Brainscrubber

I grew up with coffee.

My parents drank coffee percolated in an aluminum percolator on top of the
stove.  I’ve even seen them boil coffee in a pan on the stove (keep that one in
mind).  And, entering the modern age, they even got a Mr. Coffee for
Christmas and made coffee brewed with an automatic coffeemaker.  They
drank coffee, and my younger brother and I drank coffee, too.  A coffee
family.

I understood coffee.

Gotta get up early.  Drink some coffee.  Gotta stay up late, drink
some coffee.  Got a long road trip – drink some coffee.  Break time
at work…coffee time.  Visit a friend…coffee time.  Just need to
talk…coffee time.

Then, I joined the Navy, and I discovered the hard stuff.  Mid-watch
coffee aboard a naval vessel will not only grow hair on one’s chest (even
ladies), but it curdles one’s language and results in repeated,
“Argghhhs!,” from the pirate within.  Real sailors drank
mid-watch coffee.  Yachtsmen drank…well, everything else.
Hmmmphh.

Of course, the enjoyment of said coffee went away over the years.  Pretty
soon it was a 10 cups of coffee.  Then, a pot a day.  Then, two pots
a day.   Coffee before bed so I could sleep.  Coffee at daybreak
so I could get moving.  Coffee!  Coffee!  Coffee!

When my wife and I got married, someone very thoughtfully gave us a set of four
tiny cups and saucers.  “What are these for?” I asked.  I
couldn’t imagine what one would possibly drink in these tiny little, daintily
painted doll cups.  Coffee was drunk in mugs that matched the size of
Texas.  If you didn’t have to warm it up by the time you got to the final
inch of a cup of coffee, you obviously only wanted a sip.  Hell, even
wussy hot tea drinkers used real cups with some heft; though, they needed to
balance the wait of the cup by letting their pinky hang free in midair.
“They’re tiny coffee cups,” I was told.  I just cracked up and
laughed for a solid week, in between belts of joe from my bubba mug.

Then, Starbucks appeared, and my view of life changed.

I realize that, nowadays, it is fashionable to bash Starbucks.  That’s all
right.  Bash away.  Nothing – nothing will ever take away from the
day I first realized that coffee had a flavor that was not akin to the
inch-deep sludge in the oil pan of an abandoned 1937 Model T owned by some
gangster who last changed the oil in 1923.  I owe that to Starbucks.
Wonderful, flavorful, freshly ground beans.

My level of sophistication grew quickly.  I learned that cappuccino
didn’t refer to a denim ball cap and a latte was a fancy name for coffee and
cream – with the cream nicely warmed and frothed.  I even learned that it
was possible to mix coffee with CHOCOLATE!!!  CHOCOLATE!!!  I even
learned that those tiny little cups were called demitasse cups and were for
shots of espresso – the purest form of joe known to humankind.

But, my taste buds liked the essentials most, and I settled on the
Americano:  shots of espresso swirled into hot, hot water.  The
boilermaker of coffee drinking.  I had found my drink…especially in the
form of the Iced Venti Americano…four hefty shots (more if you were friendly
with the barista and tipped well) of steaming espresso poured over a bucket of
ice, with just enough water to satisfy the corporate recipe book.  For
years, I could be seen with my never empty cup of real man’s coffee.

Yes, I understood coffee.  I understood it well.  I understood as
only a coffee aficionado could understand.

Then – I went to Saudi Arabia.

Very little resolves to normal for me over here.

That’s not necessarily a bad thing.  Normal sometimes equalizes with boring.  Sometimes, though, Normal embraces in a comfortable way.

Last evening, I had to go to Carrefoure, the French equivalent of Wal-Mart, in order to get some really cheap plastic shelving for holding some of the books I am using to study Arabic and a couple of professional certifications.  I buy things for which I figure I can receive the utilitarian value in relatively short order – things which I can give away or walk away from with little worry about leaving it behind.  I also buy things I figure I can sell quickly and receive some mitigation on the original price.  But, shelving falls into the cheap realm.  I’ll just leave it behind, and the folks who come in to clean the apartment will take it for their own use; or, I’ll give it to a frugal-minded expat who comes in behind me.

In any case, I found myself at the mall last evening.   I decided to eat something up in the food court prior to going to the store.  A weekend night, no dishes, no mess, and something I didn’t cook.  I’d been having hints of a craving for spaghetti, so I decided to give the Sbarro’s in the food court a shot. 

At the malls, there are two sections of seating.  There is open seating, in plain view, and this is where singles, which equates to male with no wife or teenaged daughter with you, is supposed to sit.  Then, there is the family section, which is massive in comparison to the single section – behind opaque barriers intended to shield women from the rude attentions of single males – frosted glass in the case of this mall.

I took my spaghetti, garlic bread, and 7-Up and found a table within the single section.  I chose a table with a good view of the people as they entered the food court.  Not to my surprise, I found the spaghetti sauce pretty blah, more like tomato sauce than a seasoned and simmered pasta sauce.  But, the garlic bread was good, and I ate and sipped my drink and watched the people traipse by, self-absorbed within their own world – just as if I was back home – only the costumes changed.

The mall, in Riyadh, is a social center.  Most of the year, it is too hot to do things outside.  At night, sometimes, folks will go somewhere and sit in the sand and drink coffee and gab, but not all the people and not all the time.  Evenings at the mall provide a time for the whole family to get together and do something.  This is especially true on weekends. 

Almost every mall has some form of family entertainment available.  This mall (Granada Center), for example, hosts a rollercoaster and other fun games for children, just off the food court.  Makes conversation difficult.  But, I am usually alone there; so, that doesn’t matter.  Kids are loud by nature, and parents are loud in return.  Teens are loud because they want to make their presence known; so, again, the noise level doesn’t matter.

Thursday night is like Saturday night in the States, and the place is jammed.  Hundreds pack the food court area.  Mostly Saudi families on the weekend, there is still a fair representation of Western couples and their kids, also.  Plenty of single guys, too; though, being a happily married man, I sometimes bristle at that term being applied to me.  In fact, if I look over there, three Western guys of indeterminate national origin are walking in together, looking for their own dinner.

Behind them, there’s a Saudi family coming, three small children in tow.  The kids are laughing and running amok, playing some form of tag with each other.  A young Saudi guy enters, followed closely by a gaggle of young women, obviously slight in build despite formless abayas, the veils scarcely hiding their playful interaction with each other as they follow closely to their escort – probably a cousin or brother – chosen to ensure their safety and to keep them out of trouble.

I hear wailing behind me.  Young kid, unhappy with some turn of events, I wait for them to circle to within vision before I glance at them.  A British couple (their accents give it away) are herding two young boys (about 4 or 5), and a girl of 7 or 8 bawling quite loudly, trailing behind and stomping her feet in anger and frustration.  Mom finally turns to her and tells her to dry it up.  Doesn’t do much good, and they stop at the McDonald’s kiosk, probably for the sake of the two boys.

On my way out, two beautiful little girls, maybe 3, coming running in from my right – joyful smiles curling their lips, yelling, “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!”  A man of South Asian origin (Indian or Pakistani or Sri Lankan) stops and smiles ever so slightly while he waits for the two girls to slam into him, hug his legs, and run off again.

In my car, after acquiring the shelving, these scenes are playing out in my mind.  Even 8,000 miles away from home, I find them pleasant, comforting – normal.

The following list identifies some things I’ve learned during the time I’ve lived in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.  I don’t think there’s anything really cohesive or thematic in this list – just some things I’ve noted.  I thought I’d share them.  Why?  I have no clue.

1. Top Gear – Top Gear is a British automobile show.  Well, that is an understatement, isn’t it?  Top Gear is the best automobile show that has ever been on any television channel in any country – ever.  Period.  If you like cars, then you should get hold of this show and watch it (check the listings for BBC America and Discovery Channel; it’s available on DVD if you are inclined).  If you don’t like cars, then it’s worthwhile to watch if only because of the three hosts:  Jeremy Clarkson, Richard Hammond, and James May.  What other show offers you detailed assessments of cars from all parts of the world – then holds a challenge where the hosts must find parking places for two of the world’s longest cars, in London – or have a fox hunt, where the fox is a Nissan automobile – or have two guests come on each week and drive selected cars around a fixed track, in competition not only with each other, but with the hosts and previous guests?  Last year, Richard Hammond was nearly killed in a car crash while filming the show.  What did this shrinking violet do?  He talked the BBC into devoting an entire episode to the crash, which he edited and presented.  Seriously, if you like cars, you’ll like this show.

2.  Multiple News Sources – Anyone who only gets their news from a single source is providing themselves with only one world view.  Maybe that suits you; but, I like to piece together the real story – not the story some particular news organization wants me to see.  If ever there was an argument against allowing the consolidation of news organizations, even for the sake of improving profits, it ought to be the current state of news gathering and reporting.  The more news outlets, the more perspectives.  The more perspectives, the more complete the real story.  The more complete the real story, the more informed a citizen you become.  Though it takes some work, there are many excellent news sources on the Internet.  And, don’t just read those with whom you agree.  Challenge yourself.  Read those with whom you perceive you disagree.  You just might find out you weren’t as right as you thought you were.  I highly encourage you to select some news sources outside your home country, as part of this challenge.

3.  Economic Literacy – Most people are ignorant of how economics works.  I’m not talking about obscure trends in the Watusi tribe on the continent of Africa.  Most people don’t understand the basic economic laws comprising what academics label as macroeconomics – something which EVERYONE should understand.  Unfortunately, at least in the U.S., the only exposure most people get to economic studies comes in the form of a class during their senior year of high school, which seldom is more than a check-box that needs to be ticked prior to graduation.  Real understanding of economic principles requires some personal effort, like reading.  This is true all over the world, too.  Basic economics is basic economics is basic economics.  Language or nationality do not matter.  Spend some time reading The Economist web site or magazine; or, listen to one of their fine podcasts, available via iTunes or Yahoo!.  For the most part, everything coming from them is in plain, layperson’s English.  Your perspective of world news, not to mention your daily life, will never be the same again.

4. The Embassy Social Scene – Although I’ve known they had some events at the Embassy, I never realized how often they hosted events for expatriates.  At least once a month, often twice, the Embassy hosts Community Nights, primarily for American expatriates – but well attended by expatriates of all nationalities.  Often, the number of Arabs attending rivals the number of Western-looking guests; of course, many of those Arabs hold American citizenship, too.  Here, though, it’s hard to discern which Arab is American from which is Canadian from which is Saudi from which is of whatever national origin one might imagine.  This doesn’t count the various special events the Embassy hosts during special seasons or during the Holiday season.  The trick is getting on the email list where these events are announced…which is not as easy as one might imagine.  The folks in charge like to keep the list down to a manageable size, which also limits the number of non-list guests who show.  The big ticket, though, is the Irish Embassy.  They pour freer than the Yanks do.

5. English Premier League Football – In America and Canada, we call it soccer.  In Mexico and the rest of the World, they call it football.  And, currently, the best of the sport is played in the English Premier League – and I have become an enormous fan of the most watched sports league in the entire world.  Far from the game ridiculed in America and Canada as boring, world class football yields some of the most exciting sporting moments I’ve ever witnessed.  Though some games do yield the stereotypical 0-0 or 1-0 scores, the game is seriously geared toward scoring, and several games this season have been very high-scoring affairs.  Even the low-scoring games are often very exciting and shining examples of why football is called The Beautiful Game; it really can be most artistic at times.  I go through withdrawals when I am at home – thank goodness for Fox Soccer Channel on Dish Network, which shows games early on Saturday and Sunday mornings during the season.  The EPL may be the most addicting sports league in the world.

That’s five discoveries.  I’ll post five more in the near future.

This should have been posted 2 months ago.  I have no excuse for why it was not; it simply was not.

Iftar, according to my Arab friends, literally means to break a fast.

This is appropriate since it is used to refer to the meal used by Muslims to break the day long fast required of the observant during the Holy Month of Ramadan.  As I have described before, fasting begins at the Fajr (Dawn – around 4:30am) prayer and continues until the Maghreb (Evening – around 5:50pm during this year’s Ramadan) prayer is called.  A light breakfast is eaten prior to Fajr, but even chewing gum and water are prohibited afterward.  Small children and the ill are exempt from Ramadan – though, an offering is made in lieu of actual fasting.

One of the guys who works for me invited me and the rest of the team to his father’s house for Iftar one Friday evening.  Being one of those people who prefers to experience culture rather than simply read about it, or observe it, I jumped at the chance to spend an important religious event with a Saudi family – albeit the male portion of the family only – although, that is a cultural thing, not a religious thing.

I rode to the family’s house with a friend who also works for me.  I can get around in Riyadh pretty well, now; but, if I get too far off the beaten path, where streets signs are in Arabic exclusively, I can get confused easily.  Rather than keep calling my host and asking for landmarks, it’s easier to ride (or follow) someone who can read the signs without having to stop and sound them out phonetically – then figure out what the heck they say.

Once inside the family compound, a large and beautiful place, complete with a swimming pool, it became obvious that our host (the father) had some family money.  I am sure there are fancier places owned by wealthier folks, but these city dwelling Saudis enjoyed a very comfortable home with air-conditioning in each room, a swimming pool, and several different rooms devoted to different purposes.  They graciously welcomed us inside with handshakes, and we took our places in a large, rectangular living room.  A huge painting, housed within a faux antiqued brass frame hung on the wall to my left.  Several brightly colored, matching  two-seater couches sat against the walls and encircled the center of the room.  A beautiful wooden coffee table, inlaid with stone, sat in the middle of the floor; dates and pitchers of Arabic coffee rested there, too.  Fancy lamps lit the room from each corner, as did overhead lights, dangling from the ceiling and apparently made of stone.  Throughout, dishes of dates sat on smaller tables placed strategically so that one did not have to reach far for sustenance.  A small dish of whipped cream accompanied the dishes of dates.

The father and someone else of apparently high family rank (he was introduced to me, but I cannot remember the connection) sat in two high back chairs located at the end of the room where everyone entered.  The father was the first one to be greeted whenever anyone arrived – always with a handshake, a kiss on each cheek, and a kiss on the forehead or top of the head by sons and grandchildren.  Then, each person made their way around the room, shaking the hand of every other person in the room – the Arabs who knew (or were related to) each other doing the cheek kissing ritual.  A mix of Arabic and English floated from mouth to ear as was appropriate.

Very little formal conversation took place prior to the meal itself.  Brief, familial or friendly words were exchanged at voice levels barely above a whisper.  I don’t know if this is how it is in every home in Saudi Arabia, but the tones of this household seemed muted in anticipation of the feast.  Anxious glances at watches could be noticed around the room.  I had not eaten during the day, myself – not out of any religious conviction; rather, I wanted to experience Iftar as it was experienced by my hosts.  So, I was a bit peckish, too.  Finally, a recording on someone’s mobile phone – or a clock in the room – I am not sure which, sounded the call to Maghreb prayer.

As soon as prayer was called, each person reached for a date, dipped it in the cream, and gobbled it up, followed by many other dates.  I found, from my friend, that the Prophet Mohammed, encouraged this little ritual as an appropriate manner in which to break the fast.  Getting a little sugar into the bloodstream before moving on to the main meal.  The youngest two members of the family began serving Arabic coffee to everyone.  Those who have read this blog previously know I am not a fan of Arabic coffee.  At best, it has always seemed to me to taste like dishwater; at worst, it simply has been unpalatable.  I was wishing for a cup of tea, but I accepted the coffee out of politeness.  Boy, was I surprised!  The coffee this family made actually tasted good.  There was still the distinct cardamon flavoring, and the milky watering down of the actual coffee, but the sweetness managed to round out the flavors instead of pushing the flavor into the realm of cloying, liquified camel poop stirred with dirty hay.

About fifteen minutes after the initial call to prayer, a second call went off, and all of the Muslims rose and went into one of the rooms covered in prayer rugs.  There were a couple of us infidels there, and we waited patiently while our hosts and the rest of their guests concluded their prayer.  All in all, it took about five minutes before they emerged again, and the doors into the dining room slid open.

Two different kinds of salad sat on each table – a traditional tabouleh and a green salad with vinegar dressing already on it.  Two baskets of cheese samosas and beef samosas sat one on each end of the table.  Two different kinds of soup – one a creamy chicken and the other a creamy lentil also occupied the tables.  And, of course, each table hosted a basket of pita bread, cut into triangles.  On another table sat several different types of fresh fruit juice to which each person helped themselves.  No servants were anywhere to be seen, which was different from my previous experience inside a Saudi home, and our hosts saw to our hospitality.

I easily could have filled up on the appetizers I described above.  I went for the lentil soup, some samosas, and both tabouleh and green salad.  So very, very good!  I had to restrain myself from getting seconds because the entrees occupied the table stationed on the far wall from where I sat.  I got up and went over to that table and was reminded of an American potluck dinner where each guest tries to outdo the other guests in providing gustatorily pleasing offerings.  Roasted goat provided the centerpiece, while roasted chicken played second-fiddle in a platter next to the goat.  Fish in a creamy sauce (don’t ask me, I don’t know its name) was available, and there were some roasted potatoes and onions, as well as a platter of white rice.  On the table next to this one, were several types of Syrian dishes, including roasted chicken thighs in some sort of sauce and a huge platter of Arabic-styled rice with raisins and nuts tossed into it.  Various types of vegetable dishes filled both tables.

A sort of fruit compote, over which one drizzles a sugary syrup, sat beside a creamy caramel offering very much akin to flan.  Appetizers, entrees, and dessert.  We were well served that night, and I gained fifty pounds.  OK, I exaggerate, I only gained forty-nine pounds.

According to many Arabic friends, formal Iftar dinners of this nature are the exception to the rule.  While they almost all usually follow the date ritual, other Arabic nationalities often eat the entire meal before performing their Maghreb prayers.  Normally, the food is less abundant and resembles a normal evening meal, including prepared foods brought in from restaurants and shops.  In fact, on the last night of Ramadan, the men with whom I work all met up at a local restaurant and ate Iftar together – where we were also served dates prior to the meal.

After dinner, we retired back to the sitting room for coffee and tea.

This was a group of very well-educated Arabs.  All of them were professionals: bankers, engineers, teachers.  Many had been educated in the United States.  In fact, one of my hosts, dressed in Western clothes rather than a thoub, told me about the problems he was having with getting a visa back to the United States, where he and his American wife own a home in one of the Dakotas.  His wife and kids go home each year, but he cannot get a visa approved, it’s always in process when he asks about it.  That’s been its status for three years.  There was a lot of interest with regard to the Presidential campaign in the U.S., and we Americans were solicited for our views – not only of who we thought would win, but what we thought would happen after the election was over and the new President took office.

The conversation wound down after about half-an-hour.  There was still one more set of prayers to go, and during this particular prayer time, Muslims (at least in KSA) recite a series of ten different prayers.  The guy with whom I rode informed me that we’d stayed the required amount of time to be polite, and it was all right if we left, now.  In fact, in light of the prayers coming up, it was polite for us to leave at that point.  So, we did.

This is a memory I will gladly store in my mind, one which I hope I won’t ever forget…though…I do hope I can drop the poundage I picked up that night.

Copyright, Greg Hubbard, 2008