Roundabout

We're outta here.

2009-09-22T14:00:00.000-07:00

Maybe. Try us here and tell us what you think, here or there. We'll go with the flow.

And if that didn't work, try arabianroundabout.wordpress.com.

Momma and her Boyees

2009-01-15T10:44:00.000-08:00

A little before her Christmas galavant to St. George (minus dragons), Wendy was feeling enormous parental guilt at abandoning her spawn, and leaving her husband to work, babysit, feed, clothe, clean, and change the diapers (oh, wait: no diapers), and so she decided to treat them to a day at the zoo, followed by steamers at Starbucks, which has evolved into something of a personal coping strategy, and thus it is a great honour to share in the ritual.

Ahem. Back on track. Number 1 elected to stay home, being far too old for zoos, and far too cool for anything not deep-fried. He stayed in his room, silent (but deadly), mooning over some girl, no doubt, far away in Castelnuovo di Farfa, who was no doubt mooning over him, but probably in Italian.

I, on the other hand, was not mooning anybody, but was hard at work earning a living in my office, and maybe watching an episode of Prison Break online. Maybe.

Here's what Wenders got up to. I've posted this under her account so she can edit at will, with the proviso she not remove any mooning jokes or the stuff about steamers.

"Oh that ain't the half of it! Oh no, sistah! She was all like, 'oh no you ditint!' And I was like, "Oh yes I ditit!' And she was all like, "Get ouch mah face!" And I was like, "That's yo face? I thought it was yo momma's toupee!' Hee-hee! Girl, I was all up in her bizness, uh-huh!"

"Tyger, tyger, burning bright

"In the forests of the night,

"What immortal hand or eye

"Could frame thy fearful symmetry?"

"Kgkgkgkgkgkgkguh-kuh-kuh-ngaw. Huh? Sorry. What? You say something? Geez, I musta dozed off for a minute there."

". . . and we have a message we'd like to share with you: 'Nanananabooboo! Plllssllsplspllst!'"

"Hey Doris!"

"Yeah, Merv?"

"You got any uh dat cream left ovah?"

"I dunno, why?"

"My keistah is faschliggudah! That's why!"

"Oh my goodness. Honey, I don't think the cream's gonna cut it this time. Maybe you should go and see my son, the doctah!"

More monkeys, fairly evolved. Makes one almost believe old Chucky D. Well, wholesale, that is.

Nice work on these next two. Look out, ec. Wendy's gonna be all up in yo bizness!

"Ziss precociouss 'jungstehr'--ha ha, zat'ss a liddle choke I made zere (oh, zat's anuzzehr vun: tee-hee, zese are my pesst chokess, all epic-glottiss, you cood ssay!)--vass performing vhut vee call in medicine ein 'autotracheotomy.' Ass you can ssee, he missus zuh sroat, und inssted punckchuhrs hiss left chick. Now all zat happens iss vhen he breazs, he vhistles like a liddle faun viss a pan floot!"

"And then the alien plant thingy says, 'Feed me, Seymour!'"

Oh, Birthday Brother!

2009-01-14T23:52:00.000-08:00

My Jo turned 5 today!!!

I can hardly stand that he is not a wee, fluffy-headed bundle of heaven any more. I miss those days, but look forward each day to witnessing his joy for life. His excitement and love make my day, every day!

Even though he speaks the truth without guile ("Mommy, I like your chubby!"), he also often expresses his love to me and plants a big kiss on my cheek.

He is 5 going on 10, and the large gap between him and "the brothers" is not always enjoyable, but I would never have missed the opportunity to be his mommy and witness to the stages and phases he is going through, and seen the love his older brothers have for him.

Happy Birthday, my Jo! Thanks for another reason to celebrate!

Woo Hoo! I Love Jon!

2008-12-08T12:59:00.000-08:00

[Disclaimer: I, Jon, did in now way incite, elicit, or influence this post, except by way of edition (grammar, etc.) at Wendy's request. The opinions found herein are the author's (i.e. Wendy's) and hers exclusively. Okay, I suppose I incited it by being my fabulous self, but other than that, I am innocent of the charge of manipulation of any sort. Nor am I to be held responsible for the jealousy of other wives, or the melancholy impotence of their husbands in comparison. That is all.]

Ok... so he is 37 now and my gift to him is...

37 reasons why I LOVE Jon-a-thon

1. I love that he is my best friend.
2. I love that he works hard to provide for his family.
3. I love that he does not like for there to be contention between us.
4. I love his scrumptious lips.
5. I love to hear him sing.
6. I love his feet.
7. I love that he dives in and helps around the house.
8. I love that he plays basketball.
9. I love how he loves his children--enough to even be their coach and seminary teacher.
10. I love that he took us to Italy and that he had amazing friends there.
11. I love that he makes killer spaghetti (did I write that?).
12. I love that he does the dish AND tidies the kitchen, too.
13. I love that we work as a team.
14. I love how mushy he is with babies.
15. I love to hear him having a mature talk with Jonah.
16. I love his bald shins.
17. I love his dilligence with and in the Gospel.
18. I love his unconditional love and forgiveness of others. Especially me.
19. I love his wit and charm.
20. I love his hair everywhere.
21. I love to see his big blues looking at me.
22. I love that he gets the door for me.
23. I love that he is willing to care for the kids so I can get away.
24. I love when we sing Bohemian Rhapsody really loud together in the Merv.
25. I love when he snuggles with me.
26. I love that he is handy around the house even when it means drilling through cement.
27. I love our life.
28. I love his boys.
29. I love the memories we share.
30. I love that he has stuck with me through unstickable times.
31. I even love him for the times he has had to set me straight.
32. I love that he is always willing to be up with the crying baby or the bad dreams.
33. I love that he swept me off my feet and married me barely 4 months from our first (official) date.
34. I love that we have lived in 3 different countries (yes, I love you here, I love you there, I love you everywhere).
35. I love that his parents taught him well and love us both.
36. I love that he loves me everyday, not just on special days.
37. Last one.... I love him because he is the one for me: he IS my home.

Hej! Hyj-hyj! Yep!

2008-10-22T14:36:00.000-07:00

Ah, der Dansk! Musik til myn earsers!

Just came back from a 3-day conference in Arhus (actually A with a little superscript circle on its top: Oar-hoos) with a bunch of very nice and very smart people from places far and flung, including a Doblinner wit de classic Oirish axe-nt, a right delightful Scot whoo stahrted huz caree-er as a Bot'nist and ennded uhp a Bible scoller, a "why so pale and wan" Brit going back for his PhD in his translucent years, two feisty Franco-Belgian grad students, a big burly bearded American, a sweet little Swedish lady, and an Israeli academician with a c.v as long as three arms.

Volks I got to Knolks (or is that Folken I got to Knolken?):
The Scotanist, name of Hugh--wry, humble, erudite, and a friend to all he's met:

Hugh really does put the gentle in gentleman. We walked many a kilometre together, and he was very patient with my blathergeist. I stayed long enough on Sunday to hear his fascinating paper on a new setting of the Passion of Saint John, and its odd placement in a secular auditorium. Broad and brilliant.

The Pale 'un, Alan, who I assumed was an august professor already, but is really a spring rooster:

Alan and I were on the same panel, and he offered up a delightful paper on the poem and/as spiritual experience. We laughed often and heartily throughout the conference about language and the ways we speak it. Well, mostly about the way other people speak it. Ahem.

The Belgian Tag team, Ingrid and Marie (Cahoons: of whom does Marie--on the right--remind you?):

Marie was fun to talk with because her father is from Manchester, though he stopped speaking English to her when she was three years old, so she has this great French accent with Man accents. Ingrid was fun to talk with because she is delightfully shy, though for no apparent reason: sharp as a whip and smart as a knife. I appreciated them as well for their moderation with the liquor--hardly touched, which made me much more comfortable at table.

The Sweet:

Marion is a firecracker: a little nervous in front of the bigger crowd, but quick and interested in everything and everyone. We escorted her to her hotel once or twice, and she was graciously grateful: even Denmark can be dangerous, what with mad princes on the loose.

Our Eats (piatter du):

The banquet was refined and fine: I hadn't ever eaten sculpted food before--indeed, I was surprised to feel full at the evening's end. We were regaled with tales of conferences past, and entertained by some lovely Danish folk and jazz. On the whole a lovely evening. Wish Wendy had been there to enjoy it as well.

Belong these ruddy tongues as one
Whose fundal wonders have out-clung
The long divorce of time and land
And, met, fit almost glove o'er hand.

English is a Germanic language, coming as it does from Anglo-Saxon, however influenced (and enriched) by Celtic dialects, Latin, and French.

The Danes, whose language is also Germanic, also had a significant impact, and the relationship between the two is kinda fun to spot. For instance, a lady on the train (not headed at all for spain, thought there was rain, on the main, and a lovely, verdant plain) was reading a book called "En scaersommernytsdrom." Couldn't figure out the "scaer" part, and neither could the delightful Danish kid I chatted with all the way to Kobynhavn on Sunday.

Below I'll show you some fun near-misses, but I must say that the salutations were delightful: you walk into any establishment, and you're met with the lilting "Hej!" This is "hey," but with a lovely, elven lift at the end that takes the presumption out of it and instead reminds me of wassail. Good friends will say "hyj-hyj!" in greeting or in parting, and you often hear "Yep!" or "Yep?" instead of "next?" at store counters. It's relaxed, and not at all pushy. I liked it.

What I couldn't get over, though, is how these people were ever so fierce with such sunny dispositions and a bouncing lingua danska. I imagine things like this:

"Hej!"
"Hej!"
"How are you this fine, damp afternoon?"
"Ver well, tak! And you?"
"Oh, tak, tak, very well."
"By the way, I love what you've done with the ship. Is that English Oak?"

"Tak. Ya, ya. Picked it up on our last raid of the Pict outlands. I find it wears really well, and with the right varnish, it wipes clean without any scrubbing or abrasive creams. Blood, vomit, grog, whatever: just hoses right off."
"Yeah, my wife wants me to go oak plank on the next ship."
"It's totally worth it. I'm going to rape and pillage your whole town at the point of my gleaming broadsword, now, alright?"
"Og, sure. I understand. That's the way of it, after all. Next month will be our turn. Just please make sure to close the doors all the way when you're done."
"Of course. And tak for being so accommodating! Hyj-hyj!"

Signs of the Timer

Of course, there are moments of comic infelicity if one tries to bring the signified straight across. Ad exemplum:

Now, I know Norse mythology is polytheistic, and I know that the Vikings were a generally giantesque bunch (though modern Danes are normatively slender and slight), but this is ridiculous. And I really don't think you could fit 12 of them in these tiny elevators. Or maybe that means 12 persons to 1 thousand-pound god.

For a moment I thought I was in a Paul Walker movie: in case of driftsstop, pull back on the throttle and gear down. Somehow, driftsstop just doesn't carry the same weight as "emergency." Maybe that's why we English opted for the Latin: something's coming out to get us, after all, not coming to a gentle cessation.

Parkering is, under every circumstance, forbidden here. And don't you kids forguht it.

Here, however, you can parker one time, but one time only. Then that's it. No more times after that, at least not here. We punch the ticket and you move along so someone else can parker. I remember the first time Wendy and I parkered. It was in dad's car, just out in front to the Stake Center in Red Deer, right before we reportered our missions. We were both very unnervered.

Well, we slept cheap, that's for sure. But the luxury part was a little over-stated. Wish I'd taken pictures: the bathroom was a toilet, a sink, and a drain in the floor with a circular shower rod hanging above it, all crammed into a bout 4 square feet. Perspective: one set of taps controlled both the sink and the shower. If you forgot to throw the control back on sink while brushing your teeth, well, it was lucky you had an extra change of clothes. . . .

Actually, the toilet was cramped, but it wasn't all that bad. The television, on the other hand, was mostly German. And it was pretty bad. High-diving with the stars, anyone? The only thing missing was Hasselhoffen, mit hisn pidgeon chesten all exposeden und singen einen off hisn vunverbarren poppen songens fur der camerageshichte.

I always wondered where one could buy a bog. It was closed, or I'd have gone in to see if the purveyors were bog people, which would kind of make sense. And one can see that in addition to bogs, you can also buy all your boggening tools, like barrows. For ditches and dykes, one has to go to Amsterdam, though.

This one's for Drew: perhaps the single-most charming tandlageskolen I've ever seen.

Is the above pamphlet
a: an evacuation plan for the hotel elevator?
b: the personal menu of a Danish soprano?
c: a schedule of boating tours of the nearby fjords?
d: the list of options for viking funerals?

Vistas

Yikes! Them's bikes!

Bikes are every where. I didn't have my camera with me on the udgang/indgang gangway above the train platform, but it was lined with bikes: red bikes blue bikes old bikes new bikes hill bikes still bikes quite a few bikes! Bikes with gears and bikes you steer, bikes with baskets, aw you get the point. Lots of bikes. And they're just left where they're parkered. No chains, no locks, no alarms, no socks. All of Denmark is like a giant lending library for bikes, though I don't think one can actually just swap and ride without causing trouble.

Fact, in general they're a law-und-orderly bunch: I had to incite Italian-style j-walking on more than one occasion. But their waiting for the light wasn't the moo-eyed, lowing passivity we'd find in, say, um, a soulless urbanada: this was a bright-eyed, zen-like acceptance of things beyond control but with purpose. I almost waited once or twice, but my ADD got the better of me.

Every roof looks like a barn. Must snow or something. Huh.

It's offical: I, too, am missing seasons. It was fun to wear a coat for a change.

Love the weathercocks on every watchamacallit. I believe there's a Scandic children's tale about that, isn't there? The one with the pile of animals? Anyway, best thing about them was their silence. Good little roosters.

So I didn't talk about it earlier, but I really dig that "gang" word (gahng), which crops up in Scots English as well ("'Til a' the seas gang dry, [my luve]"), and of course in English English has become "going."

"I used to belong to a going."
"Arrr, he broke the pirate code, he did. He'll walk the going-plank for it, he will!"
"Going way! We're coming down the goingway!"

"Gang" is far more charming, I think: it's nice when someone is udgang, especially if you're shy and need a little help, or if you don't like them. I wonder if Danish soldiers shout "indgang!" when under missile fire, or if they say "indkommen" instead. Probably the latter. Hmm. Maybe it means "I'm going to India." Or perhaps it's a euphemism for "going native." That or it just means "entrance."

Yeah, entrance is likely. I like this pairing more than the British-inspired "Way In" and "Way Out" we see here all the time. The latter always makes me feel like I've done something egregious.

Naeste timer: an update on the gangs on in the Penny villa, including pictures of our trespassing outing with the Dubai Stewarts, which resulted in Jamie getting a date with a bag, or rather a bag full of date. Also, updates on the romantic lives of J and C, featuring "She's on my nerves today" and "She's a girl? Huh. Hadn't noticed."

Shout-outs
Darren: Irony is always welcome, though brassery is better left in Paris.
Adam: welcome back to the land of the living. Now that you're almost a Newfie, I just might have to keep my promise and write you that poem. So are you a "Newby," given that you're in NB?
Chrystal: talked with Kathy coupla days ago. We're psyched.
Skulkers: As they say in Sweden, "Ikea!"

And, finally, heard a great paper on funeral poetry, as in a turning away from scripture and liturgy to "Candle-in-the-Wind" theology. Fascinating stuff. Here's my response:

DED (for Jess)

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust:
Dig out the middle, throw out the crust;

Pay out the taxes, divvy the stuff;
Take the insurance, forget all the fuss.

If I don't get at least 15 comments on this one, I'm packing it in. You've been warned. Maybe I should try putting up a picture of ec's kids, and say something sweet about motherhood. . . .

Wahoo!

2008-10-04T11:40:00.000-07:00

Cuppa Nuttin

2008-10-03T15:56:00.000-07:00

In the absence of anything cute or wondrous to report this week, the following observation and recommendation.

We occasionally stumble across things that surprise us here, most of them apparently trivial and easily explained by the merest of rational speculations. But they are surprising nonetheless. Here's an example.

It isn't so much the popularity of movies that surprises us, but rather that movies such as this--the one ardently, even radically, Catholic, and the other nominally mormon, and very obscure (though we know the director very well: he and his wife, a childhood friend, were in our ward at BYU, and I once raced against and then hung out with him when we were kids at a stake track meet)--would show up over here. In fact, though we didn't get a picture of it this time, we've seen The Work and the Glory many times over. Unfortunately. At least it wasn't Legacy or (horrors!) The BoM Movie.

Curioser and curioser, this place. Inscrutable its peoples. And that ain't orientalism, Herr Said, it's just otherness.

Here's a recommendation to all who love literature as literature, and don't mind occasional, if cautious, ickyness: read Julian Barnes' Arthur & George (with the ampersand, if you please).

Here is my preferred cover--the Canadian edition. I just likes it, I does. All mustardy and diminutive.

It is written by this bloke, who is, if I am pressed to generate such a list, one of my "favourites" with a 'u.'

It is about this old boy, a Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

and his doings in clearing the name of this unfortunate but apparently stoic and stolid solicitor of Parsee-Scotch parentage and English identity.

A wonderfully warm read, finely researched, humane as Barnes' work always is, and in the main both skeptical and credulous in equal and endearing measure. Just finished it, after owning it for more than a year. Read it in the last two days at a leisurely amble, and thought it very fine indeed. Dew tell us wot ewe finks uv it, guv. We'll be waiting to hear.

Shout-out: HEY! Is anybody beside ec and Smash out there? Hello? Geezum crow! I might have to resort to a canning "accident" or retread the old trespass-til-they-dismember-you trick so we can get some action here. No need to say anything clever, just let us know you're listening is all. It helps.

Bon weekend. And happy conference to all for whom that means anything.

J. Jonah Casanova ('s son)

2008-09-27T05:13:00.000-07:00

Jonah in Venetian Casanova mask: evermore apropos.

Update: Day 18

(The following is unprovoked, unsolicited, and unedited. This is life with an extroverted, deeply smitten, completely unself-conscious almost 5-year-old.)

"When I get big, I'm going to marry Hazel."
"Oh really? Why?"
"Because I love her."
"How do you know when you love someone?"
"I just know."
"Why do you love her?"
"Because she is beautiful. She is so beautiful. And she's cool. She's really cool."
"Huh. What makes her beautiful?"
"Cuz she's beautiful. That's all."

Can't argue with that, I guess. All I know is we're in real trouble. When this kid gets, you know, hormones in his system, look out. We may have to use restraints and/or surveillance equipment.

Ramadan Roundup

2008-09-26T07:21:00.000-07:00

Alright, some random newsy/funny stuff as Ramadan comes to a whingeing halt (like worn brake pads, so the final days of the Holy Month screech their way to a full and gristly stop). Pics are iPhonies, so keep the criticism to yourselves, ec.

Chapter 1: Jonah in Love

As you will recall from an earlier post, Jonah is now a bona fide schoolboy. And he also has developed his first bona fide schoolboy crush. Her name is Hazel, and she makes him feel all funny inside.

Day 3: "That's my friend Hazel. Hi, Hazel! She's the best girl in the world, Dad."
Day 11: "Hazel tried to kiss me today."
"Oh yeah? What did you do?"
"I leaned way way back so she couldn't reach me." (And apparently grinned like a tomfool the whole time.)
Day 15: "Mom, Hazel told me that next year she's going to be a woman, so she'll be able to get married."
Day 16: "How was your day, Bud?"
"It was good. Hazel made me love her."
"Really? How did she do that?"
"She kissed me again and I jumped up in the air and was like all spinning around. So I decided to love her."

Ay caramba.

Chapter 2: Flirting with Disaster

All these newbies rushing around to furniture stores had us a bit nostalgic, so we went back to IKEA for a look-see. It was like we'd never moved out . . .

Come to think of it, we got some of our best work done there last year . . .

Chapter 3: New Digs? We dig!

Candidate for the new building. Fits the bill. We're working on it. Large chapelly salon, 5 additional bedrooms plus upstairs commons. Similar to what we're in now. tentative approval given.

Chapter 4: Misery loveth company.

We've had a number of move-ins to our little branch this summer. Two have yet to arrive, but one includes two young men, ages 12 and almost 16. So as of February we'll have 4 YMs, including a P, an almost T, and two Ds, as well as a YW. Whole new ball game.

Chapter 5: New kiddies on the block continued

At rear: sister to the new YM, and button-cute. She's Jo's age, and they're becoming fast friends.
At fore: possibly the cutest smile ever. There's a whole lotta shakin' goin' on chez LDS all of a sudden. We hope the prodigals make another showing, so by our count we would have as follows:

Nursery: 3
Primary: 5
YW: 1
YM: 4
Biggies: 19

Postscript: It's a Bird! It's a Plane! It's an incredibly annoying voiceover by a British journalist who apparently had the wrong kind of tea and is out of sorts, but trying to fake enthusiasm, and consequently drains us of what little we had. Props for the "white cliffs of dover." Arnold would be pleased.

You go, Icarus Boy! Buzz Lightyear ain't got nothin' on you, dawg. It's the crazies that make the world go round, then fall over, explode, and do a raspberry. And who doesn't like a raspberry? Huh? Huh? You know you do!

Some famous Romans we know

2008-09-19T01:42:00.002-07:00

Here.

Dalila and Riccardo, in particular. Riccardo is nearly ready for advancement. Dalila continues to break hearts: her elder brother, Jonathan (no, not named for me) is serving in Paris. Davide Bosco was, as I recall, called on a mission while we were there.

Good kids. Good families. Makes me wanna tear up.

All quiet on the Middle Eastern Front

2008-09-19T01:42:00.001-07:00

Hiya, folks.

Not much going on here at present: kids are in school, Jon's at work, Wendy's in post-kid rehab. The usual.

The earthquake off the coast of Iran apparently rattled some cages in Dubai and Abu Dhabi: buildings more than 10 stories high were evacuated as a precaution, but nothing happened. The attack on the US Embassy in Yemen was 24 hours away by car (Sherry's estimate), and do not in any direct way impact us here. So don't worry about us.

Oh, good news on the LDS front: some new members, including a couple of families, have broadened the base and brightened the hopes. Still looking for a new seat: some good leads last week. Will keep you posted.

Here's a cool thing: we've seen the like of this before, but I dig the way this guy rolls. And overall, I'd say the years have been relatively kind.

Guy Photographs Himself Every Day For 17 Years | Viral | SPIKE.com

Also, some verse to mystify, and mebbe delight. Don't hurt yourselves.

Poetry

Poetry isn’t just
Assigning colours to things:

To say “pink expectation”
(Though the marriage

Suggests the flush along
The neck and cheekbones

Of a young heart
Looking for its lover).

It isn’t just
The parsing of a glimpse

Or feeling into figure,
The making of a shape.

It is the intersect
Of these things and

Of rhythm, the purblind
Consternation of the grammar

Of the mind, the languid,
Seasalt tripping of the tongue

In licking waves
And airborne keening songs.

Os Iris
(for Iris Murdoch)

Hale priestess, limber in tendon and synapse,
Loose of tongue and loose of clacking finger,
Unkempt and unkept by will or will,
You clambered down the ditches and the wells
Of human thought, and brought us back the skulls
Of clowns and princes, dense with soil still,
As if the fertile brains of them could linger
Or death were just imagination’s lapse.

And then you left, your memory grown faint from feint
And with that memory all sane restraint.
You left a something richer, shorn of cover,
Bare and naked as an angry lover,
Your failing brain and tongue a revelation
Of the black, fragile soil of our condition:
The dilemma that awaits all kings and clowns.
Dear Iris, how we miss your trembling bones.

Have a good week. We'll get into some trouble on our end so we have something interesting to post about.

Peace out.

And then there were three . . .

2008-09-05T05:30:00.001-07:00

Back at AAESS for more punishment. Jonah is in "Reception," which is otherwise known as "KG2" or "pre-school." We're looking into having him join his peers in Year 1. Updates to follow.

Christopher is in Year 7 (grade 6), and Riley is in Year 9 (grade 8). It will be interesting to have both in junior high. If they stay in the British system, R will graduate at 17, with the option of a university freshman year afterwards. I think we'll just send him to a real U at that point.

J and "Ms" Rena. All female teachers are "Ms," regardless of marital status. She's a Canuck.

And his mugshot. Wendy "volunteered" to take one of each student in his class for the teach. That's what you get for hanging around and snapping pictures on the first day. I say push 'em out the door as you drive by, slowly. How else is a kid gonna learn to tuck and roll?

So the house is quiet much of the day, which is good. But she gets lonely. Funny what you miss. . . .

19: Last Supper

2008-08-28T12:20:00.001-07:00

On our last evening, the Guidaras had us out to supper, gracious and generous til the last. It was a lovely dinner, including Oxtail. Ay caramba. Dario, Alba, and family were able to join us as well. We miss them all very, very much.

Christmas for Lorenzo. Explanation: when we were robbed in Caserta, one of the things stolen was Lorenzo's navigator "Chiara" (Kee-ahra), which we of course then needed to replace, which was, of course, not available in that model, but, of course, the more expensive, sleeker, shinier, and all around classier Chiara was, of course. So though he felt very sorry for us, he couldn't easily disguise his delight at the new addition.

Wendy flanked by two of her new best friends: Alba and Silvia.

Emanuele, Dario, and Lorenzo. Lorenzo looks like he'd rather be someplace else--preferably somewhere that required the use of his new navigator. We weren't wanting to be anywhere but there.

Emanuele insisted on another shot in front of the house. We soon discovered the reason.

And this sums it all up. The boys had built a tent with blankets, and spent part of the afternoon inside. We cleaned it all up, dropped some pots, slammed some doors, yelled and screamed, and he didn't budge.

We're still reeling. Still weeping. Still sleeping in the fetal position after having to leave the place we love. God willing, we'll be back there again.

Teaser 18: Verona by Day

2008-08-28T11:13:00.001-07:00

Our good friend Sergio took us on a little giro (jih-roh) of Verona our last day there, and it was well worth it. Combining the charms of Verona with those of our hosts and including the great times we had (minus the injury to Wendy's toe) at Lago di Garda, Verona was a touristy highlight of our trip. Here are some pics.

At the Anfiteatro (amphitheatre) with Sergio:

This amphitheatre pre-dates the one in Rome (il Colosseo), and is in almost perfect condition after nearly 2000 years. It is still used for concerts and operas: "Rigoletto" was being staged while we were there, and we got several shots of the scenery and stagehands (including one in Wendy's continuing series of men without shirts). So it is still the heart of cultural life in Verona. I asked Sergio why he thought this one was so well maintained, and he said that, quite frankly, Romans are vandals and the Veronesi are civilized, orderly, Germanic folk. (Pre-Nazi Germanic, that is, and post-Teutonic. Actually, Verona was under Austrian control for almost 200 years.)

Anyway, here is a shot of the steps cut into the stone: the Greeks and Romans truly did do some wondrous things, and they thought of everything.

Name etched in stone:

Il balcone della casa capuletta: specificamente, il balcone di Giulietta. (The balcony of the Capulet house: specifically, Juliet's balcony.) No kidding. And yes, Wendy took this picture. And yes, we also went and found the Montague house (Montacco, I think). We are, after all, equal opportunity tourists.

Schiavo di . . . Verona. The chains were used for animals, purportedly. I have my doubts.

Christopher informing on some usurers (read: Jews--I told you they were a "Germanic" people--though in truth anti-semitism runs deep throughout Europe, so there's no corner on that market in Verona: Venice, anyone? pound of flesh?):

Some of the "scavi" or excavations below Verona. Sergio tells us that the whole city is rich with archaeological strata, so much so that a city ordinance limits archaeological activity, because quite literally anywhere you dig, you find something. This is an old Roman fountain, so the site of an ancient piazza. Just off to the side (out of view) is the noted "gate within a gate": a classical gate with a medieval one built in front and higher than the old one.

Here are the boys at the top of the staircase outside the "tribunale," or the place of judgment. It was said that men who climbed these steps were never seen from again: after judgment, they were taken via catwalks to the nearby prison.

A view of one of two bridges leading into old Verona. We were standing on the belvedere outside an old hillside fortress, Austrian, I think, which in turn was built next to the old quarry, complete with Roman cable and pulley system for transporting rock down to the city. You can see the contrast in the bridge: the Germans blew all bridges in Northern Italy as they withdrew after the Allies re-took Naples and Anzio, south of Rome. The white stones were recovered from the river and banks, and the bridges were rebuilt to the old specs, but with new stone where the old couldn't be found.

A view of half of the city, which is built into the horseshoe of the river. Two bridges, as mentioned, and then a fortification on the south side, were the principle entrances. Verona was built on the intersection of two highways: one stretched from Venice to southern France, and the other from Germany to Rome.

Magnify for full effect. It really is a charming city.

Teaser 17: Lago di Garda and Verona at Night

2008-08-06T23:57:00.001-07:00

The castle at Malcesine, overlooking the narrow end of Lago di Garda, located at the heart of Veneto's tourism industry, and very near its grape orchards, etc.

At Malcesine we took a "funivia," a cable car, up the side of Monte Baldo, and did a bit of a walkabout on the old goat trails. Here are the two goats we found.

The boys communing with the their panflute/lyre playing ancestors.

Jonah lakeside at another resort town further up the coast. Lots of Germans, and windsurfing and parasailing and other fun and dangerous things. Dad C would love it here. Makes Flathead look, well, like a flat head.

On the old bridge in Verona, located at the heart leading to the battlements of the Lord's castle. Tomorrow, Romeo and Juliet's balcony! And other sweet stuff.

Teaser 16: Near Pescara with the Celestinis

2008-08-06T23:40:00.000-07:00

Some images from Francavilla, a resort town near Pescara on the Adriatic. We spent a couple of half days with the Celestini gang on our way to Verona.

This one's for Greg: Euro Identity Crisis

Christopher, Paolo, and Ricardo on the "scagli" (skah'-yuh-lee), stone burms built out in the sea to create shallow pools on the beachside. We all went out later and dove off the rocks. No injuries.

Riley eating a fresh fig, with obvious great enthusiasm.

Teaser 15: Last coupla days

2008-08-03T12:36:00.001-07:00

Window, Saint Peter's, which is actually far more striking than I remember from my jaded McConkieite missionary days, long past, than the heavens.

Michelangelo's Pieta', SP's.

Sfera con sfera, a work dated 1990 and donated to the Vatican where it resides in the "Cortile Pigna," named for the enormous bronze pine cone behind the photographer. Boh. Looks like the Borg mothership to me.

Went to a fireworks championship with the gang. Pretty impressive.

Wendy and her friends from the ward, minus Laura. We went to Anna Maria and Alessandra's house last night for some supper. Great food, great folks. I'm crying already at the thought of leaving this Saturday. Don't wanna.

It's been a while: some verses, in both languages, that come some little way in expressing what I feel for this place--and Wendy concurs. She's converted. We're home.

Prodigal Returned

For whom in deserts lives, in veils of sand,
The greens of these deep Sabine dells are sweet
As fruit after a long and weightsome fast,
Or water poured on tired, dust-sandaled feet.

That there’s a magic—sylvan, pastoral—
Deep in the soil of this deep, ancient place
Is something I can now accept withal:
Makes light the heart, and lighter still the pace.

But there’s a fact that all the more makes this
The place most loved to me upon this earth:
The faces, voices, hands, and welcome kiss
Of this land’s people are its greatest worth.

And even more, a few of its dear saints,
Whose faith and fates are ever tied to mine,
Are met with a long hoped-for joy, unfeigned;
Leaving Rome’s pines, for these I’ll pine.

Smarrito Ritrovato

Per chi viv’in deserti, velato di sabbia,
Son dolci delle colline Sabine i verdi
Come frutta dopo una fame pesant’e lunga,
O l’acqua su polver-calzati piedi.

Che magico, silvano e pastorale,
Si trova profondo in questo suol antico
Or’accetto, senza rinfacciare:
Rende lieto il cuore, e leggero il passo.

Ma c’e’ motivo ancor miglior per cui
L’Italia si’ da me cosi amata:
I visi, le voci, le mani, ed i baci
Son il miglior tesoro ch’essa abbia.

E piu, alcuni dei suoi cari santi,
Cui fede e fortuna tengo care,
Incontro con gioia e calor non finti;
Andando io, m’andranno quelli mancare.

Tomb, If I Must

Burn me when I’m gone
And strew me round
Wherever Chance dictates:
No need for ground.

But if you feel, when I am dead,
To choose a place to lay my head,
To give my bones an eternal home,
Let it be Rome!

Tomba, se debbo

Bruciatemi ben
Quand’io morro’
Spargete le cener
Tanto i’ non vorro’

Ne terra ne tomba: non l’esigero’.
Ma se vi quieta posar testa mia,
O dar a mie ossa una casa eterna
Che Roma sia!

Teaser 14: Post-Caserta Blues et al.

2008-08-03T12:21:00.000-07:00

Various shots, double-loaded and therefore scrambled. So there's one of the boys back on the beach at Fregene building an impressive castle (we're going to the Adriatic tomorrow on our way to Verona), one of Michelangelo's Mose' (thanks, Jen!), one of the men before under the Perticaroli's pergola, one of the boys preparing to storm the castle (inside Castel Sant'Angelo), and one of a watermelon seed-spitting contest just off the Appian Way. Enjoy!

Teaser 13: Ravenna and Pompei

2008-07-27T12:31:00.000-07:00

Some mosaics in old byzantine churches in Ravenna, and yes, a baptismal font. We visited another baptistry not far from here and the plaque actually refers to baptism by immersion as a common early Christian practice: a fact the artwork in later churches revises.

In Pompei: bigger and better than remembered.

Can you believe that's Riley?

We had our only negative experience that night: parked at a shopping mall in Caserta and stupidly left a few valuables in the van. Came back and they were gone, but the van was relocked and the alarm reset. Ah, Naples.

Teaser 12: Aaaaah, Venice!

2008-07-27T12:21:00.000-07:00

It doesn't stink that bad, actually. A few shots. And yes, I'm in the one because Wendy generally takes the pics. Jonah's in a Casanova mask.

Teaser 11: Firenze

2008-07-22T23:42:00.000-07:00

Some of the detail on the massive duomo of Firenze (Florence, and not the lady from the Brady Bunch, either). This thing is gigantesque and, in the style of the northern churches, has a separate bell tower and baptistry.

Christopher with one of the live statues.

Santa Croce (Holy Cross) at night.

Ringo. This thing was almost two inches long and roughly an inch high. Scared the behoobies out of Wendy and Jenn. And that ain't pretty.

Another cold day on the piazza.

Teaser 10: Leaning Tower Edition

2008-07-21T14:40:00.001-07:00

Alright, the first two still in Rome:

We love it when stores are up front. Check out the punctuation.

The obelisk in Villa Borghese.

A surprise find in Pisa: the house where GG was born.

Not the best shot, but at least you get the lean. Video to come.

From the top down. It's really not as high as you expect.

Teaser 9: Mixed Bag

2008-07-21T14:24:00.000-07:00

E wanted to make us feel at home. This was shot at the Celestini's/Vardeu's self-service laundry/ironeria after celebrating Alba's birthday at a restaurant named Da Meo Patacca which was oh forget it.

In Bocchignano, a neato medieval town not far from our place.

Palatino.

We went with E and kids to a medieval celebration in a little place called Greccio, and these boys from Narni, combining flag dancing, drumming, and trumpetry, performed some very complicated moves. This was not one of them.

Riley, at long last, where martyrs and murderers met for mayhem.

Teaser 8

2008-07-16T01:23:00.001-07:00

Late Michelangelo . . .

Sculpted by the bereaved husband: his last work.

In the Cimitero dei Monumenti, divided into religions, wth special sections for war fallen, wounded veterans, etc. Lots of alcoves for urns, some tombs, crypts, vaults, etc. Huge, and impressive.

Motley Crue happened to be in town.

Teaser 7: Dead Poets Edition

2008-07-16T01:02:00.001-07:00

Here Keats, here Shelley rest beneath cool pines;
Here remembered, transcend both Time and times.

Taken at the Antico Cimitero per Stranieri non Cattolici, 15 July, 2008.

Teaser 6 or whatever

2008-07-16T00:53:00.001-07:00

Oooooooooh!

Spot the epochs by architectural style/materials . . .

And here, at the Teatro di Marcello, similarly . . .

Just up the road.

It's not bad enough being buck naked . . .

Teaser 5

2008-07-13T09:44:00.001-07:00

The Bishop's residence in Rieti, from back in the day when ecclesiastical and political powers were one and the same. This is the arch way under the portico.

Along the Tevere, shot from the east bank looking back across at Sacro Cuore del Suffraggio (Sacred Heart of Suffrage) and the Supreme Court.

Even dead, these Italians still crane to check out the hotties. Kidding. He's looking back at the Supreme Court. Probably checking for a hitman.

Pizza night in a little paesino called "Montopoli." Presenti: the Guidara Family (Emanuele, Silvia, Carolina and Michele), the Celestini Family (Giulio, Laura, Ricardo, Claudio, Paolo, Gabriele, Angelo), the Perticarolis (Lorenzo and Lorenza, parents of Silvia) and their grandson William "Willo" Lorenzo, the Vardeu Family (Dario, brother of Laura, wife and three daughters), and of course the Pennys. Sweet little restaurant called Taverna ai Corsari at the top of one of the many hilltop paesi that are all around us here.

Riley's crush: Carolina, daughter of Emanuele and Silvia.

Teaser 4

2008-07-13T09:32:00.000-07:00

Just for you, Adam . . . . (And yes, the leg was amputated. Horrific accident involving tweezers and a can of pepsi. More later.)

Rosone (brother of the Rosetta) on an early M.A. cathedral in Rieti.

Here we are, off centre in the exact centre of Italy.

New wheels, in anticipation of the Smith's arrival. We may open our own guided tour company, so hop aboard, ec. There's room, ormai, for everyone.

The Abbazia (Abbey) di Farfa,1 km as the crow flies from where we live (and roughly 5 f you take the winders). Legend has it that a third century politico came to see the the Abbey of Farfa, not the Pope, when he first came to Rome. In other words, this is where the power was concentrated, once upon a time.

Teaser 3

2008-07-10T03:16:00.000-07:00

Photos, con commentario limitato.

Sorella Salsiccia (Sister Sausage: I'm not lying):

The Vatican guard at the Pope's summer place in Castelgandolfo (Gandolph's Castle) outside Rome in the area called Castelli Romani. Perhaps Tolkien got the name from this place.

A grotta near Emanuele's place: there were bats. Lots of bats. And mud. And guano. And Jonah on my shoulders most of the time, me hunched over. Ay caramba.

The Solfatara: a demure volcano in Pozzuoli, about 500 meters from where I lived.

Seaside in Pozzuoli. From here you can see the islands of Capri and Ischia--hotspots for tourists.

More later: spanks for pointing out how great Wendy looks, Ash. Spanks a lot.

Teaser 2

2008-07-03T09:48:00.000-07:00

Hmm. Last several days: Roma antica, Teramo (where we found one of Jon's old friends) two days ago, Marmore Falls yesterday, Castel Gandolfo and the Via Appia Antica today.

Pics, without commentary (okay, except to say that the green shirt does not fit well. I am not that large in real life, nor do I have man boobs. Sorry mom. Hadda be said. I include the other pic as proof.):

Better proof:

Adam, I'll try to remember to get a couple of shots of the satchel by itself, just for you. But it always closes its eyes when I push the button.

Teaser

2008-06-30T00:34:00.000-07:00

We're here! Internet access is spotty, so we don't know how often we'll get to do this. But here is a sampling to tide you over.

Went to church yesterday. Great ward. Some few familiar faces.

My old friend Emanuele has been taking very good care of us. Had a cold supper with them last night on their terrace, and will see much of them over the next few weeks.

Wish we were better organized for the trip: my fault. But we're piecing it together. Restricted by kilometers, etc., on the car rental. And the budget will be better than exhausted by the time we're done. Oy veh!

Anyway, more when we can. Everyone says hello.

This Week in Engrish

2008-06-21T12:10:00.000-07:00

Alright, so not all of these are fluent Engrish, but they're related conceptually.

Guess which category Jonah falls under . . .

A puzzler: look at the two pictures carefully. 10 house points to the person who figures it out.

And finally, this fella believes in full disclosure. Just in case you wondered where your money would go should you hire the truck (double-click to magnify) . . .

Shout-ats: us, for never keeping the promises to a) write a poem to the most "exotically" placed reader, b) post more in our continuing, one time series "This Week in Islam," and c) show vid of Riley make his electric guitar gently weep.

A: Will do, Mildew, when the winners are situated in New Brunswick, having left Vancouver Island behind. NB has so much more potential for humour than VI, which by now is a caricature of itself, which ruins all the fun.

B: We'll get back to this once we're back. Maybe we'll do a "This Week in Roman Catholicism" or "Mormonism in the Shadow of the Pointy Hat."

C: First, he broke a string. Then, while replacing the string, he broke a string. So we had to go in to Dubai to get a replacement, which has been placed, and is not broken. But now he's out of practice, and will be more so until the end of August. So stay tuned. We'll get there.

Alla prossima.

The Graduate (and other achievements)

2008-06-20T08:59:00.000-07:00

So Amber and Dave think it's a big, fat, hairy deal that Dave has finished his MD/PhD and got to wear the hide of the velveteen rabbit (with accents) at long last. Pshaw! Jonah, it must be said, has graduated from nursery school. We're still waiting for news of a fellowship. (Kidding. Congrats, Edwardseseses! Venisti, Vedisti, Vicisti! Semper Laudanum et Mari Juanium in Formam Pillulam Percorramum--est!)

Anyway, back to our graduate.

Oed and Ted:

A very sober affair (clearly):

Jonah and his BFF (a true Welshman, one of the cymry and a right proper gent)

Jonah and another friend, clearly not Welsh . . .

He vants to suck yor bludd . . .

Actually, all the boys thought the gowns were batman capes. It's not surprising, given the confusion caused by talk of "cap and gown."

Quick story: Wendy and I had sent the older two to PG for a few weeks, and we just had number three (terror of the high C!) with us. He was just two years old. We went to Home Despot in Lethbridge (I misspelled that on porpoise), and he was growing restless being in the cart, so a kind sales associate gave him a roll of stickers. Jonah looked at him incredulously, but accepted the gift and then sat there considering for some time. I went back to the ceiling fans and he was quiet for a good long while. Suddenly he began exclaiming "I'm a genius! I'm a genius!" over and over. I looked back, and he was plastering the shopping cart with stickers.

The act itself wasn't remarkable: it was his command (use and understanding) of the word genius that was remarkable (and darn cute).

Well, here's proof: Jonah only went to school for the last two months, and he's already caught up with his peers. Behold the evidence:

First, a note from his delightful teacher, Ms. Sue, who's from Sohth Aavrick-a:

The cover page of his report card, decorated par soi-meme:

And the report:

Now our report: Jonah continues to keep us in stitches, and on pins and needles. He bursts into song regularly, and not always songs we'd like him to sing. He spells, counts, plays solitaire (but not solitarily: one is always informed about Jonah's whereabouts and activities a' la Howard Cosell, i.e. Jonah's own running commentary), plinks out tunes on the piano, leaves a trail of belongings throughout the house (like the old Family Circus kid, but with toys and items of clothing instead of dashes), imitates every accent he hears, can't say "mi chiamo" to save his life (comes out more like "mi cameo," which if he were attempting Spanish would be kind of apropos, because he behaves as though every moment of every day is his own highly anticipated cameo), and just loves being alive. This is infectious, obnoxious, and precious. I'm writing that tonight because we've had an inordinately high dosage of Calvin-Jonah lately, and we're accen-tuate-ing the positive.

Christopher, by no means a slouch, has also been honoured of late. We should note that he has also "graduate," as my students would say, from "prim'ry school," and will no longer have to wear knickers and dippy shirts, though during the hot months he'll wish that weren't so. He and his class put on their big year-end show tomorrow night, so we'll post a few pics or maybe a short vid clip before we leave (Wednesday!). In the meantime, here're two pics to tide you over:

In this first one, you can plainly see that the beatings with the ugly stick have increased in intensity and frequency . . .

And here's the cert. By way of explanation, C often uses his first name at school, to his mother's continuing chagrin (not because she doesn't like my brother Steve, or his name, but just because he's Christopher to us), and the school's obvious confusion. I think it's slightly devilish, not to mention mildly subversive, and therefore approve of it whole heartedly.

"What the heck?"

2008-06-13T11:03:00.000-07:00

We never thought we'd hear an Arab use those particular words, but at the end of Shyamalama-ding-dong's new movie, The Happening, that is precisely what we heard. And by golly and gum, dude's right.

DO NOT, under any circumstances--we repeat, DO NOT--waste your money or time on this lemon. To put it simply: the premise is that plant life releases a toxin into the air that interferes with the human instinct for self-preservation, garbles their speech, makes them stand stock still and then walk backwards, and then finally induces them to off themselves with increasingly Magyveresque inventiveness. Death by knitting needle. Death by head-on collision with tree. Death by broken glass from head-on collision with tree. Death by tractor-powered lawnmower. Death by close encounters of the head-butting kind. Ay cafreakingramba!

And this isn't Jon's usual hate-love review. Wendy concurs, as does obviously the confused man in the dishdasha.

We suppose the movie is effective in one way: we very nearly harmed ourselves at several points in the film, and have placed each other on suicide watch.

We don't know what's happening here. The idiot-savant of filmmaking, Hitchcock's oriental heir, is himself moving in reverse: from savant to idiot. Gone is the delightful and creepy complexity of Sixth Sense and sort-of in Signs. Gone the metaphysical sensibility, the mystery, the panache. This one makes Lady in the Water look like an MGM Classic. It makes The Village scream Oscar. It makes Unbreakable, well, that one still sucks. Mark Wahlberg makes Bruce What'shisbutt look like a veritable screen genius.

"What's my motivation, Night?"
"Don't worry about that Mark. All I need from you is to stop, slouch your shoulders, and project constipation. Great. Now cry like the panty-waisted science nerd you are. Great. More sobbing. Good. Hold it. Hold it. And cut. Okay, now Zooey, for this scene I want you to look big-eyed and stupid. Perfect!"

We have only one thing to say: Je t'ai pret mon auto c'est la verite' calculus. Calculus. Calculus. Bang!

Shout-outs: Smash, for always being first. Smash, it's the folks who bought a certain big, white house who are coming to pass the time.

Today in Arabia (and in Roma in 12!)

2008-06-13T06:24:00.000-07:00

Nice for the last few days--41/41 tops, and a little overcast (read: high altitude dust storm, though there were a few teasing clouds as well), so it actually feels quite pleasant. The direct sunlight is a substantial factor, obviously, except for mobile phones, as noted earlier.

In the news: here, complimenti al nostro grande amico e agente di viaggio volontiere (compliments of our good friend and volunteer travel agent) Emanuele Guidara, are some shots of where we'll be staying while in Italy:

Double-click to magnify. The "casale" is more or less central in every shot. Impressive views on all sides, as you can see. It will be lovely to be "in campagna" (een cahm-pah'-nyah) because of a reduced humidity and heat dispersion. In the city at night the stone and concrete release heat all night long, making sleeping in an a/c-averse culture nearly impossible.

It is apparently subdivided into a handful of apartments: ours is ground floor with private entrance. 2 bedrooms, kitchen, living room, and single bathroom, so that will be an adjustment after our palatial villa here in Al Ain. We'll be taking the Wii for moral support (and rainy days).

We will also be joined by our good friends from Raymond for a couple of weeks. Plan to head up to Pisa, Florence, and Venice with them. Also down to the hall of sunbaked horrors that is Pompeii. I wish I could remember which rooms had the dirty pictures in them so our kids can avoid them: nudity is one thing, porn quite another, frescoed or no.

And yes, we do expect the boys' heads to explode at some point during our trip. Should be interesting.

Interior shots next week. Our objective is to make you as jealous as possible!

Pace vade vocum,

Us.

Quickie

2008-06-07T11:50:00.000-07:00

We're all in end-of-term mode, so there mightn't be much of a post this week. We offer the following random stuff.

Jon was thinking about language tonight, and more specifically about letters. Anyone ever notice that every letter of the Roman alphabet generally approximates the physiology of its speech sound?

Consider A: capped, with a horizontal cross-beam. Now pronounce the medial "a" as in "sack": the sound is concentrated on the roof of the mouth, the lips are vaguely triangular, and the tongue crosses horizontally.

Consider B: the lips work together to produce this sound, both at the full, and pushing out together.

Consider C: (as in "c-at") see your mouth x-ray wise and sidelong, and what do you get?

Consider D: the tip of the tongue, slightly recessed, rounds out toward the opening of the lips.

Consider E: mouth is C-shaped, but wider and flatter at the back and throat, and the tongue sticks out and medially.

Consider F: top lip out, teeth slightly forward, bottom lip curled in and chin flattened.

Consider G: C-shaped mouth, but the tongue pushes flat and the sound reaches back into the throat.

Consider H: from the front.

Consider I: well, don't consider I. Well, maybe from the front, including the uvula.

Consider J: the jaw moves out, down, and back in and up.

Consider K: and then get over it.

Consider L: the tongue comes up and flat against the roof of the mouth, but the throat itself remains open vertically.

Consider M: take B and turn it 90 degrees to the left.

Consider N: make the sound from scratch: tongue-tip comes up, presses the roof, then drops away.

Consider O: well, duh.

Consider P: the lips are curled flat, and then blow out in a single breath as the jaw drops.

Q is a later invention, so fuggedaboudit.

And so on. I'm just sayin'.

Here are some pictures (not of our mouths in action).

Have seen one of these on campus everyday for the last few: biiiig flying beetles.

Also saw a deck of Uno cards scattered all over campus as well: nice shot I should have gotten of one lying in the red desert sand. But I'm not supposed to operate my camera on campus, which brings us to the next shot.

Wendy came with me this last week to see some of my students performing their year-end project for a colleague's theatrical production class. They did the highly orientalist "Ali Bab and the 40 Thieves" in the motif of toy theatre. Split the parts, which multiple actresses spoke simultaneously. Jim's really great with them: I discovered several of them actually do have voices!

Anyway, this is a shot looking back out across the courtyard (second floor) of the building I teach in:

Skating rink at our neighborhood mall from two floors up:

Bug on a step in our house: one of those beetles. Did I post this one already?

Jonah called this a "cloud stack." His phrase. It's stuck.

ec, go easy: I only ever have my iPhone on me these days: we haven't trotted out the real camera in aeons, but we promise we'll take it and the digital video to Rome. So no photo-criticism. You might scare off National Geographic.

Laters.

Incroyable

2008-06-02T11:44:00.000-07:00

Speed Climber Owns Mountain

Saw this a few years ago. Still amazing. Mute the metal.

How hot was it?

2008-06-01T07:03:00.000-07:00

It was sooooooo hot, that . . .

45 degrees today: bam! For those of you without a concept for this, 45 above means that stuff actually heats up, in or out of the sun, to the point that it becomes uncomfortable to hold. Case in to-the-point: cell phones (or mobiles, as we continentals call them). You stand outside IN THE SHADE, and the thing gets warmer and warmer in your hand.

Now, we realize there's a very simple principle of thermodynamics at work here--the phone contains metallic components, and it does not have an in-built cooling system--but knowing about it and experiencing it live are entirely different matters. Poolside is like being in an oven with the light on. Cancer on a stick. Hyperthermia served hot and spicy.

We look forward to Italy, and having things cool down to 40 degrees in July.

So what will August bring, you ask? Over 50, latest prediction. We are oh so glad we are not construction slaves. And we will make a practice this summer of carrying around boxes of water to hand out at roadside sites.

Christopher's piano is here, full bore. We'll give him a week and then record something so grandmas can be proud.

Finally, had a visit this week from a smashing fellow on an internship in Dubai. He's in BYU's Middle East Studies program, and spent a day with me on campus making contacts here. Very helpful, and I think we now have the will to move on it for next year.

While he was here, we took him up Jebel Hafeet, and were summarily swarmed by some smiling Omanis. Not because he was there, but he was, and they engaged, and he trotted out the ol' Arabic and impressed them. Mobile numbers were exchanged, and a gift was made of a cassette (yes, cassette, even though they have cds here) of some funkadelic Omani tunes. Sweet.

Pics (including, in the last frame, our friend Ahmad, which is pronounced Ah-h-mahd)--guess which one's the white guy:

A lady came up to Wendy's window (she'd stayed in Merv to keep out of the heat) and engaged her in what she deluded herself was English, but actually included three English words and some very excitable Arabic. Eventually, Wendy just started nodding in assent and saying "Oh, really?" We're learning Arabic this year. Halas! Anyway, couldn't get a picture of her because she was wearing a Groucho Marx and it would have been offensive if I'd asked.

They followed us part-way down the mountain, actually: like they wanted to show off their insane switchback drag-racing skeelz. Anyway, we ducked in to see the Mercure Hotel near the summit, and veered right to catch another view (closed, as it turned out). They followed us in and then bailed. Maybe they thought we were frightened. Maybe they just wanted their tape back.

One day, when we leave here permanently, we'll blog about our codes for the various getups, illustrated appropriately. But here's a taste: Groucho Marx, Skater Chic, Ichabod Crane, Ninja-sahn, Prom Night, Mumpsies. Them'll be good times. Stay tuned.

Weekly Wish Pond

2008-05-26T16:22:00.000-07:00

This week, we're wishing that BNL didn't call themselves the, erm, females in their birthday suits (which obviously change considerably over the years, for the better, and eventually for the hearse) because quite frankly we're grooving on them. We bought "Snack Time," their kids' album, online, and have to speak about the band in code so we don't get Jonah used to the actual phrase.

By the way, "Snack Time" nearly undoes all the psychological damage inflicted by Fraggle Rock, the Teletubbies, Elmo, and Fred Penner. Funny stuff, with all kinds of layers, including several both satirical and reverent musical allusions to Lightfoot, Neil Young, Sharon, Lois, Bram, and, we think, The Cars. Funny stuff: "The Ninjas are deadly and silent/They're also unspeakably violent/They speak Japanese/They do whatever they please/And sometimes they vacation in Ireland"; "You and I both know/It's a girl's coat"; "A is for Aisle, B's for Bdellium, C is for Czar/And if you see 'im d'you mind tellin' 'im?" Great tunes, too: claves, banjoes, and canned wolf howls. Need we say more?

Course, it's funny, cuz who in their right mind wants to see these blokes in the full monty?

Not us. Anyway, back to the point: they make some fun, profound, quirky, generally wholesome and family-friendly stuff. Darn that name anyway!

In the music store:

"Who you lookin' for, sir?"
"The, um, murmurmurmurmurmur. Ahem."
"Oh. Well, we're not really that kind of establishment. Try down on Yonge Street."

In conversation:

"Who's your favourite performing group?"
"Most talented Canadians?"
"Who do you like for the Junos?" (Which has quintessentially Greek implications we won't get into tonight.)

Seeing Ed or Jimmy or Anton or whoever on the street: "Hey! That guy's a BNL!"

(This one actually happened to Wendy on her mission, and being clueless, since they had only emerged during her service, she was very offended:

"And then God called Joseph to restore the Gosp--"
"Hey! BNLs!")

And of course, any exchange between the kiddles and their peers, at any level, is volatile:

"Um. Riley, I'm not really sure those search terms are appropriate for a school project. . . ."

"Whatcha doin', Chris?"
"Listening to . . . ."

"Jewnah!" (She's South African.) "Whot a kewt und funny szone-guh! Weah dihd jew lurn iht?"
"From the . . . ! Yeah! My dad brought them home on the weekend!"

You see the trouble.

Anyway, that's our weekly wish for the pond. What's yours?

Christopher gets his piano this week. Ay caramba. Guitar upstairs, ivories down. Jon will be spending a lot more time in his office. Jonah will positively oscillate. Or sing to compete. Wendy will lose her mind rapidly and permanently. Good times.

Virginny

2008-05-23T09:52:00.000-07:00

Went to a conference at SVU in Buena Vista (Boo-eh-na Vee-sta), VA, which the locals call "Byoo-nah Vih-stah," much to the chagrin and aggravation of my sensitive ears. Why waste a perfectly melodic Spanish name like that?

Anyway, it's nestled in the Blue Ridge Mountains, or the foothills at least, which, if it hadn't been so drizzly, would have been lovely.

A little different from the scenery around here, but I missed my desert all the same.

Hobnobbed with the bigwigs: breakfast with the Bushmans and Givens(es), chatted up Pres. Smith of SVU, talked at length with R Orman of the LDS Museum, and made many great new friends from various parts, including a solid fellow from Manchester, UK, an independent scholar from the U of U Med School, a whippersnapper on his way to greatness in Iowa, a firecracker mom and scholar from St Louis, and a dark and brooding philosopher from Texas. Finally talked with B Jorgensen and others from BYU English--men I had known about but not really talked with while at BYU. Gave B and our British colleague a ride to the airport on Sunday, and we had a nice visit. Drove the Blue Ridge Parkway, had a lovely Italian meal (terrible Pizza Margherita, but the rest was good), and nice conversation. Great, as always, to see and converse with George Handley.

Presentation went well. Lots of conversation after.

Cloud Quiz Answers: Jonah--eagle's eye, Christopher--dragon. They'd love to hear what you see.

No "This Week in Islam" this week. Still reeling from the trip, and catching up at work. So solly.

We named the dog . . .

2008-05-23T09:29:00.000-07:00

Guess what we saw yesterday.

We have a bad feeling about this. Can't even blame Shane L this time.

Something else has been bugging us, too:

Actually, this isn't an inordinately buggy place. We get the odd "cock-a-roach," as Tony Montana would say, but of the outdoor, mulch variety that blunders into the house. Lots of ants, with occasional assaults on the castle, and there are termites, but none in our place at present. Septic mosquitoes, while disgusting, are rare, and mosquito season lasts for about a month, it seems. So we can't really complain. But this innocent little beetle freaked Wendy out, so I had to despatch it: crunchy.

Pop quiz: what do you see in the cloud formation? Click to magnify.

What Jonah and Christopher saw after the jump.

Tutto a posto!

2008-05-14T06:22:00.000-07:00

Our summer plans are set in stone,
And our road leads to Rome.

We're really excited!

Engrish Bonus

2008-05-11T09:52:00.001-07:00

They take their beauty seriously here . . .

Shade of the Month: "Blood Red."

Mother Matters

2008-05-10T09:20:00.000-07:00

To Mater

It doesn't much matter
If I say "Dear Mother,"
Or "Mater,"
Or "Madre,"
Or "Mere"

So long as I don't confuse
"Mater" with "Pater"
Or start call-
ing Mother
"Mon pere."

"That's easy," you mutter,
"To tell Mom from Fader
Or Pater
Or Padre
Or Pere."

But here's why it's murder
To not confuse mother
For Father
Or Vater
For mere,

For father is much more
In form a tomat-er,
And mother,
In form,
More a pear.

Though you mutter, I'll wager
That you've, on ocass-ier,
Confounded
Your geni-
tor pair.

Ben note-r: if mother's
Mistaken for father,
Then Mater
Might think
You don't care!

Ah, though she's eke daughter
And sister and lover
To others,
To me she's
most dear

As my own, loving mother:
I'll never consider
Another
my mater,
Not e'er.

Happy Mater's Day, Mudder!

Piddly Riddle: Answer (and shout-outs)

2008-05-10T01:36:00.000-07:00

We asked where you thought mosquitoes might breed here, and no one took the hint. So here's the answer:

Alright, so this one's from Indonesia, and the squatters we have here in the UAE are generally in better condition, but this is pretty representative of what we encountered in Oman last Fall.

Most bathrooms in public use buildings have sitting toilets, though many, as in the older buildings of the university, still offer at least one squatter. And that is, indeed, where the mosquitoes are hatched. Nice.

Also, I have to take my own TP to the university. Also nice. Maybe the bidets/hoses make up for the oversights.

Oh, to be arthritic, paraplegic, or an amputee in the UAE!

Shout-outs:

Thanks to Anonymous for the Islam comment. We won't be keeping our promise and posting about prayer this week because Wendy has been very ill, Jonah not much better, and in addition to caring for them I've to write my paper for a conference I'm attending stateside next week. Look for something from Wendy and the kids while I'm gone.

But we would like to know who Anonymous is, if that's okay. We appreciate the inclusion of the idea that women are not obligated to provide in any way for their families, and that they are entitled to keep their salary for themselves. Were going to mention that, but the post got longish as was. This idea that local culture "corrupts" or "inflects" religious practice is also an interesting and important idea. We might ask simply where you are writing from and whether or not what you represent as pure Islam is, indeed, practiced anywhere, or if this is something individual muslims come to by closer study and auto-critical evaluation.

We ask the question in earnest: this is a phenomenon that affects all religions, especially those without a central, living authority, but also those with. How Islam sorts these things out is of interest.

And now, back to lighter matters. Here's the Engrish for this week, as included on a lovely poster purchased by friends of a graduating student and displayed in the IT building on campus, just outside the room where we gathered for a faculty workshop on dealing with English language problems:

Salaam Alakum, and Congratulation (just one, because you're really not that special!)

Monday Awesome

2008-05-05T08:30:00.002-07:00

Riley's new idol:

Piddly Riddle

2008-05-05T01:46:00.000-07:00

In a country with very limited standing water, where do mosquitoes breed?

Friday Funny

2008-05-01T10:46:00.000-07:00

Wrote this a few days ago:

So Jonah comes in this morning straight from bed. I’m in my office, packing up the briefcase for the day, and he’s in his Huck Finn jams: pants too short by a long inch and t-shirt worn and oversized. He’s upset and half-asleep, and he bursts in and stands at the doorway and blurts out, with a perfect admixture of husk, chagrin, and accusation, “Why’d-you-close-my-door-Dad?” Well, Wendy had closed it not ten minutes before hoping he’d sleep in a little (no school today for him), but I played along. I said, equally chagrined and faux-offended, “I-didn’t-close-your-door. Somebody-else-closed-your-door!”

He says, “Maybe-it-was-the-monsters-that-came-in-the-night. That’s-twice-I’ve-slept-in-the-dark!”

Realize there’s no fear in his voice or manner, just massive perturbation.

I assure him he had not been asleep with the door shut for long, and that it wasn’t monsters it was his mater, and even if it were monsters, they’d take one look at my pythons and run screaming from the house. Then I flex Shanana style, and he laughs. Not sure what that means, but I’ve decided not to take it personally.

Dreamt last night about Tom Cruise, artichoke hearts, and the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra. Maybe there are monsters. Who’s up for an exorcisim?

Today:

As a follow-up: last night's dream was that Wendy and I had begun socializing with Brangelina while in Italy. Very nice folks. Cute kids.

Was our Sabbath again, and I gotta admit, it's not easy given the inverted weekend. We don't have a free evening where we can party late and sleep in with impunity, so that sucks. But we do our best. Anyhoo. Today was leadership training in Bahrain, so our BP, his partner, and the RSP were all gone, which left, of active participants, us and Adrian. So we slept in (with approval) and had a GC catchup day. Adrian joined us (see above). Here's Christopher paying very close attention, striking a meditative pose:

What was funny was hearing the difference between our talks and the incantatory stuff broadcast outside. On Fridays we can hear the weekly sermons being delivered over the loudspeakers, but the style is either monotonic or angry, the latter making us nervous and the former quite frankly grating. Anyway, the difference was interesting: I'd rather do 10 hours of expressive, warm, and doctrinally stimulating stuff than the twenty minute alternative. No plans for conversion at present.

Three desert pics from the outskirts taken during our late afternoon drive today, playing Matisyahu and having a sing-along.

And, finally, though not clear: check out the chariot-wrecker hubs on this baby (double-click to magnify). The mud flaps were like a muslim wedding announcement: engraved, brightly coloured, and ornate. The pic doesn't do justice.

Shout-ats: was no one appalled when I suggested we'd be going to Sudan for the summer? We're actually trying for Italy for 6 weeks: a little rental just outside Rome as home base. Speaking of which, I need to pin down my contact. We'll let you know if we'll have room for boarders.

This Week in Islam

2008-05-01T10:45:00.000-07:00

Wuvv and Mawwiage.

We've commented before on the family-orientation of Emirati culture. This seems to be extensible to Arab culture in general, though it may be misleading in two ways. The first, the public dynamic of the family--father at the head, wife demure, is not necessarily a reflection of the realities "on the ground" of home, nor is it by any means overwhelmingly normative anymore.
We see increasing numbers of couples who seem to have arrived at a partnership: holding hands, co-managing kids and groceries, and (that telltale sign of marital bliss) squabbling in public. That's the happy side.

The second way in which it is misleading isn't quite so happy, of course, nor is it attributable entirely to tradition or faith because it is an ugly reality around the world: that is that apparent unity and order in public may belie abuse in private. We won't detail those things here because, as we say, they are ubiquitous in human society and owe more to the faults of individual men who use tradition as an excuse than they do anything peculiar to Arab culture.

Let us be clear, since you have no doubt heard of some terrible monstrosities committed in this region: forced marriages, honour killings, rape, etc. Islam, as contained in the teachings of the Qur'an and under the auspices of Shari'ah Law, guarantees the safety, agency, and welfare of brides. How those principles have been interpreted and or corrupted in specific regions, cultures, and families is another matter. There are families even here that have corrupted the doctrines, or have received them in corrupted form, and thus consider abuse in all forms a patriarchal right, and even a rite. We've heard some very terrible things, especially from more radically Islamist places like KSA, Pakistan, Afghanistan, and even supposedly secular Turkey. But it seems--seems--that the UAE is more libertarian in this regard as well, and that the dominant culture, as handed down by the ruling family, is one of greater transparency and rectitude: there are hypocrisies at work, of course, but inhumanity is not the norm by any stretch in our experience.

(A third irony, only recently brought to our attention, is that new mothers studying at the university are allowed one week after delivery to recuperate, then they are to return to their university studies, even if this means living in the hostels during the week and leaving their babies to be cared for by mothers and mothers-in-law. We must say, unequivocally, that this is shameful.)

It would seem, however, that marital relations are generally managed with a presumptive level of commitment, and that flexibility and responsibility are both built in to the institution. Here's what we learned this week about courtship, marriage, divorce, and reconciliation.

Courtship:

In general, husbands and wives do not have meaningful interactions before marriage, unless they are known to each other as cousins already. It seems that marriage between first cousins occurs, though the women prefer more distant connections if an in-family marriage is to take place. So incest taboos are in general force.

An interested young man (on his own terms or at the behest of his parents--mothers of sons have often seen these young girls in their ballroom finery at segregated portions of other wedding feats and celebrations, and from the sound of it they dress to the nines) will approach the father or male guardian (uncle, brother, etc.) of an eligible woman and offer a dowry. The dowry is, ostensibly, for her, and may be in the form of a gift of land, a house, or money. There are, of course, certain cultures in the Muslim world where fathers keep the dowry or husbands reclaim it after marriage, but here in the UAE the principle is apparently honoured very closely: the gift is hers and hers alone.

The woman may request that her male representative look into the character and history of the interested man, at which point her rep is supposed to make extensive inquiries. If she then agrees to the engagement, the dowry is transferred. She and her husband-to-be may exchange pictures so that each knows what the other looks like. He is allowed to join her family for meals and socialization, but she will, if it is her family practice, remain veiled and always silent on these occasions. This is a period for her to observe him in social spaces. The engagement may be terminated at any point by either party.

Interesting that the manner of giving assent to the marriage is by silence. Maybe they save all their talking for later.

Marriage:

The marriage ceremony is, like everything else (including conversion to Islam) a very simple matter of speaking certain words. The parties, on the other hand, are as lavish and costly as a New York barmitzvah, if not more so. The couple may live in a compound with his family or, if the wife insists, on their own. The husband is responsible for the maintenance of the family, including any children. If the wife works, she is legally permitted to keep all proceeds of her employment for herself. Couples may sign "nuptial" contracts guaranteeing her guardianship of children or a settlement in case of divorce.

Men seem in the main to love children, and are thus very active, at least publicly, in caring for and playing with their children. Some families drag cow-eyed nannies around: some of these seem little better than slavish, ill-defined "jobs," and others seem to have adopted the nanny into family life as a kind of live-in aunt.

Divorce and Reconciliation:

Only men can pronounce divorce, and again, it's simply a matter of saying "I divorce you." If he changes his mind, the husband may approach the wife in humility and ask her to come back. If she agrees, they pick up where they left off. If not, she is often expected to return the dowry, even in cases where she has been mistreated. This is to keep peace between families, and seems to be a holdover from tribal relations, which still influence some marriages, it seems.

If a man divorces his wife a second time, he can ask her to come back, but he must offer her a second dowry, over and above what he already paid. This is, we are told, a deterrent from divorce.

If he divorces her a third time, they must sever all contact. He can only remarry her if she has been married to another man in the interim, and is released by divorce or widowed. She cannot, however, marry another man simply for the purpose of remarrying her original husband. This is because divorce is frowned upon, and the penalty for strike three typically deters divorce since no man wants to think his wife has been with someone else.

Polygamy:

Bonus. Polygamy is allowed only if a) the man is capable of caring for additional wives and families, b) he has reason for doing so (similar to early secular justifications of polygamy in the US context: care of widows and orphans or the security of spinsters), c) has the approval of his first wife, though this last one is, again, abused in some areas.

Special thanks to Shaimaa and Aisha for their patience in explaining all of this. Wendy has also contributed through some of her reading of late. A search on the web will yield both naively idealistic portrayals and rabidly critical portrayals. For instance, this rather alarming piece from the Daily Mail (also our photocred). The general truth, as always, is somewhere in the middle.

Next week in Islam: prayer, from what the Prophet said to the supplicatory do'a.

Peace alakum.

Mmmmmmmmeeewwwww!

2008-04-24T06:12:00.001-07:00

Waiting to ask for our comparatively palatable poitrine de poulet, I was witness to the selection and preparation of a pair of delectable cow's feet.

These were, of course, denuded (hairless), and therefore resembled the gnarly forearms of an ancient albino hermit who'd been living underwater and developed the rare condition "oiloinfantilis secreterensis."

Anyway, the "knuckle" or "ankle" bone was cut off with a bandsaw, and then the butcher split the hooves 5/6 of the way up the foot bone. He turned the feet perpendicular to the blade again and cut each hoof in sections. the whole blamed them went into a bag and over the counter.

I dunno what you'd use them for: maybe to fish for flies and rangy cats? scare off company if the dinner party isn't going well? hide them in your neighbor's laundry room as a prank? feed 'em to fussy kids? Hey, wait a minute. That's a good idee.

Riiiileeeey! We're goin' out for dinner! Today's Special: Cow Foot Soup! Mmmooooo.

Megavator Music and other Tuesday Ticklers

2008-04-22T12:07:00.001-07:00

Hey there, kids. Sorry to miss you this weekend. Too much happening, too little time.

So we told you a coupla weeks ago about the Christmas music at Easter, which is in its own special way a rather poignant and hopeful gaffe.

Turns out it's not a gaffe, but a soundtrack.

In succession, in that gosh-awful-synthesized-couldn't-land-a-real-gig-cuz-Yanni-beat-me-to-it-so-I-churn-out-this-depressingly-catchy-crap high elevator style, the following:

Sunday: Jingle Bells
Monday: Gangsta's Paradise (I kids you not)
Tuesday: Ave Maria

What a rich and varied range of styles. Those elevator boys are nothing if not versatile.

Oh, and here's the Jonah connection: he's been reciting lines from Weird Al's "Ahmish Paradise" lately. These are, of course, things he's picked up from "the brothers" (meaning his, and not, like, Ryan), which he likes to share with everyone else under 5 feet tall. So yesterday, when he was visiting the school we've just registered him in, he lets drop the tasteful "A local boy kicked me in the butt today/But I don't mind, well, that's okay/Cuz I'll be laughin' real hard when he's burnin' in heck." Nice. Can we put Al on the no-fly list?

Also, we need to go to Megamart way less.

Funny, too:

"Ranjeet, I am wishing for to be knowing how I can quitting you."

(or, for die-hard SNL fans: "Lowered Expectay-ay-shuns.")

Alright, so I've used that joke before, but quite frankly, it never gets old, especially when you throw in "Ranjeet." Good stuff. Here's a better one, but we have to lose the "Ranjeet" and throw in an "Ahmad."

It really is very sweet when it's these old guys: two old friends who bumped into each other. The little girl on the right is the granddaughter of the man on the left, and the other man leaned over and kissed her on the head when he saw them. Felt bad taking advantage. But not bad enough.

Funny, three:

Ay caramba.

I should say that there are many highly accomplished and intelligent faculty here, and most of our administrators are the pick of the litter. The problem (isn't it always?) is at the level of middle-management: the printing office, for instance, does what and when it will: seet down, pleez, dreenk yore tee, ahnd bee-eeng payshince.

I don't actually drink any "tee." In case you were, you know, wondering.

The Three Filippigos

Lance, Roland, and Adrian (in all his chicky pock glory)

And we finally decided on our summer plans:

Yup. Picked up the tickets today: Darfur Summer Tour, here we come! Thought we'd introduce the kids to the workings of oppressive regimes, provide a frame of reference for the word "genocide": you know, your basic cultural experience with a hint of racial cleansing and a dash of anti-westernism. Though I think our Canada t-shirts will help a little. Ay caramba.

More to come soon. Watch this space. Riley goes electric (and Jon goes Tom Jones). Pictures from the pyramids, gothic reflections, Broadway comes to Al Ain, and much, much more!

Shout-outs: Hobo: you had one weeks ago. Dja miss it? Well, anyway: "Hey!"

Point of interest: photos taken on the iPhone, so take it easy, ec, on the photo-criticism. You try to catch Liv in mid-flight on one of these babies. Dare ya.

April 13, 2008

2008-04-13T20:10:00.001-07:00

There once was a fellow named Frank

There once was a fellow named Frank

Who grew up in a city quite dank

Fell in love with a girl

By the name of Ann Shirl

Had kids, and turned into a crank

I know that old lady named Shirley

Her grill is all artifi-pearly

She's put up with her Franks

And his fetish for spanks

And loves him good, even when surly

They've been married for forty-five years

Full of laughter and music and tears

Leven kids have they had

And you'd think they'd be dead

But they're just barely getting in gear

So to Spanks and his pearl of a girl

We say never in all the wide world

Have there been better folks

And that ain't no joke:

It's been fun, it's been wind, it's been whirl

Happy Anniversary, Fogies!

Al Ain Branch Times

2008-04-11T07:36:00.001-07:00

Quick update for those who care:

J and S Orbiso and Baby are in the Philippines visiting the Orbiso patriarch. Miriam has also returned home, may come back, but to Abu Dhabi, most like. Joanne has been reassigned to Dubai, which leaves us with two single sisters.

Adrian has chicken pox, poor spotted fellow. Is in isolation: dying of boredom.

Chapel is almost completely furnished now: rugs, curtains, couches, tables, office for the president, wi-fi, etc. Official chairs will be sent to us in future.

New member, just found us. He's been here since November, working as on-site nurse at the new campus construction for my university. Name's Roland, and he hadn't been to church for 3 years because he'd been in Saudi before this, so he's come twice: we pick him up and drop him off, and will try to keep him company as much as we can. Pretty lonely setup. Good man, though: lifer, rm, pretty excited to have found us.

We're hoping that enthusiasm is infectious. We've been missing a few fairly consistently, and pray that changes soon.

Jordans and Fletchers are, as always, missed.

Shout-outs: D-Law, it's good to have you around. Glad you read and comment. Bodes well for your marriage.

Smash, congratulationisms! Little Ashley is expectorating a blue one in sixish months. Our baby sister, mit two babies of her own. Ay caramba.

Lurkers: let us know you're there now and then, would ya?

Oh, and a belated one to the Shirl: we appreciate your loyalty, Ma! Thanks for gracing.

Salaam alakum, todos.

What would we think of an alphabet poem cycle with an eco-conservationist theme? Who'd buy that for a dollar?

2008-04-11T02:32:00.000-07:00

Okay, okay, so there are lots of these out there, but they tend not to be sophisticated or interesting poetically: sloppy, cliche', trite even. I want to write one that sings for its supper.

Poem the first (Adam, even you can deduce the structural conceit at work here; Earth Mother, if he asks you, that's cheating):

Albert Ross the Albatross

Auld Albert Ross, the albatross,
Adores the wide, blue sea:
Al loves its winds, its waves, its fins
And every kind of food that swims
But not the plastics, bottles, tins
Collecting annually therein
Because we treat it like a bin
And make life difficult for him,
Al’s friends, Al’s food (the kind with fins)
Across the wide, blue sea.
Auld albatross, our Albert Ross.

Of course, the next poem will have to follow suit: BBBBCDCBBBB, with the reversal in the last line (Y and Z would either have to dip back into A and B respectively, or I could use numbers instead). Or I could come up with a new poetic form for each letter. Or better yet, find a form for each that starts with that letter: ode for O, rubaiyat for R, sonnet for s, epithalamion or epigram for E, palindrome for P: you get the idea: world's first multi-tasking poetry primer for kids: an introduction to poetic forms, eco-conservatist political messages, and an introduction to alphabetical literacy. Whizbang.

Photocred: Dr. Mike Double

Potential problem: Ralph McTell's already done the "Albert Ross" thing. Not surprised: it's a no-brainer. But my poem is better than his. Trust me.

Random Acts of, erm, Music (sort of)

2008-04-07T01:55:00.000-07:00

Proof positive that there are still people out there willing to make fools of themselves to spread a little sunshine. Nice antidote to car wrecks and nuclear war.

Armless, or better, Armful, or better, Signs that it's time to head back to the gym for toning exercises

2008-04-04T07:54:00.000-07:00

Weekly cute: perhaps as part of his oedipal fixation, or maybe as a compensation for his refusal to nurse properly as an infant, Jonah has developed a tactile fetish for what he calls "chubby": "Dad, I love your chubby," he'll say, while patting my, ahem, svelte and rock-hard abdomen.

But as I said, he is an oedipal soul at present, so this fetish has as its apex the squeezing of Wendy's upper arm. The other day, by her account (and I should tell you she has instructed me to share this story), Jonah was in the middle of his squeeze fest when he made this comment:

"Mom, I love your arms. They're just like play dough."

Ay caramba.

We should also say that our other two kids are cute, it's just that they rarely do anything expressly cute, since they are of course manly men. But, we did get a few calls last weekend from girls calling Christopher to inform him that some girl named Alex S likes him.

Christopher's response: turn several shades of red, stammer, and hang up. Also, avoid the phone for the next two days, but never be very far away when it was answered, and without exception ask the respondent who, what, and what else.

Report cards are in (well, Riley's is. Christopher "never got [his]"). Uh-huh. Anyway, Riley is at year level or better in all but two of his subjects, to which he is a newcomer, and his Arabic teach anticipates him being at year level by year's end: in Spanish, where the expectations are higher, he'll almost be there. We may have an heir-apparent.

Peace out.

April Fool

2008-04-04T04:36:00.000-07:00

So on the morning of April 1st, all the boys discovered what looked like giant flies or rat droppings in the mouths of their tubes of toothpaste. And thus, disgustingly, began the month of April.

Turns out they were raisins, not some horrifying manufacturer's defect. To quote Christopher, "Ach. I brushed my teeth with raisin juice."

Had Jon not been running late, he would have noticed that the cereal bags had been switched in all the boxes, so that eaters expecting chocolate-flavoured Wheetos were instead favoured with something resembling twigs and bark fragments. Nummy.

As it was, it wasn't until the next morning that he discovered that the milk had gone off . . . pink. Christopher's little addition, apparently. Oy veh!

What happened at your places last week? Anything funny?

Shout-outs:

all: Riley thanks you. He really is coming along with the ghee-tar.

kr: will call you tonight. We're interested, price being right.

barnwellians: good times. Watch this space: maybe we'll get operatic sometime just for you.

ec: it would never work between us.

Riley Rocks!

2008-03-28T10:55:00.000-07:00

Here he is, in his internet debut. For the record, all errors are Dad's fault. Never was one much for rehearsal. So pay attention to Riley: he really, really wants to go electric, and the deal is he has to get great at the guitar first. Might need to start saving sooner than we thought.

Dig the tongue thing. Reminds me of Steve.

There's more, but it keeps high-centering the platform, so we'll have to break it up. Just have to wait, I guess. So solly.

(And we should include a special shout-out to our very good friend Allie, who started this whole ball rolling many years ago with the generous gift of two children's guitars to our boys, before she had her own kids to spoil. You still rock, Al. Don't stop.)

Weekly Cute

2008-03-28T10:50:00.000-07:00

Before we get to Riley's concert:

praying this evening over our weekly assortment of leftovers, Jonah said he was grateful for when we get blastized. Apparently I'll be blastizing him when he turns eight. Rhymes with chastizing, but I'm pretty sure that's not what he means.

Shout-outs:

Fadwa, no need to self-edit. You're right: it's a pretty sad place sometimes, this world we're in.

EC: panzy. You're welcome to come and enjoy the pool anytime, though I'd recommend Spring Break '09. Too hot already, and just going to get hotter: 38 degrees, headed to 54 by August. Ay caramba.

Fog + Excessive Speed=Apocalyptic Yikesery

2008-03-22T08:30:00.000-07:00

File this one under "Gadzooks." Looks like the government's efforts to cut down on fatalities has been a smashing success. This 200 car pileup--yep: TWO HUNDRED--on the Abu Dhabi-Dubai road last week left an amazing 6 fatalities and only 30-odd serious injuries, believe it or not.

Now before anyone worries: no, we weren't there. Far as we can tell, these were taken by people who should all be melty cheese and charbroil, but who, thanks be to God, are not. Wow. Thanks to Lance for the forward.

Next week: Riley's debut as a guitarist, with a little help from Bob Dylan, the Monkees, and John Lennon.

Momma's Boy

2008-03-22T08:21:00.000-07:00

Jonah is full-on Oedipal. We've taken to calling him "Oed" (Ed) for short.

Alright, so he hasn't tried to off Jon, yet, and as long as Wendy's not in the room, they get along pretty well. But he is a momma's boy. But then, considering his momma, we can't really blame him.

And it helps that he's an equal-opportunity mb:

Cahoondom II

2008-03-22T07:20:00.001-07:00

As Wendy tells below, two weeks ago we had our first (and probably only) guests. While the rest of you lily-livered panty-waists (International Women's Day is long past: back to sexisms) were "safe" in your xenophobic western pantheons to redneckism, Grandma and Grandpa Knievel were here, with us, risking life and limb in roundabouts and going googly-eyed over the shear enormity of money-spendage.

We'll spare you the gruesome details, but let's just say it was a Drewdle trip from start to finish. They were on their way back from Uganda, after organizing a platoon of volunteer dentists to do some training, etc., and made it out of the airport at 3:00 a.m. on Sunday morning, which put us home by 4:30 a.m. Some of us--namely those of us who went to the airport to get them, namely Jon--had to work the next day. Ay caramba.

84 hours later we deposited them at the Stewart Hotel, every one of us spent and stuffed. Here are the pics Wendy promised. Those of you with access can find a few more on her facebook page.

Most of the group shots resembled a U2 album cover, but I think this was accidental, not artistic: Hobbles McCoy, lagging behind, eyes full of the place, would suddenly demand we turn around, which we would do in turns as the message made its way to the front lines, and then he'd snap before we could assemble (or suck in, sometimes). But we like the results.

Ghosts in the Mosquine. Or Shades of SHeikh Zayed Mosque. Some of you will ask the inevitable question, even though the picture above answers it. No, women are not required by law to cover up, except when entering the prayer rooms of a mosque.

This mosque is massive. The pictures, because of mechanical perspective, don't do it justice. You come over the Maqta Bridge into Abu Dhabi and it dominates impressively. Better during the day right now, but soon, with all the lighting, it will be impressive at all hours. We'll try to get a better shot of the whole thing, though there's some early video . . .

Riley's first ride. Was going to make a joke about camel . . . feet, but decided against it. Too easy.

Against the Abu Dhabi skyline, taken squinting into the Arabian sun just above the dock where we boarded a water taxi to go to Lulu Island, an unimpressive resort island that bored us silly.

Monkeys: Gramma C still has game.

Proof! He does read!

Jo getting ready for his modeling debut.

I am to be seeing beeg future for hees.

Chrisp ibn Goohnathon, Sheikh of the burning sands.

Cool.

Add one last album cover, taken like the last four at the Al Ain Palace Museum, which we have blogged about before.

That last one is more Beatles than U2, you know, if the Beatles were only three, and two of them were women carrying purses and they were trespassing on museum grounds despite the signs saying "Please No Treading on Grass." I think, secretly, Wendy wants to get us deported.

Anyway, sorry about the delay. We had platform issues all last Friday, and then just, you know, had life happen to us. By the way, more Christmas music today.

And we're extending the competition, so it's not too late. The choices are lame, except for Greg's (Hey, Greg and Melissa!), which I'm inclined to disqualify not because it isn't technically valid, but because he doesn't live in any of the places he mentions, except the last one, which is lovely but boring, and because Johnny Cash already wrote that song. Or at least he sang it. It was Arthur Miller that wrote the play. So that's been done.

Isn't it Easter?

2008-03-21T04:52:00.000-07:00

Okay, I (Wendy) am back and confused...
This morning as we were speeding down the road, out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw a big sign in a flower shop window that said "Happy Mothers Day". I thought to myself, "Wow. They're on the ball." (Seeing as Easter is not observed by most people here, Mothers day would be the next... holiday?)
Then I was in the grocery store and there was a huge display with bouquets of roses and a banner that said "Happy Mothers Day" right as you walk in.
As I worked my way through the store I noticed a special display of Arabic treats and a sign all in Arabic. I had never seen these treats for sale there before so, figured since they are celebrating Mohammed's birthday (yesterday) it must have been brought in special for that event. Which by the way is observed as a day off for some.
Then I noticed that Christmas tunes were playing over the speaker. What the?
As I was leaving I noticed in the store beside the grocery store a (few) Easter items.
So I ask... which holiday do I celebrate? What a party!
Speaking of party, my parents came for a visit.! A much anticipated visit. They swung through on their way out of Africa, where my father has a humanitarian project he oversees.
We showed them around our town and the kids school, introduced them to Maneesh (which they liked), even had Tabouleh, Hummus, Fatoosh, and Uhmwahlee. Took a couple of road trips. One to Abu Dhabi. Saw The Palace, rode in a water taxi on the Persian Gulf, laughed at camels, over-ate at Fuddruckers, and saw the amazing Sheikh Zayad Grand Mosque. Where my mom and I donned Abayas.
They were impressed by our beautiful pool, which we had to ourselves in the a.m. And witnessed the attention a blonde, blue eyed, small westerner got... Jonah gets a lot of attention AND treats from the Arabs. A box of cookies, 2 bags of chips, several hair ruffles, and the occasional kiss. Riley and Christopher are chopped liver I guess.
In Dubai, we drove as far as we could on the Palm (man made island in the shape of a palm tree), drove around the construction at the bottom of the Burj (tallest building in the world which will always be under construction in case any one dares to build a higher one then they will be able to go higher and higher and so on), walked around Mall of the Emirates (where the indoor ski hill is), had dinner with the Stewarts (wonderful friends from Red Deer), where we left them tearfully and they stayed until they caught their flight early the next morning. It was sooo very wonderful to have them to ourselves and we felt the void when they were gone. Jonah was the most disappointed to say goodbye (no one to listen to his incessant chattering an more). The next morning I asked him what he liked about having Grandma and Grandpa here and he replied.."they are happy and fun" That sums them up to the tee! What a blessing to have great relatives!
Over and Out to Lunch, Wendy
P.S. I will have Jon post some pictures later.

Donne Arabe

2008-03-07T05:47:00.000-08:00

In honour of International Women's Day coming up next Sunday (and fellas, I think, given the feminist spirit of the day--and justly so, you would best honour the day by not objectifying a single woman, nor engaging in anything remotely smacking of patriarchy or mysogyny, including holding the door and using the expressions "better half," "fairer sex," or "hot chick"--unless you are referring to your own wife, and that with written, notarised permission), I decided I should comment on women.

Not much to say, really: they're semi-liberated, increasingly restless, smart as whips (if whips were, you know, capable of ratiocination and not merely manipulated by some human's hand and arm so they can snap or whoosh or save Indiana Jones from death once more), and, depending on who you talk to, frustrated with or without political "progress."

But I don't want to talk about any of that. No, my topic today is how they move.

Three classes: gliders, striders, and hiders.

Gliders are austere, or appear to be: each Emirati woman with wasta (connection/influence) seems rarely to touch the ground. The effect is managed because of the abaya, I think: the garment is meant to touch the ground in order to cover all skin, and so not only does it hide the feet, it also requires careful, measured, slow steps to avoid entanglements in the hem.

Gliders are often also completely veiled, which makes ambulation all the more precarious--it requires steadiness and singularity of gaze, an attitude that results in both haughty and oblivious appearances, neither of which is necessarily the case, but when you're stuck behind a glider in a narrow aisle, or cut off by one in the street, they all seem cut from the same I'll-thank-you-to-step-off cloth.

Striders lack either the general grace or the indolent indifference of the gliders. These tend to be ambitious in purpose and confident in personhood. Abaya or no, they move without aggression and without fear, beside a man rather than behind him, or by themselves and the world to the devil. Heads are un- as often as covered, abayas worn will stream behind like the black-crow gown of Oxbridge. Striders leave hope in their wake.

Hiders--often those of lower rank or ex-pat muslims from other eastern countries--try hard to lay low. They cling together, downcast either from modesty or timidity, or in some cases fear. They move with a hyperkinetic agitatus, skittish like deer, shy as bunnies.

On a serious note:
The life of this country, like that of every nation, is the burden of its women, even those that don't know it: it is the burden of the haughty, high-bosomed phantasms; it is the burden of those burning with passion for life and learning, dreams blazing; and it is even the burden of the mousey ones afraid of their own shadows. They are collectively the life and limbs of the nation: they row it afloat, they cure it like smoke. May God bless them--masha'allah--and keep them moving forward, wherever they want forward to take them.

Happy International Women's Day.

Merv's new look

2008-03-07T03:54:00.000-08:00

Well, we succumbed to the sun, at long last, and had Merv's windows darkened. We think he looks pretty swanky, but we're worried about what the cops might say. Here's the shot:

And here's the context:

Given that for nearly 350 of the 365 days in the year the sun shines bright, and often hot, the trend here is to darken one's car windows, just in case one has to leave it in the hot sun for prolonged periods (like, you know, more than 2 minutes), and in order to help reduce glare while driving. Ex-pats are allowed 30% tinting on side and rear windows. So that's what we got on Merv: 30% tinting, custom Bangladeshi-tailored shades for Merv (with a little higher potency on the top of the windscreen--at the tailor's assurance it would be okay). Cost us, with generous tip, around $60 cdn. Un-believable (I'm hyphenating for effect).

(As with everything else: meticulously done.)

So we were pretty excited about this: sure, there's been talk in the papers about cracking down on tinting: Emiratis are allowed 50%, to protect their women's modesty, but they often opt for what looks like one-way tinfoil--totally impenetrable. There will be little circles on the driver's and passenger's side windows to allow a view of the mirrors, but otherwise they're as opaque as silver dollars on a dead man's eyes. Kinda freaky, actually.

And we've spent a 5 months exposed: to the sun, to the curious stares and malevolent glares of other drivers, and given the, erm, rules around here, Wendy has had to refrain from putting her naked feet up on the dash because someone might see her toes and ankles and consider himself engaged to her. You know how it is. (Though she did say that the locals had darn fine taste in cologne the other day, so hum: maybe I should consider house arrest and bed sheets around here, too.)

But then Justin S told me at church that I will not be able to park inside the women's campus now that my windows are tinted. I'll have to fight for a spot outside, and hike in. Which isn't terrible: the walk's not bad (despite the singeing topside, wot?), and now that we're tinted, my steering wheel won't actually melt all over the leather, and my seatbelt will no longer sear its brand into my palms. But if I park inside I a) do not have to cross a desert to get to my building, and b) can park under one of the many covers that have been erected to provide shade to stationary vehicles. So that was a surprise. Guess they're worried about stowaways, abductees, and elopements. Anyway, I'll find out on Sunday.

Regardless of the outcome, this is an occasion for an occasional poem (and no, it isn't serious: mockingly so, anyway):

30%

30%, and 40 on the windscreen,
Like a visor carved in obsidian,
Greasepaint under a QB's eyes,
Or a lowered cap’s brim to shield a squint.

The world is somehow smaller,
The desert held at bay,
The glare contained, the sun defeated,
And it’s bittersweet.

Attached to a shadow,
And now swallowed by an artificial shade,
A portable dusk that shrinks eyes to the bone
And calls up claustrophobic sweat.

There are variations on this theme:
From this side, the implacable glass
Humiliates the seer,
Turns each window to mirror,

Refutes his glance and piercing eye
Like chainmail the assassin’s blade.
What bearded goddess hides, imperious,
Beneath th’obscuring shade,

Her equine features double-veiled,
Her languid, frightened looks walled in?
What family secret is covered over
By Bangladeshi palms: what fear or sin?

(What toes? what feet? what porcine meat?
What looks? what books? what ex-pat crooks?)

Kidding.

Shout-outs: Fadwa, you are always welcome. Just don't report me to the authorities if I get a little carried away.

S, w-o-A: welcome back. And yes, one entry per user, but it would be a tie, which means only one poem should you win.

Ambrose: glad your enthusiasm is on the rise. We aim to inform and entertain. Keep the comments coming, and let us know, eh?

Next week: how we were expelled for windows that were too dark, arousing the suspicions of the silken dandies in plastic dirtbike gear from CHiPS (or rather, CRiSPS).

Week after: life inside an Emirati prison.

Contest: Most Exotic Reader-locale

2008-02-29T12:38:00.000-08:00

We have recently become aware that we have phantom readers from far-flung places. We don't mind you reading, Anthony Perkins, but we'd like to hear from you and your crusty mother.

So tell us who you are and where you're reading from, and Jon will write a poem in your honour, or at least make fun of where you live in some affectionate, clever way.

Tempting, no?

Make-ah some-ah noises, e? Iht's a-verry naiss eeff yew dew!

(And this includes all of you who are the yous whose locale we already know: other enquiring minds want to know. Plus, we just might make it to blogspot favourites.)

Short and Sweet

2008-02-29T12:25:00.001-08:00

No pics, no vids, no bling. Just a quick note to say a) we are okey-dokey (for you, Smash. We know how you worry!), had a great day at SC in Dubai. Robert Oaks and spouse spoke, as did our entire SP, and we had lunch with the Red Deer Stewarts, which is always a blast. Melonee talks a mile a minute, and Jamie stalks you with the most pre-meditated funnies in the history of funny. Jacob is a laugh riot--a hybrid of the two. They say hi to all who care.

Also (shame on us, but when you're in Dubai, you have to strike while it's in the mire, if Metamix we mayphor) replaced Riley's guitar today, and picked up a hard case. He's raring to go, and presses ad nauseam for an electric. But he's fired up about it and this will motivate the latent genius.

Last night: Jon picked up three suits, four shirts, and four ties at Pierre Cardin's 75% off sale. What would normally have cost around $3500 CDN cost a mere $800. Has now joined world of grownups, and will be wearing suits to work most days, until we hit the mid-40s, anyway.

Next purchase: iPhone. We know, we know: but by golly he actually has appointments and stuff these days, and the old organizational methods no longer pass muster, cut the mustard, or corner Custer, mister: and the matter must be mastered minus the muttering.

Shout-outs:

Deborah: welcome to the 21st c! Next stop: MSN! Then, we rule the world!

Hobo: We misses you, too, filfy hoboeses. Sniff. Don't forget our birfday presents.

HMac: saw it. Welcome back. And congrats on the front pages.

Ahnos: has been discovered, but we shall protect his/her identity with our very lives (or at least with fingernail clippers and a spatula, unless you offer us a sandwich).

Straw-poll: we are considering summering at BYUH, where I've been offered a class to defray housing and eating costs, or in Provo, where the library actually has books and stuff, and there's a greater variety of things to do--you know, besides getting stung by jellyfish and averting one's eyes.

Where would we be most visited?

Funnies, and not so

2008-02-24T10:47:00.000-08:00

Subtle, but I get a kick out of it all the same.

I can't wait for the levitation part. And if they boil it I'm calling them out for cheaters, because nobody says anything here about transformation from liquid to gas. Nope, they've got to levitate it in its liquid form or I'm demanding a refund.

The poster is pretty typical of things around here: everybody gets a poster for everything, especially if they're already important. Like, "Sheikh Somebody-or-other cordially requests the honour of your presence as he enjoys his daily breakfast of jam-on-toast, crumpets, a fruit cup, scrumptious dates, and Arabian coffee what could levitate a horseshoe."

We are also fond of rubber stamps, whether they are legitimate or not, principally, we suspect, because a) We find it amusing to make the Western ex-pats beg, borrow, and steal to get the stamps in the first place, or b) the damned British done wrote them into the post-colonial rule book, like the continuing presence of ruggers and cricket, the usage of roundabouts, boots, bonnets, and spanners, and the occasional twirling of umbrellas as fashion accessories for the slightly effeminate.

Don't get me started on decrees. Wa'allah. (Loosely: ay caramba.)

Alright. Not sure this is going to work, and it's probably illegal, but it's a nice rendition of the "Adhan," or call to prayer. It's by the Cat Formerly Known As Stevens, or, if you prefer, the Artist Formerly Known As Cat Stevens, and whose tenure on Billboard is matched only by his tenure on the no-fly list after some injudicious comments made post-7/7. Without further ado, except for the production credits by the hired infidel, I give you Yusuf Islam:

Might wanna listen to it twice, just to let the stream catch up. His Arabic is a little different from what we hear around here--might be because he's a Brit: he does the kinds of things I can imagine Dad doing if he ever got his Lancashire jaws on a semitic tongue (which sounds rather violent, now that I think about it).

Anyway, we hear "Allahu okhbahr," not "Allahu aikhbaihr." Potayto, potahto.

Things you can do cheaply, easily, and cheaply and easily in the UAE

2008-02-24T10:40:00.000-08:00

get fat
get honked at
get glowered at
get smiled at
get your clothes washed
get your clothes pressed
get your clothes tailored
get tailored clothes
get your groceries delivered
get your pizza delivered
get your fast food delivered
get your furniture delivered
get just about anything delivered
get lost
get found
get even
get odd
get over it
get around
get palm dates
get your hair butchered
get a cow butchered
get a chicken butchered
get your tank filled
get your car washed
get fired
get hired
get expelled
get offended
get rear-ended
get religion
get cable vision

but not (and this seems only to apply to us, excepting Christopher, who is always the colour of darkish milk chocolate, even in the dead of the deadest, wintriest winter) get tanned

Number Three turns Four

2008-02-24T09:20:00.000-08:00

Birthday boy (yes, 5 weeks ago--we're doing our best). Ay caramba. Kid puts the kosher in precocious. Alright, that doesn't work here. He puts the halal in halitosis. No, that doesn't work either. Let's just say he puts the "Holy crap!" in our lives in general.

So his birthday requests--in the absence of friends his age--were simple: he wanted Cheese Muneesh (Geez Louise, we calls it: folded naan bread with melted cheese, melted cheese curds, and cream cheese--excellent for weight loss: kidney stones, anyone?) and chocolate milk for lunch. Cheesy kid.

Our South African fan club--well, Jonah's fan club, anyway--was over-generous, as always. When we drop the eldest off to pick up our second, we always have to roll down Jonah's window so he can say hi to Charlie, the Papillon (the one with the snout).

And later he opened his presents from us: this may well be the last glimpse we get of little baby Jo-Jo. Notice that he thinks he has to be facing the camera at all times. We don't know where he gets this stuff.

"It's in a bag!"

Yes, Boboji, it's in a bag, like everything else around here.

And this was his second request: a quad run at the mall next to our complex. He's anxious to show off his mad skeelz to Grandpa Knievel in two weeks.

We have edited, for the sake of the grandmothers twain, the fiery crash stage left. The scars are not permanent. And you should have seen the other guy.

Weekly Cute: together with “the brothers,” Jonah has discovered Weird Al, and our lives will never be the same. Cute, but also obnoxious: Jonah now suspects very vocally that we think he’s “white and nerdy,” and is trying very hard not to be “a Acadian idiot.”

We are also treated to strange and new renditions of “O Candida” on a regular basis. And he very loudly proclaimed that the chandelier above our table at the restaurant the other night was “church lights,” and that he hates crying babies, especially girl ones. J and J enjoy more and more sophisticated conversations, much to Wendy's delight and astonishment. Like we said: precious in precocious, with occasional bouts of Calvinism (and we don't mean the fatalist religious reformer: we mean the kid with the pet tiger named for the Restoration philosopher).

In other cute, Riley no longer looks away during kissing scenes on movies. And Christopher continues on his path to ladykillerhood, but is serendipitously clueless about it, which as I understand it is the key to ladykillerness to begin with.

Oh, and Christopher also had a birthday: Wii bowling tournament with a few good friends, representing South Africa, Canada, India, and, well, Canada (10 points to the first person to spot the Indian). He's done a smashing job of picking friends thus far. We're waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Eleven years old. Oy veh!

(Ahem. Masha'allah.)

Good Clean Fun

2008-02-16T05:37:00.001-08:00

When you're young, male, and you don't drink--leastwise not in front of anyone else--I guess you turn to other diversions to compensate for the absence of stupidity brought on by inebriation:

http://view.break.com/398332 - Watch more free videos

It seems you find Darwin Award candidates in every culture: we once saw a kid riding in a shopping cart hurtled toward a sidewalk by his "friends." Of course, his feet got tangled in his dishdash as he tried to bail, so he wiped out pretty nicely in the desert grit, narrowly missing a makeout session with the grill of a Dodge Durango.

Speaking of stupid human tricks involving SUVs:

Then there's this:

How do you say "moxie" in Arabic?

Anyway, we used to bumperski in PG, and in Maple Ridge a favourite neighborhood game was four-square-dodgeball . . . with lawn darts. So testosterone-induced moronism is obviously universal. (No Arabs were hurt in the making of these films: al hamdulillah.)

But lions at parties is a new thing, I should think: and Siegfried and Roy nowhere to be seen. But, you know, they don't have Siegfrieds and Roys here. Clearly.

We suppose we could blog about Arabic language and literature, or lecture disquisitionally on the history of pearl-diving and dhow-making, but quite frankly it's the public behaviours that fascinate us. This is indeed a surprising and sometimes shocking culture, or rather clash of cultures. Must be something in the lookha. Sheesh.

Riley just back from his youth conference in Bahrain. Good times. He made some new friends whose names he cannot recall, and we will have pictures from Shari before long. Next week, all goes well. 'Til then . . . .

Happy Whatsama What? Huh?

2008-02-14T08:54:00.000-08:00

File this under "Oddities." There were many things we expected to see, coming here. And there were many things we did not expect to see. We were told that Al Ain was like the Jeddah of the Emirate of Abu Dhabi, except not quite so much. But yeah, you can tell a difference between here and Abu Dhabi and Dubai, not only in what westerners generally try to pull off (and by "Westerners" we mean godless heathens--mostly European), but in what Arabs and Muslim "others" will get away with (or without).

We did not expect, for instance, to see so many flipping lingerie stores. Good golly. And even if we had, we wouldn't have expected provocative displays. Alright, so they're marginally toned down, but the dummies are anatomically correct, except for those without heads; and the models are always godless euro-heathens, but its not their compatriots who are in those stores, either as customers or employees. Weird!--I'ma say it again--Weird! to see women in the whole shootin' match--abaya (body covering), shaela (head scarf), and burkha (veil) shopping at Victoria's Secret and other local, and more, erm, lingerial specialty shops.

Okay, so we've grown accustomed to that. Not that we spend anytime there ourselves, or tend to look in as we walk by, of course. Ahem.

We were told not to hold hands in public, but guess what! Couples under 45 generally can and/or do around here, so all bets are off. We were also told to keep shoulders and knees covered at least, but the memo seems not to have enjoyed total distribution. I mean, you can tell a difference between here and, say, Ventura Boulevard or the Las Vegas strip. Generally speaking--98% of the time--even the Arabs who wear western dress sans abaya are in the main more modestly covered than the average 'tween at Johnson Memorial Junior High. So that's good. But now and then some godless euro-heathen blows by who would easily fit in on Ventura, the Strip, or at JMJH.

What's interesting is, despite my views of radical forms of dress and the mixing of social rule with religious dogma, I still experience a kind of sympathetic disappointment when I see Arab women dressed provocatively, at least by comparison. And the fact is they're not really being provocative.

But it makes me think that the veiling of bodies and faces is, at least culturo-historically, meant to be sensual--the very quality it has been appropriated by religious law to suppress. Because judging from what goes on at VS and fellows, well, let's just say Valentine's Day is a pretty big deal. No, we are not in Saudi Arabia, where that's all been more or less banned. Here it's on open display. Might not be very many folks at the movie theatre tonight.

But this is a family blog. Forgive me. I'm just in sociological shock, because I was over at the mall early tonight (V Day), and saw 5, that's FIVE, interracial couples. And I don't mean the common types: Arab and African-extraction, or Arab and Filipina, all-muslim. I mean by golly Arab and godless euro-heathen. 5 Arab men in different places in the mall in the company of geh's. 2 of the men were in dishdasha, spandex-wearing lipstick hos (God forgive them) at their sides. I had to rub my eyes and pinch my arms. I do verily believe that the Apocalypse is nigh.

With that, a special treat. Three items for your reading and viewing pleasure. The last makes fun of Bush's Iranian twin, so I don't think you have to worry too much. And another disclaimer: poems just happen to poets. It's a mood thing, a kind of oracular mood swing, if we must have the truth. I don't feel this way today. In fact, I both fear for this wonderfully, comparatively moderate society and celebrate it, as long as it lasts. And may it last. Insha'allah. Because in the main, whatever they've inherited or adopted, these are good people: kindly, thoughtful, whispery smooth, and profoundly alight. And when the luxury train makes its last stop, I hope they're wide awake and ready to hoof it on ahead. We'll need them.

Sila, Liwa, Bani Yas

They keep this up, there’ll be no desert left,
No space to wreck, no four-wheel desert cleft
To winnow down: no dry-heave, tinder bone
To let a man alone.

The death-gasp of the culture that could tear
The banshee shriek of what is drawing near
Is such a modern thing it makes me grin
Like poison: sick of sin.

They keep this up, these mincing, drifting ghosts,
These zebra forms with all their Babel boasts,
They’ll blister from the artificial cold:
The center cannot hold,

The falcon cannot hear the falconer,*
The tent is void, the women too demure,
And from the mosques a bitter incense fumes:
It’ll bring them to their tombs.

And my valentine to Wendy: she'll forgive me for posting it. I was hoping she would either laugh out loud or say it was the most romantic thing she'd ever heard, but she, well, never mind. Let's just say she passed Go without collecting the $200, and the moment kinda fell a little flat.

Heart Failure: Averted
(Thanks to you)

Here are all the things I’d do
If I hadn’t married you:

I’d drive a motorbike too fast
And wouldn’t slow until I’d passed
Each station wagon, bus, and van
Along the hairpin-turn TransCan;

I’d live in Europe, catch disease,
And contract head lice, maybe fleas;
I’d prowl her humid streets all night,
Or stay up reading in too-dim light;

I’d eat too much of the wrong thing,
And sleep too late, and never sing
And I’d hate kids, and adults, too,
If I had never married you.

If I hadn’t married you
I’d probably have learned kung fu
And used it on some smaller bloke
And done some time in the provincial poke.

I’d fail at work, make big mistakes,
Spend too much dough on crappy dates
Grow far too old for the singles scene
And drown my sorrows in ice cream.

Then I’d move home, get fat and bald,
Spend afternoons in shopping malls,
Write little, think less, be profoundly depressed,
And despise myself. Yep, I confess

That this is where I’d likely be
If you hadn’t married me.

And finally, from JibJab (we don't know what he actually says, though this was clearly taken from his Columbia U speech),

By the way, it is confirmed: "Rai-li" does indeed mean "my husband." In their dreams.

*Credits (before I forget): "sick of sin" comes from Wilfred Owen's great "Dulce et decorum est"; both "The centre cannot hold" and "The falcon cannot hear the falconer" are from Yeats' "The Second Coming." Lest ye think me a base thief, and curse me for a hack . . . .

Can't resist

2008-02-08T03:41:00.000-08:00

Check this out:

http://www.time.com/time/world/article/0,8599,1710844,00.html?xid=feed-cnn-world

In connection with Simon Gathercole's The Preexistent Son and several other important concessions by old timey theologians, well, the world is waking up. Someone get this guy a copy of the Plan of Salvation discussion stat! Sounds like he's ready.

Shout out, long overdue, to mj, who has certainly been our most punctual reader, and among the most responsive. Appreciated, always. We'll be in touch on the school issue.

Salaam.

Things we learned this week

2008-02-07T14:05:00.000-08:00

Profound lessons, every one.

First of all--and this is important, so pay attention--"Extra cheese?", especially in the interrogative mood, does not mean, "Do you want a surplus of cheese over and above what you already have?" That is to say, it is not a hermeneutic intended to uncover the presence or absence of an existential desire for supernumerary slices of cheese.

No, it means more simply, "Do you want cheese? That'll be extra."

"Extra" is in contextual effect a misplaced modifier, and in actual fact a dangling modifier. Dangling like melty cheese, for which I have now paid a surprising extra. We learned this by refusing the "extra cheese," thereby getting no cheese at all.

Also, for the first few months of his schooling, the Emirati girls would often tease Riley, giggling and laughing at the mere pronouncement of his name. He did not mention this, of course, until recently, when he was informed by a smirking colleague that "Riley," phonetically, means "my husband" in Arabic. Well, we gave this a good long Pooh-think, and determined that the appropriate response to the Emirati girls calling him by name would be "You wish!" or "In your dreams, Sweetheart!"

So you can imagine the scene:

Emirati girl asks, "Who knows the most about Canada?"

"Oh," replies another. "That would be Riley."

"You wish!"

Or another scene:

"I'll be in the seat next to Riley."

"In your dreams, Sweetheart!"

It goes without saying that Riley has had neither the courage nor the self-possession to follow through, though he did acknowledge the especial hilarity of the tagline to the accidental pun.

Now he tells us that Riley is in fact meaningless in Arabic, but I think his leg has been pulled yet again, and I intend to ask my students about it this week.

A bit early this time: I won't be able to blog on Friday, or Saturday, or perhaps ever again, if this pace keeps up. Wendy will likely tell you something about Christopher's Arabian birthday. We appreciate, as always, your faith and prayers, etcetera. We're considering a change of school next year, and could use some clarity.

Shout outs: Steve and Camille for having a new baby boy. Especially Camille cuz, well, she actually did the having. But boo-hiss for calling the poor kid "Perry." Ay caramba. I know it's a Clegg name, but c'mon. Congrats to Steve for the promotion. Camille, we hope you recover quick like a bunny.

Adam: for funniest comment almost ever, but on purpose. See Jonahisms.

All y'all for digging us so much and coming back for more. By the way, I've taken restrictions off commenting, so feel free to say a few words now and then. We like knowing you're out there. Ask questions, voice exceptions, make requests, sound off: just keep it clean, and don't ask us to work too hard.

Seacrest out.

These are the rulers in our neighborhood!

2008-02-07T10:57:00.002-08:00

Might wanna magnify this one:

So these are four of the big five: from memory, on the left is Sheikh Mohammed bin Khalifa (Crown Prince of Abu Dhabi, Deputy Commanding Officer of the Armed Forces), then there's Sheikh Hamdan bin Mohammad, the new Crown Prince of Dubai, Sheikh Khalifa (Ruler of Abu Dhabi, President of UAE, Son of Zayed, all-around Big Kahuna), and Sheikh Maktoum bin Mohammad, Deputy Ruler of Dubai.

To clarify, the brothers Hamdan and Maktoum are sons of Sheikh Mohammad, Ruler of Dubai and Prime Minister of UAE, not Sheikh Mohammed bin Khalifa, Crown Prince (and therefore future Ruler) of Abu Dhabi. "Bin," sometimes "Ibn," means "son of": and boy howdy are there lots of "sons of," you know, given the whole polygamy thing. So chances are the brothers are half-brothers, but everyone's okay with it. "Big Love" ruffleth no feathers here.

Anyway, Sheik Khalifa is the son of Zayed, founder of the UAE, which you should all know by now is a union of separate emirates, or kingdoms, of which Abu Dhabi is the largest geographically and, by all reports, the wealthiest. There are also Dubai, clearly, Sharjah, Ras al Kaimah, and three others whose names I can never recall with certainty. Al Ain is part of Abu Dhabi, despite being closer to Dubai, and is in fact the birthplace of Zayed. Khalifa et al own 40% of the land in Al Ain, and have upwards of 20 palaces in the area. He spends roughly two days a year here, or so I heard. Maybe that's nights. I think he comes for lunch once a week to visit his mother.

So anyway, Zayed, as you may recall from last week's lecture, was the one who ushered in the era of oil exploration and development, taking Abu Dhabi and the UAE out of obscurity, and perhaps unintentionally turning them into a veritable orgy of shopping malls, fast food outlets, sheesha bars, car washes, Afghani cabbies, Pakistani barbers, Indonesian gas jockeys, Filipina nannies, luxury watches, ubiquitous incense, mysterious women, lonely men (though obviously not all of them are lonely), starving cats, befuddled moviegoers, stupefying architecture, theme parks, and marginally bemused expats. There can be little doubt that Zayed was like Gorbachev: hoping for a gradual accommodation rather than an explosion of wealth and development, though he was impatient to get things goind in terms of human resource development and infrastructure. But he also took a soft view of development: height restrictions in Al Ain, for instance: nothing over four storeys in the garden city, spank you very much. And Abu Dhabi seems to be less frenetic in its development as well when compared to Dubai. It is the seat of government, and some modicum of sanity prevails.

In sum: Abu Dhabi rules, Dubai helps out, and the others basically tag along.

Test next Friday.

Brrrrr!

2008-02-07T10:47:00.000-08:00

In the spirit of EC's plaintive entries on the weather, we offer this in solidarity: it ain't all beaches and cream here. . . .

In the immortal words of Nelson (not Lord) from the Simpsons: "Ha-ha!"

Hey, it's been as low as 10 degrees here in the frigid inland. We've had to wear a coupla shirts and sometimes even a light jacket. Erin: you're not alone. We feel your pain. Especially in our knees and on the soles of our feet: no inlaid carpet, no central heating. Life's hard.

On Family

2008-02-01T07:47:00.000-08:00

Shout outs:

Ambrose--don't worry about commenting on every post. Save yourself for the ones you really get into. And we all know you're capable of incomparable wit.

Todos--thanks for the compliments on the poems. Well, they are what they are. I'm glad they served.

Note the note at the bottom of the page: we'd be glad to include more blog links if you have 'em. Remember that this is a family station.

Ahnos--still nothing. We miss you, and wish we knew who you were.

Alright. We were a bit neg last time, so we're going to point out some of the cultural high points in the coming weeks.

The first and best of these is the importance of family in Emirati culture--informed more by Arab heritage than by Islam, I think, but with its share of influences. We'd love to say that this is true of the muslim world in general, and it probably is to some extent, though it is also true that Islamic communities have historically tended to a quasi-pathological patriarchal structure. And we must also say that Emirati culture is not without its warts in this respect as well: women are still relatively limited in terms of the choices and kinds of choices they can make.

That said, domestic life here seems really very tranquil. We rarely see parents abuse their children in any way (even when we sometimes wish they would), and we see them together a lot. Emirati families love to be out and about, especially in the evening hours. There are parks all over the place, and these are generally busy: picnics in the evening, games and fun during the day. Couples and families shop together, and you'll actually see men with their children more than you see women alone with the children. Families that have nannies--the pyjama-wearing, deflated, Eeyore, subaltern types or the hip, chatty, liberated types--will generally always have the nanny in tow, especially a mother with her children.

They love them some kids, though. Jonah is regularly mobbed and always ogled wherever he goes. His hair has been tousled, stroked, finger-combed, and otherwise assaulted. His cheeks have been pinched, kissed, tickled, and scratched. He's been lifted up, full on mouth-kissed, cornered, chased, and traumatized in a thousand other ways. All in good fun. Kismet, we suppose, for the time he knocked that poor pregnant woman over on her keister (how does one spell that?).

Emirati children are a handful, mind you. We've dubbed those ones "Emibratties." We mean it in the best positive way. But they can be very sweet, and all in all kids is kids.

And we suppose that's what distinguishes and humanizes our Arab others: we all have fundamentally the same stresses, concerns, joys, and loves. Whatever its failings, Arab culture has learned to safeguard children and is increasingly egalitarian in its view of parenting and marriage. Modest displays of affection are evident even here: the holding of hands, an exchange of whispered jokes or glances, a watchfulness and patience. We've much to learn as westerners, in that respect at least. We probably chalk our own newly discovered family unity to our spiritual isolation, but we think it may well be part of an identification, an awakening, that connects us to our hosts, even as language and habit and doctrine still divide us.

And that's the way it was this Friday, February 1. We're not Paul Harvey (nor are we Walter Cronkite--whoops), but good day anyway.

Elegy for a Revelator

2008-01-28T03:30:00.000-08:00

Worn thin, yet not to weakness,
This prophet worked, Donne's godly gold,
Warmed in Affliction’s furnace
Like his peers of Old.

His body bore the burdens
Of an entropic, skeptic Age:
Proved instrument in the garden!
Fiber optic Sage!

How blessed upon the mountain
Is the narrow path he trod:
He has reached the living fountain
Of th’Eternal God.

India II

2008-01-25T05:41:00.000-08:00

Frogger, anyone?

Thanks to Lance for the referral. By the bye, we actually saw a hen and two adolescent chickens crossing the road the other day. They made it. (Cats, on the other hand, are rarely so fortunate.) Reason for the crossing was never determined.

Al Ain Branch (It's about) Times(!)

2008-01-25T04:15:00.000-08:00

Sorry. We've been remiss.

Jeffy has returned to the islands. Fe and Nelson brought their daughter, Aila, back with them, and their son will come and visit in March. Numbers have been thin lately, what with work and other looming crises, but we soldier on. Shewells get back this week from Korea, so that will help. We've missed the little ankle-biters. Well, higher than ankles, really. And they don't bite.

Branch Conference in 3 weeks. Pres. B is coming.

We also have our start-up fund, so we hope to get carpets and curtains and chairs (oh my!) before the conference. The rest we can do line upon line.

And that's it. But all in all the meetings are positive and uplifting, and that's really the point. Oh (and don't be jealous), we usually run just under two hours. Suckers.

Next time: don't know. We'll surprise us.

Jobs that Suck, Vol. I

2008-01-25T00:32:00.000-08:00

Sorry, Mom. There's no other verb for it.

Here they are, in increasing order of suckiness, like a Letterman countdown, only with 6 instead of 10.

6. University Professor
I'm kidding. Sort of. Back at it in a week. Nothing done.

5.Escalator Guard
I'm referring to the fearless men (and woman) of Sparks Security who are daily posted at the top of the first floor escalator in the tertiary turret entrance to our mall. That's harder to explain than it's worth. But these guys are hating life. It's like paid people-watching when you don't like watching people. They sit there for the whole shift making sure no one does anything crazy like walk down the up escalator or, heaven forbid, up the down. Occasionally they'll crack jokes into their radios, probably about the gangly, pot-bellied westerners swaggering their way up the down escalator, just to stay awake. Just upstairs, in the vaulted turret, is the movie theatre and sheesha bar. So at about 2000h, the guards start to chill, bro. Maybe this job's not all that bad.

4. Gutter Cleaner
Okay, imagine you're at the beach with your little pail and shovel, building castles in the sand, the sun shining warmly on your tossled little head, and sea birds calling as they drift in the breeze overhead. Then take away the beach, replace the plastic shovel and pail with a trowel and a large, rusted bucket with ominously jagged perforations, crank up the temperature to the high 30s, stick yourself in a heavy pair of coveralls, and forget about the birds and the breeze. Well, there is a breeze--from the traffic whipping by at 110 kmh, from which you are separated by 2 feet of air and a rubber cone.

3. Traveling Parking Lot Car Washer
Welcome to the pit of despair. Don't even think about--hack, hack, cough. Muggy, fumy, cavernous: these are the dark places of the earth, and the orcs shuffle about with their washing trolleys ready to labour over your dirty carriage for a pittance. Okay, not really the earth. And like everything else around here, parking garages are generally very clean, if not hospitable. Indeed, it is this army of subcon and near-eastern expats that keeps the whale's teeth shining. I dare you: drop a piece of garbage on the floor and wait for a few seconds . . . .

2. Maid/Nanny
It's hard to describe how disheartening a scene it is to see a nanny, usually Filipina, lugging around an over-grown toddler behind the gliding form of the child's mother. I say disheartening because I don't think the job description is really all that well defined, which basically means that these women end up doing whatever their "mistresses" want them to. Smiles, at least when the adults are around, are rare indeed. Lodging is usually a very small room sequestered from the rest of the house, with a/c controlled by the homeowner. We have seen a few examples of obviously peaceable and mutually respectful working relationships, but I gotta tell you, as an observer, that I often think of the two Harriets--Tubman and Beecher Stowe--these days.

1. Bathroom Attendant
There is nothing redeeming about this one, except that in most cases the bathrooms are pristine and even palatial. But they're still bathrooms: no windows, the odour of stale urine (isn't urine already stale by definition?) and incense air fresheners has got to be toxic, never mind following after this, that, and the other fellow into a stall to inspect and, if necessary, spray down the whole shebang. But they are Johnnys-on-the-spot, these fellows. Always ready with a mop or a paper towel, or a friendly smile for Jonah. I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to tip them if they help, but I honestly never have petty cash when I go in.

More as we see them. I could easily include construction worker: sandals as often as steel-toed boots, loose garments that are prone to getting caught in machines--some worksites are an OSHA Inspector's paradise, others stick with a high standard. But there is something pathetic about it all: the ropy arms and carved faces of these construction guys are a far cry from the burly, helmeted, fatly-paid dignity of the North American variety. Skill for skill, they'd win any construction olympics, though. Just a sad sight is all.

But I must say that there is a basic humanity in most of the labour-trafficking here in the UAE. I've heard horror stories from KSA and other, more conservative places. And Emiratis are increasingly accustomed to the presence of all these foreigners and increasingly a) accommodating and b) kind, actually. True story. No one's telling me to write this. I have seen several episodes that confirm that the Sheikh's handprint is indelible on hearts and souls alike.

Jonah-isms

2008-01-25T00:08:00.000-08:00

Jonah's favourite restaurant is, chagrinably, Pizza Hut (No, Hobo, that's not a word, nor is it an error.). Yes, he's embraced the cultural strangeness of our new home, and all its gustatory richness, mystique and wonder, with passionate adventurousness.

Anyway, since 3 of the 5 of us are putting on a little weight of late, we've decided to cut down the trips to this and similarly fine culinary establishments. So every time he says he wants to eat at Pizza Hut, one of us responds, "Pizza what?" And he hollas back "Pizza Butt!" Wendy would prefer we say "Pizza Gut," which is both anatomically more accurate and socially acceptable, but let's face it: it just isn't as funny.

Of course, we also have Chicken Hut here, a place we tried once, with "diarrh'' results, which we could call "Chicken Butt," since we already use the colourful expression, "Guess what, Chicken Butt." But then the meaning is too diffuse. So we could call it "Chicken Gut," which would be apropos if we were in Shanghai or Singapore or Nam. But we're not, and it's gross, so we just don't call Chicken Hut period.

Also, Chicken Palace, which we need to snap one of these days: it's a little shack of a place bathing in neon self-importance in the middle of what looks like a Walmart parking lot. Too funny.

Back to Jonah-isms. He's taken to imitating the subcon accent, which makes for some risky, bone-tickling moments. His favourite word is our very own "row-n-da-bote," and he has ranked these according to their aesthetic charms. Or maybe he's ranked them based on how fun they are to say.

The favourite until this last week was the Sheikh Zayed Roundabout, which features a metallic sculpture, 2-dimensional and die-cast, of Sheikh Zayed's head. So Jonah dubbed it "Sheik's Head Roundabout" very early on. Unfortunately, he has also been discovering rhyme: "dead" and "head" rhyme, so we are constantly reminded of the lamentable fact that the founding ruler of the UAE--a man of vision, acumen, intelligence, and considerable offspring--is no longer with us. File that under "Things Jonah Says in Public that Might One Day Get Us Deported."

Oh, and Christopher announced on the way home from Church that "caca" means "cake" in Arabic. So you can imagine the crass hilarity that ensued, once I told them what "caca" means in Spanish. Birthday caca, anyone? In fact, Christopher's in the kitchen making caca right now. Oy veh.

(Sorry again, mom. We're hard up for entertainment here, with Wendy gone, and taken her grammar with her.)

In Memoriam: Myrtle Jensen

2008-01-20T14:24:00.000-08:00

Requiescat:
Your life too often touched
By loss, you learned to smile and suffer much.

Each loss--of child,
Of sibling, full-grown child--
But smoothed the rough, and made you Jesus-mild.

The vacant rooms
Soon burst with newer kin:
Job's blessing, and no space to hold it in.

You loved each one as each:
Your late-come daughter's daughter
You fostered with quick smiles and easy laughter,

Warm homemade love,
Knit kisses unrestrained,
And healed her of a heritage of shame.

The grandsons born
With weak heart or weak limbs
Were cradled in your wellworn love for him

Whose broken form
You bore, nurtured, interred.
By this same love your daughters, too, endure.

All our daughters
And our sons you claimed,
You knew their faces, murmured each new name

As if your own:
And your own we will be
In God's good time, and sweet eternity.

So rest: your
Altar-loss has been restored,
What's left behind will yet be your reward.

Wendy's maternal grandmother, Myrtle Jensen, died this past weekend after a long decline. It is both blessing and, of course, cause for mourning. She was a tender soul, quicker to smile than frown, even as her limbs lost strength and the fog of age grew thick around her. She was tended faithfully by her husband, Evan, and by fine, devoted children and grandchildren. She left as she came in: warmed by loved ones, blessed with the happiness earned by trials and joys alike.

Wendy's parents called us up early Sunday morning to see if she could return home for the funeral, and we quickly made the arrangements. Those of you in Alberta who would like to see or speak to her in person or by phone can reach her at the Raymond manse. She'll be there from Monday night through Sunday. We know you'll respect the reason for her visit, but no one will complain if you call. The funeral is planned for Thursday.

Salaam. Namaste. Shantih. Shalom. Peace out.

More from us boys in a day or two. Sorry we're a few days late and several dirhams short. We know you'll forgive us, considering.

Middle of January Bonus

2008-01-12T23:27:00.001-08:00

Traffic in India: it's not quite this . . . balletic . . . in the UAE, but they can dream. Watch the pedestrians on the right hand side of the screen. Ay caramba.

Apocalypse

2008-01-11T22:28:00.000-08:00

Alright, so my use of that term is patently incorrect: apocalypse, as both of you who read the first few pages of my dissertation now know, means unveiling, not end-of-the-world scary-destruction-stuff: that's the popular or "demotic" sense, and that is the sense I mean to invoke here.

Two different kinds of course evaluation, one of which involved a committee of students leading a discussion of about 10 different points, and the other an online form that students were required to complete before they could get access to their final grades. Of course, half of them don't, and then they email the profs asking for the grades personally.

Then you have about twenty minutes (minor hyperbole) to mark the exams and submit the final grades. Following which you complete a course report for each course, including a description of your pedagogy, assessment procedures, and plans for revision, a statistical report, and an itemized gradesheet for each course. Oy veh.

Oh, and you can be called upon to proctor other people's exams, as well, people who may not necessarily be there themselves. So I had to supervise 7 exams in toto this term. Riddikerrus.

My experience with the first of these was interesting. I was part of a committee of proctors, each of us assigned to a quadrant of a major exam hall, where multiple sections of the same course were sitting for their standard exam. The course was in Arabic, the exam was in Arabic, the conversation was in Arabic: I was the only Englishman in the mix. One of the teachers was there, and he seemed to enjoy making unsolicited announcements ad alta voce. Established the precedent for Tyrrettical outbursts--from other faculty and students . . . in Arabic. He had several very loud conferences with other faculty, shared a few jokes, clowned around for students, and then bailed. Left me in a sinking ship full of chatty sailors.

I called another faculty member over to answer a question, and the committee chairman came along for the ride: he'd been clowning, too, but in what I can only describe as a Hyde-esque, bipolar reversal, he suddenly turned into a National Socialist schoolmarm, twisted sneer and everything. Started wrestling exams away from students and forcibly relocating them to other parts of the quadrant. So suddenly it wasn't okay to talk, I guess.

Interesting that none of my students exhibited these behaviors. They raised their hands very politely when they had questions, and whispered their queries appropriately. The brat to twit ratio is pretty high in this country: kids are kept out 'til all hours, and you can usually hear a tantrum in progress wherever you are. Too much sugar. Too much party. So sorry. No problem. Welcome.

So I figure that with their schizoid Arab profs, oscillating between totalitarian patriarch and Sideshow Bob, they must revert to spoiled brat syndrome. With me, the regression is milder and slower.

Off today to Global Village in Dubai: Riley has a combined youth activity to attend, and we're going to scope it out while he hangs with the Abu Dhabi crew. By the way, he was set apart as DQP yesterday.

Shout outs: Welcome back, Ahnos. We still don't know who you are!

ec: no guns.

Next time: Global Village and maybe Green Mubazzarah/Jebel Hafeet.

We came, we saw, we skied Dubai

2008-01-11T21:44:00.000-08:00

Well, Wendy and Riley did, anyway.

Christopher and Jonah and Jon went into the Snowpark area instead--where they'd lions and tigers and camuels--. Or rather they have a mini-luge, ice caves, climbing tower, and tube and toboggan slopes.

We'd wanted to get Christopher skiing as well, but as a novice he was required to take a series of complicated and inconveniently scheduled lessons. They're like "Lesson 1: Snow Discovery." And we're like, "Yah, but he's, like, Canadian, eh." And they're like, "Too much so sorry, but no choice." And we're like, "Bummer, dude."

That's life on the roundabout. Anyway, a good time was had by all, except for our camera, which didn't much like the cold on top of the battery problems it's already having. And speaking of cold, -4 never felt so frigid. i mean, we handled it, and it was kinda fun seeing all the desert people bundled up so much, but by golly we've acclimated. Still holding our own: went up to the top of Jebel Hafeet yesterday, and saw several Indian men wearing fur-lined aviator hats. Too funny.

Back to the slopes:

It's like a Euro-hill: two sides have mall views, the architecture of which has a ski lodge/Swiss Miss vibe. There are two main ski/snowboarding runs (complete with rail), and chair/rope lifts. Wendy discovered the "challenging run," which she describes as "fun, not Black Diamond, but worthwhile." She skied like an old--erm--veteran pro, and looked cute doing it. Riley stayed on the main slope, and though it took him a run or two to get into the groove, it all came back to him from last year: like falling off a bike.

The slopes and snowpark are separate areas, and therefore separate costs. Snowsuits and equipment are included, but gloves and hats are not, so we got helmets for the kids, and Wendy and Jon went toque-less. The whole thing: 2 hours worth, set us back a coupla hundred cdn. I dunno. Probably not worth it, but it was fun while it lasted. Here's Chrispy on the luge:

Strange Tales

2008-01-04T08:50:00.001-08:00

We've converted!

Okay, we didn't. We took these pictures at the Al Ain Palace Museum in one of the smaller majlises (women's sitting rooms) there: there were two racks of clothes, and sign that invited dressup and snapshots, so this was totally halal.

The museum itself is laid back: just the old palace displaying family items from the last 150 years or so. We believe this is the traditional family home of Sheikh Zayed, the founder of the UAE and father of the current president of the UAE. Someone still lives there--there are some areas marked "private residence." But we doubt they're upper royalty. We now know where the Sheikh's Al Ain residence is--one of them, anyway, since there's an official presidential palace in another part of the city.

But here's the story: Wendy came home from church needing some alone time. I secured a promise from her that she wouldn't leave our complex, but she's a Cahoon. So that lasted all of three minutes. She called me from what she described as a beautiful, lush, tranquil garden of indeterminate ownership. Couldn't possible be a private villa: the gate was wide open, and there was no one visible in the hut. Well, you can see where this is going. On her way out, she was stopped by two en who quizzed her for several minutes about how she got in, did she have a camera, had anyone seen her, what was she up to. They searched her purse and exclaimed in a combination of consternation and amazement that she had blundered onto the grounds of the Sheikh's personal residence, and that the penalty for trespassing there could be, well, bloody, under the law.

But of course the Emiratis are kind and understanding people, and they soon realized she was not a threat, but was innocent of evil intentions, and let her go with a keen and clear understanding that she should not repeat her blunder. She says it was so lovely in there that it was worth the risk. Ay caramba.

Here's the front gate of the palace:

And a side view of the west tower:

The grounds: Wendy took some fine stills that she will probably post as a facebook album, so watch for that:

Tent dwellers:

Many a country song was written about the Sheikh's old truck: only with ululations instead of yodels, and sitars instead of ghee-tars, and belly dancers instead of backup dancers:

Next week: end-of-term madness. Wa'allah!

Christmas Candids

2008-01-04T07:55:00.001-08:00

Not much to show from Christmas. We went way overboard, overcompensating for missing all y'all, I guess. Anyway, here are a few candids--it's almost like you're right there with us now!

Makin' cookies:

Boy . . . in booties. Or stocking. Well, behind stocking.

So we got the big boys iPods--an elaborate and secretive procedure since Riley had overtly requested one, and reminded us ad nauseam of his peculiar desire. So I had to persuade him it wasn't happening. In fact, we had agreed on a stocking-only Christmas, so at 2:00 a.m. Christmas morning, Riley snuck a peak expecting to find his new toy, and was disappointed. Mwa-ha-ha!

He was a bit sullen Christmas morning, but put on a brave face. And gave up. Imagine his total chagrin when Christopher, who never asks for anything, fairly backflipped with joy over his gift (it's nice to have one effusive kid in the family):

And then the moment arrived. And there was much rejoicing. Obviously:

We were joined for dinner by L Ylanan, whose wife was on shift at her job in Abu Dhabi, and J Shewell, whose family was and is in Korea. He'll be joining them this week. The camera adds 20 pounds. Shut up.

Filed under "What the?": Ski Dubai. We're going tomorrow morning. It's actually pretty cheap, considering the overhead they must pay.

Roundablock (or two): Google Earth Edition

2007-12-28T09:40:00.000-08:00

Okay. Gonna try to go back to multiple small posts and spare your scrolling fingers a little. Here are some shots of the environs around our complex.

The Main Gate (whoddat sexy thang?):

And a shot of the corner store sandwiched between the "saloon" and a little restaurant/sheesha bar where I smoke all my sheesha and looka:

Our mosque--one of four within 1000 sq.m. of our place: kinda like being in Utah, only with muslims:

Singin' in the . . . sun:

Poverty is never far away. While there are newer neighborhoods that are exclusively upscale (and under-serviced), most of the seven original villages--Jahili, Mutaredh, Muwaiji, Markhaniya, Jimi, and two others--now organized as "communities," are a mix of older, poorer, and cramped worker quarters and posher row houses and compounds. This is 300 m from our place.

Another of our neighborhood mosques:

Hey! Chickens CAN fly! (If they're magical, that is.):

Al Murabba'a Fort:

And speaking of magic . . . carpets. Typical storefront (non-mall, anyway). These are places you would be expected to dicker. Along this particular strip you can buy toys, coats, canes, sheesha pipes, rugs, drugs, and bugs.

Looking under the flyover toward the Shaikha Salama Mosque:

Shakha Salama Mosque R/A (Fountain Roundabout) at rest:

The Mosque itself (sideways? yes. dang. will upload iLife this week and get this fixed):

Careful: man in dress crossing:

My bumps! My bumps! My lumpy speedy humps! (No, Ryan. Not that kind.):

For Google Earth geeks, here are our coordinates: /Users/jonathonpenny/Desktop/Penny House in Al Andalus.kmz

And now, just a fragment of the afternoon call to prayer. The footage doesn't matter. One of these days we're going to get a digital audio recorder and post all five from one day, with scintillating information about each.

Ho! Ho! Ho?

2007-12-21T08:01:00.000-08:00

[from threesources.com]

Well, it's that time of year: the sun is shining, the pool is a clear, crystal blue, the weather has cooled off just enough that we have only one room requiring air conditioning at night, the flowers are in bloom, and our tans are a medium brown. Yep, it's Christmas in the Arabian peninsula.

Ah, how the old traditions warm our already warm hearts: hummus cakes on Christmas Eve, shawarma-on-a-stick for Christmas dinner, date pies, date jellies, date ice cream, the sounds of chanting and rousing anti-Western sermons drifting over from the mosque; it really is the most wonderful time of the year!

[by Brian McMorrow, goworldtravel.com]

What's fun is seeing how the Emiratis "get into" the Christmas spirit--in superficial ways, of course. The draping of lights corresponds with the National Day celebrated on Dec. 2 this year, and Eid al Adha, which is in full sway at present, so they'll just leave all the deco up through Christmas. Apparently some Emiratis buy Christmas trees and exchange gifts, but this is just another reason to party, not a chance to honor the birth of Christ: prophet he may be in the Muslim worldview, but not the prophet.

Every mall and most stores, however, do something to signal their business savvy and cash in on the expat appetite for things Christmasy. There are full-on displays, including a tree that straddles the escalator in a mall in Dubai, and is at least 50 ft. high. You hear Christmas music playing almost everywhere--but the secular stuff, not hymns, unless the stores are owned by non-muslims. Nativity scenes are available as well, but these aren't displayed prominently.

[from dubaithoughts.blogspot.com]

The upshot is that, while Jon still has to work on the 24th, 25th, and 26th (only for a couple of hours on Christmas, thank goodness), we are left unmolested in our celebrations. We've decorated modestly, and tried to connect with traditions from home. We have been reading Christmas stories in the evening, hosted a branch potluck yesterday where we compared cultural and family traditions, hope to find a service opportunity for next week, and plan a full-on Christmas dinner with the works (minus ham, which is available, but costs a tail and a snout) and two "bachelors" for company (J. Shewell, whose family is in Korea, and L, Ylanan, whose spouse works in Abu Dhabi). We'll even manage to get some skiing in: at Mall of the Emirates in Dubai, which has an indoor ski hill and snow park (environmentalists, avert your eyes).

So we'll miss you, and maybe even the snow (but not much), but look forward to our own little Christmas here in this strange place 3 hours by plane from where Christ was born. Alright, so it's a weak connection but hey, we take what we can get. We'll be thinking of all of you in your wind and snow-blasted homes, gathering around fireplaces, surrounded by loved ones, and up to your eyeballs in wassail and pumpkin pie. We hope you'll think of us over here in our sun-baked villa, gathered around the Wii, surrounded by tolerant indifference, and up to our eyeballs in mirinda and pistacchio ice cream.

Our collective love and best wishes to you all: Merry Christmas, and God bless you, every one!

And now individual greetings.

Riley: I miss the snow! Merry Christmas.
Christopher: I miss you, and Merry Christmas!
Jonah: Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Happy Christmas! Melikilukilake!
Wendy: Thinking of you brings you nearer to us. We have such happy memories of Christmas at home. Here's hoping we get to experience it again. (And now she's fighting back the tears.)
Jon: Auguri di Natale. Vi vogliamo tutti molto bene! Eid Mubarak!

And something fun to leave you with: a little SCT . . . P!

Mercifully Brief

2007-12-14T10:16:00.000-08:00

Enjoy the following video in THREE EASY STEPS:

1) rotate your head 90 degrees to the right, or rotate your monitor 90 degrees to the left,
2) laugh uproariously (snorting is optional--no donkey laughs, please),
3) wet yourself.

I could spring for Quicktime Pro and turn that around for you, or I could go and refilm it, but considering it took me 4 months to get it the first time, I think we'll just leave it as is. What say?

Here's something we've blogged about before: it's more, um, interesting in person, but snapping a shot is tricky. So here's the leader of the "free" world demonstrating with the help of the House of Saud:

"Bushie, I wish I knowing how for to be quitting you!" Don't we all.

News this week: Christopher returned safely from a three-day school trip into the desert, during which he rappelled, sand-boarded, dune-busted, man-eating ant-helded (parallelism trumps grammar), camel-rided (again), port-a-potty-potty-ed, and several other hyphenated-ed things. He had a blast, and is a better man for it all. We're very proud that he dove in like a Cahoon (Mom, you know that the Pennies, me excepted, of course, are panzies when it comes to the New, especially if the New involves the potential for death) and survived like Robinson Crusoe.

Also: school concert.

He's got rhythm. Just not sure which.

Next week: more signs of the climes to make you chortle (or at least chuckle, Amber--maybe snigger, if we get it wrong, or guffaw if we score big). Update on the Big Eid-y. Perhaps a comment or two about the Christmas concert I participated in this evening.

Shout Outs:

All y'all for making last week's the most commented on post thus far: so two were double posts and one was Wendy (how dare she speak for herself without written and rubber-stamped permission from the Y-chromosome!), but still: good showing.

Some clarifications: hmac (good to hear from you, by the way), some Bible, some B o M. Be happy to explain by email.

mom penny: mama c is Erin (Darren's trouble and strife), not Joanne. Joanne is gramma c, but only rarely posts comments for . . . reasons. Don't really know. But yes, you are both lucky to have such handsome grandsons. It was a dirty job, . . . .

Mark: Wha?

adam: we went right out to the Tweety Saloon and got Jonah's hair cut. Or rather his bowl cut. Scary moment there. Also, they don't call me Francis Ford for nothing. Actually, they don't call me that at all. But maybe they should.

Saw two movies last week: Elizabeth and Michael Clayton. Where, you ask? In the theatre in the mall five minutes from our door. Great popcorn, some other weird snacks, and twittering little twits of adolescents being very obnoxious during Elizabeth. It was almost as bad as going to a movie with Joanne (sorry, mom), who laughs at all the inappropriate moments, and Drew (sorry, Dad), who makes whole cities cower in fear with the sound of his munching.

Neither recommended, by the way. (The movies, I mean.) Meh.

Peace out.