The Tyranny of the Sun

   Today provided a new experience which may  prove both prophetic and salutary. Seeing that the doors had been closed for prayer time and having no phone with me during my lunchtime visit to the nearby Saudi Hollandi Bank, I chose to walk the fifteen minutes back to the school rather than disturb someone at prayer to phone the school for a ride. The noontime temperature was well over 90 F, but I'd been getting quite used to the hot temperatures with my 4:30 workouts, regularly done in 85 to 95 F heat. Besides, I'd walk comfortably seeing as I didn't have a class right after lunch.
   Moments after leaving the bank, I stood waiting for a typical yellow school bus to go by so I could cross the road. It was impossible not to notice that the sun beat down in that relentless way it has here. Untypically, at least in terms of my Ontario experience with yellow school buses filled with elementary students, it seemed no one was seated, and hanging out of nearly every window was a boy dressed in brightly coloured short-sleeves, many holding chip bags and cans of pop outside the windows as the bus rocked around the corner into a busier street. All boys. There were no girls on the bus. Several of these boys had not only their arms out but their heads too and those are the ones I could hear hooting and hollering as the bus slowly picked up speed and moved away.
   Just a few minutes later, a second yellow bus passed me by as I was crossing another street. It was filled with the now familiar black-shrouded figures of elementary school girls, all of them seated, all of the windows closed. The difference in the behaviour of the two sets of children was strikingly obvious and my reaction to it a mixture of sadness, resignation, but hope too, in the end. Boys, it seems, and to some extent males in general, in this place, get to do pretty much what they want. They can be loud, goofy, reckless, expressive, even defiant to some extent, particularly when they are young. Girls, on the other hand, not only can't be like that, not in any public way, they must in most ways be the opposite.
   I wouldn't have wanted to have been a passenger on the boys' bus, but I'm not sure I'd have wanted to be one on the girls' bus either. How stifled, I thought, how repressed. The boys' bus must have had quite a nice breeze through it and their short sleeves made sense. Those yellow buses aren't air-conditioned in my experience. Through the girls' bus no breezes blew, no fresh air, litle or nothing to quell the heat.
   But my experience with the girls was not yet over and it is what happened next that may well prove prophetic in this hot place. The second bus pulled up to a stop sign just as I cut across the street behind it and several girls at the back of the bus were staring at me, some with hands over their mouths, leaning to a friend and apparently whispering clever funny things about the strange pale, bald-headed man on the street. Many had smiles, so I waggled a forefinger at them in a friendly way and smiled too. I could hear laughter at this and two or three waggled fingers back at me, grinned openly, as others quietly waved to me. Several rapped on the back windows as I passed closely by the back corner of the bus while it pulled away from the stop sign.
   All of this I found reassuring. Under the cloak of social expectation, these girls managed to peek out for a moment or two and behave, in a very quiet way, like the boys on the first bus. I had provided them with something that allowed their truer more natural selves to emerge for a few seconds. Their darkened faces had lit up, their smiles emphasized the faces of children, their mildly scampish youthfulness shone through.
   Once out of sight, I expect they returned to their more practised behaviour of obediant girls on an outing in a world which seems in so many ways to not want them to engage with that world. It was, for me, a heartening few seconds we had together as I walked along, trying to keep in whatever shadows the few trees and taller buildings cast onto the sidewalk. Perhaps theirs will be the generation that finally gets out from under the patriarchal yoke.
   Of a more immediate concern, however, I couldn't help being reminded yet again that here it isn't only the heat that's oppressive.

Christmas and New Years: Barcelona and Sevilla: Part One

Let me begin by saying I'm sorry this posting is so much after the fact, but there it is.
Our decision to go to Spain for the Christmas/New Years holiday had more to do with getting out of a country deprived of cultural highlights than it had to do with going to one that had them in abundance. Lucky us, then, for choosing Spain, a country we've wanted to visit for some time, more for hearing about the good weather and cheap good wine than anything else. While these two qualities are accurate reflections of the reality, there is so much more that makes a visit to Barcelona and Sevilla very rewarding: the history as reflected in the architecture, art galleries, traditions such as "the stroll", and the good weather and cheap wine. Not to mention the food. My goodness, the food.

Rose likes the name of the shop, particularly
with me in front of it. Very funny, Rose.

And the people were very friendly and eager to help, if the young staff at our hotel, the waiters who served us our meals, local merchants, and the taxi drivers are anything to go by (Well, except for the first taxi driver who couldn't find our hotel and unceremoniously dumped us three blocks from our hotel with no directions to go by in the dark on a busy holiday night. Other than him, jerk, we never encountered any problems at all.) I'm particularly fond of the woman who served me coffee to take away at a nearby coffee shop/bakery just when I finished a run and, seeing my running gear, commented that I must be doing this for the benefit of my girlfriend. I told her there was no fooling her alright. The waitress, that is, not the girlfriend.

One of many curious shops in
Barcelona.

Wandering through the narrow lanes, cobbled alleys, and varied 'placas' of Barcelona's old Jewish ghetto, Le Barri Gotic, where our hotel was situated, provides many surprises and delights from this watering hole with its whistling faces (they probably squirted water in a previous life) to the four or five scenes pictured below.

Having paella in a Barcelona restaurant is enough to make me want to move to the place. A culinary experience not to be missed. And the tile work decorating the Palau de la Musica Catalana is an equally delightful feast for the eyes. Rose and I did a tour but they wouldn't allow any pictures inside. Check it out online: spectacular. The remaining pictures are just a few of the many we took and are not entirely in order but I hope you can enjoy them and that they convince you that Christmas in Barcelona can be a wonderful holiday. The Picasso Museum, Olympic Mountain, great out of the way bookshops, markets, placas, walks, phenomenal wine, great tapas.

Gorgeous columns at the Palau de la Musica Catalana
in Barcelona. The tour inside is a marvel.

The Gaudi cathedral, Sagrada Familia, which
is amazing to see but somehow verging on the
ridiculous, it seems to me.

More Gaudi.

Some of the gargoyles on the
14th C Barcelona Cathedral.

This fellow sat outside our hotel window
every day we were there.

One of many doors Rose fell
in love with.  

One of a variety of medieval squares.

On Christmas Day we found an Irish pub open serving all
day full English breakfast and Guinness. What more would
a couple want early in the morning in Barcelona, all other
shops being closed?

Our Christmas Day host.

Board games in the sun by the Arc de
Trionf on the gorgeous boulevard of
Passeig de Lluis Companys.

In the beautiful Parc de la Ciutadella people gather to dance
for an hour; others gather to watch.

As we flew over Venice on our way to
Barcelona.

A typical evening in the square from
our hotel balcony. Music, food, and wine.

Golden mushrooms at the nearby Mercat de la Bouqueria,
a giant food market. It's all there.

More of the Mercat de la Bouqueria

And more.

Christmas poinsettia on La Rambla.

La Rambla, one of the great pedestrian streets in the world.
A bit tourist-trappy, but worth the crowds anyway.

After our tour of the Torres Winery in VillaFranca, an hour's
train ride from Barcelona. Well worth the travel.

One of many well lighted trees around
Le Barri Gotic no one of our many night strolls.

Amsterdam, Better Late Than Never

(I thought I had posted this back in July, but it turns out I hadn't.)

Even though it's origins date back to the 13th Century, there is a very modern feeling to Amsterdam, as Rose and I discovered. The other thing we discovered is that this is the city we could spend the rest of our lives in: it is a remarkable mixture of history and contemporary convenience, artistic sensibility and earthly delights. The trams, for instance, are silent, frequent, and relatively inexpensive. There are dedicated bicycle lanes and it is clear this is a city council which has embraced the importance of the bicycle as a means of mass transit. Look, for instance, at this picture of bikes parked in the centre of town.

 Thousands of bikes, everywhere. And no one bats an eye except tourists when a mother rides along in the rain with one hand on an umbrella, the other on the bike, while a young child balances in the front seat on the handlebars, another sits calmly behind in a toddler's seat, and a third looks at the world from a backpack. Mum looks all the while as if this is just another routine start to an Amsterdam June day.

We stayed on a canal boat, The Captain's Place, and would stay there again in a minute if the chance arose.  This boat, built in 1906, carried heavy cargo along the canals of Amsterdam as well as the ones that make canal travel to Paris possible, until the Captain bought and refurbished it back in the 90's. It now has all the modern conveniences aboard, including a gorgeous sunny dining area with its own indoor  bougainvillea. The  thing is so heavy that, while boats moored beside us bobbed on the light waves, we were "as founded as the rock" and slept soundly. This may have partly to do with the fact that we had no lessons to plan, exams to mark, or loony Saudi drivers to watch out for.

The city centre is very walkable, what with the many canals to stroll along or to look down, the various examples of Dutch architecture, the use of colours and flowers, and the range of canal boats.

   I had no idea that Amsterdam was riddled with canals, and every walk was a bit of a mystery, a treasure hunt. In the picture on the right, Rose is clutching our dear friend from Norwich, Steve Laddiman. He and good wife Hazel flew over from England to join us on the canal boat for three days and we had a blast together. There are few places I can recommend as I can Amsterdam in late June. Hollyhocks in full bloom sprouting up out of the cement, as if they thrive on concrete dust; light morning showers every day gave way by noon to sun, cafes, wine, and walking. Norwich just over the water. It was glorious. As I said, I could live the rest of my life in Amsterdam. Another reason to buy lottery tickets.

One of so many curiously Dutch buildings
that are as much of treat to the eye as the tree
lined canals and colourful boats.

     We took a train with Steve and Hazel out to Harlaam, about 15 minutes from the central train station. This brings us into the medieval Netherlands. Harlaam at one time was the major northern city in the country, seat of local government, and weilding a mighty economic punch. This was before Amsterdam and Rotterdam grew in importance. It retains its 14th century town square, Grote Markt, and several of the buildings there at the time. Talk about stepping back in time. While we were visiting, we came across Marching Band Sunday and got to sit by the square enjoying our whisky and lager as a variety of marching bands vied for supremacy, or simply strutted their stuff for all the locals. It must have been a fairly big deal because bleachers were set out, dignitaries pronounced, and families gathered. It seemed a bit odd, I must admit, to hear one of the more significant songs from my youth: Eleanor Rigby (few versions came as such a surprise as this one did).

Grote Markt in Harlaam

One of so many flower shops at the
Amsterdam flower market.

This gentleman agreed to stand for a picture
moments after I marvelled at his moustache. 

Playing Eleanor Rigby in the medieval square. A timeless
song in a timeless place. But a marching song?

Back in Amsterdam one of several lovely canal side

 restaurants. That's Hazel with Rose. Steve's in the 

light blue and shorts. The food was divine, as were 

the ducks, bikes, and lazy passing of time.

Captain Eugene on our morning of departure. He was a great
host and I recommend his services highly.

That was an abbreviated look at our Amsterdam trip, made the more special by two things: it was the end of the school year and a transition step to our summer in Owen Sound, and we got to spend a good deal of it with our dear Norwich pals, Hazel and Steve (I guess that's three rather than two). If you ever do one thing in Europe and only one thing, consider a week or two in this very cool, very civilized city. And I haven't even begun to tell you about the cheese shops, delft stores, the "high" toned coffee shops with their muffins, cake, and brownies. They are, so to speak, singular joints. But of that, anon.

Abu Dhabi Oil and Portuguese Port

Two of the more economically impressive fluids man has managed and shaped to his own ends are the ones which keep Abu Dhabi afloat today and the one that put parts of Portugal on the map centuries ago: oil in the first case and port in the second. Without the first, Rose and I would not have been able to enjoy the second quite so easily nor so much a couple of weeks ago when we visited Owen Sound friends, fresh from 800km of walking the Camino de Santiago, in Porto, Portugal.

We'd only been home from a wonderful two day workshop on middle and high school literacy at the American School in Abu Dhabi for four days when the final Eid holiday came and we were off to Portugal. I was hardly over my exhausting jetlag-all-night flight and drive back to Yanbu-and-work experience when we had to do an all-night drive and fly trip to Portugal. I know I shouldn't complain when this job affords us this kind of travel, but it's still exhausting and keep in mind I'm not 57 anymore and can't do the things I used to do, or at least not do them with such vim as I used to. But I digress. Abu Dhabi is for the most part a city state surrounded by a lot of empty land which covers a rich oil field discovered in the early 70s. Up to that point, all the place had to offer the world was sand and some nice looking waterfront property that could be got for a song, or maybe a couple of goats. Now, though, the city is astoundingly modern with construction going on at a pace that amazes. The buildings that emerge are on a scale and of shapes that seem the stuff of science fiction. 

   The first thought that struck me after seeing all this was not just that oil is an overwhelmingly huge economic driving force--that has been obvious for decades--but that the powers aligned against anything that will stop or even slow down its influence are massive beyond massive and determined beyond any measure of determination man has yet imagined. Here's one set of figures that will make any rational person shake his head (or more likely her head): a native Abu Dhabian (probably male), according to an elderly Irish fellow I spoke to who seemed to know a hawk from a handsaw, inherits from the state when he comes of age 18 million dollars, that being his part of the countries' native wealth. Everyone gets this, as long as he is native blah blah blah. It's unreal. So think of the amount the government keeps and how much of that is going into buildings meant to attract multi-national banks, insurance companies, and the like. It may well be in our children's lifetime that the oil will run out, and when it does, places like Abu Dhabi risk becoming ghost towns. Yanbu, for instance, will become a ghost town, revert to what it was before oil was discovered here, and become little more than a repository for blown sand, empty plastic bags, and camel shit. There's already a deadening of the soul of what it once was. The home Lawrence of Arabia kept here is disintegrating into the sand on which it was built and sooner or later the economy will do the same.

   But you came to read about our travels, so enough of the geo-politics. Here are a couple of the sights from Abu Dhabi.

 A beautifully startling sight and covering an enormous area, this is the Abu Dhabi Grand Mosque and to pass by in a vehicle is jaw-dropping. I'm not sure I've seen a whiter white.
The next two are buildings we passed each day on our way to the conference. They are both very large and architecturally curious, as you can see. I have no idea what they are for except to say the one with the great swoop in it is attached to a massive sports complex which includes three separate soccer stadiums, running tracks, practice fields and so on. The soccer world cup is in Abu Dhabi soon, I think. Coudn't have had anything to do with the money; must be the summer weather.  

The impressive swoop of some sort of
building on the sports complex grounds.

The view from our hotel on Yaz
Island, looking north into the
Persian Gulf.

Faux elephant tusks made with carved
camel bone.

The old souk redone in solid teak
screens. Stunning, but not old.

A little spice shop with bags and bags of the stuff, including three different
varieties of myrrh sap, hardened into beautiful quartz-like shapes.

Portugal, on the other hand, has as many buildings empty, old, and ramshackley interesting as Abu Dhabi has teeming, new, and gleemingly interesting. However, flying via Casablanca can be somewhat depressing on Royal Air Maroc because of the flying habits of the regulars and the ineptitude of the employees at the Jeddah International Airport (not to mention the Casablanca crew not getting our bag onto the flight to Lisbon). Our flight was delayed by two hours with no explanation, announcement, or apology, even though the official screens indicating flight status said we were on time. But it also included a flight from several hours earlier indicated as boarding for seven hours. One official simply laughed when I asked about the screen and told me it is never right. Once on the plane, it takes the attendants about twenty minutes to get people into their correct seats after pointless arguments and discussions trying to explain to people how the boarding pass seat indicators are meant to be taken seriously. Baffling in the extreme why people think they can just sit anywhere. And getting off the plane is equally bothersome. Most of the native passengers throw food scraps, used kleenex, plastic wraps, forks and spoons, peanut shells, pillows, and whatever else they might no longer want to deal with onto the floor. Getting off involves stepping on earphones, soggy tissue, newspapers and the like. It makes you wonder. And there is always a handful of men who think that the stay-in-your-seat-and-don't-open-the-overhead-bins-as-the-plane-is-taxiing instruction actually doesn't apply to them. More than once we've seen a scramble for carry-on bags that a football linebacker might have trouble negotiating. This does not include the fear and trembling brought on by many of the young children who are rarely if ever strapped in and allowed to run about the aisles or stand up on the seats despite pleas from worried attendants. 
   But travel is so much about enjoying cultural differences that I guess I should somehow find the patience within me to see all of this as good old plain fun rather than mind-numbing idiocy. Thank goodness the Lisbon airport, our first port of call, had a spot where a fellow could get a glass of port, quickly. One good thing about flying out of Casablanca on a somewhat clear afternoon is the sight of the north African coast.

The Atlantic north of Africa crashes on the Moroccan coast at Casablanca.

And here, after leaving our villa in Yanbu at 10 p.m. the previous night, is the coast line at Lisbon at 1:30 p.m. the next day. A restorative sight, I must say. After a three hour train north to Porto, we met up with Geoff and Kathy whose month on the Camino made them irritatingly fit and addicted to walking hours at a time, a development that paid off in the end for us as it got us doing an activity virtually foreign in Saudi culture. The walking was fabulous partly because it got us into some of the local cafes and shops, the kind of places missing from the more tourist-focused centre of the town. Porto is a World Historical Site, was established by the Romans well before the AD era, later invaded by the  Moors and then invaded again by Christian armies, raided by Napoleon, and retaken by the native Portuguese. It is a city with a history. And always there has been port, a drink named for the city in a city which gave the country its name. A lovely synchronicity, it seems to me.

      It could just as easily have taken its name from the gorgeous blue tile that is regularly evident when you walk around. Outside walls of churches and other buildings, interior walls of the central train station, and who knows what sort of places are decorated to great effect with blue tiles which more often than not tell a story or emphasize some historical event. But the visual effect one experiences coming upon such a sight unannounced is very very enjoyable, in a "Good Lord!" sort of way.

   The beautiful church with the cross above the door is the Igreja (church) de Santo Ildefonso. It was constructed between 1724 and 1730, and the blue tiles are by Jorge Colaço (1932), depicting scenes from the life of St. Ildefonso, among other things.

A detail of one of the panels on the church below.

This is inside the old train station!

Another one inside the station.

A close-up of one of the panels, including
the face of a local 1960s hair-cut.

One of our turn-a-corner surprises.

So you can see how the walking was rewarding. The waterfront is another part of the old town worth spending time in. We ate very well, drank some beer and some port with a few locals, met street artists with interesting stories, and found some bargains, too. The harbour tour is well worth taking, a 45 minute ride up into the town and then back down again and out toward the Atlantic, all the while passing impressive bridges, steeply sloped housing, and the massive port cellars whose rooms stretch well back into the hills they are built on. Below is a selection of a few of the many photos I took of the Porto leg of our holiday.

This type of cobbling often goes 

on for several blocks or kilometres, in 

some cases.

Another of the many markets 

the city is known for. 

We found a hillside cafe looking out over the town towards
the Atlantic and  managed to enjoy a sunny hour admiring

the view.

Some local life.

One of the more interesting examples of the
graffiti found all over the city.

Another delicious meal along the

harbour, this time at Lapin.

Looking up towards the town centre from the harbour wall

with more of the colourful tile, laundry, and religious 

iconography with which the city abounds.

Looking down at Lapin restaurant 

with the Eiffel designed bridge in the 

background. 

You can see one of the famous port 

cellars just beyond the famous bridge 

as we stand on the famous harbour wall, 

famously.

At the start of our port tasting, the
prelude to many delicious moments.
A not unpleasant way to spend an
hour or two.

The centuries old gothic cathedral
boasts some curious gargoyles.

Life in Yanbu makes a picture of ham worth taking.

We ended our time by driving along the coast to Lisbon, stopping at a seaside boardwalk along the way, and having a stunning Nepalese meal on a winding little street just off the centre square of the capital. It was a glorious holiday. My thanks to Andre Lyder, by the way, for suggesting I find poetry by Fernando Pessoa. Inspiring stuff.

The photo does not do justice to either the power or the size
of the photo. Very little wind was blowing, but these
whiteheadswere smashing their way in. One had to be wary.

The main square, Rossi, in Lisbon from our
rainy window. My, but it was a glorious sight.

I can almost always remember rooms I've stayed in which

have made me both happy and comfortable. This one, 

for one night, four people, was perfect. Right in the heart 

of the city and overlooking the main square was excellent, 

and priced very cheaply. It is in both Rick Steve's and in 

Lisbon Top Ten and well worth it. And, dare I say it, the 

writing was on the wall. Thus the room's name: Escritor

It is deceptive, but this is a very steep cobbled 

street outside our window. Geoff drove the car 

up this thing and it was a bit like driving it up 

and over the Niagara Escarpment . . . really. 

But second nature to the locals.

Rossi Square in the heart of the old part of Lisbon is
a hub,  day or night, of activity. We enjoyed the walk around
and the odd little shop that had chosen not to be a
tourist trap shop. A city I'd go back to in a moment, if for no
other reason than the walking around.

So that is our Portugal trip, and what a restorative it was after two and a half months in the desert. It isn't without irony I make this comment since the time spent teaching in this barren land is what afforded us the trip. On a sadder note, it is places like Portugal and Amsterdam and London which throw into stark relief the vast emptiness of this country, a country in fact rich in history but most of it ignored in terms of selling to tourists or even to the local inhabitants. Geographically fascinating but at the same time forbidding; culturally private yet interestingly mysterious, despite the closed doors and, to a western way of thinking, closed minds. It's a beautiful country in the same way the sea or the Arctic is beautiful, a beautiful sparseness, at least in the northern half where we live. But it seems determined to not allow for the richness that derives from an active commingling of different cultures, and it is a country full of the possibilities of different cultures; one third of its workforce is from somewhere else, a quarter of its population is foreign. Where Portugal and London are in many ways open, it is more natural (and who's to argue, really?) here for walls, gates, and manners to force a distance and a separation.