This is my apartment, this was my Christmas, and if I had a picture of my heart...

This is my apartment here in Dubai.  There's a pretty sweet computer table and office chair (off to the right), a not so sweet couch (there are 4 pillows on the sitter-downer part...you know, to save you from any possible nails), and a respectable bed.

When I turn off the lights, I have an amazing string of blue lights which run on the wall across from my bed/behind the couch.

Sometimes when I turn the lights on, this girl is there.  Her name is Jayleene; she is from Ghana.  Her father is dead, her brother quit school, and her two younger sisters are getting married.  Jayleene is a prostitute.  She's wearing my sweatshirt.  She loves ice cream.  She counts to 10 when she tries to go to sleep.  She has someone named "Soulmate" in her telephone contact list.  She has a sweet smile.  The first time I met her, I was really really really drunk; I had enlisted my taxi driver to find me food (we went to an anti-american pakistani joint near Al Garhound...wonderful kebabs and light spicy sauces, surly waiters) and afterward, I said "Let's get a girl."  I'm pretty sure I said something more akin to "Lessgettagurl," and my driver, Iman, laughed and drove.  We found her.





My Christmas looked like this:

 

I had some wonderful people over, and I broke several laws (specifically, transporting alcohol, harboring alcohol without a license, and exceeding the lawful occupancy limit).  That's a great Christmas.  Unfortunately, it was all in an attempt to forget that I was in this foreign place, sleeping on a strange sand and wondering what my friends were doing, what my family was doing.  And I couldn't get rid of that feeling, even as everyone left.

 

I called Jayleene.  She came over, and we talked.  I cooked her dinner on my stove:

Dinner was Ramen noodles and ice cream.  Apparently, being a prostitute in Dubai is not that much different than being a college student.  You know, other than the selling your body part.  After she ate, she looked at me meaningfully.  I looked at her emptily, and said "I just want you to be here.  But before you are, will you go buy me some cigarettes?"  She did.  She came back.  She slept here.  And as I was nestled next to her, I couldn't help but think what I was paying for. 

What WAS I paying for?  Company?  I have company.  I was paying for the opportunity to take care of someone.  But also to have someone to hold onto.  If only for a moment.  Wait...I was paying for the opportunity to hold onto someone for a moment.  Anything longer and I get exhausted.  Anything more and I have to change.  I was paying for the convenience of a perfectly warm body and a steady heartbeat, and more importantly the ability to close a door and say I'm on my own again.

But the deeper truth is that I can't help myself.  If nothing else, I wanted Jayleene to have a night when she wasn't hungry.  I wanted her to feel somewhat secure (she had to, right?  Otherwise she wouldn't have come back...again...and again).  I wanted her to feel as if she weren't judged.  All the things I want for myself (other than the hungry nights).  And I can't help myself.

I want to help.  I want to make a difference, no matter how small or contrived.  I want one person in this world to feel loved.  But I don't want the commitment of that.  I want that feeling to end at 1pm, when I pass over some cash money, give a hug and say "don't call me."

Because I will call again.  At some point.  The hole this "charity" fills, in me, is bigger than the hole dug by its cost.  There may be a mountain built from all this dirt dug out of me, but I will sit underneath it, breathe in the dust and weight and gravity, and say it was all worth it...was it ever worth it. Even as it finally crushes me.

One Year Ago

One year ago, I was living in Central Islip, Long Island.
I had left my friends in New York City
because they were starting to scare me.
Scare me with intimacy, scare me with responsibility,
scare me with the thought that they would never leave.
And because they wouldn't leave, I drove them away.
I drove them away because I can't stop
loving change
loving someone different.


I turned to someone "authentic," someone from the city,
a girl with a brooklyn accent,
a girl with brooklyn ties,
a girl with brooklyn hate.

When that didn't work out as well as I had planned,
I turned to someone else:
she could make me laugh,
she could turn my mornings into something more,
she could make me think about being a father,
she could make me realize that though this may be the last night of my life,
she could make it better.

Oddly, it turned out she lied to me.

Just as I had lied to my friends,
to my family,
to my present love,
to everyone.

This is my lie:
I'm someone you can trust
I'm someone you can believe in
I'm someone who is different
I'm someone who is empathetic
I'm someone who is there
I'm someone who cares.

Here is the truth:
I'm scared.
Of you.
You.

Fear can't be fixed:
I'm frightened of you.
I love you so much,
I'm terrified.

هل تقصد

Sometimes I can't tell if I'm crying.
Sometimes I can't tell if I'm singing.
Sometimes I don't eat.
Sometimes I eat too much.
Sometimes I forget what day it is.
Sometimes I remember every day I failed.
Sometimes I wake up to a stranger in my bed.
Sometimes I wake up with someone else.

It's enough already.

Halas.

No one believes that I find joy in being silent. 

Halas.

If I could only say "I love you," or "I'm sorry," I would not have to sleep with so many wrongs.

Halas.


I can't take pictures of my failures.  I can't take pictures of my success. 

Halas.

If I can do nothing more tomorrow, I want to wake up.  If I can do only one thing after that, I want to watch the sunset.  If I can do one more thing, after all of that, I want to think of you
Halas.

Thanksgiving

Today is Thanksgiving in the United States, and yet another Eid here in the UAE.  Eid-ul-Adha marks the traditional Hajj pilgrimage to Mecca, where millions of Muslims circle the temple in Saudi Arabia ,

as well as when goats are sacrificed to remember the prophet Ibrahim's willingness to sacrifice his son at the command of Allah.  The goats are sacrificed to symbolize the willingness of Ibrahim to do Allah's bidding, but the sacrifice is also an act of thanksgiving as well, because Allah did not require Ibrahim's son and replaced the boy with a goat at the penultimate moment.
Quite a similar story to Thanksgiving, a time when turkeys are sacrificed (all right, outright inhumanely slaughtered) to celebrate the bounty as a reminder of everything we have to be thankful for.  This entire week I have been remembering Thanksgivings past.  Perhaps the better phrase is "haunted by" Thanksgivings past, like a mashed-potato loving Ebenezer Scrooge.

Here's a quick recap of some of my bad Thanksgivings:  last year, my dad couldn't see how easy it would be to push Mom's recliner (she was post-operative) to the Thanksgiving table, even though we all knew (or at least thought) it would be Mom's last Thanksgiving; I told my family I was an atheist at the Thanksgiving table; I wished Jay McCoy (absolutely ruined by Alzheimer's) a happy Thanksgiving, then I agreed with him that buckwheat pancakes couldn't be beat; I joined my dad in a Convict Thanksgiving (we were searched for any type of metal); I watched the brother of my new found friend Shannon slip into a coma (he had brain cancer) on a Thanksgiving night.  I know that I can't always see the bright side of things, but the Thanksgiving holiday hasn't been good to me for 17 years...until last year. (Yes, the same last year as the chair dust-up with my father.)

Last year, my sister and I went shopping with her two kids, Kobe and Destiny.  They were confronted with a choice:  run around the store with me or drive the shopping cart.  Destiny chose to go with me, Kobe chose the shopping cart.  Kobe lost.  Because I wasn't pushing the shopping cart.  Destiny and I roamed the store (which was a big one), with the only rule being that she couldn't turn down an aisle unless I was right behind her.  I taught her that she shouldn't take the first thing she picked in  the produce section, that she had to open egg cartons before buying them. I lifted her up to so she could grab a can of pineapple from the top shelf, and I demonstrated the subtle difference between cranberry sauce and jellied cranberries (ok...so my sister Jennie did that, for both of us.  Don't ruin the moment.).

Days like today, all I think about is that difference: how we are slightly different from each other, and how much that doesn't matter.  Gelid, slightly cooked, solid: we are all cranberries.  Soft and sour, we naturally lack sugar.  That sugar, that grace, comes from others:  the sweetness of relationships overrides our innate bitterness.  And though I am more bitter than most, I thank all of you for being my sugar.  Enjoy Thanksgiving.  Eid Mubarak! 

Losing my Mother, Finding the Dubai Museum, Random Thoughts

I haven't written anything because I have been so annoyed with the fact that uploading a picture takes so long, and I am such a visual person.  But, it really is time that I do write something, even if it's only for me.

Last Thursday morning, I found out my mother died after a year long battle with cancer. 

This is my mother with her grandkids.  Along with a home of her own, all she has ever said was that she wanted grandchildren.  I wasn't going to give them to her (c.f. Kathy), so it was up to my sister.  And here they are with her.  My mother and I were very similar in that we hate to have our picture taken, but you can't fake that smile.  She is happy, and she is gray, and she is cancer ridden.

I found out about her death after having a really good time with one of my GMAT classes:  we went to Jumeirah beach, had a few cocktails, and they all talked about what they wanted in life.  I could only think about what I wish I hadn't done in life.  But that's just me. 

This is what one of the hotels looks like there.

Anyway, after Security kicked us off the beach, we all went back to Sumurti's house for a final cocktail.  After some vague "I'll call you"s and "what's your email"s, I left with a light heart and an eye towards...alright, I can't actually finish that with a straight face.  I mean, I was in a staring contest with being 35 years old, and 35 was winning.  When I got home (don't ask me what time...don't ever ask me what time), I checked my email, and there it was.  The death announcement.  The "sorry" and the "tell you this" and everything seemed so clinical and cold even thought I know it wasn't meant that way.  It was clinical and cold because I have been clinical and cold throughout my mother's death.  (And yes, this last year has been her death.)

I didn't go to work on Thursday (obviously), and on Friday, my birthday (hooray 35), I decided that I would find the Dubai museum, regardless of the cost, time, and/or effort.

I found it.

Dubai's Museum is built on the ruins of a fort raised on a creek.  This is the only watchtower that is left.  In the 60's, Dubai's central government razed all of the pre-existing buildings to pave the way for progress.  This tower is the only one left.  Anything else in Dubai that looks/feels old is a replicate, a doppelganger, a fake.

 

The museum was entirely representative...meaning that there were very few artifacts, but a lot of creepy mannequins.  This particular couple was intended to show how tools were forged.  I was more concerned with the fact that they were knee deep in sand:  who put them there, how would they get out, and forget the sweatshops of Nike et. al., this just seems cruel.

After leaving the museum, I went walking around the area and found this mosque.  I found it right as evening ablutions began, and I'm pretty sure I lost an eardrum when they started.  Prayers are broadcast over loudspeakers (I'm assuming Bose, because they are that good) and because of where I was standing, I got the initial soundwave, as well as the reverberation coming off the buildings behind me.

Ears bleeding, eyes watering, and the taste of being 35 years old burning my mouth, I went home.  This is what I saw there:

 

That's chinese:  Wo Ai Ni means "I love you."  The cryptographs below the letters are the numbers 1-10.  I have a foreign language written on my walls.  

Sometimes, I think I have a foreign language written on my heart.  Sometimes I think my failure is I can't touch people because they are foreign to me.  Sometimes I think sunsets are finite and I should watch more of them.  Sometimes I think reading saves me.  Sometimes I feel so foreign in my own skin.  Sometimes I wish I could dance.  Sometimes I think I don't matter.  But then I have a night like tonight:  greeted by such a variety of people, people of all walks of life who relate to me, who know me, who enjoy me.  So I tell myself Wo Ai Ni.  And I tell you:  Wo Ai Ni. 

What you look for is never what you expect.

On Friday (the only day off I have here), I decided that I would search out the Dubai Museum.  Even though I knew that Dubai's history only extends 50 years (before that there were a lot of camels and even more sand), I wanted to see the roots of this place.  One of the problems with the US is that there is no real sense of history...it's only 200+ years old, right?  So if you spend any time in Europe (thanks, Oxford!), you can start to appreciate the shortness of breath which is the history of the US. Perhaps I should refer those of you who are unfamiliar with me to my adventure with the spice souks...as in, I never found them, just as I didn't find this museum.

This is what I found instead.   A road, stuffed with cars, half of them buried in sand.  The Suzuki pickup is stuck.  I kept walking (as I am prone to do)...and found this.  A monument, to what I'm not sure, in the middle of the same apartment complex.

There were pilgrims (?) kneeling at the far sides, removing their shoes, washing their feet, and bowing in the general direction of this.  Still in the hunt for the Museum, I moved on...

This is the Mosque tower by Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum's palace, right on the Dubai creek.  The walkway was packed with people fresh from the water taxis, headed home or out to shop.  I kept on getting jostled, poked, prodded, and all around disturbed me as I tried to enjoy the sun setting behind the green and lavish area.  So I kept on walking.

This is the sunset from near Mankool road, but further towards the Gulf.  By this point, I was exhausted, having spent several hours on foot, searching for this museum (which I later found out is literally minutes away from Community 317)...but I couldn't resist getting closer, even though this area is completely fenced and cordoned off, to keep prospective tourists from trampling on the virgin sand.

One of the things I've had to adjust to here is the daylight hours.  The sun rises around 5 am, and sets around 6pm.  And this hasn't varied since I've been here.  It's always sort of weird to walk into my building(s), and walk out around 7pm, still expecting it to be light outside but be completely wrong.

I'm currently teaching Math to the senior girls at Dubai First School.  They are all locals, cover themselves totally when not in class, and have loved me ever since I brought in a bag of candy for them.  Yesterday, they finally told me why they keep saying my name so often:  "tim" (with a slightly different inflection) means "stay" in Arabic.  So everytime they say it, they giggle, because I always stop what I'm saying/doing.  I'm going to try and take some pictures of them.

I have seen the future, and the future is RAID; also some Diwali reflections courtesy of my taxi driver

The common wisdom is that the average cockroach could survive a nuclear war, enduring the resultant fall-out and nuclear winter with the panache and grace of a nobleman who has been slightly inconvenienced by the loss of his manservant.  However, though the cockroach's radiation tolerance is higher than ours, they are not completely resistant to radiation.  Sufficiently armed with such knowledge, but after a larger and deeper analysis of all repercussions, I decided I would not detonate a nuclear bomb here in Casa Tim.  I opted, first,to try a local boric acid powder called "Piff Paff."  Let me tell you how that worked.  It was like anabolic steroids for my little friends.  I'm pretty sure I saw several of them rolling around in the powder, then scurrying along the floor to kick some sand in the faces of smaller roaches.  Pish-Posh to Piff Paff.  That's my new motto.  So along comes RAID.  Having had varying degrees of success with the product in Brooklyn, I

wasn't getting my hopes up for the made-in-Dubai version.  But, contrary to my expectations, success!  So long, friend. 

Diwali:
Diwali is a Hindu festival, known as the Festival of Lights.  The holiday is movable, and falls during a different time every year.  However, it is celebrated during the new moon, when there is only darkness at night.  The lights (candles, or even dangling electric lights) are light, to ward off the darkness.  Generally, the Hindus worship (or...specifically worship) the Goddess Lakshimi (who is the goddess of wealth, prosperity, light, wisdom, and generosity), Lord Ganesha (the lord of beginings and the remover of obstacles),  Kali Ma (the goddess of change and time) , and Lord Chitragupta (the god who keeps a complete record of every person on earth).

Where I live, in Bur Dubai, there are a lot of Diwali lights:  hanging over balconies, festooning apartments, wrapped around bicycles...everyone is doing his/her part to fight the darkness.

Tonight, my taxi driver, who was silent for the entire ride from Lamsey Plaza, muttered "Diwali blessings" under his breath as we turned into Community 317 (which is where I actually live), which is on the backside of Bur Juman plaza.  I said "Thanks.  Same to you."  Mainly because I had only recently learned of Diwali, and thought that it would be the nice thing to say back.  "You know Diwali?" he asked, incredulously, and almost drove us into a concrete stanchion in his amazement.  "Sure.  Lots of lights.  Some happy tidings and blessings and all that."  He just started laughing as he pulled up to my Al Habtoor building, block A.  "Lot of Diwali here."  "There are," I said.  "I'm still waiting on my presents from my neighbors."  (Diwali is also a time to show appreciation via generosity.  It's pretty standard to give people gold...actual gold.)  He started laughing again, and slapped my back.  "Here is generosity," he said.  He pointed to the lights, to the children playing in the streets, the cars driving recklessly past us.  "That we can live here.  That we can celebrate each other."  I reached for my wallet to pay the taxi fare, but he waved me off.  "Happy Diwali.  Celebrate."  If I were more of a "pay-it-forward" person, I'm sure that I would be nice to someone later on.  Who knows, maybe I will.
Regardless, Happy Diwali my friends.

My midnight girls

have fluorescent white teeth when they smile,
which is not often.
they wear black, because they have been told they are sinful.
they have beautiful eyes which can't see anything beyond this sand;
they are awful at math, but prodigies at giggling.
when i ask them, they don't know what they want from this life.
i know what i want...what i've always wanted.
to be held, to be whispered to during a thunderstorm,
to no longer say "i wanted to, but didn't."
what hand has decided i need to stand in front of them?
what author has decided
there is no better time than now?
the same writer that has decreed
i am as i am written, and so can be nothing more?
i want to be more,
more, more
and ever more.
but my midnight girls giggle when i touch their books,
stare in awe as i explain nouns, and refuse to answer
me unless i call them by name...names i haven't learned to pronounce,
and their companion hearts i will never be able to know.

So Long, Ras Al Khaimah, hello CAT Scan Results

Today was my last day teaching the Crown Prince of RAK's kids (not all of them, just FYI, but Shaikha Ahmnah [GMAT]and Shaikh Ahmed [SAT/Math II]).  Both of them have been wonderful, if somewhat slightly disconnected from a world wherein one doesn't have a father who is a world leader.  Sort of.  Specifically, these are the 2 richest kids I've ever taught, and the only negative thing I can say about them (and normally I have a bunch of negative things to say) is that they are unrealistic.  They are both smart, humble, wonderful, wonderful people.  Shaikha Ahmnah has a wonderful sense of humor, as well as a ravenous desire to be something other than the sister of her brothers; Shaikh Ahmed is very worried that he will never "experience" anything because of his title and his name.  Because of this, he let me drive his "Lambo" back to Dubai today, apparently so I would think that he was "good people."  This is kind of what it looked like (I chose the yellow one--and yes, there was more than one--, because yellow is my Mom's favorite color):

Luckily, I'm very familiar with manual transmissions, so it only took me a couple of minutes to figure out the ratio between the gas/clutch/holy mother of god we're all going to die.  I felt badly for Shaikh Ahmed's driver (Metro), because he was cramped in the back seat...waiting until I either crashed or I got home.  He rode with us because...he's the driver, and someone had to take the Shaikh back.

After an exhilarating drive back to Dubai (approximately 120km/60 miles), I had to relinquish the wheel to Metro.  I had missed most of the beautiful scenery between RAK and Dubai because Metro kept on shouting "RADAR" (there are RADAR cameras on Emirates Road...which is the road between RAK and Dubai) and "Flash lights, Sir...make them move over."

Best, fastest, and least comfortable car I've ever driven.

This is a CAT scan:

What does a CAT scan do, you may ask.
It doesn't do this:

mainly because if you have to get a CAT scan, you aren't shooting fireworks off in celebration.  Anyway, CAT is an acronym for Computerized Axial Tomography.  What that means is:  holy cow, this is really scary and I'd rather not do it.. How does is a CAT work?  It's basically an X-RAY camera (read...weird sci-fi technology) which rotates around a prone patient, and the images are compiled, indexed and sorted by a computer (thus the "C") so doctors can visualize what is happening inside the body.

 

I'm waiting for the results of my mother's CAT scan, which will reveal if her cancer is spreading or not.  I guess I shouldn't say that I'm "waiting" for these results, because I already know what they will say.  I'm waiting for confirmation of what I have known, but what my family can't believe.

But today, while driving--did I mention that I was driving a sweet car?-- I remembered a sign/photo/something I had seen at some point in my life:  Don't Cry Because It's Over; Smile Because It Happened.  So, while I'm still waiting for the bad news, I'm smiling because of all the good things my mom has done.

Desperately Seeking Souks

Today, I went searching for the spice souk ("Souk" means: open air market).  This is what it's supposed to look like:

A wonderful market where everyone says "Hail Fellow, Well Met!" or some such nonsense.  A place that you can smell 5 kilometers away:

At least, that's what I thought it would be like.  Because I believed the literature:  brilliant colors, intoxicating smells, to describe it as "unique" would be an insult.  I believed that I couldn't miss it.
The Souk is located in Deira, which is where I'm staying and is only a couple of kilometers away, so naturally I figured I would walk there.  Who can get lost in a place like this?  Where English is a recognized, if secondary, language, and this souk is apparently immediately recognizable by odor alone.

Let me tell you, friends, that nothing is as easy at it seems.  The walk along Dubai creek was wonderful, and although I was pouring out gallons of sweat while drinking mere quarts of water, after about 1/2 hour I figured I was pretty close to the souk.  I smelled something, and while I wouldn't have called the odor "intoxicating," it was definitely something different.  So, I followed my nose.

Was I ever wrong.

I found the Gold Souk (same idea as the Spice Souk, only with...you know...gold.)

 

I wasn't greeted with any of the niceties I expected (Welcome, Friend et. al.).  I got plenty of offers for necklaces, for imitation Rolex watches, a couple of "marry my daughter"s, and a nasty realization that sometimes it doesn't hurt to ask where I'm trying to go.  However, ever the explorer, and refusing to give way to some silly sense of "Uhhhhhh...where am I again?" I headed back onto the streets.

I saw this hotel, while still trying to find my souk, and finally realized why green and blue are such prevalent colors here.  Green is the color of heaven (and just in case anyone is counting, it has a wavelength of 520-570 nanometers): 

If one only knows the desert, which has a dearth of vegetation, obviously green will mean a haven/heaven.  The lush bounty reflected from the leaves of trees surrounding the blue water in the midst of such a terrible and heartless landscape would symbolize an escape from a constant struggle life is.  Green is rest, green signifies water, green is peace.  Thus, heaven.
If only peace were as easy to find as an oasis in the desert.
Anyhoo, I was still wandering, still trying to find my spice souk.  And I was getting further and further away.  I only know this because I've got a directional gift:  I almost always know where started from, but I never know where I'm going, nor do I know how to get there.  If only I had those green blocks to show me the way.

قد تجد دائما أخضر
(May You Always Find Green)

This sand is a grit worth tasting

sometimes

  i wish i could trap the words i hear

and change them into calico kittens

  that chase purple balloons into a dark alley.

sometimes
  the way people look at me reminds me
of a carnival ride i can never disembark nor forget.

sometimes

all i can see are neon lights

but what i want to see is in the shadows.

sometimes

  the symbols we use to write mean more than the message
we are trying to convey,

and if i could somehow taste those...letters...i could understand more.

more about mothers, more about sacrifice,

more about sorrow.

sometimes

i believe i shouldn't think these things,

because thoughts which have no solution,

no answer, and no reason

are best left unthought.

but more often,
i am reassured about how fortunate
i am that i think this way.

water never tastes better

than when it washes away the sand

between my teeth.

and my teeth are gritty.

The End of Ramadan, and a broke-ass m*****f*****.

Tonight, September 19th, 2009, marks the end of Ramadan, and tomorrow is the beginning of Eid, so everyone greets each other with Eid Mubarak, which means "blessed festival."

To us non-muslims, this means that the rest of the year opens up...we can drink water on the streets, we can eat during the day, we can smoke, and if called upon, we can have sexy-time during the day.  The funny thing about Eid, Ramadan, and the rest of the Islamic calendar is that the entire edifice is based on the lunar cycle. 

 

The Middle East (or at least this part of it) has been a repository for astronomic knowledge for centuries, but the end of Ramadan depends, not on the calculations of men but, on the eye-witness event of the actual crescent moon (called hilal).  In Dubai, the only official "expert moon-watchers" reside in Saudi Arabia, which means that if I spotted the crescent moon two days ago, it wouldn't count, because I am not A.) expert, nor 2.) in Saudi Arabia. 

Obviously, this follows a grand tradition of moon based religious festivals:  Easter, Chinese New Year.  But, what is the point of this? I don't know.  Today is today, regardless of if you call it September 20th or Shawwal 1st.  Don't we all have the same date in our bones, the same sun on our skins, the same night for our dreams?  Ramadan is the month the Prophet received the Word from Jibrail (Gabriel), so why is there a fast?  Lent marks the 47 days before Easter, and it also contains an element of fasting.  Why?  Where is the joy?  I think that's what is missing from the religions of the sun:  the joy in a revelation, the joy in a resurrection, the joy in the freedom.  

Broke Ass:
After my 11 hour day of GMAT and SAT work, I went to Champs bar to have a beer in celebration of Eid.  My own personal celebration of Eid.  There I was, enjoying a haraam beverage

(and yes, Dorito's are haraam...there is pork fat in there...sorry vegetarians), sitting in the darkened room, when I accidentally made eye-contact with a prostitute who was sitting at the bar.  She smiled, I smiled, and she started to get up.  I made the universal sign of "Don't come over here," which involved me grabbing my throat and falling to the floor, convulsing.  She understood, so she stayed at her seat.  After a few more beers (it's Eid, people...don't judge me), I made eye contact again, and she obviously smiled at me.  I had no idea what to do, so I wrote something on a napkin and made a paper rose out of it (Thanks, Brian Chapman!).

On the napkin, I had written that I couldn't enjoy her company, because 1) I would fall in love too easily, and B) I was a Broke Ass M*****F*****.  I watched her open the rose, I watched her read it, and I watched her drop my rose and follow me to the elevator.  She caught up with me, and started talking about love and such, so I had to ask her if she knew what "broke ass" meant.  She said "You like broke?"  I just started laughing and said I could afford to get her a taxi to take her home, but nothing else.  She was aghast, slapped me, and said "don't ever take me away from my bar seat unless you afford sexy."  Hahaha.  Brilliant.  I love making those kinds of mistakes.

Night Exploration

Tonight, I went walking.  The area I live in is called Deira, and there are just so many amazing things, I can't even begin to describe them.

This is a statue that is next to the Reef Mall.  The water is desalinated, and is from the Gulf.  There is such a disconnect here between what is and what was.  Even if I wanted to I couldn't catch this type of fish here, and no one has ever been able to.

This is the clocktower, and if you are ever here in Dubai and want to get to the "old town," just tell the taxi driver to take you to the clocktower.  North of this are more malls, but west of here are the wonderful spice markets, rug merchants, and a significant portion of people who don't speak English.

Just north of the clocktower is this wonderful mosque.  It's not as fancy as some of the others here, but it is really beautiful.

 

This is the sign on the street side of the mosque.

This is what was at the Ladie's prayer entrance.  After I took this picture, a couple of women in burkas (also known as burqa) left, and I almost took a picture of them.  But, respecting the culture and the beliefs here, I decided I wouldn't.  But here's what they look like:

They are Darth Vader type masks, but for women who lack the Force.  (As an aside, I've heard 2 pro-burka speeches since I've been here:  The burka protects the modesty of the woman, and allows her to focus on the Prophet's word.  Or, the burka allows a young woman to dance at a club without the fear of being recognized, because no one other than her father and brothers have ever seen her face.  I'm pretty sure that the latter is more true.)  The less radical type of covering is the hijab (which can also mean "Modest Dress"), and is seen more often.  This is what it looks like:

While talking to women wearing hijabs, it is easy to estimate their reactions.  Those who are in the burkas are much more hidden, and obviously that's on purpose.  I've spoken to a couple of burka-bound women, who told me that they choose the covering.  I asked them if they did it because they were scared or fearful of something, and they said they weren't...they did it because it was the wish of their husband (or father).  Then I told them that it just looked "damn hot."  They laughed and said that I looked "damn hot" because I was sweating like a maniac.  They were right.  I was damn hot.  The people here are so wonderful.