From The Economist print edition

An argument that never ends

IN EGYPT’S 100-year-long debate over female head-coverings, the veil has been put off and on as fast as hemlines in Paris have gone up and down. Feminists in the 1920s threw it off; by the 1970s so had most Egyptian women. But it has crept back, as a wave of religiosity has prompted many to embrace a more distinctively Muslim look. Most Egyptian women are again under cover, but adopt a range of styles, from the black niqab, often worn with gloves, leaving just a slit for the eyes, to the shoulder-enveloping khimar, to lighter novelties such as a colourful Spanish-style scarf wrapped around hair tied in a bun, leaving a jaunty fringe dangling to the neck.

Despite the argument’s longevity, the passions it stirs remain strong. In July this year proponents of the veil gained a boost by proclaiming their first martyr. Marwa Sherbini, an Egyptian immigrant, was stabbed to death in a German courtroom by the man she had brought to trial for insulting her as a terrorist, because she wore a headscarf.

But this month the veil’s opponents claimed a victory, won by no less a personage than Sayed Tantawi, the Grand Sheikh of al-Azhar, Cairo’s 1,000-year-old Islamic university. While touring one of hundreds of girls’ schools that al-Azhar also runs, he happened to spot an 11-year-old student wearing the niqab—and lost his famously short temper. Not only did he order her to remove it on the spot. His university issued a blanket rule banning the niqab in all its girls’ schools, on the ground that the full face-covering is an innovation that represents too extreme an interpretation of Islamic modesty.

This was not the first attack on the niqab, a fashion widely seen as an expression of Salafism, a rigidly orthodox interpretation of Islam promoted by Saudi-owned satellite-television channels. In recent years Egyptian universities and government offices have sporadically banned niqab-wearers, citing security. But the abruptness of Sheikh Tantawi’s order, and the fact that it came from Egypt’s highest seat of Islamic teaching, stirred an outcry both from conservatives and from campaigners for civil liberties.

That storm has quieted. The sheikh now says he is not against the niqab but just sees it as unnecessary in all-female institutions. Egypt’s religious-affairs ministry says it is printing 100,000 copies of a leaflet called “Niqab: Custom Not Worship” to assure Muslims that exposure of a woman’s hands and face is not shameful.

. . .


I have been keenly interested in the behavior and dress of my indigenous colleagues. I was initially stunned by the number of abayas in the office and while I work on another floor, the majority are on the first floor working across all departments; some wearing the veil and others the niqab. There are a few extra modest women that keep the door closed at all times so that they are not in the constant view of the men. When you enter those offices, there is usually incense burning (hence the disabled smoke detectors throughout the building). The incense is burned for purity - of the person and the work - it's also a symbol of hospitality.

From a vanity perspective, the burning incense serves the same purpose as the Celtic pommander, a locket filled with potpourri as perfume before the days of commercial deodorant. The Bedouin have likewise burned incense for many generations to dispel the heavy odor of nomadic life in the intense heat of the desert. Despite the convenience of climate control, the incense tradition remains intact in the modern workplace.

I am always looking at the hands. The henna designs applied to the hands is another art form, like calligraphy. It is applied for festivals (Eid) and special occasions like weddings. I try to remember who turns up with a fresh application, because I enjoy observing it fade and transform to a washed sepia.

The shape of the head under the veil is always interesting as many women have long hair but wear it piled on their heads, under the veil. These protrusions of stacked hair evoke further intrigue and mystique as one wonders about the texture and color of so much hair and what it might look like.

I was at an IT meeting a few weeks ago and the Deputy Director of IT, a local woman, with two members of her team seemed to float into the meeting with their black robes swishing into the room, sleeves glinting from the gold embellishments and colored sequins. They made an entrance, of sorts, not because they were chairing the meeting but because of the elegance of the entry and the individuality of each abaya's embellishment. I have noticed that the women tug on their veils which are often trimmed in decorative and opulent embellishments, pushing it forward on their hairlines or refastening it, much like a western woman that tucks her hair behind the ear or twirls a strand around a finger as a nervous tick or unconscious habit.

The retail assortments in the stores address the abaya-wearing consumer. Since the only thing that shows are the shoes, the handbag and the sunglasses, there is an inordinate quantity and range of these items, particularly obscenely expensive bags and sunglasses in the stores with big, gaudy logos. I've been encouraged to buy an abaya to have it handy as it is so convenient to throw over jeans and go out when you don't want to dress. I've been doing that my whole life with a t-shirt, flip-flops and baseball hat.

Month Milestone

So this new life is officially a month old. While it feels more familiar and things that confounded or shocked a few weeks ago seem "normal," in a few weeks, the musings herein will likely seem those of a wide-eyed tourist.

My eyes definitely popped open this week...I still have the privilege of a driver at my disposal and on the way to work, in one of those 3-lane roundabouts (we call them traffic circles in the US), we had a minor accident when a native in an SUV decided that he needed to make a right turn from the interior-most left lane of the roundabout at the last second and smacked into us, in the middle lane, and we were not turning right. We took the next right out of the roundabout and parked behind the offending SUV and waited - me for a replacement driver to take me to work and the driver for the police to see how his lot would be cast, despite not being at fault.

I received my Resident Permit (RP) the same day, a real triumph given the pace of the office agenda and all the off-site testing an applicant must undergo - - a medical test, blood-typing at a separate location and a fingerprinting exercise - - all conducted with separate facilities for men and women. The RP allows one to bank online, obtain a liquor permit (required to purchase beer, wine and liquor at a store way out of town), and facilitates other modern, mostly digital conveniences. I am told that I now have 7 days to get my national driver's license despite holding current US and International driver's licenses. I don't know the consequences but the RP has an issue date and if I am in a vehicular mishap when I start driving one of the organization's pool cars, I am likely in deep sh*t.

After reading a little tidbit in the local paper this morning about a couple's fate for conceiving a child out of wedlock, I am slightly concerned about testing the rules. The couple, a Pakistani man (21) and a Filipina woman (34), had extramarital relations in late 2007 that resulted in a child last year. The hospital reported this matter to the police and the couple were prosecuted for illicit relations and were convicted; they will both receive 100 lashes and face deportation despite producing papers at the trial that they intend to marry. I can't figure out if this is a case of making a draconian example of guest workers with little social leverage or if the lashings will actually take place. I don't think an ex-pat is subject to lashings for driving without a valid local license but perhaps I'll now bug my handler to feed me into the driver's license process.

For me, the end of Ramadan and Eid Al Fitr meant that hotel bars reopened, weekday traffic got hideous, and the tea and coffee people resumed their duties at the office. I didn't realize that a door at the end of our hallway was actually a kitchen and last Sunday, when "normal" resumed, there was a fleet of people in black and white uniforms preparing tea and coffee in porcelain cups and saucers, delivering it all morning on doily-covered trays. Despite anticipating full enjoyment of this perk, I don't much care for it and I am instead the one that asks for hot water to make my own green tea. Our small team will move to another office in a few weeks and I am reworking the kitchen amenities there with the facilities guy to ensure we have brewed coffee (leaded and unleaded) at the new spot.

When I am overseas, I take great interest in the Coca Cola product. In Latin America, for example, the Coke is made with sugar, not high-fructose corn syrup, and tastes much better. Here, the calories are called "energy" and there are only 42 per serving, with a 330 ml can holding 3 servings, also made with sugar. I love the Arabic spelling, reading right to left "Coca Cola":

The locals and assimilated ex-Pats claim that the glorious weather has now set in ...it's only 99 degrees right now (noon) and the rest of the week is forecast to be 90-95 with lows in the 70's. I guess they are referring to the 20-degree swing and how the downward temps are felt soon after dusk. With the a/c blasting all the time, it's hard to appreciate the subtle difference but I have started to enjoy sleeping with the window open, which also means I really hear the pre-dawn call to prayer... no need for an alarm clock.

Over the Moon

Now broadcasting at midnight in the Middle East...

Toasting Eid in the Desert

Ramadan concluded last Saturday when the official sighting of the next new moon was declared, ushering in the beginning of the Eid Al Fitr holiday. On Sunday, a few of us from the office were invited to an afternoon/evening excursion to the desert with a seaside dinner at the tour operator's camp. Halfway there, we went off-road and the drivers in our Land Cruiser caravan of 4 let air out of the tires for better traction and the stop was equipped with camel riding entertainment for the attention-challenged. I checked out the ones off duty...

Another 30-40km and we arrived at the dusk photo op spot.

The craggy shoreline in the horizon is Saudi Arabia, another 35km away from border control. We instituted a standard office snap called the jumpshot, coerced by the Aussie (left) that coordinates it on every trip she takes. In the middle is our resident Dutchman and the other lady is from the northeast, like me. I captured the action shot best, so I'm not in it. It reminds me of the pictures my sister used to take in front of any Matisse painting of "The Dancers" with her friends at august museums and galleries 20 years ago...and now I am jumping in the Arabian desert.

Food & Falcons still on deck but the holiday is over and time to get a language tutor.

First Eid

Almost two weeks into this new life and thankfully, Ramadan is just a few days away from conclusion. On Thursday, Eid leave begins at the office and next week everything is closed for three days. So the 1-7pm month-long Ramadan closures are now replaced with all-day closures. The city should empty out for planned vacations to the coast or other spots in the region. Some of the westerners in the office will work through it, including yours truly. I am looking forward to meeting the tea and coffee crew that resume their duties on Sunday the 27th, the first day back after the Eid holiday. One of the Aussies on my end of the western wing swears the weather gets "really nice" in October and will host us for a "barbee"...we may have different views on what "nice" is...

I attended a Ramadan dinner last week hosted by an Iraqi colleague who miraculously presented an extravagant feast after working that day - she's an accomplished Levantine cook and insists I teach her how to make risotto in her kitchen. She had us falling out of our chairs with tales of bureaucratic impasse this summer - she must find new housing and replace her passport as there's an error in her grandfather's name. I met another Iraqi, a painter, at a Ramadan Suhour dinner, who quietly expressed his view that "with Saddam, there was only one." I marvel at the joie de vivre each of these very different people possess.

I quickly snapped this photo during the noon call to prayer last Friday at a cultural center, where the women go to prayer outside of the home while the men go to the mosques. I am still getting used to the local women in the head-to-toe abaya as well as undergoing a transformation of my own work wear. It's not sufficient to be covered to the elbow and knee - - the fabrics cannot be transparent and the fit cannot be too tight. Pushing the envelope on that front places a woman in jeopardy of losing respect and not being invited to meetings, etc. My (American female) boss was not pleased with an outfit I chose last week and let me know it, so now I am semi-paranoid and determining that a good chunk of my clothing may be unsuitable for the office.

Found a great yoga studio in the middle of town owned by a Brit that's been a yogi for 20+ years. She's an excellent instructor and the classes are filled with ex-pats in normal yoga wear. There's no a/c in the studio so it's pseudo-Bikram without the sadist instruction. They are hosting a yoga workshop in Zanzibar over Eid...something to pencil in for next year! One must cover up going in and out despite the ambient heat and the studio conditions as there's a mosque across the street...their web site warns against parking in the Imam's space.

Which brings me to traffic. It's not as dense as NYC but the drivers are out of their minds. There are 3-lane roundabouts all over town to keep movement flowing. This little goodie in the photo above snaps a shot of your car if you're speeding, running a red light, making a traffic menace of yourself, and you are not notified by mail. Good luck leaving the airport on your next flight as license plates are tied to passport, visa, and Resident Permit details and accumulated tickets must be paid, or you are denied boarding. The fines are steep and there's a web site where one can check for infractions/fines. I am still enjoying the privilege of a driver that's at my disposal the first month so these vehicular adjustments are not yet on my plate. I should be memorizing the sequence of the roundabouts and landmarks as we go around town for meetings and other errands but I end up studying and quizzing myself on Arabic numbers on the license plates, which are displayed above the cardinal (thank you, Wiki) numbers on all plates. I can read the numbers on contracts/estimates in Arabic at work now but I still don't know how to get around town very well. Priorities.

I'll look into an Arabic tutor and a sailing class after Eid (everything is "after Eid" these days). In the meantime, it may only be 98 degrees by the weekend.

Food and Falcons to follow...

Labor Day

Fifteen years ago, I moved to New York over Labor Day weekend. This Labor Day, I moved to the Persian Gulf, departing Dulles with a full moon rising and deplaning on the tarmac to the same full moon the following night and the distant sound of the call to prayer. The photo is of a mosque outside my window at daybreak on Sunday around 5am. It's all auspicious.

First day of assimilation on Saturday wasn't too bad - spent the better part of the day at the W Hotel either at the Bliss Spa or at lunch at Spice Market; the jet lag, heat and the clandestine eating and drinking during daylight were the only indicators that I was no longer in New York.

But then there was the first day at the office....the protocol to obtain a Resident Permit, Driver's License and Liquor Permit were loosely explained and apologies offered for the absence of the "coffee and tea people" during Ramadan as no one is allowed to eat or drink anything during daylight at the office. They will apparently resume their duties at the end of Eid Al Fitr, which follows the conclusion of Ramadan, when the office will be officially closed for 10 days. Right now, the place clears at 1pm so the faithful can finish their fast in the comfort of home and all the shops are closed at 1pm until 8pm, when they reopen past midnight.

All the local women wear the Abaya at the office and the men wear the Thobe, a long white tunic with a white or red-checked headpiece secured with a black ring. It was initially odd to see such a concentration of this customary dress as the city is teeming with nationals from the Philippines, Indonesia, Pakistan, India, secular Muslims from other parts of the region and westerners from Europe, Australia and the US, who do not dress as such. My PC keyboard has both the English and Arabic keys and if I can wrest a company-issued BlackBerry from HR, the keys will be the same on this device. My eyes are adjusting to a lot.

There are two other Americans in my area that arrived 8 weeks ago, at the height of the savage heat and humidity. They laughed at me today when we departed the office at 3pm and it felt like peak heat since my arrival Friday night - it was 105 degrees and extremely humid. They've not only toughed out the temporary hotel arrangements and the rigomorol of obtaining the permits and licenses but they are also certified heat warriors, having endured 115+ degree days and sandstorms in August.

I plan to go to yoga boot camp at a studio I just found during Eid, if the office is indeed closed or on an abbreviated schedule. I cannot maintain my 90-minute walking regimen here as it's too hot and as a woman, I cannot wear shorts and must wear sleeves - not my idea of an exhilarating walk by the Persian Gulf in this sauna...maybe in December. Until then, I'll be a gym rat and find my schedule at the yoga. My heart sinks a little to miss the US Open at Flushing Meadows for the first time in 14 years but happy to be here.

That Name Thing

Still no corrected work visa. Supposed to leave in 4 days.

Plan B: employer purchases a roundtrip ticket the day before my scheduled departure out of the country and I enter under a tourist visa. Nimble - that will no doubt be the mideast version of me.

Further vexing the name thing ...my mother left a message for me warmly congratulating me for the saint's feast day of my namesake observed this week on the Catholic calendar - a name we used to share before I changed mine to my nickname.

And then there's my brother's 25th high school reunion I just attended. I have shamefully/lessly skipped all of mine despite occasional proximity to the area. He drove up from Miami specifically to attend so I went along. At the name tag desk, I confronted the name thing again ... had to write the name that's currently on the work visa that I can't use as no one would know me with my legal name, which may have had some upside but I went with the historical.

It's going to be 106 degrees when I land and clear as a tourist, a pejorative I used repeatedly in NYC.

شکرآ

Don't Sweat the Details

What's in a name? Date? Place?

I recently visited my aunt, to whom I owed some quality time prior to leaving the country. During the course of the week, I asked her questions about her side of our family as we purportedly have roots in the Asturias and Galicia regions of Spain and I am unfamiliar with that region and not-so-distant family history; she deferred most of the queries to my mother, who she claims is the family historian. When my grandmother passed away in February at 95, my aunt, who made all the burial arrangements, called my mother to confirm where my grandmother had been born for the obituary. Since my mother wasn't home to answer the phone, my aunt went with Galicia, Spain. Turns out my grandmother was born in Cuba; her elder sister was born in Spain.

Twelve years ago this summer, my father died suddenly of a cerebral aneurysm in the early evening of July 25th in Miami. At the time, his three daughters were scattered across the country with me living in New York, another recently moved to Massachusetts for graduate school, and the youngest at a wedding in the Midwest with her boyfriend. My mother kept him on a respirator until the next day, when we had all flown in to pay our respects and to facilitate organ donation. That was the 26th of July.

My father was a political scientist specializing in Latin America and an anti-Castro, pro-democracy Cuban American; his date of death simply could not be shared in history with the Castro brothers. Together with Che, Fidel and Raul named the revolution that eventually toppled the Batista government, The July 26th Movement, to commemorate a failed attack on the same day in 1953 that landed Fidel and Raul in jail for two years. There was no way in hell my father's death could be remembered on this day. The death certificate says the 26th. The headstone is engraved with the 25th.

And then there is the matter of my arrival in the gulf in a mere 10 days. Like Bengali culture Jhumpa Lahiri describes in her novel, The Namesake, many Latin families baptize their children with a formal name and nickname them something totally different, using the nickname in the house and within the family. That distinction blurs throughout childhood in situations like athletic events when said parents enthusiastically cheer on their kids, hollering the nickname that teammates and coaches likely don't know. I always preferred my nickname to my given name and legally changed it accordingly a few years ago.

I got a little nervous about the name thing in the spring when, as a foreigner, I was required to submit copies of my academic credentials and other personal documentation to my prospective employer. Of course, my documentation is in both the given and the legal nickname. Despite sending copies of the court papers and explaining the situation, the Ministry of Labor issued my work visa to my given name, which is no longer my legal name and which is not reflected on my passport. The correct visa was requested a few weeks ago and the fear is to entering the country with a tourist visa, should the work visa not be properly issued in time. The colossal hassle to straighten that out, during Ramadan, when half the country is on holiday or working part-time is a headache I am desperate to avoid. I am envisioning the great stand-off in a week or so, when I may refuse to board the flight until my visa is correctly issued. Unfortunately, it seems I have to sweat this small thing ...

Countdown to Departure

For seemingly endless months, I talked about a potential job in the Persian Gulf. With the economy slowly emerging from the precipice of collapse and stabilizing to a recovery that is still a long, hard slog, an opportunity to work abroad in a region that was the focus of my recent graduate studies seemed too good to be true.

In a few weeks I move to one of the gulf states to assume my position with a non-profit initiative. After 15 years in New York City, I packed up my loft in the winter to await the contract and over the months edited, culled and re-edited what I consider the essential must-haves for triple-digit heat, sand storms and untold travel adventures. To kill time and/or assuage nerves over the spring and summer, web trolls for weekly sailing and scuba certification classes, sandsurfing in the Arabian and Egyptian dunes, surfing on Masirah Island, (long) jaunts to Borneo and yoga bootcamp in Mysore, painted an exciting future in the abstract.

Chronicling a colorful reality of assimilation as well as the hilarity of the absurd is the purpose of this space. Many friends have treated me to farewell lunches, dinners, coffees, drinks, ... over the months of imminent departure. A comment shared by a particularly dear person (during a fabulous Elderflower Martini lunch at Marseille on 44th & 9th) comes to mind as especially prescient with the exit almost realized: depression is the rent you pay for living in the house of desire.

Stay tuned for initial impressions ...my first day on the ground is the first day of Ramadan and it will be over 100 degrees everyday, until October. Maybe.

Oh, and two words for acquaintances/friends of family/friends who have expressed reluctant enthusiasm at the geography of my next step: Timothy McVeigh.