Do You See Me Now?

You know that game you play when you're little?  The greatest game on Earth, the one that can go on for hours and hours and hours and still be fun?

The 'peek-a-boo' game.  The one where your mom or dad asks:  ''Can you see me now? ... Peek-a-boo!'''

And you erupt into fits of giggles, and there's nothing, absolutely nothing, else going on in the world other than that most enthralling peek-a-boo game ...

I play that game these days.  Not with my Kiddo, she's far too mature and savvy at almost 9 to fall for my face hidden behind my hands.

Nope, not with Kiddo.

I play with my Dad.  In my head.  

Now that I've reached a healthier state of grieving, one where I can actually be sad, and look at old pictures once in a while, and MISS him - I play that game.

Yup.  In my head, I ask:  ''Can you see me now, Daddy?''

My game's a little more serious now though.  I'm really asking.  I'm really hoping.  I'm really wondering if he's looking down and seeing.  

Every once in a while, I'm tempted to say:  ''Peek-a-boo!''

Just in case he sees.

And hopefully it makes him giggle.

With the Wind Always at Our Backs ... (Canadians Driving in Ireland, Part I)

This is the last leg of a series of posts taking you on a June 2014 tour of Southwest England, Wales and Ireland.  If you've enjoyed the ride so far, tagging along in the backseat for a small summer vacation with this Canadian expat family from Doha, you should know that the best of the trip is all right here in the next few posts ...

May the road rise to meet you.
May the wind always be at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face.
May the rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again may the Lord hold you in the palm of His hand.

- Irish Blessing

First of all, to everyone and their brother who told us to dress in layers because of the unpredictable weather in the UK and Ireland, let it be known that not once did we get rained on while on our magical tour.  Not once.  Not one single time.  Not even on the ferry ride over from Holy Head to Dublin.  Sunny skies and +/- 20C the whole trip.  So PFFFFFFTTTTTTTTH! to the meteorological Bah Humbugs!

Early glimpses of the Emerald Isle from the ferry ...

Moving right along from traveller smugness now ...

Since Smilin' Vic had so royally missed the opportunity to secure 'fit-for-human' accommodation in Wales the previous night, I feverishly Googled the 'best places to stay in Dublin' and set to work finding us the quaint little inn experience we'd been craving.  

Unfortunately everything, and I mean EVERYTHING, was booked.  I tried desperately to find something, anything, that was

• quaint,
• half decent,
• clean, and
• within walking distance of Temple Bar Square.

Nothing.

Though there is an actual Four Seasons (as opposed to THIS) in Dublin, we really didn't feel like spending such an exorbitant amount of money on a posh hotel room with a bed that begs you to languish in its feathered fluffiness all day.  

Those are the rooms you book on a weekend oasis escape in Doha when you've had just about enough of the sand.  We, on the other hand, were looking for a true taste of Ireland.  

Desperate, I entered the dates one last time and ...

SUCCESS!  

Somehow I managed to book us a night at the Ariel House, aka the best kept secret in Dublin.  We were IN!

So it was that after a 2-hour car ride followed by a 2-hour ferry ride, relying on an amazing GPS that brought us exactly where we were meant to be, and all my fears of driving on the wrong side of the road abated by the free wine provided on the ferry's Club Class, we arrived at our Victorian home for the night, filled with excitement at our brief sojourn in Dublin.

Unfortunately our night at Ariel House was not to be.  This was obvious as we walked up smiling to the Reception and provided our name and booking number.  While one eye was already devouring the snacks and tea laid out in the parlour room to my left, the other one was taking in the look of confusion and eventually dismay on the receptionist's face.  

''I'm so sorry'', he said.  ''It appears you've booked for NEXT Thursday; what a dreadful mistake.''

I could have cried.

Smilin' Vic, though disappointed, was obviously struggling not to be smug about the fact that he was now not the only one who'd screwed up accommodation on this trip.

Apparently every single inn and hotel in Dublin was booked for an International Flower Show.  Who knew florists jet-set across the world to look at buds?  Anyhow, our 'un'-host was on the phone in a flash, desperate to find us somewhere in the city to stay for the night.  What a star he was.  And that was to be but our first taste of what truly sets this Emerald Isle apart:  easily the friendliest and most helpful people on Earth.

Apparently flower shows attract a pretty significant crowd ...

He provided us with our only option:  The Westin.  Bye bye hopes of the Irish Experience, hello reality of paying for just about everything including the elevator ride up to your room.  Ah, well, at least there would be a fancy rain showerhead and King-sized bed.

We made our way there, checked in, and quickly dropped off our battered duffle bags, narrowly escaping the allure of the 2-foot deep down feather comforter and 22 pillows tempting us into their embrace, and headed out to discover Dublin with what little daylight was left.

By the time we got around to Temple Bar Square, many places had stopped serving meals for the day, but we got lucky and found a little spot seated outdoors on the corner just opposite the Temple Bar.  And that is where we sat and enjoyed THE. BEST. MUSSELS.  I'VE.  EVER. HAD!

We guzzled down sipped a bottle or two glass of wine with our meal, and just sat there for quite a while watching revellers go by. These consisted mostly of Americans and Spaniards, with surprisingly few Irish accents. But the air of festivity was catching, the night was warm and clear, the taste of scrumptious profiteroles lingered on our palates, and we had a humungous, comfy, sleep-inducing bed to crawl into once it was all over.

Bellies full, night upon us, we finally made our way slowly down the bustling streets.  Buskers and musicians entertained at every corner, and we joined in the crowds to cheer them on.  Kiddo got an eyeful of bare bellies and short shorts, an uncommon site in the Middle East, and was obviously overwhelmed by the site of young girls teetering down the street in stilettos and barely-there mini-skirts (common dress for Qatar, but always under cover of an abaya).  We let her revel in the sights and sounds so foreign to her as an expat child in the Middle East.

As we stopped at the last corner to listen and sing along with the happy crowd to a particularly engaging rendition of Whiskey In the Jar, a lone rake-thin forty-ish woman whose jeans had fallen just below her g-string to just above her knees began jumping up and down enthusiastically in front of our songster.  

Sigh.  Based on the bulging of Kiddo's eyes at the sad sight of 'just a dozen too many' we knew we'd spend the next four days trying unsuccessfully to explain the sight of skinny, saggy butt cheeks, and decided since it was closing in on 11 p.m. it was time for bed anyhow.  We decided to call it a night. 

Our short time in Dublin had come to an end, but we had miles of green left to visit.  As our heads hit the 300 Euro a night plush pillows, Irish hospitality still warming our hearts, good wine and grub filling our tummies and Irish tunes still playing on the reel in our heads, we couldn't have been happier!

(To be continued ...)

That Spot on the Left of My Chest ...

It was a little sad dropping Kiddo off at summer camp this morning.

Most days, like this one in Ireland, Kiddo is used to being an only child ...

Her BFF had been staying with us for her last three days in Qatar.  For three glorious days our house was a hustling, bustling madhouse of little people, with 4 kids ages 10 months to 9 years prancing about, dancing, crawling, crying, laughing, squealing.  There were lots of runny noses, some random vomit and diarrhoea, hot dogs and 3 types of Ben N' Jerry's ice cream (perhaps the culprit of said vomitus).  It was a 3-day sleepover, a first in our household.  Kiddo was over the moon.

It was beautiful.  We are so lucky.  We got to spend 3 days with a family of five we've come to love over the last four and a half years.  

But it's real quiet at home this morning.  That family of five left at 4:15 a.m.  We got up to wish them a safe trip, gave a few last hugs, and off they went, family in one car, bags in the other.  As I write this, they are a quarter of the way to where they're headed.

So I wasn't dropping Kiddo and BFF off at summer camp today.  Nope.  It was just Kiddo.  She didn't really want to go, but seemed quite happy once she was there.  As we walked in, I told her I was proud of her for facing the day even though she missed BFF.  And I assured her that BFF was still 'right there' (tapping her heart as I said it).

And she smiled sadly and turned those beautiful blue eyes of hers to mine, and said: 'Maman, I've figured out why my heart sits on the left side of my chest.'

'Why?' I asked.

'Because I need a spot for everything I love, especially once they've left.'

Then she giggled a little.  And that spot on the left of my chest grew tight.

These are the things my Kiddo teaches me.  These are the moments I realise how much this little miracle with the big blue eyes has filled that spot on the left of my chest.

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.

The Moment a Man Makes a Difference ...

I'm not doing anything much special this weekend.  I'll just be here, in Doha.

My first-born nephew, on the other hand, will be doing something quite special indeed.  He's getting married.  In Canada.  

I could easily write a post about how it breaks my heart to not be there on his special day.  But that goes without saying, and I have a lifetime to agonise over it, so why use up this teeny tiny blogging platform for yet another vent?

Instead I'm trying desperately to find the right words to express how much the oldest nephew means to the youngest aunt.  But I'm struggling, because I can't quite put my finger on what it is, if anything, he might like or need to hear from me.

I keep on wondering what's going on inside that gorgeous 34-year-old head of his.  I imagine he's excited, slightly nervous, perhaps even stressed.  I know he's in love.  I hope he's happier than he's ever been in his entire life.

I especially hope he's slightly unsure of what the future holds and what this all means for him as a man.  Because as long as we're not certain of the answer, we keep on looking for the best possible one.  Not knowing how good it can be - not knowing how good it will be - keeps us striving to make it the best we possibly can.

I hope above all hope that when he looks into his beautiful bride's eyes, it's not firm answers he sees there but endless possibilities and promise.  I hope that she will see those very possibilities reflected right back.

And I hope that when he looks in the mirror, every day for the rest of his life, he realises what a difference he has made, what a difference he will always make.  Because from the moment of his birth, he made a difference to so many people in so many ways.  Not by 'trying', simply by 'being'.

I turned 10 years old on the morning of his birth.  Yet on the eve of my 10th birthday, I remember crying and telling my parents that I never wanted 9 to end because it had been the best year of my life.  My Dad assured 'dramatic Me' that no matter how good something is, there's always a possibility for something better.  I went to bed still crying and doubting that very much (yes, I know, I was most definitely a drama queen).

And yet, when my parents woke me the next morning to tell me that I had a beautiful, healthy nephew, and that he'd been born on my 10th birthday, well I just knew that my Dad had been right after all.  What a gift!  Not just my nephew, but all the promise he brought with him.  And the absolute firm belief he gave me that there IS always the possibility for something better, for something unbelievable, for something great.

I've not let go of that belief for 34 years now.  It's kept me going through times when all I wanted to do was give up.  It's kept me searching, convinced that no matter how bad or good something may be, I have to look forward to tomorrow.

That was my nephew's gift to me.  I hope he can steal it back now and step into this next part of his life certain that there is limitless promise out there, just waiting for him to move forward.

I look at him today, and I still see the beautiful 2-year-old with the wild head of curly blond hair and the limitless stores of hugs and kisses.  And yet he is now a man, with a whole new life as a husband before him.  And I wonder when exactly he became that man.

Was it when he graduated?  When he got his first job?  When he repaid his first loan?  When my then-5-year-old started looking up to him like a prince?  When he travelled the world?  When he held his dying Pépére's hand?  When he asked for his bride's hand in marriage?

I tend to think it was that very moment he was born.  That very first time he made a difference.  And it just grew from there.

To my nephew and his new bride/my new niece, I wish for you health, happiness, joy, love, peace, prosperity, understanding, wisdom, courage, patience, gratitude, grace and so much more.  I wish for you possibilities - endless, endless possibilities.  I love you.