27 8x10 Colour Glossy Pictures...

Now, if you're not familiar with the song, "Alice's Restaurant" by Arlo Guthrie, please, go to YouTube and listen to it. It's a wicked tune. And I know - it's also wickedly long. The original recording is 18 minutes and 34 seconds to be exact, which, Wikipedia tells me, was the length of one of the infamous gaps in the Watergate tapes. That naughty Nixon!

I digress, but I think you'd agree that's appropriate once you've heard some of Arlo's songs. The best ones, while we're digressing, are "Alice's" and "The Motorcycle Song," but really his whole "Best Of" album is a groovy way to start your day. In fact, my dad often played that record on weekend mornings when I was growing up, and my bro and I can still tell you why Arlo didn't want a pickle, and what he wanted to do instead. (Ride on his motor-sickle).

Anyhow. In "Alice's Restaurant," Arlo tells the rambling tale of being rejected as a U.S. Army draftee on account of his criminal conviction for being a litterbug. Before they finally reject him, however, he has to submit to hours of "injection, inspection, detection, infection and neglection." And that is also what happens if you want to be an officially-recognized human in Dubai.

Example: I need to have my residency visa renewed. The one they issued me initially is only good for 2 months. So, off we went the other day to the Company's* HR department to take a little number and wait in a big line.

*Due to recent 1984-esque events which cannot be divulged online, I have decided to exercise some discretion in naming names because The Eye in the Sky is definitely watching.

In order to get this visa, I needed my passport, a copy of hubby's passport, 4 passport-sized pictures, and the appropriate forms filled out. Fine, did this. 

I also needed to submit a vial of blood. For no reason that could be explained to me. 

I just needed to get another little ticket and wait for my turn in a separate room, inexplicably staffed by two people (one to work the number-making machine and tell me where to sit, and one to stick me). When I feebly asked why they needed my blood, the needle-man said one word, "Biological," followed by 20 words which I was unable to identify.**

**Just in case anyone thinks I'm complaining about other people's accents, I'm not. I'm grateful that people in customer service positions here speak English, or attempt to. And no one can understand me, either, given the fact that I mumble and use invented words like "sketch-fest" and "ginormous." It's a 2-way street. But, I will say, if I'm ever pulling a vial of blood out of someone's arm, I will definitely be sure to articulate my words clearly and say something like, "I'm putting this ginormous needle in your arm because we need to know absolutely everything about you in order to accomplish simple things in this sketch-fest of a city." Or something to that effect.

And all this hoopla isn't just for residency visas. To get a cell phone plan, for example, you have to submit passport photocopies for you and your sponsor, letters of permission if you happen to be a housewife (cringe), several other passport-sized photos and torso x-rays. Okay, not the x-rays. But I wouldn't be surprised.

So to sum up this post, at the moment, despite countless injections, inspections, detections, infections and neglections, I am not an official human in Dubai. I cannot get a phone or drive or work. All these things are pending my visa, which is pending approval of my bloodwork. Let's just hope it's "Biological" enough for Dubai.

Transcription of First Pizza-Ordering Experience in Dubai

alternate title:

Encounter Between Two People Who Can Speak English But Not To Each Other

RING RING

"Hello, Pizza Hut. Carshayoorrockayeeshammam."

"......Hi, I'd like to order a pizza for delivery."

"Yes ma'am. What is your location?"

"Millennium Tower."

"What is your location, m'am?"

"Millennium Tower on Sheikh Zayad Road."

"Where are you located, ma'am?"

".........Dubai."

"Yes ma'am, what is your exact location?"

"Millennium Tower on Sheikh Zayad Road."

"What is your apartment number?"

"xxx4."

"Mobile number please, ma'am."

"I don't have one. I'm calling from a landline."

"You don't have a mobile number, ma'am." [not a question]

"........Right."

"You're calling from a landline."

"....Yes, it's 32-"

"What do you wish to order ma'am?"

"I don't have a menu. Do you have something with everything, you know, the works?"

"What type of pizza do you wish to order, ma'am?"

"Something with everything, please."

"Beef, chicken, vegetables or seafood, ma'am?"

"Oh, um, beef and vegetables."

"Beef, chick-en, ve-ge-tables or seafood, ma'am?" [spaces out the words to be clearer]

"Fine. Beef."

"Do you want Deluxe, Super Deluxe, Hawaiian....? [several other options, delivered top speed]

"Oh. Hawaiian, please."

"That's Hawaiian, ma'am?"

"Yes."

"Hawaiian. Beef and pineapple, ma'am?"

"Ummmm, yes."

"What kind of crust, ma'am?"

"......Thin?" [very hopefully]

"That will be 48 DHS ma'am. 30 minutes. Hawaiian thin crust to Apt. 4104, Millennium Tower."

"Yes, thank-you."

PAUSE

Hubby enters the room.

"What did you get?"

"Hawaiian."

"You know the Hawaiian is really weird here because they don't use pork."

On the call to prayer and whorehouse-chic

We were pretty sure there had been a terrible accident. As we drove along the one-way loops and switchbacks that we hoped would lead us into central Sharjah, we saw a large crowd of people on the road. They looked like they were gathered around someone or something on the ground in the right-hand lane, but we couldn't tell. A couple of cars were parked at odd angles nearby, hazards flashing. It looked ominous.

Then everyone in the crowd knelt down at the same time. And we noticed the prayer mats.

Now, far be it from a heathen like me to suggest that people pray on the sidewalk (or approximately where a sidewalk would be, if there was one, which there wasn't). But these guys were right beside a mosque. You'd think it would be more peaceful, if not safer, to pray in a spot where one didn't run the hazard of being mowed down by a couple of low-blood-sugared Canadian furniture-shoppers. However, this was Sharjah - Dubai's neighbouring emirate, about a 40 min. drive down the highway - reportedly a much more devout place than Dubai.

In fact, though I'm generalizing wildly on the basis of just one visit there, Sharjah did seem a bit more into their religion. The mosques played spiritual soundtracks all the time, not just during the call to prayer, and the larger furniture stores had prayer rooms. We'd be wandering along, admiring the latest raspberry-velvet and gold-lacquered example of whorehouse-chic, and suddenly we'd hear a group of people behind a wall saying something in unison, in response to what we'd thought was just pleasant furniture-buying muzak.

Well, power to them. And actually, praying did seem rather appropriate as we dragged ourselves through another 25 furniture shops last night without a single purchase.

Which brings me to whorehouse-chic, the prevalent style. (One of C's buddies coined the phrase, so props to M.) It got to be a little overwhelming after awhile. Imagine armchairs like thrones, with armrests you could lie on and gigantic curving backrests swathed in sherbet-coloured velvet. Imagine the liberal and often haphazard application of leather panels, copper studs, toonie-sized crystals, wood carvings, tassels as big as your head and other lavish embellishments. This is furniture doing everything in its upholstered power to convince your bum that it is the most glorious thing in the world. 

Now, we didn't see anyone buying this stuff. All of the other people shopping - lots of families, of varied backgrounds - seemed to be looking at the everyday leather couches and such. I think a lot of these places stock the WC look to cater to the filthy-rich cohort of people here who shudder to think of a single moment when their wealth isn't on display. Well, WC fits the bill.

About half a dozen times, we'd encounter a simple, overstuffed couch shining like a beacon of mediocrity in a gold-lacquered wilderness. We like our couches to be very cozy and we are prepared to sacrifice 99% of style considerations if a couch will facilitate napping, preferably by two people at once, and ideally for two people and their future tiny-dog. 

And a couple of those beacons of mediocrity are about to become ours. Actually, they're very nice couches, in chocolate-brown (read: will blur most stains), with lovely overstuffedness. We're going back to Sharjah tonight to order them. So ready yourselves, potential visitors: the guest-beds are about to arrive!

I wish I knew what day it was...

...I keep asking C, and he just shakes his head. "Still Tuesday, hon." A real paper calendar is at the top of my shopping list for tomorrow. Of course the computer will tell me the date, but there's no substitute for those orderly little squares and moon-symbols.

So, yah...methinks I'm suffering from a wee bit of jet-lag. Yesterday, at about 4 p.m., I decided to take a quick nap. FIVE HOURS LATER I woke up. C said he'd tried to wake me but I would only open half of one eye at once, and kept mumbling away about how I wished he'd hurry up and wash my slippers (?).

Things are improving, though - this afternoon's nap was only 1.5 hours!

Our plans today involved some paperwork at the staff building, looking at a second-hand vehicle that C had located on-line, and some more furniture shopping (we have yet to break the seal and actually purchase something - still surviving with one chair, one desk and the long-suffering, multi-purpose ironing board that I keep accidentally smearing with my snacks, much to C's distress). 

Keeping in mind those three items on our to-do list, here's what actually occurred:

1. We make the 40 min. drive out to the staff building. C had received notice that the computer kiosks, which are the first stop for any and all paperwork-processing, were to be out of service for 2 days. This was supposed to be the day they were working again, but when we arrive, signage indicates that everything will be down for another 5 days. So no paperwork.

2. We then have coffee and a snack. During Ramadan, most restaurants are closed during daylight hours, but some are allowed to remain open - as long as the eating area is blocked off so that no fasting folks have to watch people like yours truly stuffing their faces. So we have our nosh in a little cordoned-off tent area. My sandwich includes halloumi cheese, which is like the mozza of the Middle East, and is seriously yummo.

3. We then contact the owner of the vehicle (an '04 Nissan Pathfinder) and agree to meet at the Emirates Engineering building where he works. Although we can SEE the Engineering building, it takes another 30 minutes to actually get there. That's because you can't turn left off most of the major roads in Dubai. 

No really. You can't. 

What you can do is make a U-turn at a designated intersection every 5 km or so. Or wait for an exit that will take you on a long, winding intestine of service roads/detour-loops and finally toot you out on the road facing the opposite way.

The first day that we went out driving, I just thought everyone was making a lot of illegal U-turns. Needless to say, this moratorium on left-hand turns, combined with being completely lost, coupled with endless detours due to endless construction, makes for some occasional delays.

4. We finally make it to the Engineering building and speak to Mr. Car-for-Sale-Man on the cell. We agree to meet on a certain floor of the parkade.

5. We park and wait. And wait. And wait. It is 40 degrees so we take turns standing in the AC'd stairwell like big, sweaty babies.

6. Several more phone calls to Mr. Man. Intense confusion about our location.

7. Mr. Man finally finds us and turns out to be a simply lovely guy whose immaculately-maintained vehicle we will most likely buy. Originally from Bangalore, he's been living in Dubai for 15 years and even offers to take us furniture-shopping over the weekend to help us locate all the best spots!

8. After agreeing to meet again after C's upcoming work trip, we hit the road for furniture shopping, on our own for now. At a critical moment, we miss a turn and get stuck on a bridge leading to the oldest, busiest section of town, which incidentally was designed for skinny camels, I suspect, and not SUV's.

9. We make it back to our side of the Creek and finally find the wonderful street full of wonderful furniture shops that we were looking for. They are all closed. We'd forgotten about the expanded split shifts due to Ramadan: places are open from 10-2 and 8-midnight. 

10. We take the hint and go home for one more night with our chair, desk and ironing board.

But just so I don't give the impression that all these growing-pains are getting us down, here are a few more lovely things about Dubai that we experienced today:

1. seeing the haze lift late afternoon, allowing the sun to light up all the glittering glass buildings - particularly the stunning Burj al Arab mega-skyscraper that is so very tall, and getting taller right before our eyes

2. paying 30 cents/hour street parking

3. eating the biggest, plushest dried apricots I've ever tasted

4. hearing dozens of different accents and languages in the streets and shops

5. getting our very first letter - a thoughtful hand-written note from Ms. Rae-Lynne & Chad!

Oh, and I forgot to address my teasers from the other day - the No Hair Fall Out and the Stellar Food Court Meal. I will try to do so next post. Wish me luck tomorrow - C is off on a 2-day road-trip to Hong Kong, and I'm about to fly solo! (No driving yet - haven't done the extensive paperwork due to, you guessed it, those kiosks!)