Feeling Fresh and Protected. . . .

FRESHNESS:

"Sometimes I think someone is taking a full body shower in there!" complained my female Arab colleague, after she had just returned from the bathroom.   She was talking about the woman's bathroom in the office.  And the fact that someone had been a little too liberal with the personal hand shower that is ever-present beside every toilet here. . . .  I nodded in agreement, trying to cover up the fact that she was, most likely,  talking about . . .me!

I mean the little shower head is just THERE all the time.  Every time I turn around to flush, it's shining like a beacon. . . "USE ME" it metaphorically seems to shout out.  I left it untouched for several weeks. . . but one day, on a slower afternoon in the office. . . I decided to give it a shot, with my "When in Rome. . " mantra repeating itself in my head.    So. . . I took a deep breath, and grabbed the handle.

Question 1:  Where/how do you aim this thing?  Do I point  it "down"?  In which case, is it really "hitting" where it's supposed to?  But. . . if I point it up. . . well. . .I was trying to even "picture" that. . .the hand angle was awkward and unnatural at the very least. . . any way I tried it. . guess where that water flow might go?!  Figured, by the lack of "water" in the stall from previous visitors, that this indicated a "downward" trajectory that should end up in the toilet.

Question 2:  Are there any "settings" I'm supposed to use?  Is this like a Water Pik shower head -- with different flows, pulses, sprays . . . temperatures??  Peered closely at the handle and nozzle. . . and noted that it really didn't look much different than the spray handle we used to have on our garden hose, and that I used to have when I used to have to water the grass as a chore when I was younger. . . .

I gingerly did a "test" pump into the toilet bowl.  Hmmmm. . . this thing isn't exactly a "soft" pump.  I was surprised at how "strong" the water spray was. . . and checked again to see if there was some type of "twist" flow regulator.   Nothing.

I took a deep breath and clamped down on this thing.  Whoah!  This was QUITE the strong stream!   Let's just say that if I were watering the yard, it would be the setting that I would use to clean dirt off the sidewalk!   Not exactly the soft, fine "mist" I was hoping for.   Needless to say, I missed hitting anything human.  And got nothing but the bottom of the toilet bowl.   So I re-angled this thing. . . . . and. . . then I hit skin:  Holy Shit!

I was not giving the water pressure enough credit.  Spray dirt off the sidewalk?  Try putting out a kitchen fire!!!  with COLD water!!

I actually jumped off the toilet seat.  And because the stream was so damn strong, it kind of "snaked" around a bit. . . and hit the stall wall.  Okay. . .  it hit 2 walls!   And a little bit of the front part of my body.  Actually. . . . it also got my hair.

I quickly got myself together and tried to "clean up' the stall as best as I could. . . wiping things off with the remaining toilet paper. . . but seeing lots of water on the floor too. .  getting dirty from my shoes.

I waited until I heard the girl at the other end of the stall  leave.  I was too mortified to leave and have someone see me.  When the coast was clear, I snuck out of the stall, and looked in the mirror.  The front of my shirt was wet!  I decided I had no choice:  I splashed water on my face. . . to look like I was "freshening" up,  put water through my hair, and stuck my hair in a pony tail.  I then "took a walk" downstairs  to buy a bottle of water. . . so that it looked like I just took a little "fresh air" break before I went back to my desk.

No one seemed to notice. . . but two days later, when my colleague made the comment, I had to work hard to not show the mortification I felt.    I'm actually quite scared of these little hoses. . . don't know if it was just a  bad egg that I had tried that one time.   I'm closely eyeing the ones in my own apartment.  But they, too, look suspiciously like they could put out a mini fire or two. . .

I have several more questions about this fire extinguisher they call a "personal faucet" which I hope to get answered one day in some type of "girl talk" session with my female Arab colleagues:  Do you use this thing after EVERY time?  Or only once a month?  Or only after a number 2?  Or a number 1?   Do you use it at the office (if so, HOW do you not get water everywhere?)  Frankly -- at my New Year's Eve beach rave party, where they had "portable" toilets -- even THESE had personal spray/faucets beside each toilet (although, being portable, with plastic handles.)

Still scratching my (wet) head over these. . . .

PROTECTION:

No. . . not THAT type of protection.  The personal security kind.  I am talking about Dubai police.  They are SOOOO NICE!

 I remember the NYPD motto:  Courtesy.  Professionalism.  Respect.

Uhhh. . . they should come to Dubai.  Now that I think about it, NYPD always kind of play the "fear" game with you.  They'll "ma'am" you in that passive-aggressive way. . . and totally make you feel like an asshole for asking them anything.

But in Dubai. . .When I got lost in the Metro station . . .  I stopped a policeman, asking directions.  He smiled, shyly, and then pointed me in the right direction -- since he couldn't really speak English well, I guess (!! I can't remember when I saw a policeman smile in NY. . . unless it was at some sexy woman.!)  Police in NYC all seem to be so mean and angry these days . .purposely putting on a poker face or a "what do you want?" demeanor.

But in Dubai. . . When my colleague got into a traffic accident that was clearly her fault.  The policeman just shrugged.  "Accidents happen.  Are you okay?  Is anyone hurt?" ( I can imagine my mom and dad saying this . . but not a cop!)

But in Dubai. . . When I accidentally dialed the "emergency" number on my blackberry, and then, flustered, quickly hung up. . . only to be called BACK by the police:  Did you call, Ma'am?  Is everything okay?

Now, to be fair, I have never called the "emergency dial" in NYC. . . but I honestly imagine someone on the other end admonishing me for having dialed the number in a non-emergency, rather than inquiring about my well-being.

Makes me appreciate the toll that "living in fear" has taken on NY. . . perhaps across the US?. . .  Times when we didn't live in fear. . . perhaps pre-9/11?    The money spent on the security of individuals. . . buildings. . . . . . . the country. . . . We're, literally, paying the price now it seems:  watching all of the economic and budget morass.  But it's more than money now:  it's manifested throughout all of our interactions today:  Having to play it "safe" rather than sorry.  No more giving benefit-of-the-doubts to strangers. . . infesting all of us with a fear of anything Arabic (which I, an open-minded, educated person thought I was above until I came here. . )

I realize now --  by temporarily living in this society that curiously doesn't experience the same fear . . .(at least for those living comfortable ex-pat lives). -- that there was a war.  But it was not fought in Iraq . . . or Afghanistan. . . . it was already fought when the World Trade Centers came down.  Much like Nagasaki and Hiroshima after the atomic bomb.  But a difference is that Japan quickly cut her losses.  But America chose to defend and fight.  And now --more than a decade later -- we see the long-lingering effects.  

Live in a safe, fearless society and you feel strangely nostalgic.  It feels familiar, but old;  no longer.  And that's when you realize:  The terrorists already won.    

Wow.

I'm starting to understand why there are no street addresses here.  Addresses imply a tangible permanence.  It's based on a premise that one will "stay" somewhere for a long time.  Apparently, this lack of address is not limited to the new, crazily, built-in-a-day, Dubai.   My colleague said it was even WORSE in Saudi Arabia:  "In Jeddah, you need to talk about WHICH intersection after which light, after which restaurant. . . "  I pointed out the irony to my Saudi colleague:  "Hey. . . no offense, but do you not see the irony in all of this?   I mean, you guys gave us the Arabic numeral!  History has probably proven that your greatest legacy to today's civilization is the numeric system,  is it not? You definitely beat out the Romans. . .  I mean even the Chinese use your number system over their own! It's common to every computer keyboard and telephone in every country of the world!  You guys even beat the English language, for goodness' sake!  What's the use of giving this to the world if you don't even use it properly yourself?!"

We both scratched our heads over this.   He had just realized:  That's right, in order to have addresses, you need to use numbers.  And the numbers need to stay in the same place.

Dubai is not a permanent city.  It's a city of transients.  It's an urban desert.  And those who live here are today's economic Bedouins.  Kind of appropriate when you think of it.  And this convoluted highway/road system is the paved equivalent of sand dunes.  Having no addresses forces you to look at other indicators besides street signs and building numbers.  Like my "desert safari driver" this past weekend:  he just knew where to go. . . which sand dune to drive to. . . to take pictures at. . . to "ski" down. . . and he knew how to get back to the road.  Remarkable when you think of it.

I started to realize that this non-use of numerical addresses makes sense given the Bedouin history behind most of the Arabic culture.   Permanence is not a building or a street.  Permanence is the sand.  It is a story.  . . It is a song.  It is a poem.

I see this in the way my Arabic colleagues respond to little, casual questions:  Hey. . . do you want a water?  I'm going to the kitchen now. .  . ?  They lay their hand over their heart, bow their head slightly, and say "(no) Thank you" . . . as if I just offered them my kidney!

"Hey, I just picked up an extra coffee for you.". .  . Again, a heart-felt (literally, because they put their hand over their heart when saying this,) "A thousand times thank you."

I don't know what to do after such a profuse thanks.  Do I say "a thousand times you're welcome?!"  Uhhh. . or, do I say "TWO thousand times - it's my pleasure?"  Instead, I just look down, kind of embarrassed and ashamed by my lame "no problem."

"Your wish is my command." So poetic when you think of it. This HAD to have originated from some Arabic story.  It's absolutely the tone and rhythm of the language here. . . It's so deferential -- but not in the bad way.  When you're deferential to loved ones, isn't that sometimes a good thing?   "AaYouni" . . . "My Eyes". . .my most  precious . . . whatever is mine is yours.  Whatever you want. . . .

"Habibi" (or "honey", "sweetie") is used by everyone to young children. . . girlfriends. . . colleagues you're trying to calm.. . . I know this type of communal endearment is common in many languages, but it just sounds so damn intimate. . . "ha - be - bee". . . like "hi baby".   "Sweetie" or "honey" is cute and perky -- sometimes even a little condescending. The Hebrew "motek" gets stuck in the back of the throat sometimes.  But "Habibi" just rolls off the lips . .

This is not to say that I feel that Arabs are smooth, romantic, polite and easy all the time.  Actually -- every day battles can get you weary. . . . always a feeling that they never stop "pushing" for more. . . more discounts. . . more pain. You have to ask several times. . . they say "no" at first. . . . then succumb after they sense a proper effort on your part.  If you don't insist, they can be insulted.   Sometimes it feels like it's a war of bartering attrition in this culture. . .

But then. . .there are those moments. . .

. . .  When -- and you never know exactly what time because it changes every day depending on when the sun rises and shines --  you'll be in the middle of a shopping mall, and all of  a sudden you hear the "call to prayers" . . . the beautiful, lyrical chanting over the loud speakers. . and you see all types. . . veiled women, teenage girls in tight tanks and jeans. . . men in Armani suits. . . young men in over-sized, baggy sweatsuits. . . all walking slowly, yet purposefully, towards the designated prayer rooms. .  .
. . . When my robe-wearing colleague talks about taking his son to soccer practice, and I imagine all of the robed fathers and veiled mothers cheering on their children at the school soccer games. . .

. . . When I am standing next to this same robed colleague, who's been married for 17 years, and his iPhone rings. . and then I see the words . . .  "My Love" . . . popping up on the screen of a picture of his veiled wife. . . .

That's when I say,  wow.

So. . New Year's was interesting. . .

I spent New Year's Eve at the Atlantis Hotel's "Sandance" party. . . a beach rave. . . me. . . at my age.  I think I might actually have been the oldest person there.  They asked for ID at the gate.  It's been decades since I've been at such a place.   'Nuff said.

But I partied!  Actually found myself dancing to the grooves of some of the top European DJs today. And was amused at how "dancing etiquette" hadn't changed a lot since the days when I actually used to go dancing and clubbing:  guys still gather round in packs. . . trying to "break in" to our little "girl pack" (I was there with 2 female colleagues.  My other colleague, a 30-something male whose birthday was also on New Year's couldn't join us because his 20-year old girlfriend couldn't get in!!!! (Age limit was 21.)  This week I've been making sharp-tongued jokes about how he is in the wrong profession.. . . and that clearly he should have pursued early education, given his love for . . . . children!

The "scene" was pretty much what I would have expected:  lots of short dresses, heels (yes, even on the beach), gangs of greasy guys just staring at the women. . . except the crowd was decidedly skewed towards more South Asian/Middle Eastern revellers.  One "Dubai" thing seemed to be the preponderance of "shisa" pipes that they sold. . . so people could sit on towels on the sand and smoke some "shish". . .

British girls definitely get drunk the fastest.  And slimey guys are the same everywhere.  One young drunk man started inching his face close to me:  "Hey. . . I like older women."  WELL, DON'T LOOK AT ME!!!  I ended up doing some mild cheek bussing with some of the sweeter guys. . . and my favorite "line"of the evening was from a British guy:  "Give us a kiss, then!"  Short, sweet and to the point.  How could you not?!

It was actually quite fun, and it was nice seeing the fire works.  Had a nice Zen moment watching fireworks on the beach. . . and thanked Allah (when in Rome. . . ) that I was given such an awesome opportunity to be here!

It's kind of scary, how easily I've slipped back into a "party-scene". . . Working hard and partying hard.  Tonight is just the 2nd night this week I've been in. . . the previous 10 days having been filled with dinners or bar nights (when we could get in, that is, with my colleague's young guest. . . )  I've begged off the dinners the last few nights.  Pure, sober sleep is what I crave these days.

Earlier that week, I stopped off at the Dubai "Global Village". . . a tacky, State-Fair-type exhibit . . with pavilions from around the world:  it was HUGE frankly -- and I loved seeing all of the families out:  The women in their black abayas. . . their different "face coverings". . .and also seeing the different men's robes as well.  That night, we could only make it to a few pavilions and got a taste (literally) of why different countries claim to be the "World' Best". .  I got to taste Yemeni honey (Yes, it was delicious. . and there were like 10 types of it!)  I tasted so many different types of Saudi dates (who knew there were so many kinds?!) Saw strange and wonderful spices in the Yemen stand.  Tasted Palestinian cheese and olives.

That's one of the most interesting things for me -- starting to make the distinctions within the Middle East:  how you have to ask for a specific TYPE of date. . . . different types of soft goat cheese. . . specifying the kind of honey you want . . . acacia honey, sidr honey. . different kinds of zahatar (a spice). "Married people's" honey!  (apparently there are special herbs. . . for . . uh. . performance, I guess. . )  Saw the Lebanese pavilions, the Egyptians. . . Iranians, Afghanis. . . Frankly, it was wonderful -- and a nice time when I really felt I was in the "Middle East" and seeing a "real"everyday  side, and not a political one.

I'm starting to make "distinctions" and pick up on prejudicial references that I hear from my Arab colleagues:   Lebanese women are beautiful -- but it's all from plastic surgery.  Egyptian women are a little "cheap" in that they wear too much make-up.  Kuwaitis are . . well. . . GAY (or flamboyant and drama queens at the very least.)   Moroccan women are incredibly "hot" in bed (and are the most popular hookers, apparently.)  Saudis drink too much when they leave Saudi (because they can't in their country.)  They all cross the border to Bahrain on the weekends to drink, gamble and party. . .  Both Saudis and Emirates accuse each other of being "spoiled and rich".  Saudis will do anything to "get one over" on you. . . .they'll overcharge, and lie about the quality of the product.  Emirates will overcharge you too, but at least they'll make an attempt to make a decent, high-quality product. . . Palestinian women seem to have ended up well -- they're beautiful, and clearly know how to "marry well". . .in that more than a few of the Ruler's wives (Sheikha of Qatar, Queen of Jordan, etc.) are Palestinian.

Can't escape prejudice anywhere.  Makes me realize the futility of trying to deny differences.  Should just work to accept them.   All of them.