Wild Wadi

The best thing about waiting weeks between blog posts is that I have a lot to write about.

The worst thing about waiting weeks between blog posts is getting an earful from friends and family. (Thanks guys for keeping me on track.)

The weirdest thing about going to a water park in the Middle East is running around in a bikini, in the very country where I was afraid of showing my knees not so many moons ago.

I've never met a water park I liked. Actually, I really hate them. The water tastes funny and the ground is always slimy and people who shouldn't be running around in spandex are freely running around in spandex (myself included.)

But when a client gave me tickets to Wild Wadi Water Park here in Dubai and I saw triple digits on the thermometer (read: iPhone) a few weeks ago, slimy water be damned, we were going to the water park.

And though I hesitate to admit it, this water park is pretty amazing. Here it is:



My favorite part of the day was climbing up to a slide we hadn't thoroughly investigated but that had a clever name (the Jumeirah Sceirah) and even though we saw a countless number of people backing out, continued up because we're Bruces and we're not scared of water slides.

We soon discovered that mostly unsuspecting guests are placed in a scientific-looking clear cylinder where they're made to cross their arms and legs, but only after being forced to remove all jewelry and hold it as if that reduces the chances of it ending up in a drain somewhere.

Looking closely at the picture again, I'm not entirely convinced it wasn't one of those cryogenic freezing capsules in a past life.
Anyway, it counts down, "three, two, one" as if you're on an Apollo mission and the floor beneath falls out and you're shot through said tube. "This would never fly in the states," I thought to myself for what must be the ten thousandth time since we moved here.

Here we are in our only photo of the day. See how authentic? Anyone who says Dubai's not the real Middle East doesn't know what they're talking about :)

The Employee Cafeteria: A Journey

Whew, it's been a long time! Sorry about that. I'm not sure if I've mentioned it yet, but work hours here are substantially longer than at home. The amount of free time I had at home to cook a meal resembling dinner, exercise, clean my house, take care of general overall hygeine...let's just say that I sure do miss it.

Anyway, this week was Cultural Week at work, where a different country's food was represented in the employee dining room each day. I love Cultural Week. It's amazing for so many reasons. First and most simply, it significantly reduces the nagging feeling of dread one feels going to the employee cafeteria every day. Second, I still can't get over how many different countries are represented in my hotel. It's like 65! It amazes me each and every day and I'm convinced there's nowhere like it in the world. Third and most important, the employees from each country actually cook the food, decorate the cafeteria and provide the entertainment, working through the night to represent their country the best they possibly can. It's incredible. (The answer to your question is no. No, there is no American day. Hot dogs, burgers and apple pie with baseball playing on the TV does not a cultural day make. And as for entertainment, the Filipinos were proudly blasting the Black Eyed Peas and Lady Gaga, so that's now off limits.)

The fun continues next week (and consequently, so does the battle of fitting into my clothes as Cultural Week slowly rears it ugly head on my thighs.) I'm not qualified to vote--only eight senior managers get to vote--but if I had a say, here it is:

1st place: Kenya (Legit. A Zulu warrior serving me goat is a clear winner in my book.)
2nd place: Indonesia (I felt like our tiny, boring cafeteria was transported to the tropics.)
3rd place: India (I've said it before and I'll say it again. Indian food is the best. Except for mutton. Gross.)
4th place: Egypt (Docked for the huge chunks of beef liver but redeemed slightly by the belly dancer and colorful costumes.)
5th place: The Philippines (I was wondering why I had never had Filipino food in the states. I think I figured it out.)

I didn't have my phone with me at lunch (my enthusiasm to stuff my face with ethnic food obviously clouded my memory) but here's a small example from India day to show the work that goes into it.

It's as if you've been transported to Mumbai, am I right?

In other related news, my list of places I want to visit while we live here has grown, though I've exhibited will power and reigned it in to about 22 countries.

Bad Hair Day

Today I finally bit the bullet got my hair done here in Dubai.

While there are salons (or "saloons" as they call them here) on every corner, it's actually quite expensive to go to (what I've read is) a reputable place. But with temperatures relentlessly climbing, I knew I had to do something with the frizzy, brassy mop I've been sporting. Three months of unemployment and the associated perk of sitting at the pool every day was great for my tan but apparently took its toll on my hair. Also, my roots are slowly getting gray but as I'm still coming to grips with that fact, I don't want to say anymore about it.

Anyway, evidently "the Rachel" from Friends circa 1995 has finally made its way out east. My hair is also very dark, but I was told I'll only have to wait four weeks until it looks "fab." Still, I talked the stylist out of ombre coloring, which she said would be great because I "already have the roots" and that it will only be on trend for "three more months so I'd better do it now." Good sales pitch, I told her, but seeing as I'm old enough to have some gray hair, I'd prefer something that will be in style for a little longer than 90 days, thank you.

So thankfully, my hair doesn't look like this:

But it does look a little bit like this:


Then she recommended I come back every 6-8 weeks, but unless I want half my monthly salary supporting this woman and her family, I'll have to negotiate my hair needs.

In other news, Rob and I were thrilled to wake up this morning to find out that everyone is now safe from those lunatics in Boston. It's so tough to hear these things from far away, worrying about the people I love there. But I always knew it was a fabulous city with fabulous people, and this tragedy just confirms that.

"Soaked in Sepia Tones"

Last weekend, we experienced our very first sand storm, a phenomenon of nature about which I wish I was still blissfully ignorant. Much like my first experience with ice storms in Missouri, I learned very quickly that they are not just the things of legend. They exist and they'll ruin your day. In related news, my suspicions are confirmed that California is pretty much the best place in the whole world.

Never did I see anything like this on even one brochure or website about Dubai before we moved here. Speaking of marketing, "soaked in sepia tones" was taken from a story about the storm on Emirates 24/7. Sounds so romantic, right?

Anyway, it already looked pretty nasty out in the morning, so Rob and I took a trip to the Mall of the Emirates, a massive shopping mall not too far from us (and home to the infamous indoor ski hill!) I'm not typically a mall girl, and I can think of many, many things I'd rather do with my precious weekend, but malls are air conditioned and sand-free and where people spend their time for the better part of the hotter months.

Here's a shot from our front row seat in the metro (which incidentally is the very best place to sit if you have to take public transportation.) It was 97 degrees when this photo was taken.


We left the mall with lighter pocketbooks, but with a pair of cute shoes (mine) and a new orange dress (also mine.) See? There's always a silver lining, even during freakish weather. When we'd spent enough money (read: Rob telling me not to buy anything else), the wind was really blowing hard so we found a bar to duck into for a cold beer and some soccer.

We made our way home via metro and bus on a pretty grueling trip, from which I think I still have sand in my eyes and teeth. Then we did the one thing we do best: we ate spicy Indian food until our mouths were on fire. Every time the restaurant door opened, menus, napkins, small children--pretty much anything that wasn't glued down, would go flying around because of the wind.

We got home just in time to watch the rain, thunder, and lightning from our apartment, which continued into the next day. I guess it goes without saying that by the time I arrived to work the next morning after my commute, I was looking like an extra on the Thriller video shoot.

May we never see another one of these again, but if if we do, may there be sales at the shopping center.

What Am I Doing Here? and Other Questions I Ask Myself Daily

Have you ever had one of those moments in your life when you're like, "How the hell did I get here?"

I had one of those moments last week at work (moving to another country will increase these moments exponentially, by the way.)

Here's what happened:
My hotel, like many Ritz-Carlton hotels, is extremely popular for weddings. But here in the UAE, men and women separate for their wedding celebrations. At a "ladies' wedding," only women only can work. No men are allowed in the room, including male chefs, banquet servers, or anyone else who is paid to be sure these things run smoothly. It makes for an interesting scene when banquet managers can't actually be on the floor to manage, and tiny Filipino women carry trays of food that weigh as much as they do.

Thursday's wedding was for 850 guests, so all ladies in the hotel, including those of us on the sales team with no veritable banquet experience, were asked to help.

In typical Dubai fashion, there was no actual instruction until about 30 minutes before the event. We thought we would be showing guests the way to the restrooms or safe in the coat check room with 850 black abayas, but were shocked to discover that we had sections, and tables, and trays full of Champagne glasses (filled with mocktails, always mocktails.)

I had to steal a stranger's pants from the dry cleaning rack 20 minutes beforehand because the pants they tried to give me were no less than 10 sizes too big and were so short that they would have stayed dry in a flood. In those pants, I looked like Billy the Hobo Clown. But in the stranger's pants, I reluctantly put on the requisite vest and neck tie. They ran out of cufflinks so they had to sew my cuffs together.

If I've painted the picture correctly, by now you know I was looking H-O-T hot. Here's my friend Karen in the amazing outfit. (Her smiling face indicates that it was still very early.)


Even more of a problem than us looking more like men than ladies was that we don't know a damn thing about working a Ritz-Carlton banquet. But no matter. It was showtime and they threw us to the wolves. The wolves in this scenario were ridiculously attractive Emarati women in five inch heels, designer gowns, and enough diamonds to blind you if you stare directly at them.

It was about halfway through the night, after my first spill but before the Bollywood-through-the-ages entertainment, that I asked myself, "what the hell am I doing here?

But even though I don't know what the hell I was doing there, I'm kind of glad I was, even as the time passed into my 17th hour of work that day.

Memories of Music Past

Tonight we were sitting on the couch watching American Idol. Yeah, we do that here. It airs one day late and we can't vote, but we (well me, but Rob by association and force) are still big fans.

For fellow fans, here are some answers to your pressing questions: Loving Keith Urban (what's not to love, am I right ladies?), irritated by Nicky Minaj, can take or leave Mariah Carey, love love will always love Ryan Seacrest. And I miss JLo.

Anyway, tonight's special guest was Bon Jovi (which doubled my American Idol pleasure if that's even possible) and I got to telling Rob about how I owned the Bon Jovi "Always" single cassette when I was 14. I would play it on my Walkman more times than was probably healthy for both me and the Walkman on which it played.

This reminded Rob of his days spent with DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince at about the same age. And this is what it looked like:

He's pretty sick with a nasty head cold, but isn't too sick to hold the iPhone on his shoulder like a boom box from the early 90s (not pictured, unfortunately.)

And so our night went. A DJ Jazzy Jeff song (usually about trivial teenage angst), interrupted by one of my Bon Jovi songs (usually about lost love and heartbreak), interrupted by American Idol back from commercial, and on and on like so.

I know. We're indubitably the least cool couple in Dubai, but all in all, not a bad Friday night.

Buses, Trains, and Shoe Leather: The Story of My Work Commute

My husband is already tired of what he calls incessant complaining about my commute.
I know it's only been a week, but I'm obviously very spoiled and feel as if I've earned the right to complain. Now you too can experience the enchantment of Dubai public transportation!

7:10 a.m. Walk across the street and onto the sidewalk to wait for the bus.

7:13 a.m. Stand nicely on sidewalk, even as people begin to invade your space.

7:15 a.m. Use dirty looks and/or shoulders to protect your postage stamp-sized space on sidewalk.

7:20 or 7:25 or 7:30 a.m. Bus arrives. Do anything in your power to get on the bus. Relent only for the elderly, the pregnant, and possibly women with very young children. Being nice won't get you to work on time.

7:30 a.m. Look straight ahead. Remember to breath through mouth. Looking for something to hold onto is unnecessary as the sheer number of people on the bus will keep you in place.

7:32 a.m. Official-looking man from the government pulls bus over. Checks to make sure everyone on the bus has paid.

7:42 a.m. Run off the bus to the metro station. Run faster than the person next to you.

7:43 a.m. Stand as close as humanly possible to metro doors so that when they open, you have a snowball's chance in hell of getting a seat for the ride. Feel free to use shoulders again when people push ahead of you.

7:45 a.m. 35-minute metro ride in the ladies' car. Always the ladies' car. Ladies smell better and don't stare as much. And thank the good lord for iPhones and NPR.

8:20 a.m. Run off metro. Pay half day's wages for a coffee at Starbucks.

8:25 a.m. Run like hell to get to your office by 8:30. Try to keep coffee in your cup. Don't trip over high heels. Be sure to look perfectly presentable upon arrival.

7:15 p.m. Repeat in reverse.