Outrageous Food Day

Melissa and enjoy food a great deal. We enjoy cooking it, eating it, talking about it, reading about it. It is our mutual belief that food is one of the few truly great pleasures in life, and we try and make the most of it. However, our exploration of the food world has been limited in no small part by money; we’re hardly wealthy now, and we’ve been pretty close to poor for several years. So we know cheap Indian food well, but about other cuisines--French, most notably--we’re pretty ignorant.

So when we found out that Melissa’s cousin was getting married in Provence this summer, we started planning to have a blowout, no-expenses-spared, damn the torpedoes meal here. We recruited Melissa’s aunt and uncle Meredith and Jim, who know France and French cuisine well, and we knew would not shirk from the responsibility of ushering us into high-falutin’ eatin’. We requested that Jim find a great restaurant in the vicinity of the wedding, and he tackled the task with gusto, locating a two-star Michelin place in Les Baux De Provence called Oustau de Baumaniere.

Two-stars doesn’t sound like much, right? The Michelin guide (yes, that Michelin company--the Michelin man is even on the cover, in an incredible display of jarring incongruities) has been around for something like a hundred years. It designates French restaurants with one, two, or three stars. Not all restaurants, of course; the vast majority get no stars at all. As the guide describes it, a one star is “interesting”, a two-star is “worth a detour”, and a three-star is “worth a journey.” You must understand that the French take food very seriously. Surely their most worthy trait. And the Michelin rankings are of critical importance to this. People go insane over the finest details of the silverware of a restaurant in order to move from two stars to three. To gain three stars, a restaurant must not only have truly exceptional food, but also must have ambience to match, the absolute best of everything. As Jim put it, a three-star restaurant they ate at recently was “like a total immersion into the mind of the chef”. And they charge for it. We didn’t really have the option to have a three-star meal here, and I don’t know if we would have. There are only 25 three-star restaurants in the whole country. Two-stars is stunning enough.

And expensive. Before I get into the details of what we ate, I’ll just tell you up front that a meal for five people, with two bottles of wine, cost nearly one thousand dollars.

The Oustau is also a hotel, so we were sitting on the patio of the restaurant. It’s very hot in France this summer, so it could have been unpleasant, eating outside. But actually it was quite nice and shady. Beautiful.

But the food. Mon Dieu!

We started with glasses of champagne. This wasn’t Andre Cold Duck, either--great, great champagne. Truly great champagne is a rare pleasure, at least for us. It’s a lousy celebratory liquor, for my money; my experiences with it have generally involved consumption after drunkenness has already been reached, and the aftereffects are hideous. But a nice glass of cold champagne before a meal? Luscious.

Ordering was a trial. How does one choose between heaven and heaven? We could have ordered the preset eight-course meal, but it didn’t afford the dessert choice I was looking for. So we had to make our way through a stunning array of possibilities, ranging from several kinds of seafood to a steak with olive pate and capers cooked in sheep fat. I nearly opted for this last, but followed the advice of the waiter, who was funny and helpful. And he absolutely did me right, as it were.

The French are big on this thing called “Amusement De Bouche”--that is, Amusements For the Mouth. So every course had a little bit of something or another designed to be a small treat for the palate. Our first one involved some sardine and anchovy biscuits, which managed to be awesomely salty and light without being fishy. Then we had little bowls of gelled consomme with river trout, and great bread with olive oil. Nice, cool stuff.

We ordered two spectacular bottles of local Provencal wine--a fruity white and a hearty, earthy red. These started next, and as we were enjoying the white, our first courses came. I had a salad with a red snapper-like fish sandwiched between thin aubergine (eggplant) planks in a lemon sauce. It was light, the least fishy fish I’ve ever had, and the lemon positively exploded in the mouth. I was blown away, absolutely, and this was just the start. Melissa had a ravioli stuffed with sweetbreads (pancreas) and leeks, and covered in shaved black truffle and butter sauce. Quite possibly the richest single thing I’d eaten up to that point. The butter sauce was a revelation. Jim also had the ravioli, Meredith had a brilliant stuffed zucchini, and their daughter Laura, Melissa’s cousin, had a gorgeous tomato soup.

We had a little break at the conclusion of this course--there were lengthy breaks throughout, which is why the meal took over three-and-a-half hours. We were plied with more bread, which I scarfed willingly. The main courses were a welcome sight. From left to right:

Jim had pigeon. It had some sort of nut on it, and was cooked to a fantastic red color. Obviously, one couldn’t gain this sort of incredible flavor from a street pigeon in the states, but this distant relative really packed a punch. It wasn’t gamey in the slightest, and the juiciness was overwhelming. Melissa called this her favorite, and it was incredible, but it wasn’t my favorite.

Melissa had gone into this meal saying that she wanted to push the envelope, to eat some of the seemingly gross meats that the French thrive on. So she ordered sweetbreads--as I said, the pancreas. This takes the cake as the richest thing I’ve ever eaten. It was like eating velvet. I liked it a lot, but couldn’t have ordered it--not because of the visceral reaction one has to the thought of eating pancreas, but rather because it was just too much--too rich, too velvety, too big. But it was prepared exquisitely, seared nicely and in a great sauce, the contents of which I‘ve already forgotten. Meredith also had the sweetbreads.

Laura had lamb with dried fruits--prunes and raisins and apricots. I’m unsure if I’ve had lamb like that. It was perfectly pink, and very mild. Juicy and perfectly complemented by the fruit.

I ordered tuna--it’s odd for me to order so much seafood, but it was highly recommended by the waiter, and with good reason. Juicy, light tuna steaks cooked exactly right, covered in an olive-oil and basil pesto sauce. The fish rested on a bed of roasted red peppers, which in turn rested on a black olive pate. It is frankly surprising that I survived the consumption of this dish.

Let me linger here for a moment and remember the tuna. Oh, my.

After another lengthy break, during which we talked endlessly about the fantastic flavors we had just experienced as we finished our red wine, the cheese course began. The French offer a cheese course before dessert. French cheeses are smelly and softish, and are great, for my money. The cheese cart comes around, and the eater simply points to the cheeses that he would like to try. Melissa (and, presently, Jim and I) put ourselves in the hands of the server. Melissa said she wanted cheeses that were plus fort and tres dificil (very strong and difficult). When she said this, the server--literally--reached into the nether regions underneath the cart, where the Challenging Cheeses live, unseen by all but the brave and the foolish. Here, the cheeses lurk, waiting to clobber those who dare to confront them head on. These are the brutes.

It was an innocuous-looking, slightly runny Camembert-type cheese. The first bite? Positively exquisite. Salty and runny and chewy and absorbing. The second bite? Absolutely DISGUSTING. Vile and rubbery and smelling of rotten death. I immediately gave it to Meredith, who laughed and neglected to touch it.

We enjoyed the cheese, and were reaching a stupor, when phase one of dessert started. Dessert was a two-course meal. The first phase involved pre-prepared tarts and cookies and such, some with caramel, some with fruit, some with chocolate. All were extraordinary. After another brief break, our actual desserts arrived. Meredith had an exceptionally creamy crepe souffle. Melissa had a strawberry gazpacho soup, chilled and served with a scoop of olive oil ice cream on the side. This was a dessert worth killing a stranger to reach. Jim opted for peaches, marinated in a fennel syrup, with red currants and a red currant sorbet. The red currant sorbet sent me into hysterics, nearly. Laura and I had raspberries in a sweet syrup with crème fraiche and a chocolate cookie. Stunning, positively.

There are many details I’ve skimped upon, ranging from the incredibly impressive knowledge of the wait staff to the superb setting in the Provence hills. The point is this: it was a singular experience. The greatest meal of my life to date, and beyond that, a phenomenal event. Almost a G, and worth it.

Here’s the rub: this fantastic meal we had was lunch.

Sure, we ate from 1:00 to 4:30 PM. But it was lunch, nevertheless. And the evening was already booked for a larger family meal, beginning at 8:00. This was at another fine restaurant, hosted by Melissa’s uncle and aunt David and Graham. They have exquisite taste, so it was sure to be something remarkable. But we’d already eaten not only a staggering quantity of food, but also a staggering quantity of incredible food. We all spent the entire car ride back to the hotel moaning about how full we were, and how much we wished this dinner were another night. About how we couldn’t hope to eat anything. I said that I would only be eating a light salad and drinking water.

Is it any real surprise that this prediction turned out to be foolish? That we ate until stuffed--again? That we were floored by the quality of this food? I won’t give you the full blow-by-blow, because I doubt that there’s that much interest in the giant prawns served on pears with a vanilla bean sauce. Or the foie gras. Or the perfectly cooked baby duck. Or the dessert. Or four of the best wines I’ve ever had, flat out.

In the end, it was like we had about an eighteen course meal, with a three hour break in the middle, and two desserts, with endless wine. The richness never stopped, the quality incredible. We were sated.

The dinner was really just great. Just great. One of the top ten meals of my life, beyond question, and perhaps top five. Nevertheless, during dinner, I was speaking to Melissa’s aunt Faith, who said exaggeratively that “This is the best meal of my life.”

I retorted with “This is the second best meal I’ve had today.”

Kids Suck

You know, one of the most annoying things about being a parent is the children. The children are just really super-annoying. Sometimes I just want them to get the hell away from me, pronto. Actually, that’s what I want most of the time. “Get the hell away from me, kid!” That’s my motto.

I know what you’re thinking. How can he say that about his kids? Some of you have met my kids, and know that they are superior. So how can I say this?

Well, it’s because I’m not talking about my own kids. I’m talking about other people’s kids. For the most part, I want those kids to just go away and stay there. It’s one of the dirty little unmentionables of becoming a parent that you don’t suddenly love everybody’s children, unless maybe you did before you became a parent yourself. Fortunately, being a kid person isn’t a prerequisite for being a good parent at all--in fact, I’d say there’s almost no relationship whatsoever. Your kids are just different. It is definitely possible to love your children more than anything in the entire world while simultaneously wishing to see the four year old near you at the playground take a header off of that jungle gym he’s bouncing around on.

When you have children, you have to start doing kid stuff. Taking your sons or daughters to places where other people also take the sons and daughters. Like Fun Corner!

Fun Corner is an indoor kids’ playground at the mall nearest to us. These things are all over Dubai; it’s so hot here that outdoor play is inconceivable for four or five months out of the year. As such, the only remedy for parental insanity due to children going stir crazy is to find good indoor activities. And the market has responded. Fun Corner costs about 30 bucks for ten one-hour sessions. It’s just free play--there are air mats similar to the moonwalk, video games, sand to draw in, various plastic houses and kitchen for make-believe, and stuffed animals. And, best of all, there is this enormous maze of cushions and ropes and punching bags and slides and those rooms filled with balls. It’s really quite fun, frankly, and I’m 32 as opposed to 2.

I have already taken Mercedes to this place five times in the last week. We don’t have a car yet, so it’s a cheap taxi ride, and without a car and the outside off-limits, the things we can do are pretty limited. Today there were these German boys there, maybe nine and seven-years old. They were complete animals, jumping all over the place, running kids over, out of control. I also witnessed a four year old boy beating the stuffing out of his 2 year old brother while the nanny tried pathetically stop it, and I just tried to keep Mercedes away. Further, I had to deal with this five year old Australian boy who followed Mercedes and I around, saying things like “Excuse me--how old do you think I am?” and “Hey you! Watch this!” and “I can run faster than her!” in reference to Mercedes, who is 2. And “Blimey, but that’s a big crocodile!” and “Let’s drink some Foster’s!”

This is not fun. It is not funny, either. It’s simply annoying. Mercedes and Reeve, like every kid, need a lot of time with other kids so they don’t turn out to be maladjusted sociopaths. But I must confess that I like Fun Corner a lot more when we’re the only ones there. As soon as Mercedes heads towards some little boy there with his mother, I cringe, because now my interaction with this kid and his parent is inevitable. Am I supposed to pretend this monster is cute as he demonstrates his Lawrence Taylor impersonation on the nearest person? It is hard to resist the temptation to simply say, “I can only assume that you feel highly inadequate upon seeing my daughter. Please leave now.”

If you’re reading this right now, and you have a child, and you want to know what to do if you see me coming while you‘re out with him or her, I’ll tell you. Keep the hell away from me with that thing.

Sports Talk

For literally no reason that I can possibly describe, I woke up this morning thinking about great sports figures. I love sports, but it’s not usually what I think of first. Anyhow, here’s the question I found myself asking:

If I was to give an athlete of the decade in the major sports, to whom would I give the award?

Here’s how it breaks down, though I am a bit concerned that I‘ve forgotten proper dates for some of these guys. I also haven’t given this enough thought, and reserve the right to change my picks upon further review and great discussion that I hope this creates.

Baseball--’00s, Ty Cobb; 10s, Rogers Hornsby; 20s, Babe Ruth; 30s, Lou Gehrig; 40s, Ted Williams; 50s, Willie Mays; 60s, Sandy Koufax; 70s, Nolan Ryan (shaky pick, but I am a big Nolie fan, probably should be Pete Rose or even Reggie Jackson); 80s Rickey Henderson or George Brett; 90s Tony Gwynn or Greg Maddux or Mark McGwire

Basketball--’40s, George Mikan; 50s, Bob Cousy; 60s, Wilt Chamberlain; 70s Oscar Robertson (or is he more 60s? Jerry West?); 80s Bird or Magic (impossible to justify one over the other); 90s, Jordan.

Football--20s-40s, Red Grange; 50s, Jim Brown; 60s, Bart Starr; 70s Terry Bradshaw; 80s Joe Montana; 90s Jerry Rice.

Hockey--’00s-70s, Bobby Orr; 80s-90s, Wayne Gretzky

Soccer--20s-80s, Pele; 90s, Ricardo, Roberto, Risotto, Dissolvo, whatever.

Cycling--10-80s, Greg LeMond; 90s, Lance Armstrong

Boxing--30s, Joe Louis; 40s, Rocky Marciano; 50s Sugar Ray Robinson; 60s Muhammed Ali; 70s Roberto Duran; 80s Buster Douglas, 90s Butterbean

World’s Strongest Man--All Time: Magnus ver Magnusson

8^th Grade 4^th String Football: 80s, Jim Haefele

I know I have readers with opinions on this.

Birthday Tribute:  Scott Jorgensen

I missed a birthday last week, which I think Scott Jorgensen will forgive me for, since we have been in pretty major league transit. But in June I started my Birthday Tributes, and I want to do this one, belatedly.

Happy Birthday to Scott, who turned 57 last week.

Despite his advancing age, Scott is one of the younger adults that I know. For Scott, an endless pleasure found in monkeys, gizmos, dumb jokes, techno, and GTR demonstrate a prolonged adolescence of which many of us can only dream. It is, in fact, only Scott’s exquisite taste in beer and single-malt that makes you think he’s older than fifteen. That and the hair on face and body.

My history with Scott is, relative to many of my closest friends, brief. But it’s rich and layered and at times quite intense. There was sort of a friend-of-a-friend thing going on with us in Minnesota a few years back, and we hung out with Scott and then-wife Heather quite a bit. We invited them to our wedding, and Scott accepted. Then, for some reason, we casually mentioned that we were planning an overnight hike and camping trip in Zion National Park, where the wedding was held. Whether we actually invited Scott along, or whether he invited himself along is a fact lost to the ages. But the fact was that we had family and a few very, very close friends along for this hike, and Scott.

But it went swimmingly, as Scott made us all laugh with his impressions of porcupines and jokes at the expense of the guy who drove us to the trailhead. And we really hit it off, and from there, things got better. We spent more time together, hanging out pretty regularly, kicking it old school, which is the only way Scott knows how to kick it.

In 1999, our relationship took another rich turn when Scott, Melissa and I went on a month-long hike in the Himalayas in Nepal. It was a great trip, but intense, and it’s things like six-foot high piles of human excrement, veg egg cheese noodle for every goddamned meal and yeti fears that bring people together. It’s worth mentioning that Scott actually quit his job to go on the trip with us--they wouldn’t give him the vacation at his ad firm, and so he gave them the finger, and now he’s a badass freelance guy. Or freestylist, as I prefer. Thing work out.

Scott alleged he would visit every country we live in, though he missed Tunisia. I imagine he’ll be in Dubai, though, and I can’t wait.

Happy Birthday, my man.

The first step toward dealing with a problem is acknowledgement of the problem. So here goes.

(Deep breath)

I am addicted to having household help.

There, I said it.

Before we left for Tunisia in August 2002, I was struggling with the fact that we were planning on hiring household help. Just about all Americans overseas do this--the help is cheap, it shrinks hassles associated with living overseas, and, using the altruism argument, it gives employment to people who wouldn’t make as much--if they could find a job at all--on the local economy. Still, there’s a certain je ne sais quoi associated with having servants.

Well, actually, je sais quoi--servants are for rich snobs.

But I was willing to give it a go, because it could potentially make life easier, and I aspire to be a rich snob. So we hired a gardener and a nanny/housekeeper. The gardener, Habib, came twice a week, watered the grass, mowed, trimmed bushes, planted flowers, replanted where we wanted and what we wanted, cleaned the patio, and washed the car. He did roughly one billion times as much yard work as I would have done, and turned our rather pathetic large yard into an incredibly nice place to be, with lovely grass and flowers. This for about 125 bucks a month.

The nanny/housekeeper, Fatima, came five mornings a week and was available at basically all other times if needed to babysit. She allowed me the freedom to do stuff on my own during the mornings, the girls loved her, and I didn’t clean the bathroom for ten months.

I was leery of the privacy invasion at first, and I was uncomfortable with my newly found position as Lord Of The Manor. But not for long. It was too cool having someone there to do the dirty work, and to help out with childcare in a reliable way. Fatima’s presence in the house was always clear, though, and I was aware that my privacy was compromised. She had her own place about a mile away, thankfully. The afternoons remained family-only, which helped a lot.

Still, I had issues. There had to be limits set. Many friends in various places have had live in help--servants who actually share their home. Not in the spare bedroom or anything like that. Usually they lived in some sort of servant’s quarters, but they could share a kitchen or something. I swore I’d never stand for that.

Or…..maybe I would. Now we are here, and the market here dictates that servants are live-in. So we have Shanthi, who worked for the American family that was in the house for three years before we moved in, and who agreed to stay on and work for us based on that family‘s recommendation. She has her own (seemingly very small) quarters that connect to our kitchen. She has her own little stove, so while she has access to the kitchen, she doesn’t really use it as far as we can tell. She comes in at 8 AM and leaves by 1 PM, unless requested otherwise, and will be available for evenings for babysitting, which is something that all parents need.

And, as awful as it sounds, I basically forget that she’s living in a little room attached to our house most of the time. It’s like we’re renting a space to someone attached to our house, but she totally has her own life, and I don’t have any idea how much she comes and goes, or what’s in her room, or anything. And that’s basically as it should be, because she’s her own person. Still, since she lives with us, sort of, it feels incredibly aristocratic to be so distant.

So I’m obviously not totally adjusted to being Lord of the Manor, but I’m getting there fast. Particularly because Shanthi is about to head off for a month-long trip to spend time at home with her teenage daughter, who is in school in Sri Lanka. In any case, we’re absolutely happy to see Shanthi off to spend a month with her daughter.

But am I going to have to wash my own breakfast dishes and sweep the floors myself, for God’s sake? Fold my own clothes? Mop? Clean bathrooms? Dust? What is this, the United States?

Christ, I’m done for. May as well put on a smoking jacket, light a pipe, hire a full-time butler, and start taking advantage of the tax cut on my dividends.

A few thoughts on what’s going on here in Dubai.

--Yesterday evening we went to a new mall here--there are A LOT of malls in Dubai--that stands out because the façade is constructed to look like an Italian village. There are pillars and houses and all sorts of crap like that all over the outside. We walked in and it was hard to not feel like we were in Vegas, walking into a casino. Sadly, no poker room. Instead, we were greeted by the site of several Emirati men in white dish dash (the robes you see on Gulf Arabs) and women in black, faces covered, looking at what seemed to be a display of an American Indian teepee. I could have investigated , I suppose, but frankly, the explanation would only have diminished the thing. We celebrated by eating dinner at Chili’s.

--It’s still hot.

--There are a lot of American ripoff stores and restaurants here--the two most notable are “Safestway” grocery store, and “DFC”--that is, “Damascus Fried Chicken”. I’ll get pictures and post them at some point.

--The neighborhood we live in is odd. The houses, all behind walls, are generally huge, new and shiny. Everywhere outside the walls, however, is sand. It’s evocative of a less-wealthy neighborhood with vacant lots covered in scrub and dirt. Except that it’s sand. It reminds me that this place--and by “this place” I mean “Dubai”--didn’t exist in anything comparable to its present manifestation even as recently as fifteen or twenty years ago. This is the desert, baby.

--Yesterday evening we drove past the Burj-Al-Arab hotel.

It’s a big mother. The tallest hotel in the world, only a couple of hundred feet shorter than the Empire State Building, the Burj is on an artificial island 200 meters off of the coast into the Arabian Sea. I was stunned at its size--most tall building are surrounded by other tall buildings, but since this one is in the water all by itself, it just looks massive. Massively massive. Evidently, the World Trade Center in Dubai--no small building--could fit entirely in the atrium of the Burj. I’ve been reading a bit about the hotel, because it’s one of the fanciest of the fancy-pants in the world. Check this out:

*You arrive at the hotel in one of two ways--helicopter onto the heli-pad, or be chauffeured in a Rolls Royce.

*There are only suites.

*There’s a seafood restaurants that you get to by taking a submarine.

*The “Club Suite” for two adults, complete with bar and snooker table, is almost two grand a night during the high season. The “Royal Suite” is six grand.

We’ll go for a pricey meal at some point. Look for some personal takes on that.

--Confused, because the weekend is Thursday and Friday here. Melissa starts work tomorrow.

More later.

Here we are in Dubai. We arrived last night (that’s yesterday afternoon to most Hyperbole readers--Dubai, during the summer, is 8 hours ahead of EDT), getting to our new house at nearly midnight. Jet lag meant that we were all pretty awake, of course.

It’s a strange business, arriving in a house you’ve never seen and knowing that that’s your house for the next two years. Exciting and scary. I wasn’t worried that the house wouldn’t satisfy--we’d spoken to the previous tenants in some detail.

But I wasn’t ready. This place is insane. Part of a large section dominated, we think, by expatriates from the US and elsewhere, it’s a four-bed, four-bath townhouse with a monstrous kitchen and huge common areas. I am terrible at eyeballing these things, but my speculation is 4000 square feet. It dwarfs anything we’ve ever lived in. It’s actually sort of daunting, because things are so far apart. I’m typing this in the living room while the girls nap upstairs, and it seems like they are fifty miles away. It’s true that we can’t see the ocean like we could in Tunis, but you won’t catch me complaining.

We went to the grocery store this morning and were flattened by the availability of products. It’s all there. Dubai is without any indigenous industry, and so they import everything. And I mean everything. Things will be comfortable here.

Except for one thing--the heat.

It’s easy to look at the numbers--high humidity, temperatures above 120 degrees in July and August. Sounds bad, sure. But you have no idea. I didn’t. I’d experienced intense heat before, having spent a couple of Augusts in Phoenix, AZ. But it’s a dry heat, and that makes a difference, as I now understand.

When we left the airport, it seemed hot and humid, but somehow not really that bad. I’m not sure why. When we drove home, and then got out of the air conditioned van, however, these notions of “not really that bad” were eliminated. My glasses immediately fogged up, and I started sweating as I lifted Mercedes out of the car. It was 11:45 PM.

This morning, when Reeve got us up at 5:15, I went outside. The dawn heat just walloped me. The sun wasn’t even really up yet. But walking from these insulated, air conditioned areas into heat like this is like running the gauntlet. The moisture hangs in the air, waiting to envelop you completely, sealing the heat inside a wet blanket that you can’t shake. This is still before dawn.

We caught a cab at 9:15 AM. The sun was out completely, of course. It was at this time that I finally hit upon the word that I think best captures the heat--punishing.

We’ll spend the first few months inside about 98% of the time. Two percent of the time will be spent getting from air conditioned buildings to air conditioned cars and back.

All of this contributes to a really palpable sense of unreality about this place. I was speaking to the driver, a Jordanian, who was bringing us home from the airport. I asked him how he liked living here after three years, and he paused, commented that it was comfortable and easy in many respects, but that it was so artificial. “Natural” is a sham here, because “natural” Dubai is all sand and heat. Dubai really only became a city in the past twenty-five years. There is a history for many of the Emiratis, former Bedouins. But it’s not centered in a place where hotel stars go up to seven instead of only five, and where they construct palm tree-shaped islands in the middle of the sea so that they can build more luxurious resorts to lure tourists from everywhere. This is a construct. A nice one, but it’s not real. It’s like Phase One of the Matrix, where everything is gorgeous and nice, except for this glitch where the computers accidentally made it hotter than the depths of hell.

We’re going to like it here, I think, and I think it’s going to do good things for Hyperbole, because there’s going to be a lot to see and say. I’ll do periodic work on my impressions of the place as time goes by.

FYI--I’m connecting to the internet via a dial and surf per minute charge setup, so I won’t be on a ton, making email and Hyperbole a bit sporadic at first.. Hopefully things will settle into a routine soon, and I’ll have my high-speed connection by early next week.

Here is my half-assed, short-on-detail journal of our trip to Dubai. I’m writing this from our hotel in Frankfurt, Germany, where we’re spending the night. We’ll be here until 2 PM (German time) tomorrow (Wednesday) and then we arrive in Dubai at 10 PM (Dubai time).

We got here around noon after flying all night. Here’s how it went:

7:30 PM (Washington time, Monday night)--Check in at airport. No problem. As smooth as things can go with 2 kids and 500 pounds of luggage.

8:00--Get to gate. Our gate was next to The Smoking Lounge in Dulles airport’s international terminal. We sat right next to The Smoking Lounge. The Smoking Lounge at Dulles is a glass room, where smokers and non-smokers can stare each other down through a haze of smoke and dirty glass. Or….I assume that the smokers can see us non-smokers. I suppose it’s possible that, in fact, The Smoking Lounge is made entirely of one-way mirrors, so that the smokers stare at themselves, oblivious to the fact that they are an exhibit in some sort of Bad Habit Zoo.

It was fascinating watching the action inside The Smoking Lounge, I admit. Some people come in there so that they can wait for their flights, casually smoking while listening to music or reading or chatting. Others stop in, smoke a cigarette without sitting down, and then walk out--sometimes leaving their children outside, faces pressed against the glass, waiting while Daddy finishes his cigarette. Others smoke as many as they can, one after another. In the course of twenty minutes, I saw one woman smoke seven cigarettes. But the most hilarious smokers of all are the ones who come at a dead sprint, baggage in hand, knocking down the elderly and the disabled in order to get to The Smoking Lounge, puff one out at light speed, and then rush out to get to their gate before the doors shut. That’s dedication. In any case, The Smoking Lounge is a fine place for some fascinating sociology graduate work.

9:00--Board plane. United apparently has abandoned its standard policy of preboarding people with small children or who need extra assistance down the jet way. The explanation we received was that some of their customers “had some issues” with that preferential treatment.

Forgive a short rant: Fuck those people. What rational person would complain that people with toddlers or infants should not get to go first down the runway? What, does it violate the Equal Protection Clause? Go to hell. And United can kiss my ass, too, for caving to these sorts of assholes, who undoubtedly are the same jackasses who board the plane no matter whether their row has been called or not. It doesn’t even make sense from a loading perspective--people with kids and folks with wheelchairs or crutches or walkers slow things up, and if you get them out of the way the rest of the boarding won’t have to wait while someone like me spends fifteen minutes trying to get Mercedes to sit down while finding a spot for the carryons. What bullshit.

The flight went OK, not great--Mercedes only slept for two hours, which hasn’t helped the jetlag adjustment so far--with a nap for all of us upon arrival, four hours in the last 24 for a two year old ain’t cutting the mustard. But we’re hanging in there. Ironically, Reeve had her best night of sleep in weeks. Go figure. Melissa got about fifteen minutes and I got zero. Awesome! I watched a chunk of “Chicago,” but not enough to have an opinion. I also watched a lot of “Daredevil” with no headphones. Much better without sound. Still awful.

11:00 AM Tuesday, Frankfurt time. I was led to believe that the Frankfurt airport was really nice and shiny. Whatever. It’s fine and all, but nothing special. Blessedly, our hotel is connected to the airport. We slept for a couple of hours in the afternoon. Mercedes wanted more, but we have to try for some normalcy.

8:00 PM--Back from walking around Frankfurt for a while. It’s OK, nothing great, nothing bad. Well, we had a great Hefeweizen. And there was Nutella shop, where one can buy all things Nutella, so I got a Nutella Cappucino and Melissa had a Nutella Milkshake. I wonder if Nutella is happy about the Kobe Bryant business? Anyhoo, we also were forced to eat a sausage, largely because Germans seem to survive on a diet consisting largely of sausage and Nutella, and there was little else to be had.

I feel incredibly helpless in Germany, because the language is nearly as foreign to me as Arabic or Chinese or anything else. The only German I know is “blitzkrieg” and “schadenfreude”. I tried to work that into my interactions with people, even if the conversations were in English, which they all were. “Excuse me, can you tell me how to blitzkrieg downtown on the subway?” “Hello, where is the best place in Frankfurt for schadenfreude?”

Also, I sang “Danke Schoen” several times.

8:45 PM--bedtime.

Break…..

3:00 AM, Wednesday: Finally got back to sleep after three hours of wakefulness from Reeve, during which time Mercedes got up and we all raided the mini-bar and watched the news that them Hussein boys have finally gotten their comeuppance.

11 AM, Wednesday: Oops--meant to have breakfast, but we all slept until eleven and woke up in a panic because we want to be at the airport in 45 minutes.

2:30 AM, Thursday (Dubai time): I can’t sleep, it’s 2:35 AM in Dubai. Jet lag is great, great stuff.

Next entry: first impressions of Dubai.

You know how when you were a kid, and you got to stay up late to watch Johnny Carson (Maybe you were too young for Carson. Work with me.), and you were really excited about it (Again, work with me)? And then you found out that Carson wasn’t even hosting, that instead you were stuck with Richard Belzer or Robert Klein or some other schmuck, and you were totally bummed?

I’m Doug, and I’m your guest host tonight.

God, that was a roundabout way of saying that this isn‘t Jim. Let’s move on.

Jim and I are in the midst of putting on a parenting clinic here in DC. Our entire strategy today was to physically exhaust our children. We ran them hard. We ran them up ramps. We ran them up stairs. We deprived them of food and drink. We told them stories of our old debate glory days. Anything we could think of to induce slumber at night at a reasonable hour.

It worked for Mercedes, though in fairness to her we did also deprive her of a nap. For Linus, however, excessive measures were needed.

He’s been vocal about Batman lately. I don’t know how or what he knows about Batman, but Batman scores high on Linus’ Q ratings. So I figured, why not rent Batman tonight and let him watch it?

Folks, do any of you remember how truly awful that movie is? It’s ending right now; Linus keeps looking over at me with disgust. He’s not any more tired, and now he’s just pissed off that I made him watch this entirely crappy movie. I actually saw him roll his eyes at Jack Nicholson as the Joker. Kids these days.

Meanwhile, Jim and I sit and play Magic: The Gathering. I’ll leave it to Jim to tell you how much he dropped on Magic cards today, but let’s just say it would double Joe Lieberman’s campaign fund so far. Totally decadent.

Today he took us to Great Falls National Park, which is a part of the border between Maryland and Virginia on the Potomac. It’s pretty spectacular as rivers and falls go. It held Linus’ and Mercedes’ attention for perhaps two minutes. They were more interested in running and shaking trees. At one point after much running, I seriously began to question whether the “Make Them Tired” strategy was having more of an impact on the adults or the kids.

(Let me say it again: Batman sucks. I can’t believe anyone ever thought that movie was even passably decent. They made two more of these?)

The visit so far has been great. The kids get along, the adults reminisce, and the beer tastes fine. Tomorrow, we hit the zoo, and Linus and I are all amped to see some Pandas. Jim informed me that they sleep 23 hours a day, so we might have to stay at the zoo for awhile.

Enough of me. Here’s Jim…

First of all, I’m not going to tell you how much I dropped on Magic cards--it was clearly worth it, in any case, as we can literally spend the entire weekend doing nothing but playing Magic. I suppose we’ll have to feed the kids. And I guess I’ll need to change Mercedes’ diapers.

There was a time when, for Doug and I as well as our friends Brad and Ian and others, Magic was it. I mean it was IT. Free time? Nope, playing Magic. Social plans for the weekend? Play Magic. Extra money? Magic. No money? Gaming stores accept credit. What did you dream about last night? Magic. What is that magazine you’re reading? Oh, it’s about Magic. This lasted for about 18 months, give or take.

Keep in mind, please, that this was when we were all past the age of 25.

Magic was so addictive that I once had this conversation with my then-fiance-now-wife:

Melissa: I am really, really growing to hate this fucking game.

Me: Sorry.

Melissa: It’s all you do.

Me: Yeah, I know.

Melissa: You’d better teach me.

So I did, and Doug taught Jane, and we all got together and played. Melissa got so into the game that she proposed a monthly budget for Magic cards, and we gave each other Magic cards for Christmas. Still, she wasn’t as into it as I was, mostly because she’s not as competitive, I suppose. Or as geeky.

Then we all sort of burned out--in no small part, I imagine, because we were starting to regularly attend tournaments, where we had to get fired up to beat twelve-year olds at a game where we pretended like we were all powerful wizards. At some point, this seemed peculiar, I suppose.

However, we all retain our moderately large collections of cards, and although the addiction has worn off, the fun of the game--and it is, objectively speaking, an absolutely extraordinary game--persists. I taught some friends in Tunisia, and they were hog-wild for it. It’s just great, and will always remain great. One of the top five games of all time, which is a topic for later.

And, to bring things full circle, we’re having this great weekend with Doug and me and our oldest children, and it’s not too far off when Mercedes and I will utilize our Team Millstone decks to give Linus and Doug an old-fashioned beat down. That’s what parenting and friendship are all about.

Here comes Doug to hopefully talk about something else……

Twelve year-olds, my-ass. I lost to a six year-old at one of those tournaments. And he was talking shit to me the whole time.

We are only a few days from leaving. Our flight leaves on Monday night at 9:40--something like 7 hours to Frankfurt, and then a 30 hour layover there (intentional--we find it is easier to deal with kids if we break up long-ass flights) and then a 7 hour flight to Dubai, arriving the night of Wednesday the 23^rd.

When we last went through this, last August, we were headed to Tunis rather than Dubai. It was my first time living overseas, and I was pretty darned anxious about it. I didn’t know what to expect on any front, really. I was really reticent about leaving the U.S. behind, leaving family and friends. In July 2002, a couple of weeks before we left, we attended the wedding of two of my closest friends, Brad and Katy. I cried quite a bit at the end of the night, very cognizant that I was leaving people behind very soon. The alcohol ushered the emotions along, to be sure, but I was awfully blue about it.

I doubt there will be any tears this time. A big part of me is anxious to get to Dubai so we can have a life-settling routine. More than that, though, I’m sure now that I can live this overseas life. My friends aren’t going to abandon me. My family still loves me. I can still read the newspaper. Things work. Life goes on.

There will be some hassles; life overseas is by its nature more difficult, I think. Some things are easier, of course--we’ll have a housekeeper/nanny again, for one thing. But there’s always that sense of displacement, that this isn’t entirely home, even if it suffices pretty well. Even as familiarity becomes more pronounced, the comfort level never reaches the U.S.

That said, this is an exciting time. A new place to learn and enjoy. New house. New restaurants. New stores. New activities. A high-speed internet connection.

What else is there?