Back home, I don't watch college football very much.
That's ok, take a moment to express your indignation. Throw your keyboard, give your computer screen the finger, profane against my name, whatever makes you feel better.
Better? Good. As I was saying, I don't watch much college football. If you don't count the games I attended on photo assignments this year, I'd say I watched one complete game and segments of only a handful of others. There's no particular reason for this... I like football. I think its great. I've never played but like most American men, I think there is something inexplicably cool about football that makes us want to watch it. That is the reason I woke up at 6:00 to watch the BCS National Championship. Yes, its true, while you were settling into your couch surrounded by friends and family, bedecked in green and yellow and munching on snack food, I was halfway around the world in my PJ's, groggily searching through 999 channels for ESPN. Of course, this was done by hand as there was no remote to be found. I eventually found ESPN America and happily selected it, ready to sit back and enjoy some good old American football.
You know where this is going.
ESPN was blocked. No game for me. I went back to bed, defeated, just like the Ducks.
I awoke two hours later, with 10 minutes to shower, shave, dress, gather my things and walk to the Admin building. Deciding the first two steps of the process were expendable, I got ready in a hurry and hustled out the door. Of course, my timing was off and I was 15 minutes ahead of schedule. I made good use of my time by figuring how to get my tie to hang at the ideal length and as I twiddled, my fellow Clinton Scholars began to arrive.
The day's agenda had us travelling to the One & Only Royal Mirage Hotel near campus, where Hillary Clinton was staying. As mentioned previously, this was for the photo opportunity that had been rescheduled from the previous day. We loaded up and within a few minutes were at the place.
The hotel is a cross between a royal palace and Starbucks. On one hand, you can pay money and stay there for an extended period of time just like any other hotel. On the other hand, everything in the place costs a hell of a lot more than it should... like a Starbucks. The place has everything required to run a hotel but it is functional on a higher plane. The Motel 6 my dad and I stayed in on the way home from California last month had a clock. It had three hands and twelve numbers and hung on the wall. The One & Only Royal Mirage Hotel also has clocks. They too have three hands, twelve numbers and hang on the wall, but the One & Only Royal Mirage Hotel's clocks are gold and read ROLEX across the face. This helps explain why the place's rates start at $500 per night. What it doesn't explain is why the State Department chose the place. A look around the lobby instills worry for any concerned American taxpayer. Factoring in Hillary's entourage of liasons, handlers, and security, her one night in Dubai surely cost well into the thousands of dollars and likely into the tens of thousands. Granted, I don't have all the facts and I recognize that. I simply am making an observation of what I saw from my short visit.
Oh, and did I mention the 37" LCD TV's in every room?
After taking in all the decadence of the hotel, we were moved to a waiting area outside some of the conference rooms. There, we spoke with a representative from the US Consulate in Dubai and were given instructions for the upcoming photo. We were pre-arranged for the shoot and then left to mill about while we waited (and waited... and waited) for the Secretary to show up. Finally, she did. As I told my friend, Nick, to look out for, everyone in the room began to pucker and get frantic as she approached. Grown women were seen sprinting from room to room, making last minute preparations for Hilarity. Men in suits began fidgeting with their ties. Then, she showed up. She took a photo with another group before beelining for us. As planned, the picture was taken - many times - and then the president of the university presented her with a commemorative framed... thing. I couldn't see what it was exactly but Hilarity cooed over before handing it off to an aide. She shook hands with all the scholars and introduced us to the people on her staff. Nick and I spoke to one of them about the State Department's visit to the region. In unforgettable terms, he called it "The WikiLeaks Apology Tour". I liked that. It's sad that such honesty diminishes towards the upper reaches of the political ladder.
After meeting the Secretary of State, the rest of my day was pretty average. I ate lunch and drank disgusting yogurt-milk. I went to a meeting and was bored out of my mind. I watched a soccer game on TV. I wrote.
I might be going out tonight with Payam. Sheesha is on the agenda but that all hinges on when he wakes up. Could be a late night.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Tom and the Pant Suit
Late Sunday night, my interaction with my fellow study-abroad students began with a knock on my dorm. Answering it, I was faced by Sean, pizza slice in one hand, the other extended in greeting. Introducing myself, I was glad to finally be encountering the other students and we took off for the quad where a movie was being shown. There, I met the whole bunch of students and was told that I was the "odd man out". Everyone had been around for a few days and I was the only one who they had yet to meet.
The evening consisted largely of standing around, talking, idly knocking a soccer ball around and discussing post-film plans. I decided to pass on the evening's events and get some sleep. We all had to be up early and I wanted to be fresh.
I peeled myself out of bed at 6:15 and dragged my ass from my bed to the shower, from the shower to my wardrobe and from there to the Admin building. I was the first one to arrive and so I sat unthinkingly until my fellow Clinton Scholars began arriving. The purpose of this meeting was to go to Abu Dhabi, the neighboring emirate (city), to hear Hillary Clinton speak. She had requested our presence because we are all going to AUD courtesy of her husband's scholarship foundation.
We made it to Zayed University outside of Abu Dhabi in the nick of time and whisked through security and into the foyer. There, we were met by the PR liason for Mrs. Clinton. He looked like this guy:
Imagine what sort of voice you think this guy would have and you've got a pretty complete picture. He told us that we would have approximately 5 to 10 seconds (not kidding) with Mrs. Clinton for a photo and then she'd be on her way. That plan lasted all of four minutes - the photo was moved to the following day - and soon we were hustled into an auditorium and shown a row of seats near the front. We sat for a long time, eavesdropping on the Emiratis seated around us and talking amongst ourselves. I had an interesting conversation with Michael, another American student, about his service in Iraq but this discussion was soon interrupted by the entrance of the press corps.
While photojournalism has always fascinated me with its opportunities for travel and meeting new people, the aspect of being a "paparazzi" turns me off. Within the span of a few moments, a clamoring, shouting bunch of photographers burst through the doors to the auditorium, barely contained by their handlers. They clung together in a tight bunch, each indistinguishable from one another on account of their matching work attire, dangling straps and professional-looking press passes. Occasionally, an arm with a camera attached to the end would shoot up from the middle of the group like a renegade fish temporarily separated from its school. It would quickly click-click-click a few shots and then retract back into the teeming mass from which it came. Gradually, this organism worked its way down to the front of the auditorium where it continued to shoot pictures at random. The sound of idle chit-chat that had filled the hall was replaced with the cicada-like drone of shutter actuations from the press corps. Then it was our turn to act as a group. Seemingly without prompt, the entire auditorium rose to its collective feet. This, apparently, was a sign of respect for the world's biggest mustache which was making its way down the center aisle. As it passed my row, I noticed there was a man attached to it. His Royal Highness, sheikh so-and-so of the Ministry of something-or-other (and his entire entourage) took up seats in the front row and we all sat down again. Then, the press corps began shooting in earnest. In what can most closely be compared to complicated mating rituals found in the animal kingdom, the press corps began showing off its flashiest aspects. Bulbs popped unceasingly as the press corps swarmed around the shiekh , attempting to win his approval with their ornate display of lights and sounds. As things sometimes go in the animal world, the best display simply isn't impressive enough and the press corps, noticing the sheikh's disinterest, eventually gave up. Good timing too, as it was time for Hillary to show up.
"Hilarity" took one of the comfy looking chairs on the stage as the hosts assumed positions on either side of her. As the show got underway, it became clear we were at the recording of a TV show called. According to the AP: "Clinton made her comments on the program "Sweet Talk," often described as the Arabic version of "The View," hosted by three women. The hosts of "The View" have nothing on "Sweet Talk" in the looks department. Arabic culture may have a tendency to be more conservative when it comes to presenting female beauty but its understandable when the women in your culture are this hot. I'd do my best to keep that to myself, too. The hosts weren't messing around either. Hilarity was forced to field tough questions about Israel, American culture, and Iran's nuclear program and, to her credit, she did a good job of it. As a speaker, she isn't as eloquent as I imagined someone of her status to be, but she was very diplomatic. Despite this, the LA Times managed to take one of her comments and turn it around as an analogy between the recent shooting in Arizona and terrorism. That's not what she meant at all, but the article unsurprisingly neglects to mention her comments on how the American media isn't doing any favors for the world's perceptions of the US.
Eventually, the interview ended, and we all got up to leave. On the way out, we met a few of the students from Zayed University. The male students wore long white attire with traditional headdress. They were sure to inform us, "We don't dress like this all the time. Don't think we are squares".
Duly noted, my friend.
Back at campus, I manged to attend my first class, Special Topics in Middle Eastern Studies: The Levant. If you're like me, and don't know what the Levant is, its the area of present day Syria, Lebanon and Israel. Other countries are in the region as well, but you get the idea. The course is a history of the area and based on the first day's structure, will be a challenge. The professor is smart, strict and not afraid to speak his mind to students. One student's answer wasn't satisfactory for him so he offered to throw him out the window the next time the student answered wrong. It's hard to gauge the professor's seriousness but what he lacks in size, I'm sure he makes up for in willpower. I kept my head down for the entirety of the session except for when the professor asked what the Middle East's biggest problem is right now.
Someone offered, "America".
That made me look up.
The evening consisted largely of standing around, talking, idly knocking a soccer ball around and discussing post-film plans. I decided to pass on the evening's events and get some sleep. We all had to be up early and I wanted to be fresh.
I peeled myself out of bed at 6:15 and dragged my ass from my bed to the shower, from the shower to my wardrobe and from there to the Admin building. I was the first one to arrive and so I sat unthinkingly until my fellow Clinton Scholars began arriving. The purpose of this meeting was to go to Abu Dhabi, the neighboring emirate (city), to hear Hillary Clinton speak. She had requested our presence because we are all going to AUD courtesy of her husband's scholarship foundation.
We made it to Zayed University outside of Abu Dhabi in the nick of time and whisked through security and into the foyer. There, we were met by the PR liason for Mrs. Clinton. He looked like this guy:
Photo suggestion courtesy of Michael
Imagine what sort of voice you think this guy would have and you've got a pretty complete picture. He told us that we would have approximately 5 to 10 seconds (not kidding) with Mrs. Clinton for a photo and then she'd be on her way. That plan lasted all of four minutes - the photo was moved to the following day - and soon we were hustled into an auditorium and shown a row of seats near the front. We sat for a long time, eavesdropping on the Emiratis seated around us and talking amongst ourselves. I had an interesting conversation with Michael, another American student, about his service in Iraq but this discussion was soon interrupted by the entrance of the press corps.
While photojournalism has always fascinated me with its opportunities for travel and meeting new people, the aspect of being a "paparazzi" turns me off. Within the span of a few moments, a clamoring, shouting bunch of photographers burst through the doors to the auditorium, barely contained by their handlers. They clung together in a tight bunch, each indistinguishable from one another on account of their matching work attire, dangling straps and professional-looking press passes. Occasionally, an arm with a camera attached to the end would shoot up from the middle of the group like a renegade fish temporarily separated from its school. It would quickly click-click-click a few shots and then retract back into the teeming mass from which it came. Gradually, this organism worked its way down to the front of the auditorium where it continued to shoot pictures at random. The sound of idle chit-chat that had filled the hall was replaced with the cicada-like drone of shutter actuations from the press corps. Then it was our turn to act as a group. Seemingly without prompt, the entire auditorium rose to its collective feet. This, apparently, was a sign of respect for the world's biggest mustache which was making its way down the center aisle. As it passed my row, I noticed there was a man attached to it. His Royal Highness, sheikh so-and-so of the Ministry of something-or-other (and his entire entourage) took up seats in the front row and we all sat down again. Then, the press corps began shooting in earnest. In what can most closely be compared to complicated mating rituals found in the animal kingdom, the press corps began showing off its flashiest aspects. Bulbs popped unceasingly as the press corps swarmed around the shiekh , attempting to win his approval with their ornate display of lights and sounds. As things sometimes go in the animal world, the best display simply isn't impressive enough and the press corps, noticing the sheikh's disinterest, eventually gave up. Good timing too, as it was time for Hillary to show up.
"Hilarity" took one of the comfy looking chairs on the stage as the hosts assumed positions on either side of her. As the show got underway, it became clear we were at the recording of a TV show called. According to the AP: "Clinton made her comments on the program "Sweet Talk," often described as the Arabic version of "The View," hosted by three women. The hosts of "The View" have nothing on "Sweet Talk" in the looks department. Arabic culture may have a tendency to be more conservative when it comes to presenting female beauty but its understandable when the women in your culture are this hot. I'd do my best to keep that to myself, too. The hosts weren't messing around either. Hilarity was forced to field tough questions about Israel, American culture, and Iran's nuclear program and, to her credit, she did a good job of it. As a speaker, she isn't as eloquent as I imagined someone of her status to be, but she was very diplomatic. Despite this, the LA Times managed to take one of her comments and turn it around as an analogy between the recent shooting in Arizona and terrorism. That's not what she meant at all, but the article unsurprisingly neglects to mention her comments on how the American media isn't doing any favors for the world's perceptions of the US.
Eventually, the interview ended, and we all got up to leave. On the way out, we met a few of the students from Zayed University. The male students wore long white attire with traditional headdress. They were sure to inform us, "We don't dress like this all the time. Don't think we are squares".
Duly noted, my friend.
Back at campus, I manged to attend my first class, Special Topics in Middle Eastern Studies: The Levant. If you're like me, and don't know what the Levant is, its the area of present day Syria, Lebanon and Israel. Other countries are in the region as well, but you get the idea. The course is a history of the area and based on the first day's structure, will be a challenge. The professor is smart, strict and not afraid to speak his mind to students. One student's answer wasn't satisfactory for him so he offered to throw him out the window the next time the student answered wrong. It's hard to gauge the professor's seriousness but what he lacks in size, I'm sure he makes up for in willpower. I kept my head down for the entirety of the session except for when the professor asked what the Middle East's biggest problem is right now.
Someone offered, "America".
That made me look up.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Fighting the Good Fight
The most important event since I last wrote was my first visit to the gym. If you read the account of my previous summer in New Orleans, you'll know that I took advantage of being in a new place with few distractions to become a gym rat. It's my goal to do the same thing in Dubai but I'm off to a rough start.
A few days ago, I found the men's gym inside the new bloc of dorms. If someone nice asked for an assessment of the facilities, I'd tell them that while the building isn't very old, the equipment seems to be second-hand at best. If someone I liked asked me what I thought, I'd tell them it's a piece of crap. Overhead lifts with the free-weights is nothing short of a high stakes gamble as at any moment, it feels like the screws will come loose, sending any number of kilos crashing down on your skull. The foam of the benches is cracked and peeling providing a lovely decoration to one's workout attire and the "sound system" consists of a pair of computer speakers that are in perfect working condition aside from their hacked and mangled cords. Like a fool, I disregarded my past three months neglect of personal fitness and dove headfirst into an intense arm workout. That was three days ago and I haven't been able to use my arms since. Consequently, I am typing this with my feet.
The morning after my brilliant gym session, I met my roommate. He came in around 3:00 am. Drunk. I knew from the moment he blearily rolled out of bed that I liked him. His name is Payam and he's from Tehran. We took his Ford something-or-other to the mall for some breakfast. Nothing like eggs and sausage to cure a hangover and we talked for a while. On our way out, he told me something interesting. When one of the Indian men working in the parking lot offered to clean the car, Payam noticed my surprise. He told me the laborers here are much more subservient than anywhere else. He illustrated this by saying that in Tehran if you were to hand a streetsweeper a piece of your garbage, you would be viciously sworn at and then directed towards the proper receptacle. Here, you hand someone your trash and they thank you.
Following our breakfast, I spent the day intensely working on absolutely nothing. However, being Sunday, it was soon time to go to mass. I was well prepared and had a route all planned out in advance. This proved to be about as helpful as having the French for a war-time ally. Conveniently, the very first bus-stop I needed to go to only exists online. Change of plans. I walked to the Metro (tram/subway/monorail/trolley/rail/what-have-you) and paid for a ticket. Getting to my stop was no hassle and I ended up exactly where I would have had I taken the bus. So far so good. As planned, I began walking towards the church. I knew the walk was long. What I didn't know was that it would take nearly 40 minutes and make me late for mass. Like Shackleton, I blazed a bold trail through uncharted territory, besting obstacles as they hurled themselves at me. No gravel parking lot or sidewalkless road could break my spirit and within the hour, I arrived at the church, brushing the dust off my clothes and shoes.
St. Francis Catholic Church is, like everything else in Dubai, in a shopping mall. This mall is unique, though. Instead of retail outlets, the area is populated with... other churches. An area the size of a few acres is home to a massive, two level structure, occupied entirely by churches, each representing a different Christian denomination. Such houses of worship are hard to come by in this largely Islamic part of the world so it makes sense that St. Francis offers mass in 13 languages, 34 times a week. And thats just one of the churches in the complex. Understandably, the parking lot is enormous.
I hustled up the stairs and into an inconspicuous seat in the back. Mass was only about 5 or 10 minutes in, and so I enjoyed a peaceful and fulfilling service. Until communion.
In my experiences, the process of going up for communion has been an orderly and solemn occasion. People keep their heads respectfully bowed and piously shuffle out of their respective pews on their way to the minister. Usually, only a handful of people refrain from the Eucharist and so a very organized and organic system of procession takes place. There's little confusion and everyone's happy. At St. Francis, this isn't the case. In what I imagine is a reflection of the local culture, there are no lines. My idyllic idea of communion was thrown right out the window the moment the Eucharistic ministers descended from the altar to begin administering. They headed off in direct lines for areas within the building that would be sure to create the most bottlenecking and inconvenience. Reflecting the minister's movements, the congregation began to move in an equally bewildering manner, one more appropriate for the opening of Black Friday at Wal Mart than communion at mass. People crawled over one another, elbows were used to shove fellow churchgoers out of the way and a general jockeying for position ruled the day. On my way forward I had to resort to grappling in order to maintain a position in the "line". The only thing that remained similar to my past mass experiences was the politeness of it all. I saw one man step directly in front of an old woman shuffling as quickly as she could. Rude, indeed, but you'd never know it because no glares were exchanged or words uttered. I, personally, felt a constant poking at my ribs that only subsided when the perpetrator succeeded in passing me. Bruised, I fought my way back to my seat and plopped down to nurse my wounds.
Returning to campus was as much of a battle as the communion line. However, where communion was like a boxing match, the return home was more of a chess game. The former required all my physical ability and the latter demanded every ounce of my mental prowess. Unfortunately, the ticket-machines bested me. Their deceptively simple interface belies a confounding structure of zones, lines, rates and exceptions that spell tough times for the unsuspecting foreigner's (read: my) cash reserves. Based on my experience with the local public transit system, you can't move more than 30 feet in this country without purchasing a new ticket. Wanna ride the bus back to the Metro station? Gotta buy a new ticket. Wanna get on the Metro to go back to campus? Gotta buy a new ticket. Wanna leave the Metro station to walk to campus? Guess what? Gotta buy a new ticket. At one point, I literally had to pay a ransom to leave the station, my only other option being to hop the barrier and hope the uniformed, submachine gun toting guards were feeling gracious.
Day over. More to come.
A few days ago, I found the men's gym inside the new bloc of dorms. If someone nice asked for an assessment of the facilities, I'd tell them that while the building isn't very old, the equipment seems to be second-hand at best. If someone I liked asked me what I thought, I'd tell them it's a piece of crap. Overhead lifts with the free-weights is nothing short of a high stakes gamble as at any moment, it feels like the screws will come loose, sending any number of kilos crashing down on your skull. The foam of the benches is cracked and peeling providing a lovely decoration to one's workout attire and the "sound system" consists of a pair of computer speakers that are in perfect working condition aside from their hacked and mangled cords. Like a fool, I disregarded my past three months neglect of personal fitness and dove headfirst into an intense arm workout. That was three days ago and I haven't been able to use my arms since. Consequently, I am typing this with my feet.
The morning after my brilliant gym session, I met my roommate. He came in around 3:00 am. Drunk. I knew from the moment he blearily rolled out of bed that I liked him. His name is Payam and he's from Tehran. We took his Ford something-or-other to the mall for some breakfast. Nothing like eggs and sausage to cure a hangover and we talked for a while. On our way out, he told me something interesting. When one of the Indian men working in the parking lot offered to clean the car, Payam noticed my surprise. He told me the laborers here are much more subservient than anywhere else. He illustrated this by saying that in Tehran if you were to hand a streetsweeper a piece of your garbage, you would be viciously sworn at and then directed towards the proper receptacle. Here, you hand someone your trash and they thank you.
Following our breakfast, I spent the day intensely working on absolutely nothing. However, being Sunday, it was soon time to go to mass. I was well prepared and had a route all planned out in advance. This proved to be about as helpful as having the French for a war-time ally. Conveniently, the very first bus-stop I needed to go to only exists online. Change of plans. I walked to the Metro (tram/subway/monorail/trolley/rail/what-have-you) and paid for a ticket. Getting to my stop was no hassle and I ended up exactly where I would have had I taken the bus. So far so good. As planned, I began walking towards the church. I knew the walk was long. What I didn't know was that it would take nearly 40 minutes and make me late for mass. Like Shackleton, I blazed a bold trail through uncharted territory, besting obstacles as they hurled themselves at me. No gravel parking lot or sidewalkless road could break my spirit and within the hour, I arrived at the church, brushing the dust off my clothes and shoes.
St. Francis Catholic Church is, like everything else in Dubai, in a shopping mall. This mall is unique, though. Instead of retail outlets, the area is populated with... other churches. An area the size of a few acres is home to a massive, two level structure, occupied entirely by churches, each representing a different Christian denomination. Such houses of worship are hard to come by in this largely Islamic part of the world so it makes sense that St. Francis offers mass in 13 languages, 34 times a week. And thats just one of the churches in the complex. Understandably, the parking lot is enormous.
I hustled up the stairs and into an inconspicuous seat in the back. Mass was only about 5 or 10 minutes in, and so I enjoyed a peaceful and fulfilling service. Until communion.
In my experiences, the process of going up for communion has been an orderly and solemn occasion. People keep their heads respectfully bowed and piously shuffle out of their respective pews on their way to the minister. Usually, only a handful of people refrain from the Eucharist and so a very organized and organic system of procession takes place. There's little confusion and everyone's happy. At St. Francis, this isn't the case. In what I imagine is a reflection of the local culture, there are no lines. My idyllic idea of communion was thrown right out the window the moment the Eucharistic ministers descended from the altar to begin administering. They headed off in direct lines for areas within the building that would be sure to create the most bottlenecking and inconvenience. Reflecting the minister's movements, the congregation began to move in an equally bewildering manner, one more appropriate for the opening of Black Friday at Wal Mart than communion at mass. People crawled over one another, elbows were used to shove fellow churchgoers out of the way and a general jockeying for position ruled the day. On my way forward I had to resort to grappling in order to maintain a position in the "line". The only thing that remained similar to my past mass experiences was the politeness of it all. I saw one man step directly in front of an old woman shuffling as quickly as she could. Rude, indeed, but you'd never know it because no glares were exchanged or words uttered. I, personally, felt a constant poking at my ribs that only subsided when the perpetrator succeeded in passing me. Bruised, I fought my way back to my seat and plopped down to nurse my wounds.
Returning to campus was as much of a battle as the communion line. However, where communion was like a boxing match, the return home was more of a chess game. The former required all my physical ability and the latter demanded every ounce of my mental prowess. Unfortunately, the ticket-machines bested me. Their deceptively simple interface belies a confounding structure of zones, lines, rates and exceptions that spell tough times for the unsuspecting foreigner's (read: my) cash reserves. Based on my experience with the local public transit system, you can't move more than 30 feet in this country without purchasing a new ticket. Wanna ride the bus back to the Metro station? Gotta buy a new ticket. Wanna get on the Metro to go back to campus? Gotta buy a new ticket. Wanna leave the Metro station to walk to campus? Guess what? Gotta buy a new ticket. At one point, I literally had to pay a ransom to leave the station, my only other option being to hop the barrier and hope the uniformed, submachine gun toting guards were feeling gracious.
Day over. More to come.
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