The Middle East Part 2: Today was a Foxfields Fairytale

My masterful escapism landed my first in Dubai, the land of the nouveau riche. In hindsight, touching down in Dubai was probably my subconscious way to ease myself into Arab culture, and in reality, I can’t say I really experienced anything Arab. This constitutional monarchy, currently under the purview of Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum, is enamored of superlatives. And as such, Valerie, Christine, and I spent a few days making sure we saw everything, such as the world’s tallest building (The Burj, uniquely shaped like stacks of money) to the world’s largest mall (Mall Dubai, with more than 1,200 shops) and less spectacular triumphs, but superlatives nonetheless, like the world’s largest single piece of aquarium glass.

With 71% of the emirate’s total population being expatriates, this mixing bowl surprisingly had some unifying qualities; including a propensity for shopping and appreciation for the nothing in moderation.

Nothing summarizes this excess quite like the Dubai World Cup. With more than 50,000 racegoers in attendance, this elite horserace is the social event of the year. Wearing nothing but designer suits, custom made dresses and feather headdresses, it is essentially the red carpet event of the year, disguised behind the front of a horserace. Since Valerie and I were spontaneous spectators, we donned our nicest clothing; for me, a rough pair of khakis five sizes too large from my college years, which I am officially retiring, and a Lacoste polo shirt , the green crocodile being the only indication of my brand conscientiousness and the only visual keeping me branded above the strata of peasantry and serfdom.

I’ve concluded that there’s no translation for moderation in Arabic. Our cheap Apron tickets ($100USD) permitted access to the Bubble Lounge where we were able to purchase bottles of Dom Perignon ($100USD) and watched the masses crowd the bar much like a college freshman chases the Natural Light at a fraternity house but with a greater degree of finesse. The entertainment after the horse races concluded, and unfortunately after much of the crowd cleared out for the evening, was a Santana and Elton John concert. And the crowd sings along: I don’t have much money (liars) but boy if I did, I’d buy a big house where we both could live. And some Ferragamo shoes, and a new BMW.

The Middle East Part 1: Setting the Stage

Fore nearly two years I have tried hard to assimilate into real life, a true struggle at best. In this exploration, I have reached the early conclusion that my favorite part of the real world is the vacation. It provides you with the light at the end of the nine-to-five tunnel, and affords a month-long lead up of anticipation. And while I am a mere amateur, I like to believe that I have mastered the art of escapism.

So it is not surprising that for the past month, I have been working towards a two-week tour of the Middle East. Since college, I have had a deep personal conflict with the Middle East. I’m not sure why it selected me, but for whatever reason, it has a history of stealing some of my closest friends. Being more of a diplomat than a warmonger, I elected to forgo the armed conflict and err on the side of arbitration by paying the pan-continental region a visit.

Along with my Mer-friend Valerie, we established an aggressive itinerary with stops in Dubai, to visit Christine Devlin, a pseudo-resident working for a strategic consulting firm; Istanbul; and Jordan, to visit Bowman Dickson, who works at a Jordanian prep school. The trip seemed like one big scavenger hunt, having our Lonely Planet checklist of places to see and things to do. We had a whirlwind of a time, thankfully snapping enough picture to provide a smattering of JPEGs combating for honor of new Facebook picture.

Caveat: Most of the photo documentation is attributed to Valerie since I am photographically challenged. For my college graduation, I treated myself to a nice digital camera, a ten mega-pixel camera with great optical zoom and fun features. The first time I took a picture with it went like this. Zoom, snap, drop, whoops. It only took me one picture to break this investment. Talk about an expensive smile! In round two, I changed philosophies and opted for the cheapest digital camera I could find. As a consequence (that I’m attributing to my frugality and not my mishandling of the equipment) the lens doesn’t function properly; rather, it mimics the sound of a wind-up toy with each command to power the camera on or off. Suffice it to say, Valerie’s artistry and perspective will become my own memory of the Middle East as the passing of time will likely require these snapshots to (literally) paint the picture.

The escape was a phenomenal experience, and I now feel imbued with Middle Eastern culture (and cuisine!). Although, I will say, I feel remorseful for my pre-trip categorization and declaration of my excursion to the Middle East. I suppose my conceptualization of the Middle East was attributed to the Disney sensation, Aladdin, which, in hindsight, is rather offensive. I found myself wondering…is this where Aladdin took place? After two weeks, the verdict is still out. Each of the locations along our scavenger hunt were dramatically different (more detail to come), and to categorize them as one in the same is a travesty. The only thing that remained consistent throughout was my ability to find myself turned around in unfamiliar magic carpet lands (although I could only locate non-magical carpets, which were expensive!), and my ability to dream about work. Subconsciously dreaming about my reality while consciously attempting to escape it – how’s that for meta.

Sir, Some Vodka with that Oyster?

My coworkers and I recently attended the First Annual Beer and Oyster Festival in the Sunset Room of the National Harbor. I’m not sure how we found out about this First Annual event, but for a pretty penny, we were entitled to over 60 beers and wines, and over 24,000 oysters.

For any oyster connoisseur, this Festival is utopia. The event boasted over 10 different types of oysters shipped from around the world. I, however, prefer Oysters Rockerfeller, or other grilled varieties, not having the appreciation for raw, which limited my selection to about 1,000 of the 24,000. Thankfully, the additional sliders and shrimp were able to combat the effects of the beer.

Most of the day was rather enjoyable. While gusting outside, the view from the Sunset Room provided a view above the piers jutting out into the water, the sun still high in the blue sky, much to the Sunset Room’s chagrin. The interior layout was similar to a bazaar or marketplace, with vendors formed in a labyrinth guiding the attendees through samples of roasted pecans, beer, shrimp ceviche, beer, gelato, beer and so forth.

The affair became more impish, and I certainly became more whimsical with each additional tasting; until I took umbrage at the Oyster Shooters station. As previously mentioned, I do not run to the front of the line for raw oysters. So what could make a freshly shucked raw oyster with its juice any better? Clearly, vodka, hot sauce, and garlic. None of these variables sound independently enticing, so this power four combination reeked of temptation. I wanted nothing to do with this oyster shooter, but succumbing to employee/employer peer/superior pressure, I stepped to the plate. Needless to say, the look on my face told the entire workforce that my intuition was correct. The sun had officially set on my afternoon.

Hoos For Hoosiers

One of my best friends Chelsey Jones was turning a quarter of a century. In celebration, a collection of the East Coast’s finest decided to organize a surprise birthday visit to Bloomington, Indiana, where Chelsey is currently enrolled as a graduate student. Not wanting anyone to underestimate our collegiate pride (nor our pretention) we swiftly titled the trip Hoos for Hoosiers.

Each participant played an integral role in shaping the trip. Having the prescience to know that Chelsey would be emotionally moved by our surprise, I emailed her Hoosier cohort to put out the flash flood warning.

The Brains of the Operation: Me, I mean, I didn’t get the name Brain Garvon for nothing.

The Decoy: Everyone knows that in the execution of every great surprise, there exists a decoy. Our friend Hang stepped into this role and planned her trip with Chelsey to ensure that the weekend was wide open.

The Plan: Hang and Chelsey were planning on dining at Chelsey’s favorite Thai restaurant…Noodles and Company. Little did Chelsey know that dinner would transform Hang from a one-woman wolf pack into a full-fledged wolf pack.

The Surprise: I can’t be certain on this, but if tears are a good proxy for level of surprise, then Bloomington had a certifiable peppa twister.

After our fine cuisine at Noodles and Company, we spent the rest of the weekend doing what young professionals do best, wining and dining, yes, in that order. The two days were filled with memories, pictures, and one-liners that Mrs. Grundys would find objectionable.

I’ll be honest, I wasn’t sure what to expect of Bloomington, Indiana. I like to consider myself fairly well traveled, though officially, I’ve only been to twenty of the fifty states, mostly along the east and west coast, cutting out the greater part of real America. Well, I enjoyed my wayfaring; almost feeling a bit compunctious of my longstanding landlocked prejudice. Officially, this surprise weekend to Indiana University was my first visit to what I later found out the U.S. Census Bureau calls the East North Central division of the Midwest region. Seriously? With three of four cardinal directions and two directionally neutral word segments, it’s a relief we found the right state. Hoosier Daddy?

Be Mine

Saint Valentine; he is among the elite in American history. He is among the Final Four of demigods (along with Martin Luther King, Saint Patrick, and Columbus) to have a national holiday in his name. I’d even go as far as saying his idyll celebration of love among intimate companions has been pretty instrumental in shaping American foreign policy over the past few decades. I would also conjecture that he was a relatively homely man, since more people associate his day with a naked baby with a crossbow than with himself. But that is beside the point.

Now, for all the love Valentine exhumes, the holiday has an ironically polarizing effect, drawing people into a game of tug-of-war, with those on Team Hate sporting macabre clothing in an attempt to draw Team Love off of cloud nine. On the scale from one to love, I usually fall somewhere around indifference. Historically speaking, I am more often than not (alright, always) single on Valentine’s Day. This doesn’t bother me because my independent spirit can’t be restrained by the shackles of a relationship (or so I rationalize). And the optimist in me see’s Valentine’s Day as an annual self-evaluation. What went wrong this past year? What improvements can be made for the upcoming year? (For example, I’ve come to terms with my flawed logic when I hypothesized that braces would up my game).

Well, this year, I decided to throw a little oregano in my Ragu. I received an email advertising for a Vanetine’s one time cooking class in Sunny’s Kitchen. For $55, the class offered to impress your someone special with the following 3-course menu: Caprese (tomato basil with fresh mozzarella) salad, wild mushroom risotto, roasted balsamic asparagus, Thai marinated flank steak, and chocolate covered strawberries. Class will also include tips for setting the mood to make Valentine’s Day 2010 unforgettable! My friend Molly and I signed up, figuring that we would at least get a decent meal out of the experience.

Well, one week prior to Sunny’s cooking class, I receive a call from an unknown number. Whenever I receive a call on my cell phone from an unknown number my heart sinks slightly. My mind immediately wanders, wondering if I incorrectly filed my taxes the previous spring, or, with frequency that even surprises me, I think maybe it’s someone calling to tell me it’s the Truman Show (which would really bring some of the pieces of my puzzle together). Hello? It’s Sunny from “In Sunny’s Kitchen”…[sign of relief]…informing me that we are one individual shy of being able to host the Valentine cooking class. How many is one short? Three. In order to host the cooking class a total of four individuals needed to sign up for the class. Molly and I aside, only one other individual in the entire Washington Metropolitan area found this cornucopia of food intriguing? Where is the love? Apparently not in DC (another point I use to rationalize my single status). Sunny said he would call me in a few days to give me the final verdict.

If the omens hold any truth, it looks like another year of celibacy. A few days later, Sunny called me back. With the Snowmageddon that pummeled the region, Sunny was able to save face. This culinary class was cancelled due to inclement weather, not lack of interest. Looks like not even Sunny could keep the sun out this Valentine’s Day.

Snowmageddon

Having grown up in the Washington DC area, I’ve always had a fond appreciation for snowfall. At an early age, I learned the direct relationship between inches of snow and number of days off from school. But just like a good mathematician, learning the intricacies of differential equations comes with experience and time. As a young professional I am just now learning the impact of an impending blizzard on worker productivity. Empirical evidence indicates that nearly 100% of commerce and roughly 50% of worker productivity is spent in anticipation of the snowstorm.

Of course, the threat of even the slightest flake-falling or flurrying frightens frantic families from facing the fear of famine (V : Vendetta :: F : Frozen vapor) and likely accounts for a 30% surge in daily grocery store revenues, with more extreme surges for staples such as milk, bread, hot chocolate, Aunt Jemima, and Yellow Tail Shiraz. But when the National Weather Service issues a blizzard warning and snowfall predictions are approaching record flakage, a state of emergency is preemptively declared for the inevitable Snowmageddon.

As a consultant, I have the uncharacteristic joy of having two email accounts; one account with my firm and one with my client. Usually the dual account system provides me with a method for keeping my colleagues on their toes; a game of anticipation (to which account will I email? Or receive an email with one and reply with the other). But I have never been more entertained with having two accounts than the day leading up to the historic DC snowpocalypse. Two accounts = double the snowy emails.

I’ve captured the 10 emails I received the day before the snowfall to demonstrate the workforce’s alow and aloft commitment to local weather:

10:19am – Client sends National Weather’s Winter Storm Warning

2:16pm – Client sends Inclement Weather Policy and Guidance

2:26pm – Boss 1 sends Tailored Storm Caution

2:43pm – Client sends Safety Tips for Blizzard

2:56pm – Client sends Updated Inclement Weather Policy and Guidance

3:02pm – Business Assurance Office distributes Updated Winter Storm Warning

3:21pm – Boss 2 emails Tailored Storm Caution

4:15pm – Facilities sends Snow Related Towing Enforcement Notice

4:32pm - Client again sends Updated Inclement Weather Policy and Guidance

5:35pm – Client distributes Gospel; Announces 4-Hour Early Dismissal for Federal Government

I won’t even bother documenting the number of emails I received the day of the storm… (Government at its best: I received three emails alone documenting the hours and offerings of the client’s first floor eatery). The emails were falling so fast the authors didn’t even have time to plow the e-streets before blasting out to the entire office. The ensuing snow forced one victim into sending the revised schedule for the Handicap Stutter Bus…only to then get a follow up email within the hour correcting this to read the Handicap Shuttle Bus.

And to think I made a big deal about the calm before the storm. SnOMG!

David and Goliaths

Again riding the coattails of my roommate, Kyle, I was invited to sit court-side for the melee between two of the worst teams in the NBA; the home-team Washington Wizards taking on the Sacramento Kings. Normally, attending a Washington Wizards game is about as exciting as discovering a penny, the Lincoln Memorial dully shimmering back at you amid a rainbow of motor oil. Combining the abysmal records of the Wizards and Kings with the fact that Gilbert Arenas, the Wizards point guard, was recently suspended for being literally caught with the smoking gun sans smoking, the only redeeming quality was the ability to sit courtside.

For the greater part of the first half, we sat in some of the best seats at the Verizon Center. My perspective as a spectator has always been angled downward toward the action; never before have I been level (or rather below level) finding myself looking up at the athletes…and forget looking at the Jumbotron unless you preemptively took aspirin in anticipation of the oncoming neck strain. Sitting courtside made me appreciate the talent of NBA stars – not everyone can live their life as a giant. While the talent is enough to land them multimillion dollar contracts, watching these leviathans interact with a seemingly doll-sized world made me unremorseful for having neglected to drink my glass of milk with dinner every evening as a child.

Having apparently not gotten exposure to the titans in the Verizon Center, we went to the Wizards Club Lounge during half-time. While sitting at our table nursing Bud Lights and snacking on Nature’s Promise Vegetable Chips, our friend Remy spotted Gheorghe Muresan from across the room. Standing at 7’7”, Remy recognized him from his role in the hit movie My Giant. Not being able to find an escape from the Goliaths, I turned to what I do best in moments of insecurity – rodomontading.

I spent the greater part of the second half expressing to those around me that I would have, in fact, been a professional basketball player had all the stars (and genes) aligned. In a matter of minutes my theory was foiled by Earl Boykins. Standing at an inspiring 5’5” and posting 13 points to secure a Wizards victory, I realized I had to revise my supposition. I’m now using the excuse that I have philosophical differences with the NBA; I am simply a staunch supporter of the 2^nd Amendment.