“Why Would They…?”

(Written February 2012) During our years in Cairo, my husband devised a game called “Why Would They?” It proved to be an expat game of trying to hold your tongue.

The rules in Cairo were simple, for every, "Why would they?" exclamation -- typically uttered when witnessing some fantastical, or wildly amazing, or just implausible and gravity-defying feat, such as "Why would they carry a plate glass window on a motorbike?", or "Why would they step out into traffic without ever looking?" -- you would get one point against you. If you were somehow able to NOT exclaim this constantly, then you were probably asleep; there's really no other explanation. Our favorite supplementary game, was to see how long it took visitors to utter their first “Why would they” sentence, which was sometimes within minutes of leaving the airport.

We have tried to play the game outside of Egypt, but frankly it’s just not as fun. Yes, wild and wacky sights can be spotted in Venice, or London, or Alaska, or Muscat, but so far nothing can compare with the sheer volume of wondrous mind-bending sights in Cairo.

Life is much more sane and less like a carnival in Kuwait, but having said that, we have come up with two “Why Would They’s”. The first is quite simply, “Why would they constantly drive with such recklessness?” No, it’s not as much fun as “Why would they put grandma on top of the pile of watermelons in the back of the truck (in Cairo)?”, but we work with what we’re given. The driving remains a constant source of stress here, but I am trying to train myself to fully expect to be passed on an on-ramp and cut-off in a merge lane, so as to lessen the stress spikes. Not to mention constantly checking rear and side mirrors; I’ve learned all too often that just because it’s clear one second doesn’t mean there won’t be a Hummer H2 climbing up your tailpipe in the next.

Our second “Why Would They?” comes from something I have failed to share, until now. It’s not because I’m trying to hide it, but frankly I find it so baffling that I can’t wrap my head around it. It’s simply this, is certain areas of town, Kuwait City stinks.

It really stinks. The sewage smell can be overwhelming in some neighborhoods, particularly those close to the water. I've heard all sorts of rumors as to why, including a broken sewage pipe flooding Kuwait Bay and the Persian Gulf with raw sewage, and an on-going search for an engineering firm to fix it. I don't know what the real story is, but I can certainly attest to the real result. Pew.

So, sadly, one of the best parts about Kuwait, their 180 miles of coastline, is strongly affected by this. No one wants to come to the beach, when the beach doesn't smell like a beach should. Personally, I would think that the high-end resorts lining the waterfront would team up and demand that the problem be addressed. I can’t imagine paying $500 a night for a room with a waterfront view (and complementary smell), let alone trying to take a dip in the water and dodge the debris (I'm making an assumption here; I have yet to take a dip in the Gulf and frankly can't see it happening anytime soon).

And so, it still stinks. We recently visited friends who had a gorgeous villa, just a block from the water, but when we parked and open the car doors the stench was so overwhelming we ran for their front door with our breaths held. We’ve taken walks along the beach on the promenade, and one minute everything is lovely, the next the wind changes and you’re suddenly speed-walking to the car.

So it comes down to this. In a country as flush with cash as Kuwait is, "Why Wouldn’t They Fix the Sewage Smell?" Okay, one point against me; let the game begin!

Seeking Emily Post in Kuwait

(Written January 2012) “Dear Ms. Emily Post, we received a lavish assortment of luxury chocolates and porcelain Limoges boxes presented on a silver platter from our landlords this year for the holidays. We’ve never actually met them, so in hunting down their contact information I came upon an important fact: our landlord is related to royalty, and he owns most of our neighborhood. I’m assuming our thank you note needs to be a little more formal than, ‘Your Highness, thanks so much for the chokies!’ Any suggestions for thanking royalty for an extravagant pile of chocolates would be greatly appreciated. As an aside, he's somehow connected to the Al Sabah family, who has ruled Kuwait since 1752, in case that adds another layer of formality.”

I haven’t sent it off yet (is there even still an “Emily Post” out there?), but nor have I sent the thank you note. I learned all about our landlord one day while sitting at our dining table watching a carpenter swap out our door handle. We finally put in a request to change our front door’s locking mechanism, primarily after I lost my set of keys in the house and was essentially locked in for two days (I’ve since found my keys).

Spot on nine the next morning, the buzzer buzzed and I went out to meet two men, one of whom was the spitting image of the Keymaker in “The Matrix.” This was apparently the Carpenter. They checked out our door, did some measurements, then said they’d be back, and they left. Just before their arrival, two other men had come to hook up the dryer’s vent, and they were working down the hall in the laundry room. When they went to leave one of them asked me, “Did I hear the Carpenter?” And I said yes, and explained that he’d had to go get supplies. Apparently the man truly has no name.

It took a few hours, and more than one trip to the store, but finally the Carpenter was able to outfit our door with a proper handle and locking mechanism, so no one could be locked in again, or at least not as easily. While I watched them work (I’m never sure what to do, do I hover, do I linger, do I read a book, do I watch TV?), the Carpenter told me the history of our house, including our landlord's status and the fact that it's been rented out to expats for the last ten years.

I had been nagging my husband to get some contact information for the landlord so I could write the thank you note, but upon learning this I backed off. I think I may be out of my depth here. So now, back to Ms. Post.

Husband Antics

(Written January 2012) Sometimes there’s nothing better than a good solid collection of “husband antic” tales. We all have them, even without a husband, you can substitute boyfriend, brother, father, co-worker, uncle, creepy male neighbor, pretty much anyone of the male persuasion. Here are just a handful of mine from the last few months.

One night about a month ago, I was sitting on the couch and glanced up to see my husband shaking and quivering with tears rolling down his face. Knowing this was his typical reaction to something he finds terribly funny (he first goes silent, then starts convulsing, his mouth freezes in a Joker-like smile, and the tears begin to roll -- it’s only when he suddenly gasps for air that I look up and realize what’s going on), I leaned over to see the cause of this hilarity. In this case, he had just discovered his friend’s website, http://englishactorsswallowingpotatoes.tumblr.com. It’s a collection of photographs of British actors consuming photo-shopped potato goodies (Yukon gold, mashed, tots, fries, etc.). I can hear the gender divide even now – half the room is immediately following the link, the other half is re-reading the sentence thinking they misunderstood.

Like any good online find, from this he immediately dove in and found more similar such hilarities. The Bea Arthur with mountains and pizza collages sent him into more silent fits with periodic bursts for air intake (beaarthurmountainspizza.tumblr.com, if you’re so inclined). And just now, as I deigned to look for the link, because I’d hate to get it wrong, I found that there are even more celeb-food collage collections that I had been blissfully unaware of. I mean, how horrible would it be not to give a shout-out to the artistic renderings of Tom Selleck with waterfalls and sandwiches (selleckwaterfallsandwich.tumblr.com). Heaven forbid.

Over the last four years of our marriage, my husband has become quite adept, and with lightening-speed I may add, at his justifications for his behavior or lack thereof. I barely even have to utter, “Why did you…?” or “How did you…?”, before he offers up his latest excuse. They often revolve around lack of consumption or over-consumption of caffeine, carbs, or sandwiches. His latest, and one of my current favorites, was his incredulous claim one morning that, “It’s BC!”. When I offered a blank stare in response, he smiled and said, “Before coffee”.

On our recent trip back to Kuwait from our Christmas vacation, he leaned over and asked me, “Do you think Darth Vader ever has to pee?” This was the question plaguing my dear husband at 30,000 feet. What? Continuing on, he said, “Would you wear all the Darth Vader gear, the mask, the armor, the boots and cape, if you got to give up the need to pee?” I’ve found that it’s often best not to verbally respond, makes it easier to record the lines for future writing needs, so I just stared. “I would,” he said. Then he unbuckled and headed back to the lavatory while I envisioned kissing Darth Vader’s mask each night. Yeah, not doing it for me.

When grocery shopping the other day, I was heading to the magazine area to gather him up and as I came around the corner he turned to me with his arms out, holding a torn paper bag as if it had spontaneously exploded while he stood there. I didn’t even have time to get out What happened? before he uttered, “The halloumi sandwiches fell out while I was distracted by the Hitler book.” Of course they did, dear. The fact that I didn’t even blink tells me that we’re settling in to this marriage thing quite nicely. Give me the exploding cheese sandwiches, and go find a washroom.

Periodically, either before or immediately following an antic-worthy act or statement, my husband loudly proclaims, “Not bloggable!” We have come to accept this as a protected shield around said act or statement. Now sometimes his antics are so delightfully fantastic that I beg and beg and once in a while he relents, though claims first re-writes. Sometimes he refuses and even makes me pinky-swear. If I hesitate, he tries to counter with the threat that he won’t do anything remotely amusing anymore, and I will therefore have nothing fun to write about. At this point I either relent (if I’m feeling particularly tired at the moment and just want to get back to “Dr. Who”), or I laugh out loud with great glee because I know that he has about as much control over his antics as I do. Which merely means, we’ll both be dealing with them for decades to come and therefore I better keep the first-aid kit and our cleaning supplies well-stocked, and find more synonyms for antics.

With a Whimper

(Written December 31, 2011) To mis-quote T.S. Eliot, “This is the way the [year] ends: Not with a bang but a whimper.” And I’m okay with that.

Our riotous New Year’s Eve activities this year may have surpassed any past or even future pathetic activities we may have for the next several decades. I’ll blame it on the rotten cold I got 48 hours earlier, which left me sniffly, achey, and whiney. And which subsequently left my husband with lots of free time to mutter “stupid pigs” and “how did I just mortgage that?” into his SmartPhone (with Angry Birds and Monopoly being the latest addictions).

We did manage to stumble up to our roof with minutes to spare before midnight, where we got a lovely view of several fireworks displays all around us (some just a little too close for my husband’s comfort, so he blamed the “cold weather” on his desire to go back inside, where we watched from the safety and "warmth" of our family room).

I have to admit that I was quite pleased to see some recognition of the delineation between this year past and the one to come. Not just because Cairo failed to acknowledge it at all (in the last three years, we were lucky if we heard a neighbor hoot or a local woman offer up her ululation. to mark the “midnight” moment), but also because I’m more than ready to walk away from 2011 and dive right in to 2012.

To say 2011 was fraught with stress could be a contender for understatement of the year. Yes, every year brings heartache and disaster, pain and suffering, but personally 2011 ranks at the highest for me. And my dentist will agree, pointing out that the grinding and acid reflux have completely worn down my teeth and practically dissolved my enamel (and I doubt “Arab Spring revolution” qualifies under our dental insurance for pretty new crowns).

But then again, we had the most miraculous news of our child coming next February (via adoption), and we celebrated our fourth wedding anniversary, and all our friends and family are safe and healthy, and we did get to spend time with all our friends and family over the summer. But most of all, we survived, stronger than ever. And for that, I am thankful, grateful, and very appreciative (though not necessarily willing to do it all over again).

So as we creep into 2012 ahead of the U.S. folks, we’re sending all our love to everyone for a wonderful 2012 full of miracles, magic and blessings, with peace and kindness reaching out to all corners of the Earth.

More Expat Wife Doings

(Written December 2011) In Cairo my Expat Wife outings usually revolved around shopping or exploring some ancient, or at least fairly old, structure or site. Here in Kuwait, my latest Expat Wife outings involved organized tours to two local hospitals. Surprisingly there wasn’t a waitlist for tickets.

However, in fairness to the exploration opportunities afforded us in Kuwait, it wasn’t a bad way to spend a few hours. We toured two hospitals, the New Mowasat Hospital and Royale Hayat Hospital. Both are fully functioning hospitals, but they definitely specialize in birthing the babies – and make quite the pile of money doing so.

Now, there were several ways in which these were different from any other hospital I’ve ever visited. To sum them up, I’ve never felt so severely under-dressed in a hospital before. At times I had to stop myself from confirming in a passing mirror that I was not clad in soiled dungarees with hay peeking out of the pockets that were covered in dried pig snot all way down to my cow-pat-covered wellies.

Everyone we saw was dressed and pressed and made up to the nines. From the spotlessly white dishdashas that many of the men wore, to the black galabeyas on the women, showing only their eyes with curled luscious lashes, dramatic eyeliner and eyeshadow application that would make Max Factor proud. This is how many people look when they leave the house here, regardless of whether they’re perusing the mall with their nanny and kids in tow, or shopping for $8 broccoli, or apparently heading to the hospital either as a patient or a visitor. But regardless of how often I see it, it always has the pig-snot affect on me.

In addition to the human component, both of these hospitals were by far the swankiest, poshest, most luxurious hospitals I’ve ever seen. In truth, the Royale Hayat felt more like the Four Seasons, than a hospital. And New Mowasat visitors are greeted with a towering wall of water cascading down in the lobby; a definite indication that this wasn’t going to be like the Emergency Room at George Washington University Hospital in DC (no offense to DC ERs).

As the pre-tour PR presentation at the Royale Hayat began, I found that I was completely distracted by a beautiful young woman sitting near us wearing the full black galabeya, hijab and niqab, with only her eyes showing (fluttering eyelashes and all), eating a sandwich. With each delicate bite she would raise the sandwich up to her mouth, lift the niqab covering her face ever so slightly to slide the sandwich underneath, take a dainty bite, place the sandwich back on the plate, and wipe her fingers. This went on for a few bites, until she got a phone call and since she couldn’t do the double-handed method anymore, I watched as she nibbled on French fries while she chatted. There was also a man in traditional Gulf Arab attire (white dishdasha and red and white checked kefiya) speaking with a woman who might have been a hospital employee. They themselves weren’t that interesting, but I was noticing the Chocolatier shop in the corner behind them selling gourmet Lebanese chocolates from Alpina. A bit of a variation from the carnations, mylar balloons and stiff teddy bears selections I’m used to in the U.S. I was able to tear myself away from the glittering distractions, including the water feature behind me that looked like a wall of water droplets falling endlessly, in time to hear that the hospital has been open for less than ten years, and they perform 250-300 births a month. And then it was time to head off on the tour. We were shown all the floors and were even taken into the NICU (not all the way in, of course). But the highlight, and I do mean highlight, was seeing the poshest of the posh guest rooms for birthing mothers.

The basic is the Lily room. For a mere $4,000 you can have this room for two nights that comes with a kitchenette, sofas and chairs, living quarters in addition to the mother’s bed, multiple TVs, and two marble bathrooms. From here they only get better. The two top of the line go for $16,000 (Lotus) and $20,000 (Orchid) and are large enough to hold about 100 guests, in addition to the same amenities. (If you'd like to check out the panorama view, see http://www.royalehayat.com/oursuiteshome.html) They are both about 1,400 square feet, with reception and living areas, but in addition the Orchid comes with its own rooftop garden/patio and, as we were told on the tour, “much higher quality wood and marble… you’d notice the difference.” Right, don’t let the pig snot get on your Donna Karan chiffon bodysuit, lady.

The reason for the grandiosity is that in Arab cultures it’s customary to receive lots of visitors after the birth of a child, so in traditional Arab hospitality, you “host” them. Now, in less wealthy environments, i.e., the normal world, these people come to your home. But here in Kuwait, you can just rent a room that puts the presidential suites in five-star hotels around the world to shame. We also heard that you can apparently have your own furniture brought in if the dregs they offer you are just too vile. I wonder if that goes for the immense crystal chandelier as well?

We ended our tour of “how the other half lives (and births)” at the Elements Spa run by Bayan Tree, which takes up half of the second floor. To say it was like no other spa I’ve been to would be obvious, but I’ll say it regardless. We then sat in their reception area and were offered fresh fruit cocktails, little hors d'oeuvres (perfect for niqab manipulation), and five-minute neck massages, which I gratefully took advantage of.

As we stood to leave, we were handed gift bags full of brochures on the dentistry practices (whiting and straightening are very popular) and the myriad of services offered by the cosmetic surgery wing. We also got a bit of hospital swag, with a key chain, letter opener, and the ever-practical Royale Hayat money clip (no, it’s not any larger than any other money clip, but I, too, thought it might be). So with the promises of luxury glimpses, a bit of shiny swag and a free massage, all I can say is “When's the next tour?”