Summer Makes Me SAD ...

SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) is a common phenomenon in Northern New Brunswick (Canada) in the frigid winter months when the mercury drops down below 40C, when the sun rises after you've arrived at work and sets before you've returned home. 

You feel tired, lethargic, un-energetic, disinterested.  You can't sleep right.  You eat more, yet never feel satisfied.  Even if you lay in bed all night and on the couch all day, you never feel rested.  It's the cold, it's the lack of sun, it's being confined indoors, it's SAD.  Every Northerner is familiar with it ... rare is the Northerner who's not experienced it.  The winter days are frigid; -40C plus windchill makes for a difficult outdoor adventure, even for the heartiest of Canadians.  You stay indoors and you let the energy ebb from you.  You are SAD.

You tell yourself you wished you lived in a warm, sunny country where GLAD (Goofy, Loony Affective Disorder) is all anyone has ever known.  

You move to the Middle East, where every day is 12 hours long, all year long, and the one day of rain a year is celebrated.  You think that finally you've rid yourself of SAD.  You'll never be SAD again.  You'll be GLAD! 

And then you experience July and August in the Middle East.  Seven years straight.  And every August, you find yourself falling into this deep, dark pit of despair.  You find yourself exhausted.  It's hard to get out of bed.  You find yourself impatient.  You find yourself hungry, but you don't know what you want to eat.  You find yourself strange ... but you can't really find yourself at all.  You find you are SAD.

You tell yourself 40C isn't so bad.  It's the opposite of -40C.  It's got to be good.  No wind, no precipitation.  It's got to be good.   Yet you are SAD.

You look out your window and you see this: 

This is what 92% humidity looks like folks...

You try to convince yourself the droplets on the window pane are akin to fresh dew.    You try to convince yourself that water is a sign of freshness.  You try to convince yourself that the droplets invigorate you.  And then you realize you can't convince yourself.  This is 42C and 92% humidity.  You can't go outside.  Once again, you are SAD.

Strange, isn't it?  That you could be SAD in the Land of Sand?  

What people don't realize is that you get very little sun exposure in the ME.  In the winter months, a foggy haze of dust filters the sun and makes vitamin D absorbency close to impossible.  In the summer months, it's simply too hot to get outdoors.  And so you sit indoors, occasionally venturing to your car, stepping out to get into the mall, but that's about it.   And your body cries and aches and begs to be let out of its air-conditioned prison.

And you finally decide you've had enough of being SAD.  It's cool enough to try running again.  The extreme July temperatures have dropped.  You want, you NEED, to get outside again.   

You get up at 4:30 one morning in mid-August with Smilin' Vic.  You both suit up.  T-shirt, sweat pants, runners all at the ready.  You head out for a 3.5 km run.  It sucks.  You get back home, exhausted, drenched, impatient.  You check the temp, and you see this: 

Temp's not so bad ... but humidity's a killer ... 

And for a moment, you are incredibly proud.  You realize that you have pushed yourself hard; you have conquered the elements.  You've breathed in air.  Not 'fresh' air, but at least 'real' outdoor air.  Just for this morning, you won.  Humidity's a b!t$&, but you still feel great after your pitifully slow run.  You are a champion, and you are no longer SAD.

You take two vitamin D tablets, one vitamin B, two ginseng caplets, two Panadol (for the pained ol' bod), and swallow them all down with the watered-down juice of three limes.  And tell yourself you've still got it.  The spark of cellulite on your left thigh tells one story, but the ache in your right thigh tells another (or is that just the shortened piriformis muscle that has been pinching your sciatic nerve for the last four years?).

You step into a hot shower and tell yourself you'll do it all again tomorrow.  You feel so invigorated.  You slip on your smartest office trousers and you could swear they already feel looser, you already feel tighter, and all is right with the world. 

..... 

4:30 a.m. ....  the next day ....  You click on snooze.  The damned alarm keeps on ringing every three minutes.  You get up at 4:42.  Suit up.  Dare Smilin' Vic with your eyes to "say. one. single. word. at. this. f^$!N. God-forsaken. hour."  You check your watch.  It is literally "Zero past way too stupid to be up".

Go downstairs and have a coffee.  

Head out.  Do it all over again.  Once you're started running, it's really not so bad.  And the rest of the day is so much better once you've breathed in some funky Doha morning air.  You realize you want to do this every day.  It's hard, but it's good.

..... 

4:30 a.m. ... one day later ... You click on snooze.  It won't stop ringing.  Give up.  Get up. 

Go downstairs and have a coffee.  "Zero past dark stupid thirty."  

Go girl!

Start to notice it's getting easier.  Start to realize the hurdles you've overcome.  Start to see the humor in the effort that goes into running in Doha.  Decide to take pictures along the way... 

This is the sign we first see as we leave the compound, and it warms our heart.  This city WANTS us to enjoy our run.

Unfortunately, the lovely pedestrian protection sign is smack dab in the middle of the sidewalk.  Smilin' Vic cracked his head open on it.  

It's ok.  We're feeling invigorated.  A little blood never scared a soldier, right? 

We head a little further ... "Oh, look, Smilin' Vic, they've laid out a hurdle for us about 100 m into our run ... just enough to make us jump and get the blood pumping.  How awesome!" 

Smilin' Vic fumbles and trips.  It's not exhaustion.  We are barely 250 m into our run.  It's the sidewalk sinkhole.  "Ah, well, at least no broken bones or sprained ligaments this time around, eh?  All is well!"

"Oh, look!  A signboard that dares to hit us smack in the face if we don't notice it first.  How cool!  What a novel idea.  Now that's how marketing geniuses get our attention!"   (A little to the left and we get taken out by a madman at the wheel, a little to the right and we sprain our ankle on the rocky surface ... but head on and we HAVE to read the billboard ... BRILLIANT!

"Wow, they've stuck a lamp post smack dab in the middle of the sidewalk every 25 m.  Good for lighting, not so great for running..." 

 "Brilliant guy, He who thought of planting this random desert shrub right in my running path.  Yup, I've got a few choice words for him if we ever cross ways ..."  But seriously, one could say its splendor does make up for the shattered ankle bone and torn Achille's heel ...

At first I wasn't sure what this sign meant. 

But I soon realized I needed to tag it to get the "SUPER BOOST" needed to jump over this huge concrete block placed strategically on the sidewalk.  Wow, was I impressed when I realized I could go over or around this 2 km into our first run ...

And then over this bigger bush. 

And finally over this gap in sidewalk ... 

I can't help but think that "pedestrians are everyone's responsibility" kind of translates to "Every Pedestrian for Themselves!" in Doha ... 

Nonetheless, after four weeks of running (obstacle course), I'm not so SAD anymore ... I'm actually GLAD! 

Oh, and here was this morning's temp ...  

Humidity's going down.  What a relief!

A Few Pics of the ME from Me ...

I'm posting these pics of Doha after being inspired by two blogs I've recently discovered.

Both Dimwit and MB have captivated my reading senses, one spinning tales of insanity in Pittsburgh, the other relating a journey through Saudi and places travelled.  

While their experiences and writing styles may differ, what the two have in common is their ability to weave their pictures intrinsically into the tale being told.  

It's a skill I'm sadly lacking.  But I thought I'd post a few (extremely amateur) images of Qatar as seen through the lens of a "Doha insider" with "barely there" photography skills.   

And hopefully I'd pique my readers' (or should that be reader's - singular) interest in checking out these other two so very amazing blogs. 

Hope you'll enjoy!

Marina at sunset as seen from the Four Seasons Hotel in Doha. 

Traditional National dance performed by expat kids as part of International Day activities at school.

Girl Scout flag ceremony in Qatar.  2012 Camp Out on Sheik Faisal Museum grounds.

Inside the Qatar National Exhibition Center at night.

Abayas at night.

West Bay (downtown Doha - business/diplomatic core). 

Desert campsite and sand duning. 

Making sure no one runs out of water.  Bringing the water truck along for a camping trip is something we just don't think of doing in Canada ...

Doha Skyline at night as seen from the Museum of Islamic Arts.

Doha Dragonfly.

Some days the aircon just doesn't cut it ...

View of West Bay as seen from within.

As seen from another angle.  And a rare shot of clouds and blue in this desert sky.

Frequently Asked Questions About the ME ... Part 6

Disclaimer:  This post is likely rife with spelling errors and potential misinterpretations on my part as I try to convey my very limited grasp of Arabic.  For those of you who are far more well versed in the language than I, I beg your patience and assure you that improving my Arabic skills is back at the top of my 'to-do' lists.  

Q.  "So, how's your Arabic? "

A.   "Oh, my, do I really have to publicly admit that after almost 7 years in this country, my grasp of the local language is barely enough to get me a glass of water?"

Q.  "Is Arabic hard to learn?"

A.  "I would definitely say so.  Maybe it's just my age, or the lack of true social integration, but I'm finding this language extremely difficult to master.  I speak 3 languages fluently, and can be considered functional in a fourth, yet Arabic continues to elude me.  But if I really committed to it, I know I could learn enough to hold down a basic conversation.  I've seen a number of other expats do so, and I'm quite ashamed to say I haven't tried hard enough."

Anyone who knows me knows I'm all about to-do lists, goals and objectives.  I am "that girl" with the 5-year plan.  The one who plans out the family's weekly meals and writes out her grocery list accordingly.  I am "that girl" who came to Qatar with a very clear set of goals.  At the top of that list was learning Arabic. 

I am also "that girl" who does not hesitate to admit where she has failed (I do that a lot ... I'm pretty sure I've written about that before).  So give me a moment to hang my head in shame and mutter inaudibly "laa atakallam al-'arabiya" ("I don't speak Arabic").

While by no means an excuse, I quickly learned that you do not have to know Arabic to get by in Qatar.  English is widely spoken in shops, restaurants, and office environments.  Movies are shown in English, with Arabic subtitles.  News is broadcast in English on BBC and CNN.  Traffic signs and billboards are displayed in both English and Arabic.  Automated answering services ask you to press "1" for Arabic, "2" for English.  Because fraternization usually brings together diverse nationalities, conversation in public settings and social gatherings usually tends to veer towards English.

While I have tried over the years to perfect my very basic grasp of the language, the hodge-podge of Arabic dialects created by this country's melting pot of nationalities makes it difficult to settle on common phrases that will be universally understood.  I have found pronunciation to be the biggest challenge, and though I find I'm emulating my Michel Thomas Learn Arabic instructors without fault, I am often misunderstood or not understood at all when I actually try to fumble my way through an attempt at conversation.  

This is in large part due to the fact that Michel Thomas instructors refer to Egyptian Arabic, which calls upon a greater English influence, in contrast to the Arabic spoken in Qatar, which is largely influenced by Urdu given the large Pakistani, Nepali, Bangladeshi and Indian populations in this State.  The Urdu slant is totally foreign to me, and I struggle to recognize the sounds, let alone the words.  I do however find myself latching on to bits and pieces of Arabic conversation when the interlocutors are Syrian or Lebanese.  This is likely because of the French influence (or perhaps Arabic influence on French), meaning their conversation will be punctuated by words like "ascenseur" (French for lift), "toilette" (pronounced as per the French 'twalett') and "bantalon" (French for pants is 'pantalon').

******************** 

There are a few standard Arabic phrases that naturally make their way into English in this part of the world, and that will creep into every expat in the Gulf's vocabulary by force of habit (kind of like the Spanish "que sera, sera", or the French "je ne sais quoi" that intersperse North American English).

-"Insha'Allah" (God willing)

is at the top of every expat's list.  You will hear it every day, several dozen times a day.  In answer to a question, it can mean everything from "yes" to "maybe" to "I hope so" to "I don't know" to "I'm not really willing to commit to a firm answer ... it may never get done."  An example of its use in everyday conversation:

Me:  "Will my paperwork be processed today?" 

Clerk:  "Insha'Allah." 

Me:  "I really need it urgently.  Can you give me a time?" 

Clerk:  "Insha'Allah." 

Me:  "So I can pass by to pick it up at four?" 

Clerk:  "Insha'Allah." 

Me:  "I need these documents if I want to stay in this country." 

Clerk:  "Insha'Allah." 

Me:  "You understand I could face deportation if the processing is delayed?" 

Clerk:  "Insha'Allah." 

Me:  "??????" 

-"Mafi mushkila"  (No problem) 

is another common phrase.  It can be used in much the same way as Insha'Allah, and could easily replace the latter term in the conversation above.

-"Momken" (Possible) 

again, interchangeable with the clerk's responses above. 

-"As-Salaam Alaikum" (Peace be upon you) /

-"Wa-Alaikum Salaam" (And upon you be peace)

This is the standard greeting in the Middle East.  It is a formality that cannot be foregone, and I would argue that if an expat in this part of the world is to leave here mastering nothing else of Arabic, they should have this phrase down pat as a minimum.  In meetings and gatherings, the "Wa-Alaikum Salaam" response if often uttered in unison to the person entering the room who has initiated the greeting with "As-Salaam Alaikum".  I find the sing-song quality of it quite pleasant.  It's not that different than primary students chiming in to say "Good morning, Mrs. Smith" to the teacher who has just greeted them upon entering the classroom.

-"Marhaba" (Welcome/Hello)

Qatar actually has a quarterly publication called "Marhaba", a very useful guide about the country, the culture, do's and don'ts, where to eat, where to shop, what's going on around town, etc.  It is a great little guide that serves to welcome newly arrived expats and keep veteran expats informed on the country's going ons.  I walked around with a copy of that guide book in my handbag for months, and it really did help me feel welcome in this foreign land.  Thanks to that guide, "Marhaba" is a term that I will never forget.

-"Habibi" (Beloved/My Love)

I love this term of endearment.  I hear it all the time, but hesitate to use it for fear it would be misinterpreted as promiscuous or overly friendly.  Men commonly use it when addressing one another, and I think it is what influences so many of my Arabic colleagues with a propensity to refer to me as "My Dear".  (I may be wrong ...) 

******************** 

I've learned another few short phrases that have served me well over the last few years.  Here are the few that I'm comfortable saying out loud.  I'm not always immediately understood, but I try to put them to good use.

-"Ana Jaw'aana" (I'm hungry.) 

I committed this one to memory by associating it to a girl's name (Anna Joanna).  I try to use it sparingly, but I'm so pleased with my limited grasp of Arabic, and I'm often hungry, so it tends to slip out at least once a day. 

-"Momken Maya" (May I have some water?)

Always good to know this one when living and traveling in the desert. 

-"Shukran"

Thank you. 

-"Afwan"

You're welcome. 

-"Ismi"

I am/My name is.   (e.g. Ismi Gypsy)

-"Bukra"

Tomorrow

-"Shway shway"

Slowly

-"Yalla Yalla"

Quick, Quick (Hurry)

-"Sayyara"  

Car/taxi

-"Funduq"

Hotel

-"Laa"

No. 

-"Aiwa"

Yes. 

-"Helwa"

Lovely/Beautiful 

-"Souq"

Shop/Market

-"Kaif Halek?" 

How are you? 

-"Zain" 

Well/Fine

-"Ana Mabsouta"

I'm happy.

-"Mudir/Mudira"

Manager/Chief/Leader

********************* 

Then there are those terms that are very similar to English.  They're great words to start with, because you will likely be understood even if you say them in English.  And they're mostly food words, so you won't go hungry!

-"Bizza"

Pizza (the "p" is pronounced as a "b" in Arabic) 

-"Bebsi"

Pepsi

-"Macarona"

Pasta

-"Tomaten"

Tomatoes

-"Rice"

Roz

-"Sukkar"

Sugar

-"Albanq"

Bank

-"Salata"

Salad

-"Doctor" (pronounced Doctoor, with a trilled 'r')

Doctor

*********************** 

I know another handful of words and phrases that MIGHT help get me out of a bind, but nowhere near enough to hold down a conversation.  I blame myself and my hesitation to put myself out there with my poor accent for not having a better handle on Arabic.  Unfortunately, I've let my pride and my fear of being misunderstood limit my attempts at Arabic conversation.  Now that I'm at a new workplace, I've asked my Arabic colleagues to teach me one new word or phrase a day, and they've agreed.  I'm going to try to steal the remote from Smilin' Vic and Kiddo for at least an hour a week to watch a program in Arabic.  I'm going to get back to listening to my Michel Thomas cd's.  And hopefully one day in the future I'll be able to update this post with a little more pride in my achievements.

Flames Can Engulf, But They Cannot Extinguish

Last week I spoke to a Doha mom who lost all her material possessions in a house fire about two years ago.   

Tears welled up in her eyes and mine at the thought of losing those few belongings so precious to an expat that they've been packed and re-packed and carted halfway across the world, sometimes dozens of times. 

As one might correctly assume, the loss of photos was the worst.  Thankful as she might be that no one was harmed in the fire, she couldn't help but be devastated at those lost wedding photos, the first baby picture, the framed image of a long-gone grandparent, the stills of world travel that covered the walls, the videos of her kids' first words, first steps.

She knew she could have lost so much more.  She counted herself lucky that she and her family were far from the house when the flames took possession of all their worldly goods.  She knew it could have been so much worse, she knew.  But that didn't erase the void left behind by those mementos that had been preciously collected over the years.  

She was so grateful to family and friends who had joined together to amass a scattered collection of images for her.  Armed with her memories and this hodge-podge of photos, she was able to start rebuilding her family's private gallery in an effort to make her new house feel like a home.

But her pervading sense of loss was still palpable when she spoke to me that day.  A house fire is devastating to anyone, it is a cruel and merciless reminder of how quickly we can lose what we have earned, of how lucky we are to not have lost more, and of how powerless we are in the big scheme of things.

For an expat, it brings an added dimension:  that of being robbed of however slight a physical connection you may have to your past, to your home country, to your loved ones, to reality.   I'm not insinuating that it is harder for an expat than for anyone else; I'm simply recognizing that no matter how un-materialistic we may consider ourselves, many of us expats are intrinsically tied to our roots through those few belongings that we felt worthy to take along on our trek across the globe.

Sometimes it's nothing more than images on a computer.  It might be an old sweater.  Maybe some Christmas decorations, or baby's first shoes.  A locket of hair.  A wedding band.  Your child's first stick-man drawing.  Your diary.  An old rocking chair.   

Those few things that make your house your home, that make it unique, can be gone in the flash of an instant. 

When we moved to Doha a few years ago, we brought very few material possessions with us.  Pictures, Christmas decorations, favorite teddy bears.  A few years ago, we shipped over the few remaining things that had any value to us (a single crate of furniture that was costing more in storage in Canada over the years than the shipment fees). 

After speaking to this lady, I had a long thought about what things we have that actually make up our home.  The piano?  Nope.  The bar?  Nope*.  The l-shaped sofa set?  Nope.

The only piece of furniture in our home that I would be devastated to lose would be the hutch handcrafted by my father that now sits in our kitchen.  Initially constructed as a change table for Kiddo, we have long since lost the "table" piece, and the cabinet drawers that used to hold onesies now store cutlery.  LeCreuset pots and tins of Tim Horton's coffee (now refilled with some Arabic cardamom brew) today sit on the shelves formerly stocked with diapers, zinc ointment, baby powder and receiving blankets.  The latter are now only memories, but very vivid, poignant memories made sharper by the simple daily reminder that is that rather crude yet perfect piece of furniture.

The hutch my dad's hands made. 

Such perfection in crude carpentry. 

So much love and so many memories etched in that simple wood and glue. 

I can't look at that basic piece of furniture without thinking of my dad working lovingly on it in his garage, cutting, sanding, staining.  I can't help but imagine him working tirelessly throughout the day at something he loved so, at something that would feed his brain before his brain started feeding off him.  I can't help but see the strong steady hands that would not stop until the day was done.  I picture his best friend dropping by to check on him, make sure he was ok, and admire his handiwork.  I picture them having a beer in that garage and talking about the rain coming down in sheets; a welcome relief from the scorching heat of that summer.  I feel his pride and his sense of fulfillment at the end of each day, as he went to bed knowing that he was building something beautiful, knowing that he was creating a memory, knowing that he had accomplished what he had set out to do for the day.

Every time I look at that basic piece of furniture, I am whisked back to a time when he still so loved his hobby, to a time before Alzheimer's took it away.  I remember that summer when Kiddo was born, and how he drove 16 hours to deliver his handiwork to us himself.  I remember when he first held Kiddo, how he said she was the only baby he'd ever seen who was prettier than I was as a baby.  I remember how it was love at first sight for the two of them.  I remember how she fell solidly asleep in his big strong arms.

I know it's material, but I'm quite certain I'd be devastated by the loss of that hutch.   The hutch, our photos, our Christmas decorations, Kiddo's first handwritten card to me. I'd be devastated.

But, like the Doha mom, as long as the flames took nothing more than things, we would dust ourselves off, regroup and rebuild.  We would nourish ourselves with our memories and gradually find other odds and ends to make our house our home.  Every once in a while, we'd look back longingly, but we'd be ok.  

So many things that make a home, but only one that really matters:

LOVE

P.S.  On a lighter note, I've included a few pics of silly and not-so-silly mementos that make our house feel like home.

P.P.S.  After inserting all these pics, I realized that we spend way too much time at the bar*! 

A gift from a Keralite colleague.  Memories of a lovely young woman.  I doubt she ever imagined the elephant's head serving as a bottle opener holder, but there it sits behind our bar.  We think the elephant head is great!

Mauritius Man and Bobble Babe.  Perhaps our tackiest yet best conversation pieces ever.

The latter was a gift from a friend from Mumbai; you tap on her skirt and her hips, torso and head bobble.  If you've lived in the Middle East, the bobble head movement is somewhat of an enigma, and alway a good conversation starter.

Mauritius man was a gift from our Ukranian/Dutch friends.  He just has people wondering whether he is holding a rifle or a super huge doob.  The jury's still out on that one.

Mauritius Man and Bobble Babe also hang out behind the bar. 

More bar dwellers.

Mr. and Mrs. Q. also hang out at the bar.  They are incense burners, given to me as a going away gift when I resigned from my last job.  They're easily found in the local souq, but these ones are special as they were given to me by some simply amazing Qatari colleagues.  

This elephant derrière hails from Phuket, Thailand. 

It is my favorite quirky souvenir EVER. 

After some time at the bar, the sight of this bottom will be a sure sign you've arrived at your w/c destination. 

The wine glasses and a framed picture of the lake we lived on in Canada, given to us by some great friends (the wine glasses are one of very few wedding gifts we received - we didn't announce our wedding 'til all was said and done, and didn't want gifts, but it's still nice to have something tangible to remember the day by). 

The bottle opener below was given to us by some good British friends who have since left Qatar ... 

And then, of course, there's bar cat (she's not a 'thing', but I couldn't put up pictures of all our other tacky/cool bar stuff and not include her.  She definitely makes our house a home.  And she hangs out at the bar!

Frequently Asked Questions About the ME ... Part 5

The Riddle of Strider

 

All that is gold does not glitter,

Not all those who wander are lost;

The old that is strong does not wither,

Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

From the ashes a fire shall be woken,

A light from the shadows shall spring;

Renewed shall be blade that was broken,

The crownless again shall be king.

(J.R.R. Tolkien)

Ramadan is a time of reflection.  So even though I am a non-muslim, I felt compelled during this month to write a reflective piece on the Islamic State that has graciously accepted me as a resident for the past (almost) seven years.

Every once in a while, someone asks me what I think of Doha, what I think of Qatar.  It's never an easy question to answer.  

On the one hand, there are so many things that I love about this country.  Oddly enough, it's not about the amazing architecture, the endless and sumptuous culinary feasts or the incredible wealth that literally seeps from every grain of sand.  While these initially piqued our interest and brought us here, they're not what have kept us here for close to seven years.

No, at the top of the list is that it's probably one of the most child-friendly places in the world.  Our friends and family back home are always a little skeptical when we say that, particularly those who still refuse to believe we live in anything other than a bedouin tent and ride on anything other than a camel.  But ask any expat family who's lived here with young kids; they'll all say the same.

When we first moved here, I suffered numerous panic attacks as restaurant servers and shop keepers would reach out to touch Kiddo, to take her in their arms, even to whisk her away to parade around to their colleagues or patrons.  My skeptic's head was filled with visions of child nabbings back then;  I didn't realize that many of the people working in the service industry here had left little ones like her back home, that they wouldn't see them for two years or more.  I couldn't initially fathom that they just genuinely loved kids.

We would go jogging with her in the jogger stroller on the Corniche on weekends, and laborers would stop us to ask if they could get their picture taken with her.  Our North American mindset would raise flags immediately, until we'd realize that these men had nothing to fill their one day off a week but a game slightly reminiscent of hopscotch.  The sweet giggles of a child were likely a balm to their calloused bodies and minds.  They would gather 'round her, each making funny faces in an effort to get her to focus her bright baby blues on him.

The attention didn't stop there.  I remember walking through the shopping mall and having fully veiled Qatari ladies stop me so they could kiss the top of Kiddo's 14-month round head and give her a hard candy.  Qatari men would lay a hand on her head and utter a small blessing.  At airport customs, we would get whisked to the front of the arrivals line as soon as she got spotted.  The one time I lost sight of her in a grocery store I panicked, and then found her sitting contentedly at the produce weighing counter, munching on the contents of a fruit bowl given to her by the clerk who had seen her wandering alone.

Second on the list would be the surprising acts of kindness, generosity and compassion that we have experienced when we least expected it.  A few weeks ago, I was leaving the grocery store and a Qatari man stopped his truck to let me cross to my parking spot with my trolley.  My trolley got stuck on the curb, and I signaled him to drive on; it was the start of Ramadan, and I didn't want to be contributing to the impatience that sometimes comes during the initial days of fasting.  But the gentleman didn't move.  He put his truck in park, opened his door and got out, and came over to help me lift my trolley off the curb.  Such a small act of kindness, but for some reason it really stood out.

Smilin' Vic once had a minor accident on his bike, nothing major but enough to get him to pull over to the side of the road to recover his bearings and sort himself out.  A Qatari man who saw the incident pulled over and offered to assist.  A slightly embarrassed Smilin' Vic smiled, told him all was fine, and waved him off.  The gentleman drove off, only to return several minutes later with his young son, some water and a first aid kit in tow.   Such a small act of kindness, but never to be forgotten.

I worked with one particular Qatari lady who was fully veiled.  The only thing we would ever see of her in public were her eyes.  But she had the most amazing, expressive smiling eyes I have ever seen.  I will never forget those eyes, not even if I live to be a hundred.  Everyone was drawn to this woman with the smiling eyes.  You would walk up to her and her joy at seeing you was palpable, even though she wore a head to toe cloak of black.  You didn't need to see the smile.  You felt the smile.  You felt the compassion, you felt the humanity.  Such very small crinkles at the corner of each eye, yet they spoke of a lifetime of kindness.

Third on the list would be the rediscovery of the true meaning of some of our most commercial Christian holidays.  Every year spent here for Christmas and Easter, we have opened our home to near strangers less fortunate than us to partake in a traditional North American holiday meal, a prayer of thanks, and a laugh with us.  We've gotten to know some amazing people from the Philippines, from Ethiopia, from Sri Lanka, from Nepal.  While we miss our family so much, we've been so blessed to have these people come into our lives.  Kiddo always looks forward to the "after festivities", when we pack up containers of food and sweets and go visit compound security and maintenance staff.    

Fourth would be a deeper understanding of other faiths.  I am so grateful that we have had the chance to meet people of different cultures and religions who have been willing to share with us the meaning behind many of their practices, holidays and beliefs.  I really do feel like I've grown into a much more respectful and reflective human being by living here.

Fifth would be the understanding that at our core, we're not all that different after all.  The last company I worked for employed more than 80 nationalities.  While we might differ on work ethic, or procedure, or approach, there were always similarities (whether or not everyone would admit to them is another matter!).  But I have sat in a room and shared a laugh with Syrians, Egyptians, Columbians, Venezuelans, Americans, New Zealanders, Iranians, Qataris, Pakistanis, Philippinos, South Africans ...  I have commiserated with Scots, Australians, Indians, Nepalis, Malaysians, Sudanese, Spaniards ... I have shed tears with Ukranians, Brits, Dutch, Lebanese, Iraqis, Palestinians, Jordanians ... at some point in time, some or all of us have managed to find some point of commonality, some common bond.  The differences aren't so scary once you've gotten past the similarities!

So I guess that would be my long-winded partial answer to a question that I find so very hard to answer:  "What do you think about Qatar?"  

But the full answer is really hard to pin down.  What I'd really like to answer is closer to Tolkien's poem above.  And that's not really an answer.  More an impression, an interpretation:  

What would appear to impress us most in this land somehow leaves us rather indifferent.  What impresses us has nothing to do with glitter.  I am no more attached to Qatar for its architecture or its wealth than I am to Canada.  

My Canadian roots are strong, and I am an expat, not an immigrant, so I naturally find myself longing for my culture and my heritage. 

And one day, inevitably, I will return to the land that beckons.

We really are grateful for the opportunity to be here, and there are so many experiences to be had.  It's different for everyone I guess.  For us it's not the massive crystal chandeliers, the sky scrapers, the Versace boutiques, the Dammas jewelry shops or the multitude of Bentley's and Ferraris cruising the streets of Doha.  It's simply that we've built a life here for now, and collected the most amazing moments and friends and memories along the way.