I've waited a while to collect my thoughts for this one. In a patriarchal society, there are stark differences that vary between the glaring and the subtle and it takes time to absorb what is not necessarily being presented while available for consumption. The unique roles of men and women in the Arab world are fascinating and here's a small glimpse of a colleague and an anecdote in the category of the absurd.
After a sleepless night combatting jet lag transitioning from GMT -4 to GMT +3, I reported to the office at 7 in the morning after a 5-week leave (I still have 3 weeks to take before Labor Day!). I decided to shave another 5 minutes off the end of my life by stepping into McHamad's smoke-filled office, who is the only person allowed to smoke at his desk across the organization and I know he relies on cigarettes the way I do on caffeine at that time of day. That's not really his name...it's Mohammed; Hamad is a common abbreviation for the longer name. McHamad doesn't know that this is his secret name - another American colleague and I decided he was dreamy - a problem solver with a wicked sense of humor and irony and pretty decent English. So we inserted the "Mc" before his abbreviated name, similar to the nicknames on "Grey's Anatomy" as acknowledgement of our admiration, which we cannot express.
One of McHamad's endearing qualities are when his eyes flash with sheer amusement at the absurd when I follow up on something and his update involves a short explanation of ineptness or a tortoise pace that is out of his control. We both smile. Insh'allah.
McHamad is married with a few small children. Another colleague of ours saw him at a mall on the weekend with his wife, who was wearing the abaya and niqab - the most covered up an Arab woman can be in public. We were surprised that McHamad's wife is so modest but it may be that he's very conservative, which is also a surprise because when I see him out of his traditional thobe on a day that he's going to the Industrial Zone for errands or something, he's wearing a short-sleeve pique polo shirt with the collar up, sunglasses pushed up on his head and jeans...he could very well be in any western setting like that. He's my favorite chameleon, but I am not allowed to tell him.
I met an interesting Frenchwoman on the return flight from Paris in January. She is based in the Gulf working for a Foundation with ties to our organization. I had coffee with her last week at the souq, where she updated me on the trials and tribulations of a relationship with a Brit she thankfully ended while I was away. She was living with him, which is super risky here, so it was a bit traumatic to settle somewhere new when the rental real estate selection is so limited. She's keeping herself busy and she told me about the day prior where a western expat announced that she had officially attained local "status."
My friend recounted that she was a guest on a boat with a group of younger British women in their 20's who seemed to be friends with one another. At one point, one of them announced that she was officially "the mistress wife" to a man 30+ years her senior from a prominent local family. Apparently, she had been betrothed to this man, with three current wives, in a ceremony involving his peers but she wasn't allowed to tell anyone for the first six months, which was part of a contract that apparently renewed with her good behavior - hence her good fortune announcement at the boat party.
My friend was horrified and could barely utter "congratulations" while the 4th wife's friends squealed with delight at the tales of luxury gifts and trips. The 4th wife justified her good fate by explaining that her boyfriend back home always cheated on her and that at least now, she was enjoying beautiful gifts and exotic travel. The poor girl may come to her senses one day and realize that she's a hooker with perks but she won't be able to leave the country if her visa is sponsored by Sugar Daddy and he is not keen to give up his marital rights.
I have a visiting scholar in town for two weeks who I recruited to do some work for us. She's an anthropologist so I am wondering how much I should reveal and how much she can pick up on her own that I don't see.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Friday, March 26, 2010
Long Overdue
Me again. After that wedding entry, it's been intimidating to return and compose a comparable tale; there's been plenty of fodder but to reconstruct it for maximum entertainment is not as easy as it may seem. I am back in the US for a month visiting family and friends and it's a bit odd to be updating the blog from my sister's kitchen table in Miami.
I suppose one of the stories I've recounted the last week eliciting much laughter is the pinnacle feat of getting a driver's license and acquiring a car. The Traffic Department is not a place I would enter without a Fixer. I don't speak Arabic (yet) and if you don't know how to navigate that system, you won't get a license or vehicle title transfer, etc without experiencing grave angst and aggravation. The only thing that seems relatively easy and straightforward there is the exercise of settling your miscreant violations. Without uttering a word, one can present a Resident Permit where the ID number cues the film of running a red light, speeding, or whatever. By obediently presenting a credit card, it all goes away; amazingly expeditious and painless for a wealthy petro-state that doesn't need the revenue and is otherwise mired in bureaucratic red tape and tribal politics to get anything else done.
When my loaner car privileges expired in December (which I managed to stretch to mid-January) I quickly found a 2007 Jeep that seemed to have my name all over it: silver, low mileage, 6-speed manual transmission, steel overhead bar for rolling the thing on a dune - the vessel to take us to the desert for untold adventures. I figured I had to get a driver's license if I was to be the proud owner of a car again after 15 years of not having to deal with one as a NYC resident.
My boss gave me the business card of a Fixer and I phoned him to have him meet me at the Traffic Department to guide me through the process. We met there the next morning and I hastened one of my colleagues who had been vainly trying to get a license with no success in four previous attempts to join me because I needed the whining about the nightmare of it all to end. We were led around to one typewriter after another, getting forms filled out with the completed eye test, etc....all very 1970's in contrast to the ticket settlement setup.
What makes this process difficult is that you never know what part of it will go south, requiring indigenous intervention; with a Fixer in tow, one can get the Sheikh to sign an exception to keep your application in play. The thing is, the Sheikh doesn't always report to work and he doesn't keep regular hours especially if he knows someone is hounding him for something, he'll work from another office across town without notice to avoid them. Once my application hit the anticipated snag of the driving school requirement, we traipsed upstairs and were shown a large office where we were offered coffee, tea and sweets until the Fixer got the Sheikh to sign us into the easy driving school with no wait.
We went to said school and there was hardly anyone there. The man in charge was in traditional dress and spoke pretty good English, some German and French. He handed us a pamphlet with about 100 traffic signs we needed to memorize for a test in the next few minutes. I looked at most of them and thought I'd get by. My colleague and I sat down for our "written" test which consisted of the guy pointing all over the pamphlet and asking us for answers. Of course, the first sign he pointed to for me was one I don't recall ever seeing in any part of the world - - a solid blue circle with a red border and red diagonal line through the middle. Any clue? I didn't have one. So we went to the other parts of my test and got back to that stupid sign that still meant nothing to me. I looked at my colleague and she whispered "no parking," which I repeated and then passed my test. Same thing happened to my colleague where she got hung up on an unfamiliar sign and had to go back to it at the end. She looked at me for the answer, which I whispered and she repeated and then we were off to the driving test.
Since I was buying a manual transmission vehicle, I had to test on one so my license could indicate that I am permitted to drive both. The first part of the test is a fabled maneuver in reverse whereby one makes a right turn up a hill and then reverses back down making the same turn, hugging the curb. If you stray too far from the curb, you fail and have to wait 30 days for a retest. I wasn't told about the particular maneuver in advance but knew about the 30-day wait if I failed the mysterious test. Our fella in charge may have expected us to fail the maneuver if we had to cheat on the road signs but his hopes were dashed when we both pulled it off.
When I phoned the Fixer the following week to help me navigate the title change on my Jeep purchase, I had the distinct privilege of meeting the Sheikh. The letter I had to present from my employer stating no objection to my acquisition of property was written in English and needed to be in Arabic. I wasn't about to go back to the office and get in the queue for another letter so the Fixer marched it upstairs to the Sheikh, who happened to be in that morning. The Fixer took a spot at the front of the line outside the Sheikh's door and we went in next. I was introduced and the Fixer mentioned that I had faithfully complied with the driving school requirement the week prior, to which the Sheikh cracked a wry smile and asked where I was from. The "New York" reply always engenders a warm response as these folks love to talk about their memorable times in The City. He waived me over to the sweets (it was 7:40am) and as I reached for what I thought looked good, the Fixer pointed me to another choice and indicated it was better. Who was I to argue sweets at that time of day in the Sheik's office?
When I stepped out of the Traffic Department, I thought matters were settled but once I got to the dealership managing the used car transaction, I discovered that the insurance information was wrong. By then, I was getting on a plane for Europe the next day and couldn't face another trip to the Traffic Department. They fixed it for me and while needlessly circuitous, this stuff gets done in that place and my insurance papers were corrected on my behalf without my presence.
When I find a picture of the Jeep I have buried somewhere in this laptop, I'll post it.
I haven't seen many NO PARKING signs with the blue circle and red markings. Except at the Traffic Department when I thought my title was transferred and I noticed a sign by one of the entrances, with a car parked in front of it. This is one I snapped in Cairo in early June:
I suppose one of the stories I've recounted the last week eliciting much laughter is the pinnacle feat of getting a driver's license and acquiring a car. The Traffic Department is not a place I would enter without a Fixer. I don't speak Arabic (yet) and if you don't know how to navigate that system, you won't get a license or vehicle title transfer, etc without experiencing grave angst and aggravation. The only thing that seems relatively easy and straightforward there is the exercise of settling your miscreant violations. Without uttering a word, one can present a Resident Permit where the ID number cues the film of running a red light, speeding, or whatever. By obediently presenting a credit card, it all goes away; amazingly expeditious and painless for a wealthy petro-state that doesn't need the revenue and is otherwise mired in bureaucratic red tape and tribal politics to get anything else done.
When my loaner car privileges expired in December (which I managed to stretch to mid-January) I quickly found a 2007 Jeep that seemed to have my name all over it: silver, low mileage, 6-speed manual transmission, steel overhead bar for rolling the thing on a dune - the vessel to take us to the desert for untold adventures. I figured I had to get a driver's license if I was to be the proud owner of a car again after 15 years of not having to deal with one as a NYC resident.
My boss gave me the business card of a Fixer and I phoned him to have him meet me at the Traffic Department to guide me through the process. We met there the next morning and I hastened one of my colleagues who had been vainly trying to get a license with no success in four previous attempts to join me because I needed the whining about the nightmare of it all to end. We were led around to one typewriter after another, getting forms filled out with the completed eye test, etc....all very 1970's in contrast to the ticket settlement setup.
What makes this process difficult is that you never know what part of it will go south, requiring indigenous intervention; with a Fixer in tow, one can get the Sheikh to sign an exception to keep your application in play. The thing is, the Sheikh doesn't always report to work and he doesn't keep regular hours especially if he knows someone is hounding him for something, he'll work from another office across town without notice to avoid them. Once my application hit the anticipated snag of the driving school requirement, we traipsed upstairs and were shown a large office where we were offered coffee, tea and sweets until the Fixer got the Sheikh to sign us into the easy driving school with no wait.
We went to said school and there was hardly anyone there. The man in charge was in traditional dress and spoke pretty good English, some German and French. He handed us a pamphlet with about 100 traffic signs we needed to memorize for a test in the next few minutes. I looked at most of them and thought I'd get by. My colleague and I sat down for our "written" test which consisted of the guy pointing all over the pamphlet and asking us for answers. Of course, the first sign he pointed to for me was one I don't recall ever seeing in any part of the world - - a solid blue circle with a red border and red diagonal line through the middle. Any clue? I didn't have one. So we went to the other parts of my test and got back to that stupid sign that still meant nothing to me. I looked at my colleague and she whispered "no parking," which I repeated and then passed my test. Same thing happened to my colleague where she got hung up on an unfamiliar sign and had to go back to it at the end. She looked at me for the answer, which I whispered and she repeated and then we were off to the driving test.
Since I was buying a manual transmission vehicle, I had to test on one so my license could indicate that I am permitted to drive both. The first part of the test is a fabled maneuver in reverse whereby one makes a right turn up a hill and then reverses back down making the same turn, hugging the curb. If you stray too far from the curb, you fail and have to wait 30 days for a retest. I wasn't told about the particular maneuver in advance but knew about the 30-day wait if I failed the mysterious test. Our fella in charge may have expected us to fail the maneuver if we had to cheat on the road signs but his hopes were dashed when we both pulled it off.
When I phoned the Fixer the following week to help me navigate the title change on my Jeep purchase, I had the distinct privilege of meeting the Sheikh. The letter I had to present from my employer stating no objection to my acquisition of property was written in English and needed to be in Arabic. I wasn't about to go back to the office and get in the queue for another letter so the Fixer marched it upstairs to the Sheikh, who happened to be in that morning. The Fixer took a spot at the front of the line outside the Sheikh's door and we went in next. I was introduced and the Fixer mentioned that I had faithfully complied with the driving school requirement the week prior, to which the Sheikh cracked a wry smile and asked where I was from. The "New York" reply always engenders a warm response as these folks love to talk about their memorable times in The City. He waived me over to the sweets (it was 7:40am) and as I reached for what I thought looked good, the Fixer pointed me to another choice and indicated it was better. Who was I to argue sweets at that time of day in the Sheik's office?
When I stepped out of the Traffic Department, I thought matters were settled but once I got to the dealership managing the used car transaction, I discovered that the insurance information was wrong. By then, I was getting on a plane for Europe the next day and couldn't face another trip to the Traffic Department. They fixed it for me and while needlessly circuitous, this stuff gets done in that place and my insurance papers were corrected on my behalf without my presence.
When I find a picture of the Jeep I have buried somewhere in this laptop, I'll post it.
I haven't seen many NO PARKING signs with the blue circle and red markings. Except at the Traffic Department when I thought my title was transferred and I noticed a sign by one of the entrances, with a car parked in front of it. This is one I snapped in Cairo in early June:
Thursday, January 21, 2010
The Ladies II
I was invited to a Bedouin wedding on the first evening of the year at the Four Seasons. In the ever-confounding conundrum of fashion options, I was grateful not to be blonde and chose black, low-slung tuxedo pants and heels and gave slightly more attention to makeup, hoping for the best. The only things I could predict were the absence of champagne, men, and an evening that would be over-the-top in typical Arab excess and generosity.
Upon arrival, the Concierge directed me to a red carpet to a side hall that I had noticed when I entered the lobby. I entered without my invitation, and was asked to turn over my phone to ensure that no photographs would be taken. I pretended not to understand as my boss was getting off a 14-hour flight and joining me later and I needed the phone. I saw the coat room was filled with some of the most embellished abayas I have seen to date as I made my way to the the receiving line. At the head of the line was the mother of the groom, the woman who had invited me, dressed in a silk strapless gown, with beautifully coiffed hair I had never seen before as I've only known her in an abaya. As I kissed her on each cheek like a European, I realized I should have stayed on one side for the multiple kiss greeting. I was introduce to my host's daughters who were equally in spectacular gowns, hairstyles, jewels and henna applications. As I made my way down the line, the help working the wedding were censing us with frankincense and wiping reeds dipped in luxurious oils on my wrist.
I found an Indian colleague from Kerala dressed in a sari and we took seats on the periphery, between huge speakers that were already blaring and making it a challenge to hear her despite leaning into one another to speak. Once seated, there was much to absorb in a room of 400+ women.
A wedding is where a single Arab woman has an opportunity to flaunt her suitability as a future daughter-in-law to mothers of single men in attendance. The front of the room had an ornately decorated stage with at least a dozen flower arrangements in urns and a boudoir-like sofa covered in white rosebuds against a wall of orchid arrangements. Perpendicular to the stage was a runway that created a T-junction for the wedding ritual and ceremony.
I think when the receiving line duties ended, the music got louder and a parade of younger women in very fashionable, expensive gowns ascended the runway and danced while bills were thrown at them - literally, the married women seemed to be throwing money at them. By then I realized that just about every woman was exhibiting elaborate henna applications starting at the fingertips and running up the hands, arms, shoulders and running across the top of the back, suggesting hours and maybe days of preparation when taking hair and makeup into account. The bolder and more elaborate the henna on the hands, the bolder and bigger the baubles on display.
With no men permitted in the room, the staff working the wedding were all East Asian women including the photographers, videographers, sound person, waitstaff, coat check, and the unfortunate souls crouched on the margins of the runway all night scooping up money into shopping bags. There were about a half-dozen presentation trays of savories, pastries, beautifully wrapped chocolate truffles and pralines, dates, and miniature fruit made out of marzipan accompanied by Arabian coffee, tea, juice, avocado smoothies circling each table for four hours. It took two persons to carry the bountiful trays. If that wasn't enough or of interest, on the table were bowls of mixed nuts, Jordan almonds and more savory pastries and miniature sandwiches. I didn't know how long this would continue and paced myself to sample just a few things but always taking something.
After about an hour of the single ladies dancing under the money by boss slid into her chair with no evidence of having just completed a trans-Atlantic journey crossing eight time zones over the course of the evening and next day; she was equally thrilled to participate in her first Bedouin wedding and luckily didn't have to call me as I would have never heard the phone ring.
The procession on the runway evidently shifted from the eligible ladies to the families being joined in marriage as my host was on the runway with her daughters. I noticed that she reached into a beautiful clutch to throw bills at the previous groups on the runway and her wrist action seemed to have perfected a now-patented toss, much like the royals are taught to wave. I kept wondering where the bride was and if the collected bills were redistributed for more throwing to satisfy a ritual. My host seemed to alternate carrying her clutch and ascending the runway with a big smile and a toss of a pile of bills and carrying a bigger Chanel bag that was more of a satchel. After a while it seemed that these ladies were throwing original bills and there was no recycling taking place. I was later told that sometimes the cash collected at a wedding is given to charity.
The room got quiet, an announcement was made and the doors flung open to reveal the young bride, wearing an ornate white gown with an equally ornate white hood covering her face. She very slowly walked into the room, ascended the runway and eventually took her spot on the rosebud sofa; a journey about 10 meters in length that took about 30 minutes to complete, all under the most frenzied tossing of money yet. Lots of kissing and well-wishing throughout the procession and the videographer training a zoom lens on the quivering bride's face, displayed on big screens at either side of her stage. I don't remember exactly when they took her hood off but her shoulders and the top of her back revealed exquisite patterns of dark brown henna that had to have taken more than a day to apply.
Once seated on her rosebud sofa, the bride was photographed for about an hour in all kinds of poses with more parading on the runway by guests and family members congratulating the moment with more cash throwing. After a while, she seemed to breakdown in tears; we couldn't guess if she was exhausted from all the preparations or overwhelmed by the ritual and this milestone moment. What must have been her mother and aunts thrust their thumbs and index fingers at the corners of her mouth to force the smiles while the photos with the family members were taken.
The photographs stopped and I had noticed a lot of traffic in the room that had otherwise been focused on the runway raining money. We then noticed that the abayas were all back on except for the groom's family. This meant that the groom and his father, elders and brothers were entering the room. Sure enough, the doors flung open again and there was the bridegroom. As they ascended the runway, I think they were flanked by the women in the family, the only ones in the room still exhibiting their strapless gowns and henna work. The money continued to fly in a frenzy over this party and now our host was holding the Chanel satchel, not the clutch. When the bride and groom were joined on the stage with the rosebud sofa, the rings were exchanged, each offered by the corresponding parent and then they were married. No kiss. No Imam. No blessing where heads bowed in unison.
More pictures and then the side doors flung open to a huge banquet of fish, lamb couscous, chicken kabobs, pasta, salad, Arab mezze and three tables of dessert and pastries; it was 11:30pm.
Then the cake. The bride and groom cut a cake on the stage and then the help distributed individual ornate miniature cakes, about 10cm in diameter with decorative yellow marzipan frosting. On our way out at about 1am, we thanked the groom's mother who told us the happy couple was indeed happy as they were in love and not agreeing to an arranged marriage. Near the coat check station, there was a photo studio set up with a smaller couch and an ornate back-screen where a young girl was being photographed, mimicking the poses the bride had made during her photo shoot. We asked our host to pose with us and we did a group shot, that she cannot give us at the office as she is not wearing her abaya in it and cannot risk that a male colleague will view it.
A cultural feast to launch the new year indeed. I've reached into my 3-week memory bank to transcribe the event at 40,000 feet over Turkey and Eastern Europe as I go to Paris for a week. It's glorious weather in the Gulf right now so traipsing through freezing rain, albeit in the City of Lights, does not have the appeal that a week in London in early November had. My boss and I got off that 7 hour flight and went straight to Harrod's; I'm going straight to the hair salon this time.
Upon arrival, the Concierge directed me to a red carpet to a side hall that I had noticed when I entered the lobby. I entered without my invitation, and was asked to turn over my phone to ensure that no photographs would be taken. I pretended not to understand as my boss was getting off a 14-hour flight and joining me later and I needed the phone. I saw the coat room was filled with some of the most embellished abayas I have seen to date as I made my way to the the receiving line. At the head of the line was the mother of the groom, the woman who had invited me, dressed in a silk strapless gown, with beautifully coiffed hair I had never seen before as I've only known her in an abaya. As I kissed her on each cheek like a European, I realized I should have stayed on one side for the multiple kiss greeting. I was introduce to my host's daughters who were equally in spectacular gowns, hairstyles, jewels and henna applications. As I made my way down the line, the help working the wedding were censing us with frankincense and wiping reeds dipped in luxurious oils on my wrist.
I found an Indian colleague from Kerala dressed in a sari and we took seats on the periphery, between huge speakers that were already blaring and making it a challenge to hear her despite leaning into one another to speak. Once seated, there was much to absorb in a room of 400+ women.
A wedding is where a single Arab woman has an opportunity to flaunt her suitability as a future daughter-in-law to mothers of single men in attendance. The front of the room had an ornately decorated stage with at least a dozen flower arrangements in urns and a boudoir-like sofa covered in white rosebuds against a wall of orchid arrangements. Perpendicular to the stage was a runway that created a T-junction for the wedding ritual and ceremony.
I think when the receiving line duties ended, the music got louder and a parade of younger women in very fashionable, expensive gowns ascended the runway and danced while bills were thrown at them - literally, the married women seemed to be throwing money at them. By then I realized that just about every woman was exhibiting elaborate henna applications starting at the fingertips and running up the hands, arms, shoulders and running across the top of the back, suggesting hours and maybe days of preparation when taking hair and makeup into account. The bolder and more elaborate the henna on the hands, the bolder and bigger the baubles on display.
With no men permitted in the room, the staff working the wedding were all East Asian women including the photographers, videographers, sound person, waitstaff, coat check, and the unfortunate souls crouched on the margins of the runway all night scooping up money into shopping bags. There were about a half-dozen presentation trays of savories, pastries, beautifully wrapped chocolate truffles and pralines, dates, and miniature fruit made out of marzipan accompanied by Arabian coffee, tea, juice, avocado smoothies circling each table for four hours. It took two persons to carry the bountiful trays. If that wasn't enough or of interest, on the table were bowls of mixed nuts, Jordan almonds and more savory pastries and miniature sandwiches. I didn't know how long this would continue and paced myself to sample just a few things but always taking something.
After about an hour of the single ladies dancing under the money by boss slid into her chair with no evidence of having just completed a trans-Atlantic journey crossing eight time zones over the course of the evening and next day; she was equally thrilled to participate in her first Bedouin wedding and luckily didn't have to call me as I would have never heard the phone ring.
The procession on the runway evidently shifted from the eligible ladies to the families being joined in marriage as my host was on the runway with her daughters. I noticed that she reached into a beautiful clutch to throw bills at the previous groups on the runway and her wrist action seemed to have perfected a now-patented toss, much like the royals are taught to wave. I kept wondering where the bride was and if the collected bills were redistributed for more throwing to satisfy a ritual. My host seemed to alternate carrying her clutch and ascending the runway with a big smile and a toss of a pile of bills and carrying a bigger Chanel bag that was more of a satchel. After a while it seemed that these ladies were throwing original bills and there was no recycling taking place. I was later told that sometimes the cash collected at a wedding is given to charity.
The room got quiet, an announcement was made and the doors flung open to reveal the young bride, wearing an ornate white gown with an equally ornate white hood covering her face. She very slowly walked into the room, ascended the runway and eventually took her spot on the rosebud sofa; a journey about 10 meters in length that took about 30 minutes to complete, all under the most frenzied tossing of money yet. Lots of kissing and well-wishing throughout the procession and the videographer training a zoom lens on the quivering bride's face, displayed on big screens at either side of her stage. I don't remember exactly when they took her hood off but her shoulders and the top of her back revealed exquisite patterns of dark brown henna that had to have taken more than a day to apply.
Once seated on her rosebud sofa, the bride was photographed for about an hour in all kinds of poses with more parading on the runway by guests and family members congratulating the moment with more cash throwing. After a while, she seemed to breakdown in tears; we couldn't guess if she was exhausted from all the preparations or overwhelmed by the ritual and this milestone moment. What must have been her mother and aunts thrust their thumbs and index fingers at the corners of her mouth to force the smiles while the photos with the family members were taken.
The photographs stopped and I had noticed a lot of traffic in the room that had otherwise been focused on the runway raining money. We then noticed that the abayas were all back on except for the groom's family. This meant that the groom and his father, elders and brothers were entering the room. Sure enough, the doors flung open again and there was the bridegroom. As they ascended the runway, I think they were flanked by the women in the family, the only ones in the room still exhibiting their strapless gowns and henna work. The money continued to fly in a frenzy over this party and now our host was holding the Chanel satchel, not the clutch. When the bride and groom were joined on the stage with the rosebud sofa, the rings were exchanged, each offered by the corresponding parent and then they were married. No kiss. No Imam. No blessing where heads bowed in unison.
More pictures and then the side doors flung open to a huge banquet of fish, lamb couscous, chicken kabobs, pasta, salad, Arab mezze and three tables of dessert and pastries; it was 11:30pm.
Then the cake. The bride and groom cut a cake on the stage and then the help distributed individual ornate miniature cakes, about 10cm in diameter with decorative yellow marzipan frosting. On our way out at about 1am, we thanked the groom's mother who told us the happy couple was indeed happy as they were in love and not agreeing to an arranged marriage. Near the coat check station, there was a photo studio set up with a smaller couch and an ornate back-screen where a young girl was being photographed, mimicking the poses the bride had made during her photo shoot. We asked our host to pose with us and we did a group shot, that she cannot give us at the office as she is not wearing her abaya in it and cannot risk that a male colleague will view it.
A cultural feast to launch the new year indeed. I've reached into my 3-week memory bank to transcribe the event at 40,000 feet over Turkey and Eastern Europe as I go to Paris for a week. It's glorious weather in the Gulf right now so traipsing through freezing rain, albeit in the City of Lights, does not have the appeal that a week in London in early November had. My boss and I got off that 7 hour flight and went straight to Harrod's; I'm going straight to the hair salon this time.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Pearl of the Desert
Christmas was an interesting non-event. A mass of ex-pats jumped on planes to make it home to big snowstorms in Europe and the US while some of us stayed in town to hold down the fort with an eye to adventure travel in the near future.
I decided to host a small dinner party on Christmas Eve, although nothing about the dinner was particularly Christmas-like (except the cocktail napkins), much to the surprise (and perhaps disappointment) of my guests. I served salmon with a fennel reduction over black linguini which isn't offered in any restaurant here so I think the lack of a Christmas goose, egg nog or decorated sugar cookies was excused. At the table was an American, a German, a Pakistani, an Iranian and me. I wanted to invite some local male colleagues with their wives but after learning that the spouses know as much English as I know Arabic, I couldn't extend the invitation.
One of the interesting things to note when one moves overseas is the choice of "essential" things that "must" go into the luggage. I probably brought too much because I cringed at the idea of having to look for things I already owned and pay a lot more money for lower quality or comparable examples. One of the items that had to come with me were my antique sterling fish fork and knife set. When visiting Hamburg, Germany about a decade ago, a friend taught me how to eat fresh fish properly with these implements; my initial attempts were met with a look of disdain, much like that of an Asian demonstrating their nimbleness with chopsticks to a western rogue. I decided to serve salmon because I wanted to set the table with my widely-traveled fish implements. That's when my inner Mrs. Dalloway kicked in.
Despite only being in my furnished apartment less than two months, I found myself on a mission to set a proper table for this small dinner. Some of the standard-issue kitchen items in the apartment were unacceptable so I had to find proper wine glasses, chargers (since I couldn't find a decent placemat), linen napkins, coasters, candlesticks, dripless candles... this was a small dinner but it's preparation was a huge sourcing exercise, especially in a culture where BIG, ORNATE and COLOR inform the product development; it seemed an impossibility to find unscented, plain white pillar, votive and taper candles..."less is more" is not a sensibility here.
Christmas Day was gorgeous...beautiful sunny weather. I went to a spa with a colleague to indulge in a frankincense facial, a nod to the Three Kings, which was as close as I got to acknowledging the holiday (except for the cards I sent mid-month for the first time in 10 years). We arrived early and enjoyed the overly-designed lobby in the hotel with a coffee. After a brief wait in another gargantuan lobby at the spa, we were each taken to equally huge treatment rooms with Arabian-inspired decor and a bell outside each door. The petite, Thai facialist with flawless, porcelain skin described the treatment I was about to receive in enthusiastic broken English and when I asked her if she used the products to achieve her gorgeous skin, she answered "No. Yoga." Christmas indeed!
Over the next 90 minutes, while I lied on a table and she slathered a wide range of fragrant botanical products containing frankincense and Moroccan rose on my face, I conjured up an award-winning barter...this delicate creature charged with cleansing my pores is an incredible athlete, walking along the water at 5am and practicing yoga for 2 hours thereafter. She needs a proper space to practice Hatha and I need a private teacher. As luck would have it, she lives within walking distance of my apartment so I came home and arranged for all the furniture in a 3rd unused bedroom to be removed and it will soon be my "no excuses" sanctuary for daily practice with a certified pretzel.
Frankincense has a fascinating ancient history - called the pearls of the Arabian desert, milky-white droplets of resin are found under the cut bark of the boswellia sacra tree, which is indigenous to the peninsula. For more than 4000 years, the fragrant white smoke of frankincense has scented Sumerian temples as the perfumed smoke was revered for taking the peoples' prayers to the gods; frankincense was presented on the 12th night to Jesus because it symbolized divinity; the Roman historian Pliny described it a "silver incense;" Alexander the Great was plotting an invasion of Southern Arabia to control the trade at the point of origin and only his death stopped him. The incense I noticed throughout the offices upon arrival is frankincense, burned in censers to purify and protect against evil spirits.
Frankincense was censed in the receiving line of a Bedouin wedding I attended New Year's Day evening...stay tuned for that tale.
I decided to host a small dinner party on Christmas Eve, although nothing about the dinner was particularly Christmas-like (except the cocktail napkins), much to the surprise (and perhaps disappointment) of my guests. I served salmon with a fennel reduction over black linguini which isn't offered in any restaurant here so I think the lack of a Christmas goose, egg nog or decorated sugar cookies was excused. At the table was an American, a German, a Pakistani, an Iranian and me. I wanted to invite some local male colleagues with their wives but after learning that the spouses know as much English as I know Arabic, I couldn't extend the invitation.
One of the interesting things to note when one moves overseas is the choice of "essential" things that "must" go into the luggage. I probably brought too much because I cringed at the idea of having to look for things I already owned and pay a lot more money for lower quality or comparable examples. One of the items that had to come with me were my antique sterling fish fork and knife set. When visiting Hamburg, Germany about a decade ago, a friend taught me how to eat fresh fish properly with these implements; my initial attempts were met with a look of disdain, much like that of an Asian demonstrating their nimbleness with chopsticks to a western rogue. I decided to serve salmon because I wanted to set the table with my widely-traveled fish implements. That's when my inner Mrs. Dalloway kicked in.
Despite only being in my furnished apartment less than two months, I found myself on a mission to set a proper table for this small dinner. Some of the standard-issue kitchen items in the apartment were unacceptable so I had to find proper wine glasses, chargers (since I couldn't find a decent placemat), linen napkins, coasters, candlesticks, dripless candles... this was a small dinner but it's preparation was a huge sourcing exercise, especially in a culture where BIG, ORNATE and COLOR inform the product development; it seemed an impossibility to find unscented, plain white pillar, votive and taper candles..."less is more" is not a sensibility here.
Christmas Day was gorgeous...beautiful sunny weather. I went to a spa with a colleague to indulge in a frankincense facial, a nod to the Three Kings, which was as close as I got to acknowledging the holiday (except for the cards I sent mid-month for the first time in 10 years). We arrived early and enjoyed the overly-designed lobby in the hotel with a coffee. After a brief wait in another gargantuan lobby at the spa, we were each taken to equally huge treatment rooms with Arabian-inspired decor and a bell outside each door. The petite, Thai facialist with flawless, porcelain skin described the treatment I was about to receive in enthusiastic broken English and when I asked her if she used the products to achieve her gorgeous skin, she answered "No. Yoga." Christmas indeed!
Over the next 90 minutes, while I lied on a table and she slathered a wide range of fragrant botanical products containing frankincense and Moroccan rose on my face, I conjured up an award-winning barter...this delicate creature charged with cleansing my pores is an incredible athlete, walking along the water at 5am and practicing yoga for 2 hours thereafter. She needs a proper space to practice Hatha and I need a private teacher. As luck would have it, she lives within walking distance of my apartment so I came home and arranged for all the furniture in a 3rd unused bedroom to be removed and it will soon be my "no excuses" sanctuary for daily practice with a certified pretzel.
Frankincense has a fascinating ancient history - called the pearls of the Arabian desert, milky-white droplets of resin are found under the cut bark of the boswellia sacra tree, which is indigenous to the peninsula. For more than 4000 years, the fragrant white smoke of frankincense has scented Sumerian temples as the perfumed smoke was revered for taking the peoples' prayers to the gods; frankincense was presented on the 12th night to Jesus because it symbolized divinity; the Roman historian Pliny described it a "silver incense;" Alexander the Great was plotting an invasion of Southern Arabia to control the trade at the point of origin and only his death stopped him. The incense I noticed throughout the offices upon arrival is frankincense, burned in censers to purify and protect against evil spirits.
Frankincense was censed in the receiving line of a Bedouin wedding I attended New Year's Day evening...stay tuned for that tale.
Friday, December 18, 2009
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.
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.
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.
Monday, November 23, 2009
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
