Our last morning in Dubai went by in that cliched blur everyone is always talking about. I scrounged up free breakfast at the conference (it's good to have connections) before packing up our stuff and checking out. Apparently, we are hard core troublemakers, because it took almost as long to check out as it did to check in. They lost some paperwork (through no fault of ours) and the poor girl at the front desk (new, I hope, despite the fact that we had seen her when we got here) was on the verge of tears. The same guy who helped us when we got here helped the girl out, and we eventually made it out the door and into a taxi. Our taxi driver then had some issues with his meter, which wasn't resetting from a job call he had gotten just as we got into the car. So his solution, being obviously an IT genius, was to sit on the side of the road until it fixed itself. Amazingly it worked, and we made our way to the airport in plenty of time. Luckily, daytime is not the busiest time of day at Dubai International; most flights come in and out between the hours of midnight and 3am. So our noon flight, while full, was leisurely.
Unfortunately, seating was slightly Laissez-faire and on the verge of chaotic. A man sitting in front of us took it upon himself to move to the back where nobody was sitting (because those rows were, in fact, for the cabin crew) and became incensed that he was asked to move back to his original seat and threw a fit. Personally, I would have had him arrested at the first sign of trouble, but the flight attendant showed an exorbitant amount of restraint in explaining to him that he couldn't do that because those were cabin crew seats. And then, they had to remove a mother with a baby from a bulkhead seat, and the only real place open was in one of those contentious rows, which just made this stupid guy even more upset because the mother and baby got an entirely empty row and he didn't. I could never be a flight attendant; I would have just punched him. He threw such a fit that they finally just moved him to where the mother was sitting, which I found incredibly odd because 1) the row in which this guy was originally sitting was not full and 2) the row into which he moved was.
To top it off, the guy next to me was moved to business class (lucky bastard) so there was an empty seat in our row, and I was feeling pretty stoked, when a chic from a few rows back asked if she could move into the seat next to me because "It's along flight and I'd hate to be in the middle the whole time." Which put me in the middle. Generally I don't mind, but the fact that this stupid British woman didn't think of anyone else at all but herself just irked me to no end. You don't move from one full row to another; it's just not kosher. You move from a full row to a non-full row. Did she somehow think that I enjoyed sitting in the middle while she did not? Is she the only one? I hate to admit it, but I took up more space than I usually do on a plane and made it clear that I thought she was incredibly rude and inconsiderate. I was grouchy. I hate going home.
The rest of the time went smoothly, except that Jonmikel was starting to look a bit peeked. We were interrogated a little more than usual upon going through customs in London. Jonmikel had to explain that no, he wasn't unemployed and he wasn't working in the UK, that he worked from home for a US company and that yes, he has been out of the US since September but he wasn't doing anything suspicious, and I had to explain why I ran off to the Middle East in the middle of the semester, that no, I wasn't doing anything suspicious in the Dubai, and all that. It was rather intensive, but I can only assume it was because of where we had been. Though they do now have my photo and fingerprints... just in case.
The plane was delayed, again, and did that fun "boarding" flash once and then "flight closing" thing that had happened on our way out. And again, they looked at us as if we were totally inconveniencing them despite the fact that there wasn't even a gate listed for the flight until it was flashing "gate closing." Nice, huh? Another reason why I will never fly British Airways again. And poor Jonmikel was by this time looking awfully miserable... that ubiquitous plane funk, which I sweat I never got until I met him. Needless to say, we skipped the bus ride from the airport to our neighborhood, and just took a quick taxi instead. Ah, home freezing home.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Today was fairly run-of-the-mill. Insofar as days in Dubai can be. I actually got to attend some conference stuff. I have to admit that I look damn good in formal business attire. Though I felt extremely young wandering around, I looked as though I fit in well enough, and people interacted with me accordingly. I was one of the few women, and even one of the fewer more attractive ones (due more to my youth than anything else).
The hotel set-up was pretty crazy; somebody must have struck a silly, money-saving deal which made some of the affair seem rather unprofessional, but it all seemed to work out. The innards of the hotel were more labyrinth- than business-like, but perhaps that's the sacrifice. Some of the sessions I went to were interesting to me, who knows very little about the technology world; however, none seemed in-depth or of any revolutionary value. At least, I assume that most of the people attending such a conference would already be well versed in the basics of internet uses and operations; I imagine there were a lot of bored people wandering around. There was just nothing... eye-catching or unusual or new. And I really thought there would be, not that I would understand it if I were presented with such things concerning the modern state of technology. I know how to turn my computer on, check my email, play on facebook and use iTunes. That's the extent of it.
I also noticed the lack of common courtesy many business people have nowadays. Well, not that I know what things were like "back in the day," as it were, but I can imagine that leaving your cell phone on and allowing it to ring during a presentation used to be considered rude. At this particular conference, it wasn't unusual to have people (mostly the extremely wealthy-looking; given that I am in the United Arab Emirates, you can read into that what you will) not even bothering to leave the room to answer and have extended conversations on cell phones during demonstrations. How far down can society go?
I was surprised, to say the least.
One of the more interesting sessions I attended demonstrated how hard it actually is to gain and keep good records of people, especially immigrants from countries in which they do not use the American-style alphabet. Using a variety of names from a variety of languages, the exercise was to look at immigration records, residential records, utility records, online records, and match up a list of names. It was deemed almost impossible: the number of ways somebody can spell Muhammed (even when they are not trying to hide anything) is incredible, and it also makes it difficult to actually track down people. It was an effective demonstration.
Other sessions I went to were simply 5 minute advertisements on why we should all buy into their company or use their products, which is gross considering what the conference was supposed to be doing. Oh well.
I did manage to get out and find some more indigenous food. I found a little place in the neighborhood and some kind of meat rice thing served with flatbread an hummus, which was cheap and incredibly filling. The guy behind the counter found me fascinating, probably because of my red hair. You don't see that much in Arab countries, as I found out in Morocco. He was very polite (unlike some men in Morocco), and said that he had met a woman from Russia who had hair my color, but that mine "was much prettier." He shook my hand heartily and said he was glad to have a new friend from America and that he now had friends in Russia, Germany, Scotland AND America. He was friendly and harmless enough, and served me up some extra rice and flatbread for free, and I'm always flattered at the attention, especially when I feel as safe as I do in Dubai.
After Jonmikel was finally finished with his conference-going, we headed down to Champions, a sports bar in the basement of the hotel for dinner and some good, old fashioned American pool. He was exhausted and didn't feel like doing much, so we took it easy.
The hotel set-up was pretty crazy; somebody must have struck a silly, money-saving deal which made some of the affair seem rather unprofessional, but it all seemed to work out. The innards of the hotel were more labyrinth- than business-like, but perhaps that's the sacrifice. Some of the sessions I went to were interesting to me, who knows very little about the technology world; however, none seemed in-depth or of any revolutionary value. At least, I assume that most of the people attending such a conference would already be well versed in the basics of internet uses and operations; I imagine there were a lot of bored people wandering around. There was just nothing... eye-catching or unusual or new. And I really thought there would be, not that I would understand it if I were presented with such things concerning the modern state of technology. I know how to turn my computer on, check my email, play on facebook and use iTunes. That's the extent of it.
I also noticed the lack of common courtesy many business people have nowadays. Well, not that I know what things were like "back in the day," as it were, but I can imagine that leaving your cell phone on and allowing it to ring during a presentation used to be considered rude. At this particular conference, it wasn't unusual to have people (mostly the extremely wealthy-looking; given that I am in the United Arab Emirates, you can read into that what you will) not even bothering to leave the room to answer and have extended conversations on cell phones during demonstrations. How far down can society go?
I was surprised, to say the least.
One of the more interesting sessions I attended demonstrated how hard it actually is to gain and keep good records of people, especially immigrants from countries in which they do not use the American-style alphabet. Using a variety of names from a variety of languages, the exercise was to look at immigration records, residential records, utility records, online records, and match up a list of names. It was deemed almost impossible: the number of ways somebody can spell Muhammed (even when they are not trying to hide anything) is incredible, and it also makes it difficult to actually track down people. It was an effective demonstration.
Other sessions I went to were simply 5 minute advertisements on why we should all buy into their company or use their products, which is gross considering what the conference was supposed to be doing. Oh well.
I did manage to get out and find some more indigenous food. I found a little place in the neighborhood and some kind of meat rice thing served with flatbread an hummus, which was cheap and incredibly filling. The guy behind the counter found me fascinating, probably because of my red hair. You don't see that much in Arab countries, as I found out in Morocco. He was very polite (unlike some men in Morocco), and said that he had met a woman from Russia who had hair my color, but that mine "was much prettier." He shook my hand heartily and said he was glad to have a new friend from America and that he now had friends in Russia, Germany, Scotland AND America. He was friendly and harmless enough, and served me up some extra rice and flatbread for free, and I'm always flattered at the attention, especially when I feel as safe as I do in Dubai.
After Jonmikel was finally finished with his conference-going, we headed down to Champions, a sports bar in the basement of the hotel for dinner and some good, old fashioned American pool. He was exhausted and didn't feel like doing much, so we took it easy.
There is definitely something about nightly turn down service in a 5-star hotel that makes me feel just plain fabulous. You leave your room, it's a little messy from your afternoon's return. There are used towels (hung up nicely in case the hotel follows the fun saving-the-environment-by-not-washing-anything policy) and messy bedsheets and maybe a coffee cup or two sitting around. And when you come back to freshen up before dinner, voila! The bed is remade, the towels are clean (or at least folded nicely, which is as good as clean in my book), the coffee cups are gone, your stuff is folded into a cute and unobtrusive pile in the corner, and there are little gold-foil-wrapped chocolates on your down pillows. And apples on the bedside table, to boot! Not to mention fresh bottles of water for your enjoyment, compliments of the hotel.
I mean, how cool is that? It's the closest thing I've experienced to honest-to-god magic since I went to Disney World all those years ago. Maybe that tells you the kind of hotel I'm USED to staying in, or makes some mention of my social status, but I am totally that chic who gets all giddy and smiley when made to feel like I actually have money, even if it is pretend.
At any rate, today was more conferencing, and as I was out of money (ahem), I decided to just take it easy. By the pool. I took this time to get some work done for one of my classes (as I had been, actually, whenever I hung out at the pool). Working out notes and thesis statements is way more entertaining in a bikini in the sunshine. I managed to stay out a little too long, however (Tuareg artisan politics is dreadfully entertaining, I plumb lost track of time), and was to later discover that I was awfully (and most happily) crispy. I felt it was a worthy sacrifice, as after tomorrow I won't see the sun for another 6 months or so. After baking, I returned to the room, showered, and headed to the Vienna Cafe for some of that wonderfully fresh fruit juice and some soup for lunch. Once again, great people-watching, and I could see people coming in and out of the conference, mostly looking forlorn at their lack of lunch tickets. I spent the rest of the afternoon working on a paper on modern (to use the contentious word cautiously to mean, more or less, contemporary, or "of today") Tuareg art as cultural preservation.
By evening, it was time for dinner with the work crowd. It was the first time I was to meet some of the bigwigs and the first time for me to socialize with those I had already met. Luckily, it was at the Bamboo Lagoon, a fabulous South Pacific mostly seafood buffet, which kept everybody relatively busy. I did have to deal with the usual question of why am I interested in Middle Eastern studies. The answer changes every time, whether truthfully or just because I need variety in my life, I know not. I am worried that eventually by answer will be "shits and giggles" or, worse, "I'm not." But the food was wonderful; I've never felt so seafoody satisfied. Worth all the money that I didn't have to pay: it was all on the company. They all seemed quite eager to meet me, as I'm sure Jonmikel has told them much.
After dinner, while everyone else retired for the night, Jonmikel and I went up to the roof of the hotel to the small cafe up there to partake in the traditional Arab nightcap of shisha. Despite Western belief that shisha is some kind of drug, it is actually a word that refers to the water pipe used to smoke flavored tobacco. Scientists seem to be divided as to whether or not smoking through a water pipe is better or worse that cigarettes, but its surely less tar, and beyond that I will argue nothing. We picked a simple lemon tobacco and were quite satisfied with the flavor. Definitely NOT like cigarette smoke. We were in the company of some other tourists, but mostly rich Emirati businessmen, noted by their flowing white robes and their knowledge of all the popular Arab music of today. Most sung along by heart. We managed to get a seat on one of the loungy couches placed right on the edge of the swimming pool, closed by this time, which gave the whole thing a very exotic feel. Clear night, reflection of the water, brightly decorated hookas, men in robes, the smell of fruit and smoke in the air. 1001 Arabian Nights, all wrapped up into one. Minus the belly dancing.
I mean, how cool is that? It's the closest thing I've experienced to honest-to-god magic since I went to Disney World all those years ago. Maybe that tells you the kind of hotel I'm USED to staying in, or makes some mention of my social status, but I am totally that chic who gets all giddy and smiley when made to feel like I actually have money, even if it is pretend.
At any rate, today was more conferencing, and as I was out of money (ahem), I decided to just take it easy. By the pool. I took this time to get some work done for one of my classes (as I had been, actually, whenever I hung out at the pool). Working out notes and thesis statements is way more entertaining in a bikini in the sunshine. I managed to stay out a little too long, however (Tuareg artisan politics is dreadfully entertaining, I plumb lost track of time), and was to later discover that I was awfully (and most happily) crispy. I felt it was a worthy sacrifice, as after tomorrow I won't see the sun for another 6 months or so. After baking, I returned to the room, showered, and headed to the Vienna Cafe for some of that wonderfully fresh fruit juice and some soup for lunch. Once again, great people-watching, and I could see people coming in and out of the conference, mostly looking forlorn at their lack of lunch tickets. I spent the rest of the afternoon working on a paper on modern (to use the contentious word cautiously to mean, more or less, contemporary, or "of today") Tuareg art as cultural preservation.
By evening, it was time for dinner with the work crowd. It was the first time I was to meet some of the bigwigs and the first time for me to socialize with those I had already met. Luckily, it was at the Bamboo Lagoon, a fabulous South Pacific mostly seafood buffet, which kept everybody relatively busy. I did have to deal with the usual question of why am I interested in Middle Eastern studies. The answer changes every time, whether truthfully or just because I need variety in my life, I know not. I am worried that eventually by answer will be "shits and giggles" or, worse, "I'm not." But the food was wonderful; I've never felt so seafoody satisfied. Worth all the money that I didn't have to pay: it was all on the company. They all seemed quite eager to meet me, as I'm sure Jonmikel has told them much.
After dinner, while everyone else retired for the night, Jonmikel and I went up to the roof of the hotel to the small cafe up there to partake in the traditional Arab nightcap of shisha. Despite Western belief that shisha is some kind of drug, it is actually a word that refers to the water pipe used to smoke flavored tobacco. Scientists seem to be divided as to whether or not smoking through a water pipe is better or worse that cigarettes, but its surely less tar, and beyond that I will argue nothing. We picked a simple lemon tobacco and were quite satisfied with the flavor. Definitely NOT like cigarette smoke. We were in the company of some other tourists, but mostly rich Emirati businessmen, noted by their flowing white robes and their knowledge of all the popular Arab music of today. Most sung along by heart. We managed to get a seat on one of the loungy couches placed right on the edge of the swimming pool, closed by this time, which gave the whole thing a very exotic feel. Clear night, reflection of the water, brightly decorated hookas, men in robes, the smell of fruit and smoke in the air. 1001 Arabian Nights, all wrapped up into one. Minus the belly dancing.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Boy, was housekeeping ever excited about today. We finally let them into our room to clean. Everybody seemed so relieved.
We began the day the right way, with coffee delivered with our early-morning wake-up call and our newspaper. It was quite fabulous, and the closest thing I have ever had to room service. I could get used to waking up every morning to a pot of coffee, BBC World, and the newspaper, all brought to me in bed. Jonmikel had to be up and about today, so I was on my own to get up and get ready at my leisure. I watched idly as Jonmikel ironed all his clothes for the day; the boy is an ironing machine. How lucky did I get? We said our goodbyes for the day and parted. I slowly went through the entire paper, interested in the much more colloquial style of English-language Arab papers. I got the feeling that, unlike AL-Ahram Weekly in Egypt, this paper was written specifically with ex-pats in mind. The news covered the major parts of the world from which Dubai draws in immigrants: the US, UK, India, and Pakistan. All of the rest of the Americas were thrown together onto a single page, as was all of the rest of Asia, and Africa got one small mention concerning Chad on the single page devoted to “The Rest of the World.” It’s amazing how volatile and HUGE Africa is, and how little attention it gets anywhere. At least I take solace in the fact that it isn’t just the Americans who ignore the continent. But the paper is much to my liking, physically, with lots of color pictures and a waxy finish that keeps the ink from rubbing off on my hands and inevitably all over my face just as I walk out the door. One thing I did notice was that President Bush was only rarely referred to with his title, while emirs and sheikhs and other presidents received the respectful honor; I don’t care how much you don’t like the US president, he always gets respect. You always refer to him as “president” when introducing him in journalistic writings. I found the omission extremely rude.
Anyway, I had plans for the day, so I did eventually shower and all that, and managed to get out of the room before housekeeping dropped by. I took a taxi out to the other side of the Creek to the museum, which turned out to be delightful. It cost less than a dollar to get in, and was housed in what is referred to as the oldest building in Dubai, the al-Fahidi Fort, built about 100 years ago. I find the entire concept of such a new city fascinating. 50 years ago, there was nothing here but a fort, some fishing huts and sand. Today, the city is teaming with high-rise buildings and construction. Every other building along Sheikh Zayed Street, aside from being at least at high at Arthur’s Seat, is 10 years old and has already been gutted to make way for a new enterprise. The ones that are still complete offer stunning reflective windows are equally stunning advertisements for the builder, renovator or contractor just in case you want your new building to look just as nice. All shrouded in a layer of fog of varying thickness and intensity. It’s quite a contrast to Morocco, where people lived in homes that were almost 1000 years old.
I reach the museum, pay my entrance fee, and go in. As I had heard good things about the wind tower model they had in the courtyard, I headed straight to that. The concept of a wind tower was brought over from the Iranians, and good thing they did. It felt like it would’ve been a lifesaver in pre-air-conditioning days (today, small a/c units are attacked to every, single home throughout the city). It’s a tower that stands on one corner of the house and has openings in all directions; something about the way its built (don’t ask me, I know nothing about architecture) pulls the wind from whatever direction it’s blowing into the home, cooling it down immensely. During the winter, when there is no need for cool ocean breezes, it is simply sealed off. Pretty clever, I thought, and standing under it, I could feel its effectiveness.
The greater part of the museum was dedicated to life-sized dioramas of daily Emirati life. Tons of artifacts and other educational material. It was all quite informative and rather neat, despite the hoards of uninterested tour-bus groups that arrived after I did. The members of these groups, whether speaking Arabic or French or English or Italian, walked zombie-like through the exhibits, dutifully taking odd photographs and getting in the way of people who were genuinely interested. I can’t imagine spending money to look at stuff I didn’t care about. Most of them should have stayed in to hotel today. The little museum also had most of the artifacts from the archaeological site from yesterday, which was the main reason I wanted to come here. There was a large collection of pottery there, but I was acutely interested in the glassware; it’s not often you find glass jars and pots dating to around 600 AD. And it was etched and shaped quite nicely. I was impressed. There was also a caste of a grave found on the other side of Dubai; it was dreadfully romantic: the grave contained a man and a woman, both covered in jewelry and weapons of all kinds, and they faced each other with their limbs entwined. It is assumed they were husband and wife, but a find like that has never been made elsewhere in the Arab world. It is uncharacteristically intimate. The girl in me swooned. I also learned some fun facts, mostly that even though pearl diving was such a lucrative business pre-oil business, all the wood for all the boats had to be imported (made sense when I thought about it, as there are few trees in the desert), that all the spices associated with the Middle East are really a culmination of spices from all over the world, that Arab sailors used 48 different stars to navigate by depending on where they were going, and that gerbils are from the Arabian Peninsula. Who knew?
After the museum, I decided to wander around. Compared to life in Morocco as a single woman, traveling around Dubai was a breeze. The most of got were some interested stares, and the only people who spoke to me wanted to sell me stuff. I’m OK with that. Though my stylish, knee-high boots, I looked and felt more like an ex-pat local than a tourist, of which there were plenty around. The day was not that hot (80, perhaps), and yet I was disturbed to see so many women revealing so much of their bodies. Yes, Dubai is a fairly tolerant city, with many international groups represented, but is IS an Arab city, so I mean… come on, be respectful. I could understand if it was ungodly hot, but it wasn’t. And these women were running around in shorts (which is really not acceptable for even men), and spaghetti-strap shirts. It was really unnecessary, and even if it’s tolerated, it’s still disrespectful (respect seems to be a theme today). Too many tourists just don’t stop and think.
At any rate, I ended up in the Bastakia district, the part of town that used to house the Iranians when they first began to flock to Dubai to take advantage of the free-trade in the city. It is a good example of how fancy wind towers can get, and many of the buildings have been restored to house tourist-oriented shops, art galleries and airy cafes. It was quite a nice walk, breezy and sunny, with not too many other people around. I attempted to find the Hindu temples that were supposed to be behind the Grand Mosque, which was across the street from the museum, but I gave up after realizing I had seen the same store three times. There’s nothing more futile than trying to navigate old cities and finding yourself going in circles. I finally decide to call it a day in favor of catching some fading sunlight at the hotel pool, so I head back to the main street to get a taxi. This seems so easy, in a big city full of taxis. But I encountered two major problems: first of all, on the main road where taxis congregated, there were also a plethora of hotels that tried to monopolize taxi business. Most of the taxis I saw were already occupied. My second problem began when I finally got one to stop for me. I hopped it, ready to relax on the drive back, told the driver where to go and…. Was promptly kicked out. “Deira?” He had asked, when I told him the JW Marriott. “No. I won’t go there now.” And he gestured to me to hop on out. Well, I never…. So I have to wait a while again for a free one to drive by, and when one does, I’m given the same response: a definite, non-compromising “no” and a wave to the sidewalk. Apparently, traffic is so bad at this time of day, no one will go over the Creek. Soooooo I begin the multi-mile walk back (not a happy prospect in my non-practical boots). I keep my eye out, and eventually I get a guy who reluctantly says, “OK, yes, get in.” I’m stoked, because my arches are starting to kill. Turns out, traffic is miraculously nonexistent; I give the guy a great tip for taking a chance on a silly tourist.
I get back for a short stint at the pool before going back to get dressed to go out for the night. I have always wanted to see the Burj al-Arab, the world’s only seven star hotel. Jonmikel got to have tea there last year, but no luck this time; I would have to satisfy myself with a good view of the sail-shaped building. We headed out this time to Medinat Jumeirah, a tourist shopping enclave done up in traditional style and surrounding a series of very clever, manmade canals. We got a number of views of the hotel, lit up in almost every color you could possibly imagine, sometimes shimmering in all its conspicuous consumption glamour, sometimes remaining an impressionable purple for minutes at a time. We wander around the shopping area for a while, taking in the rows upon rows of shimmering slippers, multi-colored hookas, and faux antique furniture. We didn’t buy anything there on Rip-Off Row, but it was a nice meander. We eventually stopped for dinner at The Meat Company, an interesting South African steak house right on one of the canals. As our luck with getting tables is always superb, we managed to get a table right on the canal with a perfect view of the Burj al-Arab. We get to watch it change colors all night while we eat and people watch. It was interesting the kinds of people there: the women covered in their abayas, the men in their traditional dress; European women in fancy dress; tourists in comfortable, casual LL Bean style travel wear; women in silk, brightly-colored saris. There was even a silly American 18-ish-year-old in some kind of short slinky dress. She tried to cover herself up with a shawl, but it just made it look like she had nothing on underneath. Nobody gave her lewd stares, but most people did give her bemused looks and half-laughed as she walked by. Silly tourist. We called it a night afterward, as Jonmikel had to get up sometime around 4:30 the next morning, and headed back to the hotel.
We began the day the right way, with coffee delivered with our early-morning wake-up call and our newspaper. It was quite fabulous, and the closest thing I have ever had to room service. I could get used to waking up every morning to a pot of coffee, BBC World, and the newspaper, all brought to me in bed. Jonmikel had to be up and about today, so I was on my own to get up and get ready at my leisure. I watched idly as Jonmikel ironed all his clothes for the day; the boy is an ironing machine. How lucky did I get? We said our goodbyes for the day and parted. I slowly went through the entire paper, interested in the much more colloquial style of English-language Arab papers. I got the feeling that, unlike AL-Ahram Weekly in Egypt, this paper was written specifically with ex-pats in mind. The news covered the major parts of the world from which Dubai draws in immigrants: the US, UK, India, and Pakistan. All of the rest of the Americas were thrown together onto a single page, as was all of the rest of Asia, and Africa got one small mention concerning Chad on the single page devoted to “The Rest of the World.” It’s amazing how volatile and HUGE Africa is, and how little attention it gets anywhere. At least I take solace in the fact that it isn’t just the Americans who ignore the continent. But the paper is much to my liking, physically, with lots of color pictures and a waxy finish that keeps the ink from rubbing off on my hands and inevitably all over my face just as I walk out the door. One thing I did notice was that President Bush was only rarely referred to with his title, while emirs and sheikhs and other presidents received the respectful honor; I don’t care how much you don’t like the US president, he always gets respect. You always refer to him as “president” when introducing him in journalistic writings. I found the omission extremely rude.
Anyway, I had plans for the day, so I did eventually shower and all that, and managed to get out of the room before housekeeping dropped by. I took a taxi out to the other side of the Creek to the museum, which turned out to be delightful. It cost less than a dollar to get in, and was housed in what is referred to as the oldest building in Dubai, the al-Fahidi Fort, built about 100 years ago. I find the entire concept of such a new city fascinating. 50 years ago, there was nothing here but a fort, some fishing huts and sand. Today, the city is teaming with high-rise buildings and construction. Every other building along Sheikh Zayed Street, aside from being at least at high at Arthur’s Seat, is 10 years old and has already been gutted to make way for a new enterprise. The ones that are still complete offer stunning reflective windows are equally stunning advertisements for the builder, renovator or contractor just in case you want your new building to look just as nice. All shrouded in a layer of fog of varying thickness and intensity. It’s quite a contrast to Morocco, where people lived in homes that were almost 1000 years old.
I reach the museum, pay my entrance fee, and go in. As I had heard good things about the wind tower model they had in the courtyard, I headed straight to that. The concept of a wind tower was brought over from the Iranians, and good thing they did. It felt like it would’ve been a lifesaver in pre-air-conditioning days (today, small a/c units are attacked to every, single home throughout the city). It’s a tower that stands on one corner of the house and has openings in all directions; something about the way its built (don’t ask me, I know nothing about architecture) pulls the wind from whatever direction it’s blowing into the home, cooling it down immensely. During the winter, when there is no need for cool ocean breezes, it is simply sealed off. Pretty clever, I thought, and standing under it, I could feel its effectiveness.
The greater part of the museum was dedicated to life-sized dioramas of daily Emirati life. Tons of artifacts and other educational material. It was all quite informative and rather neat, despite the hoards of uninterested tour-bus groups that arrived after I did. The members of these groups, whether speaking Arabic or French or English or Italian, walked zombie-like through the exhibits, dutifully taking odd photographs and getting in the way of people who were genuinely interested. I can’t imagine spending money to look at stuff I didn’t care about. Most of them should have stayed in to hotel today. The little museum also had most of the artifacts from the archaeological site from yesterday, which was the main reason I wanted to come here. There was a large collection of pottery there, but I was acutely interested in the glassware; it’s not often you find glass jars and pots dating to around 600 AD. And it was etched and shaped quite nicely. I was impressed. There was also a caste of a grave found on the other side of Dubai; it was dreadfully romantic: the grave contained a man and a woman, both covered in jewelry and weapons of all kinds, and they faced each other with their limbs entwined. It is assumed they were husband and wife, but a find like that has never been made elsewhere in the Arab world. It is uncharacteristically intimate. The girl in me swooned. I also learned some fun facts, mostly that even though pearl diving was such a lucrative business pre-oil business, all the wood for all the boats had to be imported (made sense when I thought about it, as there are few trees in the desert), that all the spices associated with the Middle East are really a culmination of spices from all over the world, that Arab sailors used 48 different stars to navigate by depending on where they were going, and that gerbils are from the Arabian Peninsula. Who knew?
After the museum, I decided to wander around. Compared to life in Morocco as a single woman, traveling around Dubai was a breeze. The most of got were some interested stares, and the only people who spoke to me wanted to sell me stuff. I’m OK with that. Though my stylish, knee-high boots, I looked and felt more like an ex-pat local than a tourist, of which there were plenty around. The day was not that hot (80, perhaps), and yet I was disturbed to see so many women revealing so much of their bodies. Yes, Dubai is a fairly tolerant city, with many international groups represented, but is IS an Arab city, so I mean… come on, be respectful. I could understand if it was ungodly hot, but it wasn’t. And these women were running around in shorts (which is really not acceptable for even men), and spaghetti-strap shirts. It was really unnecessary, and even if it’s tolerated, it’s still disrespectful (respect seems to be a theme today). Too many tourists just don’t stop and think.
At any rate, I ended up in the Bastakia district, the part of town that used to house the Iranians when they first began to flock to Dubai to take advantage of the free-trade in the city. It is a good example of how fancy wind towers can get, and many of the buildings have been restored to house tourist-oriented shops, art galleries and airy cafes. It was quite a nice walk, breezy and sunny, with not too many other people around. I attempted to find the Hindu temples that were supposed to be behind the Grand Mosque, which was across the street from the museum, but I gave up after realizing I had seen the same store three times. There’s nothing more futile than trying to navigate old cities and finding yourself going in circles. I finally decide to call it a day in favor of catching some fading sunlight at the hotel pool, so I head back to the main street to get a taxi. This seems so easy, in a big city full of taxis. But I encountered two major problems: first of all, on the main road where taxis congregated, there were also a plethora of hotels that tried to monopolize taxi business. Most of the taxis I saw were already occupied. My second problem began when I finally got one to stop for me. I hopped it, ready to relax on the drive back, told the driver where to go and…. Was promptly kicked out. “Deira?” He had asked, when I told him the JW Marriott. “No. I won’t go there now.” And he gestured to me to hop on out. Well, I never…. So I have to wait a while again for a free one to drive by, and when one does, I’m given the same response: a definite, non-compromising “no” and a wave to the sidewalk. Apparently, traffic is so bad at this time of day, no one will go over the Creek. Soooooo I begin the multi-mile walk back (not a happy prospect in my non-practical boots). I keep my eye out, and eventually I get a guy who reluctantly says, “OK, yes, get in.” I’m stoked, because my arches are starting to kill. Turns out, traffic is miraculously nonexistent; I give the guy a great tip for taking a chance on a silly tourist.
I get back for a short stint at the pool before going back to get dressed to go out for the night. I have always wanted to see the Burj al-Arab, the world’s only seven star hotel. Jonmikel got to have tea there last year, but no luck this time; I would have to satisfy myself with a good view of the sail-shaped building. We headed out this time to Medinat Jumeirah, a tourist shopping enclave done up in traditional style and surrounding a series of very clever, manmade canals. We got a number of views of the hotel, lit up in almost every color you could possibly imagine, sometimes shimmering in all its conspicuous consumption glamour, sometimes remaining an impressionable purple for minutes at a time. We wander around the shopping area for a while, taking in the rows upon rows of shimmering slippers, multi-colored hookas, and faux antique furniture. We didn’t buy anything there on Rip-Off Row, but it was a nice meander. We eventually stopped for dinner at The Meat Company, an interesting South African steak house right on one of the canals. As our luck with getting tables is always superb, we managed to get a table right on the canal with a perfect view of the Burj al-Arab. We get to watch it change colors all night while we eat and people watch. It was interesting the kinds of people there: the women covered in their abayas, the men in their traditional dress; European women in fancy dress; tourists in comfortable, casual LL Bean style travel wear; women in silk, brightly-colored saris. There was even a silly American 18-ish-year-old in some kind of short slinky dress. She tried to cover herself up with a shawl, but it just made it look like she had nothing on underneath. Nobody gave her lewd stares, but most people did give her bemused looks and half-laughed as she walked by. Silly tourist. We called it a night afterward, as Jonmikel had to get up sometime around 4:30 the next morning, and headed back to the hotel.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Ahhhh sleeping in. Well, for Dubai time. Apparently we’ve had to travel 3000 miles just to start living on Edinburgh time (I would like to point out as an aside that I’ve been getting up at 9 am everyday since we got back, which is about 3 hours earlier than previously noted). To make up for some lost shut-eye, we stay in until noonish, and upon opening the door not only do we get a fun, English-language newspaper, but lots of upset little notes from housekeeping asking us why they couldn’t clean our room and would we PLEASE vacate so that they could. 5-star treatment. We hit up an Italian restaurant in the hotel for convenience, which turns out quite nice, and charge it to our room (I know, right?). The hotel at 14 restaurants and lounges; who does that? There isn’t much else around the area, especially that will serve a beer with dinner (as its consumption is forbidden by the Qur’an). We then hop in a taxi and make our way to the Persian Gulf. The hope is to stick my foot in another waterway. Plus, living in Scotland, you don’t much chance for sun and I planned to take advantage of every minute.
“Sun” however is a relative word at the moment. “Yellow Daylight Smog” may be more appropriate. It’s been thick here since we arrived; on our taxi ride from the airport, you could hardly see from one building to the next, and today is little better. We drive right by the new tallest building in the world, the Burj Dubai, and don’t even notice it until we pass right under it. It’s huge, standing leagues taller than anything around it, and yet it disappears into dream-like swirls of pollution when you’re more than 100 meters away. (Which completely brings me to totally tangential story I read about China’s pollution problem. Apparently one of their lakes or rivers or what-have-you has become so polluted due to industries dumping sewage into it that everything is dead. So the Chinese government’s solution is not to tell the industries to clean up and stop dumping, but to introduce a non-native and potential harmful species of fish that will eat up all the scum—a good thing—but will then have completely unknown future consequences that could be potentially just as harmful to the ecosystem as sludge—a bad thing, in case you hadn’t guessed that. Oh, and they plan to let people fish and serve these critters who just ate up chemical waste in fancy restaurants. I just found that an entirely odd thing to do, definitely not in the spirit of the Kyoto Protocol, which I guess works because they are exempt from it anyway). Moving on. Our taxi driver is from Pakistan and has been here 4 years, and 1 year in Abu Dhabi. “Abu Dhabi is much better for living,” he replies, when I ask him how he likes it. “Dubai is better for business, but all I do is drive a taxi. I liked Abu Dhabi better.” I forgot to ask why, but its clear that whatever he has found here is better than he was afforded in Pakistan, which is just as well seeing as Mushareff is, predictably, refusing to let go of his throne, as it were, despite opposition insistence. Of course, the US is totally behind the old general, despite the fact that popular vote wants him out. Score one for democracy. Sorry, again, that was tangential.
So we finally reach Jumeirah Beach Club, a public beach just down the road from the famous ******* hotel Burj al-Arab. Traffic is pretty bad in the city, as we are reminded time and time again by cabbies, but no worse than it would be in any big city in the States. The driver wanted to take us somewhere else, and didn’t believe me when I said there was something in the neighborhood of this particular beach that I wanted to check out (and archaeological site), but took us there anyway, despite the traffic. We arrived and suddenly found ourselves in an enclave of white ex-pats. Skimpily-clad pasty people everywhere! Lots of families, though, all out to enjoy the nice weather. Mostly what looked like grandparents and grandchildren bonding while mum and dad were at work (it was Sunday, but in the UAE, as in many Muslim countries, the weekend is Friday and Saturday, as their holy day of rest is Friday). Some tourists also, as well as young people working for “Western” companies out enjoying the Sunday off. We picked out a spot in the sun, taking time to snap a shot of what we could see of the Burj al-Arab through the haze, and relaxed. Driving in a taxi is quite… taxing, no pun intended. The water in the Persian Gulf is extremely cold, and it was not hot that day, so real swimming was abandoned for some light, fun wading. A local football (soccer) club runs by, training for an upcoming game. I wonder idly what the Emiratis think about having such places in their country, areas reserved more or less for ex-pats wanted to let their hair down, if you will. The way it is presented to us as visitors is that as long as the bikinis stay on the beach, nobody really cares. It was much the same in Morocco, reportedly, though while I lived there it was much too cold to try it. But I do know that in some countries, such enclaves are still hated, even if the bikinis don’t leak out of the fences, as it is feared that sooner or later they will, followed by non-Muslim values, McDonald’s, drunkenness, homosexuality (as many like to pretend it isn’t a problem in Muslim countries) and everything evil. All the Emirati citizens I’ve spoken to don’t seem to mind the Westernness, as many of them practice the subtle art of drinking and non-Muslim acts anyway; the general consensus is that the richer you are, the less you seem to care about religion and tradition, and the more you seem to care about the catwalks of Milan and daily yoga.
Anyway, we spend some time at the beach just hanging out, before deciding to make our way to the Jumeirah Archaeological Site. It has kind of a nondescript and vague location, so we are content to wander around the rich suburban neighborhood until we find it. It’s nice to know that rich people are the same everywhere. We see numerous brand new BMWs and Mercedes and Range Rovers and Hummer parked outside gates homes that look more like the Old Town in Key West of Kingston, Jamaica than in an Arab country. And everybody, as it is the end of the day, is out walking a variety of purebred and inevitably expensive big dogs. At least they go for German shepherds and Labradors instead of Chihuahuas and Pomeranians. Oh, and with big sunglasses on, too. Very important. Very LA. We also see numerous buses full of workers in various colored jumpsuits. There is a lot of construction going on throughout Dubai, and foreign workers doing it all. Jonmikel said that last time he was in Dubai, he was told that the colors of the jumpsuits are based on one’s ethnicity. Different ethnic groups get different colors, and they tend to stay pretty segregated on their various jobs. Though we do see some mixed colors, buses tend to be all blues or oranges or reds or greens, and they do all seem to be ethnic based, though it’s hard to tell whether they actually are all from one group or whether we see them that way because we’re told to. The groups wait at airports or docking areas every morning in hopes of being hired for the day, much as the stereotypical scene displays Mexicans in California. Immigrants everywhere face the same issues, I suppose.
The site itself is closed by the time we find it, though we do get to walk around and peer inside at the remains of various buildings. It’s amazing that in a place where land is an expensive commodity, the government leaves such a large square undeveloped. Instead, it houses a number of structures dating back to the 6th century AD, what’s left of the fishing and pearling port of pre-Dubai. Plus, some of the haze has burned off in the late-afternoon sun, and we get a nice view of the Burj Dubai in the distance, still and by far the tallest building around. Check out pictures of it at http://flickr.com/photos/ysnp/. Most of the artifacts found there are now in the Dubai Museum, which I plan to visit tomorrow, but small stone buildings say a great deal by themselves. People think of Arabia as being inhabited only by Bedouins and other nomads, living “uncivilized” lives in the wild desert, but the permanent style of these structures attests to the settled nature of pre-Islam Arabia, which in turn indicates some level of economic complexity and specialization. I’m a big archaeology buff, so we spend some time just looking and contemplating before heading back to the main street to find a taxi back to our side of the Creek. One the way we pass a giant oilrig, the likes of which I have never seen so close. An entire community unto itself, apparently it was in for repairs. I was quite impressed at the sheer immensity of the thing.
Instead of heading directly to the hotel, we make a stop off at Deira City Centre, one of the biggest and most popular malls in Dubai. The place is HUGE. Floor upon floor upon floor of shopping. Anything you could possibly want is in that mall. From the United Colors of Benetton to Lucky Jeans to more localized shopping locations selling abayas and hijabs. The line for the taxi stand went down the length of the mall and around the corner (good thing we were walking back!). Probably close to 100 restaurants of all shapes and sizes and ethnicities (all 100% alcohol free, I might add). We stopped in because I forgot to pack another pair of pants. 1 pair for an entire week is a little iffy, even for me. I saw a pair of jeans upwards of $300 and a polo shirt for about $380. Talk about conspicuous consumption. I did manage to find a reasonably priced (at about $35) pair of gray skinny jeans, which turned out to be a great investment because they look fabulous on me! I needed new jeans anyway. But we hit up as many stores as possible, just to see what the most expensive thing we could find was. The place was packed, and we had to continuous fight our way around Gucci-clad Emirati men and silk-and-gold abaya-clad Emirati women. As is the style, women will wear only the most expensive clothing under their already expensive robes, topped off with only the most expensive make-up and jewelry. One of the things I enjoy about the Emirates is that the women seem to dress as such because it’s the style, with no claim to “modest” dress, as many women in other parts of the world do. There’s nothing modest about diamonds, gold, and thick, exotic and over-done make-up.
Anyway, Jonmikel had work to do to set up for the conference the next day, so we headed back to find some food (at the Hofbrauhaus, no less) and cut up and alphabetize name badges. Not the most exciting of evenings, but business is business. Oh, and because we left the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the doors (our luggage had more or less exploded in an attempt to find clean underwear and bathing suits), housekeeping left another note imploring (begging, even) us to go away so they could change our towels.
“Sun” however is a relative word at the moment. “Yellow Daylight Smog” may be more appropriate. It’s been thick here since we arrived; on our taxi ride from the airport, you could hardly see from one building to the next, and today is little better. We drive right by the new tallest building in the world, the Burj Dubai, and don’t even notice it until we pass right under it. It’s huge, standing leagues taller than anything around it, and yet it disappears into dream-like swirls of pollution when you’re more than 100 meters away. (Which completely brings me to totally tangential story I read about China’s pollution problem. Apparently one of their lakes or rivers or what-have-you has become so polluted due to industries dumping sewage into it that everything is dead. So the Chinese government’s solution is not to tell the industries to clean up and stop dumping, but to introduce a non-native and potential harmful species of fish that will eat up all the scum—a good thing—but will then have completely unknown future consequences that could be potentially just as harmful to the ecosystem as sludge—a bad thing, in case you hadn’t guessed that. Oh, and they plan to let people fish and serve these critters who just ate up chemical waste in fancy restaurants. I just found that an entirely odd thing to do, definitely not in the spirit of the Kyoto Protocol, which I guess works because they are exempt from it anyway). Moving on. Our taxi driver is from Pakistan and has been here 4 years, and 1 year in Abu Dhabi. “Abu Dhabi is much better for living,” he replies, when I ask him how he likes it. “Dubai is better for business, but all I do is drive a taxi. I liked Abu Dhabi better.” I forgot to ask why, but its clear that whatever he has found here is better than he was afforded in Pakistan, which is just as well seeing as Mushareff is, predictably, refusing to let go of his throne, as it were, despite opposition insistence. Of course, the US is totally behind the old general, despite the fact that popular vote wants him out. Score one for democracy. Sorry, again, that was tangential.
So we finally reach Jumeirah Beach Club, a public beach just down the road from the famous ******* hotel Burj al-Arab. Traffic is pretty bad in the city, as we are reminded time and time again by cabbies, but no worse than it would be in any big city in the States. The driver wanted to take us somewhere else, and didn’t believe me when I said there was something in the neighborhood of this particular beach that I wanted to check out (and archaeological site), but took us there anyway, despite the traffic. We arrived and suddenly found ourselves in an enclave of white ex-pats. Skimpily-clad pasty people everywhere! Lots of families, though, all out to enjoy the nice weather. Mostly what looked like grandparents and grandchildren bonding while mum and dad were at work (it was Sunday, but in the UAE, as in many Muslim countries, the weekend is Friday and Saturday, as their holy day of rest is Friday). Some tourists also, as well as young people working for “Western” companies out enjoying the Sunday off. We picked out a spot in the sun, taking time to snap a shot of what we could see of the Burj al-Arab through the haze, and relaxed. Driving in a taxi is quite… taxing, no pun intended. The water in the Persian Gulf is extremely cold, and it was not hot that day, so real swimming was abandoned for some light, fun wading. A local football (soccer) club runs by, training for an upcoming game. I wonder idly what the Emiratis think about having such places in their country, areas reserved more or less for ex-pats wanted to let their hair down, if you will. The way it is presented to us as visitors is that as long as the bikinis stay on the beach, nobody really cares. It was much the same in Morocco, reportedly, though while I lived there it was much too cold to try it. But I do know that in some countries, such enclaves are still hated, even if the bikinis don’t leak out of the fences, as it is feared that sooner or later they will, followed by non-Muslim values, McDonald’s, drunkenness, homosexuality (as many like to pretend it isn’t a problem in Muslim countries) and everything evil. All the Emirati citizens I’ve spoken to don’t seem to mind the Westernness, as many of them practice the subtle art of drinking and non-Muslim acts anyway; the general consensus is that the richer you are, the less you seem to care about religion and tradition, and the more you seem to care about the catwalks of Milan and daily yoga.
Anyway, we spend some time at the beach just hanging out, before deciding to make our way to the Jumeirah Archaeological Site. It has kind of a nondescript and vague location, so we are content to wander around the rich suburban neighborhood until we find it. It’s nice to know that rich people are the same everywhere. We see numerous brand new BMWs and Mercedes and Range Rovers and Hummer parked outside gates homes that look more like the Old Town in Key West of Kingston, Jamaica than in an Arab country. And everybody, as it is the end of the day, is out walking a variety of purebred and inevitably expensive big dogs. At least they go for German shepherds and Labradors instead of Chihuahuas and Pomeranians. Oh, and with big sunglasses on, too. Very important. Very LA. We also see numerous buses full of workers in various colored jumpsuits. There is a lot of construction going on throughout Dubai, and foreign workers doing it all. Jonmikel said that last time he was in Dubai, he was told that the colors of the jumpsuits are based on one’s ethnicity. Different ethnic groups get different colors, and they tend to stay pretty segregated on their various jobs. Though we do see some mixed colors, buses tend to be all blues or oranges or reds or greens, and they do all seem to be ethnic based, though it’s hard to tell whether they actually are all from one group or whether we see them that way because we’re told to. The groups wait at airports or docking areas every morning in hopes of being hired for the day, much as the stereotypical scene displays Mexicans in California. Immigrants everywhere face the same issues, I suppose.
The site itself is closed by the time we find it, though we do get to walk around and peer inside at the remains of various buildings. It’s amazing that in a place where land is an expensive commodity, the government leaves such a large square undeveloped. Instead, it houses a number of structures dating back to the 6th century AD, what’s left of the fishing and pearling port of pre-Dubai. Plus, some of the haze has burned off in the late-afternoon sun, and we get a nice view of the Burj Dubai in the distance, still and by far the tallest building around. Check out pictures of it at http://flickr.com/photos/ysnp/. Most of the artifacts found there are now in the Dubai Museum, which I plan to visit tomorrow, but small stone buildings say a great deal by themselves. People think of Arabia as being inhabited only by Bedouins and other nomads, living “uncivilized” lives in the wild desert, but the permanent style of these structures attests to the settled nature of pre-Islam Arabia, which in turn indicates some level of economic complexity and specialization. I’m a big archaeology buff, so we spend some time just looking and contemplating before heading back to the main street to find a taxi back to our side of the Creek. One the way we pass a giant oilrig, the likes of which I have never seen so close. An entire community unto itself, apparently it was in for repairs. I was quite impressed at the sheer immensity of the thing.
Instead of heading directly to the hotel, we make a stop off at Deira City Centre, one of the biggest and most popular malls in Dubai. The place is HUGE. Floor upon floor upon floor of shopping. Anything you could possibly want is in that mall. From the United Colors of Benetton to Lucky Jeans to more localized shopping locations selling abayas and hijabs. The line for the taxi stand went down the length of the mall and around the corner (good thing we were walking back!). Probably close to 100 restaurants of all shapes and sizes and ethnicities (all 100% alcohol free, I might add). We stopped in because I forgot to pack another pair of pants. 1 pair for an entire week is a little iffy, even for me. I saw a pair of jeans upwards of $300 and a polo shirt for about $380. Talk about conspicuous consumption. I did manage to find a reasonably priced (at about $35) pair of gray skinny jeans, which turned out to be a great investment because they look fabulous on me! I needed new jeans anyway. But we hit up as many stores as possible, just to see what the most expensive thing we could find was. The place was packed, and we had to continuous fight our way around Gucci-clad Emirati men and silk-and-gold abaya-clad Emirati women. As is the style, women will wear only the most expensive clothing under their already expensive robes, topped off with only the most expensive make-up and jewelry. One of the things I enjoy about the Emirates is that the women seem to dress as such because it’s the style, with no claim to “modest” dress, as many women in other parts of the world do. There’s nothing modest about diamonds, gold, and thick, exotic and over-done make-up.
Anyway, Jonmikel had work to do to set up for the conference the next day, so we headed back to find some food (at the Hofbrauhaus, no less) and cut up and alphabetize name badges. Not the most exciting of evenings, but business is business. Oh, and because we left the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the doors (our luggage had more or less exploded in an attempt to find clean underwear and bathing suits), housekeeping left another note imploring (begging, even) us to go away so they could change our towels.
Friday, February 22, 2008
Iraqi Airspace!?!?
Plane trips just aren’t what they used to be. I can remember as a kid my excite preceding all trips taken on a plane. I couldn’t understand why we drove anywhere when flying was so much cooler. I remember single-serving food and drinks and moist towelettes, the seats with the fun tables that folded down and little radios in the armrests, the little wings I used to get. So now, more or less every time I fly I get the same giddy feelings of anticipation. Only now, I’m completely disappointed. We reach the airport in Edinburgh for our flight to London and onward to Dubai, and we don’t have a gate yet. So we sit and have a drink, and our plane is delayed. And delayed again. And we’re right in the middle of a beer, when the screen changed, displayed a gate for us, flashed “boarding” once and then proceeded directly to “gate closing.” In a panic, we downed the beer (can’t let it go to waste), collected ourselves and rushed to the gate. It was nice of them to give us some warning, and the chic taking our boarding passes looking completely miffed at our less-than-timely arrival, like why weren’t we at the gate as soon as it flashed “boarding”? We were treated like “those” people, even though it was totally not our fault. This was just the first of many incidents that have led me to the conclusion that I will never fly British Airways ever again.
So we rush on to the plane and are immediately surrounded by coughing, sneezing and otherwise generally sick people. It’s like everyone in this country suffers from 8 months of crappy weather/winter funk. And nobody covers their mouths; it’s a wonder the entire population of this country hasn’t wiped itself out. But it’s a short flight, and we hop off and then on to another sickness-filled metal bird for a 7-hour journey to Dubai. But this time it’s a 777, which has fabulous little TV screens in the backs of every seat so that I can distract myself from the coughing and sneezing. Turns out the TV technology of this particular Boeing 777 dates back to the invention of the wheel, but it works well enough, and I manage to watch Atonement (for purely faux-intellectual reason, I’ll admit it). Turns out it was pretty awful. Not as in it was a bad movie, but let’s just say I know why everybody in the proverbial West is so depressed and violent: we have a strange obsession with movies that are either incredibly depressing (Atonement) or incredibly violent (No Country for Old Men or There Will Be Blood), or for Oscar-worthy assurance, both (all three?). Ugh. But I settled in, next to a fabulous little woman who didn’t speak English but understood the vague wave that means “I have to pee” on every plane throughout the world. We also ate decent food, which I really miss from US airlines. Here, they’ll feed you even on hour-long flights. It early morning or late night or both when Jonmikel nudges me and motions out the window: “Check it out, it’s Baghdad!” And so it was… we managed to fly almost right over the infamous city. JM busied himself taking pictures out the window, getting Baghdad, Kuwait, and Camp Anaconda, the big military base in Iraq. Probably taboo, but what the heck. I was surprised we were allowed to fly over all of it.
I sleep a sum total of 40 minutes on the overnight flight, and when we arrive in Dubai we are full of jetlag. I must be getting old: I used to be able to sleep on planes like none other, and I NEVER used to suffer from jetlag. Bu tired we are, and we pass like zombies through customs, hit up the taxi stand and make our way to our hotel, the JW Marriott. Did I mention I get to stay in a 5-star hotel for free? Oh yeah, I do. Seriously sweet. My parents can correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m not sure I’ve ever stayed in a 5 star hotel. It’s on the old side of the Creek, the river-ish waterway that divides the city. Last year, when Jonmikel was here for the same conference, they were on the tourist side, where all the high-rise hotels are, more centrally located but nowhere to walk. We head to the front desk at the hotel even though it is only 10 am. They can give us a smoking room, says the adorable Eastern European chic at the front desk, but for non-smoking we will have to wait. We opt to wait.
The first thing you notice about Dubai is that English is everywhere. Everybody speaks English to one another, mostly because it is impossible to tell who speaks Arabic and who doesn’t. But the sure thing is that everybody will at least speak English. You can tell the Emirati citizens by their dress: most women wear black abayas, often embellished with some of the most exotic and beautiful stitching and jewels, that cover them from head to foot, often accompanied by lavish gold jewelry and heavy, exoticized make-up; most men wear the traditional, flowy white robe called a kandura (or a dishdash if you’re a local ex-pat) and white draped headscarf, the guthra. They seem to take a lot of pride in their national dress, and varying colors and patterns can indicate specific familial ties. But present in the city are burkas and saris and shawls and skirts and suits and any other type of clothing from every corner of the world in every color imaginable. Even through my jetlagged haze, I can see the colors. But for the most part, the people you will deal with on a regular basis are not Arab, but Pakistani or Indian or Philippino or Malaysian or Indonesian or Eastern European, all speaking their respective languages to one another and English to everyone else. Citizens of the UAE are not expected to work such demeaning jobs as servers or bellmen or hosts or behind desks at hotels. So they fill the void with non-UAE-ers, which often come in the form of non-Arabs, except in, say, Lebanese restaurants. In general, they all remain fairly segregated, except in big hotels like ours where they just need workers from wherever.
So anyway, our room isn’t ready, and we decline the invitation to relax by the pool in favor of a nice morning walk before either A) it gets too hot to wander or B) we crash. We meander the city, taking note of the different ethnic groups and how many men seem curious about my red hair (though nothing compared to the stares I got in Morocco). We manage to hit the Creek and wander through parts of the Dhow Wharfage. These little traditional boats are amazing: they look ready to sink or tip over constantly, except they manage to sail away with semi trucks on top of them. Apparently they’ve been docking here for a few hundred years, so they must be stable enough. And next to them sit a whole row of multi-million dollar yachts that are probably larger than most homes. I decide immediately that I want one.
After wandering until early afternoon, we head back to the hotel to retrieve our room, which still isn’t ready, though by all accounts from the front desk it should be. They talk amongst themselves and from what catch here and there, our room has somehow managed to disappear. Not what one would expect from a 5-star hotel, but regardless… a young man looking quite smart and in-charge and very… white… comes up and asked, concerned, if we are still waiting for our room. We were, and he nicely comped us a couple of truly wonderful and freshly made juices from the Vienna Café, juices that would have cost us almost $7 each under normal circumstances. I had mango and JM had grapefruit, and it was pretty much fruit plopped into a blender. No concentrate, no added sugar, no bottles… I would visit there again. As we wait, we run into two of Jonmikel’s coworkers (or, as we were sitting down, they run into us), who were on their way upstairs to, well… start drinking. What are conferences for? We agree to join them later, are given a room, and make our way up to it. I am in desperate need of a shower, but also in desperate need for some pool action. Cleanliness wins out, but afterwards we head up to the rooftop pool to catch an hour or so worth of close-to-the-tropics sun. After a warm Katnap, we head back to the room to change into non-plane-funk clothing and meet-up with the coworkers to sneak us into the Executive Lounge. Apparently, employees of this particular company are notorious for such escapades, and we manage to imbibe unlimited free booze and a myriad of dinner-type substances (eliminating the need to buy an actual dinner) with only minimal controversy. I had never been in an Executive Lounge before, and I have to admit it suited me quite well. Plus, I managed to scrounge up very professional looking attire specifically for this trip, so I even looked as if I belonged; a young, affluent Ph.D. or IT chic. Guys dug it.
Afterward, the other coworkers went off to complete some post-conference set-up work, so Jonmikel and I headed off to the genuine Hofbrauhaus in the hotel, actually licensed by the original one in Munich. Unlike the one in Munich (or in Cincinnati, for that matter) this one was sparsely occupied, despite the cheery lederhosen-clad, oompa band in the main dining room. We were just looking for a pre-bed tipple, and had the typical mug-o-beer common only in true beer-loving countries. Afterwards, we had just enough energy, after more than a day straight of being up and about, to fall into the elevator and climb into bed before crashing for the next 12 hours.
So we rush on to the plane and are immediately surrounded by coughing, sneezing and otherwise generally sick people. It’s like everyone in this country suffers from 8 months of crappy weather/winter funk. And nobody covers their mouths; it’s a wonder the entire population of this country hasn’t wiped itself out. But it’s a short flight, and we hop off and then on to another sickness-filled metal bird for a 7-hour journey to Dubai. But this time it’s a 777, which has fabulous little TV screens in the backs of every seat so that I can distract myself from the coughing and sneezing. Turns out the TV technology of this particular Boeing 777 dates back to the invention of the wheel, but it works well enough, and I manage to watch Atonement (for purely faux-intellectual reason, I’ll admit it). Turns out it was pretty awful. Not as in it was a bad movie, but let’s just say I know why everybody in the proverbial West is so depressed and violent: we have a strange obsession with movies that are either incredibly depressing (Atonement) or incredibly violent (No Country for Old Men or There Will Be Blood), or for Oscar-worthy assurance, both (all three?). Ugh. But I settled in, next to a fabulous little woman who didn’t speak English but understood the vague wave that means “I have to pee” on every plane throughout the world. We also ate decent food, which I really miss from US airlines. Here, they’ll feed you even on hour-long flights. It early morning or late night or both when Jonmikel nudges me and motions out the window: “Check it out, it’s Baghdad!” And so it was… we managed to fly almost right over the infamous city. JM busied himself taking pictures out the window, getting Baghdad, Kuwait, and Camp Anaconda, the big military base in Iraq. Probably taboo, but what the heck. I was surprised we were allowed to fly over all of it.
I sleep a sum total of 40 minutes on the overnight flight, and when we arrive in Dubai we are full of jetlag. I must be getting old: I used to be able to sleep on planes like none other, and I NEVER used to suffer from jetlag. Bu tired we are, and we pass like zombies through customs, hit up the taxi stand and make our way to our hotel, the JW Marriott. Did I mention I get to stay in a 5-star hotel for free? Oh yeah, I do. Seriously sweet. My parents can correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m not sure I’ve ever stayed in a 5 star hotel. It’s on the old side of the Creek, the river-ish waterway that divides the city. Last year, when Jonmikel was here for the same conference, they were on the tourist side, where all the high-rise hotels are, more centrally located but nowhere to walk. We head to the front desk at the hotel even though it is only 10 am. They can give us a smoking room, says the adorable Eastern European chic at the front desk, but for non-smoking we will have to wait. We opt to wait.
The first thing you notice about Dubai is that English is everywhere. Everybody speaks English to one another, mostly because it is impossible to tell who speaks Arabic and who doesn’t. But the sure thing is that everybody will at least speak English. You can tell the Emirati citizens by their dress: most women wear black abayas, often embellished with some of the most exotic and beautiful stitching and jewels, that cover them from head to foot, often accompanied by lavish gold jewelry and heavy, exoticized make-up; most men wear the traditional, flowy white robe called a kandura (or a dishdash if you’re a local ex-pat) and white draped headscarf, the guthra. They seem to take a lot of pride in their national dress, and varying colors and patterns can indicate specific familial ties. But present in the city are burkas and saris and shawls and skirts and suits and any other type of clothing from every corner of the world in every color imaginable. Even through my jetlagged haze, I can see the colors. But for the most part, the people you will deal with on a regular basis are not Arab, but Pakistani or Indian or Philippino or Malaysian or Indonesian or Eastern European, all speaking their respective languages to one another and English to everyone else. Citizens of the UAE are not expected to work such demeaning jobs as servers or bellmen or hosts or behind desks at hotels. So they fill the void with non-UAE-ers, which often come in the form of non-Arabs, except in, say, Lebanese restaurants. In general, they all remain fairly segregated, except in big hotels like ours where they just need workers from wherever.
So anyway, our room isn’t ready, and we decline the invitation to relax by the pool in favor of a nice morning walk before either A) it gets too hot to wander or B) we crash. We meander the city, taking note of the different ethnic groups and how many men seem curious about my red hair (though nothing compared to the stares I got in Morocco). We manage to hit the Creek and wander through parts of the Dhow Wharfage. These little traditional boats are amazing: they look ready to sink or tip over constantly, except they manage to sail away with semi trucks on top of them. Apparently they’ve been docking here for a few hundred years, so they must be stable enough. And next to them sit a whole row of multi-million dollar yachts that are probably larger than most homes. I decide immediately that I want one.
After wandering until early afternoon, we head back to the hotel to retrieve our room, which still isn’t ready, though by all accounts from the front desk it should be. They talk amongst themselves and from what catch here and there, our room has somehow managed to disappear. Not what one would expect from a 5-star hotel, but regardless… a young man looking quite smart and in-charge and very… white… comes up and asked, concerned, if we are still waiting for our room. We were, and he nicely comped us a couple of truly wonderful and freshly made juices from the Vienna Café, juices that would have cost us almost $7 each under normal circumstances. I had mango and JM had grapefruit, and it was pretty much fruit plopped into a blender. No concentrate, no added sugar, no bottles… I would visit there again. As we wait, we run into two of Jonmikel’s coworkers (or, as we were sitting down, they run into us), who were on their way upstairs to, well… start drinking. What are conferences for? We agree to join them later, are given a room, and make our way up to it. I am in desperate need of a shower, but also in desperate need for some pool action. Cleanliness wins out, but afterwards we head up to the rooftop pool to catch an hour or so worth of close-to-the-tropics sun. After a warm Katnap, we head back to the room to change into non-plane-funk clothing and meet-up with the coworkers to sneak us into the Executive Lounge. Apparently, employees of this particular company are notorious for such escapades, and we manage to imbibe unlimited free booze and a myriad of dinner-type substances (eliminating the need to buy an actual dinner) with only minimal controversy. I had never been in an Executive Lounge before, and I have to admit it suited me quite well. Plus, I managed to scrounge up very professional looking attire specifically for this trip, so I even looked as if I belonged; a young, affluent Ph.D. or IT chic. Guys dug it.
Afterward, the other coworkers went off to complete some post-conference set-up work, so Jonmikel and I headed off to the genuine Hofbrauhaus in the hotel, actually licensed by the original one in Munich. Unlike the one in Munich (or in Cincinnati, for that matter) this one was sparsely occupied, despite the cheery lederhosen-clad, oompa band in the main dining room. We were just looking for a pre-bed tipple, and had the typical mug-o-beer common only in true beer-loving countries. Afterwards, we had just enough energy, after more than a day straight of being up and about, to fall into the elevator and climb into bed before crashing for the next 12 hours.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
The Future's All Yours, You Lousy Bicycles
There is a such thing as too much public transportation. Take Amsterdam. I begin any street-crossing already confused: the British haven’t gotten it together yet and figured out how to drive on the correct side of the road, so I’m now used to looking right first, which, as I was reminded the hard way, is not the way to look first when crossing a street in the civilized world. To make matters worse, they have kamikaze bicyclists in Amsterdam, young and old, flying around on old-fashioned “Rain Drops Keep Fallin’ on My Head” style bicycles, scarves whipping around their heads, blinding them to the plight of the unfortunate pedestrian. Or it's possible they just don't care. You step off the curb and inevitably a bicycle will try to run you down in cold blood. No compassion. I've seen it. On top of that, you can look to your left and see a tram, with a bus trapped behind it on the road, and then a taxi behind said bus, all without using turn signals and with a myriad of road choices and no signs as to what’s going through the drivers’ heads. Locals seems to have figured it all out, where the trams go when, and when they stop and go, and when they turn and when to stop and watch the pitiful tourist yelp and hop out of the way pronto. My theory is telepathy. No ther explanation. But seriously, do they really need all the public transportation, walking, biking, tramming, taxiing, busing? If it's not a bicycle coming at me, it's a tram, and they both come out of nowhere...
At any rate, it’s our last few hours in Amsterdam, and we start out with a breakfast of omelets and overpriced coffee (that’s one of the biggest things I miss from the US, coffee that is not watered-down espresso and that comes with free refills, all for 89 cents) while people watching from the top floor of some hole-in-the-wall joint. It’s deceptively sunny and cold; the weather looks very inviting from inside, but the bundled-up passers-by say otherwise. We then continue for some souvenir shopping. We get the obligatory wooden clogs for my friend Laura from back home and postcards for all, and do some window-shopping and the like. We meander through more canals, Jonmikel looking for more houseboats to buy and ship to somewhere with more excitement, like the Mississippi River. We eventually, through our ambling, end up at the train station and, eventually, the airport, where we manage to spend every Euro and Euro cent we’ve got. It’s too bad we have to fly during such nice, sunny winter weather, and I secretly hope Jonmikel got the flight times mixed up so I don’t have to end the vacation just yet. I want my birthday weekend to last longer, as it has been one of my favorites. How did I get so lucky to find Jonmikel (I know, it’s corny, and you gag reflex is kicking in)?
At any rate, it’s our last few hours in Amsterdam, and we start out with a breakfast of omelets and overpriced coffee (that’s one of the biggest things I miss from the US, coffee that is not watered-down espresso and that comes with free refills, all for 89 cents) while people watching from the top floor of some hole-in-the-wall joint. It’s deceptively sunny and cold; the weather looks very inviting from inside, but the bundled-up passers-by say otherwise. We then continue for some souvenir shopping. We get the obligatory wooden clogs for my friend Laura from back home and postcards for all, and do some window-shopping and the like. We meander through more canals, Jonmikel looking for more houseboats to buy and ship to somewhere with more excitement, like the Mississippi River. We eventually, through our ambling, end up at the train station and, eventually, the airport, where we manage to spend every Euro and Euro cent we’ve got. It’s too bad we have to fly during such nice, sunny winter weather, and I secretly hope Jonmikel got the flight times mixed up so I don’t have to end the vacation just yet. I want my birthday weekend to last longer, as it has been one of my favorites. How did I get so lucky to find Jonmikel (I know, it’s corny, and you gag reflex is kicking in)?
Friday, February 15, 2008
No trip to Amsterdam would be morally complete without the obligatory trip to the Anne Frank House. The highly regarded monument to the personal struggle of a family in 1930s and 40s Amsterdam, after German occupation. I had read the Diary of Anne Frank years ago, and remember on principal that it was touching and moving and tragic (whether or not I actually remember the book as such is both debatable and moot, as it is only acceptable to have this opinion). After the father was released from his concentration camp, he had the house restored and left unfurnished and open to the public, a monument to awareness of international hate. The museum itself was crowded wall-to-wall with gawking tourists and school children, taking in the feeling of tragedy and solitude that only empty rooms can convey. One point I did find odd was that guides to the House were in every major language except Arabic. Other than that, there is very little to be said about the Anne Frank House that hasn’t already been said. Except that I remember learning about Anne Frank, and being told that she hid in an attic. I didn’t realize that by “attic” everybody meant a 1500 sq. ft. house built behind a first house. Unfortunately, I do not think that it has been as successful at promoting peace, understanding and no more genocides as first hoped, but I do think that it stands as an interesting reminder not only of all the terrible things that have happened in the history of humanity, but more importantly of all the terrible things we have simply let happen. However, maybe it was because I have been to the Killing Fields in Cambodia, but there is something much more poignant and heartbreaking in seeing a tower of skulls surrounded by fields of cows and playing boys than an empty house. Perhaps seeing the scenes of multiple genocides around the world gives on a different perspective…
At the end of the museum was a fairly new, interactive display concerning human rights and freedoms. The format was sort of town-hallish, where visitors sat on comfy, multi-colored cushions and watched a large screen explain to them various issues, after which said audience members voted on whether or not those rights should be, well, rights. Called “Free 2 Choose,” it touched on free speech, freedom of the press, freedom of religion… all the juicy stuff. While arguably fun technology, the entire display relegated all these choices to “yes” or “no,” which did them all a great injustice, as many were not simply black and white, as such. A question like, “Should the Muhammad cartoons have been printed in the Danish newspaper?” Well, should they have? Probably not. Legally, did they have the right to publish those cartoons under the auspices of free speech? Yes. Free speech covers bad taste, fortunately or not. But free speech does not cover outright threats. “Should Neo Nazis be allowed to have political rallies?” Again, with the bad taste. They should be allowed to hate whomever they want. However, as soon as they begin to make threats against the lives of Jews or police or whoever, they should all be arrested. “Should a police officer be allowed to wear a turban as a symbol of his religion?” Well, this is tough. Yes, if the turban doesn’t conflict with regulation uniform headwear. If there is a hat that every officer is supposed to wear, then no, he shouldn’t. Uniforms are uniforms. These are complicated issues, and their answers will change based on circumstances. You can’t just say “yes” or “no.” Needless to say, I didn’t enjoy the exhibit.
We also managed to stop at the Houseboat Museum, which looked incredibly hokey, but turned out to be quite the little gem. It’s just a normal-sized canal boat converted from a freight hauler into a houseboat back in the day. The main bedroom has been turned into a play area for small children, but other than that, it is supposed to have been furnished the same as it was when it was first converted. It was incredibly adorable, and there was a small brochure describing the history and use of the boat. It said that everything on houseboats has to be miniaturized to some extent, but I would like to point out that it was quite a bit larger than our flat here in Edinburgh. The bathroom was about the same, though. The little museum inflamed my passion for boating, and Jonmikel and I pined away for a canal boat of our own, perhaps on the Mississippi so we could sail from Cincinnati to New Orleans on a regular basis. Maybe when we return to the States, we can find a boat on the Potomac or something…
We also managed a quick trip through the Flower Market, which was more like the Bulb Market. Apparently winter isn't the season for flowers?
Our next stop for the day was the Sauna Deco, and tidy little sauna, complete with a Turkish bath, two sauna rooms of varying temperatures, an infrared room, a cold plunge pool (for added invigoration), a nap area, a café/lounge area with magazines from around the world, and massages galore, all done up in a neat Art Deco/Grecian urn motif. All sans clothing of course. Unfortunately, we seemed to have hit it on male bonding day, and for most of the afternoon I remained the only woman (there was one other who was about 60) in the Turkish bath. But it seemed quite normal, and I was all but ignored, which was fine by me. The entire experience was quite relaxing and not unlike my hot spring experience in Busan, South Korea. Though there, it was single-sex only. But it wasn’t as awkward and I know you are imagining it to be. I didn’t get any massages, but Jonmikel and I did do the rounds of both saunas, the foot bath, the Turkish baths and a quick jump outside (it was fairly warm and very sunny today, so it was safe) multiple times to enjoy the full scope of sauna activities. Oh, and for an example of how family-friendly it was, there was, indeed a family of three, obviously regulars, enjoying the saunas. The daughter was about 8. It’s nice how open and accepting and nonchalant the Europeans can be about such things. American would flip. But it was a fabulously relaxing experience, so much so I practically oozed out of the building when we left. I sweated in the Turkish bath (missing my kis from my hammam days in Morocco), quickly ran to the lounge to have a glass of orange juice, over to the cooler of the two saunas, outside to the enclosed deck in the sun, back to the Turkish bath (more or a large, hot steam room) to do it all again. The saunas, filled with stern looking men who glared at us when we tried to have a conversation (sooo not in the spirit of sauna-ing, which many plains Native Americans use as a time for political discussion and gossip), were burning some kind of cedar; rich, tangy, earthy aromas infused with heat and steam that made my mind kind of numb with relaxation.
We finally dragged ourselves away from our self-indulgence and headed for, what else, a nice drink to savor the experience of being so relaxed that we just kind of flopped around like gag chickens. Or members of the Church of England, if you ask Eddie Izzard. Some of you may get that. We picked a random, smoke-filled (the more smoke, the more popular with the locals; it’s been a long time since I’ve been asked “smoking or non-smoking?” and even longer since a hostess, looking worried, asked if non-smoking was okay) bar to have a lingering beer before finding something to eat. Sweating takes a lot out of you. We decided to try one of the ubiquitous South American steak houses in Amsterdam. I’m not sure what it is about Holland that would appeal to South Americans (surely not the frigid winters or the fact that nobody speaks Spanish), but there is an Argentinean or Uruguayan steak house on every block, at least. We stopped to look at a few menus, for no real reason, as they all seemed to offer the same things: steak. But we chose one simply on the fact that a server came out, smiled nicely and asked us to come in and try his restaurant. I had remarked to Jonmikel not 24 hours earlier how much I liked that about some of the places I’ve been to, most recently Morocco; I loved when the waiters came out to hassle you to eat at their establishment. I’ve eaten many good meals at places on the gentle but persuasive recommendation of a persistent server. You don’t get that so much in the UK or the US, though I do remember some of it in Spain, as well as any developing country. It’s a nice, personal touch. Turns out we made a good decision. The steak was perfectly done (still mooing, more or less, for us), the décor distinctly South American cowboy (cowboy gear, old and battered wood siding, big wooden booths, you get the idea), and it was packed with other happy customers. We took our time over dinner, as per usual, and by the time we headed out, it was already late. We meandered back, taking in our last night in Amsterdam.
At the end of the museum was a fairly new, interactive display concerning human rights and freedoms. The format was sort of town-hallish, where visitors sat on comfy, multi-colored cushions and watched a large screen explain to them various issues, after which said audience members voted on whether or not those rights should be, well, rights. Called “Free 2 Choose,” it touched on free speech, freedom of the press, freedom of religion… all the juicy stuff. While arguably fun technology, the entire display relegated all these choices to “yes” or “no,” which did them all a great injustice, as many were not simply black and white, as such. A question like, “Should the Muhammad cartoons have been printed in the Danish newspaper?” Well, should they have? Probably not. Legally, did they have the right to publish those cartoons under the auspices of free speech? Yes. Free speech covers bad taste, fortunately or not. But free speech does not cover outright threats. “Should Neo Nazis be allowed to have political rallies?” Again, with the bad taste. They should be allowed to hate whomever they want. However, as soon as they begin to make threats against the lives of Jews or police or whoever, they should all be arrested. “Should a police officer be allowed to wear a turban as a symbol of his religion?” Well, this is tough. Yes, if the turban doesn’t conflict with regulation uniform headwear. If there is a hat that every officer is supposed to wear, then no, he shouldn’t. Uniforms are uniforms. These are complicated issues, and their answers will change based on circumstances. You can’t just say “yes” or “no.” Needless to say, I didn’t enjoy the exhibit.
We also managed to stop at the Houseboat Museum, which looked incredibly hokey, but turned out to be quite the little gem. It’s just a normal-sized canal boat converted from a freight hauler into a houseboat back in the day. The main bedroom has been turned into a play area for small children, but other than that, it is supposed to have been furnished the same as it was when it was first converted. It was incredibly adorable, and there was a small brochure describing the history and use of the boat. It said that everything on houseboats has to be miniaturized to some extent, but I would like to point out that it was quite a bit larger than our flat here in Edinburgh. The bathroom was about the same, though. The little museum inflamed my passion for boating, and Jonmikel and I pined away for a canal boat of our own, perhaps on the Mississippi so we could sail from Cincinnati to New Orleans on a regular basis. Maybe when we return to the States, we can find a boat on the Potomac or something…
We also managed a quick trip through the Flower Market, which was more like the Bulb Market. Apparently winter isn't the season for flowers?
Our next stop for the day was the Sauna Deco, and tidy little sauna, complete with a Turkish bath, two sauna rooms of varying temperatures, an infrared room, a cold plunge pool (for added invigoration), a nap area, a café/lounge area with magazines from around the world, and massages galore, all done up in a neat Art Deco/Grecian urn motif. All sans clothing of course. Unfortunately, we seemed to have hit it on male bonding day, and for most of the afternoon I remained the only woman (there was one other who was about 60) in the Turkish bath. But it seemed quite normal, and I was all but ignored, which was fine by me. The entire experience was quite relaxing and not unlike my hot spring experience in Busan, South Korea. Though there, it was single-sex only. But it wasn’t as awkward and I know you are imagining it to be. I didn’t get any massages, but Jonmikel and I did do the rounds of both saunas, the foot bath, the Turkish baths and a quick jump outside (it was fairly warm and very sunny today, so it was safe) multiple times to enjoy the full scope of sauna activities. Oh, and for an example of how family-friendly it was, there was, indeed a family of three, obviously regulars, enjoying the saunas. The daughter was about 8. It’s nice how open and accepting and nonchalant the Europeans can be about such things. American would flip. But it was a fabulously relaxing experience, so much so I practically oozed out of the building when we left. I sweated in the Turkish bath (missing my kis from my hammam days in Morocco), quickly ran to the lounge to have a glass of orange juice, over to the cooler of the two saunas, outside to the enclosed deck in the sun, back to the Turkish bath (more or a large, hot steam room) to do it all again. The saunas, filled with stern looking men who glared at us when we tried to have a conversation (sooo not in the spirit of sauna-ing, which many plains Native Americans use as a time for political discussion and gossip), were burning some kind of cedar; rich, tangy, earthy aromas infused with heat and steam that made my mind kind of numb with relaxation.
We finally dragged ourselves away from our self-indulgence and headed for, what else, a nice drink to savor the experience of being so relaxed that we just kind of flopped around like gag chickens. Or members of the Church of England, if you ask Eddie Izzard. Some of you may get that. We picked a random, smoke-filled (the more smoke, the more popular with the locals; it’s been a long time since I’ve been asked “smoking or non-smoking?” and even longer since a hostess, looking worried, asked if non-smoking was okay) bar to have a lingering beer before finding something to eat. Sweating takes a lot out of you. We decided to try one of the ubiquitous South American steak houses in Amsterdam. I’m not sure what it is about Holland that would appeal to South Americans (surely not the frigid winters or the fact that nobody speaks Spanish), but there is an Argentinean or Uruguayan steak house on every block, at least. We stopped to look at a few menus, for no real reason, as they all seemed to offer the same things: steak. But we chose one simply on the fact that a server came out, smiled nicely and asked us to come in and try his restaurant. I had remarked to Jonmikel not 24 hours earlier how much I liked that about some of the places I’ve been to, most recently Morocco; I loved when the waiters came out to hassle you to eat at their establishment. I’ve eaten many good meals at places on the gentle but persuasive recommendation of a persistent server. You don’t get that so much in the UK or the US, though I do remember some of it in Spain, as well as any developing country. It’s a nice, personal touch. Turns out we made a good decision. The steak was perfectly done (still mooing, more or less, for us), the décor distinctly South American cowboy (cowboy gear, old and battered wood siding, big wooden booths, you get the idea), and it was packed with other happy customers. We took our time over dinner, as per usual, and by the time we headed out, it was already late. We meandered back, taking in our last night in Amsterdam.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Being a Valentine’s Kid isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Not that it’s cracked up to be much, but I do get a number of girly coos whenever I inform a woman that my birthday is February 14th. Despite past failings (from significant others, mind you), Jonmikel has once again proven himself worthy. So… Happy Birthday to me!
Today started out with an early-morning wake-up call by a dude dressed in Rasta clothes and dreads doing some kind of funky tribal dance with a can of coins. People seemed to either ignore him entirely or smile endearingly at him, so he must be a regular at this junction of church, Red Light District and normal Old Town. He was, nonetheless, annoying, so we flopped out of bed and went in search of sustenance. We found…. Waffles! And not silly American waffles, oh no. The Dutch know how to make a waffle. Big and crispy and candied in some kind of strawberry sugar coating and topped with a mile of whipped cream and strawberries in a thick strawberry syrup. I mean really. OK, so it was probably a dessert more than a breakfast, but Jonmikel told me that today was my birthday, and I could eat whatever I wanted. Calories don’t count on your birthday.
The concoction was utterly fabulous, and my stomach did little summersaults the rest of the day. After sickening our taste buds, we headed over to Madam Tussaud’s, the famous wax museum. JM had never been to one, and the last one I had been to I’m pretty sure was in Gatlinburg and had an entire room devoted to torture devices. Scarred for life. We stopped first to have a gander at a group of hippy-ish people standing in a large circle, holding hands and chanting, Tibetan monk style. They all wore silky and flowing garments, reminiscent of the stereotypical gypsy wardrobe. Apparently it was some peace-through-sound day or something. I give them props for allowing a drunken homeless man to participate in the reverie, despite the fact that he was, well… drunk and yelling Dutch obscenities at everyone. But they seemed a very tolerant group, and noise is noise, and peace is peace, and if noise means peace, then well, so be it.
We headed off to the wax museum. It was pretty typical: kinda cool and way over-priced. But Jonmikel did get to sing with James Brown and cop a feel of an impression of J-Lo’s butt, and I did get to stick my tongue out at George W. Bush without being arrested, so forking over the money had its benefits. I do think wax recreations are amazing; some of them looked completely real, especially the one that looked like Joe Shmo tourist taking pictures of Tom Hanks. It had a couple of curious Japanese girls fooled for a full 5 minutes before one of them got brave enough to poke the statue. I’ll admit it: I ducked under his picture when I first saw him.
Having one supreme touristy thing under our belts, we decided to head to another: The Heineken Experience. We take the scenic route, meandering through 17th century homes and quaint canals, bundled up against the cold and cloudy weather. When we arrived at our destination, what did we find? Oh, the Heineken Experience was closed for remodeling. What the heck? Here, I had though that the 3 beers included in admission would have been a nice birthday present. Sigh. But we were close to the Museum Quarter, so we headed over to the Van Gogh Museum.
I’ve always been a fan of a select handful of Van Goghs, so this was on my list anyway. Not a big art museum kid; on field trips in elementary school my mind would always wander to all the trouble I could get into in such places, as the art, unless it contained Egyptian or Chinese or African stuff, was completely useless to me. Still is, in fact. Impressionists and Flemish painters make me queasy. But Van Gogh has some good stuff (my favorite being the outdoor Night Café scene), and I was especially pleased to find out he did a number of Chinese-style prints. Beautifully done, it was fun to find out that the Chinese script on them (which looked completely authentic to me, who only knows the spoken Chinese learned from Firefly) is just a bunch of nonsense symbols Van Gogh thought were pretty. My kind of artist.
After idling some time at the art museum (one of many… the only one I really had a desire to go to), we began our walk back to our hotel to get tickets for our Valentine’s Day/Happy Birthday to Me canal cruise. We stopped at a bar built into an old bank (the bathrooms were in the old vaults) for a beer, knowing that we only had limited time to putz around. It was definitely a local place, though I was interested to find out that the Dutch have discovered that pool is just miles better than snooker, and have confined the latter to special snooker halls.
We hit the hotel, grabbed the tickets, and were off again to my specially designated restaurant for Valentine’s Day Dinner. In many of the guidebooks for Amsterdam, there are many recommendations for food, some of the best being not Dutch food, but Indonesian food. I had never had Indonesian food before, so I chose a place called Kantjil and De Tijger. I had just 30 minutes before decided where I wanted to go, so it was kind of hit-or-miss at to whether or not we’d get a table. I figured Valentine’s Day would be big. I was right, but we seem to have great luck with tables, and we were seated right away, just before it got busy and the reservations came in. The place had wonderful lighting, dark wood accents, muted “oriental” style in a similar manner to tiki boutiques back in the States. The staff, including the men, all wore black and blue sarongs, too, which I thought was absolutely fabulous. We ordered a small carafe of wine (we were going to have access to unlimited drinks on our canal tour later, so we took it slow) and just went for the all-inclusive, no-thinking-involved meal for two. Turned out to be the best decision, as I know nothing about Indonesian food, and the explanations were in a form of Dutch-English hybrid that I didn’t have the patience to decipher. Excellent food. And despite various complaints about the service, I found it to be just fine, if in the European style (which is, as a general rule, less attentive that American style, which is where some of the problem lies; in European places, it’s considered rude to be as attentive to customers as you would be in the States, and I’m sort of fine with those added moments for intimacy).
And in terribly romantic fashion, everybody was celebrating Valentine’s Day (with the exception of some American/British ex-pats, who seemed to be having a business/social meeting of some sort). A guy my age sat in a table cattycorner to us and bounced nervously in his chair, alone, for a number of minutes before a girl of a similar age showed up, her smile only growing when he presented her with a small bouquet of flowers. Jonmikel remarked that, “he gets a lot of points for picking this place out.” Like I said, terribly romantic.
After spending only an hour at dinner (about half the time we usually spend, unless we have wine, in which case we can spend much longer), we head out to the docking area for our cruise, the Blue Boat Company. We spent the next hour-and-a-half (though it seemed much shorter) cruising slowly among the lights and sounds of Amsterdam at Night. The canals are incredibly narrow, with harrowing turns, and props to the boat pilots who manage not to crash into every stone wall and metal barrier. The wind was chilly, but drier than we were used to in Scotland, so we bundled up and headed to the outer deck to take pictures. It was only us and one other couple (coincidentally sitting at the same table) who braved the cold to get some great night shots of the city. While neon lights may not seem to be the most romantic of lighting choices for Valentine’s Day, they did provide an exotic flavor to the night, even in the small portion of the Red Light District we sailed through. I don’t remember any other European city being so well lit; the Tokyo of Europe, perhaps?
We also were given Champaign (OK, so not the real thing, silly French, but the Dutch version of sparkling wine), Dutch cheeses and variety of snacks to keep idle hands busy during the cruise. Despite the group of wholly obnoxious British tourists (who, doubtless, came on one of those tour buses geared toward old folks who want to get the “real” international experience by staying in big groups of fellow tourists and visiting only the best faux-authentic tourists spots), the trip was relaxing and quite nice. I gave Jonmikel a copy of “The Missing Piece” by Shel Silvertsein, one of my favorites as a child, as a Valentine’s Gift, and maybe some day we’ll get around to reading it. ☺
After the cruise, we did the traditional Valentine’s Day activity: visit the Red Light District! As our hotel was on the edge of it, it was more or less on the way back, so we meandered through it. It was fun to watch all the awkward 20-something boys walk around in big groups giggling uncomfortably, and the girls they were with (if there were any) rolling their eyes and trying to look smooth and cool and mature. We stopped at a small bar and had a beer and just hung out; the area is great for people watching, and I don’t mean the prostitutes in the windows. Though I did get irritated at a couple of guys who just didn’t get it that they weren’t supposed to be taking pictures of the buildings in the District, despite the fact that everybody was yelling at them. I hope they got arrested later in the night and their pictures erased. It’s just not kosher. For all those who may be wondering, the place isn’t as racy as it’s made out to be. There’s no nudity or anything, and it’s all very well policed. Though I do wonder how well regulated it is, not in the sense of health check-ups and such, but by way of making sure all the girls are there by choice and are treated well by both pimps and customers. Some girls looked cheerful and happy and normal, while others looked bored and still others looked unhappy, but it’s hard to tell whether such sentiments are from a bad day, a bad job, or a bad life.
Today started out with an early-morning wake-up call by a dude dressed in Rasta clothes and dreads doing some kind of funky tribal dance with a can of coins. People seemed to either ignore him entirely or smile endearingly at him, so he must be a regular at this junction of church, Red Light District and normal Old Town. He was, nonetheless, annoying, so we flopped out of bed and went in search of sustenance. We found…. Waffles! And not silly American waffles, oh no. The Dutch know how to make a waffle. Big and crispy and candied in some kind of strawberry sugar coating and topped with a mile of whipped cream and strawberries in a thick strawberry syrup. I mean really. OK, so it was probably a dessert more than a breakfast, but Jonmikel told me that today was my birthday, and I could eat whatever I wanted. Calories don’t count on your birthday.
The concoction was utterly fabulous, and my stomach did little summersaults the rest of the day. After sickening our taste buds, we headed over to Madam Tussaud’s, the famous wax museum. JM had never been to one, and the last one I had been to I’m pretty sure was in Gatlinburg and had an entire room devoted to torture devices. Scarred for life. We stopped first to have a gander at a group of hippy-ish people standing in a large circle, holding hands and chanting, Tibetan monk style. They all wore silky and flowing garments, reminiscent of the stereotypical gypsy wardrobe. Apparently it was some peace-through-sound day or something. I give them props for allowing a drunken homeless man to participate in the reverie, despite the fact that he was, well… drunk and yelling Dutch obscenities at everyone. But they seemed a very tolerant group, and noise is noise, and peace is peace, and if noise means peace, then well, so be it.
We headed off to the wax museum. It was pretty typical: kinda cool and way over-priced. But Jonmikel did get to sing with James Brown and cop a feel of an impression of J-Lo’s butt, and I did get to stick my tongue out at George W. Bush without being arrested, so forking over the money had its benefits. I do think wax recreations are amazing; some of them looked completely real, especially the one that looked like Joe Shmo tourist taking pictures of Tom Hanks. It had a couple of curious Japanese girls fooled for a full 5 minutes before one of them got brave enough to poke the statue. I’ll admit it: I ducked under his picture when I first saw him.
Having one supreme touristy thing under our belts, we decided to head to another: The Heineken Experience. We take the scenic route, meandering through 17th century homes and quaint canals, bundled up against the cold and cloudy weather. When we arrived at our destination, what did we find? Oh, the Heineken Experience was closed for remodeling. What the heck? Here, I had though that the 3 beers included in admission would have been a nice birthday present. Sigh. But we were close to the Museum Quarter, so we headed over to the Van Gogh Museum.
I’ve always been a fan of a select handful of Van Goghs, so this was on my list anyway. Not a big art museum kid; on field trips in elementary school my mind would always wander to all the trouble I could get into in such places, as the art, unless it contained Egyptian or Chinese or African stuff, was completely useless to me. Still is, in fact. Impressionists and Flemish painters make me queasy. But Van Gogh has some good stuff (my favorite being the outdoor Night Café scene), and I was especially pleased to find out he did a number of Chinese-style prints. Beautifully done, it was fun to find out that the Chinese script on them (which looked completely authentic to me, who only knows the spoken Chinese learned from Firefly) is just a bunch of nonsense symbols Van Gogh thought were pretty. My kind of artist.
After idling some time at the art museum (one of many… the only one I really had a desire to go to), we began our walk back to our hotel to get tickets for our Valentine’s Day/Happy Birthday to Me canal cruise. We stopped at a bar built into an old bank (the bathrooms were in the old vaults) for a beer, knowing that we only had limited time to putz around. It was definitely a local place, though I was interested to find out that the Dutch have discovered that pool is just miles better than snooker, and have confined the latter to special snooker halls.
We hit the hotel, grabbed the tickets, and were off again to my specially designated restaurant for Valentine’s Day Dinner. In many of the guidebooks for Amsterdam, there are many recommendations for food, some of the best being not Dutch food, but Indonesian food. I had never had Indonesian food before, so I chose a place called Kantjil and De Tijger. I had just 30 minutes before decided where I wanted to go, so it was kind of hit-or-miss at to whether or not we’d get a table. I figured Valentine’s Day would be big. I was right, but we seem to have great luck with tables, and we were seated right away, just before it got busy and the reservations came in. The place had wonderful lighting, dark wood accents, muted “oriental” style in a similar manner to tiki boutiques back in the States. The staff, including the men, all wore black and blue sarongs, too, which I thought was absolutely fabulous. We ordered a small carafe of wine (we were going to have access to unlimited drinks on our canal tour later, so we took it slow) and just went for the all-inclusive, no-thinking-involved meal for two. Turned out to be the best decision, as I know nothing about Indonesian food, and the explanations were in a form of Dutch-English hybrid that I didn’t have the patience to decipher. Excellent food. And despite various complaints about the service, I found it to be just fine, if in the European style (which is, as a general rule, less attentive that American style, which is where some of the problem lies; in European places, it’s considered rude to be as attentive to customers as you would be in the States, and I’m sort of fine with those added moments for intimacy).
And in terribly romantic fashion, everybody was celebrating Valentine’s Day (with the exception of some American/British ex-pats, who seemed to be having a business/social meeting of some sort). A guy my age sat in a table cattycorner to us and bounced nervously in his chair, alone, for a number of minutes before a girl of a similar age showed up, her smile only growing when he presented her with a small bouquet of flowers. Jonmikel remarked that, “he gets a lot of points for picking this place out.” Like I said, terribly romantic.
After spending only an hour at dinner (about half the time we usually spend, unless we have wine, in which case we can spend much longer), we head out to the docking area for our cruise, the Blue Boat Company. We spent the next hour-and-a-half (though it seemed much shorter) cruising slowly among the lights and sounds of Amsterdam at Night. The canals are incredibly narrow, with harrowing turns, and props to the boat pilots who manage not to crash into every stone wall and metal barrier. The wind was chilly, but drier than we were used to in Scotland, so we bundled up and headed to the outer deck to take pictures. It was only us and one other couple (coincidentally sitting at the same table) who braved the cold to get some great night shots of the city. While neon lights may not seem to be the most romantic of lighting choices for Valentine’s Day, they did provide an exotic flavor to the night, even in the small portion of the Red Light District we sailed through. I don’t remember any other European city being so well lit; the Tokyo of Europe, perhaps?
We also were given Champaign (OK, so not the real thing, silly French, but the Dutch version of sparkling wine), Dutch cheeses and variety of snacks to keep idle hands busy during the cruise. Despite the group of wholly obnoxious British tourists (who, doubtless, came on one of those tour buses geared toward old folks who want to get the “real” international experience by staying in big groups of fellow tourists and visiting only the best faux-authentic tourists spots), the trip was relaxing and quite nice. I gave Jonmikel a copy of “The Missing Piece” by Shel Silvertsein, one of my favorites as a child, as a Valentine’s Gift, and maybe some day we’ll get around to reading it. ☺
After the cruise, we did the traditional Valentine’s Day activity: visit the Red Light District! As our hotel was on the edge of it, it was more or less on the way back, so we meandered through it. It was fun to watch all the awkward 20-something boys walk around in big groups giggling uncomfortably, and the girls they were with (if there were any) rolling their eyes and trying to look smooth and cool and mature. We stopped at a small bar and had a beer and just hung out; the area is great for people watching, and I don’t mean the prostitutes in the windows. Though I did get irritated at a couple of guys who just didn’t get it that they weren’t supposed to be taking pictures of the buildings in the District, despite the fact that everybody was yelling at them. I hope they got arrested later in the night and their pictures erased. It’s just not kosher. For all those who may be wondering, the place isn’t as racy as it’s made out to be. There’s no nudity or anything, and it’s all very well policed. Though I do wonder how well regulated it is, not in the sense of health check-ups and such, but by way of making sure all the girls are there by choice and are treated well by both pimps and customers. Some girls looked cheerful and happy and normal, while others looked bored and still others looked unhappy, but it’s hard to tell whether such sentiments are from a bad day, a bad job, or a bad life.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
The City of Church-Approved Sin
Amsterdam, city of sinful things, Europe’s Las Vegas. Red Lights Districts, coffeeshops (ahem), late nights and neon lights. Prostitutes and churches working side by side to make Holland a better place to visit. All in a night’s work.
While not the most logical birthday choice for someone whose nightly routines usually involve an episode of Star Trek (of one series or another) and bed around 11, Amsterdam is still quintessentially Europe, and a must-see, as it were. I was totally stoked that Jonmikel was taking me on vacation! It was reading week at Uni, as well, which made it even more convenient to jet away for Valentine’s Day/my birthday. Also, it was our first Valentine’s Day/Kat’s birthday we celebrated together; last year I was teaching English in Morocco while JM prepared for a conference in Dubai. I was at a loss as to how to tell anyone that it was even my birthday, though Valentine’s Day seemed to be in Moroccans’ normal holiday vocabulary. So Amsterdam this year was something special for us.
And what says “Happy birthday” better than free booze on the flight over? US domestic flights have nothing on even the most basic of European flights (the barebones airlines such as EasyJet excluded, of course). We touch down in early evening, in time for us to find our hotel by the waning touches of daylight. It’s a small place, with dated carpet, 70s subdued decor and a Ms. Pac-Man video game in the lobby. We got a good deal on it, and it sits in the oldest part of the original city, established sometime around 1200 AD. Before the canals. We check in and head up the stairs, old marble rungs concave and tired with the weight of 200 years of feet. We had read reviews of many hotels in Amsterdam, and in all but the fanciest of establishments, the greatest complaint was the small rooms: “Not enough room to swing a cat,” as it were. JM and I seem to have excellent luck in hotel rooms, however (the most recent of which has been our EXCELLENT room at the Ami Hotel in Tromso), and, upon opening the door to our temporary home, found ourselves in an extremely spacious and fabulously drab room with a brand new bed, complete with that fun Swedish sleep system squishy bed stuff. You know, the kind that molds to the shape of your butt and all that. Quality. And, as it turns out, our big bay windows (complete with mini-balcony) look right over the beginnings of the Red Light District (and the Old Church, to boot!). During the day it seems innocent enough, with its flower stalls and ugly little dogs guarding the storefronts. At night it turns into an enclave of soft neon lights and giggling 20-something boys.
The room also happened to be above a coffeeshop, all of which double as cannabis establishments, and upon opening the window, we realized that, first and foremost, this city smells like POT. In fact, we noticed it stepping off the train from the airport, but had more pressing things to take care of, mostly not getting pick-pocketed while standing around looking like the stereotypical lost tourists. The smell is definitely hard to ignore when it’s one floor down. But there was a light breeze, not uncomfortable despite the dry chill, and the wafting aromas aren’t so bad.
We recover slightly from our journey and head out to see what we could see in the evening. Our first stop was Abraxas, a small very retro-hippy kind of place that sold Jasmine and Moroccan teas and a fine selection of fruity milkshakes. And yes, the place sold pot. You can’t avoid such things in Amsterdam: one line for tea, one for an ounce or two. But if you’re looking for a place to people watch and relax, Abraxas was it. Plenty of slightly sheepish American and Brits, slowly going up to the counter, fiddling with the menu, walking away, going back and finally, softly, asking for a space cake. It was kinda cute. At one point, I whipped out my camera and began taking photos of some of the more eclectic designs in the place, which started a trend of unsure tourists following suit. Everybody was just waiting to make sure it was “OK” to be photo-grubbing tourists.
Apparently, though, The Netherlands, in order to make peace with the high haters in the EU, compromised on their drug policy and said that cafés, coffeeshops and bars had to choose between selling marijuana and selling booze. To sell both was just way too liberal a controlled substance policy. Which meant that Abraxas did not sell beer; so when Jonmikel got the urge, we headed out to find a place that served a nice beer and some dinner. We settled on a hole-in-the-wall place not far from the New Church and the Palace that played horrible pop music in English sung by people who spoke absolutely NO English. The food was OK (we should have gone to one of the many South American steak houses we saw on the way, a situation we would rectify later). We called it an early night (11 o’clock bedtime, remember?) and headed back to the hotel, strolling through the crowded nighttime masses.
While not the most logical birthday choice for someone whose nightly routines usually involve an episode of Star Trek (of one series or another) and bed around 11, Amsterdam is still quintessentially Europe, and a must-see, as it were. I was totally stoked that Jonmikel was taking me on vacation! It was reading week at Uni, as well, which made it even more convenient to jet away for Valentine’s Day/my birthday. Also, it was our first Valentine’s Day/Kat’s birthday we celebrated together; last year I was teaching English in Morocco while JM prepared for a conference in Dubai. I was at a loss as to how to tell anyone that it was even my birthday, though Valentine’s Day seemed to be in Moroccans’ normal holiday vocabulary. So Amsterdam this year was something special for us.
And what says “Happy birthday” better than free booze on the flight over? US domestic flights have nothing on even the most basic of European flights (the barebones airlines such as EasyJet excluded, of course). We touch down in early evening, in time for us to find our hotel by the waning touches of daylight. It’s a small place, with dated carpet, 70s subdued decor and a Ms. Pac-Man video game in the lobby. We got a good deal on it, and it sits in the oldest part of the original city, established sometime around 1200 AD. Before the canals. We check in and head up the stairs, old marble rungs concave and tired with the weight of 200 years of feet. We had read reviews of many hotels in Amsterdam, and in all but the fanciest of establishments, the greatest complaint was the small rooms: “Not enough room to swing a cat,” as it were. JM and I seem to have excellent luck in hotel rooms, however (the most recent of which has been our EXCELLENT room at the Ami Hotel in Tromso), and, upon opening the door to our temporary home, found ourselves in an extremely spacious and fabulously drab room with a brand new bed, complete with that fun Swedish sleep system squishy bed stuff. You know, the kind that molds to the shape of your butt and all that. Quality. And, as it turns out, our big bay windows (complete with mini-balcony) look right over the beginnings of the Red Light District (and the Old Church, to boot!). During the day it seems innocent enough, with its flower stalls and ugly little dogs guarding the storefronts. At night it turns into an enclave of soft neon lights and giggling 20-something boys.
The room also happened to be above a coffeeshop, all of which double as cannabis establishments, and upon opening the window, we realized that, first and foremost, this city smells like POT. In fact, we noticed it stepping off the train from the airport, but had more pressing things to take care of, mostly not getting pick-pocketed while standing around looking like the stereotypical lost tourists. The smell is definitely hard to ignore when it’s one floor down. But there was a light breeze, not uncomfortable despite the dry chill, and the wafting aromas aren’t so bad.
We recover slightly from our journey and head out to see what we could see in the evening. Our first stop was Abraxas, a small very retro-hippy kind of place that sold Jasmine and Moroccan teas and a fine selection of fruity milkshakes. And yes, the place sold pot. You can’t avoid such things in Amsterdam: one line for tea, one for an ounce or two. But if you’re looking for a place to people watch and relax, Abraxas was it. Plenty of slightly sheepish American and Brits, slowly going up to the counter, fiddling with the menu, walking away, going back and finally, softly, asking for a space cake. It was kinda cute. At one point, I whipped out my camera and began taking photos of some of the more eclectic designs in the place, which started a trend of unsure tourists following suit. Everybody was just waiting to make sure it was “OK” to be photo-grubbing tourists.
Apparently, though, The Netherlands, in order to make peace with the high haters in the EU, compromised on their drug policy and said that cafés, coffeeshops and bars had to choose between selling marijuana and selling booze. To sell both was just way too liberal a controlled substance policy. Which meant that Abraxas did not sell beer; so when Jonmikel got the urge, we headed out to find a place that served a nice beer and some dinner. We settled on a hole-in-the-wall place not far from the New Church and the Palace that played horrible pop music in English sung by people who spoke absolutely NO English. The food was OK (we should have gone to one of the many South American steak houses we saw on the way, a situation we would rectify later). We called it an early night (11 o’clock bedtime, remember?) and headed back to the hotel, strolling through the crowded nighttime masses.
I know, I know, I'm supposed to be off to Amsterdam for a whirlwind birthday weekend. But I just wanted everybody to know that there's a white stag in the Highlands! Apparently there is always a small handfull living in Britain, but because there are approximately 5 people living in rural areas in this country (Edinburgh is considered a small town, anything smaller is just disregarded as some kind of malfunction in the dampening field around the warp coil), nobody ever sees them. But someone from Reuters got a shot of one, and they're keeping the location secret because, just like hicks in Montana with a white buffalo, someone would shoot it and stick it on his wall.
Which would be a shame, because such an animal has spiritual significance for many of the Scottish people, rather, all Celtic peoples in general, in much the same way white buffalo in the States have for many Native American groups. Some people think the best way to honor something is to stuff it and put it on display. Yuck. Anyway, the stag is white, not albino, and seeing as the British managed to kill of all their large predators, could likely survive for quite a while. I would bet, though I do not know for certain, that many myths surrounding it are similar to myths found all over the world about rare animals. Many have probably been incorporated into Christian mythology. Despite being Christianized, old religions still persist quite well in the nooks and crannies of society, sometimes so intermixed with mainstream religions (Christianity and Islam, most notably) that not even bishops and imams can tell the difference.
And next time people point out how "tribal" the Middle East is, I will just have to point out how tribal modern Scotlanders are. It's not a negative thing (or shouldn't be, at least), but both Arabs and Scots have heavy family ties that go back generations and centuries; loyalties are still demostrated on a daily basis here. Even if in slight jest, there is a lot of seriousness surrounding the MacGregors and the MacDonalds and all that. Tribalism is the oldest (and perhaps best) form of knowing who your friends are.
Anyway, back to the stag. How cool is that? Soooo.... off to Amsterdam for the LONG weekend!
Which would be a shame, because such an animal has spiritual significance for many of the Scottish people, rather, all Celtic peoples in general, in much the same way white buffalo in the States have for many Native American groups. Some people think the best way to honor something is to stuff it and put it on display. Yuck. Anyway, the stag is white, not albino, and seeing as the British managed to kill of all their large predators, could likely survive for quite a while. I would bet, though I do not know for certain, that many myths surrounding it are similar to myths found all over the world about rare animals. Many have probably been incorporated into Christian mythology. Despite being Christianized, old religions still persist quite well in the nooks and crannies of society, sometimes so intermixed with mainstream religions (Christianity and Islam, most notably) that not even bishops and imams can tell the difference.
And next time people point out how "tribal" the Middle East is, I will just have to point out how tribal modern Scotlanders are. It's not a negative thing (or shouldn't be, at least), but both Arabs and Scots have heavy family ties that go back generations and centuries; loyalties are still demostrated on a daily basis here. Even if in slight jest, there is a lot of seriousness surrounding the MacGregors and the MacDonalds and all that. Tribalism is the oldest (and perhaps best) form of knowing who your friends are.
Anyway, back to the stag. How cool is that? Soooo.... off to Amsterdam for the LONG weekend!
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
I managed to drag Jonmikel out to a IMES (Islamic and Middle Eastern Studies) social event. Every once in a while the crowd does something not involving tedious Iranian existential films or extensive discussions on the Medieval history of Islamic philosophy. I may be getting a degree in this stuff, but I'm more into the nitty-gritty violent and anger-ridden aspects of modern ethnic politics. Give me a Tuareg attack on Malian military and Bedouin attacks on Egyptian police any day.
And go ahead, call me an Orientalist, but I dig the belly dancing, too. Which is some of what this social event involved. It was a performance of the Dunya Emsemble, a group made up of students and profs alike, all playing a vast array of Levantine and otherwise Mediterranean instruments and/or vocal talents. They played a mix of Greek, Turkish, Iranian and Arabic music, sometimes all at once. It was pretty rockin', actually. The vocals in each type of music includes such complicated rhythms and vocal pitches and tones... it's amazing those sounds can all come out of the same person, or better yet, any person at all. It's tingly. Plus, I'm having a love affair with any and every bongo-ish drum I hear, and the performance was full of them. Hence the belly dancer. I've taken lessons before, so I can attest to the fact that it's easier to keep a dancing rhythm with a well-placed drum. The effect was beautiful, and the dancer was very good. She wasn't the best dancer I've seen, by way of basic skill, but she was the most natural I've seen live (OK, I mean, Shakira pretty much beats out, well, everyone), which I think counts for a lot. I've seen some dancers who, while knowing how to make very sensual movements, have made it all look very forced. At any rate, I enjoyed it much, and I found myself taking pictures of her feet and their movements. There's something very cool about a dancer's feet. Hmmmm....
Also, I wanted to mention that Jonmikel is a magnet for curious people. Everywhere he goes, he finds people who want to talk to him, and I have no idea how he does it. This night, it was a dude (the name was lost through both language barriers and loud music) from Dubai. He was sitting next to us idly and decided to just talk to Jonmikel. He proceeded to ask us how we could stand it here in Edinburgh. He said, and get this, that it was too SMALL. He found himself soooo bored all the time. He wanted to know how we entertained ourselves. Now, I have heard Edinburgh described as "wee" by a great many UKers, but I could never imagine being bored. Especially if I were a young, wealthy Emirati. For those of you wondering, he was a wealthy Emirati as 1) he was a Dubai citizen, 2) he talked a lot about going out in Dubai and 3) he was a fairly heavy drinker. If the first weren't enough to convince you, all three strongly indicate his standing as wealthy. All Emiratis are wealthy. If you're not wealthy, you're not a citizen. It works out well for them.
And go ahead, call me an Orientalist, but I dig the belly dancing, too. Which is some of what this social event involved. It was a performance of the Dunya Emsemble, a group made up of students and profs alike, all playing a vast array of Levantine and otherwise Mediterranean instruments and/or vocal talents. They played a mix of Greek, Turkish, Iranian and Arabic music, sometimes all at once. It was pretty rockin', actually. The vocals in each type of music includes such complicated rhythms and vocal pitches and tones... it's amazing those sounds can all come out of the same person, or better yet, any person at all. It's tingly. Plus, I'm having a love affair with any and every bongo-ish drum I hear, and the performance was full of them. Hence the belly dancer. I've taken lessons before, so I can attest to the fact that it's easier to keep a dancing rhythm with a well-placed drum. The effect was beautiful, and the dancer was very good. She wasn't the best dancer I've seen, by way of basic skill, but she was the most natural I've seen live (OK, I mean, Shakira pretty much beats out, well, everyone), which I think counts for a lot. I've seen some dancers who, while knowing how to make very sensual movements, have made it all look very forced. At any rate, I enjoyed it much, and I found myself taking pictures of her feet and their movements. There's something very cool about a dancer's feet. Hmmmm....
Also, I wanted to mention that Jonmikel is a magnet for curious people. Everywhere he goes, he finds people who want to talk to him, and I have no idea how he does it. This night, it was a dude (the name was lost through both language barriers and loud music) from Dubai. He was sitting next to us idly and decided to just talk to Jonmikel. He proceeded to ask us how we could stand it here in Edinburgh. He said, and get this, that it was too SMALL. He found himself soooo bored all the time. He wanted to know how we entertained ourselves. Now, I have heard Edinburgh described as "wee" by a great many UKers, but I could never imagine being bored. Especially if I were a young, wealthy Emirati. For those of you wondering, he was a wealthy Emirati as 1) he was a Dubai citizen, 2) he talked a lot about going out in Dubai and 3) he was a fairly heavy drinker. If the first weren't enough to convince you, all three strongly indicate his standing as wealthy. All Emiratis are wealthy. If you're not wealthy, you're not a citizen. It works out well for them.
What a day!
Let's just start by saying that I got my hair cut the other day, and the girl doing the cutting, after commenting on how beautiful my hair color is (back to natural, more or less), commented on how jealous she was that I got live somewhere with real seasons. Well, real enough, despite having falls and springs that are about 2 days long. At least summer and winter differ by more than a few degrees. Here, as she so nicely pointed out, all it does was rain.
Which was why, on a day like today, I'm pretty sure everybody just skipped out on work (I'd say school, too, but it's reading week soooo there is no school!) and went to the park. The sun was out, and the sky was virtually cloudless (though, amazingly enough and as the Weather Channel pointed out, visibility was incredibly low, which I'm sure is something that can only occur in Scotland), and temperatures soared to about 60. Wind was negligible (for ONCE). The world's most perfect day (well, this part of the world, anyway; my perfect day would include about 20 more degrees, a beach and some kind of girly cocktail with an umbrella in it). You guys in the States are having snow days; we have sun days.
We discovered Springtime as we walked to pay all of our bills. I want to reiterate how difficult it is to pay people in this country. They don't take credit cards, or they don't take YOUR credit card, or you can't pay in cash even though you don't have a credit card, or you can have it taken right out of your account by not all at once and it has to be monthly, or they can't take it out of your account at all and you have to use a debit card or a check even though you're not eligible to get a checking account in this country... or some absurd combination of any of the above. Council Tax has been a supreme pain in the ass (ask me about it if you dare), and tuition payments took about 4 months before the university figured out how to deal with my loans, which is odd considering there are an awful lot of us Yanks mulling around.
So we got everything paid up, just in time for our Valentine's Day trip to Amsterdam (love a man who plans for BOTH my birthday and Valentine's Day despite the fact that they land on the same day; haven't had one of those in a while). On our way back home, aside from noticing the serious lack of work going on in the city today, we stopped to toss the baseball around. It felt good to get some sun. I think I'm suffering irritability and anxiety due to a severe lack of Vitamin D, hopefully taken care of by a nice trip to the Arabian desert in a couple of weeks. But getting some exercise out in the park, watching people just stroll around, enjoying the sun and warm air and birds and dogs and... the lack of people picking up after their dogs. Yeah, it was rather pleasant.
On a different note, I'm reading a book by Steven Brust called Cowboy Feng's Space Bar and Grille. It's by and large a very odd book, but it reminds me a lot of how my mind works: deep and intense at times, those times followed very quickly and inexplicably by hours upon hours of clear, unadulterated schizo visions of Disney Princesses, Van Gogh and Star Trek, often all in one. I'm fully enjoying the erratic quality of the book, though I hear the ending is a little off putting. You know, nuclear war, a bar that can jump in time and space whenever a nuke goes off in its vicinity, an Irish band caught in it all... the usual.
Let's just start by saying that I got my hair cut the other day, and the girl doing the cutting, after commenting on how beautiful my hair color is (back to natural, more or less), commented on how jealous she was that I got live somewhere with real seasons. Well, real enough, despite having falls and springs that are about 2 days long. At least summer and winter differ by more than a few degrees. Here, as she so nicely pointed out, all it does was rain.
Which was why, on a day like today, I'm pretty sure everybody just skipped out on work (I'd say school, too, but it's reading week soooo there is no school!) and went to the park. The sun was out, and the sky was virtually cloudless (though, amazingly enough and as the Weather Channel pointed out, visibility was incredibly low, which I'm sure is something that can only occur in Scotland), and temperatures soared to about 60. Wind was negligible (for ONCE). The world's most perfect day (well, this part of the world, anyway; my perfect day would include about 20 more degrees, a beach and some kind of girly cocktail with an umbrella in it). You guys in the States are having snow days; we have sun days.
We discovered Springtime as we walked to pay all of our bills. I want to reiterate how difficult it is to pay people in this country. They don't take credit cards, or they don't take YOUR credit card, or you can't pay in cash even though you don't have a credit card, or you can have it taken right out of your account by not all at once and it has to be monthly, or they can't take it out of your account at all and you have to use a debit card or a check even though you're not eligible to get a checking account in this country... or some absurd combination of any of the above. Council Tax has been a supreme pain in the ass (ask me about it if you dare), and tuition payments took about 4 months before the university figured out how to deal with my loans, which is odd considering there are an awful lot of us Yanks mulling around.
So we got everything paid up, just in time for our Valentine's Day trip to Amsterdam (love a man who plans for BOTH my birthday and Valentine's Day despite the fact that they land on the same day; haven't had one of those in a while). On our way back home, aside from noticing the serious lack of work going on in the city today, we stopped to toss the baseball around. It felt good to get some sun. I think I'm suffering irritability and anxiety due to a severe lack of Vitamin D, hopefully taken care of by a nice trip to the Arabian desert in a couple of weeks. But getting some exercise out in the park, watching people just stroll around, enjoying the sun and warm air and birds and dogs and... the lack of people picking up after their dogs. Yeah, it was rather pleasant.
On a different note, I'm reading a book by Steven Brust called Cowboy Feng's Space Bar and Grille. It's by and large a very odd book, but it reminds me a lot of how my mind works: deep and intense at times, those times followed very quickly and inexplicably by hours upon hours of clear, unadulterated schizo visions of Disney Princesses, Van Gogh and Star Trek, often all in one. I'm fully enjoying the erratic quality of the book, though I hear the ending is a little off putting. You know, nuclear war, a bar that can jump in time and space whenever a nuke goes off in its vicinity, an Irish band caught in it all... the usual.
Monday, February 4, 2008
Superbowl Sunday/Monday
They say that the most patriotic people in the world are expatriates. No matter what country they hail from, once they leave, their sense of national identity is beaten into them by the onslaught of foreignness. It begins with handing the passport to the customs agent, who inevitably judges you by its cover, and ends, in my case, with the Superbowl.
Yes, you can’t get any more American than the Superbowl. In a select number of bars across Edinburgh, American expatriates, of one form or another, sought out the company of other Americans in order to partake in the time-honored tradition of imbibing copious amounts of the cheapest beer they can get and watching men in tight pants jump all over each other. On a big screen TV, no less.
Which is what Jonmikel and I selected to do on Superbowl Sunday, 2008. The US embassy was nice enough to anticipate sportsmanlike interest and posted the names of bars in the UK that would host Superbowl parties. This was actually a much bigger deal than one would suppose at first, if only because kickoff was at 11:30pm. PM. Most bars only have liquor licenses until 12 or, at the latest, 1, so to find a place serving until 4 in the morning was, well, kind of a big deal. The Pear Tree House, close to the university and containing a large beer garden complete with German-style benches and a giant TV screen, was our venue of choice. No cover and 3-for-2 beers. Extended liquor license. American friendly. We had never been in before, and the flattering wooden wall paneling gave the Superbowl and traditional, upper-crust Scottish feel. Every American football game needs that, don’t you think?
I’m not sure what it is that drives Americans to search out their own kind, to congregate for sporting purposes in a tiny pub to watch a game that most don’t understand or aren’t even remotely interested. Such was the case with one girl, who looked to me startlingly like a Tiffany, who sat cattycorner to us. She had thick brunette curls, a nice yuppie sweater, and an air about her that declared her to be far superior to the cheerleader-type girls who accompanied her. She even looked soooo (said with a swish of the neck and the nose held high) embarrassed when her companions sang loudly and proudly to Tom Petty’s half-time show. Because, of course, sporting events are perfect places to people watch, I observed her finally finding an intellectual-looking British man with slight shaggy, intellectual-looking British hair and an intellectual-looking British wool sweater over his shoulders with whom she could discuss the pressing issues of grass harvesting in Kiribati, or perhaps some other equally fascinating topic. Football was the last thing on their minds.
There were also two Japanese guys on the couch in front of us who didn’t drink much and barely spoke English but who completely understood the concept of football. They were often some of the first people cheering when their (losing) team made a good play or got lucky. I guess the fact that they rooted for the Patriots (who does that?) could be forgiven because they were Japanese. There’s no other excuse.
We had the perfect seat, too. When we first got there, the place wasn’t packed, but all the seats were either already occupied or being unfairly saved. That’s, like, the second rule of sportingdom: you can’t save seats for more than one person. But alas, my good friend Tiffany was saving FIVE choice seats for her good friends who never showed up anyway (which I guess left room for her new British friend to come along and woo her). For a number of harrowing minutes, we thought that we would have to make our football home directly under one television and about 30 feet from another, which would leave us squinting to see uniform colors and scores. Way not cool. I’m waiting for Jonmikel to grabs us some beers, when all of a sudden, a group of people, looking might unhappy that their usual dusty and dreary student hangout had been Shanghaied by American sports lovers, turned up their noses, quaffed their beers, and moseyed on out, leaving me to pounce on a plush pleather couch with a direct and very short line to a TV screen. Score!
And so, we enjoyed our game. For those of you who also watched it or are at all aware of how much the world hates the Patriots, you will find it quite enough to know that I was totally stoked that the Giants won, and it was a very good game, and I was disappointed only that I didn’t see an actual fight (which seemed imminent at various stages). At one point, a stupid Scottish man, there with an American buddy, yelled out “Jihad!” during a particularly good play for the Patriots. How ignorantly distasteful, to yell that out not only in a room full of Americans but also in a room with a spattering of Middle Eastern looking people. I mean really. His American friend finally took him home after he repeatedly yelled “Goal!” at inappropriate times, which leads me to believe that perhaps it was the Tennents lager declaring a jihad and not his own bad taste.
And now, after a night of bonding with my fellow Americans, I feel quite patriotic. Go Barak Obama! That’s how patriotic I feel. But I do feel closer to the US population in Edinburgh. We all experienced the downfall of the New England Patriots together, and that means something. And Tiffany found herself a British dude. I mean, what more could you ask for?
Yes, you can’t get any more American than the Superbowl. In a select number of bars across Edinburgh, American expatriates, of one form or another, sought out the company of other Americans in order to partake in the time-honored tradition of imbibing copious amounts of the cheapest beer they can get and watching men in tight pants jump all over each other. On a big screen TV, no less.
Which is what Jonmikel and I selected to do on Superbowl Sunday, 2008. The US embassy was nice enough to anticipate sportsmanlike interest and posted the names of bars in the UK that would host Superbowl parties. This was actually a much bigger deal than one would suppose at first, if only because kickoff was at 11:30pm. PM. Most bars only have liquor licenses until 12 or, at the latest, 1, so to find a place serving until 4 in the morning was, well, kind of a big deal. The Pear Tree House, close to the university and containing a large beer garden complete with German-style benches and a giant TV screen, was our venue of choice. No cover and 3-for-2 beers. Extended liquor license. American friendly. We had never been in before, and the flattering wooden wall paneling gave the Superbowl and traditional, upper-crust Scottish feel. Every American football game needs that, don’t you think?
I’m not sure what it is that drives Americans to search out their own kind, to congregate for sporting purposes in a tiny pub to watch a game that most don’t understand or aren’t even remotely interested. Such was the case with one girl, who looked to me startlingly like a Tiffany, who sat cattycorner to us. She had thick brunette curls, a nice yuppie sweater, and an air about her that declared her to be far superior to the cheerleader-type girls who accompanied her. She even looked soooo (said with a swish of the neck and the nose held high) embarrassed when her companions sang loudly and proudly to Tom Petty’s half-time show. Because, of course, sporting events are perfect places to people watch, I observed her finally finding an intellectual-looking British man with slight shaggy, intellectual-looking British hair and an intellectual-looking British wool sweater over his shoulders with whom she could discuss the pressing issues of grass harvesting in Kiribati, or perhaps some other equally fascinating topic. Football was the last thing on their minds.
There were also two Japanese guys on the couch in front of us who didn’t drink much and barely spoke English but who completely understood the concept of football. They were often some of the first people cheering when their (losing) team made a good play or got lucky. I guess the fact that they rooted for the Patriots (who does that?) could be forgiven because they were Japanese. There’s no other excuse.
We had the perfect seat, too. When we first got there, the place wasn’t packed, but all the seats were either already occupied or being unfairly saved. That’s, like, the second rule of sportingdom: you can’t save seats for more than one person. But alas, my good friend Tiffany was saving FIVE choice seats for her good friends who never showed up anyway (which I guess left room for her new British friend to come along and woo her). For a number of harrowing minutes, we thought that we would have to make our football home directly under one television and about 30 feet from another, which would leave us squinting to see uniform colors and scores. Way not cool. I’m waiting for Jonmikel to grabs us some beers, when all of a sudden, a group of people, looking might unhappy that their usual dusty and dreary student hangout had been Shanghaied by American sports lovers, turned up their noses, quaffed their beers, and moseyed on out, leaving me to pounce on a plush pleather couch with a direct and very short line to a TV screen. Score!
And so, we enjoyed our game. For those of you who also watched it or are at all aware of how much the world hates the Patriots, you will find it quite enough to know that I was totally stoked that the Giants won, and it was a very good game, and I was disappointed only that I didn’t see an actual fight (which seemed imminent at various stages). At one point, a stupid Scottish man, there with an American buddy, yelled out “Jihad!” during a particularly good play for the Patriots. How ignorantly distasteful, to yell that out not only in a room full of Americans but also in a room with a spattering of Middle Eastern looking people. I mean really. His American friend finally took him home after he repeatedly yelled “Goal!” at inappropriate times, which leads me to believe that perhaps it was the Tennents lager declaring a jihad and not his own bad taste.
And now, after a night of bonding with my fellow Americans, I feel quite patriotic. Go Barak Obama! That’s how patriotic I feel. But I do feel closer to the US population in Edinburgh. We all experienced the downfall of the New England Patriots together, and that means something. And Tiffany found herself a British dude. I mean, what more could you ask for?
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