I recently stumbled upon the Facebook status updates from my first year living in Doha, Qatar.

2013

4 February: I’m moving to an exotic, foreign country this afternoon! Holy shitballs!

5 February: I’m here.

6 February: I am not digging this jet lag shit at all.

7 February: I am enjoying the evening (those of you in the States might know this as “morning”). I am not enjoying jet lag.

8 February: I’m confronting the first challenge I must face while being a foreigner in a land far from home: electrical outlets. God help me.

10 February: I now live in embassy-issued housing, which is about quadruple the size of my apartment in Alexandria. It’s three floors tall, and all of the floors are tiled. And so, when Andrew decided to vomit his first vomit in the Middle East, he chose to do it on the bed—you know, one of the handful of places where I wouldn’t just have to wait for it to dry and then sweep it up. Andrew is an asshole.

12 February: I have been here about a week, and I’m already calling it a carpark.

13 February: Most of Doha is shut down for National Sports Day today. Seriously, America, between this and restroom libraries… you’ve got some catching up to do.

15 February: I’m learning that folks here in Doha, folks of all nationalities, shop like they drive—that is to say with extreme prejudice.

22 February: I am so unbelievably relieved that Doha has a doorknob store.

25 February: I got up, got Kate fed and ready for work, looked at the time (7:00 a.m. in Doha, 11:00 p.m. EST), and big fucking surprise, the Oscars aren’t even close to over.

27 February: I don’t yet know how to replace the giant bottles on the water cooler with any sort of dignity.

28 February: Going dune-bashing tomorrow. So if you’re a dune, get out of my motherfucking way or you’re gonna get motherfucking bashed!

1 March: I had the kind of day that, were he in the States, would require a waiver.

5 March: I moved in a month ago with the drizzliest of dribbly water pressure. It made showers an exercise in patience and sadness, and the time it took to fill a coffee pot or tea kettle was just enough to fall back asleep. He thought, “Well, I’m living in a desert now. Between that and the plugs, this is just one of the things I’ll have to get used to.”

            Yesterday, a handyman came over and gave it Red Bull or something, because washing bowls and cups now leads to drowned counters and floors (and cats if they get too close), and a simple shower covers your body in bruises.

            This is my life. These are the things I worry about.

6 March: I spend at least fifteen minutes a day dust-busting locks of cat hair that tend to gather on white tile floors. Through the process, I keep missing clumps here and there, which is kind of frustrating. Today, however, after I vacuumed up a corner, fresh fur appeared in moments at that exact spot.

            And then it all became clear: Those little assholes are gaslighting me!

10 March: I get to keep my hour.

12 March: Ispent the morning dust-busting and hand-scrubbing his stairs and his kitchen floor, because I live for futility.

19 March: I have only been behind the wheel of our beloved Stella for the past week, and I’d like to take a moment to talk to you about driving in Doha.

            Every place I’ve ever lived (except for Nebraska) has claimed to have the worst drivers on the planet. Traffic in Florida is responsible for 29 percent of Dave Barry’s entire career as a writer. The spectacular car chases on the California freeway in every Michael Bay movie are actually mini-documentaries. And the things I’ve seen on the streets of Ecuador still chill me to this day. They’re all amateurs.

            Driving in Doha is the only excuse you need to drive like an asshole.

            From what I’ve learned during my stay, nothing on the roads is illegal, and that includes vehicular homicide… well, there is one exception: red lights. Nobody runs red lights in Doha. Nobody. Hell, if you cross an intersection on a yellow light, even the Qatari locals will call you a dick (keep in mind that the locals have been known to ram people from behind for going too slow, and too slow for them is anything less than twenty kilometers above the speed limit).

            And yet, there’s something civilized about the it all. See, back home, if someone cuts you off, you unleash a stream of expletives that would make Richard Nixon tell you to take it down a notch, even if there’s kids in the backseat. Here, if someone cuts you off, you say, “Well played!” In the States, letting someone take a turn in front of you is an act of kindness. In Doha, letting someone take a turn in front of you means you lost the battle with honor. I have seen more people use their blinkers here—even when they’re signaling right while going left from the center lane.

            Long story short: the Asphalt Thunderdome of Qatar is oddly relaxing.

28 March: I am not surprised–however I am amused—that even kids on tricycles in Doha are dangerously shitty drivers.

31 March: I’m slowly getting used to the metric system, but there are still setbacks. For example, I still feel a little weird going up to the butcher’s counter and ordering things by the gram. Today, though, was the biggest hiccup: when I tried out the compound’s treadmill for the first time, and I was running at 9.0 for two minutes without running out of breath (recall that, for the past year, I’ve had sometimes-crippling asthma), and I was thinking, “I must be Superman!”

            Until Kate reminded me of that whole kilometer-versus-mile thing…

6 April: I was greeted as I entered the grocery store earlier today by the monstrous stomping of “We Will Rock You,” which is exactly the state I needed to shop there.

13 April: I’m learning that my favorite part of driving in Doha is that you frequently find yourself thinking, “I wonder if that was legal.” *shrug* “Well, no one died, so…”

9 May: I expected many changes when I moved to Qatar, but the one thing I hadn’t counted on was the ubiquity of bendy straws. Fast food joints, five-star restaurants… They’re everywhere.

12 May: I was driving tonight, really fast, as is the custom in Doha, when suddenly, from out of nowhere, a Miata about a third the size of my FJ Cruiser roared up from behind, going much, much faster (calculating from metric, that comes out to about… um… Warp 6) and flashing its headlights before engaging in nonconsensual vehicular buttsex. In the native language of Qatar, this means, “Move.”

            Considering how a tap of the brake could squish that Miata like a can of Keystone Light against a frat boy’s forehead, I wanted to ask the other driver, “Dude, is this really how you want to die?”

            But then I moved out of the way, because I was bringing chocolate shakes home to my sick wife, and it was hot outside.

17 May: I love so many things about the Middle East, but the best, of course, are the majestic mustaches.

18 May: A funny thing about Qatar is they don’t seem to do change here; and by that I mean everything is sold in whole riyals (which makes sense, because a riyal is equal to $0.27). There is change, and occasionally you’ll get to a cash register and you’ll owe, as I did recently at the grocery store, 612.75 QAR. Rather than give me a 25 dirham piece, the cashier just handed over this pack of gum. Because that’s the way Qatar rolls.

30 May: I fear that, if “No U-Turn” signs were ever installed in Qatar, there would be a coup, thorough collapse of law and order, and much bloodshed.

2 June: I came face-to-face with my first gigantic desert cockroach. And when I say face-to-face, I mean, I walked into the room, opened the door, and we both froze when we saw each other, and it was essentially eye-level with me. Not quite Madagascar horrifying, but still pretty damned horrifying.

            And so now I need to figure out what to do about pest control. Nerds, say it with me, on the count of three. One… two… three: “I say we take off and nuke the entire site from orbit—it’s the only way to be sure.”*

            * Would you like to know more?

13 June: I made it home after a typically long, fraught-with-peril journey through Doha streets, and was cruising slowly through my compound, careful not to run over kids, when this four-or-five-year-old boy on a bike stops pedaling for no discernible reason, scowls, and shakes his fist at me. Out of all the traffic disputes I have had in my life, this is easily the cutest.

20 June: I spent over an hour surviving endless hordes of selfish, erratic drivers; sitting at every single red light (in Doha, each light can literally take five or more minutes to turn green, making this particular five-kilometer drive last almost a half-hour); dodging careless and rude shoppers; and having my heart broken by poorly stocked grocery shelves. And yet, all it took was one tiny act of kindness (“You only have a couple of items; I have a full cart. Why don’t you go ahead of me in line?”) to turn the whole thing around. Something to keep in mind.

22 June: I am not the least bit surprised—amused, but not surprised—to see a man on stilts wander in and out of the food court with no explanation whatsoever. This is, after all, Doha.

23 June: I am sitting in a cafe, at a table next to a couple and young lady with a binder, chattering in a language that is neither English nor Arabic. My theory is that they are planning a wedding, an assumption bolstered when one of the women very clearly said the word, “Bridezilla.”

7 July: I am sitting in the same coffee shop where I overheard the “bridezilla” conversation a couple of weeks ago—in the very same seat—and at the next table is another couple planning their wedding. What kind of coffee shop is this?

8 July: I learned in high school physics class (that makes it, what, five, six years ago?) that matter cannot occupy the same space; this does not, however, apply to turn lanes in Doha.

10 July: I am so not looking forward to driving again in the States. Because in America, the following series of events is unacceptable: “Oh, man! Dead end! I don’t feel like backtracking!” *drives over curb, through empty lot, onto the sidewalk, bounces off the other curb, cuts off oncoming traffic, arrives shortly at destination, no sleep lost* In Doha, this is the only rational action.

            The same sequence happens when you find yourself saying, “Man, this traffic is moving too slow. I don’t want to wait in it anymore.”

24 July: I received the following e-mail yesterday: “You can expect a refrigerator sometime on Sunday.”

10 September: I’m taking a cardio-kickboxing class. I am the only male student. This class involves punching and kicking in time to techno-ish music while an instructor named Vicki yells at you. This is not functional punching and kicking. You will never win a fight with this punching and kicking. This is actually more like dancing—in fact, there is a stretch that resembles a very flamboyant bow. This is not a particularly masculine class.

            The whole thing is super-exhausting, which is why, about a third of the way through each session, the uppercuts and roundhouses are really kind of… sad. There is no dignity left for anyone involved (except for the instructor, who, I suspect, is not human), especially for the only male, who, being male, is not supposed to be moving this way in public.

            I tell you all this because, at one point in the routine, during the bow/stretch maneuver, there is a double-clap before getting into position, and this is where I draw the line. I will pump my hips and simulate some kind of march thingie and perform a move that resembles loading laundry into a tiny washing machine, but I will not clap twice.

            I don’t know why this is. I don’t know what about clapping twice is anymore ridiculous than what’s come before. Nothing about this makes any sense whatsoever. It doesn’t matter, though, because the double-clap is going too far.

29 October: I have been having a tough week, what with the car dangers, one-eyed cats, the stray dogs who stalked me this morning as I was walking to Dance Fu, the air conditioning being broken in the gym in a 38 degree morning, exploding doorbells, etc.

            And then, this evening, the dentist poked around his mouth and exclaimed, “Oh my God!” It turns out he was impressed that he couldn’t find a single thing wrong with my teeth. Which is a nice change of pace.

2 November: A mysterious, white, gaseous substance has appeared in the air over Doha. I have the inkling of a memory of it from my past in the States. What was it called? A “klod”? “clowt”? “clood”? Whatever it is, it has devoured the sun, and is very frightening. May the gods have mercy on us.

3 November: I am astonished by the news that, due to a glitch in the space-time continuum, most of the United States experienced the same sixty minutes twice. Most of the country had slept through it. Of those who didn’t, I can only imagine the ungodly horror you had to endure as the laws of physics were torn asunder while you watched, helpless, only for everything to suddenly return to “normal.” For you, it is the present, but to the rest of the world, it is an hour into the future.

            There are some who call this event “Daylight Savings Time.” I call it what it truly is: a perversion of the natural order.

7 November:

I want you to sit on back while I tell you a tale. A tale I like to call, “The Return of Tom the Trampoline-Jumping One-Eyed Wonder Cat.”

Today, I had a number of errands and a lunch, which took up six hours, about four of which—I am not exaggerating—involved sitting in the car. The parts of my path that were not blocked by construction were clogged by the detours from other construction projects.

            During this time, Tom the Trampoline-Jumping One-Eyed Wonder Cat escaped the confines of his home, with his usual, cartoonish panache. This time, in the process of descending the wall between his yard and ours, turned on the garden hose. This had happened a long time before I got home.

            And therefore, even though I opened our garden gate so that he could free himself without damaging me further (something both of us wanted more than anything), he refused to leave, because Tom the Trampoline-Jumping One-Eyed Wonder Cat did not want to cross the flood he created on top of our stone tiles.

            And I said to him, “You know what, Tom the Trampoline-Jumping One-Eyed Wonder Cat? This is not my problem. You can take off whenever you want.”

Eventually, Tom the Trampoline-Jumping One-Eyed Wonder Cat did.

            The End

9 November: I spent the day at the Gulf—Arabian or Persian, whichever—with a pair of couples and their combined five and two-thirds children. While we were enjoying the sun and warm sea, fish began suddenly popping out from the waves and skipping along, really, really close to us. I am no marine biologist, but I’ve come to understand that this means a bigger fish is coming for them, and it’s hungry. (I like to imagine what they’re saying as they surface: “RUN!” plop “Help!” plop “It’s right behind us!” plop “Save yourselves!” plop “NOOOOOO!” plop “It got Frankie!”).

This went on for a few minutes, and as it died down, Vicky’s seven-year-old daughter waded over to me, her eyes enormous, her mind blown, and she says, “I know why the fish are jumping out of the water. There’s a predator…” She paused and leaned in close, her next words as serious as a child that age make them (and that’s pretty dang serious), and she spoke in a low voice, “… and that predator… is us.”

16 November: I sit, reading a book in the backyard of the house that belongs to the two cats I’m serving while their live-in staff takes a well-deserved vacation.

            The garden behind the house where I cat-sit is green and a little breezy, and clouds are splattered lightly across the room-temperature sky. Over the walls around me, through the calm afternoon, children are yelling at each other in languages I don’t understand—though, to be fair, I don’t understand what playing children are shouting even when it’s supposed to be English.

            I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt this way; though, to be honest, I probably hadn’t felt this way before. The mood and details are familiar, like déjà vu, only without the confusion. It’s the welcome memory of a peaceful afternoon that had never actually existed.

3 December: I had the pleasure today of sitting in stagnant, Doha traffic, and hearing Kate mutter, as she looked in the review mirror at the jackhole behind us, “You be honkin’; I ain’t movin’.”

7 December: I circled the packed car park like a patient shark, waiting for the right moment to beat the feeding frenzy and shove his way into an empty spot.

            Suddenly, I saw a space, near the entrance, not marked for the handicapped. I looked around; not one pushy SUV was attempting to compete with me for it. Not one.

            There was only one explanation: it’s a trap!

            I took the spot anyway, because admit it, you would too.

2014

2 January: The Five Stages of Dune Bashing:

1. This is a beautiful and exhilarating drive!

2. The view from the top of this enormous dune we’re climbing will be amazing!

3. What the shit is this driver doing!?

4. This is it. This is how I’m going to die: in a skidding, rolling, crushed 4×4 in the middle of the desert, probably on fire.

5. Again! Again!

3 January: Iwould like to tell you a story about how much more entertaining it is to shop in this part of the world than it is back home in the States. And so, let’s all go down to the auto parts store, where our hero enters, on a quest for a tow cable and an air compressor.

            I am greeted at once by an older man in a brown suit, clutching a cigarette I never actually see him put to his lips and speaking English with a thick regional accent. After we sync up our vocabulary to determine what I’m looking for, he shows me several cables and we pick the best one. He glances at the sticker and tells me, “Says 130. Give it to you for 100. Special price.” I agree that this is indeed a special price.

            We now look at air compressors. He and his assistant, who speaks no English, remove an air compressor from the shelf, unpack it, and demonstrate how to assemble it. “Is Chinese, so it maybe get too hot…” He shows me where it might overheat. “… So turn it off and on. No problem. You know Chinese things. Good quality, though.” He directs his assistant to remove a car battery from behind the counter, hook up the compressor, and turn it on.

            “Looks good,” I say.

            The old man shrugs. “Good quality, even if it is Chinese. You know Arabs. They see it’s Chinese, they don’t want.” He shrugs again and flicks an ash off of his cigarette. “Box say 450, but for you, 400. Special price.” Once again, I have to admit this is a special price.

            While his assistant boxes up the compressor, the old man and I work out whether cash or credit is best. We go with cash. He punches a number into a calculator and he sends his assistant out to my car with my purchases before I can stop him. I pay up and hurry out.

            And it’s not until I get home that I realize I’d paid 580 for both items, which is not really that special of a price. I’m not 100 percent sure what exactly happened there.

4 February: I left the United States a year ago to come live in Qatar, located in the Arabian Gulf, next to Saudi Arabia, about 275 kilometers from Iran. In that time, I’ve  acquired some habits I’m going to have to overcome when I return to America. Here are but a few:

            – Tipping no more than 10 percent.
            – Not recycling.
            – Free valet parking.
            – Fearing the wrath of custodial staff if I try to dispose of my empty tray at the food court.
            – Driving on sidewalks (this is not an exaggeration).
            – Wearing, at most, a fleece while walking outside in January, even at night.
            – Expecting full-service at all petrol stations.
            – The phrase “petrol station.”
            – Paying fifty riyal (13.50 US dollars) to fill the tank of a gigantic FJ Cruiser.
            – Assuming that every driver on the road will not obey traffic laws, thus freeing me to do the same.
            – Going out for Lebanese fast food.
            – Abandoning grocery carts in the parking lot wherever.
            – Paying for everything in cash.
            – Dropping 300 on a fancy, schmancy dinner for two and thinking that’s a really good deal
            – Spending four hours at a table during dinner.
            – Cutting in line, not out of rudeness, but out of sheer necessity.
            – The metric system.

6 February: I was running along the Corniche this afternoon, enjoying the sight and smells of the Gulf, when I happened upon at least two or three dozen wandering pigeons. As I barreled down on them, they took flight en masse, leading me to believe I’d accidentally stumbled into a John Woo movie.

12 February: I don’t know if it’s Qatar, or the region, or the non-American world, or just this petrol station. All I know is that here, they don’t call it “patching your tire.” They call it a “tyre puncture.” Leading to things like this:

ME: I have a slow leak in my back tire.
ATTENDANT: You want tyre puncture?
ME: I already have a punctured tire.
ATTENDANT: So you want us to puncture your tyre.
ME: What?!
ATTENDANT: You are here for tyre puncture, yes?
ME: Yes, a punctured tire.
ATTENDANT: Come, we will puncture it for you.
ME: But I don’t need another tire puncture!
ATTENDANT: Puncture or no?
ME: Well, it is punctured…
ATTENDANT: Come.

And this is why I prefer to let Kate book reservations or call for takeaway. Because, when I’m in charge, there’s no guarantee things will work out how we wanted.

STAFF: That will be fifty riyal.

ME: This is a pepperoni pizza with extra cheese and olives.

STAFF: Yes. Fifty riyal.

ME: I thought I ordered schwarma.

I honestly don’t know how the service staff in this country puts up with me.

13 February: Most of Doha is shut down for National Sports Day today. Seriously, America, between this and restroom libraries, you’ve got some catching up to do.

14 February: I was nearly sideswiped today by a local man in a speeding Toyota Land Cruiser, taking a left turn from the right-turn lane of a crowded roundabout and shaving.

            I’m not even a little bit fazed by this. It’s Doha, and I live here now.