One for the road

While the car remains one of my favorite places to listen to music, I've found myself gravitating more and more towards audio books as a means to enliven long drives. When we're at home in Oakland, we have the good fortune to live on the same block as a public library. As it's a small branch, I also used to make frequent trips to the downtown branch, where the selection is superior. Late one night as I was packing for a trip to Ventura, I realized I'd forgotten to visit the library, and wouldn't have a book to pass the time, so I did a quick google search and struck literary gold with librivox.org.

Now, Robin Cook fans will be disappointed to read that librivox deals only in works that are in the public domain, so fans of histrionic medical dramas will be forced to look elsewhere. Still, there's plenty of Twain, Fitzgerald, Faulkner, and Hawthorne, so you can at least avoid UK spelling, which just sounds weird on mp3. Another advantage that librivox has over the library, which admittedly does offer a tantalizing supply of potboilers to pass the miles, is that you can copy the files right onto your ipod, which beats swapping discs every hour and a half, or ripping ten CD's the night before. 

The audio quality and performance vary somewhat, and some novels feature a revolving cast of readers, which always seems to make the least capable orators all the more obvious. I've been considering volunteering, as I have all I need to make a professional recording here in Dubai, and would love to contribute to this excellent resource.

Lastly, because many folks just don't enjoy downloading legal content, here's a blog offering over twenty unreleased white album demos. I had planned on describing the sound of the generator we encountered at TBR by linking to the album version of "Back In The USSR", with it's opening woosh of jet noise, but I became distracted when I found these recordings-- score one for the legal team at Apple Corp, sort of.

Oman! You Devil.

It is almost impossible for me to talk about Oman without comparing it to Dubai, which is the only region of the Middle East that I know well, or at all. The essence of my feelings on these two neighboring countries can be distilled into two anecdotes, the first of which occurred while we were staying at the Turtle Beach Resort (TBR) in Ras Al Jinz, Oman. 

TBR is made up of ten or twelve humble straw roofed huts, which are comfortable enough, and have a slightly rugged charm, allowing the occupant to muse: "See? I'm not as soft as you think I am." All from the comfort of a queen size bed that is probably decked out with feather pillows brought from home. The first evening at TBR passed in tranquil fashion, as Vanessa and I seemed to have the place nearly to ourselves. In the morning, the resort's smattering of middle aged guests emerged well before us, and were already sunning themselves on the beach while we policed our breakfast plates against a squadron of Omani flies. 

We were still recovering from 36 hours of (mostly) driving and sleeping, and allowed ourselves a day of lazing around the beach and shack which, at its most active, included a dusty game of basketball with some gullible local children. "Isn't that Yusuf Islam?" I would exclaim, pointing and squinting into the distance as they turned to join me, knowing full well that Yusuf's latest album went triple frankincense in Oman. Having effectively diverted the ten year olds, I quickly passed the ball to Nessa down court where she proceeded to finger roll another two points for Team USA.

Needless to say, we were greatly enjoying our time at TBR, and continued to do so despite the arrival of a gang of cell phone encrusted Dubai residents, who had mistakenly booked TBR believing that it was some sort of luxury hotel with a night club and custom tortoise shell dance floor. 

Later, as I lay my head on the pillow, reading One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest for the first time, our new neighbors proceeded to power up the AC in their shack, igniting a tortured sounding generator that turned out to be located six feet from my head, just outside our poorly insulated hut. I don't expect huts to be well insulated per se, but I also don't expect them to have air conditioning. I suppose the reason I most resented the resulting 14 hour mechanical serenade, was that the temperature was quite reasonable, on the cool side if anything. It's possible that the noise might have been meant to obscure the couple's amorous plans for the evening, but it proved no match for their braying affections, which suggested a film acting pedigree quite unexpected in an islamic state. 

When I awoke the next morning to find the AC/generator still whirring like a broken refrigerator perched inside my ear canal, I exacted my revenge by pounding on the walls of our hut, shouting over and over, "goddamn these plastic nails!" Still, I can't be sure that our slumbering neighbors heard me, as my antics probably blended in with the white noise of their personal comfort. I realize that I'm whining about minor irritations, but isn't a vacation hopefully a respite from such aggravation, especially when the nearest town is a sparsely populated fishing village? We relished our break from Dubai, so when Dubai came to us in Oman, it was quite unwelcome.

My second story about Oman, isn't so much a story, but the paraphrasing of an email I received from my friend and editor, Andy. Upon our return, I had sent him a new article, along with a note thanking him and his wife for recommending the Oman Dive Center (ODC) in Muscat, where we stayed for two nights towards the end of our trip. Returning from TBR at the start of the work week, we sailed smoothly down Oman's recently opened coastal highway, which afforded excellent views of the Gulf, and the pleasure of sailing through toll booths that weren't yet operational. The ODC is a somewhat more refined resort than TBR, in that the huts are a better furnished and more finished looking in general, including their own open air shower and bathroom. Nestled behind the hut and, protected by rock walls about five feet high, the shower was like some excellent backyard patio with an overhead sprinkler. Also, the coffee is pretty good at ODC, whereas TBR serves instant. Within minutes of receiving my email Andy wrote back the following reply, he'd just returned from almost a month in his native Australia:

"Yeah, having a little trouble adjusting myself-- wish I lived in Oman instead of Dubai."

Liam Getting Harried

Last night, "Rachel Getting Married" thoroughly trampled our spirits, mercifully offering a modest emotional uptick towards the end, along with some slightly whingy Robin Hitchcock tunes, and one enjoyable samba troupe. Unlike RGM's interminably glum and self involved cinematic doppleganger, "Margot at the Wedding," which I wish I hadn't bothered to finish (all squid and no whale), RGM features slightly more recognizable characters, even if the calmest among them often have the least lines, leaving the leads to carry the show with their raw, shrill emotions. All in all, it was one of the better movies we've seen here, but moviegoing in Dubai is a mixed bag. 

First of all, people talk and text constantly, and while I've gotten much better at blocking it out, it's still irritating. At RGM we were seated next to a group of middle aged muslim men and women who clucked their tongues disparagingly at the onscreen samba dancer's PG rated dance-kini, and otherwise seemed engaged in a running dialogue about their favorite character, the fictional family's pet poodle. The clucking was actually pretty tame compared to the riotous laughter that broke out during the last scene of "Australia," which we saw earlier in the week, when the aboriginal character King George's bare rump is displayed as he heads off into the light bending heat of the outback. George's ass completely slew the Emiratis next to us, they were practically falling out of their seats, and it was actually fairly infectious, if slightly unnerving. Somehow, the shared viewing experience that can make moviegoing so different from DVD, is broken here by the intense parallelism of culture, i.e. we are concurrently watching different movies play out on the same screen.

The second discouraging fact of moviegoing in Dubai is that the selection is usually pretty grim, last night, for instance, our options included; Pride and Glory, Genghis Kahn, The REC, The Women, RGM, Donkey Xote, Strange Wilderness, Traitor, Anywhere But Home (I think this was called Four Christmases in the US), Bedtime Stories, Australia, Bolt, Transporter Three, and Madagascar 2, the best of which we'd already seen. I've watched and enjoyed more mediocre films here than at perhaps any other time in my life, due to the fact the I simply like going to the movies and mediocre is after all, a relative term. In fact, the surprising thing about the above list is that it contains an unusually low number of horror movies for Dubai, a genre I've never really loved. In the UAE, a country where movies are regularly censored for sexual images and language, the low budget independent slasher flick reigns supreme, splashing crimson across multiplex screens alongside the latest Pixar offering, and what ever dreck Cameron Diaz has lent her two expressions to.

After the movie we stopped by Malecon, Dubai's lone cuban bar, the interior of which is completely covered in an admirably thorough amount of bar sponsored graffiti, much of which must have required a ladder or human pyramid to engrave. I was reminded of the Washoe House, a roadhouse in my beloved Sonoma county that, at least when I was there some 20 years ago with my pops, has its entire ceiling covered in dollar bills, business cards, and drunken missives scrawled out on cocktail napkins. Perhaps that, and the familiar faux cuban interior, are what help Malecon to offer a somewhat transportive atmosphere. The bar offers a carefully crafted dive feel, and I've always found fancy bars are best left to fancy people. Walking towards the rear of the dining area where the men's room awaited, I was lulled into a state of passivity by the musical chatter of a slightly harassed looking table of spanish speaking diners. Pushing open the men's room door I was surprised to find a startled looking attendant bidding farewell to the previous occupant. While I'm happy to tip an attendant, especially at the nicer hotels where such a thing is expected, I'm never sure what the protocol is at the mall or the airport, where such a thing seems unnecessary, like having a caddy at a miniature golf game. And really, I'm perfectly happy to get my own paper towel. 

I'm somewhat neurotic about appropriate tipping, but have had my usual adherence to the sort of mutual appreciation usually practiced by former service industry drones (like me) eroded by the vagaries of Dubai's bizarre social strata. For instance, many restaurants add a 10% service charge to the bill, but I find it unlikely that the server ends up seeing this money. Additionally, tipping isn't expected here the way it is at home, and Dubai's typically lousy service probably stems from that lack of incentive, coupled with an annoying brand of politesse that forbids bringing the bill unbidden or even dropping by to see if we might like to pay, having finished our meal the previous week. And so, darting into a private stall, not because I'm pee shy, or worried about some republican senator making overtures (different strokes), but because I need a moment to check my pockets for cash, which I typically lack. Happily, the attendant was absent when I opened the stall door, so I washed up and got the hell out of there without having to explain that I lacked even a one Dirham coin. 

I wasn't so lucky when meeting my first Dubai panhandler at the grocery store last weekend, the economic significance of which I've been pondering ever since. Upon parking I was approached by a smiling pakistani fellow with unusually inflamed looking gums. Raising his hand to his mouth in pantomime he managed to eek out the word "hungry," and I did my best to convey that I would try and help but that I needed to unload my recycling first. Eventually it became clear that I had more than I could carry and he reluctantly gave me a hand, I suppose he was new to the guilt game. After which I repeated the word "hungry" with rising intonation and gesture toward the market. "Money?" He replied. Naturally, I didn't have any cash and, showing him my credit card to indicate my willingness to help, he shrugged and walked way. When I finally returned to the car with several bags of groceries he was nowhere to be seen until I started to back out of my spot and he suddenly appeared from the bushes making the same gesture he'd first hailed me with. So, stopping the car and rifling through the bags in the back, I finally bestowed him with a large bottle of water, a couple bananas and some excellent potato scones (probably not what you're thinking of, but are more like a cross between flat bread and potato pancakes) from the bakery, which he reluctantly accepted, turning away bag in hand without a word of thanks. That's alright though, he may not have known how.