Sylvia's Journal

The money we saved on taking the red eye to Kabul we spent on an extravagant last night out, before the midnight taxi took us to the airport.

We had cocktails on the roof of the Mirage (One & Only) hotel looking out over the manmade palm island before indulging in buffet that left me gasping for air. An Arabic version of Enya provided atmosphere at the roof while a Spanish guitarist accompanied our dinner on the ground.

The stitches are out, as is the verdict as to whether this medical trip accomplished its intended results for me. For Axel the inability to have a gallbladder infection from now on made the trip worthwhile even if my symptoms are still there.

We never got to see the flamingos; instead we returned, by way of an art supply store, to the hotel. Art supply and electronics stores are for Axel what fabric stores are for me. The only difference is that fabric stores are photogenic, and so Axel is happily occupied taking pictures, while art supply and electronics stores are simply boring to me. I try not to show it but Axel gets it and my bored presence depresses his enjoyment.

Axel uploaded mega gigabytes to what he calls ‘the cloud in the sky’ – this had to be done while still on a fast internet connection. Such things are more difficult back in Kabul. He also downloaded all sorts of movies so we are all set for the many long winter nights coming up. I took a nap while all this was happening.

And then we closed our suitcases and checked out of the world of luxury to return to our trench in Kabul.

We are firmly into a holiday schedule of ‘late to bed’ and ‘late up.’ The day after tomorrow this will have to change back to early to bed and early rising. I can see why people like retirement – no need to be anywhere early.

Our medical tourism trip also turned out to be a gastronomy trip. We have hundreds of pictures to prove it, including this morning’s Arabic brunch with three kinds of goat cheese, olives, olive oil and a herb mixture with cumin, coriander, anise, sesame seeds, and black pepper, to roll the cheese in.

We checked out the beach across from the brunch place but found it too crowded for the steep entry fee and then made our way down to the faux-Venice area called Jumeira Madinat, where the small ferry boats called ‘abras’ replace the gondolas.

We discovered there was a theatre and bought tickets for the day’s show (When Harry met Sally). I thought it would be a Dubai adaptation but it was the real thing, pictures of New York as backdrop. If you’d seen the audience you wouldn’t have guessed you were deep in the Arab world. It could have been New York or London.

Sitting with his back to the faux canal and the color-changing Burj al Arab, Axel finally had his medium rare steak with a glass of Shiraz before we go back to mutton and pomegranate juice. It was one more thing we could scratch of his Dubai wish list before heading back home. There are a few more things left and all of them have to happen tomorrow: one more PT session for Axel, my wrist and knee stitches out, a visit to the nature reserve where the flamingoes are, and maybe one more Indian lunch (or dinner).

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We were able to talk to a real life person at Safi, finally, and changed our return ticket. Now we don’t have to rush the taking out of stitches on Saturday morning. Axel is also able to squeeze in one more PT session that way. We are taking the next flight to Kabul which departs a few hours after midnight on Sunday, to resume our lives in this other universe.

We returned to the textile district to find the Capital Gen. Trading store open. The place is all ribbons and threads and buttons and bows, revealing the secret of how the bejeweled and fancy Indian clothes are made. It made me wish for an atelier with a thousand little boxes, drawers and spools to fill with the notions that were stacked up in the shop. I tried to anticipate what I might possible need when back in Kabul and fashioning clothes out of the fabrics I am bringing back.

The artist in Axel reveled in the colors, textures and patterns of the ribbons for sale. While I was selecting buttons and bands he clicked away. I think this will become a new card series.

We had a lovely vegetarian thali lunch in a restaurant where multiple stainless steel dishes and goblets were already arranged on the tables, waiting for customers so that the filling could begin. An army of wait staff attended to us, constantly filling the dishes with more dhal, curried potatoes, yoghurt curry, cauliflower, sweet carrots, puris, naan, chapattis, green sauce, red sauce, slices of something made of pulses, deep fried balls of something else, and refilling our lhassi goblets.

We looked left and right at other eaters to learn that we had to say ‘no’ when waiters ladled more stuff in the half empty dishes. We finally got the hang of saying ‘no’ more assertively but by then the damage was done. Stuffed and sleepy we left the premises in search of a strong cup of coffee to revive us.

We explored the adjacent restored Bastakiya section of town, named after Basta in Iran from which its original inhabitants hailed. It is now a beautiful but somewhat lifeless reproduction of its earlier self that, nevertheless, contained some unexpected treasures. One of them was a gallery annex hotel with a series of moving exhibits about lost homes, homelessness (from Iran) and the juxtaposition of piercing eyes with mouths that cannot speak. It was a contemplative place, the quietness only interrupted by the polyphonous call to prayer finding us defenseless in the shaded courtyard.

For dinner we joined a cast of thousands enjoying dinner, shisha, coffee and tea by the side of the Creek on the Shindagha heritage site. It’s a different pace of life where children don’t have to go to bed at 7 PM; on the contrary, many happily participated in an open air kids show when we got there at 9:30 PM

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We discovered a wonderful French café, the French Connection, right behind our building. We spent a long quiet morning there in spite of Bat Man showing on the large TV screen. With free wireless internet Axel was able to take care of some business while I made it about halfway through the Elephanta Suite by Paul Theroux, thinking it was an India travelogue, which it isn’t, but a nice read anyways.

In the afternoon Chuck’s brother and wife picked us up for a spin around town. We alighted at a southern California sort of café (Australian really) that served fantasy cakes and shakes. Sitting only a few hundred meters away from the (out of sight) beach, we enjoyed the perfect summer weather looking out over the road that runs along the entire Dubai coastal section called Jumeira. You can be in Jumeira and still be miles away from being in Jumeira as everything along the beach is called that way.

From SoCal we went to the heart of the Indian textile quarter in Bur Dubai when the siesta was over and all the shops that were not on Eid holiday opened. Life starts to pick up around 5 PM as evidenced by the increasiing number of SUVs parked in the city nearby parking lots.

I thought I had seen the fabric-of-all-fabric stores but found a gazillion more. Axel had a field day with his camera, capturing the dazzling colors, while I indulged into buying two lengths of raw silk, and fantasized about dresses and jackets. We hunted for a notion store to find buttons and ribbons but, just as in Kabul, such stores are hard to find, and those we did find were closed for the holidays.

We met up with newfound friends for a lovely Thai seafood meal. We discussed so many serious topics (about art education, the higher education politics of Afghanistan (is there such a thing?), gender issues and what money does to motivation to educate oneself), that I was exhausted after the meal.

We still haven’t heard from Safi Airlines whether we are leaving on Saturday or Sunday but the end of our stay is coming into view, and so is winter. This is hard to imagine as the climate here is as close to perfection as a climate can be.

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Another one of Axel’s fantasies came true today. We celebrated the first day of Eid with the rest of Dubai at the far edge of the Jumeira’s beaches sitting under a palm tree with our books, near a restaurant that served a cold beer with lunch. We had bought ourselves a day pass at the Sheraton Beach resort. Our entrance fee entitled us to all the facilities plus two slatted wooden chaises with a mattress and a large beach towel. We also got the use of a hurricane-grade umbrella that needed to be wheeled in place with a cart.

We decided, maybe for the last time, to take the metro to this paradise. It required lots of walking and took one and a half hour from our apartment to the beach. Public transportation is so inconvenient that it barely competes with the ubiquitous and reasonably priced taxis.

After sunset we walked along ‘The Walk’ which is right up there with ‘The Address,’ ‘The Place,’ and other generic nouns that serve as labels for places that are anything but generic. First we strolled, with numerous Eid revelers, against the traffic jam that consisted of white and silver SUVs filled with turbaned men in their heavily starched dishdashas or women in their gauzy, bejeweled and sometimes titillating black cloaks.

We sat down at the Marina’s waterfront for a mediocre meal in one of Dubai’s many restaurant chains doing more people watching; families that had surfaced from their lamb feasts and walked, ever so slowly, along the promenade – much like the post-Thanksgiving lethargy – except in the US everyone slides in front of the TV. Here the preferred response to such fullness appeared to be smoking the shisha, having fresh fruit juice, coffee or desert.

We joined in the fun, skipping the shisha – there was enough second hand smoke to go around for everyone – with some Yemeni coffee and a concoction made from dates and a little bit of flour that was much better than its Anglosaxon cousin the fruit cake.

And now we are back home watching music videos that feature Indians dressed as Americans in 70s garb, including hairdos and glass styles, singing and teasing each other in rooms that have a matching décor. The only thing that is not in harmony with everything else is the high-pitched screeching of the female singers. It is all part of preparing Axel for our visit to India over Christmas. He’s a little wary about his first visit to the subcontinent, fearful of the intensity of the place which you can experience here in the textile quarter.

And so we will spend our last few days here sticking our toes in the Indian waters so to speak. We are lodged in the middle of where most of Dubai’s Indian population seems to have settled. We will try out a few Indian eating establishments that cater to the locals for little money and then see if Axel still wants to go there next month.