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.
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.
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