GOODNESS

My husband flew from Singapore five days after I made my trip. He also got stuck in Dubai for 24 hours after missing his connection, but he chose to spend his day a bit differently than I did. While I chose to experience the culture, the food and the environment in the time that I had, focusing, of course, on fun and education, Paul decided to experience Dubai as a potential expat resident.

He made a new friend, a friend of Tim’s who drove Paul around the city. When Paul met this new friend he said, “I want to know what it’s like to live here.” Where did Paul go? He went to two malls, the Dubai Mall that I visited and the Mall of the Emirates, which hosts an indoor ski slope. Paul went to Carrefour, the closest thing to a Target that we had in Singapore until they pulled their stores and vacated the country. He went to a furniture store to see what products were offered. He comparison shopped. He wanted to know just how much groceries and household items would cost. He wanted to know how much vehicles and fuel for the vehicles would cost. He determined that, with the exception of fuel, prices were still more expensive than U.S. prices but lower than Singaporean rates.

When we finally met in Pittsburgh, Paul could not stop talking about Dubai. He might want to move there. And, while I may not mean that he is actively seeking employment in a city where only 5 percent of the population is native Emirati, he would be absolutely in favor of moving there if a suitable position would be offered.

The biggest kick I got was how enthusiastic he was about wearing a kandura, the long, white linen garments Middle Eastern men commonly wear. “How awesome would that be?” he exclaimed. “Dubai has so much foreign influence that they are not required, but imagine having one outfit for every occasion. I wake up, the outfit is there. No thinking. Have a business meeting at work? Wear the kandura! Going to a wedding? Wear a kandura! Hanging around the house? Wear a kandura! It would be awesome.”

I may not share his enthusiasm but I am sure I would be fine living in Dubai, one of the most liberal and most Western Middle Eastern countries. Paul was especially surprised at how well people in Dubai speak English. “It’s because it’s the only common language around here,” advised Tim when he was driving me around town. “There are so many native languages that everyone has to use English to clearly communicate."

I suppose we both have the expat bug. We have greatly enjoyed our experience in Singapore and look forward to the time we are able to spend there, also excited for any other opportunities that may come our way in decades to come. I think I would be O.K. living in France, Italy, Spain, Chile, Canada, America, Australia, New Zealand and probably some other places. Paul’s brother and his brother’s girlfriend are considering working abroad, but Jamienne, the girlfriend, has her eye on places I would never consider going.

Jamienne spent some time living in Colombia, and she is currently considering opportunities to work in Saudi Arabia, where she would likely be required to live on a compound guarded by armed military men. She would likely be required to cover her entire body and be escorted by a man any time she leaves the compound. Those things I could not do, but I fully support her desire to go, and I look forward to seeing where she resides in 2014.

Living abroad is something I would encourage anyone to do. I have gained so much perspective, seen what life is like in eight countries (again, two years ago I had never been out of America) and I have seen how vastly different governments operate. I understand how important culture is, what it means to accept others and how cultures blend and oppose. Traveling somewhere for two weeks on vacation is not the same as experiencing life as a local for a period of six months or more.

I know that we are blessed to have this lifestyle, but I wonder if learning more has made me forget some other valuable information in order to make room for the more relevant. Being back in America made me realize exactly what I didn’t remember after being abroad for a year. 

24 HOURS IN DUBAI

I had about 20 minutes left in my flight from Singapore when my flight to Dulles started boarding. It was at that moment that I realized that I would not be making my connection and I was faced with an emotional dilemma: I was bummed that I would miss a day with my best friend, Katie, and also bummed that I would miss my chillax, eat-what-I-want-when-I-want-and-take-naps-all-day day, but I was also completely content with having a layover in Dubai, though I did not know how long that layover would be.

I was convinced that I would miss my connection, but I knew I had to do all I could to fight for my flight. My airline seat was located in the second row so I knew I had a shot.When I exited the jetway and entered the passenger waiting area, a dozen Emirates employees were standing to either side of a man-made aisle, shouting city names. I found the woman yelling “Washington D.C.” and she advised me to stand at the side.

Was she going to escort me to the gate? Were they going to hold the plane for me? Was I really going to make my connection after all?

No. She led me around the corner, down the hall and to the transit desk, where I was advised that there was only one flight to D.C. a day and I had officially missed mine. “I can get you on the flight at the same time tomorrow,” the woman advised. “O.K., I will probably do that, but let me call my friend first.”

So I crouched against a wall, hooked up my laptop, downloaded the appropriate updates and called Katie through my Google Voice app. I looked up the next flight to New York area airports and guestimated the time I would likely land in D.C., which would have been Friday late afternoon, putting us in prime week-ending NoVa traffic. We both decided it would be best to wait for the next D.C. flight. I spoke with the attendant about collecting my checked bag, verified with six other people how to get my bag, and then made my way to the airline-provided hotel. Let's just say I really needed that checked bag.

At first I was disappointed that the hotel wasn’t downtown, but my thoughts later changed when I experienced the hotel. There were several restaurants, the location was within minutes of anywhere I needed to go, taxis waited outside and I had an amazing suite on the 23^rd of 24 floors.

Then came the ultimate dilemma: do I sleep, because I really need to since I only slept a couple hours on the flight, or do I make this 24 hours, quoting Barney Stinson, “legendary!”?

I opted for the latter.

By 4:30 a.m. local time, I had checked into my suite. I would be checking out at midnight.

The kitchen that I never intended to use was four times the size of my own.

The living and dining room areas were cozy.

The bathroom was beautiful.

The bathtub had its own room and, yes, that is a phone next to the toilet

The only things I did not understand were why the bathroom was by the front door, in the complete opposite corner from the bedroom, and why in the Middle East I cannot ever get a hot shower. I had the same issue in Qatar in the airport lounge...twice.

I had two balconies with nice views. However, I was not able to actually enjoy the views from my balconies. I was, instead, greeted by a sticker above the door latch that read something like, “For safety reasons, the balcony doors are locked. If you would like to have access to the balcony, please make arrangements with housekeeping.” Really? Do people frequently jump from the 23^rd floor?

Oh well. I began my day with a short nap and my complementary breakfast in one of the hotel restaurants. Since I had not received my checked bag, which I was told several times would be delivered to my hotel and was assured would be there by noon, I took a chance, hailed a cab and went to the Dubai Mall in order to find some non-airplane clothes to wear just in case.

The mall was massive, as most are, but this one included an extra-special treat. Hosting more than 1,200 stores, the Tiffany Diamond on display and an aquarium with a giant sting ray floating around the mall atrium, you would be pleased to know that I did find a pair of jeans and two light-weight sweaters.

So, the first accomplishment: I shopped in the world’s largest mall by area and I saw a giant sting ray.

Paul arranged for me to meet a fellow pilot with whom he previously met in Singapore. Tim has lived in Dubai for 10 years and currently works for Emirates Airlines. He was kind enough to take a few hours out of his day to show me around Dubai, old and new.

I was advised that I was staying in Bur Dubai, called Old Dubai, the city’s historic area consisting of the oldest buildings and most traditional features.

Most businesses were closed as it was Friday, an observed holy day; the streets were practically empty.

We passed by a mosque during Friday afternoon prayer.

A body of water locally known as “the creek” hosted walking areas, water taxis in the form of old wooden long boats and floating restaurants.

Although the wood boats will take two dozen passengers from one side of the creek to another for about a Dubai dollar, we were able to rent a boat and take a 30-minute ride down one side and back.

These boats, according to Tim, are used to trade metals and spices with other tradesmen on open waters...might not be legal

Here I am posing with UAE President Khalifa bin Zayed Al Nahyan and his son

We took a drive along the coast and took a short drive along the trunk of Palm Island.

All of these cream-colored buildings are condos

The view from the bridge

On the left, the Jumeirah Emirates Towers Hotel and, in the middle, the world's tallest building, the Burj Khalifa

New York may be cool as the original home of the Chrysler Building but Dubai has two similar structures

A newer neighborhood

Views like this make me think that Dubai is just surreal

The black structure on the right is a station in Dubai's train system

When we finished our drive, I returned to the hotel, hoping that I could grab a quick bite before my desert tour. Earlier in the day I was looking through the hotel manual, trying to figure out if a hair dryer was included in my room. (Side note: I did find the hair dryer in the bathroom, I just didn’t realize it was a hair dryer until the front desk man told me it was that thing attached to the wall. Picture a white box with a vacuum hose attached. I wasn’t sure if it was a steamer or a vacuum.)

While perusing the book, I saw a short write-up on a desert tour, so I inquired, talked to Paul about the potential booking and then registered with guest services to reserve a spot. Around 3:30, a man in a Toyota Land Cruiser picked me up, along with five others spaced around town. Included in the vehicle were three Indian-born people, a couple living in nearby Abu Dhabi and their uncle from Princeton, New Jersey. We bonded over our New Jersey connections; Paul and I lived outside of Princeton two years before moving to Singapore.

The family adopted me that afternoon and guided me to try many amazing things for the first time. We started our tour by driving approximately 30 minutes outside of Dubai, to the desert near Oman. We pulled onto the sand, let the air out of the tires and then we were off – off-roading through the desert, over the dunes, sliding sideways at times, in a caravan of white Land Cruisers.

We drove for a while and then stopped for photos, drove on again and then stopped for a few photos. When the sun began to set, we found our way back to the main road and set off for another location. On the way, I saw something that made me gasp and had my jaw as far as it could possibly drop. I saw an older man walking along the road. He was wearing the traditional long, white, linen dress called a kandura, and wearing a red hat. He held a leash in his hand and guided a large, tan-colored camel behind him. Yeah, he was just leading a camel down the road as we blew by him.

We made our way to another desert area where a camp was set up, again in the middle of the desert. Before we entered we were greeted by two men and their four camels, which we could touch and, yes, ride. I jumped at the opportunity since, before that day, I had not seen a camel outside of a zoo.

The experience was unreal. It took all of my flexibility to get one leg over the camel’s hump. When I was situated, straddled with my legs just dropping at a 30-degree angle, I held tight and prepared for the jolt up. When the leader gave the command, the camel raised the front legs, paused and then raised the back legs a few seconds later. The effect was like severe airplane turbulence – it was rocky. The rider was uncomfortable for me, so I am sure it would not be pleasant for men, but I was glad I had the experience. When we parked, I again prepped myself for the drop down. Just as before, when given the command, the camel just dropped to the ground, front legs first, nearly throwing me over the camel’s head even though I knew what was coming. A few seconds later, the back legs dropped and we hit the ground with a thud.

This camel blew kisses instead of spit

When we entered into the camp, we were greeted with tea and fruit. We also had an opportunity to pose with a white falcon.

Huts lined the camp, each with a different theme. A few huts offered touristy gifts, one offered falafels, Arabic tea and fresh dates. One hut offered kanduras and abayas for people to try on and photograph while another offered henna designs. Several large grills were lit and men were grilling chicken pieces and beef kabobs; one man made flatbread; a bar was located in the hut to the right and a buffet area was located to the left.

We ate beef, chicken, rice, salad, vegetables and fruit on low tables, seated on pillows on top of rugs on the ground. In the center of the camp was a stage where two performers entertained us throughout the evening. The air was chilled after dark and I was really wishing I had a hoodie.

My new friend and I made our way to the henna tent and waited quietly for our turn to be inked by likely the meanest woman in the Middle East. She ordered people around, gave eye-piercing looks and yelled when anyone entered the hut to watch her craftsmanship. She. Was. Awful. But she did a good job and I was amazed at how quickly she painted on my skin.

The flower design was pleasing for my first ink job and I was so excited to later share with friends where I received my skin art.

Before we left, we were treated with a belly dancing show. Though bummed that the girl had dyed her hair blonde and saddened that she looked more like a stripper than a traditional belly dancer, we were all amazed by the way she could move.

I was absolutely thrilled to have experienced so much in one day, but I was definitely ready to check back in to my hotel and relax a little before heading back to the airport. To recap, I had my first trip to Dubai, my first passport stamp from a Middle Eastern country, shopped in the world’s largest mall, experienced my first camel ride, my first desert dune bashing adventure, my first date (fruit), my first henna tattoo, and then I flew back to America…and I did it all without underpants. Why? Because the airline never delivered my checked bag, even though I spoke with eight people and requested with the hotel front desk on four occasions to verify when my bags would be delivered. And nothing. I never got my bag.

I did eventually get my checked bag, in D.C. when I landed. I was able to coordinate with a ticket agent and the gate staff to ensure that my bag got on the plane with me. Fifteen hours later, I was with my friends in D.C. enjoying true American goodness. 

THE LAYOVER

Paul booked us on Emirates Airlines this year after an overwhelmingly positive review from a business contact. Now, granted, this business contact flies first class and stays in the A380 suites but he could not stop talking about the customer service, so we decided to give it a try.

As usual, I left slightly before Paul so that I could fit in some time with friends before heading back home to see the family. When we booked the tickets, I did make a comment about how an hour and a half between two international flights was not a great option but I didn’t worry about anything.

The night of my flight, the ticket area was backed up. I arrived at the gate as passengers were already going through the boarding ritual. In Singapore, passengers enter through one main security door just after the ticketing area. Foreigners just visiting the country get their passports stamped while Singaporean residents like myself enter what I call the genius line.

Several stations are set up on the left side of the immigration area. There are two electronic gates in a single lane. The first gate opens when a traveler’s passport is scanned and approved; the second gate opens after the traveler’s thumb print is scanned and approved. Genius. It takes maybe a minute and there are no people involved. Easy peasy.

Once through the first security barrier, passengers are welcomed into a mall atmosphere where shopping, coffee, food and duty free items are plentiful. Boarding areas are lounges behind glass walls and open somewhere between an hour and an hour and a half before the scheduled departure time. When the boarding area opens, people queue to have tickets and passports checked and finally clear security. In Singapore, shoes may remain on people’s feet, zip-up hoodies are fine left on the body and laptops just need to be identified. There are no pat downs; there is no creepy body scanner. Again, easy peasy.

When I boarded, I made my way to the back of the plane where my selected seat, a window, a pillow and a blanket were waiting for me. Also waiting for me was a European couple who did not speak English well. They were larger in size and even larger in volume. I placed my carry on into the overhead compartment and waited to make eye contact to indicate that my seat was the empty one in the row.

Excited, the woman got off the phone and the man jumped up. They started speaking to me in broken English. I understood that their son was somewhere else on the A380 and they wanted me to change seats. My “O.K.” meant as, “I understand,” was immediately taken as, “Yes, I will gladly give up my seat for your son and sit in his unknown location without even considering whether my current seat is better.” Before I could take a breath, the man was gone, running to the front of the plane in search of his long-lost son.

I spoke with a flight attendant and advised her of the situation, also noting that I had a special meal and asked if it would be O.K. to relocate. She noted the change and gave me approval. When the man and his son rejoined the area, I grabbed my bag and found my way to the son’s seat on the complete opposite side of the plane. I was originally in the back-left; my new seat would be in the front-right corner.

A pilot came on the speaker system three times to advise us of delays, first due to ATC clearance and twice regarding a Quantas A380 that was apparently blocking us in, preventing us from leaving by our scheduled departure time. By the time we got to the runway, we were more than six planes behind the first and already an hour behind schedule. I had a feeling I was going to miss my connection.

We were still in the air with 20 to 30 minutes remaining when my flight started boarding. When we landed in Dubai, I was glad I had been moved to the second row and I hurried my way through the hallway in hopes that I somehow might make my connection. As I came out of the narrow hallway and approached the boarding area, I was bombarded with a dozen Emirates employees shouting city names. I found the woman responsible for Dulles people and she advised me to wait at the side. Great! I thought. She will escort me to the gate. Awesome. We waited for a few others going to different cities and then we made our way along the terminal to the next location – the transit desk.

I was officially advised that I had missed my connection and that the next flight out would be the same time the next day because the Dubai airport only offered one flight a day into Washington D.C. So, I got online, talked with Katie and told her about my situation. After a discussion as to whether I should stay in Dubai or try to get a flight to New York, connecting to Washington, we decided it would be best to stay.

The airline gave me a voucher for a hotel, advised me that I could retrieve my checked luggage and sent me on my way. After speaking to seven people in different areas of the airport, I figured out the process for retrieving my bag and I was on my way to a hotel, though not the same one on my voucher.

At 2:30 a.m. local time, it was official. I had 24 hours in Dubai.

FLANNEL PAJAMAS

I don’t have many opportunities to wear flannel pajamas in Singapore. In the last year I have only worn them twice – once on holiday in Sydney’s winter season when the temperatures were around 8 C / 46 F and once for girls’ night in.

As Paul and I prepared for our annual trip to America, I knew this would be an excellent opportunity to pack all of my favorite cold-weather clothes, including the coveted pink flannel pajamas. I filled the bed in the spare bedroom with every possible contender: light-weight yet still warm jackets, sweaters, long-sleeved Ts and button-down shirts, zip-up hoodies and the favorite Nantucket hooded sweatshirt, jeans, sweatpants, leggings, socks – lots of socks – and some scarves that have been sitting in a drawer for at least a year, maybe two.

Once the laundry was done and everything was stacked on the bed, I was presented with the challenge: fit as much as possible into one suitcase and one carry on. Right.

I thought about what I would wear and what I would likely not wear while in D.C., Ohio and Florida. I considered the footwear options and confirmed what I had waiting for me stateside. I paired outfits and threw in some randoms. I ensured that I had enough pajamas for four days with my friends. And then, I smushed.

I flattened everything possible and stacked and folded and rolled and placed items in whatever holes I could find. And, somehow, I got almost everything. The freakout only occurred in the final hour when I knew I had some odd-shaped things and pretty much nowhere to put them. The handbag was the kicker.

The options were weighed: Put everything into my giant Cole Haan handbag with many pockets, dividers and stuff holders and carry around one heavy handbag or put everything into one nice-sized tote bag, which would be easier and more organized but would leave me without a handbag until I opened my new one Christmas day. I opted for the former and shoved everything inside.

Success!

Paul joined me en route to the airport and helped me all the way to security. We said our good-byes, knowing we would see each other in five days’ time, and I headed off toward the gate. Twenty-four hours and a million and a half miles later, I would be in D.C. with my friends. At least, that’s what I thought. Little did I know that a new adventure awaited me at the layover location. 

ONE OF THE FUNNIEST NIGHTS OF MY LIFE

In my last post, I admitted that, more often than not, when Paul leaves, I slip into a bit of depression. The last few extended trips have allowed me to see the signs and determine what I need to do so that I can keep sane. The key factor, I have determined, is to keep active.

Nic, friend that she is, also knows about my down times and ensured I would not be spending my nights alone. Since her own husband would be ditching her for the evening to join the boys at a bar watching a rugby game that didn’t start until 10:30 p.m., she decided that we needed to have one heck of a girly evening. There would be nail polish, lavender masks, a Nicholas Sparks movie and sloppy joes.

Over the last year, my doctor and I have been working on my cholesterol, which happens to be that of a 300-pound man. If I were a 300-pound man, this might make sense, but I am 5’1” (1.57 meters) and I weigh 125 pounds (57 kg). I should not have a cholesterol problem.

My most recent visit with my favorite doctor caused me to make a big lifestyle change. I have since cut sugar (not stopped eating sugar altogether, but I think seven days of cake the week before my blood test might not have been the best idea at the time), limited carbs at dinner and started working out five days a week. I tell you this to point out that  Nic is well aware of my non-dairy, no sugar in my face, no carbs at dinner if possible diet but she threw it all out the window for girls’ night, which, in my opinion, was totally justified.

There were sloppy joes on bleached, white flour buns. There were scones made with Mars bars throughout. Then there were actual Mars bars placed on the table in between the 30 nail polish bottles. And I had wine. I had a lot of wine. I knew Sunday would have to be a healthy day.

We began with the feet: stripping existing nail polish, clipping nails, filing nails and then soaking in a bowl of warm water with a dissolved salt cube. We used an exfoliating scrub and then finished with lotion before adding some fancy new nail colors.

We opted to do the facial part of the evening before moving on to the hands because, let’s be honest, knowing that I would be using a facial scrub and a clay-based mask on my face and rinsing both, I would totally have messed up my nails beyond any and all repair. I know that I need an hour of doing absolutely nothing to ensure that I will not chip, dent or smudge my good work.

We placed ourselves in front of a mirrored sink and started massaging the apricot scrub into our skin. The feeling of the little scrubbers was great, though the initial texture of the cleanser was quite thick and rough. We took turns rinsing and then we prepped for the masks.

I have only had one professional facial and have only self-applied one mask in my life. To be honest, masks intimidate me. The thought of thick dirt-like gunk being rubbed on my face, drying and having to be rinsed in layers intimidates me. For better or for worse, our masks were atypical.

I picked up the purple striped package and started reading the instructions. We were advised to rub our fingers in circular motions to ensure that the mask adhered to our skin. O.K., that sounds normal. Then I read, “Leave the mask on the face for 10 to 15 minutes. Peel mask and discard. No need to rinse.”

“No need to rinse?” I repeated aloud as Nic ripped into her pack. “What the…” I heard her say as she pulled out a flimsy white sheet that was folded like a business letter. When she began unfolding, we started laughing – she bought us actual facial masks.

The masks unfolded in two layers, one being plastic lining that we peeled off and threw away. The other layer was the actual mask – a cold, wet oval-shaped piece that had two round holes cut for eyes, a slit cut out for the nose and a crazy cartoon mouth hole. When we started to apply them, we laughed so hard! Nic was screeching and I was bent over, nearly falling on the floor, eyes watering.

Nic kept looking in the mirror, in my direction, and laughing at how ridiculous I looked. She stretched out an arm and pointed at me while squealing, the entire time focusing on how horrid I looked and not realizing that she looked just as stupid.

I decided that we needed to take a photo since this was 1. hilarious and 2. likely the worst photo either of us would ever take in our lives and we needed the memory.

I sent Paul an e-mail with the photo so that he could see what Nic and I were up to. “That’s not what I was expecting,” he said. And then, “You look like Hannibal Lecter.” 

Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that we were also decked out in flannel pajamas.