Mozzarella, disappointment and Euro-pop....

I ate an entire ball of mozzarella cheese yesterday.  I ate the first half at lunch time; I wanted to eat the entire thing until I read the calorific content on the back of the package (over 500 calories) so I divided it in two and put the rest in the fridge.  However, the other half played on my mind all day and eventually after 9 o’clock (aka wine o’clock) I simply couldn’t help myself and devoured the second half along  with some lambs lettuce, cherry tomatoes and olive oil.

I’m telling you this incredibly dull piece of trivia to demonstrate how bored I am at present; the idyllic fantasies I had entertained of renting a lovely country home surrounded by fields with grazing cattle and sheep, with a huge garden so the children could run wild, while I baked soda bread by day and wrote poignant insights at my fireside in the evening, has fallen slightly flat. 

Instead of a buccolic haven, I find myself inhabiting a house on a small, run-down cul-de-sac, flanked on either side by eastern European drug dealers (a conclusion based entirely on the sighting of a man in a hood; a Honda civic; and a brief exchange around the back of the house) and deserted wives.  And despite the fact that the surrounding countryside is indeed beautiful, I wake, not to a pastoral view from my bedroom window, but to a grey concrete-block wall.

You could say that things, in all truthfulness, haven’t gone entirely to plan.

Suddenly my (long) list of complaints about my life in the UAE are ringing rather hollow.  One in particular makes me blush now on recall –

Me: ‘I’m so bored in Al Hamra!  There’s nothing to do but go to café Shakespeare for coffee three times a week while the cleaners come in and clean my (gorgeous three-storey) villa!’

DH: ‘I know, it must be tough’

Me: ‘Yes, it IS! Thank you for understanding!’

Ah yes, instead I’m now cleaning a house which has an interesting collection of broken curtain rails, a carpet which makes me want to put plastic bags on my feet when I walk on it, and which, although it claimed to be ‘furnished’ was lacking luxury items such as beds, or curtains which actually meet in the middle, and which has sofas so repugnant I’ve been forced to throw bed sheets over them in order to be able to sit down.

The property crisis in Ireland has brought the country to its knees and into the bargain made it virtually impossible to rent a decent house as people clambour to sell up before the repossession orders arrive on their doorsteps and indeed the countryside is heavily peppered with large, gorgeous, field-flanked houses with ‘for sale’ signs outside of them.  The rental market is thinly populated with ugly, badly maintained hovels (at least in east Galway), one of which I happen to be living in.

Only forty minutes down the road I own a beautiful house with a bright pink front door; it is surrounded by cattle-grazing fields, and is five minutes from the sea.  Unfortunately another family happily resides there; I didn’t feel it was wise to evict them until I was sure what our next move was.

And so, here I am in a town with so little going on in it that even the library can’t be bothered to open.  There are a couple of delapidated looking pubs, a post office which also sells packets of biscuits and cartons of milk, and an enormous church which was obviously built in a time when the catholic church still had some relevence in Ireland.

The hovel is thankfully just across the road from the little country school which my children are happily attending and where my sons are learning to play the traditional sport of hurling (a rough sort of hockey); my daughter is struggling to master ‘down by the sally gardens’ on the tin whistle (ouch!); and where all of them are being rigourously drilled on Jesus, Mary and all the holy saints.  On questioning eight-year-old boy (a big fan of Greek and Roman mythology) about what he had learned about god, he gushed – ‘My teacher only knows three gods! – Marry (sic), Jesus and God…oh and a shepherd.  I told her that I know loads more gods – Apollo, Ares, Athena, Hercules, Kratos…. loads!’ 

I, by contrast, spend my days listening to the daily scheduled ranting which is Irish radio (no telly) shuffling around in pj’s, sweater and scarf, making endless cups of coffee while attempting to ’live chat’ with DH; a slow and ultimately unsatisfying occupation since he types three words for my every thirty (the quote comes to mind –'I had some words with my wife, and she had some paragraphs with me'  - Sigmund Freud) The high point of the day comes when I wander around the corner to the petrol station to buy whatever is the 6 euro special offer of the week -- currently Nuggan estate Shiraz -- which will get me through the dull and lonely evenings, grieving for DH and telly.  

We left the UAE because DH’s job seemed to be increasingly under threat and we didn’t fancy being one of those unfortunate families who are forced to make a break for it, Von-Trapp-like, in the middle of the night, in order to avoid the heavy hand of the law should he lose his job unexpectedly. Leaving seemed a wise move after the latest batch of terminations at work, combined with a salary that at times was hitting the bank account up to four weeks late (this month being no exception).  Of course, with perfect UAE timing, DH was duly promoted four days after our departure, leaving us all wondering whether we’d made a big mistake.

And so, it seems that in the most dramatic, hat-eating about-turn since Robbie Williams swallowed his pride and re-joined Take That, we shall in all probability be returning to the UAE sometime after school finishes, just in time for my annual rant about ramadan.

And finally….

I ‘listened’ to the Eurovision song contest* last night on the radio along with ten-year-old girl and eight-year-old boy.  I didn’t think it would be possible to enjoy something which, despite its name is very much a visual spectacle with the songs being pretty much secondary to the theatrical proceedings, without actually seeing it; but oddly enough, by the time we reached the voting stage we were punching the air every time Jedward ** received a score and booing every time Blue***did.  Of course the annual scramblings among the Balkan and Baltic states to curry favour with each other by presenting each other with the elusive douze points meant that Azerbaijan won the prize (I thought that was central Asia?)

Yes, oddly enough it was an enjoyable evening (helped along no doubt by the aforementioned shiraz) and they climbed into (my) bed happily singing ‘Lipstick’ while I pulled the entire curtain rail off the wall in an attempt to draw the curtains…

I might start looking at some flights…

Footnotes: For those non-Europeans among you….

*Eurovision Song Contest – annual celebration of all that is bizarre, tacky and just plain bad about Euro-pop (Abba was the high point) - the winner provides the venue for the following years contest – this years contest took place in Dusseldorf.

**Jedward – (Irish entry) idiotic, semi-literate twins who were finalists on the X Factor a few years ago but who have described as a ‘much needed boost to a demoralised nation’ (we’re obviously in much worse shape than I thought)

***Blue – (British entry) ex boy-band, cobbled together to reclaim some former glory -- rubbish then, rubbish now

Being cold and reverse entry shock

I have little recollection of my time spent in college other than the odd vague memory of 'pound-a-pint' nights out and dozens of missed buses as well as an overwhelming sense that I wasn't up to the job intellectually.  My role among my far more intelligent circle of friends was that of dizzy joker who ridiculed the subjects, professors and ideology, dismissing it all as a dreadful waste of time and who on occasion was known to arrive in to lectures laden with (sale) shopping bags from River Island and Next.

I once spent half an hour drunkenly explaining to my anthropology lecturer in the pub that his lectures were a complete mystery to me (of which my attendance was hovering around the 2% mark) and insisting that any course which centred on a text entitled 'The Accursed Chair' must be a pretentious and pointless waste of time and energy.  The lecturer good-naturedly allowed me to continue in this diatribe before patiently explaining that the name of the book was in fact 'The Accursed Share' which just about summed up my commitment to my subjects and goes on to explain the appalling third I received for my finals (although Christopher Hitchens actually got a third too, so I'm in good company)

However, there was one part of the Anthropology course which fascinated me, and of which I've spent the past three years experiencing first hand: namely, the subject of Culture Shock.

On arriving in a new culture the individual goes through several phases of culture shock, namely:

-honeymoon phase where the individual views the new culture in a romantic light and is curious and willing to engage with the traditions and habits within it. I remember distinctly, during my first few weeks in Abu Dhabi, negotiating my way down a dirty and dusty old street somewhere near Hamdan street, on my way to a laundry, being thronged by dozens of Pakistanis, Indians and other nationalities and feeling a total euphoria at the 'otherness' of the moment and I remember whispering to myself 'this is Bridget Jones searching for a laundry'.... This phase typically lasts for about three months.

-negotiation phase where the excitement has been replaced by anxiety and even anger as the individual struggles to negotiate day to day living in a country where there may be language and expectational differences. They might also suffer homesickness.  I think dealing with Etisalat sums up this phase perfectly.

-adjustment phase kicks in between 6 - 12 months and sees the individual settle in to their new environment, become accustomed to it's ways and begins to focus on normal day to day living.  Negative feelings about the host culture are reduced and the individual begins to accept their customs and rituals.  Although I'm not sure 'accept' is the word....resign oneself might be more accurate in the UAE.....

-mastery stage where the individual can participate comfortably in the host culture albeit while still retaining aspects of their own culture including language, accents etc...  Although the UAE is singular in not obviously having a 'culture' per se since it is made up of so many differing nationalities is would be inaccurate to say that the Emirati culture is the dominant one and indeed during my time there I've had far more dealings with Filipino's, Pakistani's, Indian's and Lebanese.

Personally I'm not entirely convinced that I ever moved on from the negotiation stage.....

And reverse culture shock.....
And so now that I'm back on home soil I'm experiencing the deprogramming stage and am noticing a strange sense of displacement and a strong sense of surrealism that I'm back and it's over (well, for now anyway).  Growing up as an Irish child in England and then an English child (and then adult) in Ireland, I've never felt entirely one thing or the other, but now that I'm back I'm reeling from how differently everything feels.

This displacement is difficult to explain or quantify, but I'm struck on a daily basis by some very obvious differences between the two cultures which can surprise and delight me:

-Starting with an obvious one, take the roads for example.  There is a stretch of road between Galway airport and Briarhill with a speed limit of 60km's per hour.  The first time I drove on it (since I've been back)  I thought the car in front of me was about to breakdown:  'Why are you going so slow??  There are no cars for miles!' I wanted to yell until I spotted the speed sign.  Every car behind me was doing the same speed -- 60km on the nose -- with  no furious drivers revving up to overtake in a fit of rage. 'How bizarre' I thought, 'I never saw the Irish as particularly compliant or law abiding and yet look at this!


-Total strangers wave to you when you pass them on a country road -- the first few times it happened I was thrown momentarily since I'm new to the area I'm living in and wondered who the hell was waving to me until I remembered it is just the done thing. This is so nice after being in a land where, to be honest, I felt quite threatened for much of the time.


-People understand you without you having to jump through hoops to get your point across:  I walked out of a shop the other day leaving my newly aquired broom (blue with pink flowers and white polka dots) behind me.  The following day I returned to the shop fully expecting to have to buy the item again but first thought I'd try to explain to the shop assistant what had happened. Before I had finished my sentence the girl (a different one from the previous day) had disappeared behind a door, reemerging a second later with said broom -- 'Oh you understand me!' I wanted to gush, 'how lovely of you!' (instead I bought a matching mop and dustpan and brush).

My favourite bookshop

-I had forgotten how great Galway was: they say Dubai is bustling but it doesn't compare: Galway, with it's busy cafes and pubs and lively street music, leaves you wondering where exactly the recession is. I went into the city with my eldest and youngest children on Saturday and revelled in the characters I encountered -- from the intellectual discussions going on at the counter of Charlie Byrne's book shop to the colourful people rushing past the window of the cafe I sat in -- hippies, goths, yummy mummies, students, tourists....I could barely tear my eyes away from the window and felt an overwhelming feeling of 'these are MY people', which is silly and irrational, but hard to deny after a protracted amount of time abroad.


Although on a sobering thought, apart from rent, Ireland is WAY more expensive than the UAE for most things, particularly alcohol, oddly enough.


-And the other day I walked around the supermarket filling my trolly while saying to my daughter 'this is why I lost weight when I got to Abu Dhabi....I want everything in here!' I was never quite comfortable shopping for food in the UAE, the smell in the supermarket would leave me feeling quite queasy, and while we lived in Al Ain where the only option was Carrefour we lived on take-out pizza's and arabic nut mix.


-I'm aware that child safety is a much bigger issue here than in the UAE where child neglect is commonplace and the sight of a child standing on the front seat of a speeding car is not unusual.  In contrast, here in Ireland I once parked behind the bank in order to rush in to cash a cheque, leaving my three children in the car. My reasoning was that if they came in with me they would destroy the place and take ten times longer to complete my transaction.  Ten minutes later I emerged to the sight of a police squad car parked alongside my car while a Garda stood taking down my number plates as my children simpered from within. Mortified I attempted to justify my actions to no avail. Of course this is right and good although I did wonder what the garda would have said to me if I'd brought all the children into the bank with me only for one of them to speed out of the bank entrance, while I was at the counter, and into the speeding traffic....?


-They say you can't understand the heat of the Middle East unless you've experienced it.  Cold works in the same way and at the moment, despite a so-called 'heat wave' here, I'm cold beyond all imagination.  My sister greeted me on my arrival wearing my UAE uniform -- a vest, pair of shorts and flip flops.  I was huddled in a heavy dress, tights, cardigan and scarf!  Physiologically I am altered and feel cold all the time.  As I type I'm sitting on top of a radiator with a scarf wrapped around my neck and can't imagine ever feeling warm again.

Of course bear in mind that I'm still in the honeymoon stage....what is currently viewed as 'charming' and 'full of character' will soon quickly become replaced with frustration and annoyance and soon I'll be pining for the UAE (which isn't entirely unthinkable since DH is still there...)

Let's see what happens....