To Be or Not To Be

Vocabulary Word of the Day: Al Humdul'allah
Meaning: Thanks be to God
Uses: Response to everything

From: Self-described Grouchy Grammarian
To: Self
Re: Loosen up and embrace it, it's not changing (and if you don't embrace it, you're going to be wrong!)

The time that I began teaching English to native Arabic speakers correlated roughly to the time that Jacob's own Arabic studies were beginning to really flourish and he'd come home from class with interesting little tidbits about grammar and vocabulary. One factoid was particularly disturbing: there is no "be" verb in Arabic.

I know, I know, it sounds trivial and silly (and you're probably thinking, "110 degree heat and kitchen gnomes and you're thinking about "be" verbs?!"), but such is the nature of my disease.

It wasn't such a big deal when I was teaching--surely they could see the benefit of "be" verbs, right? No, they aren't just confusing add-ons to myriad tenses full of irregular conjugations. They are a defining element of who and what you are and about what you are communicating! Spanish has two "be" verbs (lucky) and lots of hybrid tenses just like English so that each minute detail of a situation can be aptly and complicatedly described if that is so the desire of the writer/speaker.

Of course I was foiled in nearly every instance of quiz or test in which they were on their own to remember this phantom verb. I was surrounded by fragmented sentences and incomplete tenses (horror!).

On Sunday (our first day of the week), I was, of course, faced with the ugly reality of the stripping of my [Arabic] literate and communicative self of all "be" verbs. I swear I almost had a panic attack as we studied the first few conversations and sentences.

"Whain cuub?"
I insisted on translating in my head "Where IS the cup?" (WRONG!)
"Kaif Halek?"
"How ARE you?" (WRONG!)
"Shoo hadtha"
"What'S going on here?" (STILL WRONG, EVEN IF YOU DON'T WRITE THE WHOLE THING!)
"Shoo isme?"
"What IS your name?" (WRONG!)

Are you getting tired of me being wrong? Because I sure am. And hey, most things can be said without the be verb anyway, so maybe I'll adopt their method. It's certainly simpler. But, then, simplifying things, well, that just wouldn't be me.

Six month evaluations

Six months ago today I did something I wasn't sure I'd ever do: I got married.



And six months in, I can say it's been the best thing I've ever done. Thankfully, the husband agrees.

Here's to being a Hardy, to taking leaps, to enjoying life and all its twists and turns.

Cultural Conversations: PDA

Today was my first day of the intensive summer program at GAP (Gulf Arabic Program) school. I was a little intimidated to think about nearly 6 hours devoted to this strange language, the alphabet of which I've barely mastered. But, after a few exercises with my new classmates and one instance of my chair buckling beneath me (why me?), things loosened up a little.
The skill levels range from barely literate to fairly literate with some vocabulary. Sheerly because of my immersion and the husband's far advanced studies, I've managed to pick up some of the vocab, but I still count myself among the fairlly literate, often confusing my taas, tahs, thas, dhas, etc. (and you can imagine about how well that goes over with a former editor, always spelling things wrong!).

Anyway, cultural conversation, right? So, I've explained (and many of you know) the very conservative nature of the culture here. Our dress code at school is more restrictive even than Asbury: long-sleeved shirts that must be hip level if worn with pants, skirts to your ankles, pull the hair up and make sure it's dry (wet hair is...well, we'll just call it haram - shameful). As they put it at school, "Most Omani men have never even seen their sisters' ankles and hair since they were children." (Don't get me started on my views of what Omani men and women have and havent seen, based on the TV and ads to which I know they've been exposed, but ok, we're being sensitive here).

So all of my class, dressed appropriately, attending respectfully to the instructors, has made it through five and a half grueling hours of Arabic-language training. We're about a half-hour away from freedom for the day and restoration to our status as well-functioning adults in our native language. We're working on commands, "take," "give," "punch," (Prof. Hussein's a jovially-violent one) and "look."

So, we take turns telling each other to take a pen, give it back, punch your neighbor, etc. etc. etc. Then Hussein jumps in and starts giving directives. He instructs Katie, one of the three married women whose husband is also in the class to "shoof Steve." She leans over and, to Hussein's chagrin and surprise, kisses him!

I didn't even see the darn kiss, it was so short and chaste, but remember, Hussein's supposedly never seen an ankle before and, to be fair to the Omanis, nearly all kisses are edited out of movies and television shows. Well, he laughs in his surprise and just comments, "Shoo hadtha?!" (What's this?!). In the midst of the scandal, he forgets to explain the issue, that shoof means look, not, in fact kiss, and he moves on to the next victim, the youngest student, only just graduated from high school, probably the least experienced in Arabic and a bit uncomfortable amidst all the "adults."

"Shoof Megan," Hussein commands.
J, looking understandably perplexed, shifts his eyes downward, embarrased at the prospect.
"Shoof Megan," Hussein encourages.
J barely looks up from his notebook and shakes his head.
"SHOOF Megan!" he insists.

Reluctantly, J raises his eyes and brings his hand up to his lips, kissing it and miming the action of blowing it to her across the room.

At this point, half the class (like me who didn't even see the first kiss) are just plain confused as to why he's blowing a kiss to shy, quiet, Megan who is married but whose husband is not in the class and, oh yeah, did I mention she's pregnant? Hussein was scandalized, needless to say, and shouted, "What is wrong with you?!" at poor J.

Hussein doesn't understand, naturally, that J is 18 years old, the son of a pastor who has recently imported his family from the states where he was invariably homeschooled and, I'm guessing, sheltered from many of the same things (in principle, I've seen his sister's ankle in public) as Hussein. Of all the people in the class, he was the most likely to be mortified by the whole exercise that ended up mortifying Hussein.

I can only imagine the foot on which J got off to with Hussein. At least I only broke a chair (which, let's face it, klutzy things simply are not atypical for me).

On to day 2...

Also, here are a few shots of the skit (Streetfighter: Gap School Edition, in which we are all traditionally-dressed Omani ninjas) performed by Jacob's class for the end-of-term party last week. I was tapped to play a couple of teachers to fill in the empty spots. Yes, that's me in an Abbaya, no it's not my baby bump, it's my impersonation of Huda, one of the teachers who is preggers (Sorry, Caris and Rick)

Anne, Leigh and Miriam in the majlis as Huda, Wadha and Kamela

Aaron "Dr. Hautir" (Danger) combats Kamela

Slimming, don't have to do your hair, don't have to iron your clothes...

maybe there is something to all this!

Photos courtesy, Miriam of Arabia. Shukran!

Tour of Flats 2009

In Morocco, we detailed our living situation and, by popular demand, I've finally captured a few shots of the showpiece that is our flat in Buraimi. So, here goes:

Living Room (complete with husband and, yea-elliptical machine!)

"Entertainment Center" (We read a lot these days)

Bedroom Vanity

Check out more killer Middle-Eastern bedding. Upgrade or downgrade from red zebra?

I excluded the "squat pot" (Eastern-style floor toilet) and the washing machine (bonus!)

Dining Room

This is the kind of kitchen they advertise as "charming" in a decrepit NYC building

But at least we're sans cockroaches lately! Plus, Jacob says, no matter what you say about this apartment, I got you marble countertops. Indeed!

It's not exactly my little place in Chevy Chase (which will be inhabited soon by my new sister-in-law), but it's home for now. And it has the most important thing in it: Air Conditioning. Just kidding. The husband, obviously!

Houseguests

We've had houseguests recently. Actually, I guess the first one was about a month ago, but they've become more frequent and are staying longer and longer...but these we don't mind so much. They help us out with the bug problem.

Moving movies

Look, I'm not going to say that Elizabethtown is a good movie. It's an un-win-able argument, I think. I mean, I can't even convince myself that it's a good movie, I just happen to like it. I like Cameron Crowe, I even kind of like Kirsten Dunst (despite her horrible accent) and Orlando Bloom. I like the music (Ryan Adams, Elton John, My Morning Jacket, Fleetwood Mac, James Brown, The Temptations), as I always seem to with Crowe films. I like the cameos by Patty Griffin and Paula Deen.

But most of all, I love the surroundings. The hazy barely-there clouds of dew hanging over Kentucky hills and streams, the sound of cicadas and locusts and crickets, the stars that puncture a deep, steamy night's darkness with cool light. Tall old trees raised up on sections of craggy, gorged land that begs to be hiked and explored. Rock-lined roads, bared by blasts to clear pathways for vehicles to press comfortably over black asphalt from the cities and trouble and noise to the seclusion of endless farmlands and gravel roads and clean air laced with fresh-cut grass and moss and earth.


I can't wait to get back to that scene.

Sense-orship?

thehardyheyday.blogspot.com

Remember the puzzles from scholastic magazine? The ones on the back cover that had macro-lens photos of something in nature that you were supposed to identify? It would always be something like a blade of grass or a panda's paw or the filament of a lightbulb. Well, I have the United Arab Emirates version. Guesses anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

It's not exactly the same thing, but it is a little...puzzling. Got it yet? Well, it's not something that occurs in nature as we know it, but it's quite common here. You know, thinking about it, it may have been even more puzzling to see the whole picture, so here goes:

You may be at this point, as I was the other day, squinting and trying to figure out exactly what it is you're looking at, but I suspect you aren't still trying to figure out that you're looking at the stretching curve of a woman's lower back and a bit of the bum. You're trying to ascertain what it is that's streaking over what might have been the more...artistic, shall we say, portion of the photo. And the answer is...black magic marker! Individually-applied black magic marker (ie, this would have been on every copy of that page of the New Yorker's June 1 edition)!

Jacob and I were both reading before bed when I made my discovery and I squealed with delight that I had actual proof of this phenomenon, which to expats not investing in overtly inappropriate purchases is something of an urban legend.

So, there's good news and, well, hilarious news. The good news is that, at one bookstore in one mall, I can get a copy of a week-late New Yorker for the bargain basement price of about $8.33 (USD). The hilarious news is that, should my nearly-100-year-old literary magazine slip in its morals by displaying a slightly-too-spicy illustration or photos, mine eyes will not be tread upon by its hedonism.

You can be sure I'm breathing a sigh of relief.

Hiding in Plain Sight

I love cities - especially the ones with lots of foot traffic and lots of buzz. The buzz of people going somewhere, everyone with a purpose, everyone busy, everyone living his life expediently. I love New York particularly, and particularly I love to go there by myself. It's the most energizing feeling to me, to be walking the streets with milions and millions of people, all with so many things to do, all moving together toward completely different destinations. Everyone is present with the others, acknowledging the person inches away only with his silence and seeming indifference, but silently watching, from behind a newspaper, magazine, book, laptop or darkened sunglasses.

I enjoy the silent observation this kind of environment affords. It's what I think of as a quiet respect that is particular to certain areas and, let's just admit it: Lexington isn't one of them. Lexington is the kind of place where you walk on streets with a couple thousand people who are just hanging out, strolling maybe toward something, maybe toward nothing at all...and chances are if they are walking somewhere, they are walking to the same place (there aren't that many places to go) and they might even be talking about it to one another as they go - sacrelige, right? I used to think so. It was a confounding and confusing thing when I first arrived in a town where the people presumed to trespass on my private public observations with a greeting or friendly question.

My brother even came into town to visit once bearing the startling story of a gas station attendant who offered, in addition to correct directions, a bit of friendly conversation. It was the first thing he told me about when he arrived at my house.

After a few years, I got more than used to it. I loved greeting the parking garage lady every Saturday night when I was headed out with the girls - the one who wears the gloves all winter. I enjoyed making small talk with the girl behind the desk at the gym as she handed me my towel, the people at the coffee shop every morning standing in the line with me. I made friends with the barista, the mailman, the woman who always walked her dog at the same time as me, the jeweler down the street, the restaurant owners in the neighborhood, the cashier at Kroger. I came to enjoy the combination of observation and interaction.

Here I feel like I'm deprived of both sides, though. I glance at the women here and they're shrouded, cut off, free to observe and cut off from interaction. That's not a social commentary on veiling, it's more an expression of the desire to interact more with this culture that is so private, so protected. I can't speak to the men and I sit next to these mysterious women and see only sometimes their eyes, hands and feet. I draw all the conclusions I can about each one from their abbayas, their handbags, shoes, the appearance of their children. They or their children gently bump into me and they look up with silent pardons. I always smile back at them and wish I could say something to them. Something that might start a conversation, a friendship, create an environment where I could ask more questions.

I wonder, and can't recall, what question or statement it was to which I first grudgingly responded...not that it would be the same here. Or maybe it would.

Somebody's Watching Me

Living in a relatively small town in the states, one gets used to the idea of people watching. Not creepy-peeping-stalker watching, but it seems like whether it's Friday dinner with the girls, where you walked your dog, the question of who you went on a date with last or if you appeared at the community council meeting on Thursday afternoon or if you went out on Saturday night, someone always knows the answer.

Here, it's similar, in a way. It took about 5 seconds for the neighbors to realize that there were Americans moving in and you get the idea that the barber, the shopkeeper, the parents of the kids who play in the sand and dirt outside our apartment building are always keeping one eye out to see what we're up to.

But I've started to realize that they aren't just watching us to see what we'll do, they're watching us to see if we'll do what they expect us to do. And all of their expectations are based on the trashy TV that is licensed here. We're just a newly-moved-in cast of some horrible series. They must be waiting for us to start conducting illicit affairs out in the open and then kill each other over hidden stashes of money, and maybe kidnap their children for some nefarious purpose.

According to the media's information - a selection straight from the worst of Hollywood flicks and TV - Americans are sex-obsessed, crime-ridden, money-grubbing, foul-mouthed, irreligious degenerates. Pair that with the news, and you can add war-mongering fiends with irresponsible foreign policy to the staggering list.

We have several friends here, people who have been exposed to us and other foreigners, who don't buy into the stereotypes, but there are a lot of people we meet and with whom we're combating the image from day one. It's a tough place to be. And it certainly makes me think about what I'm doing and saying...does it back the type or crush it?

Girls' Night Redux

For the six years after college before Jacob and I got together, I was a seriously committed single girl. A few guys and dates came (and promptly went), but they weren't what I - or most of my friends - would have labeled a priority. We had other ways to be spending our time, like working long hours, decorating our homes with swap meet finds, new paint colors and gigantic sale-item mirrors. We had charities, parties, dinners and vacations. Everything was girlfriends: day or night. Things are different now for lots of reasons (no house, no steady work, little shopping, few restaurants), but there are a couple of things I'm lucky are still around in addition to my wildly attractive, sweet and considerate husband: vacations being one and girlfriends being the other.

One of the highlights of the week was talking on the phone to a girlfriend who, due to all of our crazy activities and her work schedule is pretty hard to pin down. If our plaster walls weren't so thick, I'd have disturbed the entire apartment building, I'm sure, with the maniacal laughter so characteristic of our friendship. Another phone date is planned with the BFF from back home and, frankly, it's so comforting knowing that they're still there and still there for me.

But even those reassurances aren't enough when you need to get out and away with some friends now. So last night, Ellen, Leigh, Miriam and I took leave of the boys and headed out for a girls night. It's not the same as home, but delicious Indian food, and chic mountaintop hotel sheesha bar aren't too shabby. Not to mention the talking...and the laughter.

Cultural Conversations: Deodorant

There's only one thing for which I have put in a specific request here from home: The New Yorker. I wouldn't argue if someone managed to snag a container of OPI Bubble Bath nail polish, though, but that's off the subject. There's also only one thing that Jacob has requested from home: deodorant. I laughed at first when he said that, but after a few months living here...hoo, boy.

No, my hot (literally and figuratively) husband isn't getting overripe here in the desert sun, but deodorant isn't a commodity that's...caught on, culturally.

And for all the cultural capital we may have built up over these past few months living overseas and melding into different countries and traditions, it's probably still not going to be enough to cover my persistent insistence that people stop skipping the stick - deodorant, that is.

Why why WHY do men (not necessarily Emiratis, but other expats) refuse? We're not talking road crews here. We're talking stockboys at the grocery, security at the mall, TAXI drivers, for Pete's sake! One foreign service employee at an Embassy cocktail party in Abu Dhabi commented to me about returning to the states from Africa, "It was like they pumped perfume into the air or something. I couldn't stand it, it was so unnatural. I mean, bodies, or rotting milk, I guess it doesn't smell good, but it's natural, you know? I was glad to get back to it."

NOT ME. Crank up the chemicals, pump in the perfume. Anything but B.O. Am I insensitive? A priss? Unnatural? Whatever, just spread the antiperspirant love, join the neo-deo movement. And, no, sorry folks: Axe (just like all the incense or cologne in the world), despite it's sexy (somewhat tamed here) ads promising women all over you, is not the same thing, does not work, will not do anything but make it worse.

Mall of the Eighties, I mean the Emirates

Shots of a recent visit to the Dubai Mall...click for pics above.

Pigging Out -or- Bacon Bender

Daily Report
Sunny, 115

Many of you know that, in Muslim countries, bacon is basically banned. You can get it, of course, but it's a slightly black-market-like affair that makes you feel like, in Jacob's words, "you're sneaking into the liquor store before you're old enough to buy contraband."




I suppose he's right, but boundary to boundary, it's harder to find a store that will offer a "strictly non-Muslim" storefront in addition to it's normal operations in this country (actually, there isn't a store where we live in Oman, we have to cross the border to the UAE) than it is to find the sleepy cashier at the suburban grocery who'll sneak you the schnapps (or so I hear).



Well, until I made my first entry into the sanctum, I didn't realize how much I missed the other white meat. There were some failed attempts at constructions with turkey bacon, but it hit me when I walked into Choithram what I (we, Jacob's been on a recipe request rampage) was missing...I felt like Bubba from Forrest Gump as the possibilities whirled through my head.



Green beans with bacon, bacon and eggs, chicken and chorizo, sausage patties, sausage gravy, ham biscuits...you get the point.



And just in case you didn't...