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Getting up at noon was hard (thanks, jumping forward nine time zones!), but we knew it would be more painful down the line if we couldn't pry ourselves out of bed at a reasonable hour. Brandon had a beautiful cafe mocha with chocolate flakes on top and a tiny Madeleine cookie while I nursed a bottle of water like I'd had way more fun last night than in actuality at the little cafe in the lobby. Once Mike appeared, my missing Gilmore Girls seasons in tow, we set out for the Marina Mall.
It was ... confusing. Each restaurant was allowed to have its own architectural style, plus the sheer size of the mall, made it impossible to orient ourselves. We meandered looking for cell phones, a power converter and some bottled water (can't drink the tap stuff here), and came across a Forever XXI, Radio Shack, Baskin Robbins, Dunkin' Donuts, Claire's, the Gap, Limited Too and an Ikea that I'll swear employs space-dilation technology because there is no WAY that tiny store could have that much walking space. Also, between at least three Starbucks, a Caribou Coffee and other assorted cafes, about every tenth store was a coffee shop, no exaggeration. Brandon the addict has nothing to fret about.
Friday being the national high holy day, the place was packed. In Carrefour, which is essentially a Super Target, the frenzied mob that all discount chains draw prompted the first of what I'm certain will be a long line of off-color jests - "Where's a call to prayer when you need one?" Actually, it wouldn't have mattered much, as there were almost as many Westerners as Arabs. We really aren't the novelty that I'd thought - the majority of the signs within all the stores had an English version, and everyone from cabbies to food court personnel speak plenty enough English to get by.
Speaking of Arab men, generally, they are respectful, very well-groomed, and look very handsome in their robes. I cannot emphasize this enough. There was a beautiful man in his early 30s waiting near us on the curb at the airport, whose white robe started as a fitted, collared shirt that flowed into a looser bottom at the waist. He had to have been at least 6'3" and wore the traditional headdress, had what amounted to a few days' neatly sculpted scruff, and impeccable posture. I had to stop myself from staring.
Uh, sorry for the tangent. The point actually was that I haven't for a second felt threatened or marginalized by men here. They seem mannered and kind to their wives and children.
Back in the mall, for lunch we had traditional Arabic food (just down from a Burger King and Sbarro's), lamb for me and what Mike revealed to us at the end of the meal was chicken liver for Brandon. It did not taste anything like liver. Also, if you haven't try Iranian rice. The arcade next door featured a shark-shaped rollercoaster, and, not to be completely outdone by its sister city Dubai, an indoor ski slope is under construction, though the scale doesn't match the five runs there, one of them a black diamond. Money, dear readers, may not buy love (although Mike was telling us that one of our coworkers was put up in a hotel overrun with Thai prostitutes) but it sure does work for everything else.
The bathroom situation took some figuring, with a Demolition Man "Three seashells?"-style quandary. There's a little hand-held sprayer mounted in the stall, which we theorized about all afternoon, and very little toilet paper generally. Are you supposed to spray yourself and wipe the seat? How do you keep the water from going everywhere? Do people not use toilet paper like we do in the States? In the end, we decided that people sprayed with the right hand and, ahem, "used" their left, which is why the incidence of handwashing was so high as well as the reason left hands are considered always dirty.
Back outside after four hours, we walked into a promotional setup for an energy drink that involved playing Wii baseball and riding a mechanical bucking horse. It's like they give us no opportunity to feel homesick, even if the references are sometimes cliched.
After dropping our spoils at the hotel, we walked to a more nearby mall to e-mail our parents and get dinner. Brandon and Mike caved to the familiar and bought McDonald's (which was mobbed) while I opted for the Indian place next door. I stand by their chicken tikka on naan, and am beginning to realize that this country will make me gloriously fat with the amazing food everywhere. Back in the hotel with (first-season) Scrubs is on TV, I'm ending this to fall asleep to the dulcet tones of JD's screeching.
P.S. These entries will begin going into a Blogger account and syndicated here. Fandom stuff to resume as soon as our private Internet access does.
It was ... confusing. Each restaurant was allowed to have its own architectural style, plus the sheer size of the mall, made it impossible to orient ourselves. We meandered looking for cell phones, a power converter and some bottled water (can't drink the tap stuff here), and came across a Forever XXI, Radio Shack, Baskin Robbins, Dunkin' Donuts, Claire's, the Gap, Limited Too and an Ikea that I'll swear employs space-dilation technology because there is no WAY that tiny store could have that much walking space. Also, between at least three Starbucks, a Caribou Coffee and other assorted cafes, about every tenth store was a coffee shop, no exaggeration. Brandon the addict has nothing to fret about.
Friday being the national high holy day, the place was packed. In Carrefour, which is essentially a Super Target, the frenzied mob that all discount chains draw prompted the first of what I'm certain will be a long line of off-color jests - "Where's a call to prayer when you need one?" Actually, it wouldn't have mattered much, as there were almost as many Westerners as Arabs. We really aren't the novelty that I'd thought - the majority of the signs within all the stores had an English version, and everyone from cabbies to food court personnel speak plenty enough English to get by.
Speaking of Arab men, generally, they are respectful, very well-groomed, and look very handsome in their robes. I cannot emphasize this enough. There was a beautiful man in his early 30s waiting near us on the curb at the airport, whose white robe started as a fitted, collared shirt that flowed into a looser bottom at the waist. He had to have been at least 6'3" and wore the traditional headdress, had what amounted to a few days' neatly sculpted scruff, and impeccable posture. I had to stop myself from staring.
Uh, sorry for the tangent. The point actually was that I haven't for a second felt threatened or marginalized by men here. They seem mannered and kind to their wives and children.
Back in the mall, for lunch we had traditional Arabic food (just down from a Burger King and Sbarro's), lamb for me and what Mike revealed to us at the end of the meal was chicken liver for Brandon. It did not taste anything like liver. Also, if you haven't try Iranian rice. The arcade next door featured a shark-shaped rollercoaster, and, not to be completely outdone by its sister city Dubai, an indoor ski slope is under construction, though the scale doesn't match the five runs there, one of them a black diamond. Money, dear readers, may not buy love (although Mike was telling us that one of our coworkers was put up in a hotel overrun with Thai prostitutes) but it sure does work for everything else.
The bathroom situation took some figuring, with a Demolition Man "Three seashells?"-style quandary. There's a little hand-held sprayer mounted in the stall, which we theorized about all afternoon, and very little toilet paper generally. Are you supposed to spray yourself and wipe the seat? How do you keep the water from going everywhere? Do people not use toilet paper like we do in the States? In the end, we decided that people sprayed with the right hand and, ahem, "used" their left, which is why the incidence of handwashing was so high as well as the reason left hands are considered always dirty.
Back outside after four hours, we walked into a promotional setup for an energy drink that involved playing Wii baseball and riding a mechanical bucking horse. It's like they give us no opportunity to feel homesick, even if the references are sometimes cliched.
After dropping our spoils at the hotel, we walked to a more nearby mall to e-mail our parents and get dinner. Brandon and Mike caved to the familiar and bought McDonald's (which was mobbed) while I opted for the Indian place next door. I stand by their chicken tikka on naan, and am beginning to realize that this country will make me gloriously fat with the amazing food everywhere. Back in the hotel with (first-season) Scrubs is on TV, I'm ending this to fall asleep to the dulcet tones of JD's screeching.
P.S. These entries will begin going into a Blogger account and syndicated here. Fandom stuff to resume as soon as our private Internet access does.
