A Day in Doha Fitness

I know and work with a lot of very fit people.  Even in Qatar, the land made famous for its Doha Dozen, loads of people are bound and determined to make fitness a priority and a lifestyle.  

Every single last one of them has admitted at some point that there are days that are harder than others to commit to their health.  Every one has had days where they struggle to keep the motivation going.  They all say a tough day here and there is normal.  

Unfortunately for me, it seems like every moment of every day is a push and pull of emotions when it comes to fitness.  Each day brings with it a continuous flow of bipolarity that has me simultaneously loving and hating my newfound commitment to fitness and health.  I've included below for your reading entertainment a typical day in my Doha Fitness Journal, with its glorious multitude of manic and depressive epiphanies ... Enjoy!

View fullsize

Courtesy of memecrunch.com

______________________________________________

4:00 a.m.  the Bell Tower tone chimes on my i-phone ... I coax one eyelid open.

''This is just wrong.  It's not even the crack of the crack of dawn.''

I swipe the 9-minute snooze option.  At minute 8, I fall back into the deepest sleep of the night.  

Ding, dong, ding, dong, ding dong, ding, dong ... Drat that alarm.

Pull myself begrudgingly to a sitting position as Smilin' Vic grunts and pushes off the covers ''I'm awake, yup, yup, ...''.

A muffled call to prayer sounds through the closed bedroom window, making itself heard over the droning of the a/c.  

Smilin' Vic and I narrowly avoid colliding as we stumble past each other at the foot of the bed.  Fumble through my drawers in the darkness.  '

'Why the heck didn't I lay out my sweats and runners last night like I'd promised myself?''

Strap on 1kg wrist weights and program the Runmeter app to 'Al Waab 6.2 km route'.  Guzzle down 16 oz of water and fill up my CamelBak.  Mentally motivate myself for the walk ahead.

''Yes!  I'm awesome.  4:20 a.m. and ready to roll.  Come on big wide fitness world, let's start the daily Doha fitness journey!''

Step out the door.  Instantaneously drenched in a bath of humidity.  My glasses steam up.  My toenails start to sweat.  

''This sucks.''

Smilin' Vic's in fine form this particular morning:  ''Wanna run this morning, Babe?''

I try to muster a smile ... something in my sleep-deprived eyes scares him.  

'Or we could just walk at a brisk pace?''

0.2 km in.  Droplets of sweat cling to my eyelashes.  

''I must be mad.''

We achieve a decent pace, my short little legs struggling to keep pace with Smilin' Vic's long ones.  I finally find my groove.  Endorphins rapidly kick in.  A huge wave of positivity follows.

''I am sooooo amazing!  If you don't work for it, don't bother wishing for it, Gypsy.  No pain, no gain.  I'm a fitness queen!''

Lost in my newfound awesomeness, I narrowly avoid the sinkhole that has appeared overnight  on the sidewalk just outside our compound.  Twist my foot on a rock as I sidestep the diversion and hear the ''whoosh'' of a mini-van race by us at 100km an hour down the city street.

''Seriously?  Why do I put myself through this?  It's like Death Race 2000.''

3 km into our walk.  The proper English voice on the Runmeter app mechanically informs us that we're 36 seconds ahead of best pace.  Exercise euphoria is back.

''Wooohooooooo!  I rock.  Bring it on!''

750 m from home.  A speeding car lays on the horn as he approaches from behind, likely for the simple thrill of watching us jump out of our runners.  

A stupid fly has been continuously taking nose-dives at my head for the last kilometre.  I try to swipe the quarter-inch nuisance away, hands batting futilely at thin air, waving madly around my head as the buzzing reverberates in the sweat in my ears.  I swat without success; the annoyance drones on ceaselessly.

''Arghhhhhhh!  I hate this.''

Make it back home; somehow we've managed to fall back on our pace; 16 seconds behind median.  That's ok.  I blame it on the annoying fly.  

Check my watch.  It's 5:25 a.m. and we've clocked 6km, burned 300 cal and lost 2kg of sweat.

''Yes!  I'm invincible!''

I savour the chill of the a/c.  Throw beets, carrots, oranges, lime into the juicer.  Fill up on water. Smilin' Vic gets the coffee going.  I head up for a shower.  Great start to the day.

''No taking the lift for me today.  Only stairs.  I am fitness personified!''

Try to ease my way into Doha traffic.  Get locked into a 45-minute jam, no one coming, no one going, no one moving.  Arrive at work 5 minutes late.  End up parking on the 7th storey of the parking garage.

''I could clock a lot of steps if I took the stairs.  But the ride up made me slightly dizzy.  It might not be safe to take the stairs with vertigo.''  

''Stop making excuses!  Ok, I'll take the stairs.''  

''Wait, no time; I'm already late.  I'll take the lift down; I can walk up on the way out tonight.''

''I suck.  Excuses, excuses.  I really need to smarten up.  I'll take the stairs to our 9:00 a.m. meeting.''

I stand firm on my promise to myself.  I take the three flights of steps down to the meeting room.  

''I am invincible!''

My newfound smugness at all things physical prompts me to bully my co-worker into taking the three flights back up with me.  She chats effortlessly as we make our way back up to the office. I break into a sweat one flight up.  

Two flights to go.

''Why does she have to ask so many questions.  Can't she just shut up?  I can't catch my breath.  Much less hold down a conversation.''

''Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah ... And you?'' She asks. 

I grab onto the handrail, pause, sputter ''yeah, sure.''  No clue what she was asking.

One flight left.  My mind's gone blank.  Breathing is simply no longer an option.  Just reach my destination and work it out from there.  I can worry about oxygen supply once the uphill climb is over.

''This sucks.''

Make it back to the office without completely depleting my stocks of O2.  Brain function is still relatively intact.  I ease my burning thighs down into my office chair.  I made it!

''I rock!''

Workday over, I head back to the parking garage.  Can I keep my promise?  Those 7 flights of stairs would, after all, do wonders for my FitBit stats.  And I did manage 3 flights earlier today.  And there's no obligation to hold down a conversation this time around.  My mind's made up.  As I open the door leading to the stairwell, I can't help but cast a slightly smug glance at the hordes waiting in the lift lobby.  

''I rock!''

Two flights up. 

''If I took the elevator now, it would still be better than having taken it all the way up.''

''No, you're committed.  If you don't work for it, don't bother wishing for it.''

Four flights up.

''Well this was stupid.''

''No use quitting now, you're past halfway.''

Six flights up.

''Interesting how my toes have gone completely numb.  If that numbness could work itself all the way up my legs to my lungs, I could probably manage 20 flights.''

Seven flights.  Final destination!

''Yes!  I am queen of the fitness world!''

Get into my car.  Take 5 minutes to catch my breath.  Tap on my FitBit bracelet.  

''Two crappy blinking lights?  Seriously?  Those stairs alone had to be enough to earn me 5 blinking lights.  This sucks!''

Wind my way down the parking lot ramps.  Ease my way into Doha traffic.  Listen to my Michel Thomas Arabic CD as I make my way slowly back home.

Arrive home at 5:30 p.m.  Get a text from the chatty stair-climbing insanely fit co-worker reminding me that I've signed up with my office peeps for a motivational Boot Camp at 6:30 tonight.  

''OMG, is this what I agreed to on my oxygen-deprived trek up the stairs?  Surely they can excuse me for being mentally impaired at the time?  What the heck was I thinking?????''

''No, Gypsy, no excuses.  You can do this.  It's a case of mind over matter.  Go girl!''

Quickly check on Kiddo's homework.  Change into my sweats and runners.  Grab my workout bag.  Kiss Kiddo and Smilin' Vic as they encourage me in my fitness quest.  

''I would sooooo trade this for a glass of wine, a fuzzy blanket, some Kraft mac and cheese and an evening watching mindless TV.''

Fight my way back into Doha evening traffic.  Make it to the park with minutes to spare.

Indulge in 45 minutes of outright humiliation as my peers get a true glimpse of the chaotic spastic thrusts that I'm trying to pass off as 'coming to grips with my health'.

''I'll never live this down at the office.  My eyeballs are sweating.  I could be sitting alone shamelessly on my couch at home watching 'Come Dine With Me.'  Why am I putting myself through this?  I'll never be fit.''  

''No, I need to pat myself on the shoulder.  No pain, no gain.  I could be home, doing nothing.  I should be proud of myself for making the effort.  The heat and humidity and humiliation are making me STRONG.  I rock!''  

''If that clean-eating, paleo-touting, knuckle-head jock, cut-to-the-bone coach makes me do one more burpee I will hunt him down, tie him up and stuff an all-dressed pizza down his throat in one sitting.''

''Hey, I just did 1 more burpee than my 55-year-old boss with the bum shoulder.  I rock!''

''I really hate that coach.  Wait 'til you hit your 30's buddy, then try and give me 5 more yourself!''

''I think I just had a heart attack.  Seriously, my left lung just rolled out onto the grass over there.''

''Yes, 'cool down'.  I made it.  I rock!''

7:30 p.m.  

Pick my left lung up off the grass.  Dust it off.

Ease my way back into Doha traffic ...

Me ... aka that Hot B*%@h

Uhmmmmm, yeah.  

Yup.  

Okayyyyy.  

In another lifetime maybe.

View fullsize

What the lonely labourers on the bus see ...

I'm actually a 44-year-old wife and mother with an office job.  The hottest thing about me these days is probably the occasional inferno flashes that threaten me with spontaneous combustion at the most inopportune moments.  

Even my footwear has become decidedly un-hot, since I mostly wear sensible heels to work so I can take the stairs in an effort to counter my expanding @$$.  My grey roots are an inch long because I'm trying to time a dye job perfectly for a wedding in October.  

If I sit a certain way, my belly forms three rolls that vaguely resemble a burger between two buns.  Oh, and for the last four days, I've developed pitted oedema in my feet ... apparently no reason to be exceedingly alarmed according to the disinterested doctor I consulted yesterday, but enough to furrow those wrinkles on my brow just a tad deeper. 

And yet despite the granny flats, frizzy hair, constant air of bewilderment and exhaustion, ever-expanding posterior, Shrek feet and muffin top, I had a busload of labourers ogling me with unbridled lust as I got stuck behind them in traffic on the drive home from work.  

These are the moments when I realise how truly lonely their life must be here in the ME.  And while their sad plight leaves me disillusioned, I have no illusions that I'm the hottest thing to have crossed their path since Indonesian curry.

It's one of those things that's always irked me about Qatar: the inflated ego of many a woman in the desert.  An impression that they're suddenly irresistible to the other sex.  It's like a warped episode of Mudd's Women from the original Star Trek series ...

It's a scary sense of false flattery that's born of the shameless stares of a breed of desperate labourers thousands of miles from home.  Men sharing living quarters with thousands of other like men.  Men with no other distractions or real entertainment to speak of.  Men who often don't even have a TV to watch in the evenings.  Men exhausted from long hours of hard labour in exasperatingly hot conditions.  Men who sometimes go years without seeing their families/spouses back home.  Men whose noses have become so congested with the smell of their male roommates' sweat and stinky feet that they could smell a splash of Channel No. 5 from 20 miles away.  Men in a country where the ratio of men to women is 4:1.  Men in a country where approximately half of that female ratio is either veiled, under the age of 5 or over the age of 60.  

So those dudes whistled at me on the drive home yesterday?  No s&*t Sherlock!  They'd likely flirt with a rotting papaya fruit if you sprayed it with perfume and put a blond wig on it.

Then there are the other men who hit on me shamelessly.  Like the strange Turkish dude at Carrefour who shadowed me down the fruit and veg aisle one day.  At first I thought I must be mistaken.  He couldn't seriously be staring at my toes, sinfully bare and peeking out from under my floor length skirt?  But sure enough, when I turned back with turnip in hand he'd edged just a bit closer and was by then completely transfixed by my left foot.  I shooed him away with a cry of 'haram' and a threat to take his picture with my phone and report him to mall security.  A few days later, sharing the embarrassingly sordid tale with a good friend, she realised she'd been trailed by the same guy at another Carrefour across town.  I later learned he was a known freak with a specific MO and a preferred 'type'.   I've hesitated to wear open-toed shoes while grocery shopping ever since.  Blechhh!

The male fascination with me doesn't end there though.  Once in a while the 25-year-old guy working on commission at the cosmetics centre at The Mall will wink at me as he tries to spray me with Coach perfume, whispering seductively that all Dutch women love this scent because it's so 'sexy' (imagine not-so-subtle purring as you read the word 'sexy').  This really turns me off.  Number 1, I'm not Dutch.  Number 2, I'm actually just passing through on my way to MegaMart to buy spaghetti squash.  Sorry dude, wasted breath, no commission from this cantankerous Canuck ...

Should I even start on nightclubs?  Let's just say that if a group of women between the ages of 25 to 50 decides to go out for drinks and dancing in Doha, they're sure to get hit on at some point in the evening. That's because in Doha nightclubs the ratio of men to women is likely to catapult to 20:1.  And chances are half the men in the room are wearing beer goggles, have just returned from a 30-day stint offshore and haven't seen a woman in just as long.  The other half are the guys who work at the Coach counter at The Mall; they're just hoping to bag a few free drinks from a disillusioned middle-aged expat wife.  No amount of physical negligence will manage to make you unappealing to this crowd.  Un-manicured nails, forty lbs. overweight, zit on your chin, greasy hair, cankles, hairy legs, smelly pits, baby drool staining the front of your dress, a run in your stockings ... there is truly no effective deterrent. 

Finally, there's the gym.  After 8 years in the ME, I've come to the conclusion that there's a running betting game amongst gym rats as to how many desperate housewives each can entice.  Does the attention of unfettered muscles fool me into thinking I'm all that hot in my grey sweats, mismatched socks, 1980's sweat band and decades-old tattered Gold's Gym sweatshirt?  Uhmmmm.  NO.  

It's a strange, strange world we live in here in the ME.  The occasional reality check never hurts.  A trip abroad is a must if one hopes to remain even remotely connected to the real world.  I need only spend a single day in London or Montreal to realise that Mr. Mudd's Venus pills just don't work in other hemispheres ...

View fullsize

What I ACTUALLY look like ... on a good day :-)

Holding Fast ...

The last day of Ramadan is almost here.  The sighting of the new moon, which we know will occur on either July 28th or 29th of this year, will signal the end of this Holy month of fasting, and the beginning of the celebration of Eid al-Fitr.  Nothing much more than a blip on the calendar if you're living in the West, but quite an event if you're living in the Middle East.

Today marked the last day of work for a number of larger national companies in Qatar (mostly oil and gas) for the next 9 days.  For the public sector (government ministries and entities), that break will extend to 11 days.   I guess it just simplifies things to declare the entire week off (the workweek here is Sunday-Thursday) even if the Eid holiday only officially begins on Monday or Tuesday, particularly since there will be very few office workers, either expatriate or national, left around to work in country next week.

I would actually hazard a guess that tonight marks the busiest night of the year for Qatar's brand new Hamad International Airport.  No doubt the holiday seekers are arriving at the new departures terminal en masse, anxious to climb aboard a freedom bird and trade in the August sand and heat for a blue sky and cooler temps (anything below 38C will be a welcome relief).

Doha, the capital of Qatar, will come to a virtual standstill over the next week.  Festivities will be had and restaurants will re-open during daylight hours, bringing a close to the month of daytime fasting but not to nighttime revelry.  Over the next week, celebrations will last through the day and night as the city and the country prepare for a return to normal following a month of lull.

As everyone anxiously awaits the escape and the celebrations, I find myself almost mourning the end of this period of calm.  I've spent every Ramadan in-country since moving to Qatar, and usually find myself going stir-crazy by the end of the month, but this year Ramadan has proven oddly soothing and healing.  It's been a welcome calm after months of storm. 

I've become more productive at work.  I've smiled at people who've cut me off mercilessly in traffic.  I've increased my water intake (behind closed doors so as to be mindful of those who are fasting, of course).  I've started physically training in earnest.  I've spent more time laughing with Kiddo.  I've spent more time walking with Smilin' Vic.  I've rediscovered a love of writing.  I've swapped pouring an evening glass of wine for juicing.  I've tried some new recipes.  I've cleaned out the messy spare room.  I've given clothes to charity.  I've read some books.  I've slept like a baby.  I've almost forgotten what lower back pain and sciatica feel like.  I've caught up on episodes of Come Dine With Me.  I've pushed my limits in an attempt to gain an appreciation for all I've been blessed with.  I've challenged myself physically, mentally, and emotionally.  I feel more alive and motivated than I've probably felt in the last two or three years.  

This will be the first time ever that we don't be going anywhere for Eid, not even to a local hotel.  Yet I'm not envying those boarding a flight tonight.  I'm not envying those who will break fast on Monday or Tuesday with a weeklong celebration.  I'm fully appreciating the greatness of being exactly where I am in the moment, whatever this day may bring.

Though I've not been fasting, I've been mindful throughout the last month.  I've actually put some thought into what passes my lips, whether it be words or food or drink.  I've focused on what I want to do, what I can do, rather than on what I wish I could do.  I've gained a renewed appreciation for my family, my job, my friends, my faith, my health, my body, my mind.

And I'm selfishly scared to lose the feeling.  

I'm holding fast, but I'm scared.  Scared to sink into the depths of despair that gripped me last April and May, scared to forget everything I'm so grateful for.  Scared to forget how to be thankful for the little things that really matter.

I'm holding fast to the mindfulness, and praying that I'm back to the 'me' I used to be, and that this isn't a phase.  

I'm not fasting.  

But I'm holding fast.

''Oh, a Very Merry Un-birthday to me, to me ...'

Birthday breakfast mini-cake.

I remember desperately wishing my birthday would fall in the summer months.  Summer is definitely the best season for birthdays in Canada.  The very luckiest June/July/August-born Canuck kids get to have pool parties, splash around all afternoon, cool off with cherry and banana popsicles, and finish it off with barbecued hot dogs, ice cream cake and gift openings around a picnic table or under a beach parasol.  

When Kiddo was born in July, I was like ''YES!  I can now live vicariously through my daughter, re-inventing a childhood of dreary-month-of-March birthdays as luau parties!''  (Insert fist pump here!)

Unfortunately, Kiddo only got to enjoy one Canadian summer birthday, because when she was fourteen months we packed up and headed for the ME.  

And so my one chance at redeeming those pool party dreams got quashed because, quite frankly, July birthdays in Qatar suck.  The reasoning behind my disenchantment:

1. It's 300 C in Doha in July.  It is the hottest month of the year on average.  People have successfully fried an egg on pavement.  (Bacon would probably work too, but public pork roastings would be frowned upon in these parts.)
2. Humidity in Doha in July sits at about 98%.  Most mornings sunglasses are useless as they fog up the very moment you step out the door.  The hair on your arms starts to frizz, toenails start to sweat, and it's so humid sometimes even cigarettes won't burn.
3. When it's not humid, it's windy.  And either way, it's still really flipping hot.  When the wind combines with the heat, it's like walking into the blast furnace from Hell.
4. Last year, this year and next, Kiddo's birthday fall smack dab in Ramadan, which means no drinking, eating or general cavorting during daylight hours.  Which means no trips to the water park, nor to the movies, nor to one of the dozens of indoor amusement parks until 7:00 p.m.
5. There are about 12 kids left in Doha over the summer months.  June marks the exodus of most stay-at-home expat moms and kids.  I think Kiddo is officially the only 9-year-old in town today.

4:30 p.m. on a weekday afternoon in July ... it's still daylight, but the dust is blocking the sun.  

So it is that every year we plan an ''un-birthday'' in May, before the sweltering summer exodus.  Two years ago was a beauty salon theme, last year Master Chef, this year Inner Artist.  Although always a resounding success because of our tendency to overcompensate (working parent guilt, only child, and all that), we are still endlessly at a loss come the real deal in July.

Last year the three of us went to Paul's at sunset.  Paul's is a little mall bistro that makes Kiddo's favourite buffalo mozza sandwich.  This year, Kiddo asked if we could order pizza from Fabio's.  Since tomorrow's a working day, we were more than fine with that.  

(Speaking of work, this year, her birthday also gives me a legitimate excuse to skip the work team-building 10:00 p.m. Sohur.  While I'm up for any excuse to enjoy a meal at one of Doha's finest hotel's Ramadan tent, the thought of supper at 11:00 p.m. and bedtime at 2:00 a.m. on a work night makes me shudder.)

So last night I made preps for today, the Big Day, the True Birthday, the 9th Anniversary of Kiddo's birth.  I set about making mega muffins for her to bring to Summer Camp today.  One batch of vanilla and one batch of chocolate.  No nuts, just in case.  I also made a tiny cake in a mini-loaf pan.  For Kiddo's birthday breakfast - a mix of chocolate and vanilla.

Then I set about making home-made icing ... my first time attempt!  And it was delicious, albeit a bit runny ...

Next ... the cake.  Every year, I seem to top the baking atrocity of years past.  As much as I love to cook, I am decidedly NOT a baker.  NOR am I a cake decorator.  Nonetheless, I always give it my best.  This year, I decided I would make a piano cake since Kiddo has been doing so well at piano and all.  Convinced it would be my greatest masterpiece EVER, I proceeded to produce THIS:

It looked so much better on Pinterest ...  still, I admit I'm still smarting somewhat from the gales of laughter this picture evoked when I showed it to the folk at work.

Chef d'oeuvre complete, I began wrapping gifts.  I always look forward to gift wrapping.  Until I actually sit down and start.  Then I get really grumpy.  So it was last night.  Three paper cuts (on wrapping paper ... how does one DO that?) before even getting started.

The first wrap was fancy indeed!

Comments from the Peanut Gallery on the fact that the folds are crooked NOT WELCOME.

I underestimated my paper requirements on the second.

Yes, that is a Sketcher's shoe box peeking out where I ran out of paper.  But in my mind, the box colours complement the wrapping paper quite nicely.

The last one was a pair of roller blades.  WITHOUT A BOX!  

By this time, I've just wrapped an entire roll of paper around the skates and haphazardly plastered Scotch tape around it.

Seriously?

But in the end, it doesn't really matter does it?  Kiddo had cake for breakfast, Happy Birthday was sung at Summer Camp, the house is decorated, the pizza's ordered, the cake and the unwrapping are anxiously anticipated.  Plus we've managed to wrangle a random 11-year-old and 5-year-old wandering the compound to partake in the celebrations.  BONUS!

Silly putty party favours for the kids at Summer Camp.

A duct tape wallet gifted to Kiddo from a little girl at summer camp.  This is serious craftsmanship by a 10-year-old (it even has slots inside for pictures and credit cards, and has Kiddo's name etched out in red and white tape).  I have a feeling someone is spending a lot of quality time with a Doha stay-at-home dad living out every man's duct tape crafting fantasy.

And Kiddo still insists that my cakes are the best and most beautiful ever.  She says she would be very unhappy with some fancy shop-bought confection.  Bless her.

The cake was even worse for wear after a night in the fridge ... my black icing keys bled into the homemade cream cheese icing.  

This is the real day.  It's not about the fluff, or the number of kids around the table, or the pool-side activities or lack thereof that we arrange for the un-birthday.  Un-birthdays can happen any old day.

Today's so much better than all that, despite the sand and the heat and the humidity and the isolation.  Today marks the day that Kiddo entered our lives and changed us forever, nine years ago.

Today's the day that has made every single moment of my life worth living.  Happy Birthday Kiddo!

Non-Muslims in Qatar During Ramadan ...

Ramadan, the 9th month of the Islamic calendar, began on June 28 this year (2014) in Qatar.  (Because it is based on sighting of the new moon, it can begin on different days throughout the world - this year it began on June 29 in the United States).  It is a month observed by Muslims worldwide through fasting during daylight hours, and is regarded as one of the Five Pillars of Islam, which are:

1. declaring there is no god except God (Allah), and Muhammad as God's messenger;
2. praying five times a day;
3. giving 2.5% of one's savings to the poor and needy;
4. fasting and self-control during the month of Ramadan;
5. pilgrimage to Mecca (Hajj) at least once during one's lifetime if one is able to. 

The month of Ramadan lasts 29-30 days based on the visual sightings of the crescent moon.  

During the month of Ramadan, fasting is mandatory for adult Muslims except those who are suffering from an illness, travelling, pregnant, breastfeeding, diabetic or menstruating.  

Work hours in Qatar are shortened to 5h a day, in recognition of the strains fasting places on the body and mind.  Eating, drinking and smoking in public are strictly forbidden for all, whether Muslim or non-Muslim.  Alcohol is not served in any establishment in Qatar, the Distribution Center (Booze Shop) is closed, and restaurants do not open until after evening prayer.  All are asked to wear conservative attire, and during this month many Muslim women who do not normally wear the abaya will wear one.

Though fasting from dawn until sunset means refraining from food, beverages, smoking and engaging in sexual relations, these are allowed before sunrise and after sunset.  

In Qatar, the hours following sunset involve many a feast, with breaking of the fast marked by Iftar (usually breaking fast with dates and/or water, sometimes soup), followed by Sohur (main meal eaten between midnight and dawn).  

The streets become extremely crowded after the breaking of fast, and tents are set up throughout the country, on hotel grounds, in empty desert fields, in compounds, and outside private villas, to welcome visitors, Muslim and non, to partake in the meals that follow sunset.

You might think the grocery stores would be empty these days, what with everyone fasting, but the reality is, stores are never so full as during Ramadan.  Families fill shopping carts to capacity at 2:00 p.m. in anticipation of the feast to come that evening.  Since much of the premise of Ramadan is charity, tents and homes are open to the less fortunate, and as such, food is prepared in huge quantities in anticipation of many hungry mouths to feed.

As non-Muslim expats, we abide by the rules and avoid eating or drinking out in public, but in all honesty, we have our coffee and breakfast under cover of our homes after sunrise before making our way to the office.  We may thirst a bit at work, but chances are there is a break room set aside for us to discretely go have tea, coffee, water, and a snack if we've brought one with us.  We probably have a bottle of water stashed in our handbag or car, ready at the handy in case we get too parched on the ride.  As soon as we get home, we head to the water cooler or coffee maker.

We are discrete, because anything less would warrant a reprimand, but we still manage to go about our lives in relatively 'normal' mode.  Every once in a while we're jarred back to reality, like yesterday when I went to get Kiddo a Subway sandwich after work (her regular Thursday treat) and saw the 'Closed' sign on the door (restaurants don't open until after fast has broken, i.e. around 6:30 p.m.).  While grocery stores are open throughout the day, restaurants are not.  So yesterday we created our own Subway station at home.

Kiddo's Home-Style Subway Station ...

All the pickings ... who knew we could do this at home?

Adding a little spice to the mix ...

Vegetarian Subway sub looking good ...

Yummmm!  Yup, better than shop bought!

Many of us tend to avoid  venturing out into traffic at night during Ramadan.  Fasting Muslims tend to sleep a lot during the day in Qatar and go out all night, every night, during Ramadan.  Night becomes day, and streets, malls and restaurants are filled to capacity.  The streets are full of revellers, and the traffic can be chaotic.   So it is that we take advantage of the relative peace of the hours between working and waking (usually the quietest times are between 3:00 p.m. and 7:00 p.m.) to do our shopping and errands, before returning home and tucking in for the night.

Occasionally, we'll go on a Qatari-like spree, stocking up as if there were no tomorrow, in an effort to avoid having to take to the roads for the next week or two.  Case in point, our trip to MegaMart today:

Spoils from Mega Mart, which stocks many specialty and imported goods.  Pockets empty, fridge full ... we're ready for company!

Kiddo's birthday will fall smack dab in the middle of Ramadan, and this means that there will be no opportunity to go buy her ice cream, bring her out to lunch or go see a movie during daylight hours.  This is the second year this happens, and even though she doesn't yet get it, she accepts it.  As doting parents, we celebrated her birthday two months early, before the Expat Exodus, when her friends were still in town and drinking and eating during daylight hours were no big deal.  On her birthday, we'll have a cake, open gifts and bring her out for dinner after sunset, but we'll remain thankful we made the day magic in May.

Poster for Kiddo's painting party, held in May this year, 2 months ahead of time.

The 'tableau' ...

Blank slate ... ready for imaginative minds.

Our outdoor drying gallery after the fake birthday party in May.  Some masterpieces here I do believe.

But I'm actually grateful in many ways to be in Qatar during Ramadan.  Traffic eases slightly, life slows down a bit, the office becomes less hectic, spring cleaning finally gets done, we get to hunker down and catch up on Survivor and Master Chef on Mac TV.  The work days are short, family time is abundant, and life is generally easier.

And even though we don't fast beyond office hours, Ramadan is a good reminder to all of us to tip a little bit more to the gas station attendant, the grocery bagging boy, the compound maintenance staff, the delivery man.  It's a reminder to give thanks for what we have.  It's a slowing of time that reminds us to stop and say 'thanks', 'how are you', 'have a nice day' to the person in front of us, beside us, behind us.  

Ramadan Kareem.