Three Somewhat Unrelated Stories About Language

Numero Un: Do you ever come across words in another language that you just instinctively LOVE even though you don’t have any idea what they mean?

Case in point - ever since I moved to Dubai, I’ve been obsessed with this local chain of downmarket Indian restaurants called (in what I can only assume is an English transliteration of the Hindi name)

CHHAPPAN BHOG!

Say it out loud, right now: Chhappan Bhog! Isn’t there something instinctively satisfying about such a bizarre and exotic jumble of consonants? Like, who knew “double Hs” were a thing? And what does one make of the “Bh” combination? (Personally, I like to use it as an excuse to pronounce the whole syllable in a very dark, sinister, throaty tone, like the voice on a horror movie trailer - but this has little to no grounding in the study of Hindi phonology, so…)

No? Just me? Someone else tell me you find this phonetically compelling! You kind of want to franchise it in the US, don’t you?! Chhappan Bhog for everyone! Move over, golden arches - here comes the neon “Bh”!

Numero Deux: I have an Australian colleague who’s been with me at all the recent work events I’ve gone to in the US. Now, this is funny for a number of reasons - not least of which is watching Nebraskans’ jaws (or in the case of Nebraskan ladies, panties) drop when they hear his accent… suppose they don’t get a lot of folks from down under out on the prairie. (Yes, I am continuing to insist that Nebraska is on the prairie. Don’t take that away from me.)

Personally I’m unmoved, as Aussies are kind of a dime a dozen in Dubai, but I will say that all this Antipodean QT has netted me some great new vocabulary. I have, on various nights out, been called a “pisshead” (one who gets drunk) and a “piker” (one who leaves early or skips out) by this colleague, both of which I greatly enjoy. I have also loved learning the hierarchy of Australian classism, which includes such denigrations as “bogan” (a redneck) and “cashed-up bogan,” otherwise known as a ”CUB” (a bogan who comes into wealth, i.e. one who is nouveau riche).

The one thing I have not taken a liking to is the Aussie pronounciation of the letter “H” as though it has a letter “H” at the beginning - that is, “haytch” - which I think is about as aurally pleasing as fingernails running down a blackboard. I have learned to deftly steer important work conversations away from discussion of the HR (“haytch arr”) function or the potential use of HP (“haytch pee”) as a case study solely in the interest of protecting my fragile, bleeding eardrums - business impact be damned.

Numero Trois: This is kind of awkward, but basically I can’t say the names of either of my two primary colleagues at my new job.

Now, let me be clear - I’m not being all “Oh, those Ay-rabs and their kuh-raaaaazy foreign names!” After the amount of time I’ve spent in the region, I can pronounce most Arabic monikers with a vague degree of accuracy: I can more or less do the gutteral “a” at the beginning of “Ali” and “Abdullah,” the ever-so-slightly rolled “r” of Rashid, the fancy “t” in Fatima, and even the “Kh” (yes, that’s one letter) at the beginning of “Khalid.”

But there are still a handful of Arabic letters that I just cannot do no matter how hard I try (i.e. the “q” in “Qatar”) and as luck would have it they’re the main letters in these guys’ names. First there’s “Ihsan” (إحسان‎) which uses this really intense “h” sound like you’d make to fog up your glasses (“HHHHHHHHH” - you know what I mean). Then there’s “Ghasan” (غسان) which starts with this over-the-top guttural “gh” noise like the rattling sound you make in the back of your throat when you’re gargling.

Since I can’t say either of these letters with any kind of ease or aplomb, I basically have two options. Option A: be That American who doesn’t even make an effort to pronounce Arabic words correctly, i.e. “Uh-ssan” and “Guh-ssan” - which, I mean, is annoying to begin with, but even worse because it makes their names rhyme! Option B: be That American who overpronounces every syllable of a foreign word in an effort to demonstrate cultural sensitivity, i.e. “Ih-BREATHE OUT LIKE I’M CLEANING MY GLASSES-hhhhhhhhhh-san” and “GARGLING IN THE BACK OF MY THROAT-Gh-HOLD ON, WAIT FOR IT-Ghhhhhuh-san” - which makes me sound like a giant douche.

Sadly, I usually default to Option C: a mangled, unintelligible hybrid of the two, which tends to evoke a raised eyebrow and a quizzical look. Expat problems, man.

In Which I Continue My Quest to Sartorially Display American Power in the Middle East

I’m going back to the US again next week for work, and in keeping with my tradition of ironic / inappropriate online shopping in the lead-up to a trip home, I came across these t-shirts from (where else?) Victoria’s Secret PINK:

Wait, it gets better…

Now, maybe it’s just my wacky messed-up expat sense of humor, but try and tell me I don’t need these to bop around Dubai in… I mean, you know I am continually trying to find ways to up the ante of being That Obnoxious American Abroad, and I feel like this development would really raise my game.

WE OWN THE SEAS.

(BECAUSE MILITARY HEGEMONY SOUNDS MORE LEGIT WHEN IT’S WRITTEN IN ALL CAPS ON THE BACK OF A SORORITY-GIRL T-SHIRT, RIGHT? SHOUTY CLOTHING = SOFT POWER!)

The Slow Dance of Douchery

Scene - driving to lunch in Dubai yesterday afternoon.

Me: Blah blah blah, something inane, blah blah.

Alex: [Falls silent and stares off into the distance mid-conversation.]

Me: Why so distracty, babe - what’s on your mind?

Alex: Oh, nothing… just watching this tailgating Maserati engage in its slow dance of douchery with that Ford Focus up ahead.

End scene - cue applause.

***

[For definitional clarity on the concept of douchery and how it relates to life in Dubai, kindly see this post.]

A Word From Middle America

Broadcasting live from Chicago Midway airport - IT’S GUBBI!!!

(The crowd goes wild… oh wait, that’s just everyone around me watching the Packers-Giants game at the Terminal B sports bar… same same, right?)

Yep, back in America again - I know, right? Before I even had time to recap New Year’s Eve in Dubai (in a word: fireworks) or the awesome Palestinian wedding I attended the first weekend of January (in a word: bling), I headed back across the ponds last Saturday for two weeks of work meetings in DC and Nebraska (plus a bonus Family Fun Weekend in Tennessee) and have not had a second to catch my breath since.

So while I will inevitably post super-belated recaps of the aforementioned fun exotic international events at some point in the future, some bullets in the interim:

  • Oh my gosh, America. So here’s one of the things I find most crazy about being home in the US: you can have a conversation with anyone about anything at any time. Spending time stateside makes me feel like I must be absolutely starved for social interaction at in Dubai, because wow, talking to random people is a thing here. It’s not something I actively miss when I’m overseas, since 90% of the people I deal with on a daily basis in Dubai are either (a) not native English speakers, or (b) from cultures where idle small talk between strangers is frowned upon (I’m looking at you, subjects of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland). So it strikes me as absolutely hilarious that I am permitted, nay encouraged, to talk to ALL THE PEOPLE about ALL THE THINGS here. Think the security line at the airport is too long? Gripe to me about it! Want to know where I’m traveling and why? Ask away! Have a comment about the way I’m getting my nails done at the salon? Go ahead, share! Like my purse? Compliment me and I’ll be happy to tell you where I got it, how much it was on sale, and my views on its pros and cons. It is simultaneously exhilarating and exhausting to be this involved with everyone around me… but I’m not complaining.
  • I seem to have been away from the US for long enough at this point that I’m woefully, embarassingly behind on the norms of American technology. My mom and I picked something up from the Apple store in Nashville last night and I was totally slack-jawed in amazement when the guy scanned the bar code of the product on his iPhone, swiped my mom’s credit card on his iPhone, emailed the receipt to my mom on his iPhone, and then sent us on our way with nary a line or cashier in sight. I got all overstimulated by the experience and was like, “OMG THE FUTURE IS NOW - IT’S MAAAAAAGIC!” which then required my mom to explain to him that I live in the Middle East where we don’t have technology, which then necessitated a round of small talk (see Bullet #1) on why I live in Dubai.
  • I have roughly the same level of apprehension about flying into Omaha at 10 PM as I have had about landing in random cities in Nigeria in the middle of the night. Let me be clear, I’m from Tennessee, so I am not in any way trying to be high falutin’, but I mean, this is the proper midwest… what adventures await me in Nebraska?! Will there be cows slaughtered upon my arrival for the provision of unlimited USDA Grade A steaks? Will everyone possess a BMI indicative of morbid obesity? Will the tropically conditioned blood in my sensitive expat veins freeze immediately upon stepping outside into the harsh prairie winter? Is Nebraska on the prairie? WHAT IS A PRAIRIE, ANYWAY?!

Okay, boarding now… more hijinx later!

Tennessee Festive

So at the risk of being the absolute last person on the interwebs to post a holiday recap… Merry Christmas!!!! It’s like, so passé that it’s almost not passé, am I right?

(You’d think I’d learn by now that a week at home with family + a week back in Dubai hosting visitors + a couple of 24-hour flight odysseys thrown in the mix = an inevitable 2-week Gubbi internet hiatus, but no, every time I’m like “I’ll toooootally find time to blog in the midst of all the cray!” False.) 

Mia famiglia, in all our Christmas Eve glory.

This was my fifth (!) year making the trip from Dubai to Tennessee for the holiday, and though it’s not an easy journey (2 days of travel for 6 days on the ground, a 10-hour time difference-worth of jet lag, and many many hundreds of the American dollars spent on plane tickets), every year it inevitably proves worthwhile. I know someday I have to become One Of Those Adults Who Doesn’t Spend Every Christmas With Their Family, but, well… every year I hope I can stave off that milestone for just one year longer. 

Their stockings were hung by the chimney with care…

For now I’ll just be thankful that, once again, I got to be part of the annual Christmas morning top-of-the-stairs kids (+ partners, + pets!) family photo shoot:

In case you can’t tell from all the glasses, being almost-legally-blind runs in my family… Alex is less than excited about the little squinty-eyed mole-children I will inevitably produce. 

Since the incorporation of Alex into our family Christmas last year, we’ve adopted a whole new host of holiday traditions: Christmas Eve backyard shisha featuring coals expertly heated, barbecue-style, on the patio grill…

Still no word on what the neighbors think of our innocuous flavored-tobacco pastime.

… and English-style Christmas crackers - complete with bad jokes and funny hats! - a reflection of Alex’s misspent youth in the UK.

Honestly though, gift giving (and receiving!) is still my favorite part of the holiday:

A new sweater, hat, and socks for my increasingly dapper father…

Babby’s First Le Creuset for my master-chef little sister…

And a little uplifting reading for my ever-optimistic (?) counter-cultural brother.

Of course, it wouldn’t be a proper Tennessee Christmas if the neighbors didn’t pop over to play a little banjo in their overalls…

… and my mom and sister didn’t bake a batch or two of disturbingly perfect Christmas cookies.

Christmas at home means never having to say you’re sorry for eating cookies as breakfast.

All in all, a trip well spent and a journey happily taken… Merry Belated to you and yours!

Gubbi’s Guide to Surviving Long-Haul Flights

Me ’n’ my baggages, triumphantly arriving back home after our 30-hour flight odyssey from South Carolina to Dubai last summer.

Since the holiday travel season is upon us and I am now in my fifth straight year of traveling 24 hours each way to get home for Christmas - and also since I am currently scheduled to be on no less than eight 15-hour flights in the next four months - I feel imminently qualified at this moment in time to unleash my travel wisdom upon the interwebs.

So brace yourselves for Gubbi’s Guide to Surviving Long-Haul Flights:

1) Build up a sleep deficit before you go. This isn’t usually a problem for me, as I inevitably find myself either (a) on a flight that leaves at 3 AM, or (b) up until 3 AM packing / doing my nails / downloading TV the night before a flight, but for those of you who are more plan-in-advancey than me, I genuinely believe that going into a long trip a bit sleep-deprived improves the experience. Not only are you better able to sleep on the flight (True story: I once fell asleep around 11 PM on a flight from Dubai to Atlanta. When I woke up, checked my watch, and saw that it was only 11:30, I was really confused because I felt like I had been asleep for much longer than thirty minutes… then I realized it was 11:30 AM and I had, in fact, slept for over 12 hours) but I think your body also adjusts better to new time zones and “goes with the flow” a bit more when you’re tired to begin with.

2) Drink copious amounts of alcohol. Anyone who tells you not to drink on a long-haul flight hates you, hates freedom, and probably wants to kick your puppy in the face. The only way I survive any flight longer than 7 hours is to spend as much of it as possible in a dream-like, twilight haze of prolonged semi-awareness, and obviously alcohol facilitates this process. (The same goes for any prescription / non-prescription pharmaceuticals you may have at your disposal, but you didn’t hear that from me.) Sure, drink lots of water, too, and drink caffeine upon arrival if you touch down in the morning - but mostly, drink booze. Remember: on a long enough flight, it’s always five o’clock somewhere on your flight path.

3) When it comes to entertainment, set your intellectual pretenses aside. If I had a dollar for every issue of The Economist I had purchased in an airport bookstore and never read, I would probably be able to cover the cost of a business class upgrade for my 15-hour flight from Abu Dhabi to Chicago this coming Tuesday, and that shit ain’t cheap. Same goes for New York Times best-selling non-fiction, NPR podcasts, and any critically acclaimed Oscar-winning documentaries or foreign films that may be available for viewing on the plane. Acquaint yourself with the fact that in your drooling, ambient, in-flight stupor, you are the lowest common denominator, and select your media accordingly. US Weekly, reality TV, and young adult fiction are all great choices. On an 8-hour flight from Dubai to Hong Kong last summer, I watched Justin Bieber: Never Say Never after a couple mini-bottles of Sauvignon Blanc and literally wept because I was so inspired by this compelling story of a humble young Canadian with a big dream. Truth be told, it was one of my most enjoyable flights in recent memory.

4) Dress comfortably. Let’s face it, the days of being upgraded because you’re a ”sharp dresser” (or whatever the old wisdom used to be) have long since passed. Nowadays you get upgraded because either (a) you have status with the airline, or more rarely, (b) the airline grievously wrongs you and you rage so explosively that they have no choice but to bump you into the fancy cabin to shut you up. Neither of these have anything to do with wearing heels or a blazer, or even real pants - and as far as I’m concerned, leggings become acceptable as pants on any flight that involves crossing an ocean. I think I stopped wearing actual clothes on long-haul flights about a decade ago - my standard uniform is yoga pants, running shoes, a cute t-shirt, a sweatshirt or pashmina, plus makeup and all my nicest jewelry - and I have yet to be laughed out of a business class lounge. (And ladies, don’t forget that the worst pain in our lives besides childbirth is underwire digging into your ribs as you try to nod off sometime around hour thirteen. Sports bras, always.)

5) Don’t talk to strangers… Ohmygosh, nothing strikes terror in my heart (ehrm… except turbulence) like hunkering down for a transcontinental hop and discovering my seatmate is a Chatty Cathy. Sartre and I don’t often see eye to eye, but I firmly believe that when you’re a captive audience hurtling through the sky in a metal tube, hell is other people, and I can’t tell you how many miserable hours I’ve spent listening to fellow travelers ramble on about their volunteer trip to Uganda / secret missionary work in Qatar / pharmaceuticals conference in Saudi Arabia when all I’ve wanted to do is zone the eff out. So do as you would have others do unto you - with one exception, below.

5 & 1/2) … but be kind when strangers really need to talk to you. Flying halfway (or even a quarter or a third of the way) around the world can be a daunting thing whether it’s your first time or your umpteenth, and sometimes the person next to you is the only source of comfort you have. On my last trip back from the US I was in a particularly angsty flying place (in general, I range between “mildly uneasy” and “bat-shit crazily terrified” as a flyer, and during this period I was trending towards the latter) and United - because they treat passengers as cattle rather than as human beings - was unable to sit Alex and I next to each other for our 14-hour flight from DC to Dubai. No one would switch with either of us because we were both stuck in middle seats, and I was suuuuuuuper stressy about the flight ahead, so I started peppering my neighbor - a big burly retired Dallas cop working in Afghanistan as a defense contractor - with really inane conversation (“What airline are you flying from Dubai to Kabul? Did you know that there are four different airlines that do the route because there’s so much demand? When I went to Kabul, I flew Pamir there and Kam Air back! Did you know that Emirates really wants to add Kabul as a destination, but the price of insuring their planes there overnight between flights makes it cost-prohibitive? Did you also know that Air Arabia used to do the route, but had to cancel it due to a security scare back in 2008?”) to keep myself distracted. He put up with me until we safely reached cruising altitude, then answered a final question - “So, what exactly will you be doing there?” - with the conversation-killing “I’ll just be trying to keep my men alive” and pointedly donned his Bose noise-cancelling headphones. Nevertheless, I was grateful for the rest of the flight that he had humored me off the ground - especially despite my typical reluctance to do the same.

So there you have it - my learnings, distilled for you. Bon voyage, friends!

Depressing Realization of the Week

Tuesday Morning, 8 AM (Dubai): wake up, think about upcoming travel plans, and excitedly realize, “Ooh, we’ll be leaving for the airport to fly home to the US at EXACTLY THIS TIME NEXT WEEK!”

Wednesday Morning, 8 AM (Dubai): wake up, calculate current time in the US, and not-so-excitedly realize, “Oh… we’ll be landing in Nashville at EXACTLY THIS TIME NEXT WEEK…”

As much as I try to tell myself it does not take a full 24 hours to get from Dubai to Tennessee - well, the facts would beg to differ.

The Monkey Guide

Oh, how I love sitting down at my computer, locating this trusty old Microsoft Word document, and updating it for soon-to-arrive visitors:

(In fairness, not all my visitors to Dubai are monkeys, nor do they need a guide on how to fly into what is ultimately a modern and tourist-friendly airport. However, I originally compiled this guide for my mother - who onced missed a transatlantic flight by 24 hours because she “had a different date in her mind” - so it’s targeted at the lowest common denominator.)

I love sharing this place I love with people I love, so the fact that I have three good friends coming to Dubai for New Year’s - three friends who have somehow managed to resist 4.5 years’ worth of insistent ”COME VISIT ME!” pleas until now - has put me into quite the frenzy of planning and excitement.

Who knows, maybe my anal-rententive info-compiling could be the beginning of a niche travel-writing career… THE MONKEY GUIDE, coming soon to a city near you?!

Dishes and Hubris in the Kitchen

Last week, thanks to the confluence of The Month of Gubbi and Operation Expat Thanksgiving, I spent about 30 hours right here:

Okay yes, this was partially an excuse to show you the awesome “No Women” sign that my male boss got me when we were working in Saudi Arabia, which hangs - appropriately? ironically? you be the judge! - in our kitchen.

I’m not really allowed to complain about our kitchen, because it’s pretty nice as far as foreign kitchens go. Most importantly, we have a garbage disposal, and having a garbage disposal is EXTREMELY DREAMY AND RARE among flats in Dubai - or anywhere outside the US, in my experience. 

[Sidenote: so rare are garbage disposals outside the US that Alex, who grew up overseas, lives in a perpetual state of bemused fascination regarding this, his first garbage disposal ever. Every time I put something down it - even something mundane like an orange peel - he’ll be like “REALLY? You can put THAT down the disposal? Are you SURE?!” One time, he accidentally dropped a metal screw down the drain and was like, “WELL THAT’S IT, WE CAN NEVER USE THE SINK AGAIN, THIS TRANSGRESSION WILL UPSET LORD GARBAGE DISPOSAL” and then was really amazed when I matter-of-factly reached my fingers in and grabbed the screw out as though the disposal was not, in fact, a mercurial and ill-tempered god.]

The trade-off for having a garbage disposal is that we don’t have a dishwasher (I don’t know why this is a trade-off, but according to Dubai “logic” it’s a zero-sum game), meaning that five days after Thanksgiving, my counter tops still look like this:

Okay, fine, I’ve been a little lazy.

Anyhow! The point of all this is to say that I learned an important lesson about hubris last week in the final hours of preparing our Thanksgiving feast.

Flush with the success of my homemade giblet pan gravy for a crowd (seriously! I used the icky heart bits and everything!), and imbued with supreme confidence as Master of the Garbage Disposal, I threw the turkey neck down the disposal in my haste to get out the door to dinner while the gravy was hot.

The turkey neck. With all the, I don’t know, vertebrae bones. And cartilage. And flesh. And other… gross, tough, non-grindable turkey things.

Fast forward to 24 hours later, when I finally stumbled back into the kitchen after our late, celebratory night and discovered that not only had I completely blocked up both our sink drains and the disposal, but I had so royally effed the entire kitchen plumbing system that we had turkey juices gushing up through a grate in the floor every time we turned on the sink.

(No, I don’t know how that’s possible either… magic, probably. Dark magic.)

And so as I washed the first round of Thanksgiving dishes in my bathtub, I was reminded that in the kitchen, as anywhere else, pride goeth before a fall groundswell of day-old turkey juices.

United Colors of Thanksgiving

A day later and several pounds heavier, I’m pleased to report that Operation Expat Thanksgiving 2011: “Make All The Things, Invite All The People” was successfully executed and that 28 of our closest friends, acquaintances, and colleagues in Dubai - about half of whom were experiencing their first Turkey Day ever! - were successfully fed, intoxicated, and forced to publicly share their sentiments of gratitude.

The great thing about Thanksgiving in Dubai is that it happens during literally the most beautiful time of year, meaning we got to dine al fresco on our friends J+A’s patio…

… surrounded by nonchalant views of the world’s tallest building.

Pretty cool, eh?

I will not say it was easy or drama-free to cook for and host nearly thirty people, but at the end of the day everyone seemed genuinely happy to be gathered together, whether for their first Thanksgiving or their thirtieth.

Co-hostesses with the mostesses, in the midst of a minor pre-dinner panic as we attempted to reheat 40+ dishes in one very tiny oven… eh, when in doubt, pour another glass of wine, right?

Of course, this being me, I did relish the “United Colors of Benetton”-ish makeup of our crowd - because really, find me a person who doesn’t love pushing themselves to eat “beyond the wall” and then passing out in a tryptophan-induced haze and I will find you a person who hasn’t experienced Thanksgiving…

American expat friends love Thanksgiving!

Sudanese-New Zealanders and seventy-something year-old English friend’s mums love Thanksgiving!

Jersey girls and Brits and German-Jamaicans love Thanksgiving!

Emiratis and Palestinians love Thanksgiving!

(In epic fashion, when we forced people to go around and say what they were thankful for after the meal, these two cited “oil” and “Rolexes” respectively… Arab money, man.)

And of course, my food baby loves Thanksgiving!

As for Alex… well, he loves the post-meal shisha that he manages to incorporate into any festive occasion. 

And the best part about expat Thanksgiving is that - unbound by the traditional confines of holiday dates and timing - we get to do it all over again tonight, at a friend’s house who’s hosting his own belated dinner because he was in Nigeria for work on Thursday. This time, free from the stress of hosting, I plan to eat far beyond the wall… we’re talking the elusive “fourth stomach,” people. 

Wish me luck!