Doha...No, How Odd

People Like You Make Me Sick

2011-07-28T19:32:00.001-07:00

Hmmm....I never got around to posting this before I left Doha: so, now, I will.

Not people like Sirish (actually, Suresh, but I’m sticking with my first spelling, so let’s just ignore the fact that I got his name, and much else about him, wrong, ok?) It’s not like he’s going to read this blog, although I would strongly encourage him to!, which does remind me that I wouldn’t write about my other colleagues in Qatar, although oh boy the stories I could tell! which means that I am treating Sirish (or Suresh) as someone I can write about, without worrying that he’ll storm into my office saying “Hey, Pal, you think you can just write about me and post it for the whole world to read, without giving a shit about what I think?” to which I’d respond “Yeah, go ahead and post whatever you want about me, because I’m so smart and charming and bullet-proof, that whatever you post will just enhance my global reputation.”

Just don’t send any of those pictures, ok?

No, Sirish does not make me sick. Over time, we developed a healthy and warm relationship. He’d ask me for money, and I’d ask him to bring me coffee or juice. Really. When I’d see him the first day of the week, I’d say “So, Sirish, how was your weekend?” and he would reply “I need more money.”

He did bring me coffee. LOTS of coffee. He started walking in to my classroom during class with a big mug and a glass of water, and I would thank him profusely. I was slightly embarrassed by this – did my students think that I ordered him to bring me coffee in class, as a way of establishing my authority? – but I was more embarrassed by the fact that I always had to pee like crazy about 20 minutes before class was over. If there is a big mug of coffee, and a glass of ice water, in front of me that I’m going to drink it. Hmm. I should learn something from this.

I think he was sad to see me go…hard to say whether he liked me, which I think he did, or whether he saw me as his ATM, because I ended up doubling his base salary by cleaning my apartment and this and that. I couldn’t find him before I left, so I wrote him a note and left it on my desk.

I did learn that Sirish gets up at 5 a.m., catches the bus at 5.30, arrives at Georgetown at 6.30 and then works from 7 to 5 for about, as I calculated, $1.30 an hour, give or take. He shares a room with 7 other guys, who sleep in shifts, I think, because there are not enough beds. Sirish needs some surgery on his stomach for reasons that are not clear to me, although one of my colleagues suggested that it was from a shrapnel wound he received during the war in Sri Lanka. Oh, Sirish is Tamil, and the Tamil Tigers were on the losing end of the war. The end did not include an unconditional surrender as with Lee at Appomattox, but a slaughter of the remaining Tigers.

One sleepy afternoon, I asked Sirish: Do you ever want to take a nap? He said of course….but if he were caught, he would be docked on week’s pay. He knew this because someone had narked on one of his friends. Wow. One week’s pay. I think I’m a couple years in debt.

Awhile ago I posted a Fascinating! Insightful! Truly wise! blog about the fact – and yes, it’s a fact – that I make tons more than Sirish because of dumb luck. I reposted this on Facebook on a discussion thread about taxing and deficits and blah blah blah. I thought it would be warmly received for the fascinating, insightful, wise gem that it was. Instead, the first comment in response, after a few gratuitous slurs towards the middle east, was something like:

“If you [me] were a man, you’d give half your money to Sirish and ask him to move in with you, rather than asking the government to steal my money. People like you make me sick.”

Now, I really am for freedom of speech, really, and even for dickheads, not that this specific person is a dickhead – although I have my suspicions – and I am glad folks engage in political discussions, so more power to him, but my gut responses were:

Hey, it’s possible for people to believe that good societies should have police, libraries, and bathrooms without personally volunteering to be a cop, a book, or a toilet.

Hey, my post didn’t say anything about government or taxes, and so is it possible that my precious few readers, which may or may not include you, because I’m not sure if you’re reading this or just looking for more pictures, which I don’t have, because I lost my camera, don’t actually bother reading my posts? Hey, dickhead, and yes now I am talking about you in particular, can you take the time to understand what I’m saying before commenting on it? Thanks.

And Hey! On the social network that is FB, is it possible that a friend of a friend actually would post for the world to see “People like you make me sick”? This from a person I haven’t met, but who is a friend of a friend. WTF? We’re doomed.

My True Self

2011-06-14T13:08:00.000-07:00

The article "In Search of The True Self" intrigued me. It begins with this story....

Mark Pierpont used to be an important figure in the evangelical Christian effort to help “cure” gay people of their homosexual desires. He started out just printing up tracts and handing them out in gay bars, but his ministry grew over time, and eventually he was traveling the world and speaking to crowds that sometimes numbered in the thousands. There was just one problem. Mark Pierpont himself was gay. He continued to feel sexual desires toward other men and was constantly engaged in an effort to suppress them. In the documentary film “Protagonist,” Pierpont movingly describes his inner conflict, saying that he sometimes felt an almost physical revulsion at his own desires and would then think: “Good. I hate this. I hate sin, just like God hates sin.”

The author then asks: Which one is Mark's true self? The Christian? The Homosexual?

The first answer is: both. He is just as much Christian as homosexual, even though these seem to be in deep opposition to each other within Mark himself.

The second answer is: if you ask others which one is Mark's true self, they will give the answer in accordance with their own values. Some will say: Mark, dude, you're gay. You'll be much happier if you just accept that that is indeed your true self. Others will reply: Mark, your Christian self is your essential self, even if being true to your beliefs involves personal struggle. Both will say the true self is the self that they think is more important.

Now, I don't have a dog in this particular hunt, as I'm about as Christian as I am gay. Have fun with that one, friends!

But I was reflecting on this while having a lemon mint, a rocket salad, a hamour plate, and a green apple shisha at the local Al Shami Home Restaurant tonight. I would have taken a picture of my meal, but it looked disappointingly as if I had ordered from Applebee's Home Restaurant.

The view around the room was more interesting. The waitrons -- both men and women -- wore black pants, white shirts, orange striped vests, and black bow ties. The patrons were wearing, well, who knows what the guys were wearing, various guy stuff, I suppose, but the women were divided into those wearing the traditional black abayas and sheilas, and the Kardashians. It was the Sisters of Mercy and the Jersey Shore, dining together. I felt like I was on a highway with some driving 70 and others 30 -- either speed is fine, but having both on the same road made me grip the steering wheel a bit tighter than normal.

Back to the Which Self is the True One? I think the choice here is not between the "Good" self and the "Bad" self. Which would be which for Mark, not me Mark, but Mark Pierpont? Evangelical Christians would (mainly) say that the devout Christian is the Good Mark. Others would say that the Gay Mark is the good Mark, and that the form of Christianity that suppresses homosexuality is itself a force for Evil. (Myself? I can imagine that God would say: "You don't have to choose between being a Good Christian and a Good Homosexual.") I also don't think the choice of true selves is between the self we "Are" and the self we "Want to Be", but between two different, but equally "true" selves.

Which brings me to Anthony Weiner. No, what really brings me to AW is that all bloggers everywhere apparently are required to write about him, or at least to have an opinion about him. It would have been more interesting if he had been sexting Sarah Palin, or Albert Haynesworth, so I could blog (!!!) multiple (!!!) parties (!!!) at the same time.

What is AW's true self? He may not know, and I'm pretty damn sure no one else knows either, other than (as above) by saying his true self is the one you say it is. Maybe he is truly a libertine; maybe he is truly a devoted public servant. Maybe he is both, or maybe he will somehow resolve for himself which self is more true, the obligatory-and-cliche rehab notwithstanding.

As for me, I like having those multiple selves. Well, maybe not those multiple selves, but, anyway. It's more interesting having two selves, at least. I always have someone to talk to -- an amusing person, too, always good for a laugh or an insight or a story! -- even if he never quite fully understands me.

Update: Warning! Highly graphic, explicit political commentary follows.

Should Weiner resign?

The small "d" democratic in me is willing to leave that to his constituents. I mean, our Congress has historically been loaded with idiots, imbeciles, drunks, thugs, racists, crooks, and that is just Weiner's home district I'm talking about. (Apologies, NY's fighting 9th District!)

Senator Vitter, a married, family values Republican was handily reelected after doing hookers. Laissez les bon temps roulez, Lousiana. If Vitter's good enough for the good folk of Louisiana, fine.

Was Vitter, who broke laws while actually having sex worse than the sexting Weiner?

The large "D" Democrat in me said that Weiner should resign. He was the visible face of the Democratic wing of the Democratic Party (Howard Dean reference!), unlike who-the-hell-is-Vitter?, and his continued presence in Congress will harm the Democrats. Refusing to resign places his own interests above those of his party. Go away.

Oh, wait. President Clinton got a blow job in the Oval Office from an intern. This is worse n every way than what Weiner did, and I didn't want Clinton to resign.

I'll let my inner selves have a bit of convo about this over breakfast. Maybe they can work out my internal disagreement.

Meeting Quota

2011-06-14T12:21:00.000-07:00

Time is running out: two more nights in Doha. The first two years I posted 21/22 blogs, and so I'm far behind now....I've got to meet quota somehow.

Here's a glimpse into the new Georgetown campus, where I spend my days. Usually. Mainly. It's fab. Lots of eye candy in the building...Above you can see the corridor I traverse each morning.

I know, trying to catch up on blogging by posting multiple times back-to-back is like trying to floss your teeth numerous times before going to the dentist.

Which I do.

When the dentist's assistant asks me: "Have you been flossing?" I want to reply....

"Can't you tell by looking? Why are you even asking me?"

Instead, I reply...

"Yes!"

The Gtown building has some nice nooks for napping. Not that I do.

I wish I had napped here! Very womblike and calm. I think wombs are calm, at least so far as I recall.

Lots of interior balconies, too. Here I'm looking down at what I think is the main lobby by the front door, but I've never seen anyone use that door, as I think everyone comes up through the garage.

The garage, in fact, was the topic for one of my student's final presentations. The topic? Georgetown should allow students to park in the garage for reasons of equity, efficiency, safety, health and so forth. Those ideas were pretty interesting, but the guy mainly just wanted to park in the garage, I think. I seemed to sense rationalizations instead of arguments.

The class was split on this issue into two groups: those with cars, who believed the current policy was inequitable, inefficient, unsafe, and unhealthy; those without cars, who (I sense) thought the first group might just be lazy and, after all, couldn't the money be better spent on other things (that, coincidentally, were those things that appeared to benefit the car-less group).

I don't doubt that both groups were sincere, but it did look self-interest, not public spirit, determines arguments. Yes, my students are human, too.

The view across the cafeteria towards the library. Look in the upper right below the flags. That room jutting out is a lounge area, with a pretty comfy bed. A nap there is also on my list. I might have to return next year.

The library is grander than my camera would allow. It's also a good place to nap.

This is making me sleepy. But I'll revive: I have more blogs to write!

You Think I Make This Stuff Up?

2011-06-13T22:41:00.000-07:00

See, there is a Ferrari Saloon.

Note the air hose on the right of the screen. This was used in my facial, I believe.

I splurged after my facial, and got a fresh squeeze from the Juice Stall next door....

.....and a shawarma from Al-Ennabi....

Ok, I didn't take that last photo, but the shawarma was so shweeet!

The next photo is mine: I'm delivering these donuts to my class this morning. Blood sugar spike, here we come! Yes, they are Dunkin.

I Said "Yes"

2011-06-13T13:09:00.000-07:00

Feeling a little fluffy Friday, I drove to the barber. I chose the Ferrarri Saloon, because my head is like that race car (sleek! fast! hot! needs constant care!) and what better place to get a haircut than a drinking establishment?

Oh, right: Ferrari Salon.

My man didn't speak much English, and I didn't speak any of whatever he's speaking (Ferrarish, maybe?) but I made it clear that I needed a haircut. At any rate, that I wanted a haircut.

Now, Laura usually cuts my hair, and she does a fine job. But, you know, being able to mow a townhouse lawn doesn't exactly make one a master gardener, if you get my drift, and Ferrari dude was good! He didn't just run the mower back and forth. He held the clipper in one hand and a blade in the other, moving both like Edward Scissorhands. I swear he cut each individual hair, one by one.

Scissorhands now points to my 2 week beard stubble, as in "Let me perform my magic on that, too!"

I said "Yes".

I'm feeling great, my head is even sleeker, fast, hotter than before, so I'm going to keep saying yes to whatever he asks.....

This is usually not a good idea.

But, so, the facial began. I haven't had a facial before, certainly not one given by a guy speaking Ferrarish, so I didn't know what to expect.

I got various potions and lotions that tingled, or stung, or stunk, or abraded, or sometimes all. First I think he began with the "asbestos and arsenic" paste (reenacted above).

Then he used a blowtorch to dry it, as if I were the creme he would brulee.

Ok, at this point I'm thinking that he may be doing all this for the amusement of the other six guys in the Saloon, none of whom are either are cutting or being cut. I'm suspecting he charged admission:

"Come on, come all, see how I can afflict the foreigner, who will still thank me and pay me!"

More potions, more lotions:

I was beginning to feel like a cheeseburger.

A cheeseburger to go, for that matter, after he put my head in the bag.

A steamed cheeseburger, even. Ferrari dude would stick a hose under the bag, fill it with steam to the point that my eyes were beginning to poached like eggs....

Is that laughter I hear from the audience?

Some of his ministrations struck me as unusual. But what did I know? I had said yes.

I was becoming more and more suspicious. My eyes were also beginning to swell shut.

Every so often, he would spritz my face without warning: water-boarding lite.

Two hours later I paid Ferrari dude as much, almost, as Sirish makes in a week.

Was it worth it? Well: My skin was Oprah-smooth, and remains so, mainly, after a couple days.

Sometimes it's good to say Yes. The guys applauding the show thought so.

My Morning Mosques

2011-06-10T09:54:00.000-07:00

This morning I pointed my Civic in the direction of the National Mosque. My plan? No real plan, if by plan you imagine that I had any idea of what I was really going to do. I figured I'd just start at the National, then wander home, turning in the direction of any mosque I saw....

The National Mosque looks lonely to me. It has a great view of the city, and a large parking lot. This morning I was the only car there. I mean, I wasn't the car itself, although I do consider myself pretty much a Civic kind of guy. The place was deserted.

If it were crowded, and if I was a VIP, then I did discover the Stairway to Heaven:

Mosques are fairly easy to see because they're common and the feature they have in common is their minaret. Wait a minute. Perhaps mosques don't all have minarets, although it seems that all minarets have mosques. So I followed the trail of the minarets.

Most are small, and they're often tucked into commercial areas.

I wished I had a mosquetect in the car to explain the different styles.

Choices: I could make either the minaret vertical or the building vertical, but not both. Ahh, perspective does shape reality.

All these pictures were taken with a cheap point-and-shoot Kodak. It was SO bright out I never could see the display screen, so I more-or-less-point-and-shot.

I did edit each picture to chop out the extraneous. I don't take such care editing my blog.

Can I tell you a secret?

This probably makes me a bad Facebook friend, but it bugs me when a person downloads every picture from their chip, no matter how ill-focused, redundant, redundant, or redundant. Edit, folks!

The previous sentence should read "ill-focused or redundant". But now I've added yet more extraneous words....

So now I'll let the pictures speak.

Tomorrow: My smooth skin, and other tales from the neighborhood.

People Like You Make Me Sick

2011-06-07T12:38:00.001-07:00

My carefully crafted, and artfully illustrated, blog on this topic just got vaporized.

I blame human error.

Mine.

I'll try again tomorrow, dammit.

Get Out of My Head, and Into My Car

2011-06-06T13:10:00.000-07:00

No, not Dreams, as Billy Ocean would have it, even though that is one great old school video....

Scorned lover that I was, I needed to get out of my head, and stop the brooding.

Driving around looking, not thinking, was the tonic I needed. Photo tour of Doha, here I come!

It's easy to miss Doha unless you look. The city is definitely designed to make mass protests hard, which would never happen here, as there is no reason for them, and I most certainly am not advocating them, and that's all I'll say about that. Doha is criss-crossed with huge highways, that completely separate the smaller neighborhoods: no one is going to walk back and forth between them.

I don't know anything about the neighborhoods here, and you don't either, so I'm going to speak with authority and hope you don't notice. But, first, I'm going to play that video again. And turn it up.

Much better.

As far as I can tell, there are three kinds of "neighborhoods" here. There are the mansions, which are located wherever the owners damn well want to put them. They seem to be scattered around, unlike in the US, where you don't really have a mansion unless your neighbors can look at yours and say "Mine's bigger" and you can look back and say "No, mine is".

The mansions are often right next to major roads, so maybe the owners DO want to be seen. All right, all right, these are not the best mansion pictures, but it was early and I was just wandering around. You want to do better? Qatar Airways is awaiting your call.

The second kind of neighborhood is where the ex-pats live, and by ex-pats I mean well-paid foreigners like me. We mainly live in apartment complexes which, like the mansions, are always behind fairly high walls. You've seen my pictures of al Samrya, where I live, but if not then do yourself the favor and go back and read the post that contains the pictures. Damn, I couldn't even find that one, so good luck with that. It does seem like the ratio of pictures-to-words has grown over time, so maybe I'm just getting lazy. Anyway: I'll post some pictures of ex-pat life soon.

He's still a Pat, I know, but he won't always be. Then, maybe he'll be an ex-Pat-pat.

Better, if P-Diddy played for the Patriots, and then retired to move here, he could be a P-diddy-Pat-pat.

The third kind of neighborhood houses everyone else, who I suppose are also ex-pats, except it's unlikely that they hang out at ex-pat hangouts, or if they do they are of the sort affordable to those making $350/month.

This is probably not such a place, but I liked the lone air conditioner. And the lux palaces in the background.

Yeah, I should be writing more, and more eloquently, as you dear reader have come this far without a whole lot of payoff. So I fear I leave you greatly disappointed, or perhaps I'm still just smarting from being jilted. Anyway. Enjoy the pictures. I'm going to go eat ice cream right out of the container.

Congrats! You've made it to the end. Thanks, and good night.

Jilted

2011-06-03T10:40:00.000-07:00

I loved her, and she loved me. Sometimes I had ignored her, I regret, but this spring I had rededicated myself to her. She seemed happy. Life was good.

Imagine my shock when I opened the note from her last night that read:

I don't love you anymore.
Those endearing little actions of yours? They annoy the shit out of me.
I can do better than you. I'm out of here.
PS: You're a lousy kisser.

That's what it really felt like last night when I received my course evaluations for the spring semester.

I felt jilted, blindsided, gut-punched, without warning. My evaluations are usually pretty good. I have had some bad ones, but those were generally well-deserved. This spring, I worked exceptionally hard on my courses. I was attentive and responsive to the students. I was well-prepared and engaging. I assessed the students' work in detail and quickly. I did an excellent job. Or so I thought.

My students concluded otherwise. Sure, I got lots of love in the evaluations, but I'm the anti-Sarah Palin in viewing my audience, as I assume that my critics are right and that my fans are just being nice ("You're a pretty good kisser..."). Sarah and I may be alike in our thin skin, though, as try as I might to ignore my critics their words do hurt.

Some of the words were pretty harsh. Now, I study politics, and I know harsh words are often used in commenting on public figures, especially on blogs allowing anonymous posts. Like those blogs, my evaluations are done anonymously, on line, and that no doubt makes for harsher words than would be used face to face. But, still.

Is it possible not to know that your love is about ready to walk through the door, and to believe that everything between you is good? That's what this feels like. Now, when I think about looking into the faces of my students during class, I wonder how many were thinking: When can I walk through that door? Now, in thinking about my pleasant interactions throughout the semester, I wonder which students were thinking: I can't wait to be rid of you.

The worst part is the PS: You're a lousy kisser.

If you were told that, and you thought you actually were sort of a pretty good kisser, then what do you do next?

I was in a fog today. Literally. A dust fog. The sun did not penetrate it, and it was tough to breath. Driving was difficult.

Worth Waiting For!

2011-06-02T09:34:00.000-07:00

You've been too busy to catch up on this blog; that's why I haven't written more.

I have been saving up, and now I'm ready to unleash the verbal torrent, but dinner calls. Should I answer dinner and, if so, what should I tell it?

Coming soon:

Honor Killings

Wanna Get Lucky?

People Like You Make Me Sick

More About Sirish

Coming Clean

2011-05-28T12:56:00.000-07:00

So: How much should I pay Sirish to clean apartment?

Not that my apartment really needs cleaning, because for a guy I'm pretty phastidious. In case you are not as hip, or as black, as I am, I took the word "fastidious" and swapped out the f for the ph, which I hear is the way that urban youth roll, which shows only that I am neither hip nor black. Like you.

I make my bed, even though no one is going to see it but me. But one can hope. (Kidding!) To give my bedroom the "lived in" look, I sometimes leave a pair of jeans artfully draped. If you looked really close, or used the before-mentioned sniff test, you'd know that those sheets have just been washed, even though I realized that with four beds in my apartment I could just move around and sleep each night in a different one, giving each set of sheets the chance to smoke a cigarette and maybe get a drink before I came back again.

I wash my dishes promptly. Promptly means "when I wash them". Given how few dishes I have, it's not like I need to buy stock in Palmolive, although after clicking on this link I realize how much fun my life is lacking, if it lacks Palmolive.

Yeah, ok, my desk gets a bit sloppy, but I usually clean it when I'm avoiding an important project, or trying to remedy self-loathing, or pointlessly seeking control over the external world, or something, so a bit of mess is just fine with me.

This is all to say that I don't need Sirish to clean my apartment. He asked me if he could clean it, though, saying he could use the money, and I do earn a ton more than he does.

I'm pretty egalitarian, and I'm uncomfortable with social distinctions. I try not to suck up to those who might think they are higher on the food chain than me. I don't think any tasks are beneath me. Like Jimmy Carter, I carry my own luggage, although it really did look stupid for The President to be hauling a Samsonite. I didn't say I was completely egalitarian. But then again maybe Carter was just messing with us. As you might remember, if you have been reading this blog, and if you have not I strongly encourage you to start from the beginning, because what you think it's easy to write like this?, at first I resisted having a Tea Boy bring me coffee, until I got over it. My instinct is to be self reliant, and to clean my own apartment.

So, of course, I told Sirish:

Sure.

How much do you charge?

At this point, the economists among us -- if there are not any, you should recruit five or so, to get at least five if not more economic perspectives -- would probably assume that Sirish would ask for as much as he thought he could get, I would offer as little as I thought possible, and we would negotiate some mutually agreeable number. Because there are lots of potential cleaners here, that price would be pretty low.

That's not at all the way it worked. Sirish said "Pay me whatever you want." Rather than thinking how hard I could screw the proletariat, and by that I mean my fellow human of integrity, I asked someone in my office "How much should I pay him?"

I was told: 50QR, plus cab fare for him to get home, for 2 hours of cleaning.

That's what I told him I would pay, and he accepted.

Perspective #1: That's about $6.75 an hour, you cheap ass douche bag.

Perspective #2: Sirish is paid about $1.75 an hour to serve coffee, and you are offering him 3.5 times as much, you munificent saint! Besides, really, I could clean the apartment in about 20 minutes, since it basically needed light dusting.

Later, I told one of my colleagues about our arrangement and he said "Mark, 50QR is a little light (you cheap ass douche bag). You should offer him 75QR."

The next day, I gave Sirish 25QR more, thanking him for his good work.

Here's where it gets interesting, so prepare to start getting interested.

Sirish says: "I clean for professors X and Y, and they pay me 100QR (you cheap ass douche bag)."

My inner egalitarian is now totally spinning, because not only did I underpay him, I underpaid him even when I tried to make up for underpaying him!

When I drove him to my place this past Thursday to clean -- yes, I drove him! And I opened doors for him when we walked to the car! -- I gave him 100QR to clean, another 25QR to make up for the first time, and cab fare.

I tell my colleague about this, glad that now I'm finally being a good, solid, generous, decent human.

My colleague says: "He told you that he's getting paid 100QR? No way. He just pulled a fast one on you."

Life's Unfair

2011-05-27T10:21:00.000-07:00

My parents would tell me this when I whined about something my brother Curt got that I didn't get.

They were right, of course, as they usually were. If we think we're always going to get what we "deserve" then we're bound to be disappointed.

Or, maybe, not. When I reflect on all the things that I have that I really don't deserve, I'm reminded: yeah, life is unfair....and it's mainly been unfair to my great advantage.

Meet Sirish, my "tea boy". That's what guys like him are called here. Every morning when I arrive at my office, he brings me coffee, OJ, and a glass of ice water. (More on this later.)

Sirish is 26, Sri Lankan, and getting married soon.

He makes 1000QR a month.

I'm paid 36 times that amount this month to teach a single class, plus my normal salary.

Oh, my posh three bedroom apartment, where I live alone, is paid for.

Sirish lives with 7 other guys in his apartment, and as far as I can tell they all live in the same room. (His English is not so good, but it is far better than my Tamil.)

Do I really deserve to be paid that much more? Well, yeah, in one sense: that's what the "market" says we're each worth, and the market is never wrong. (Right?) Besides, he's delivering drinks on a tray, and I'm offering highly sophisticated, carefully crafted, enormously skilled guidance to students, and that guidance required years of study and effort to develop.

But, really? Do I really deserve to be paid that much more? Is that really fair? Here's how I see it.

I was reflecting on such matters while lounging on this day bed in the private lounge just outside the Dean's office. The lounge is off limits to commoners, in this case including me, but I walk in the place as if I own it and no one has seen fit to question me. Also, the Dean is out of town, so let's keep this a little secret between us, ok?

Here are some reasons why I might deserve to be paid so much more than Sirish.....

It's God's will that I should be so blessed.

If that's true, than God truly does work in mysterious ways, by showering this non-believer with riches while allowing millions of His devout followers to live in misery. Of course, there might be payback for me in the Great Beyond....

I deserve my wealth because I'm a good person.

Ahem....well....I've tried to do some good works, but I've done a whole lot of sinning, too. I'd guess I'm about average on the good works scale, maybe. I'm pretty sure I'm not 36 times gooder than Sirish.

I deserve it because I work hard for it.

This thought came to me while I was sunning myself by the pool. As Sirish was inside cleaning my apartment at the moment, it didn't seem wise to pursue this idea further.....

Now that I've torched those [what is the gender neutral term for "strawmen"] to the ground, here are the three main reasons I think I'm getting the coffee delivered, and why Sirish is delivering it.

First, I was wise (um, lucky) enough to be born in the US.

Imagine every person in the world, including me, is put into a really big hat, like this one. Now imagine that God is going to reach into the hat, draw each person out one at a time, and place them in a country based on how many people currently live in that country. Got it?

There's only a 5 percent chance that any person -- say, you or me -- would be lucky enough to be placed in a country where average incomes are as high as in the US (roughly $47,000 per person).

[Statistical note, which you better read, even though when you saw the phrase Statistical note your first thought might have been "aww, fuck that". Average incomes are not good measures of typical incomes, but I couldn't find better measures. Averages are misleading because "the average" income of you, me, The Donald would be maybe $30 million or so, which is not typical of you and me. Besides, The Donald is kind of a dick, and I don't really want him in my average, anyway.]

It's just as likely that I would have ended up in a country like Uganda (average income: $1200 per person) or one even poorer.

Think about that for a second: as a matter of sheer luck, it's as likely that you and I were each born in a country as rich as the US or as poor as Uganda. Half of the world's population lives in a country where the average income is $7,500 (like China's) or less, so it's as good as a coin flip that I would be living in one of those countries.

Ka-ching! Simply by being born in the US, I won the (economic) lottery! Whoo hoo! Well done, Mark!

Sirish was born in Sri Lanka: average income, $5200. Sorry, Sirish.

Next: I chose my parents very, very wisely.

They passed along some pretty good genes. All right, I got screwed on the height and hair genes, but I'm pretty good at math and words, and I inherited those things, and as it turns out they are pretty helpful at making money.

Oh, one last thing: I lived in a place where I wasn't shot at, I wasn't beaten, I wasn't starving, I wasn't cold, I wasn't humiliated, as if anyone would choose those things.

Life isn't fair. I won the nation lottery, the parent lottery, and the environment lottery.

Do I really deserve to be paid so much more than Sirish? No.

I am lucky to be so fortunate. Life is unfair.

My Shirt Don't Stink: Other World News

2011-05-24T09:56:00.000-07:00

Yes, I said "shirt".

In DC, by the end of the day my clothes are thoroughly, um, lived in. I bike to work and clean up the best I can sans shower. I dash around campus, hauling books, computer, papers, and my ass. I climb three flights of stairs to my office several times. Now, I'm not saying I'm a world of funk when the day is done, but....

I have, on occasion, also used the "sniff test" to see whether I really need to wash some clothes.

You have too, right?

If you haven't, please raise your hand.

Um, perhaps you really should try it.

The only time I sweat here is at the gym, in workout clothes (me, not the gym). Otherwise it is from air conditioned apartment to air conditioned car to air conditioned office and back again...

The ballroom was also chilled for Professor Rashid Khalidi's talk at the Hyatt, where I avoided both pool and lounge. Most striking to me were these comments (my interpretation):

1. The Arab Spring protests and revolutions were about the desire for prosperity, dignity, and freedom; they were against poverty, humiliation, and coercion.

2. Americans (and he is one) were often too focused on the bogeyman of Islamic extremists rather than on common human aspirations.

3. So long as the US tries to lead the "peace process" between Israel and Palestine, the process is bound to fail.

And there's more!

One of my students is from Bosnia. In answering the question "Tell me one interesting thing about you that I won't learn in class" (I give the students a survey on the first day of class), he responded:

"I've watched people die."

The next stop for me, was the library: Here's the book I'll start later tonight.

Eye Opening

2011-05-23T12:35:00.000-07:00

You are reading this, which means you are not reading about the "situation" in the Middle East. You could be, of course, but let's face it: you apparently would rather follow my blog, which is really truly very flattering, and I'm blushing, but all things considered I do have to question your choice. I mean, really.

Let me help you kill two birds with one metaphorical stone, as I am writing about the situation. Ok, I was writing about the situation, but as you are reading this I clearly no longer am. But you get my drift.

Speaking of birds, last Friday I ate my first pigeon. Yes, pigeon

Pigeons are served in pairs (Mr. and Mrs, I presume) at Egyptian restaurants.

It tasted pretty much like pigeon. It was stuffed with rice, which made me think about the life cycle of pigeons, which I shouldn't have, because...well, if you are eating while reading this, which you probably are, admit it, and I'm guessing it's something not very healthy, don't want to disrupt your digestive system anymore than it already is. Or will be, if you think of what I thought of while chewing the rice.

Before I came to Doha, I rarely read about the Middle East either, at least not more than you would think a person who reads a lot, and who studies politics professionally -- and I am a pro -- would read. Sure, I checked out the headlines to see how much -- or how little -- progress was being made in our invasions of Iraq and Afghanistan. The Arab Spring protests and revolutions made for some great, inspiring, images and I was especially interested in the brutal crackdown in Bahrain, as I had visited there last summer.

I definitely didn't read about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Following that, for me, was like following All My Children: the drama lasted forever, but nothing really happened, nothing really changed, it was pretty clearly not "relevant" to me, and if I did want to catch up I could do so in about 15 minutes. The chances of a breakthrough were about as good as the chance of Susan Lucci winning an Emmy. Yeah, right, like that could happen.

Now, my eyes have been opened.

I thank my students. One of them, a Palestinian, suggested that we watch Occupation 101 in class.

Fascinating, and heartbreaking. I hate to comment on the conflict between Israel and Palestine, because others know so much more, and often have such strong opinions, but this I do know:

The status of the Palestinians as an occupied and/or dispossessed people is a tragedy and a shameful blot on the community of nations -- with US policy contributing to the shame.

President Obama gave a speech on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict this week and, as expected, he has been blasted as too timid, too bold, too unrealistic, too little, too late, and too 'fill in your favorite negative word here'. Or, as the noted international statesman Gene Simmons, of KISS fame, concluded: Obama has "no fucking idea what he is talking about." (Gene: KISS off! Badabing).

Last night I, along with about 600 other souls, went to the Doha Hyatt to attend a talk on the "Arab Spring" by Professor Rashid Khalidi, Professor of Modern Arab Studies at Columbia University. This raised a big question for me: Should I just skip the talk and head to the pool?

That was a rhetorical question.

Wasn't it?

The lounge was pretty tempting, though, and what better place to consider the plight of the dispossessed?

I'll sleep on that -- no, neither the lounge nor the dispossessed -- with "that" referring to what I was talking about. Whatever that was. Tomorrow, I'll open my eyes again and report back. Peace.

De(Graded)

2011-05-20T10:39:00.000-07:00

If I had been blogging this week, I rightly could have been accused of procrastinating on finishing my grading, so I didn't blog. I did procrastinate, but it just wasn't so obvious to anyone but me. Now, I hope, I'm finished.

But my hopes will be put through the garbage disposal of the sink of life. I'm sure I'll hear grade protests, as the standard model for measuring student learning is pre-test, post-test, protest.

Earlier I was the one protesting. When I entered my Doha apartment, it was swarming with "Blue Books." I was inundated. They were everywhere.

They filled my refrigerator, and covered my bed.

Don't even ask to see the mess in the bathroom.

Blue Books, which are used for undergraduate exams, are the cicadas of university life -- they emerge at regular cycles, they are generally annoying, and yet they never completely go away even though they make no apparent contribution to the public happiness. Cicadas, like Blue Books, are also virtually impossible to read.

I put my gloves and gas mask on, and got to work. One book at a time, Mark, one book at a time.....

Grading student papers is much like being a parent, with the work incredibly important, often tedious, and commonly thankless, except being a parent is not tedious or thankless, at least not in comparison to grading.

Grading IS important to the students for almost every reason one might imagine, and others, too, if one had a better imagination. Students care a LOT about getting the right grade, too, in the sense that the right grade is "at least as high, if not higher, than the one you gave me".

Nothing wrong with that: I myself was, um, "grade assertive". In college, I challenged one final grade a professor gave me all the way to the University President's office. (I won.) My claim was not just that I got a lower grade than I deserved (ok, yeah, it was the dreaded B+, or maybe even an A-), but that the professor's grading system led to inconsistent and incoherent outcomes and so it should be reformed to eliminate those problems and, oh, by the way, I would receive an A under the new scheme. But I was only an accidental beneficiary or the reform! It was the principle at stake! It was a victory for justice!

The grading was going slowly. Too slowly. I was getting desperate. I almost turned to Marco, Ismerelda, and Thatcher to see what happened in the next chapter.

I finally filed the grades. Now: would anyone care to guess what the ratio of complaints to praise will be?

Close Shave

2011-05-15T10:23:00.000-07:00

I knew I missed a spot shaving today when I felt the barrel pressing against the few stray whiskers on my chin.

I heard the cock of the gun and the sound of leather, as if someone was juggling footballs, when she crossed her legs. Sure, those legs were long, but not as long as her arms, which reached from the carpet to my chin.

Marco, she whispered: You must choose. Who gets it? You or Thatcher? I think I knew which one my readers would save, after they take one look at Thatcher....

To be continued...

Ok, actually, I got up with the alarm, had a healthy bowl of cereal, juice, and cardamon-flavored coffee, caught a taxi to my office, did the routine check in stuff, faced various technical problems in my office and the classroom that couldn't be fixed, checked out some films at the library, ate rice, fish and salad for lunch, worked at my desk, went through the hassle of getting a rental car, fought traffic home, did three miles on the treadmill, fixed eggs and toast for dinner, and caught up on desk work.

So: Which story should I continue?

You wouldn't shoot me, Ismeralda, I hissed.

Thatcher knows your secrets. And he'll chew those boots to shreds the moment you take them off.....

Arab Spring

2011-05-14T09:15:00.000-07:00

It's spring in Doha, and throughout the Arab world.

The air is filled with sand...shimmering heat....and democracy. Well, maybe the breezes have not yet blown democracy into Doha, but democratic aspirations are swirling around the Gulf.

So I wonder: what will come out of the fragile shell?

Will there by a sunny upside -- or a sunny side up?

Will many eggs be broken before the omelette is done?

Will just the broken shells be left?

Who knows? Eggs can be tricky: they can form the perfect souffle or the perfect stench.

The students in my "Ethics and Values in Public Policy" class -- middle easterners, all -- will have much to teach me, and I hope to learn from them.

I do hope I can tell them apart. My class's photo roster indicates they all look like Jack the Bulldog.

Time to finish the syllabus. Class begins tomorrow morning, Sunday May 15, at 9.45 a.m. Qatar time. I wonder what the air will be like....

Our Road From Paradise to Ruin

2010-07-09T20:35:00.000-07:00

Or, from ruin to paradise. It depends on which way you're driving.

So let's begin in the middle. Midway on the road was the meth lab. Maybe it wasn't really the meth lab, but the Ponderosa Pharmaceutical Reprocessing Corporation. I doubt this, because somehow the trailer that used to sit here didn't look incorporated. But it did look like what I thought a meth lab would look like, if things looked as they should. The windows had been broken for years so the residents' shelter from the cold was a blanket draped over the frame. Perhaps cooking the Pseudofed kept the place warm. The trailer was dismantled, finally, and all that's left are the front and back porches. I assume the owners used them to enjoy the fruits of the labor.

Looks can be deceiving, I understand. In my old neighborhood there was a car with the license plate "Meth Dst". It seemed odd to advertise an illegal activity so blatantly (read "meth distributor") until I learned a Methodist minister lived there.

No worries, though. Our vibrant neighborhood, full of entrepreneurial souls, already has a possible replacement. A smarter entrepreneur might have located the new lab just outside the reach of the state maintenance, but it's probably a start up operation that is learning as it goes.

Actual ruins do exist on our road. The log cabin was dismantled a while back, and all the logs are probably used now as the flooring of Albert Haynesworth's home or, even worse, Ann Coulter's. At $40 million, he (and by this I mean Ann) can afford it, not that he really gives a flip.

Deserted homes make me....wonder. Built in hope, certainly. Abandoned in despair, probably. In between...How much laughter and kindness and love was there? How much anger and bitterness and sullenness? Did the family move to a "better place"? Were they sad the last time they walked out that door, or eager for the new place they would call their own?

Just up from the chimney is this speed limit sign. The limit was likely unnecessary, or unheeded, or both. Limits can be that way. Should I worry that I tell my sons (in a fatherly way) that, yes, I set my cruise control to be exactly nine miles over the posted limit? I could explain to them (and I think I have) the difference between de jure limits (what the rule actually is) and the de facto limits (what the limit is that is actually enforced). The lesson they hear: this is how much you can break the rule before you are likely to face the consequences.

Even when you are driving between paradise and ruin, you will be watched. Are they blowing kisses or raspberries?

Temptation

2010-07-07T14:38:00.000-07:00

I would have liked to meet Eve. Adam, basically, is sitting on his ass, probably drinking a Bud Light. Maybe moping. Probably wondering when Eve would bring him another one.

Meanwhile, she's checking out the tree of knowledge. Wondering. Considering. I'm not sure she would talk with the Snake, as I'm guessing that even then Eve was pretty skeptical of snakes. Or wary. Or alarmed. So I'm thinking the Snake is a metaphor, unlike Eve and Adam.

For the record: my father assures me that the tempting fruit was not an apple, as they didn't grow wherever the Garden of Eden was. He knows stuff like that, being an "appleologist" which is different than "apologist" although maybe they somehow are linked, which they are not. Oh well. He assures me it was more likely a pomegranate. But the "pom" was somehow I think connected to the French word "pomme" for apple. Dad, feel free to weigh in.

I don't think Eve needed the metaphorical snake. Bold as she was, she wanted the knowledge, and she took it (the pomegranate, that is), and bit it, and a hall of shit rained down on her. No more lounging by the pool, naked. From now on, busters, you are working for a living, bearing children in pain, and living with the knowledge that you would die. Which seems pretty harsh for eating a fruit, but I'm no God.

Did she create temptation or was it offered there to her?

I'd like to think that she created it. I'm not so confident of a God who would say: "Come on, innocent one....what's the harm of a little temptation...."

Just seeing this picture makes you want to get some, doesn't it?

It does. Or it should. Because that's the whole point of temptation, isn't it? To give in, just a little?

When did temptation become good? When it was useful to make money, which really is just about the oldest profession. Think about it...how did the "oldest profession"come about if there was no money to be made? But now: check the ads. They are all about temptation, and giving in. Except for the abstinence only advertisements, which are about as useful as the Snake.

Me? I'm much better at avoiding the sources of temptation than the temptation itself. Rather than saying "No thanks!" it seems easier to avoid the question entirely. Sometimes I wish that the Tree of Knowledge would have been clearcut. But then where would that leave Eve?

And you. And me.

Doha: Done

2010-06-23T22:28:00.000-07:00

I’d cap Frosty’s ass. My sons know this, as I have encouraged them with words like “Cap Frosty’s ass!” It’s not that I have anything against Frosty, in particular, or his ass. I’m sure he’s a fine guy, what with his corncob pipe and carrot nose. What I don’t like is commercialized cuteness. Especially the ones that require generators, like the inflatable Frosties, Santas, Easter Bunnies, or Great Pumpkins. Even if I drove by an inflatable Bambi, I’d instruct my boys to shoot to kill. Even Thumper – the inflatable one – would be advised to wear a vest. So when my sons and I are out driving during the Holiday season, I've given them this wise holiday advice.

Even worse, if that is possible, are the posters of Eagles soaring on the wing, with the caption reading "Unless you soar with the Eagles you’ll sit with the Turkeys." I’m not sure whether I’ll agree or disagree with this, as right now I am sitting with the (Wild) Turkey. Who seems quite friendly, and we have been having quite the revealing conversation (you won’t BELIEVE what he has done, the rake). Ben Franklin certainly liked turkeys, and for a guy who was early to bed and early to rise, and spoke French, and had badder mullet than MacGyver (compare their pictures below!), and still discovered electricity and petticoats, and said things like “We shall all hang together, or we shall all hang separately” he seemed to do OK. Well. I’m on his side, in general. As for the Eagles…well Don Henley Must Die. That’s not my opinion, that’s a song.

At any rate, I've spend too much time on the setup for this post and, I fear, that time was wasted. But what else am I going to do at 2 a.m.? So let me get to the main point: I don't like cutesy inspiration comments. But I did like these signs which ring Education City, where Georgetown is located, in Doha. What might just be maudlin in my cynic's head might just be inspiring elsewhere and to others. I hope so.

Day 34: Lessons Learned, Forgotten, and Ignored

2010-06-17T03:56:00.001-07:00

My father, or Abraham Lincoln, or the Pope, or someone like that once told me: "If you expect life to be like a gum machine into which you put money and out of which you get candy, you will be greatly disappointed." I think whoever said it was more eloquent, but I got the metaphorical point, and it made sense. As I understand it, the message was "Don't expect your good works to be recognized or rewarded. If you do, you're setting yourself up for failure."

I get that. But the fact remains that when I put my hard-earned money into a vending machine, and it doesn't deliver the goods, I feel screwed. So I begin with some soft whispers ("Oh, come on machine, give it up") which quickly elevate to swearing ("Give it to me, *****mn it"), pleading ("I'll do anything you want") and ultimately shaking, kicking and yes disappointment. It's not quite a Kubler Ross stages of grief tour. Maybe my Dad was right, and not just in a metaphorical way.

That's not the only lesson I've learned, or not learned, from a vending machine. When I was 18 I played lots of tennis, had a right arm like Popeye, and a left arm like Olive Oyl. At one court there was the old kind of Coke vending machine which would drop a paper cup down and then fill it with part soda and part syrup. (Remember those? Cripes you're old.) We didn't have any money, as usual, and we didn't have drinks to take to the court, but we knew that my left arm was skinny enough so that if I got on my knees and wiggled my arm up into the machine's guts, I could grab some of the paper cups and pull them out. This is much same process used for delivering a breech calf, according to the dime store westerns. We could then fill the cups with water and take them to the court.

Get the picture? I'm on my knees, with my hand crammed up inside the Coke machine, when the security guard arrives. Sort of a compromising position (a phrase that I have come to know well), wouldn't you agree?

Guard: What are you doing?

Me, in my mind: Stealing cups, officer! What kind of moron are you? (Sins 1 and 2: theft and pettiness.)

Me, for real: Um, I put my money in the machine, and the cup didn't drop, so I'm just trying to get it! (Sin 3: falsehoods)

Guard: Did you try the change return?

Me: Um, no! (Sin 4: This isn't really a sin, as I'm telling the truth, but it serves to support my earlier lie, so it should fall into the damnable category).

Guard, pushing the change return button: Oh, here's your change. It must have just gotten stuck.

Me: Right! Thanks! (Sin 5: False gratitude).

Me, putting change into the machine, and now getting a totally free, totally crisp, totally refreshing Coke: Ahhhh.....(Sin 6: Gluttony. Lust.)

I learned the valuable lesson that getting caught stealing, and lying your way out of it, can actually get you good stuff!

Sons: Please disregard this story. It's just a story. I was caught, sentenced, and severely punished, and you will be too.

Not that I usually try talking my way out of bad situations, as I'm not very good at it. I'm much better at talking my way into bad situations, anyway.

Recently a couple students and I took a spur-of-the-moment driving tour of Education City. When we got to the construction site of the new Georgetown building, no doubt there were signs that said: Caution! Warning! Construction Workers Only! Keep Out! Dangerous! Do Not Enter!

I interpreted these signs to say "Come on in" and so we did. Wow. Each student apparently will have a lab, a library (see above), and a petting zoo. Faculty members will each have their own named wing, with a choice of ski jump or golf course. Yeah, it's big. The most amazing thing, to me, was that as we arrived during the lunch hour the building was deathly quiet....and many side rooms looked like morgues. Body after body, in straight lines, silent, still. Everyone, and I do mean everyone was sound asleep. Company policy? Section 103.C.a:b2 "All workers are required to take naps between noon and one" Or exhaustion.

When I told some colleagues about the tour, they replied "You can't do that," which didn't seem like very useful information.

Sometimes I do ask first. Earlier this month, I inquired what would happen if a driver used a well-known international driving sign to indicate displeasure at the way he (me, in truth) was treated while on the roads.

The students said that the driver would likely be deported. This was helpful information, which I heeded.

Maybe we should make this US policy to solve our "immigration problem": anyone flipping the bird while driving would be deported. Relax: this policy would not be retroactive. It seemed a good option, until I thought that, well, some drivers really deserve to be flipped off. Maybe we'd be deporting the wrong people...maybe we should deport the flippee, not the flipper (again, not retroactively!) Thought question: Would the US be better if we deported those without papers, or assholes? One benefit of the latter is that it wouldn't require profiling, as it's obvious who the assholes are.

Next lesson: It has now been five weeks that I've been without what economists would neutrally call certain "goods and services". And yet: the sun rises, BP leaks, Ann Coulter moults, Albert Haynesworth sucks. Not much is different.

Final lesson for the day. Clarifications almost never clarify. You know what I mean, don't you? If someone asks you "what did you mean by that?" and you try to explain, you usually make things worse. Maybe you don't, so I should clarify by saying that you means me which, I know, is an unconventional use.

It's easy for me (meaning, "not you") to ignore that rule. So let me clarify what I meant in writing about marriage the other day. I said something like "do you want to spend the rest of your life thinking about Taye Diggs, etc., while I'm pondering the deep meaning of folding laundry while doing so? I didn't think so."

What I meant to say was "If you're watching me fold laundry without thinking of Taye (not Taye in particular, but the figurative Taye, who could be Leonardo, or Sting, or Steven Strasburg, or whomever), then I'd be worried about your sanity, your imagination, your health, or all the above." So I'd think we weren't a good match. And would you want to marry someone who thinks that we're not a good match?

See? Isn't everything clear now?

Day 30: Footprints

2010-06-14T20:59:00.000-07:00

Man once walked here. Or some other Vibram™ soled creature. It does make me wonder if there are Vibram™ souled individuals among us: you know, the kind of person who will walk all over you, and have the footwear to leave a lasting imprint.

I found this "fossil" in the terrace by the pool. Should I get married again, I think I'll bring this picture with me as the example of "something old, something new". The old being the fossil, the new being the fact that the fossil is of modern shoe technology, of course. But saying this reminds me why it is very unlikely that I will remarry, or that anyone would have much interest in doing so with me, really, when you think about it, because how would you explain it to your family (or yourself) that your husband gave you a picture of a fossilized Vibram™ footprint on your wedding day. What is quirky charming can become simply quirky odd quite quickly, you know, and surely there are more wedding appropriate and clever and romantic examples of old and new. Sting would have them, naturally, and so would George Clooney, or Taye Diggs. And do you want to spend the rest of your life thinking about Taye, or George, or Sting, or the guy who refinanced your mortgage or looked good at the reunion while I'm across the room, folding the laundry, and thinking about the deeper meaning of doing so? I didn't think so.

The fossil is really only "creation science" old, anyway.

I left similar traces one time. Dressed in my best suit, and hurrying to an important meeting, I didn't see the construction workers smoothing out the fresh cement on a sidewalk, and I walked right into it, sinking up to my ankles. So far as I know, this was the first instance of a person voluntarily trying on concrete shoes.

Most of the time, the footprints I leave are much more ephemeral, like footprints in the water. Sure, molecules are displaced, and heat is transferred, and now that I think about it germs are deposited, and maybe some toe jam too, and small waves are made....but when I lift my foot out of the pool, no visible traces remain. Only memories.

Sometimes the ephemeral acts do form lasting memories. In 1975, I wrote a brief, flippant note in a classmate's year book. About a decade or so later I ran into her and she told me that she was actually quite hurt by my note. I had to be reminded what I wrote, given the comment's pithy flippancy, and also that I'm sure I was just trying to be clever. Once she explained, it all made sense: I hadn't really considered how my comments would be heard or remembered. The lesson, now a quarter of a century old? Don't be a jerk, if you can help it, and even if you don't mean to be. Show others respect: they will remember, even if you don't. (Oh: I know I owe many many other apologies for jerkiness.)

Speaking of fossils, and memories, and limbs, how about this zipper on my elbow? I had surgery on it (and pins inserted) when Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy still roamed the earth. It is common knowledge, I think, maybe, that all the cells in our body are replaced every week (or year, or 15 minutes, I can't remember exactly, but the point remains the same, that it is some short period of time, so there is no need to correct me here, although I'll try to look it up later). So why does that scar persist for over 40 years? Like most of the fossil record, I don't pay it much attention it. Only sometimes.

I'm quite fond of my knees. Unlike ankles, elbows, and shoulders they have not faced the surgeon's scalpel. They do have lots of mileage, as each has bent and moved forward approximately 100,000,000 times. One hundred million! Seriously. I did the math. Damn, that's a lot of steps. Go, knees!

I'm not showing a picture of my hip because I'm pissed at it. Stop whining to me, you big sissy.

My wrists are good for lots of things, most especially a) providing a place for my watch to rest; b) keeping my hands attached to my body. They should be thanked more often.

Props to the little guys! The sweat glands, pores, hair follicles (well, you know which ones can stay, which should go, and which have already left the building), nostrils, ear canals, taste buds, and what not. Especially the sweat glands. I'd hate to cool off by evaporating just through my tongue.

Day 29: Criminal Under My Own Hat

2010-06-13T02:49:00.001-07:00

I am not a crook.

Not usually, anyways. But something about hotel buffet breakfasts makes me want to pocket the petite jars of jam. I guess I'm just a petite thief. So, yes, at the Treasure Box I slipped two of these luscious, tart/sweet, cute jars into my pocket. Wait, that's not thievery, right? I paid for the breakfast, and I'm just extending the breakfast until I return to Doha.

It's not a good idea to be a criminal in Oman, which is an "Islamic Absolute Monarchy". I can almost see Ann Coulter's neck veins throbbing at the very sound of that statement and, given the choice of enduring Ann or IAM, I'd go for the IAM every time because it is less vicious and more sensible. To get both ideas out of my mind, I'll imagine the advertising campaign for Absolut Monarchy.

If you are going to be a criminal, it doesn't make sense to do it on the cheap. A Saudi man arrested for stealing a cell phone in Qatar was held for three years before being released. As it turns out, after three years someone decided to check whether the serial number on the phone in the Saudi's possession matched the number of the phone that was stolen. It wasn't, and he was released. "My bad," I assume Qatar said.

That's the problem with criminal justice systems, everywhere. It's tough to design them so that the bad guys are put away, and the good guys are released. The more we protect the innocent, the more we allow criminals to evade punishment. And vice versa. That's why the US is on to a pretty helpful concept: innocent until proven guilty. Too bad that sometimes it's just a concept, Justice Scalia.

The great Jam Heist was only my first crime of the day. After breakfast I left for a self-guided tour of Muscat, which is not so much a single city as a string of smaller towns along the coast. A full day tour cost about $150, and the tours didn't run on Friday, so I paid myself that amount (with a very generous tip, even though my English was probably not as good as the guide's) and tried to find all the spots mentioned in the brochure, meaning that me and my "YARis" put in some good kilos. One viewing spot, on the Indian Ocean, was close to the Grand Hyatt (not to be confused with the Grand Mosque) Resort.

I figured I should scope it out. At the gate on the beach, the sign says: "Hyatt Resort limited to Members and Guests".

Oh, temptress! More like "Oh, go ahead and dangle chum in front of this shark!" I can't resist disregarding signs like this. Ok, I can but I don't. Not disregard , I suppose, as I think to myself: "Mark, you are the kind of guest the Hyatt would want. You are classy. You put the toilet seat down, even if you are staying at the hotel by yourself. You tip well (note my generosity to the tour guide, above). You know how to walk around a place like you own it, not in a Michaele Salahi kind of way -- hey, I just tried to friend her on Facebook! -- which, by all accounts, or my account, which is the only account that counts, is too creepy and narcissistic, even for me, so I just withdrew my Facebook request. No one at this Resort is going to ask me if I belong, as I have that "yeah, I'm wearing khaki shorts, and a t-shirt, and a baseball cap, but because all American men dress like crap at these resorts, for all you know I'm wealthy and important" stroll going.

So I hang by the pool for awhile.

This resort is boring, so I go out for a walk.

Getting a latte at the local Joe Shop, I try not to read the lettering on the woman's underwear, which is clearly visible under her dress, in large print, as if she was reaching out to the nearsighted demographic.

At the local booksellery, I buy three: the "work" book (Risk, by Dan Gardner), the "serious" novel (American Rust, Philip Meyer) and the "fun" one (Juliette, Naked, Nick Hornby). The serious one remains unread; I'll get to it later. The main theme of Risk is "Feelings trump numbers. Gut trumps intellect." My head thinks this must be wrong, but my instincts tell me the author is right.

Today I've already filched jam, forgotten to tell you about the tea bags I also pinched, and I snuck into a resort. As T-Bone Burnett sings:

He's capable of anything

Of any vicious act

This criminal is dangerous

The criminal under my own hat

My tour continued. Next photo stop? The Al Alam Palace, the formal home of the hereditary sultan, Qaboos bin Said Al Said. It's helpful to remember this name, not only in case you happen to be asked at a cocktail party "Who's the hereditary sultan of Oman, again?" but also because the main highway is named after him, the main sports complex, the main shopping district, etc.

Imagine a Washington DC where Tyson's Corner has been renamed Obama's Corner; Fedex Field is now Obama Field; and Pennsylvania Avenue is Obama Avenue.

Wow, that was FUN! watching Coulter's head explode!

Oh. Former Member of Congress Bob Barr sort of tried to do this for Ronald Reagan. Hence the Reagan Building in Washington, DC (the biggest federal building in the city is named after the President who thought the government was the problem! oh, the delicious irony) and Reagan National Airport. Barr wanted all public buildings named after Reagan, and he was only 68 percent successful.

The Palace looks like...what? You tell me. Versailles? Buckingham? GuGong? The Kremlin? I don't think so. Help me out: What does this palace look like?

This picture from the palace exemplifies Oman to me. The peanut brittle mountains. The historic forts (center, background). The destruction of older buildings (left) and the construction of the new (right).

Or maybe this picture exemplifies. Huh?

By this time I was not traveling alone. In a deserted historic area I came across a young German man carrying a backpack, complete with tent and sleeping bag. It was very hot and humid, and he was soaked. We were both touring aimlessly, so I figured he would enjoy my air conditioned YAR!is. So we spent the rest of the afternoon just poking through neighborhoods, circling roundabouts, walking up stairways, and talking about the middle east. He is working for the German Chamber of Commerce in Dubai and rode the overnight bus here. Where are you staying? I asked. I'll find a place in some park, he replied. I've done that myself many, many times....many, many years ago.

I dropped him off at the Grand Mosque at the end of the afternoon. He'll probably camp illegally in the park outside. At least I hope so.

Day 28: Treasure Box

2010-06-12T21:12:00.000-07:00

Oman looks like Los Angeles, if LA looked more like Abilene. Or Kyoto. It's tempting to compare a new thing to an old thing, but the comparisons inevitably suffer. Venice on the Creek (outside Denver) is not, well, Venice, no matter what the developers say.

Oman did have a LA-Abilene-Kyoto feel though. Like LA, it is shoved up to an (Indian) ocean by a mountain range, although the mountains here are sharper and steeper, like a brick of peanut brittle that has been shattered by a cleaver. The air was both humid and dusty, and I did see goats roaming some neighborhoods although, unlike Abilene I didn't see any real goat ropers. There were scenes of fragile, elegant grace, almost like Shinto temples photographed through the cherry blossoms.

A quick geography lesson may be in order because, well, you don't have the slightest idea where Oman is, do you. Stop lying. I didn't either. If you had any initiative at all, you'd google the map, but you don't, because you expect this blog to spoon feed you. (Editor to Mark: readers typically don't like to be insulted. This one in particular. So apologize.)

You can see Muscat (or Musqat, or other spellings, as Arabic is translated into English with apparently random spellings) on the lower right of the map. If I was looking out at the Indian Ocean, which I did, right before I snuck into the Hyatt Resort (more on that later), I would see (from left to right) Iran, Pakistan, and India. Behind me is Saudi Arabia and Yemen. Over my left shoulder is the United Arab Emirates and Qatar.

Gotcha question: Which middle eastern countries have US military bases?

Answer: Bahrain, Oman, Qatar, United Arab Emirates, Egypt, Kuwait, Iraq, Afghanistan, at least, although most of the other countries have at least some "military presence" After all, the US military is in something like 160 countries around the globe.

Easy question: Which countries would we allow to put military bases in OUR country (so as, for example, to ensure safety and security in Texas, Florida, Mississippi and other "hot spots"...)

Answer: We would never allow such a gross infringement on our national sovereignty.

Riding the shuttle bus to the main terminal of the airport, I stood next to this fellow. I'm pretty sure his watch cost more than mine. Then again, we were riding the same shuttle. One time I sat next to Mike Dukakis, the man who might have been president, riding a shuttle: he was wet from the rain, tired from the day, and carrying his own suitcase. As far as I could tell, I was the only one on the bus who even recognized him.

Once in my rental car, I sped to my hotel like Danica Patrick on Crack, if she were older whiter maler balder, driving a Toyota Yaris (this car name really only works on Talk Like a Pirate Day), and drinking a Red Bull. Unlike Bahrain, which had no useable maps, Oman provides great maps, with every street numbered or named. Three feet by three feet, at times my map blocked the entire windshield.

In front of me, eventually, peering over the top of my map, was the Treasure Box Hotel. It was the coolest looking hotel that I could access and afford. Very cool. I was one of about three guests. Does word get out that I'm coming, so the other guests bail? No one was at my hotel last week, either.

Cultural differences: the mini-bar had no liquor.

Cultural similarities: a can of Coke cost $6.

Mark's strategy: Walk 50 feet to the convenience store (I think it must have been photoshopped out of the picture) and buy a Coke (and a smile!) for about 50 cents.

Mark's strategy, II: I finished revising a scholarly (!!!) article for publication today. One of my reviewers noted that I had an alarming and annoying tendency to put extraneous stuff in parentheticals (Can you imagine? Me? Extraneous Stuff? Parentheticals?) I took them all out (mostly) and so I had a surplus, and now I plan to use them all (here).

The Treasure Box was close to the Grand Mosque. My first visit came that night. I marveled at the building in its grace, beauty, and solemnity. It became my favorite place to reflect.

Sample reflection: Doesn't it seem odd that anyone who claims that God has a chosen people is, quite conveniently, one of them?

Such thoughts kept me awake, until they didn't.

Day, oh, maybe 23: Seeing Clearly

2010-06-08T12:46:00.000-07:00

Hello, Students!

That's right: you. The students in my Ethics class. I see you. I know you're reading this. Well, I don't really know that, but I'm guessing you are. Or were. Or will be. Or should be.

The cat pretty much leaped out of the bag (I'm hoping the phrase "leaping the bag" will become as popular, and as opaque, as the phrase "jumping the shark". Already, it's not that far behind, as Google gives 506,000 hits for shark and 449,000 for bag) when Hassan walks into class today, in previously noted black t-shirt, and says "Looks like its casual day for Muslims".

Busted.

I mean, it's not like I was trying to hide my blog. Truth be told, and I plan to tell it, I think everyone in the universe should be reading it because of its wit and wisdom. And because I would become filthy rich if everyone read it. I would buy Google, and make my name the most popular search term. I would hire writers even wiser and wittier and more grammatically correct than me to write it, and I would pay them a pittance, and they would be grateful.

But, anyway, I didn't actually expect my students to find it or read it. Although it does make me think about posting the class readings here, so you read my blog and your assignments at the same time.

I just don't think I was seeing very clearly, in a sand got in my eye kind of way. In fact it was sandy today, or dusty, or particulaty. I'm blaming BP.

After my blushing stopped -- and, man was I redder than a bleeding Razorback dipped in cherry juice on Valentine's Day -- I had that Uh Oh moment: What had I written that would embarrass me or embarrass the class? After class I went back and reread everything (like I hadn't done that before). Hassan had no worries about my description of him -- perhaps he should hire me as his agent -- although I did worry a bit about the "casual day for Muslims" thing. Saying I lusted after the woman in the tight jeans was a bit dicey and, dammit, why did I bring that up again? A couple other lapses in good taste could be mentioned, if I were tasteless enough to mention them. Overall I think I'm in good shape, mainly because I didn't pick on anyone but myself.

That's a good thing. I don't like hypocrisy and malicious gossip, although I've no doubt done both. When I do, I do feel slimy. There are other feelings I'd much rather have. I'm only down with a couple of the seven deadly sins -- yeah, you can guess which ones (hint: anger ain't on the list) and I think those are downright virtuous compared to hypocrisy and gossip.

Speaking of anger: wow, when I read the comments on American political blogs, it's clear there is a lot of anger out there. Hey, you: If you're angry listen to this. Chill guaranteed.

Still, we all see things differently, some more clearly, some less. I do have proof of this. Check out the cool frames below, found at the Villagio Mall. I'm thinking of getting the white frames with the lavender lenses. I'd sure look different and, if I didn't see more clearly, I would more colorfully.

Day 20: Sweeping Generalizations of High Significance

2010-06-05T05:41:00.000-07:00

Rashid al Khalifa, perhaps the most influential artist in Bahrain, creates mesmerizing works by painting on convex canvasses. Thank you, arts patrons, and art museums.

In Islamic architecture, buildings are simple and symmetrical on the exterior and richly adorned inside, symbolizing their spirituality. Modern American homes favor ostentatious exteriors and massive, ill-conceived interior spaces, reflecting ours.

The rich have the good shit. The main public beach in Bahrain is unsightly and trashy. Yet the sea is (mainly) the same for rich and poor alike here: crystalline bathwater. I am thankful that the rich in American don't own all the good beach property, just most of it.

Women wear full black robes and veils on the beach, and even in the water. I doubt this can be comfortable, but is it less comfortable (physically and spiritually) than butt floss and pasties?

No one else on the beach had a pink belly, but maybe no one noticed.

The best meal I’ve had in the Mideast was the 50 cent shawarma from street vendors: fresh, tasty, and cheap. The shawarma, not the vendors.

Doha is a jewel box; Manama is a junk drawer. Jewel boxes are to be admired and junk drawers are to be explored.

The towns south of Manama along the coast remind me of my mind: cluttered, with lots of projects half completed and then abandoned due to lack of interest.

A veil that entirely covers a woman’s face seems like overkill to me. Any man who advocates it for reasons of modestly should have to wear one also. On the other hand, next to the woman in the full veil was one in tight black jeans, long silken locks, and smoldering black eyes, and I totally lusted after her.

The airport security guard didn’t bother to look at my bag going through the x-ray machine, so my can of diet coke was successfully smuggled. Qatar Air provides you a free snack and a drink, even on a 30 minute flight, and it doesn’t care if you leave your iPod on during the landing. The rule stating that you must remain buckled until you reach the gate is widely ignored.

It's good to explore, and it's good to be back home.

Day 19: I Wonder as I Wander....

2010-06-04T10:52:00.001-07:00

Wandering aimlessly has its advantages: you never know what you'll see, and sometimes you don't know what it is when you see it. Last year, when I left Doha and spent a night in London, I simply grabbed the first double decker bus I found, assuming it would do a loop through various charming British neighborhoods (what what!) and return me to my place of origin. But it didn't, and dropped me off at the end of the line. So I caught the next bus, and so forth. Eventually, it all worked out, as it usually seems to.

Today when I arrived in Bahrain I hopped into my rental Corolla and headed off in what I thought was the direction of my hotel, the Riveria Palace. Given its distinctive look, I was sure I could find it, or find someone who knew where it was. Wrong, scout. A first warning sign was that no other local hotelier seemed even to know about it, and when I found one who did he gave me detailed directions....to the wrong place. I was looking for "HoJo's" and he sent me to "HoJoe's".

I followed my bread crumbs back to the airport and started over. The main problem with my map is that no roads were labeled -- a rather curious omission, don't you think? -- nor were directions, or much else in the way of things that one might consider essential on a map. I did find the hotel's phone number (oh, right, go ahead and say I was foolish for not having it with me in the first place. Go ahead. I'm sorry. You're right.) and asked for help. I found her directions inscrutable. Her: "Look for the Awadhi on your left." Me: "What's an Awadhi? Just point me to some landmark..." I suggested, and eventually she gave me something to look for.

[Damn: I finished my best post ever and the internet ate it, so I abandoned my room and went to the restaurant downstairs and had a huge honking sheesha (hookah). Because my body is a temple, I smoked apple-flavored tobacco...that must be healthy, right? A reconstruction of the post follows.....]

Soon, I was there, viewing this lovely mosque from the parking lot. Then, it started singing to me. Loudly. A call to worship, I assume. Then another mosque, just across the way, also started broadcasting a plaintive chant. It was a Battle of the Bands (of Brothers). What were they chanting? Were the chants part of a sectarian competition of differing theological principles (Hates great! v. Less killing!)?

[I seem to remember that the Daily Show had something similar recently; I hope I'm not plagiarizing, which I guess I'm not, as I'm giving the Show credit, but only if it deserves it.]

The chants did pack the DQ parking lot. Yes, the international landmark was the Dairy Queen. You can get a sheik (I mean a shake!) before or after the service.

I'll confess, but not in a confessional, that I have seen a similar sign outside of a Baptist church: "Grill with Satan or Chill with the Saints. The Choice is Yours!"

A hotel clerk met me at the DQ and guided me the rest of the way to the Versailles of the Desert, which felt more like the Palace after the Republicans (no, no, not our Republicans, but the ones who executed Louis XVI during the French Revolution). It was pretty much surrounded by a wasteland except for the neon lights across from my window. Almost no guests are here. The elevator didn't work, but the clerk did ask if I minded walking up four flights to my room. It was part classy (the wrapper on my toilet noted that it was "Cleaned Specially..."), part trashy ("4 U") as if it were txting a Britney.

My kind of place. And the sheesha was really, really good.

Day 18: Rubble

2010-06-03T14:15:00.000-07:00

Yes, Barney Rubble. When I finally got a remote, and finally turned on the TV, Mr. Rubble was the first thing (person?) I saw.

There must be a larger message about globalization, ethnic intermingling, cultural imperialism, or something. Maybe people just like Barney. You do, don't you? Admit it. Now, Fred, he's a clown. Barney's a mensch.

That's right, I've been living in a TV-free zone for almost three weeks. Not as some part of a bigger journey of self-discovery or anything, as I was just lazy, and TV makes me lazier. I wasn't going to do anything about it (it being the lack of a remote) until Omar said: Here's your remote. We found it. Once I had it, I used it.

I'm amazed at how quickly I can get used to going without things, without missing them very much. When Sir Thomas More's family visited him, imprisoned in the Tower of London, and his wife said "Oh, what terrible and dismal place!" he replied, simply, "It's pretty much like any other place." (From the wonderful movie "A Man for All Seasons." More (!!!) on this later, if I have enough energy to write about it. I found More both inspiring and frightening. Stay tuned.)

Sir Thomas did miss his family terribly, and the most wrenching part of the movie is when they visit him in prison and beg him to acquiesce to King Henry VIII's demands so that More would be released from prison. He does not, and bids them flee.

I live in a palace, not a prison, but the best thing that has happened to me this week is to look into the eyes of loved ones on Skype. (Chris and Kitt: you made my day. Chris, I'm not at all surprised that you clicked on the link that I said was quite offensive in a previous post. It cracked me up when you said "You tricked me! The link just referred me to Amazon!" This was news to me, as the link I posted was really, really quite profane. Now I see that link starts to come up...and then goes to Amazon. Damn. I do see that Amazon recommends that you get me a Kindle for Father's Day. Just sayin'.)

Did you just get that Normal Rockwell warm glow?

The flip side -- or maybe some other side, as life surely has more than two sides -- of my not missing things is my not asking for them. I think a childhood lesson for me was "Don't whine. Be thankful for what you have."

I'm not sure this is always helpful. Since I've been here my apartment has had almost no water pressure. I thought "Eh, that's the way it is..." until a workman told me "you should complain about your water pressure."

I didn't complain; I made discreet and subtle inquiries. Now, my shower actually showers; it no longer just drools.

Now, back to Barney. Really, I don't plan these things, they just happen. Before I saw Barney, I was already thinking of Rubble. I find all the visual contrasts here fascinating: piles of rubble everywhere next to sparkling buildings. All the new with the little ancient. Technology next to mud. I wish I had a better camera to capture what I see. Boys, are you listening?

The typical architecture: sleek, crisp, clean. The typical rubble pile: rubbly.
If you look closely, there are a half dozen construction cranes in the distance. Thank you, Professor Jim Lambeth, for teaching the course "Architecture Lecture" (a 2 credit fine arts course, part of my liberal education at the University of Arkansas) 34 years ago. You opened my eyes.

Day 16: Celebration

2010-06-01T08:33:00.000-07:00

Three feet more and I'm dead meat.

Road kill.

Walking down the sidewalk to the pool, I stepped out into the opening of the parking garage.

And SUV blows by me at surely lethal speed, without hitting the brakes. If I had been jogging to the pool, I'd have tire tracks on my back.

This is how close it came to me (a dramatic re-enactment appears below, although I wasn't actually facing the SUV. The picture is of a real person, not an actor).

I was feeling quite grateful afterwards, so I got my camera and took pictures of flowers around the pool. Then I dove in, head first.

Day 15: Normally Different

2010-05-30T12:19:00.000-07:00

Which bird is most normal: a robin, a pink flamingo, or a tuxed-out penguin? Oh, it's too hard to trick you, as you know the right answer is "a robin". Unless you happen to be living in the coldest place on earth, in which case you might conclude that, well, the only bird you ever see is a penguin, so that must be what birds look like. Or unless you are a penguin (are you?). Seeing the world in black and white, penguins might look at robins (probably only on Discovery Channel, although I don't think there is a March of the Robins documentary) and think: punks. And Pink Flamingos is a movie by John Waters, and it (the movie, not Waters) has been described as "outrageously sick, disgusting, and grotesque...but also funny". Wait: that does describe Waters. As for the real flamingos, I mean the fake ones, it seems odd that they have become the iconic trailer park decoration, as they look like they would be more comfortable hanging around with RuPaul than Ron Paul, if you know what I mean. But you get my main point, or you should, to the extent that I have one, if you're paying the least bit of attention: normal is what we're used to. Or to what we are used. Which doesn't sound normal, correct as it may (or may not) be.

Now, what does a bike instructor look like? Exactly. Focused. Stern. Hawklike. Commanding respect from the other students, so that even those standing next to him feel compelled to salute.

Just kidding. Despite my cool demeanor, I was crazy nervous about riding in the "First Ever Officially Sanctioned Mid-East Schwinn Indoor Bike Mini-Marathon" (I think that was the event's name and, if not, I'm still going to call it that). What I needed to calm my nerves was a Heinekin. Or, even better, a Pabst Blue Ribbon. I really hope you are tempted to click on at least one of the three links above, and to increase your temptation I'll just mention that they are very very profane, so don't click if you are offended by offensiveness or if you think Dennis Hopper (RIP) was a virtuous guy. Yeah Blue Velvet was one crazy movie.

The two actual instructors (guides? trainers?), for the marathon, Luz and Carmen, were only mildly crazy. Carmen is in Doha by way of Germany and although she worn a dirndl to the event, she did not actually wear it while riding (sissy). Luz comes from one of those countries -- I hear there are many -- where Spanish is spoken, and I hope she tells me which one it is, so I can give her homeland proper credit. Both Luz and Carmen have the ability to ride really fast (on a stationary bike) for a really long time while being really really positive and motivational and all that and really not getting out of breath and really making me think I could do it too.

They were so good, they made me feel like I could fly. Which I did.

They could not, alas, keep my butt from getting chapped. The mini-marathon consisted of a 45 minute "spin" class, led by Luz (perky! motivational! fast! relentless!), a break for bananas and dates, another 45 minute spin, led by Carmen (bubbly! sprightly! ferocious!), another break for more bananas and dates, and then a final long ride (I almost choked when Luz told me...."I have a surprise for you! The last leg will be a two hour ride!" My gonads immediately shrank with trepidation....). For better or worse (in sickness and health) I was loving and cherishing the fact that we ran out of time before I ran out of gas: the last leg was only about an hour. I made it.

Was this an event, or was it a cult meeting? You be the judge. I'm just saying, when Carmen said: "Sie mussen salut!" (German scholars: yeah, I know that's not the correct translation, but I wanted to make it's meaning obvious in English) that's exactly what we did.

We saluted from our knees, too, and we liked it. Except for the two "white shirts" who were quickly culled from the herd.

Kidding. They weren't culled, just "re-educated". After all, Oceania has always been at war with Eastasia.

Rosie, the rebellious one behind and to the left of (compliant) me, is from Malaysia, leads spin classes, likes champagne (yes, she was quite clear that she was a Muslim and liked the bubbly), and is married to the Dude who is I think the head economic advisor to the Emir. She's the kind of person, if there is such a kind, who will casually mention over lunch (and champagne, hers not mine, as I was having a lemon mint drink) that oh, yeah, her husband just flew in Jeffrey Sachs (an economist twice listed by Time magazine as one of the 100 most important people in the world) for a bit of convo on the economic situation in Qatar. She is sitting between me and Carmen (again, in dirndl) at our post-marathon pasta fest.

Ahmed, from Egypt, is on the far right. He also teaches spin classes, which apparently are one of the main commercial activities in Doha. He is not a terrorist, and certainly not dead one.

Marvin, Luz's husband, is on my right. She told him that he wore the wrong shirt to lunch. He/Luz are in Doha as he is one of the project leaders (I'm not sure if he is a muckety-muck, a muckety, or some other rank) for the construction of the new international airport, which is a project of less economic importance than the spin classes.

Marvin and I are doing the "we just met" dance. Where are you from? I ask.

Marvin: South central Virginia.

Mark: Oh, really? Where?

Marvin: Near Roanoke.

Mark: Really? Where? (Apparently, all the biking also shrank my vocabulary.)

After 7 or 8 more of my "20 questions" I learn that Marvin grew up very close to Laura/my vacation home where the Blackwater River flows into Smith Mountain Lake. This is rural Virginia, folks. Flamingos on front lawns, holding Confederate flags.

Yeah, I met my neighbor in Doha. How normal is that?

Day 14: Differences are.....

2010-05-29T08:17:00.000-07:00

Is there an Arabic radio station named "Chuck"? I don't mean Chuck literally, because if the station was Arabic I'm assuming it would have an Arabic name. Maybe Waleed, or Hadi, or Mubarak. If so, I hope the listeners are as annoyed as I get when the station I'm tuned to says "You're listening to Chuck (or Fred, or Donna) radio." WTF. Do the station programmers think that Chuck and I are going to be buddies, playing beer pong or something? Does Chuck want me to be his wingman? Is Chuck going to keep playing Journey's "Don't Stop Believing" even though I stopped believing that song was any good the first time I heard it?

I suppose radio programmers in the US are trying to have it both ways. They give their stations familiar names to make them feel familiar (and trusted, and reliable, and so forth, unless you actually know a Chuck, and he was a Dick, which might lead you to want to punch Chuck radio in the kisser). Then they say...."Oh, Chuck is different...Just like you. Your songs. Your way" to remind us how unique we are, except for the fact that we're pretty predictable, and Chuck's programmers know what we buy, what we wear, what we drive, and what music we like (and it's not "Don't Stop Believing," which is why I turned Chuck off).

I've mainly been listening to FM 102 (let's call this Hadi radio), with some FM 99 (Mubarak radio) thrown in. I like Hadi and Mubarak a lot, as both mainly play Arabic music, which I find sonically fascinating and cool. I do have two confessions, though: a) all the songs sound alike; b) I can't tell the stations apart. I assume that locals would be aghast at this confession, because: a) each song is different; b) the stations are undoubtedly distinct.

What is different to locals is the same to me, not because I'm an idiot -- I baldly assert -- but because I don't have enough knowledge to make the distinctions. You probably know the feeling, too, when you hear someone say: "All [fill in the blank: rap, country, bluegrass, blues, folks, rock, classical, opera, jazz] music sounds alike" and you think: "No...you're an idiot." (Ok, maybe I am.)

It's a little hard for me to identify by name the females in my class who are wearing a sheyla (black head scarf) and abaya (long black robe), as I'm accustomed to using hair and clothing to distinguish between individuals. But walking around the Souq (the old market area) last night, I saw four Anglo men sitting together. All were roughly in their 40s, with shaved heads, and sort of khaki clothing. I'm guessing the locals couldn't tell them apart either.

To know my students better, I've been studying the printed "facebook" (no connection with the website) for the Qatar campus. The students/faculty/staff can list their birthplace, hobbies and favorite books, music and movies. Here's a sample of their features

Birthplace Hobby Book Music Movie

Afghanistan Cricket Classical The Matrix

Lebanon Hanging out Pride & Prejudice

Egypt Careless Love Old stuff Rendition

Bangladesh Theater Girls of Riyadh Braveheart

Kuwait "The Office" Harry Potter Guitar hero Dumb and Dumber

USA Football Ab-elmajeed 300

Bahrain Painting Oryx and Crake The Godfather

Palestine Tennis The Alchemist Josh Groban The Notebook

Qatar Biking Hearn's Trilogy Sarah Brightman Breakfast Tiffany's

You get the idea. You just can't always tell by looking what people like, or what they are like. Maybe we are predictable and unique.

Day 13: Normal is....

2010-05-28T11:37:00.000-07:00

Bear Grylls has nothing on me. We both know how to survive by chewing on moxie, sipping dauntlessness mixed with a dash of spunk, and making our beds from nothing more than wit, pluck, and guts. Yeah, and we sleep in the bed we made.

We're a tough breed. In the 12 days after I arrived here, I survived -- verily, thrived -- without using a cell phone, credit card, or TV. (Oh, wait: Bear didn't do that.)

Yesterday I could go on no longer....I....had....to....charge something.....

[Insert TV commercial here. A happy song is playing, and a happy family is dancing in a happy meadow...

Voiceover: Hello, this is your dear friend Citibank. Because we value you and your family so much, we are going to raise your APR from 9.9% to 29.9% in order to better serve you!]

I'd like to say this is why I haven't been watching TV or using my credit card, but that's not quite true. I can't find the remote -- I think I left it somewhere in my office building my first day here when they issued it to me -- and, well, hell, I don't feel like screwing with it anyway. I did cancel my Citi card -- and I encourage you to do so too, and to take your money out of the too-big-to-fail banks and deposit it in a local community bank. Anyway, I've been relying on my ATM card and the fast wireless for all my cash and entertainment needs. No, not that kind of entertainment: Qatar blocks those sites, remember? I've been reading lots of reader comments to political posts (Politico, Washington Post, Huffington, etc.) and this I know: most of the posters are unhinged. I didn't use my cell because I didn't have anyone to call.

Until last night. I wanted to leave this desert and visit another one -- and, at the same time, to travel to places that sounded like tag lines from the Simpsons, so my best option was to fly from "Doh!" "Ha!" to "Oh! Man!" (Mark, Mark, don't go all Al Gore here and explain in a patronizing way that this means from Doha (Qatar) to (Musqat) Oman. Too late.)

Why else do I want to fly to Oman, you might ask?

To find some Musqat love! ("Musqat Suzy, Musqat Sam, do the jitterbug in Musqat land...")(Al Gore: Musqat is the capital of Oman.)

If you know the Captain and Tennille version of this song, the least you can do to atone is to buy -- at whatever price -- one of the world's best albums, by the Willis Alan Ramsey, an incredibly talented songwriter who did make this one big, stinking and flaming bag of a mistake.

So. I try to buy the ticket online...and my card is rejected. I'm used to rejection, so I tried again. And again. Qatar Airlines sent me the auto-response "Are you stalking me? I said NO!"

Then I remembered that when I got to Qatar my credit card company (did I mention that it was not from those SOBs at Citibank?) had called to tell me that my card had been blocked because I had the audacity to use it, which I kind of thought was the point of having it, although I appreciate that their surveillance system had learned that someone -- probably an identity thief -- had the cojones, or its Arabic equivalent, which I couldn't find on google, which is a shame because everything should be available there, was testing their system by buying a book, which turned out to be a so-so thriller, although I felt compelled to read the whole thing, at an airport in England, which is where I transferred while coming here, unfortunately not with enough time to visit the Virgin Lounge, which has the best eggs benedict I've ever had at a layover at an airport.

Anyway, my credit card had been blocked. I thought I had fixed the problem on Day 1 but, since I had not used my card since then, apparently I had not. Which may explain why my car rental company was getting just a little curt with me (ha! my brother is nicknamed "Little Curt"), as it had submitted my monthly charge to the credit card company day after day, and each day the charge was denied, despite my assurances that everything was ok.

So, I had to use my cell to call the credit card company to clear things up. Which I did. They didn't really ask me, but I told them that Citibank sucks.

I did have to call the company back when I discovered that ALL the rental car charges had been posted to my account. Nothing quite like the thrill of paying $600+ each day for 8 consecutive days or so to rent a Mitsubishi Lancer for a month...

I still haven't used my TV, though I did think about using my cell and card to order a new remote so I could use it, which would have been a triple-play of technological catching up.

You've read this far, if you are still reading, so I owe you something a little special: another spill shot. Not ketchup. Not mustard. Not vaseline (again). In trying to put sunblock on my back, I poured a bunch in my hand and tried to sneak around my body and catch my back by surprise. Instead, I threw it on the door instead. An evocative picture, I think. Don't you?

Day 11: No Pain, No Gain?

2010-05-26T10:30:00.000-07:00

The Orgasm Pill is safe and effective; it has no side-effects. It guarantees all of the pleasure, with none of the potentially painful regrets, anxious worries, or awkward good-byes!

[Reader advisory: This post is more about suffering than sex, so proceed at your own risk.]

So, I asked my class, should such a drug be approved? Should we seek to design it? If we had it, would you take it?

I didn't quite use those exact words, but I'm pretty confident my students (they're smart) got the drift. The (much) broader question was: We want public policies to reduce suffering and increase happiness, don't we? Each time policies do this, we consider them successful....but how far should we go?

Yesterday, I learned that electricity and water are free to all Qatari citizens. That's right: free. They can use all they want -- Endless hot showers! Toilet flushing party games! Let's turn the AC on and open the windows! -- without any negative consequences, at least for the individuals doing the consuming. Scarcity has been eradicated; abundance abounds. Paradise, no?

Forget for the moment that this can't last forever. Nothing ever does. And remember that going without electricity makes life harder, and going without water makes it impossible. So kudos to the Qatari government for providing citizens unlimited amounts of these good things.

Still.

There were some murmurs from the students as we discussed this. No, they didn't really think that the policy of free "juice" should be extended to all people in the country (Americans tend to think similarly regarding the goods that their government provides). No, they didn't necessarily think that "getting something for nothing" was always a good thing.

Which almost brings us back to the Orgasm Pill (in fact, the example I used was a diet pill that allowed you to eat whatever you wanted -- anyone for a double order of the KFC double-down sandwich? -- without gaining weight or feeling ill). Cue the fireworks.

The students seemed to think that "the bad should come along with the good". Pain and suffering are what make us human, after all. More precisely, it is the recognition that we will experience pain and suffering that is our defining characteristic. Eliminate those things, and we are....well, what are we then?

Hmm. In the abstract ("posing a gotcha hypothetical") I might agree with this, so let me ask and answer some specific questions; I encourage the reader to do the same. Throughout human history, childbirth has been accompanied by great pain for the mother and the high odds that the baby would die: that was all a "natural" part of humanity.

Mark: If you could make pregnancy risk free, would you?

Mark: Yes.

Mark: If you could eliminate pain from childbirth, would you?

Mark: Yes.

Mark: If you could guarantee that your child -- all children -- would be born healthy, would you?

Mark: Yes.

Those who wish suffering for themselves can have it: it's all yours. Those who wish other people to experience pain: cut it out.

I offer no compelling finale. The (conceptual) Orgasm Pill...would I want it? Sure. Should I take it? Hmmm....

Day 7, Part 3: Round and Round My Car and Mind Go....

2010-05-24T13:04:00.000-07:00

Doha has no forks in the road; it has only sporks. Or so we culinary anthroadologists call them. Known prosaically as "traffic circles" in the US, here they more poetically are called "roundabouts". Roads generally come from four directions, with drivers merging into the circle when they can and then exiting where they want or, if they are like me and don't know where they want to exit, they start singing with Billy Preston "here we go round in a circle..." American roads usually have intersections, with stoplights. I don't know a colloquial term for such intersections, so let's just call them CFs (which is short for what rhymes with "bluster ducks"). You know what I mean. I'm guessing that many of us have used our cells at some jammed intersection to report "It's a total CF here."

It's time for some truth telling here. Doha roundabouts are more American than CFs, and it's time we get with the program and begin claiming roundabouts as our own, as if we invented them (which, um, we didn't, even in Pierre L'Enfant's original design for Washington, D.C.)

Here's why:

1. Roundabouts are more efficient than CFs. As a traffic engineer as well as a anthroadologist, you're just going to have to trust me on this. Think of it this way. At roundabouts, you never wait unnecessarily: if there is an opening, you enter. At CFs, you must wait if you have the red light, even if no one else is there.

2. Roundabouts are more fair than CFs. In public places, the general and sensible rule is "first come, first served". If you don't agree with this, just try cutting into the front of the line for coffee at Starbucks or for the bathroom at Fedex Field. Good luck. Roundabouts are totally first come, first served. CFs, not so. And who doesn't know that feeling of sitting at a long stop light while some Juanita-come-lately on the cross street simply drives up and drives through! The injustice!

3. Roundabouts have more freedom than CFs. At roundabouts, you are always free to enter (it might not always be wise to do so but, hey, it's the drivers' call). At CFs, in contrast, The Man says "You can go when I say so. You must stop when I give the signal." Talk about Big Brother or, in my case Big Sister (hey, Cristine!). Worse, The Man tempts you to cheat ("Go ahead....the light is red but no one is watching...are they? Go for it...you won't get caught....will you?) Increasingly, Big Sister is literally watching you by posting cameras, so she can catch you breaking the rules she imposed.

On behalf of liberty, equity, and efficiency, we the people should demand that our Great Nation return to its original principles and The Founders' clear intent that we are based on roundabout values.

The other day Laura commented that I was behaving stranger than usual, for which the only reasonable response is "How strange am I usually?"

Oh. There is no Day 7, Part 2. Considering that I originally wrote Part 1 on Day 8, and today is Day 10, I don't have any problem skipping Part 2. Do you?

I go back and forth on font sizes. Do you prefer small, normal, or large?

Day 7, Part 1: Slower Pace, Less Pressure?

2010-05-23T11:46:00.001-07:00

Is it too slow to go a week without buying the toilet paper I probably should have bought on my first day here? I mean, it's not like I didn't try to buy some. What I thought was a standard "four pack" (same size, same shape) of TP ended up being a two roll pack of paper towels.

So, I've been making do. In fact, I've been feeling downright Brawny™ with this purchase.

The paper towels did come in handy yesterday. I've pretty much been dining on local fare and thought a turkey and cheese sandwich, with a spot of mayo on one side and a dab of mustard on the other, sounded just the ticket. Spot on, and all that. After pulling the shrink wrap off the mustard jar (my apartment had been stocked with condiments and what not, except for the toilet paper), I gave the bottle a squeeze, and a few watery drops came out. Right, I forgot to shake it, so I did. I squeezed harder, and nothing else came out.

A little more pressure. Still nothing.

I squeezed just a wee little bit harder.

That's when I learned that mustard bottles here don't have screw tops; they have friction tops. If you squeeze hard enough, the lid will blow off. And mustard will cover everything, including my new shirt and shorts (not pictured). Yes, I think my shirt/shorts would be covered even if, as I suggested above, you were the one doing the squeezing.

I would have thrown my clothes into the washer/dryer immediately, but it (they?) had caught fire that morning so I thought this would be imprudent.

The mustard smell did help cover the rose smell, which I had sprayed liberally (I mean "socialistically") around my kitchen to cover the burning appliance smell.

Which begs the question: When exactly does a, um, "bachelor" do his laundry? When he has no more clean clothes. Bachelors, go ahead and say "duh". Hand washing, to thee I pledge.

Helpful travel hint: After wringing the water out of your clothes, lay them out flat on a towel. Next, roll the towel up. Finally, just stomp on it. This relieves frustration at the same time it dries the clothes out remarkably well. Try it sometime, if you need such relief.

Life is slower here -- at least if my toilet paper purchases are a barometer (and if barometers measured speed). Still, it might be helpful, at times, to apply less pressure.

To be continued.

Day 5: Absurdist Tragicomedy

2010-05-20T12:13:00.000-07:00

"I don't where the sunbeam ends and the starlight begins, it's all a mystery."

"I don't know how man decides what's right for his own life, it's all a mystery."

It may be tragic or comic, but it's no doubt absurd for a 52 year old man to begin a blog post with lyrics from the Flaming Lips Fight Test. (Just click on the link to hear the song. While you're there, go ahead and listen to She Don't Use Jelly, too)

Doesn't my eye look yummy? So off to the health clinic I went. The results? I quickly filled out a one page form. I saw a (female Muslim) doctor within about 5 minutes. (I'm not sure why I feel compelled to report the doctor's religion and gender, but I do.) I was out the door, prescriptions in hand, in 15. There was no charge. Zilch. Zero.

This was socialized medicine. "Qatar now has a public health service providing free or very low cost health care for its nationals, and it's important to note that these services are also available to expatriates." This site also notes that "eye infections are common". Ok, ok, I'm not saying that all socialized medicine works well, and it's clear that in Qatar it works better to handle routine treatment than specialized care; Qataris do fly elsewhere for specialized treatment.

This was civilized medicine. Of course, it does help that the country is awash in oil money. But it does seem pretty reasonable to me that ordinary medical care is provided to all residents.

I did have to pay for the prescriptions: about $20, which can be covered by private health insurance.

I also taught my final class of the week (classes run Sunday-Thursday here). Every Thursday we are going to watch films (slacker alert); today we watched an episode from "Ethics in America," a series produced about 15 years ago. Each episode contains a Socratic discussion, with the moderator posing tough questions to prominent officials (e.g., Jeanne Kirkpatrick -- former Georgetown professor! -- was the President. Newt Gingrich and Rudy Giuliani were both in their younger, and much more sensible, days). The focus was on "trust".

Afterwards we had our own Socratic dialogue. I said: "I have to trust you; you have to trust me. So what would you do if you found out that one of your classmates was cheating by having someone else write their papers?"

Student question: What is my relationship with the cheater?

My answer: Well, I'm going to assume you're not going to tell on a close friend or relative, so let's say it's just a classmate. Let's also say that you can report this to me anonymously by leaving a note in my mailbox. Now, what would you do?"

The class voted 12-1 that they would not report the cheating.

Wow.

Their explanations: It's not my job. I don't want to be a snitch. Who's really hurt? And so forth.

More wows from me. (Disclosure: similar questions have produced similar answers from my US students.)

I know it may be trite to repeat the quote that "all it takes for evil to prevail is for good people to do nothing" but that is definitely my depressing conclusion. Damn. But I wonder what I would do in that situation....

My blogs grow heavy, I fear.

Back to absurdist tragicomedy. That's the description of the play "Rosencrantz and Gilderstern are Dead," which I hope to see tomorrow night. R&G are two minor, confused characters -- I can relate! -- from Hamlet. To buy the tickets, I have to visit the Bellagio Mall, which has canals, with gondoliers, running through it: the ceiling is painted blue with puffy white clouds. Venice comes to the Gulf!

Random facts: My students' names are Noor, Abdullah, Hassan, Nouf, Jumana, Abdulrahman, Hissa, Maryam, Haya, Fatima, Fatima, Ghehad, Manal, and Saran.

More: My blood pressure was 110/80 and my pulse was 64. Immortality no doubt awaits.

So we're watching the movie and a very handsome and very buff guy enters and sits. He is wearing a tight black t-shirt and is jacked. I have no idea who he is but, hey, we're watching in the student lounge, so it could be just about anybody. During the discussion, another student says something like "Why don't you ask Hassan?"

It's Hassan, one of my students! In every other class, he has been wearing a full white robe and white headdress. I didn't recognize him out of uniform. I did want to ask him...

"What is it, casual Thursday for Muslims?"

Day 4: Mirage or Reality?

2010-05-19T12:04:00.000-07:00

"Life does not consist mainly -- or even largely -- of facts and happenings. It consists mainly of the storm of thoughts that is forever blowing through one's head."
- Mark Twain, Autobiography

The desert weirds your mind. My mind, anyway. Or maybe it was driving my car, AC blasting, along the desert road. Now, Qatari drivers are notorious for being aggressive and fast. But as I cruised I noticed....cars seemed to be keeping a safe distance from me. No honking. No tailgating. No cutting me off. Huh. Why? Is it because, as a clearly identifiable representative of the hetero-normative, white dominant, gender encoded, hegemonic American regime (as the scholars would say or, more simply as the fabulous band Majestic Twelve writes in the song, Condoleeza Check My Posse, which you really should check out, "I'm straight and white and male American and free"), the other drivers were graciously deferring to me? Not likely. Is it because they can see I'm a foreigner and, as everyone knows, foreigners can't drive? Perhaps. Is it all just the storm of thoughts blowing through my head?

Bingo!

Naturally, I was immediately tailgated, honked on, and cut off.

But, things do happen in the desert. My bald head is exceptionally dry, for example. Buying some body lotion at the store, however, made me face some existential choices: specifically, I could choose between lotion for "normal" skin, "dry" skin, or "sensitive" skin (not counting all the various flavors of each type). But I'm normal! Does normal skin even need lotion? And, in fact, my scalp is both dry and sensitive! What to do? WWJD?

The choices left me in tears. My eyes were literally watering. And reddening. And hurting. And more of each throughout the evening. My conclusion: I have conjunctivitis. Pink eye. WebMD helpfully tells me that this could be caused by a) viruses; b) bacteria; c) allergies; d) irritations. I want to check e) all of the above as my eyes are killing me. They feel like a size 8 shoe on a size 12 foot. They look like I'm now wearing the tux I wore to the senior prom: tight and hideous. If I don't look like the Great Satan, I do resemble Satan's spawn.

Pre-demonic, I took a chance in yesterday's class and discussed abortion (although I'm not censored any way at school, I do want to find topics that are useful and appropriate, so I had been reading up on abortion policy in Islamic countries.) I began by noting "This topic is extremely controversial in the US, with some people holding views that abortion should be totally banned, and others believing that the right to choose is absolute. Is it controversial in your country? (Note: I've now learned that six of my students are from Qatar, and eight are from other countries throughout the middle east; all, as far as I know, are Islamic.) The students overwhelming concurred: not controversial. I then posed what I think are some of the hardest questions for the ardent pro-life and pro-choice positions, and tried to expose the weaknesses in each....

As it turns out, abortion is not completely banned in Qatar: exceptions are made if the pregnancy threatens the life, physical health, or mental health of the mother (if verified by two doctors) or if the fetus has severe birth defects. Abortion is not allowed from cases of rape (and it's not clear about incest, although I'm guessing that might fall into the "mental health" category). Abortion is available on demand in Bahrain (a one hour flight from Qatar, about the same flight time from South Dakota to Minnesota). Indeed, policies vary across Islamic countries; yes, they differ. So Qatar has more strict policies than the US, to be sure, but they hardly reflect an absolutist position.

It seems that anyone imagining that Islamic countries are alike, and extremist, is buffeted by a desert storm of thoughts, more mirage than reality.

Day 2: No Beep

2010-05-17T04:20:00.001-07:00

It was like the dog that didn't bark. This morning I hopped in my Mitsubishi Lancer (paid product placement!), slipped in the key, and turned it on (Lucky Lancer). I had not yet buckled my seat harness....

And there was silence. That's right, in the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave, when you start your car you hear that "beep, beep, beep" which means: "I'm going to annoy you until you buckle up. It's for your own good." Much like my blessed mother telling me to put my jacket on, when I was 6 years old (or 36). But now I'm apparently living in the Land of the Wheeee! I'm actually free to drive without protection! Oh, sweet liberty! But don't worry, friends, I buckled up anyway....as you might recall from last year's blogs (more product placement! You *must* read them!), Qatar has one of the highest motor fatality rates in the world, as traffic laws are treated as mild suggestions. I don't plan to be one of those fatalities but, then again, I suppose no one plans that.....

Ahh, but even here there are limits to freedom. If you drive over the highest posted limit (I believe is is 120 KPH (about 75 MPH) then your car will begin...beeping. And beeping. And beeping. Human ingenuity is marvelous, though, so I'm guessing there is a thriving market for disabling said beepers ("Jeepers! No Beepers! Our Business Is Yours For Keepers!)

So the US tries to keep us safe from DWOP (driving without protection) and Qatar tries to keep us safe from speeding. The same value -- protecting the driver -- with two different tools. And you know what? I'm guessing American drivers would more willingly accept the former than the latter. Driving with belts may be smart, but driving like a rocket is our divine right. The more that I think about it, though, the smarter the Qataris seem to be about this. Seat belt laws are designed to protect us from ourselves, while the Qatar laws are designed to protect us from others. I don't know about you, but I'm more interested in being protected from the other guy than from myself. Yet sometimes I do wonder which person is more likely to harm me....

Back in my apartment, I try again to free the key that is jammed into my locked balcony door. I fiddle with it. I jiggle it. I tug and pull. I give up and call maintenance. The guy comes over, walks in, and immediately pulls it out. Oh. I wonder if he is thinking "That guy sure looks sharp in his starched shirt and silk tie, but he can't even pull a key out of a lock." Education is valuable, no doubt, but right now I'm thinking that this worker was pretty damn valuable, too.

Day 1: An Unusual Visitor

2010-05-16T10:28:00.000-07:00

A dishwater sky greeted me on my first morning back in Doha. Dishwater, actually, only if I had washed my boots in the sink. Brownish. What I imagined mustard gas would look like if it were made from cumin instead of mustard.

Holy F, I said to the nobody else in my apartment. Flipping on my computer (which was acting as a very expensive clock), I saw: 9.42 a.m. My ride was supposed to be here at 8.30. My class started at 10....

False (non) alarm. My MacBook had tricked me into thinking I was in a time zone several zones away. After quick clicks: ahh, only 5.42. So my recurring panic dream of sleeping through my first day of class was just that, except that this time I was actually awake. For a few minutes, anyway.

It's weird being back in Doha. I'm in the exact same apartment, and it felt a little Ground Hog Day to me. Looking in the mirror, I did see Bill Murray looking back at me, although it was the more recent haggard version. Jet lag will do that.

Later, walking across the street from my office to the ATM machine, the big pipeline in the sky opened up. Not exactly a BP gusher ("It's only 5000 gallons a day! No, wait, perhaps much more than that, but it's not important, and anyway it's not our responsibility!) but enough to soak me. Who says it never rains in southern California? Or Doha, in May?

I'm here to teach the course "Ethics and Values in Public Policy", so these blogs are likely to have my ethical reflections. At the ATM, I remembered this saying:

"It rains on the just and unjust alike, but the Unjust fella has the Just's umbrella"

Although the rain visited me (the acres of astroturf on campus got a good washing), my students did not. Of the 14 students in my class this morning, only six showed up. Yikes. I sent out a gentle reminder that it is their ethical responsibility to, well, show up or let me know. We'll see what tomorrow holds.....

This class is going to be....interesting. I'm using "clicker" technology (I've given the students hand held voting devices) so I can do instant polling in the class (the votes appear on the computer projector). I had them vote on some options for the class, and then asked them "Do you prefer that your votes matter, or are you better off having an authority (in this case, me) make the decisions for you? By a two-thirds margin, they voted that their votes should matter.....quite striking in, as Wikipedia calls it, an "absolute monarchy" (there are municipal elections, and women do have the right to vote and otherwise participate in political affairs). I'll carefully consider how to discuss "human rights," because while Qatar is fairly liberal for an Islamic country, homosexual relations are subject to as much as five years in prison, and "apostasy" is punishable by death (although there are no known executions for it).

We'll consider a simple example tomorrow: Should we have rules about laptop use in our class, or should the students be free to do whatever they want (when I see my students madly typing, I'm on pretty solid grounds assuming that they are updating their Facebook)?

Now, time to update MY Facebook, even if Betty White thinks it "is a huge waste of time...."

My alarm is now set.

Chaptette 19: Insignificant Differences

2009-06-17T14:44:00.000-07:00

So, two Muslims, a Jew, a lapsed Lutheran, and a Dean (religion, unknown) walk into a Doha shisha joint....

You might be able to tell who is who from the pictures. Muslims, clearly, wear dark shirts. The non-Muslims apparently favor khaki. Each side has its uniform, so we can tell each other apart!

My last dinner out in Doha was simply, incredibly, delightfully marvelous. From left to right around the table sat Ibrahim (a Palestinian-American), Hilmi (Sri Lankan), Mark (Lutheran-American), Craig (American-American, I think...Wait! Is Craig on the left of Mark, or the right? It's hard to tell), and John (Dean-American; I usually don't give last names, but his is just too rich to omit: Christ. Well, "Crist" if you want to get technical about it, but if I were an author I would have added the H, just to complete the religious circle we have going here). To "hammour" me (humor me, get it! bada bing!) that's what we ordered all around (yeah, we got totally "hammoured"!) [NB: Hammour is a popular local fish.]

And we talked. And we laughed. Hilmi has worked in conflict zones all over the world, and is now doing charity work in Doha. Ibrahim directs a large project for an American education non-profit; they are training teachers in Qatar. Ibrahim also has a Ph.D. in conflict resolution, and that's how he, Hilmi, Craig all know each other: they are all professional peacemakers.

And fine company. I learned more about Islam in our two hours together than I had learned in my entire life, safe to say. One key point: like Baptists, Muslims have no central authority, no highest leader, for the faithful. Each believer has a direct connection to God. Each cluster of believers has its own views about dogma, its respected leaders, and so forth. I learned much about "fatwas" (Islamic legal pronouncements, most typically concerning behavior) -- and how different scholars/leaders issue different fatwas, which are often in conflict, sometimes reversed, etc. Sort of like the Southern Baptist Convention (as I understand that mysterious, foreign religion). Equally important: this may come as a surprise, or maybe not, but these guys were hilarious....and very, very smart...and genuinely friendly, curious, lively, engaging, and kind.

After dinner, we smoked shishas. To respect my people, I ordered apple-flavored tobacco. I also had turkish coffee. And a Red Bull. And Meth. And crack. No wonder I have trouble sleeping.

Leaving the Souq, I see the lights of the Islamic Cultural Center in the distance. You can study Arabic there, for free. Maybe next time I will.

Chaptette 18: Calculations and Interpretations

2009-06-16T11:30:00.000-07:00

(74-70.5)*2.2*3500/150 = 179.67

The students in my "Quantitative Methods for International Politics" class -- at least some of them -- are freaking out now. The semester ends in two days, and they have to complete some online quizzes, a problem set, and a small research project. The research projects I graded last night and returned today were highly variable (mean = 81.something, standard deviation = 18.something. In other words, the class average was a low "B" grade, but the scores were all over the place. The highest was 100, of 100. The lowest? 18).

When the class began, the students were freaking out for a different reason. Statistics is often feared because it contains...numbers...formulae...greek symbols...and calculations. As it turns out, these are not the difficult part, as one can always look up a formula and use a computer to do the calculations. That's cookbook stuff. The difficult part is interpretation.

First, a digression. Even cookbook recipes can sometimes be hard to follow, and it is easy to make mistakes (I remember from my Boy Scout days when a fellow tenderfoot thought the pankcake recipe called for 8/4 cups of water, rather than 3/4 cups. The resulting flapjacks were just a bit runny.) On the most recent project set, a fair number of students made similarly catastrophic mistakes. When I levied heavy point deductions, they protested: Hey! I got the rest of the problem right! Why are you taking off so many points?

My response: You are rushed to the emergency room, and the doctor has to decide whether you've had a heart attack. If you have, you'll need the full emergency room barrage. If you haven't, the doctor will give you antacids (for the heartburn), advil (for the muscle ache), and fluid (for the dehydration). In fact, if you have had the heartattack, and the doctor does the wrong test and gives you the wrong answer, you will not exactly be reassured by the doctor telling you that "Hey! I did everything right after the misdiagnosis!"

As you can see, I'm in full-bore teaching mode now. I better snap out of it before I see my family, or I'm going to drive them crazy.

Now, back to the calculations and interpretations. Take the formula at the top of the page. The first part of it ((74-70.5)*2.2*3500)) came to me right after I got off the treadmill this morning. As I have every morning since I've been here, I weighed in: 70.5 kilos (155.1 pounds). When I got here, I weighed 74 kilos (162.8 pounds). In the last month, I've lost 7.7 pounds. At 3500 calories per pound, this means I've burned almost 27,000 calories more than I've ingested. That's the math.

The interesting part, at least for me, is in finding the meaning of this: how did it happen? Ok, class, let's break it down: a) I've consumed less; b) I've burned more. But which is it, and why?

In thinking how I've ingested calories, I considered my diet. Hmm, I'm always eating good healthy breakfasts, which I often skip back home. Implication: Almost certainly more calories for breakfast. Hmm, I'm eating big (varied, and generally wholesome) lunches almost every day in the cafeteria. Implication: On average, I'm probably getting more calories for lunch.

Then it comes to me: There's no beer here! Quickly, I look up the needed information ("the typical beer has about 150 calories") and plug it in to the formula at the top, dividing the total excess calories I've burned by 150.

The result: 27,000 calories equals about 180 beers.

The 180 beers I haven't drunk in the past five weeks. Here's what happened next:

Inside Mark's head:

Inside Mark's head:

Inside Mark's head: Whoa, that's a LOT of beer.

Inside Mark's head: I want one.

That can't be the entire explanation. Can it?

No, the weight loss must involve the exercise side as well as the eating side. (Picture of my actual brand of running shoe below! You owe me, Brooks!)

In fact, I have been exercising more, either riding the bike or running on the treadmill virtually every day. But again, Sherlock, the question is Why?

The answer is obvious, and obviously wrong. I exercise because I want to be healthy, and because I like it, and because it allows me to do other things. Ha! The sophisticated scholar knows not to trust such simplistic rationalizations, especially when a person explains his own life with them.

The correct answer, Part 1: Vanity. Yes, you heard me. Vanity. You think health clubs put mirrors on the walls so individuals have "proper" form? Have you noticed that, now that I'm writing about me, this blog is getting pretty -- oh, so very pretty -- long?

The correct answer, Part 2: It's like this. As a youth, my Boy Scout Manual dispensed such wise advice (as I recall) as, um, when a boy gets those "urges" he should take a cold shower or exercise, or something like that, to distract the mind.

Cold showers are literally impossible here. My apartment must store its water supply in Hell, as when I turn the shower on it is cool for about 5 seconds (as pipes in my apartment are cool) before it scalds. My Hobbesian showers are nasty, scaldish, and short.

The other "healthy" alternative is exercise. Eureka! So that's why I'm riding and running so much....

The Doha Diet: Subtract beer, add vanity and unrequited lust, lose weight fast!

See? That's the difference between mere calculation and astute interpretation.

Chaptette 17: Variance

2009-06-14T13:26:00.001-07:00

Who said "Variety is the spice of life," anyway?

a) Winston Churchill
b) Abraham Lincoln
c) Mr. (or is it Ms.?) McCormick
d) William Cowper

The answer, you correctly guessed, is "Who cares?"

If you care about spices, though, the Souq Waqif is the place to be.

There, you can actually say, "Nadim, how about two scoops of [spice name here]? To go, please."

Here is where knowledge of variety and spice would help. I think I can identify the cumin, and perhaps the turmeric, but after that I get a little woozy. Or is it sneezy. I do love looking at the Spice Range, though, and I imagine a little Harrison Ford (in his Raiders of the Lost Ark stage) climbing up and over one of the mounds in search of [nefarious enemy name here].

The spices in my apartment: Salt. Black pepper. Garlic. Soy sauce if that counts. Mint, parsley, and cilantro, if we count herbs.

This next picture doesn't exactly fit in, but I like it anyway: the vibrancy of the nuts, seeds, sweets, the mystery of the abaya (robes). I feel a bit sheepish about posting this, as some women in abaya refuse to be photographed, and I want to honor their preference. Since their faces aren't showing, I hope I am sufficiently respecting their privacy.

Craig and I visited the fruit market on Saturday. All the fruits and vegetables are imported, from it seems every country, in every variety. I bought some figs, but didn't like them. Let me know if you want them.

The wholesale fish market stank, literally. Here, the word "literally" means literally, unlike those who use it to mean figuratively ("I literally lost my head today!"). Craig and I almost bought some hammour (like a grouper, minus the Jimmy Buffet attitude), but since nothing was on ice we took a pass. Outside, under the awning, an entire school of shrimp shuckers were kneeling and peeling.

I like the guy photographed below. Don't you? He reminds me of a stoic watermelon.

Chaptette 16: Probability

2009-06-12T13:38:00.001-07:00

The probability that you will be born a Qatari is approximately 0.00445 percent, or something like 4 out of 100,000. Pretty slim odds, eh? Not as bad as Powerball, but a whole lot worse than the odds that you'll get, say, an offer for 12 FREE CDs (if you buy 1 now and commit to buying 3 more each year for the next three years, plus shipping and handling).

Don't let my statistical precision fool you. The probability that you will be born a Qatari is exactly "zero", unless you actually are a Qatari, in which case the odds prove to be pretty decisively in your favor. The point is: being born a Qatari is a pretty rare event.

If you did win that particular genetic lottery, material life is going to be pretty good to you. Qatar has either the highest or second highest per capita income, or gross domestic product per person, and all that other stuff, in the world: they all mean that Qatar is in the money. And these figures usually are calculated something like "all the Booty (in the pirate sense) that Qatar has, divided by all the people living in Qatar". That formula is clearly false, however, as the more relevant calculation is "Booty/Qataris" or, as we in the profession call it, the B/Q ratio. THIS ratio is pretty high; there's a lot of money to spread amongst the locals, and the money is spread pretty widely.

The chances that a person will not be born Qatari are overwhelming. Even in Qatar, the odds of being Qatari are pretty low: I think they are about 3-1. (Perversely, the other type of booty/Qatari ratio is also minuscule). The non-Qataris don't get there share of the share the wealth, so they have to work hard to make a living. All the manual labor and service jobs are done by non-Qataris (mainly, I think, Philipinnos, Malaysians, Indians, and so forth.

I don't really know much about what their life is like here. All the workers I have met personally have been unfailingly polite and nice, but then again while I'm here I suppose I'm seen as working for The Man. But I do have eyes and legs and, yes, sometimes I even walk outside my garden compound. Virtually all the homes/apartments are behind security/privacy walls, so it is difficult to see much about what's going on inside. Laborers have less privacy and security.

These pictures are from the lot right across from Samrya Gardens, where I live. If you look closely, you might see some of these details: a makeshift weightlifting (is not enough being lifted at work?), TV antennae and satellite dishes, a basketball backboard, construction rubble -- ok, that's a gimme -- and my apartment in the background, as I walk back home pondering about probabilities under the setting son.

Chaptette 15: Qatar from the Air

2009-06-12T08:50:00.000-07:00

I am wondering if individuals relate to their blogs the same way they relate to their lovers. Some blogs, it seems, at first are filled to overflowing, the words spilling out, page after page, day after day...the writer simply can't get enough of the blog. Then, the postings gradually diminish in frequency, intensity, length, and passion, although they may have an occasional burst of energy.

Other blogs continue to grow in skill, enthusiasm, and interest. Yet others are the steady ones: no single blog may seem very exciting, but you sure can count on them to post, day in and day out.

Some appear for only a few days before vanishing. And some -- maybe like this one -- are simply inscrutable. But, then again, so are some relationships.

Or maybe I'm just trying to come up with something to blog about.

Here's an idea: let's take an aerial tour of Qatar. I flew over it at a very low altitude (about 18 inches above the ground) and at a very slow speed. You see here what I saw there. Qatar also looks like this from 30,000 ft, but I couldn't jump that high and hold the camera still. I hope you enjoy the oasis I found, and I hope you can find it in one of these pictures.

Chaptette 14: Doha Downer

2009-06-09T07:50:00.000-07:00

Nothing like a summer sinus infection.

One benefit: a neologism, I think.

Jocelyn Mitchell (a Georgetown Ph.D. candidate and fantastic TA, now in Doha to conduct field research) showed me the blog that she and her husband Nick are writing (oddly enough named -- can you get this! -- Doha Diary. Copycats. Oh...right, that's been the name of their blog for a couple years...You can find it at http://nickandjoce.blogspot.com/) Good stuff. Thank you for allowing me to show some blogger love.

Jocelyn introduced me to the term "Qatarded," as in "That's so qatarded." If the uses aren't self evident, check out their blog. Please send any critiques of this term to them or to Ben Affleck.

Sunny optimist that I am, my new term is "Qatariffic" as in "That's just qatariffic!" (Go ahead, skeptics: google it. You won't find any prior citations. Qatarded has 111!)

Here's the context. After (figuratively) licking the camel's shank, rubbing my eyes with his tail, and inhaling his eructations, I felt like a "Camel Light" (gratuitous cigarette reference).

In medical terms -- and I am a "Doctor" -- I picked up a sinus infection. As usual, I wallow in bed for awhile, basting myself with self-pity every few minutes. I've had sinus infections many times, however, and I know what works (in addition to self-pity): Amoxil or Zithromax. Trying to find a real doctor seems like a lot of time and energy, especially when at the end Herr Doktor will say "You have a sinus infection and need Amoxil or Zithromax." I decide to cut out the middle-man, as I've heard that pharmacies will provide meds without a prescription.

I trudge across the dessert for forty years to get to the drug store. (I'm watching The Ten Commandments now, and it does seem like the Hebrews had a tougher go of it than I am.)

Me: I have a sinus infection. Can you give me A or Z?

Pharmacist: I can't give them to you without a prescription. Do you have one?

Me:

Me: (Sad puppy eyes)

Pharmacist: Ok, here's a box of 500 MG Amoxil for you. Oh, and do you need a prescription cortisone inhaler, too?

Me: (Happy puppy eyes)

So I now wait for the drugs to work. I hope they kick in soon, as I know my students must be eager to learn more statistics.

My assessment?

My experience with the health care system here was Qatariffic!

Future Chaptettes

2009-06-08T05:48:00.000-07:00

Good afternoon....I've been down with a cold of late, and earlier I "pulled" a post at the advice of some friends here. So the blog has been silent. Ahh, fleeting life!

Some forthcoming chapters may include (feel free to send me a topic):

Qatar Couches: A pictorial tour.

Touring Qatar in 3 hours or less.

Dust.

Markets of Fish and Fruit.

Chaptette 13: Random Patterns -- The Museum of Islamic Art

2009-06-05T12:58:00.000-07:00

A thousand times a thousand words is insufficient.

Chaptette 12: Predictions

2009-06-05T02:22:00.000-07:00

Today, I'm writing about the future, mainly, but I'll makes some predictions about the past. The latter will be more accurate, likely.

Do you enjoy cardamom-spiced coffee? If so, I'll be glad to bring you some. I hadn't had it before -- it's a local custom -- but the vendor was quite enthusiastic about selling it to me, along with dark roast ground for a french press. So I bought a half kilo. (For those who are unfamiliar with the metric-pound conversion, just imagine a moderately small brick of hashish.) I'm always glad to try new experiences, but small doses would be a good way to start. When a visitor comes to Arkansas, for example, it probably makes sense to try a little scrapple before going to an "all you can eat" scrapple restaurant.

I should have been able to predict what would happen to me when I attempted to pick up my rental car yesterday. I took a taxi to the right office at the right time. I show my email printout with my confirmation number and the statement that I had paid in full by credit card. They have no record of this. So they call the central Doha office, which asks me to email the record to them. (I had reserved online from the home office in some other country.) As I didn't have email access at this office, I asked why they couldn't have the home office email them. For reasons that any traveler will understand, this was impossible. In the time honored tradition, I began speaking more slowly and more loudly, so that I could be better understood. Phone calls were made; faxes were sent. Finally, it was determined that I didn't have the appropriate driver's license, so the entire (lengthy) process was moot. I was instructed to go to the Traffic Bureau and get my international license, but the bureau was closed today, tomorrow, and the next day.

When I taxied back to my office, one of my students told me: "Oh, just go to any travel agent. For about $20, you can get your license."

At last, I feel like I'm in a foreign country. It was almost worth the hassle.

Actually, this cardamom coffee is beginning to grow on me. As with most vices -- if, as some religions believe, caffeine is a vice -- I'm determined to keep trying it until I enjoy it.

About dusk today I'll take a taxi to the Islamic Art Museum (designed by I.M. Pei -- Doha is architecturally ambitious -- and holding an incredible collection; see the top picture) before walking along the Corniche, the curved path along the harbor (second picture). I'll find a cafe, drink another 10 cups of spiced coffee, spend some quality time with a Shisha (known in the US as a "hookah"; third picture) and then, accelerating on caffeine and nicotine, I'll enter the Souq Waqif and begin bargaining in earnest for souvenirs. My red eyes will show my ruthlessness. I'm demanding the hardest bargain, and won't stop until the merchants give me the price they want....

So: What would you like me to shop for?

Chaptette 11: Chi Square Test

2009-06-04T08:49:00.000-07:00

So, a classicist, a poet, an economist, a conflict resolutionist, and a statistician walk into a bar.....Yes, these are my Georgetown colleagues.

It wasn't just a bar, however; it was Khazana, the finest Indian restaurant in Doha, run by Sanjeev Kapoor, the only Indian "celebrity" chef, and located near the Souq Waqif (old market, which is not old, as it was totally rebuilt in recent years) and the Corniche. The bar didn't serve liquor, no, no, no, no no! but it did make the most incredible fruit cocktails: I had the pepper lychee lassi (yes, it does sound like an rare-breed dog). Wow. The lassi is the yoghurt, the main liquid in this and many other drinks and sauces. So, before we dine, let's all hoist a toast of yoghurt fruits and spices!

The meal's first highlight: the classicist's son was wearing a Redskins football jersey. Recognizing the number, I said "Hey, Clinton [Portis]"

He said: "See, Mom, I knew someone would recognized this jersey here." (Special thanks to my Laura for helping me refine my love/hate relationship with the 'Skins.)

After that: dish after dish of aromatics, breads, rices, hammour curries, chandi kaliyan, mutton patiyala kababs (you busted me: I'm not that sophisticated, so I had to look a couple of the names up). Wow.

Better, still the company. I can't remember the last time I sat down with colleagues who were classicists, poets, and so forth. It hasn't happened, I don't believe, on any "non-business" dinner in the many years I've worked at Georgetown. And this is just Sunday. By Thursday, I'll have broken bread with others three more nights.

Food, and friends, bring together the most essential, and with luck the most luxurious, elements of the human experience. Sensational food, and smart, friendly, lively conversationalists....what is the Indian word for it? Nirvana?

That was Sunday. Monday? Dinner for 10 in a "singles and strays" (maybe not the most apt name, until I remember that "technically" I'm single and "actually" I'm a stray, so, well, ok) ex pat group at a different Indian restaurant. Pim, who amazingly worked 20 years at Georgetown (I never met her there) before quitting and heading to Qatar sits on my left; across from me sat Deanna and Steve, two lovely Australians who came to Doha via Washington DC, and who obviously adore each other. Emily and ??? took me home. Emily, from Wisconsin, met ??? from Istanbul through some internet bulletin board (she was interested in Turkey; he was interested in her). Two weeks later, he flies to the US to meet her; soon thereafter, she flies to Turkey, where they decide "Why wait?" and fly back to Wisconsin to meet her parents. Blissful, three married years later. Curiosity, openness, instincts (and, who knows? Perhaps some Turkish food!) brought them together over the 1000s of miles.

Tuesday night? An egg sandwich, solo, in my apartment. Wednesday? A German couple (colleagues and neighbors) hosted me with chicken liver, carmelized onions, dare I say the world's most perfect beer, then thai curried shrimp with jasmine rice. Oh. My. Our brilliant host's name is Kai (which rhymes with Chi, which is the hypothesis test mentioned in the chapter title, which allows me to tie this all back to statistics), who is married to Katrina, an equally brilliant architect. He hails from West Germany; she from East. She specializes in designing "green roofs" which are much in demand in the US (praise to Mayor Daley!) but not so desired in the land of 10 million air conditioners. Kai and Katrina met a week after the Berlin Wall came down, and their foundation remains solid.

Tonight: Chinese/Thai food back in Souq Waqif, again with delightful Deanna and Steve, as well as two Americans (one who works for the State Department, the other in investment banking). Highlight: Zen, the petite blond investment banker, tells the story of how she gets out of her car and pops a Pakistani in the nose for cutting her off. The punch bloodied her knuckles. I think that she, and perhaps other investment bankers, may not be entirely what we call "risk averse".

I thought I was going to talk about food, but the friends and couples proved more interesting. Right now, I'm satisfied. Tomorrow, I'll be hungry for more again.

Chaptette 10: The Null Hypothesis

2009-06-03T11:07:00.000-07:00

My Doha Diary takes a brief intermission to consider a political issue. If politics is not your thing, you know what to do.

Exit.

First, statistics. When we test hypotheses, we assume the "null" hypothesis is true unless compelling evidence exists to show that it is false. It's like a court of law, which assumes that a person is innocent unless the state proves "beyond a reasonable doubt" that the person is guilty. This presumption is part of the American creed, as it should be. Just about the worst thing the government can do is to deprive of us of our liberty and, no, I don't include taxes and regulations in this category: I mean the government imprisoning us when we're innocent.

Last week -- this may have slipped your notice -- the Supreme Court ruled 5-4 to weaken our legal protections.

Here's the deal: From countless law and order shows, we all know about our Miranda rights ("You have the right to remain silent....You have the right to legal counsel...Anything you say might be used against you in a court of law" and so forth). Because not everyone questioned by The Man will really understand what this means and how important it can be to them, the Supreme Court ruled in 1986 that a prisoner "could waive his rights to counsel only in the presence of a lawyer, or by initiating contact with the police" (http://www.nytimes.com/2009/05/30/opinion/30sat3.html?_r=1). In short, it's a very good idea to have your lawyer asking you "Do you really want to waive your right to counsel? Are you sure you really know what you're doing here?"

Last week the Supreme Court changed its mind on this. Justice Scalia, writing for the majority, concluded (apparently, without much evidence) that the requirement to have a lawyer help a person decide whether to waive the right to a lawyer was unworkable and -- get this -- the "marginal benefits are dwarfed" by the chances that guilty persons would go free.

Now, writing for the minority (of one, me), here are my conclusions:

1. Would conservatives please stop complaining about activist judges? An "activist" judge is one who overturns existing precedent or democratically adopted policy. But judges, whether liberal or conservative, do this all the time: Scalia did it here. For all practical purposes, the working definition of an "activist" judge should be: "A judge who disagrees with me."

2. Ensuring that prisoners have lawyers to advise them -- even if it is to waive their right to a lawyer -- protects the guilty? What kind of comment on the legal system is this? The main question of the court is to determine who is guilty, so we want to make sure that everyone has legal counsel not so much to protect the guilty as to protect the innocent. (I haven't checked, but the NYT argues that a wide array of Republican and Democratic law enforcement officials and judges supported the existing policy, because it ultimately makes law enforcement more effective.

If you're read this far, thanks. Here's one (well, two) final thoughts. Let's say two people are charged with some heinous crime, and we know that one is innocent and the other is guilty, but we don't know which is which. Let's say we are going to try them both together, and we'll either acquit both or convict both.

What would you do?

I think Scalia would say: "To protect the public, we must convict both. That's the price of security."

I would say: "We don't protect the public by convicting the innocent. To preserve liberty, we must acquit." (Ok, we might want to watch both of them in the future...)

He might respond: "What if it was your son who was killed?"

I would answer: "What if it was your son who was sent to prison?"

The lecture is over. Next chaptette: food, or something else fun.

Chaptette 9: Significant Differences?

2009-06-03T00:56:00.000-07:00

A quick (but highly relevant) statistical lesson: When we compare groups statistically, we usually want to learn whether the differences (or similarities) are "statistically significant" and 'substantively significant". Statistical significance concerns whether the differences are "real" -- that is, whether the groups are actually different or not. Substantive significance involves whether the differences are large enough to care about, or small enough to be trivial. So differences can be statistically significant, but substantively trivial, and so forth.

Class dismissed.

When I arrived in Doha, I assumed (probably like most Americans) that Islamic women (and also men, but more on this later) were really different from American women, at least in terms of their dress. American women are "free" to wear whatever they want, while Qatari women are "restricted" to wear abaya/shayla (black robe and veil; I might not have the terms quite right). Freedom is good, right? Score one for the US, right?

Now, I'm not so sure, for a couple reasons. First, pretty much everyone in both countries will agree that individuals shouldn't be able to wear anything they want anywhere they want. Outside of Arkansas (sorry, neighbors!) we probably think that daisy dukes, tube tops, wife beaters, spandex, etc, are not appropriate for wearing to weddings and funerals. Second, almost everyone agrees that individuals should be able to express their individuality through their clothes.

So Americans and Qataris agree that there should be some standards about appropriate dress and that individuals should be individuals. The differences are more about what standards and what individuality are appropriate.

Americans have more freedom of clothing expression but, really, we all know what is expected of us and most of us conform to it. My Georgetown students can basically wear whatever they want to class, but the range is really quite small: jeans, tops/shirts, sneakers/flipflops, etc. Georgetown students clearly have an informal uniform, and almost everyone complies with it. I can't speak so much for white collar women, but for white collar men we express our unique selves with minor variations in the print of our neckties and the width of our pinstripes.

Ethnic Qatari women do generally wear abaya/shayla in public -- yes, the uniform is all black -- but the variation in pattern and ornamentation is virtually infinite. The stock pictures I've posted here give the idea. And the men -- wearing all white -- also have the widest variety of minor details that express individuality. Kind of like American men and their neckties.

I'd feel different about this if Qatari men could wear whatever they wanted and Qatari women had to wear abaya. But since both men and women wear culturally appropriate clothing, it feels pretty egalitarian to me (but I'm only talking about clothes here).

And in conclusion -- yes, I have to bring it back to the beginning -- the differences in dress, and the attitudes about clothing between Americans and Qataris are statistically significant, but I think substantively pretty small.

Chaptette 8: Normal Curves and Straight Lines

2009-05-31T23:23:00.000-07:00

Doha bathrooms have bidets. Even the GAS station bathrooms have them! I'm really not part of the "blame America first" crowd, but public bathrooms in the US could use a serious upgrade ("We're, um, 'Number 1'?") The toilets themselves typically have two flushing buttons. Ok....

Because of its conservative Islamic tradition, public bathrooms are strictly segregated by sex.

My laundry machine both washes and dries. For the life of me, I couldn't figure out how to use it. Yeah, right, like you can do better. Look at the
front of that machine, and tell me you know what those buttons are for and what the icons mean. I studied them, as if I were translating ancient hieroglyphics (the scholar asks himself "Does that icon represent "no socks"? "add softener?" "take a shower?") I wish the buttons had just been labeled with Arabic, so I could look at them and say "I don't know Arabic". "Universal" icons just made me feel "uniquely" stupid.

My washer is much better. It doesn't clean dishes very well, but at least I understand it. You push one button and it helpfully shows a display: "English?" You push another button and the screen reads "Normal," "Rinse" and so forth. I need to get it to talk with the washer/dryer.

The pictures clearly show that appliances in Qatar are asymmetrical, and pictures don't lie.

The microwave? Like all its tribe, it is a machine of many buttons. As with every microwave, I only need one: I keep pushing the "add 30 seconds" button until whatever I'm cooking explodes inside. Then it's done.

The electrical plugs are pretty cool. They have three prongs and one generally shoves in a universal (!!) three prong adapter; this accepts any power cord, the slut. All outlets do have an "on-off" switch, so the outlet is not hot until you turn it on. This seems like a pretty good idea to me, after I figured out why the iron wouldn't work, my laptop wouldn't charge, etc. unless I turned the power on. But now I know this: I'm almost Qatari!

The pool is simple operate. Jump in. The first two weeks I was here, the pool was not chilled. In fact, the water temperature was exactly 98.6 Fahrenheit, which made me feel like I was swimming in....oh, never mind. But you wouldn't want to swim in it. Today, it was delightfully cool, and breezy. It only lacked women without veils and drinks not from fruit juice bottles. (Surely some literary style allows for repetitive elements running through the chapters, right?)

Here I am, trying to figure out how to use my appliances.

I would have posted a picture of my camera, too, but it is not autophotographical.

Chaptette 7: Null Set

2009-05-29T23:33:00.000-07:00

I awoke this morning with much on my mind. Better go for a long, leisurely, bike ride to nowhere. This time, no goals, no "nice" numbers, just riding. I didn't even peek at the bike's display panel.

Much. (64.45 minutes at an average speed of 27.6K/H)

Afterwards, lacking the normal vices, I decided to lie out by the pool (it was only about 8.30 a.m.) without any sunblock. I sneer at you, behavioral risk!

Several years ago, at a routine physical exam, I made this pitch to my doctor: "Hey, look, when I was a kid I played lots of tennis, worked on a farm, and served as a lifeguard. I'm sure I've been exposed to 98 percent of the sun that I'll see in my life. At this point, do I really need to worry about sunblock?"

What she said: "Yes."
What I heard: "Don't be a moron."

When we were at The Ritz yesterday, I decided to check out the pool scene there. When I got here, I had fantasies about walking to the beach every morning, going for a little swim, and just enjoying the waves. Yes, that is a fantasy. Even though Doha is on the Gulf, there are no good public beaches here, so if you want the beach experience you buy a day pass from one of the luxury hotels and use their beach/pool. So I had a good reason to check it out. The pool area was glorious: waterfalls, flowers, little reflecting pools, palm trees, and pretty much what you might expect that Brangelina might expect. My synapses really started crackling when I discovered that there were women not wearing veils and drinks not poured from fruit juice bottles. Exit stage left. Besides, it costs 250QR (about $70). That seemed like too much to get wet.

Afterward, Craig and I went to the City Centre Mall: that's where the ice skating rink and a movie theater are. No Qataris were skating, perhaps because they all wear sandels (men) or shoes (women), without socks. Only one Arabic movie was showing, and it didn't have subtitles. I didn't want to see any of the US films (yes, ALL the other 8 or so movies were from the US) so I read and walked around until he got out.

Random Facts:

1. City Centre is to Villagio what Dollar Store is to Gucci.

2. All Qataris wear black (women) and white (men). A few women were fully covered (veils, gloves) with no body parts visible at all. A few more wore face scarves with holes for the eyes. Most wore headresses with exposed faces. All the men wear the long white shirt and white headresses with black ties, but there is an infinite variety in their exact cut and style: I assume that Qataris can determine status differences from such things.

3. The easily-identifiable Americans looked just like they do back home: sloppy.

4. I've never been in a place where it is SO obvious who is native and who is not. Even at football games at Razorback stadium, at least SOME locals don't wear Hog hats.

5. I bought a camera.

6. Smoking is allowed. It's now hard for me to believe, but US malls used to be filled with smoke, too. How easily our definition of what is "normal" can change.

7. You can make facts up and post them on the internet. It's easy to do!

I'm thinking of all my family and friends today, and I'm missing them.

Chaptette 6: ((Pen)(insula)r)

2009-05-29T08:46:00.000-07:00

Qatar is a peninsula, and a very insular one, a hitch-hiker's thumb sticking out of Saudia Arabia into the Persian Gulf. Not island enough for you? Not to worry: Doha's building its own island, The Pearl (http://www.thepearlqatar.com/). Craig, David and I visited there this afternoon.

How insular is it here? Craig met David at the Doha airport; David has just been hired to direct the undergraduate program at UMASS-Amherst that Craig attended. David is here for a conference (on the rule of law in arabic culture, or something like that). It's being held at The Ritz (we do like our 5-star hotels here) near The Pearl. We walk into the Ritz, and who do we meet? Michael, here on a Fulbright, who turns out to be the guy I met yesterday at the library and sent to get the security guard after the staffer collapsed. Oh, yes, David knew Michael, as he had also been here on a Fulbright. So, like a pearl, our circles are small.

I'm tempted to attend the conference on the rule of law -- all the regional Major Domos will be there. More importantly, I'm not sure how laws are viewed here. Yesterday in my quant class I showed clips from the fabulous movie "12 Angry Men" -- I won't go into an entire teaching moment here, but essentially it's about hypothesis testing (is the accused innocent or guilty?). The class looked slightly puzzled when I noted that in the US the rule of law means, in part, that an individual is innocent until proven guilty. Well, I'm not sure whether the class was puzzled or merely skeptical: I gather that here the Qataris are generally assumed to be innocent and the immigrant workers guilty. Nothing like that would EVER happen in the US.

It didn't in the (did I mention fabulous?) movie 12 Angry Men. (Go. Rent. It.) As Hollywood shows it, 11 men quickly vote to send a young man to the electric chair for killing his father, until the Man in the White Suite (Henry Fonda, as an architect) gradually convinces all 11 others to acquit through the power of his calm analysis, reason, and argument.

But then I read "An Innocent Man" (John Grisham), his non-fictional account of how several men were sentenced to life (or given a death sentence) on the basis of the most flimsy, fabricated evidence, the wildest stories of jailhouse snitches, and coerced confessions....

Oh. Maybe the US and Qatar have more in common than I thought...For what it's worth, Qatar is one of the safest countries in the world. Ok, maybe the US does not have THAT in common.

Chaptette 5: Nature and the Machine, Part Deux

2009-05-28T23:58:00.000-07:00

Forty percent of Qatari children are obese (thank you, western culture!) and just under 20 percent of Qatari adults have diabetes (a lower rate than in Saudi Arabia, the UAE, and perhaps some other countries). This is pretty understandable. Given the heat, Doha is a "mall" culture, and when you're there why not stop by the food court and have a little snack, eh?

If I airlifted you into the Villagio mall at midnight, and dropped you into the food court, you would not know if you were in Doha, Tyson's Corner, or the Northwest Arkansas Mall. Ok, maybe you'd know you weren't in the latter. Villagio is best known for having a canal running down the center and, yes, you can hire a gondola ride. The sky (aka ceiling) above the canal is a light blue, with fluffy white clouds. Hmmm. I haven't seen a real cloud since I've been here.

Villagio does have different wings. I briefly walked through what I call the Cartier wing, where all the Rodeo Drive shops would be located, if the residents of Rodeo had more money. Sports cars are on display. One in particular caught my eye until I calculated that I would have to teach my quantitative methods course 300 times in a row to afford it (if no taxes were taken out of my check, which would be true if I lived here. That's right: Qataris pay no taxes of any kind. I state this with authority as a fact, and I challenge you to prove me wrong...).

Right now I'm one of the few ex-pats who does not have a car. Everyone else rents one. I wish I could say that I walked or biked places, but I don't. It's too hot and there's almost no place to walk. Streets in my neighborhood are lined with apartment complex after complex; each has a security gate and guards. I miss walking, as I've always found it the best way to explore a new location (and old ones, for that matter). Anyway, I'm bumming rides and relying on the kindness of strangers. If I did have a car, I'm sure I'd use it often, and mingle, read, write, and watch less. Thank you Mark, Craig, Vehia, John and the Fox Cab Company for the lifts.

Historically, weather has controlled civilizations and not vice versa. Welcome to Qatar. By law, if the temperature rises above 50 Celsius (122 Fahrenheit), outdoor work must stop. It seems that the locals have found a miraculous way to ensure that the temperature never actually rises that high....

Chaptette 5: Nature and the Machine, Part 1

2009-05-28T23:38:00.000-07:00

Doha has at least two ice-skating rinks. One is in a mall, and I'm eager to see it. I'm imagining Qataris in their long black or white robes, gliding smoothly like spirits through air....I wanted to post a YouTube video of the rink here, but I am informed that "This video is not available in your country." I'm guessing the Qatar government is sensitive about appearances.

The other ice rink is in my apartment. I discovered this when I stepped out of the shower onto the floor's glassy marble tiles....

Let me put it this way: My axel turned into a camel.

I witnessed another fall yesterday. I was in the library checking out DVDs for the weekend (Spartacus and The Searchers; more on this later) when a librarian screamed something like "oh my god". One of the staffers had collapsed on the floor. Boy Scout neural pathways kicked in, and I raced over, instructed someone to call 911, except there is no number like that here, or at least no one knew what it was.

Where's the phone book? I opened it, quickly scanned it, found some sort of emergency number. Remembered I didn't know Arabic, and just in case the emergency person only spoke that language, I told another bystander what to say when he called.

No answer. No answer at other numbers he called. So he took off to find a security guard, who might be able to help.

I checked Ira, the staffer who had collapsed. She was unconscious but was breathing and had a strong pulse. She woke up and began vomiting, so I rolled her on her side so she wouldn't inhale it. Gradually, she came to, but was pretty incoherent. After it seemed she was stable, I left because I had to get ready for class and gave them my cell number (as if I knew what to do other than a few simple things). I was assured by then that an ambulance was coming.

Ira is ok and was being held for observation.

Four hours later, one of the emergency lines called back and inquired as to whether there was a problem, perhaps?

Emergency procedures are now being reviewed.

Medical care might not be hot on the scene, but security is otherwise good in "Education City". All drivers entering hand over their driver's license at the first security checkpoint. The GU building has probably two or three security guards at each entrance, and you need a passkey to open the doors. There has never been any kind of incident in the City, as far as I know.

Chaptette 4: Patterns and Randomness

2009-05-28T13:02:00.000-07:00

We were less the Four Horseman of the Apocalypse and more the Four Riders of the Nautilus. Craig (GU colleague) was running on the treadmill, Susan (South African, Samrya neighbor) was climbing on the Stairmaster, Margarette (unknown origin, probably northern Europe, neighbor) was riding the recumbent bike, and I was on the regular bike. We four looked straight into the mirror comprising the entire opposite wall – if you’ve exercised at a health club, you know this look -- not turning our heads to notice the others. Four sweaty westerners wearing “workout” attire inside; four laborers actually working outside in their heavy overalls. We were riding/running/climbing fast and going nowhere; they were weeding the garden and cleaning the pool. I wonder if we looked like hamsters on a wheel?

There are no doubt many ways to ride an exercise bike, but here are two of them. I could ride as fast or slow as I wished for as long as I wanted (until I was tired, or bored, or jacked up, or whatever). This seems like a pretty good idea. I never do that. Instead, I ride as if I were some sort of machine. My pattern: Pick some “nice” numbers, and meet them. So today I rode 30 minutes, at 100 revolutions per minute, which “took” me 15 kilometers. Very neat. I never ride 27 minutes, at 84 RPM for 11.7K or whatever. Why not?” Somehow this order makes me….satisfied. Until I remembered that I was only being neat in the metric system: under English measurements, I’m riding some weird number of miles. Oh well. Measurements are paradoxical: what appears as a pattern under one system seems random under another.

Do you know Qatari etiquette? When I first got here, I shopped for groceries at the local Mini Mart, and my man Farook there would help me get what I needed. He even said he would be glad to “hook me up” if I didn’t find what I needed. Seriously: he must have been listening to Michael Steele or something. (I was tempted to say “Really? How about Absolut, Marlboros, and “Tiffani”?) Anyway, the Mart has little selection and high prices, so I’ve started grocery shopping at a huge Carrefours. Now I slink by Farook, who is usually smoking cigarettes in the shade outside the shop. Do I need to tell him I ditched him for lower prices and more choice?

Chaptette 3: Data

2009-05-26T14:00:00.000-07:00

Dates, actually. Huge clusters cling to the date palms lining the boulevard in the Samrya apartment complex. It occurs to me that 90 percent of the dates I've eaten in my life have been in the form of Fig Newtons. No, that would be figs. So 90 percent in the almond-stuffed dates my mother made for Christmas, which might be 90 percent fictional. But I wonder: Should I pick them? How does one know if they're ripe? Has anyone reading this ever eaten a date fresh from the tree? (If I'm the only reader, the answer would be: no).

You can buy dates, spices, fabric, trinkets, incense, perfume, gold, frankincense, myrrh and pretty much anything else a wise man could want at the old "Souq" marketplace in the Doha city center. The Souq has narrow winding alleys in a maze I doubt a rat with GPS could navigate if a snickerdoodle was the prize. The alleys are just wide enough for two wheelbarrows to pass each other. I know this because the alleys are full of men, often elderly, with wheelbarrows who are ready to be hired to cart your purchases. As I only bought one pound of Sumatran coffee, a hired porter seemed excessive. But maybe I will get used to it. It has become easy to pick up the phone in my office, call the kitchen, and have a staffer (alternately Ransan, Julius, or Mel) bring me a fresh cup of coffee. I do this several times each day.

More data: The NBA playoffs are continuing, and the Lakers beat Denver just last night. I know this because the Philippino selling me Sumatran coffee in Qatar is a big Kobe Bryant fan. He thinks Gilbert Arenas isn't bad, either.

More data: Recent estimates have 1.3 million people living in Qatar, which has grown rapidly in recent years. Of these, 1 million are men and 300,000 are women -- the greatest gender disparity in the planet. I learned this from one of my female students today. It was hard to tell whether she was gloating or concerned.

Yet more: The high temperature in Doha today was 117 Fahrenheit.

In the Souq, the custom is to bargain. I am not good at this. My idea of bargaining is to go to sidestep.com and ask it to give me the lowest priced airfare. Merchants at the Souq reportedly will give you, when asked the price, a number twice as high as the real price they are willing to accept. But here is how this would work for me at the Souq:

Merchant: The price is 1000 Riyal!
Me: Ok.

Maybe I should just stick to picking dates.

Chaptette 2: Dichotomies (it’s all black and white, except when it’s not).

2009-05-25T00:43:00.000-07:00

I’m teaching the class “Introduction to Quantitative Methods for International Politics” – basically, a statistics class for which I’m using international data sets as illustrations. (For those who are interested – well, if you’re not interested, skip the rest of this parenthetical statement – I’m mainly using the “World Values Survey” which includes interviews from a random sample some 75,000 people from countries representing 90 percent of the world’s population. I’m learning some interesting stuff from it: for example, over 80 percent of Iranians say that they are willing to fight for their country if it goes to war, and the vast majority of Iranians believe they have from a “moderate” to a “great deal” of freedom. Make what you will of those findings.) About 1/3 of the class (of 25) are Qatari, with the rest coming from other countries in the region and a couple from the U.S.

Ethnic Qatari men dress in their traditional dishdash/gutra – a white full length dress shirt and headdress. Qatari women wear abaya – a long black robe – and a headdress. (Interestingly, I’ve heard that Qataris lead the world in the purchase of cosmetics and perfume. I’ve also read, but cannot personally verify, that affluent young Qatari women are likely to wear the latest international fashions under their abaya.) At first I’ll confess that I found it a bit hard to tell them apart (especially the Qatari women, who tend to sit in a cluster in the back of the room, and my eyes aren’t as good as they used to be) and to learn their names (which are not western, of course) but by the end of the first week I’ve got their names and faces down. They generally come from the most elite families (one of my students is married to the crown prince) and are more-or-less interrelated. They also are interesting and smart…and unpredictable. Two female Qataris (Temador and Maryam) listed “The Godfather” as their favorite movie. Several like hip/hop and blues, as well as traditional Arabic music. The Qatar Foundation (which funds Education City, where Georgetown, Cornell, Texas A&M, and other universities are located) this week is hosting the next in its series of “Doha Debates”: Resolved – Qatari women should be allowed to marry whomever they choose.

The Qataris dress traditionally, and so do my other students: blue jeans, t-shirts, flip flops.

Chaptette 1: Variables

2009-05-25T00:37:00.000-07:00

Chaptette 1: Variables

Doha is a series of icebergs connected by blow torches. The forecast high for today is 109 Fahrenheit, and it’s still May – the end of the cool season. Inside, the typical room seems to be about 65 degrees, so when you step outside you face a 40 degree change. Ok, ok, if you step outside in Nome during the winter, you probably have a 100 degree or more change. But you can prepare for the cold by putting on more clothing; it’s difficult to dress for the heat by putting on less, because at some point there’s nothing else to take off, and it doesn’t seem like a good idea to walk around naked unless one is fond of sunburn and moral censors.

So, yes, it’s hot outside. Qatar has the second highest per capita income in the world (after Lichtenstein), so no Qataris or other wealthy foreigners go outside (the Philippino and Indonesian labors do, at least until the temperature reaches 122, when outdoor labor is supposed to stop, although the law doesn’t seem to be vigorously enforced). So Doha is also a string of air conditioned moments. I go from my air conditioned apartment (it took me days to figure out how to adjust the thermostat, until my landlord kindly informed me that I needed to put batteries in the remote control) to an air conditioned car, to my office.

Speaking of cars and variables, Qataris have two driving speeds: morbidly fast and mortally fast. I hear that it has the highest rate of auto fatalities in the world. Big, fast, cars cover the roads (the most popular car seems to be the Toyota Land Cruiser, but there are lots of Porsches, Beemers, Mercedes, etc.) The roads are generally new and excellent except for all the construction zones. The roads do have lines on them; “line control” is optional, however, as cars go anywhere they want. I thought the traffic was pretty bad, but I’m told it’s pretty easy right now because the Qataris are beginning to flee the country for cooler climes (one colleague told me that, after they, they own half of London).

The food I’ve tried has been diverse and oh-so-delicious. Georgetown has a good (and subsidized!...a full meal costs about $3) cafeteria, where most people go for lunch. I’ll typically have some sort of rice dish, maybe with chicken or lamb, a lentil soup or chickpea salad, and so forth. Oh, and a diet Coke. I think Indian food dominates. Last night I went out for dinner with several GU colleagues, and we shared a large plate of mezze (bread with various appetizers like hummus, baba ganoush, olives, taboule, etc) and then Hammour (a wonderful local fish), served grilled with head and tail. Alcohol cannot be bought without a license (you need a permission slip from your employer…but then one is approved to spend up to – get this! – 10 percent of monthly income. Apparently some spend that much, as there is an, um, active “secondary market”.) I’ve not yet tried much bold cooking (major meal: frozen lamb kabobs – I mean they were frozen before I cooked them -- and rice “pilau” style).

My colleague Mark (a Swiss-American specialist in Lebanon) did take me out to the “best” nut market in Doha. (No, a nut market is not a university library.) It had the widest variety of nuts, with the widest variety of flavors (Wasabi! Curry! Mango!) After sampling most of them, I’m heeding my brother-in-law Dick Stark’s advice about potato chips: the perfect ones contain just a bit of salt.