The Gym

I decided when I moved here that I was going to take advantage of all of my free time and start going to the gym again. It turns out that my life got pretty busy pretty quickly, so all that free time I thought I was going to have is non-existent, but I have to admit that I am proud of my gym-going efforts. I have gone 6 days a week (every day except for Friday, which is our Sabbath) almost without fail. I have only failed 3 times (when I haven't made it home before the gym closes at 11pm). I forgot how good I feel when I work out every day. The gym here is an interesting situation. First of all, Bahraini women don't work out. I live in a hotel that is frequented by expats, which is the only reason we have a gym. And by a gym I mean a room smaller than my apartment, with 2 treadmills, 2 bikes (one of which doesn't work), an elliptical and a Stairmaster. Even though I have never seen any Muslims work out, their rules still apply, and there are signs all over advising you to wear appropriate clothing. There is not to be any mixing of the genders, and they have seperate facilities for "gents" and "ladies." And just in case you forget, there is a subtle reminder by the door: Here are the facilities in all of their glory. There is a TV in the opposite corner as well. I'm not sure how such a small space warrants a need for 2 televisions.

And just in case you were wondering, the men's gym looks exactly the same. I snuck in one day, because I wanted to see if their gym was better. It wasn't. I felt good about that.

About 90% of the time, I am the only one in the gym. My favorite thing to do is sing along (loudly) to my I-Pod. It makes the time go by more quickly, and I'm sure it's good for my lungs. My least favorite thing to do is have the TV on. Besides the fact that I generally dislike TV, I can see it in my peripheral vision on both sides when I am on the elliptical (my workout of choice), and it throws off my balance. If anyone else ever comes in when I am working out, the first thing they ask is, "Do you mind if I put on the telly?" Yes, I mind. But I never say that. "Sure, no problem." Do you mind if I sing?
And finally, after an hour in the gym, I appreciate a cool drink of water. I'm not sure what they have against normal cups here, but my workouts always leave me craving a snow cone.

Fathiar

Leave it to me to sniff out the best carbs. And if those carbs happen to incorporate cheese, even better. I introduce to you: Cheese fathiarIt's Lebanese. And it's delicious. Have I mentioned that Lebanese might be my new favorite food? Fathiar is flaky like a croissant, but has a completely different texture. It is much more chewy, and much sweeter. It comes in big rounds, and when you buy one at the bakery, they cut it up like a pizza and wrap it for you. It didn't last very long around my house, so I had to ban myself from buying it again. And my self control is very good--I have followed my rule and not purchased any more. Unfortunately, I usually find something else to try. Yesterday it was the most perfect golden raisin (as in the raisins were yellow) bread, and I managed to eat the whole round loaf while I was waiting in line at the car wash. I could promise you a picture next time, but there won't be a next time: raisin bread is now on my list of off-limits foods.

I'm Not Really a Pet Person

In the 2nd grade I got to take Sunshine, the class rat, home for the summer. I loved that rat, and it spent many an hour getting carried around on my shoulder. I remember making my dad take the hurt pigeon in our backyard to the wildlife center for treatment. Pigeons were a huge pest in our neighborhood, and I think he would have preferred to kill it and have one less problem to deal with, but I insisted, and he humored me. In high school, I volunteered at that wildlife center. I loved it. Every Saturday morning I would drive to the foothills and spend several hours feeding baby birds with eyedroppers, playing with the rescued opossum, taking live rats and mice to the Golden eagle (I always felt weird about being the one who decided who in the cage was going to live and who was going to be lunch), trying not to get clawed to death by injured owls who needed to get bandaged, etc. When we went to Wyoming in the summers to visit my grandparents, I would spend the majority of my time catching and taming wild kittens. My first major in college was Pre-Veterinary Medicine.

So how I turned out the way I am is a bit of a mystery. Now I think of pigeons like flying rats. In fact, I rather dislike birds in general. I have no particular fondness for dogs (except Diesel, and I'm not really sure why I like him). I don't see the point of pets like snakes and hamsters and especially not rabbits. And while I still like some cats, I don't really feel the need to have one in my life (or in my house). But when my friend (I am using the word friend loosely here--he is rather shy and a bit socially awkward, and I think I make him nervous, so I am sure that it was a huge undertaking for him to call and ask me a favor) from the Navy base called in a panic because he didn't have a car and needed to get his dog and cat to the airport by 10pm, I was happy to help him out.

I already had plans that evening, and had to cut them short in order to get him to the airport in time. I had gone to a church activity and we were talking about Arabian cultural traditions. And in the spirit of the evening I was wearing this lovely frock:It's called a jalabiya, not to be confused with the mumu, and it is perhaps the most comfortable piece of clothing I own. I should also mention that this a housedress in Arabic culture, and no one would dream of wearing it outside (unless of course they had an abaya on top of it). But you're talking to the girl who used to go grocery shopping in her pajamas, and I was running late and didn't have time to change back into my regular clothes. I figured it would be a quick trip and I would just stay in the car, so it didn't really matter what I wore.

I pick up the man. And his dog. And his cat. And their crates. And their food. And we barely fit in my little car. He keeps the cat in her crate, but lets the dog loose in the back seat. When I question him, he assures me that his dog will be fine outside of his crate, and no, he will not go to the bathroom or do any other damage. Against my better judgement, I believe him.

The man is extremely nervous about his pets and their 24 hour journey to Texas, and their life without him for 2 weeks until he gets released from duty, and whether or not his parents are going to take good care of them until he gets back, and whether the animals are going to be too hot/cold in the cargo area, and whether or not they are going to escape from their crates, and whether or not the animal cargo people are going to be careful, etc., etc., etc. The cat is going into hysterics in her crate. And the dog is hyperventilating in the back seat. It was almost too much nervous energy for one little Mitsubishi to hold.

We finally make it to the airport, but we have to go to the cargo area, and it looks like it's on lockdown. There are gates and security personnel, and I have some serious doubts about them letting us in. We pull up, and I start looking for some ID. "Do you want to come in?" asks the guard. I nod, he says "Okay" and the gate is opened. So much for airport security in Bahrain.

We pull up to the little office and the man starts unloading. I am still planning to sit in the car, when all of a sudden the man gets a panicked look on his face. And I smell something. The dog has thrown up all over the back seat. I can handle blood, I can handle messy diapers, but I don't do vomit. I need to exit the car. Immediately. So there I am, in my jalabiya, forklifts zinging all around me, people staring, hardhats yelling at other hardhats, gagging in the cargo area. The man hands me a towel from one of the kennels. Oh no. Clearly, I am not the one who is going to be cleaning up this mess. I inform him that he is going to have to do it, while I continue dry heaving. I am having nightmares about what 135 degrees is going to do to the smell the next day. I want to sit down and weep. I hate dogs.

I manage to make it through the evening without crying and without throwing up, which is no small feat. I try to be gracious. I tell the man it's not a big deal that his dog barfed all over my car, and that it now reaks. I assure him that his animals will be fine and well cared for. I lie through my teeth.

By now it is late and everything is closed, and I have church the next morning. After church, I immediately go to the car wash. I make the men wash the back seat twice, and prove to me that they are using soap, and not just a wet sponge. I go to the store and buy an air freshener called "Orchard Garden." It is horribly strong, and gives me a headache, and still doesn't solve the problem. Now my car smells like "My Dog Got Sick in the Orchard Garden."

P.S. In the midst of me trying not to cry or throw up, the only thing that made me feel better was thinking that maybe one day I would laugh about the whole thing. And maybe one day it would make a funny blog post. So I took a picture of my back seat. Slightly odd, I admit, but I was having a lousy evening, and I had to take whatever comfort was available. My mom told me I couldn't post the picture, but don't think I don't have one ;)

Horseback Riding

Last year I took the best roadtrip to Amish country. In the course of the weekend, we stopped at a small private farm and had a guided horseback ride. The guide wanted to get to know us all a bit before he assigned us horses, and he gave me the feisty horse with a definite idea of what she did and didn't want to do. He said that he would enjoy watching us battle wills, and said he thought my personality was up for it. I don't know if I should have been flattered or offended...but I was hooked.

Ever since then, I have thought that it would be fun to take lessons. And what better place to learn to ride than the Middle East? So my second week here, I signed myself up for some lessons at Twin Palms. My teacher is a South African woman who is generally pretty rude and brusque, but at least she's consistently rude to everyone. She put me on a horse called Indy for our first lesson, and I probably would have quit after that, except for that I had prepraid for 4 lessons. It was boring, all I did was walk around the arena, and she basically ignored me while she talked on her cell phone. The only bit of excitement came at the end of the lesson when the horse tried to bite me. It had been stubborn the whole lesson, but I figured it was the starter horse used for new students, and was probably old and crotchety and halfway lame. Once she saw my skills, I was sure that I would graduate to a better horse.

And graduate I did. The next lesson I got Treffi, who I loved. Treffi responded immediately whenever I asked him to do anything. Treffi liked to trot. Treffi made me look good. And, most importantly, Treffi didn't bite. My teacher decided that we would do lunge work. (Lunge work is when the teacher puts the horse on a leash and holds the leash while the horse runs in circles.) This was all fine and well, until she decided that I was pulling on the reins too much, and took them away from me.

Anyone who knows me knows that I was not blessed with an abundance of coordination. In fact, my father likes to tell me that I have a coordination deficit. So you can imagine my life flashing before my eyes when I was left sitting on the saddle with nothing to hold on to (proper riding saddles don't have a horn). I did okay walking, but then she decided that she wanted the horse to pick up the pace a bit. And THEN she decided that she wanted me to put my arms out to my sides. I thought I was going to fall off. And I almost did. Twice. But I managed to keep my seat, and I was no worse for wear. I figured I would be jumping in no time.

But then I got Indy again. The other horses were all being used. It became apparent very quickly that Indy remembered me. And he still hated me. The feeling was mutual. He didn't do anything I asked him to do. He ignored my hard kicks. He ignored my teacher until she got out the whip. And then he was really mad and tried his best to get me off of his back. Let's just say that Indy and I have a major personality conflict. My teacher noticed. Sometimes that just happens with people and horses, she said. She assured me that I would never have to ride Indy again.

So you will understand my surprise when I show up for the next lesson and Indy is saddled and ready to go. I inform my teacher that I will not ride Indy. She tells me that he has to be ridden today, and that Treffi has a hurt leg. I tell her we will have to reschedule our lesson then, because I refuse to ride Indy. She gives me a dirty look and asks me to try one more time, and if he is not good then we will reschedule. I agree, with misgivings, and lead him to the arena. He bites me. I tell him exactly what a miserable excuse for a horse I think he is, how I am quite displeased to see him, and how I find his very presence odious. He tries to bite me again. This lesson is not going well and I am very unhappy. I finally get mounted. We do more lungework, except for this time my teacher takes away my stirrups and my reins. For all intents and purposes, I may as well have been riding bareback (okay, maybe that's a bit of a stretch). I am very worried that Indy is going to throw me off out of sheer spite. Remarkably, I stay seated. Even more remarkably, Indy actually listens when I tell him to run. Perhaps we are coming to an agreement...and then when I am taking off his reins, Indy bites me again. I would like to announce my hiatus from horseback riding lessons for right now.

This is Twin Palms, the riding stable where I take lessons. Sadly, don't have any pictures of me looking like I am trying to fly. You will have to use your imagination.
This is the horse that started it all in Amish country. And yes, I am wearing a North Face vest on top of my North Face puffer coat. Flattering, no? I only like to ride horses in extreme temperatures. If it's not 35 degrees or 135 degrees, I'm not interested.
This is how it looks when Indy tries to bite me. This is my beautiful friend Cory on our road trip. Don't worry--the horse liked her, he was just yawning. This could quite possibly be my favorite picture that I have taken. Ever.

The Navy Ball

I should have gone with my gut. In fact, I politely declined the invitation the first couple of times when my friend Cristina invited me to come. I told her I don't like dances. Never have, never will. I assured her that I wouldn't be any fun. She kept inviting me. Her friends kept inviting me. I got phone calls. I got texts. I caved. Let this be a lesson to you all about the dangers of peer pressure.

But in my defense, I did not relent without doing my homework. I consulted a trusted source who had attended such functions in the past. I asked her if it would be like prom, only the drinking would be legal. She said she had only attended Marine Balls, but that they were great. Lots of military tradition, lots of distinguished guests, lots of interesting people to meet, lots of fun. I started dreaming dreams. Jane Austen-esque dreams. Dreams of grand toasts and ballroom dancing. Dreams of Navy men in crisp white dress uniforms and women in beautiful floor length gowns. Dreams of MY new floor length gown. My serious reservations forgotten, I got to work.

I found a dress I liked, made a few alterations to it, and took the picture of what I wanted to the tailor, along with 4 meters of a lovely green satin. It would be ready in a week, just in time for the ball.

I ran into my first problem when I went to pick up my dress from the tailor. It wasn't ready. That was not what I wanted to hear after I had been stuck in traffic for 45 minutes to get there, and had walked a good distance into the souk in shoes that were rubbing huge blisters on my feet. Their explanation: they had called me friend to tell her that her pants weren't ready. From that message, my friend was supposed to extrapolate that my dress wasn't ready and call me to relay the message. Excellent communication skills at work. They promised it would be ready the next day.

So I went back. For the third time. I looked at my dress, and it looked kind of big, but I figured that they had spent so much time measuring me that it was probably just me wishing I was skinnier. Why didn't I try it on? The tailor operates out of a fabric store, and there was no place to change. I went back to work, noticed that they had not done a good job on the sleeve or hem stitching, but decided that I could get over it. I tried it on. It fell off. Yes, definitely too big.

Back to the souk. They said they would fix it. They said it would be ready in two days. I informed them that they had one day, otherwise I would be going naked to the ball. They told me they would have it to me the next day, but I had to come after hours. I thought going to the souk after hours was a bit dodgy (as my Brit friends would say) so I brought Cristina. This makes 5 times going to the souk. The dress no longer falls off, but it certaininly does not look like a custome fitting gown. I've bought things off the rack that fit better. Tailoring is definitely overrated. I wish I would have figured that out before I bought all that fabric... But I digress.

I go to the salon. They put my hair in pin curlers so that it has body when I take them out. While the stylist is working on my hair, I get an hour long pedicure for $4.

I get ready. I go to the hotel where the event is to be held. I wait for 2 hours because my friend is late. I am HIGHLY annoyed. I am hungry. My dress is shifting and I keep flashing people.

We go to the ball. Instead of white uniforms I see plaid suits. Instead of flowing ballgowns I see dresses that look like their owners are going to work the street corner after the event is over. I see ugly tattoos. Everywhere. Uglier than the tattoos I saw at the Country Music Festival in Nashville, and that's saying something. Instead of ballroom dancing, I see the limbo and the electric slide and other such travesties. Instead of interesting people I am seated next to a man called Rabbit. I think he might be mute. Rabbit obviously finds me as enthralling as I find him, and he leaves. A new man comes. He tries to look down my dress.

My Navy Ball dreams are shattered. I am tired. I am cranky. I console myself with 2 helpings of Thai chicken salad. And some mashed potatoes and gravy.

Navy Ball Ticket: $45
Material for my dress: $8
Dressmaker: $23 (after I told him I expected a 10% discount when the dress was not ready on time)
Kenneth Cole Clutch: $19
Hair: $8
Insisting that I take my own car so that I wasn't stuck when I realized that the Navy uses the term "ball" loosely: Priceless.

The evening made my senior prom look like a good time. I spent about $103 to go to the event, and I estimate that I derived about $7.55 of pleasure from it (the value of the quantity of Thai chicken salad I ate). Here's hoping that I get more than a 7% return on future activities...

These are my friends Cristina and Kristy. I get their names mixed up all the time, because about half of my friends have some variation of the name (Kristen, Kristin, Christina...you get the idea). They each paid upwards of $130 for their dresses (they don't spend as much time scouring the souk as I do) so my inexpensive dress is something to be grateful for.

A Self Portrait

I like to call this one "Woman in a hairnet, with toothbrush." Oh the pains I went through in preparation for the Navy Ball. What a sad, sad waste of time...

The Grand Mosque

There are mosques in practically every neighborhood here. Depending on which sect of Islam you belong to, they are either plain colored, or covered with colorful tile and paint. The Grand Mosque is the biggest one in the country (and also boasts the largest fiberglass dome in the world--I don't think I was as impressed with that fact as they would have liked me to have been.) They allow visitors in between prayer times, though women must be covered. But don't worry--if you forget your abaya in the car, like I did, they will lend you one.
I think the mosque is beautiful. I love its simplicity and elegance. And I loved our tour guide. He was a very jolly sort of fellow, and had a big beard and an easy smile. He answered all of our questions (even the militant ones from a feminist in our group) and taught us some interesting things. I was taking notes so that I could be sure and share some of my learning on my blog, and I think he was excited about that, because at the end of the tour he gave me a lot of literature on Islam and Christianity, Islam and the treatment of women, and a copy of the Quran in English. I think he was hoping that I was going to convert.
Here I am in the mosque. Notice the lines on the floor. During prayer time, men stand on those lines with shoulders and feet touching. Women have to go to the upper balcony or stand in the back. Unlike men, women are not required to go to the mosque. This is because they believe that a woman can be saved without attendance if she prays in her home. They believe that a woman has the greatest influence on a child, and should be in the home with the children. The tour guide explained that if a child has a drunk father and a good mother, the child will be good. But if the child has a good father and a bad mother, the child will be bad. They believe that it is the man's duty to provide for his family. If the wife works, her salary is her pocket money to do with as she pleases--the man is still responsible for providing for her.

Muslims believe that everyone has two angels riding around on their shoulders. The one on the right shoulder is telling you to do good things, and the one on your left should is telling you to do bad things.

There are 3 rules for a mosque:
1.) There are no pictures of God or any prophets. They don't want people to start worshipping the pictures as idols, or to have a picture of God in their head when they are praying, since they don't know what He looks like. I hate the old religious art that is really graphic (and anatomically incorrect), so I can appreciate this rule.
2.) There are no graves in mosques. Same logic as above, and I think it is also to avoid the politics of who should be buried in the mosque and who shouldn't be.
3.) Only clean money can be used to maintain the mosque. This includes money from interest, gambling, theft, or holdings in companies that are against Islamic teachings (like alcohol).
These are the prayer timings. They are dependent on the movement of the sun and moon, and so the prayer times will change by a couple of minutes each day.
This is the proper way to pray. Part of the prayer is memorized and said verbatim every time, but part of it is open to talk about things that are pressing in your life at the moment. They recite certain verses of the Quran to start out, and I asked the tour guide if they were required to memorize the Quran. He said that it wasn't a requirement, but "It's a bonus." The Quran is 604 pages. I hope it's a big bonus.

It's a Good Thing...

After last week, I decided two things: It's a good thing I don't have naked issues and it's a good thing I don't get offended easily. If I did, I think the week would have done me in. Let me start with a little personal information. I don't know what it is about the hot and humid temperatures here, but they make my hair grow about 5 times faster. I spent the first month and a half shaving my legs every day, and it was starting to drive me crazy. After listening to my complaints, my coworker Deema told me that hairy legs "weren't nice" and that I would never get married unless I had smooth legs. She started recommending places for laser hair removal. The prospect of never having to shave my legs again was quite appealing, and so I decided to humor her. One day she came to the office to tell me that her mom had found a new doctor who did it for about half the price of anyone else. But I couldn't make an appointment myself. Her mom would have to call for me, because there was a waiting list, and her mom knew the doctor and would tell him that I was like her daughter and needed to be seen right away. As in the next day. Her mom was also convinced that I could not go by myself, or I might get lost. She told me to come to her house, and she would have her driver take her to the clinic so that I could follow them. While that was very nice of her, Deema and I assured her that my days of getting lost were over, and I would be just fine going by myself. Her mother finally relented, and decided that as long as Deema met me there, I would be okay. Deema wanted to see the laser that the doctor used before making her own appointment. Unfortunately, the appointment that they worked so hard to get for me was the same night that I was having the Brits for dinner. This was causing me great stress, because the Brit husband does not eat any fruits or vegetables, and the Brit children are extremely picky eaters. I would not recommend trying a new recipe in said situation, and I would classify dinner as a complete failure. Let's just say that I ended up making microwave popcorn for the kids. Anyway, during the course of the evening, the Brit husband asked to see a picture of my family. I showed him a picture from Katie's wedding:He looked at it, and then looked at it again, and then said "Is at ew?" Yes, I told him. "Ew wur a rite lit'l fa'e w'rnt ya," he said. It took me a minute to translate, though I knew it was rude because his wife was giving him a dirty look. (For those of you who haven't figured it out, he said "You were a right little fatty, weren't you".) I would like to know how would you respond to that comment. I was kind of at a loss. He kept going on and on about how he would never in a million years have thought that was me, and how I am so much skinnier now than I was then, etc. I actually think I look almost exactly the same, and I told him so. He disagreed, and then started pointing out differences that he could see. I realized it was a futile argument, and so I finally just told him that I would take it as a compliment that he thought I looked so much better now than I did then. Brits. They're funny. But alas, I had to rush them out of the house in order to get to my laser hair appointment on time. I made it there a few minutes early, with plenty of time to sit and wait for almost an hour and a half. I was more than a little annoyed. And I was the only one coming or going not wearing an abaya and head scarf. Deema looked at the laser, and I expected her to go home after that. But no. She decided to go jewelry shopping at the souk down the road, leaving me with instructions to text her once I was called in to see the doctor so that she could watch. Being a novus to laser hair removal, I was not sure what to expect, but I was fairly certain that it would involve little to no clothing. I was right. But it didn't seem to bother Deema in the least. In fact, she left her spectator position on the couch to come to the table and feel my leg, after which she proceeded to tell the doctor that it wasn't smooth enough. If any of you are looking for ways to bond with your coworkers, may I suggest inviting them to your medical appointments?

The Cat Shirt

When I was in elementary school, my parents went to Texas and brought me back a cream colored t-shirt with forest green cats printed all over it. My love for that shirt was exceeding, and I wore it as often as possible. I am happy to say that I no longer wear any article of clothing more than once in the same week. And lest you think that I wear the same yellow shorts and white t-shirt every time I go sightseeing, I would like it to be known that all of the pictures in said outfit were taken on the same day (I just don't blog in order, or write about everything all at once, which is why you have seen this outfit repeatedly throughout the month of September). My sister was a bit worried that I had relapsed into my cat shirt days when she saw my pictures. Never fear, Katie, for though I have given up wearing makeup and washing my hair every day, I have not sunk so low as to wear the same outfit over and over and over (yet). Now that we've got that cleared up, let's move on to the Bahrain Fort.

This might be my very favorite place so far. The fort is truly beautiful, and I love its its elegance and simplicity. Archaelogists believe that the fort was built by the Portuguese, and have also found the remains of 6 cities built on top of each other in the same area. It is a UNESCO World Heritage Site because one of those 6 cities is believed to have been the capital of the Dilmun empire.

They've done a lot of work on refurbishing the fort. It is immaculate! You can see the lights along the ground--it is supposed to be even more striking at night when it is lit up. I will have to go at night before I leave...
More walls.
Trees (other than palms)--something you don't see every day around here...
You can't tell in this picture, but the water here is gorgeous. The bright blues and turquoises are colors you would expect to see in Aruba, but not the Middle East.

Driving = Vexation

"The one thing that unites all human beings, regardless of age, gender, religion, economic status or ethnic background, is that, deep down inside, we ALL believe that we are above average drivers." Dave Barry

I will be the first to admit that I am not the world's best driver, and I am okay with that. (But I would like to point out that after living in NYC, I am a pretty dang good parallel parker--on both sides of those one-way streets.) Bahrainis will tell you that it is the Saudis who are the bad drivers, and while I will say that Saudis are definitely rude drivers, they don't have a monopoly on stupid driving. Let me enumerate for you why driving here is a source of great vexation in my life:

1. Rules do not apply. I would describe it as a very "creative" driving environment, which means that you have no idea what the person in front of you is going to do, and nothing surprises me anymore. I'm talking about crazy gap shooting, turning from the wrong lane, reversing down a main road when someone misses a turn, stopping in the middle of traffic to let a passenger out, and ignoring road signage. I have to admit that I have really embraced that last one. I only know how to get home from horseback riding lessons one way, and it happens to be down a road that is supposedly closed. I just pretend that I don't see that sign as I drive past.

2. One word: roundabouts. I hate them. I imagine that some of that hatred stems from the fact that roundabouts were not covered in California driver's ed, and I am not well versed in their proper usage. I did, however, pick up some tips based on all of the people honking at me at my first few attempts. I guess I'll chalk that one up to trial and error.

3. The mandatory seatbelt laws here only apply to the driver and the front seat passenger. Children are not required to wear seat belts or sit in car seats. Usually the kids are climbing all over the parents in the front seat, which does not lead to good driving practices. It is also extremely unsafe, and in my opinion not very responsible parenting.

4. There are no maps. I spent the first couple of weeks getting all sorts of lost. Then I started having my coworkers draw me maps. Some days I am amazed that the maps don't get me even more lost.
5. There are no road signs, and if they are, they are in the middle of the road. So if you turn right at the corner where you think you should, you will know if you were correct once you get about 5 miles down the road, and you finally see the sign. If a road does have a name, it is usually either the name of a Sheikh (the ruling family) or a number. But the numbers do not go in numberical order, and the Sheikhs unfortunately have names like Sheikh Mohammed Abdulla Khalifah Hussain IV. This does not make giving directions easy.

6. The traffic signals really throw me off. They use arrows here, and so you've got to pay attention to what direction you are going so you don't accidentally run a red light. They use the yellow light before both the red light and the green light, so when you see yellow, you never know if you should slow down or speed up.

7. I would estimate that about 80% of the roads here are under construction, and there are all kinds of detours and delays. The problem is not that they are trying to improve road conditions, but rather that they make a huge mess of the roads, and then just leave them for months. Here is a simple idea--why don't you finish one project before moving on to the next?

8. I suppose I shouldn't complain about the roads, where there are roads. There is a lot of dessert land, and the expectation is that you will just off-road your way to wherever you are going. My horseback riding lessons are back by those trees, and it is quite the adventure to get there in the dark.

9. The parking etiquette here leaves much to be desired. One day last week I walked out to the parking lot to leave for the day, and found the following. Some Lexus had blocked me in. And this is not the first time this has happened to me. A few weeks before a huge SUV blocked me in at the grocery store. Getting free involves a lot of waiting patiently, or a trip to the security office with the license plate number in hand.

10. I think the parking situation here is bad enough that it deserves a second mention. As you can see below, it is fair game to park anywhere there isn't already a car, including sidewalks. By the end of the day, this sidewalk will be 3-deep.