Happy Anniversary to Us! (Or, "It Rained in Doha!")

Since dates and weekends are fluid concepts over here, we celebrated our one-year anniversary twice. Saturday night was a Baroque festival concert at the Katara Opera House. It has been, shamefully, a full year since I've been to any real classical concert, which shouldn't surprise anyone who has been to Ridgecrest. It was a gem of a concert with a phenomenal pianist at the Kennedy Center, all part of my Washington Farewell Tour. Then I moved to the Middle East.

Please to note the Emir's special box in the back there.

Doha, though, both did and did not disappoint. The disappointing part was how it took, oh my goodness, 1 hour and 20 minutes to get there. It was supposed to be less than 30 minutes. I can't even. But Doha traffic (/construction) is for another blog, one which I recommend no one read. The rest of it, though, was as good as I've seen anywhere, and somehow, somehow, we had only missed 5 minutes or so. I don't think you measure an orchestra by its performance of Baroque, so I can't say too terribly much, but it was flawless and a delight to hear and see. The musicians were on the young side, which isn't surprising - Qatar is still in the developing world of culture. (There, I said it. And by that I don't mean that the developing world has less culture than the developed world; Morocco, for, you know, instance, has a phenomenally developed culture. I mean that...well, Qatar is working on it.) 

One more note on the concert and I promise I'll move on: Matteo El Khodr was one of the featured soloists, which is interesting because a) he's a Lebanese opera singer, which cannot be all that common, and b) more interestingly, he's a countertenor. I've never heard one live; shoot, I've heard very few recordings. I read that there are 63 countertenors in the world; whether that's accurate or not, it can't be wildly off. Very interesting experience.

This is what greeted us when we left the Bach and Handel concert. Just in case you had thought you were in Europe.

Anniversary Part 2 (today, actually on our anniversary) was very nearly thwarted at several points. We normally go to mass at Georgetown at 5 p.m. on Sunday evenings, after which we sometimes kill time in the library while the rush hour traffic reduces from "intolerable" to a milder form of obnoxious. This evening...I don't know what Rosko finds to read, but it was almost 8 by the time we left. We arrived at the Yemeni restaurant after a few battles with parking, only to be told that they had, I think, three dishes left for the evening. Disappointing, but, I mean, Yemen's 

got enough on their hands; they don't need my whining on top of it all.

I should back up, because it's probably not immediately obvious why we wanted Yemeni food for our anniversary. We had been there once with friends and it was delicious and not overpriced. Both of these things are, I think, rare in Doha. Fancy? Yes. Impressively priced even for petrol-financed expats? You betcha. But not usually delicious. 

Mid-hookah, before rain. (That, or Rosko is a dragon.)

There being no room, or at least food, at the Yemeni Inn, we headed to the Moroccan restaurant, where we enjoyed the view, smoke and two bites of food on a rooftop terrace before, yes, it started to rain. Hard. This is, I think, the fourth time I've experienced rain in the entirety of 2014, and it was as we were getting our meals delivered on our already-nearly-frustrated anniversary outing. (This is not to say that we weren't thrilled with the rain anyway. I took it as our little anniversary present from the heavens.) Our waiter was a phenomenal sport, though, and transferred everything indoors, then at last back outdoors so Rosko could enjoy his hookah while I read some Waugh and watched the people walk through puddles.

And that is how we bid farewell to our first year of marriage. Two of us in the rain in the Gulf, one of us in heaven, and Moroccan spices on our fingers. 

Grieving and Life

Today is our first anniversary, which is as good a day as will likely ever come to recommence this blog. But I can't do that without taking a moment to note the monumental change in our life since the last entries, of course. The below paragraphs are taken from an email I wrote during the first week after Freya's passing. While more of daily life is "normal" than at the time I wrote those words, the rest of it holds true. I thought I would put it here so that those of you who are asking how we're doing won't keep hearing silence from us. We are, as ever, so grateful for your outpouring of love, support and prayers.

As for us, we are grieving; we are also rejoicing. Every day brings its own mood, but, I believe, all of it has been quite...appropriate, for lack of a better term. Freya is worth the untold grief that we feel; she is also worth the inexpressible joy we have at her existence and at her place in heaven. I think that grieving - or at least our particular grieving at this time and place and for this cause - removes the mourner from his ordinary perch that is, for most of us, quite firmly grounded on this earth, and takes him to a place somewhere between heaven and earth. Perhaps that sounds strange, since nothing about grief feels heavenly. But I think it is our grief, or perhaps our profoundly intimate connection to one of heaven's newest arrivals, or perhaps simply everyone's prayers - all of it, this period of grieving - seems to give us some sort of clarity as we attempt to glimpse into the nature of God and of heaven, a clarity that I don't expect will last tremendously long but the lessons of which, I hope, stay with us the rest of our lives. 

Still, we flutter back and forth between that spiritual clarity, which brings peace, and joy, and I think some very real insight into the nature of our lives here on earth relative to the joy that awaits us, and life on earth. Life on earth, for its part, also has its mundane (not remotely in a pejorative sense here) elements - our friends here, our friends and family back home, cooking and eating, cleaning, going for walks, good gracious - a job interview the other day (I wonder what I said?) - and then on the other hand, this irruption of utter pain and loss into what we thought our lives were supposed to be. So even when the pendulum swings us back from the spiritual realm of contemplating God, heaven, and our darling Freya in heaven, to the earthly realm, we then must furthermore live and move between the more enduring elements of life, the life that "goes on," and this part of life that seemingly crawls or even stands still, in which the shock of losing her can hit you at any moment and pierce your soul with a pain you never wanted to even think about. 

Museum of Islamic Art, the Rug Man, and Inedibly Hot Food

When we last left our heroes, they had explored the traditional (read: rebuilt from scratch in the last 10 years) souq, eaten Persian food, and had a baby shower. We've now gone out to the Museum of Islamic Art twice and Rug Man once. Have to get all the wild and crazy days of our youth in before Baby T. comes.

Here are a few highlights from the Museum of Islamic Art:

I already can't remember where it came from, and you can't see the detail, but it's gorgeous. Promise.

  

I know that this one was a door, and I THINK it was Egyptian. Unless it was Iranian. Yes, I'm confusing those two.

One of about five pieces in the whole collection to feature people as subjects.

Central court of MIA

This picture goes on the list of "you should have known better, Carrot." 

A sandstone sculpture from some place at some point in history. I should be a curator.

After the museum, we walked - WALKED! In 100 degrees and 800% humidity! I was really quite proud, unless that wasn't good for the baby in which case I'm very contrite - to the souq, where we had dinner at the Malaysian restaurant. This is also where we decided against the trip to Malaysia we had otherwise been dreaming about. People. You cannot, cannot spice food at that level and expect all the white people going through souq to eat it. Rosko opted to "man up" and eat his nasi lemak (the coconut rice was delicious, though); I managed three bites of my chicken curry. To give you an idea, I took it home, added half a can of coconut milk, an entire eggplant and another breast of chicken and it was finally spiced to what the rest of us call medium to medium-hot. Rosko thinks he might have had a transcendent experience from the spice. 

From thence, to the Rug Man. Google if interested. His shop is...well, to get there, you find a taxi and direct them to this one grocery store on this one very crowded street, then you look for a place that might sell rugs. It has a name; it is not The Rug Man. Two and a half hours later, we walked out with this beauty: 

The Rug Man sells tribal rugs, which is to say, used rugs that were all handmade by various tribes in Iran, Afghanistan and throughout mid-central Asia. He travels to border towns or villages and buys them at varied rates, depending on the rarity of that tribe's rugs. Ours is of the Baluch tribe (man I need to fact check all of this with Rosko; I was so tired that I think I might have snored out loud at one point during the 2-hour visit) and is a traditional Garden of Paradise design, which you find in varied iterations throughout Asia and the Middle East. There's a story to the Garden of Paradise, but again...facts...hard...

Anyway, it was a lovely, lovely time, my supernatural level of fatigue notwithstanding. We now have a rug to hand on to the baby. Alongside the stories of other cool things we did before she was born/conscious of it all.

Well, it's been six weeks - time to say something about life in Doha again? But it's far too late to be organized, so here are some bullet points:

• We're one week away and counting. This is terrifying. Evidently, I have to actually give birth to this baby. 
• People have asked about healthcare. The hospital where I'll be giving birth, Al-Ahli (please enjoy especially the disproportionate focus on the café and also the boat), does allow one other person to be in the room, so Rosko is joining the festivities. I'm not sure, but I think there's a part of him that was secretly hoping I might give birth at Hamad, the large public hospital, where men aren't allowed in the room. Not that I blame him; I don't want to be there, either. 
• Anyway, the care is excellent, if the wait is a bit long. (I wrote a good portion of my last dissertation chapter there.) I've had umpteen ultrasounds, a CTG every week, and hey, free coffee while you wait. My doctor is Iranian; I like her quite a bit, though I don't know that she'll actually deliver the baby. 



Tower of Babel, also known as Fanar, where Rosko takes his Arabic course. This is taken from Souq Waqif.

• Georgetown. Here are a few pics, but someday maybe I'll use this fancypants smartphone and actually take some pictures. Anyway, it's been just so good to be back. The only downside so far has been that when I go to work, I'm fairly sure I spent more time chatting with colleagues than working. On the other hand, five of six dissertation chapters are turned in, and I have seven months of Ridgecrest to make up for in bonding with other humans. 

Toby. A Georgetown friend was pet-sitting him for a few weeks and had a couple of us over to pet the dog, swim in the pool and eat bacon like 'mericans.  Guess which part of it all was my favorite?

• On that note, last Wednesday, the ladies threw me a wonderful, wonderful surprise baby shower. It was less of a baby shower and more of an excuse for women to get together after work and eat Turkish takeout and drink wine. Perfect. Rosko was in on it and somehow managed to prevent the ten or so things that could have gone wrong from getting in the way. (I almost stayed at work late, I was supposed to have a job interview that night that arose last-minute, etc. etc.) We now have a crib! And things in it! This crib, which I love because it's so manageable - I can actually reach in and get the baby, and I also feel like she won't be lost in it. (I'm pretty sure Rosko, who was in on the selection process, chose it for totally different reasons, those having to do with solid wood versus laminate, which is Not. Permitted. In the Taliaferro household.) Anyway, it was just so nice of them. So somehow, even with moving to Ridgecrest and Doha, I've managed to have two surprise baby showers (thank you, Rachie!!), and no diaper games. Life is great.
  
  
• Weather. Ha. We're now down to 102 degree highs, which sounds not that bad (goodness, what has happened to me?), except that it's also 75% humidity. But it's not 118 and 75% humidity, so believe it or not, it feels substantially nicer.



The Persian restaurant. Or really, a cross between Persia and Vegas. But the food was phenomenal.

• Doha living. We've managed to get out to the Souq Waqif, a Persian restaurant in Souq Waqif, and last night we went with Rosko's friend from Arabic class to a hole-in-the-wall seafood place - some of the best I've had, anywhere - and then out to the Corniche/bay, where we had this view from a café, eating date ice cream. Sounds blissful, which it was, except that please remember that humidity actually goes up at night. I think I was panting.

Alleyway in Souq Waqif

I'm sure there's much more I'm not answering here, but for the most part, it's normal life here. Also not at all normal - the servants, everywhere, for instance, or the fact that you need a driver who doesn't speak English or read maps in order to get anywhere - but it's not exotic. I think. In other words, we're not in Tilouguite anymore, Toto. Given the circumstances, that's just fine with me.

As you might expect, this inaugural blog post is coming to you from Starbucks in Doha, because, well, there's coffee here. Quite strong coffee. I'm not sure that the rest of the world is onto the difference between drip coffee and espresso. Other than that, you couldn't tell that this isn't an American Starbucks - jazz, couches, pictures of random yoga-inspired color things on the walls - except that the entire clientele is currently a) me, and b) 10 or so be-thobèd Qatari men. 

Doha thus far, with no clear order to my thoughts:

• Class. The top of the food chain are the Qataris; you know them because they're speaking Arabic, have ambiguously defined "jobs," and wear either the thobe or abaya, the latter of which is often, but not always, accompanied by a niqab or half niqab. The thobe is always dazzlingly white and the abaya always jet black; the magic fairy star wand is optional.
• After Qataris come such Western expats as Rosko and me. We are addressed to our faces in the third person as "sir" and "madam," as in, "Where would madam like to be dropped off?" Because, of course, the drivers are in the third class, which is 
• South Asians and some other nationalities, almost all of whom are workers either in service or labor. They work hard. And everything about this system, I tell you, runs 100% against American sensibilities. (Also Christian ones, but that's for another post.) Most Americans I've talked to express some level of discomfort with the culture of service here, as much as they also get used to it. Overall, I like to think that that's to our credit (pats American self on American back), but there's something there that we don't see, or at least, don't like to acknowledge - those class divisions are part and parcel of a system that does, for better and for worse, provide jobs that are better than what a lot - but not all - of these workers would get back home. 
• Example: Our "office assistant." (This is what that little paper clip that used to pop up in Microsoft Word docs was called, yes?) She is Filipino and has, I believe, three children, and is employed by Georgetown/Qatar Foundation (more to follow, someday, on what that is) to...I just don't really know yet, but I believe it entails making coffee and other drinks for people in the office, as well as washing and putting away dishes afterwards. There is a sign above the sink in the office pantry that reads "If you use mugs, glasses, etc. after the office assistant has left for the day, please rinse before leaving in the sink." No no - don't wash the mug yourself, you aristocrat, just rinse. 
• See? Offensive. Except that...
• It's her job; it's what makes her salary not charity but something earned. And now she's losing it to budget cuts. 
• Well, that was chipper! Let's move onto nicer topics, like last week's ER visit. 
• Most importantly, everything looks fine! I had panic attack #[don't even know] of [TBD] of this pregnancy because the baby had suddenly gotten way less active. (As an aside, part of the reason for the 12-ounce espresso this morning is that she's back up and kicking and dancing and, like, knitting a blanket in there, so sleep isn't happening. But I'll take it.) Anyway, other notes:
• Rosko and I went to the public hospital with a guardian angel otherwise known as the Health & Wellness coordinator at Georgetown, and also known as "your mother" to the hospital staff. Didn't bother correcting that one. (There was a whole lot of navigating the system that she was allowed to do on my behalf. Good thing they didn't notice that she's Australian and I'm not.) 
• The public hospital has a separate women's hospital where all Ob-Gyn stuff is handled. Rosko wasn't allowed even into the waiting room; he spent the entire 5 hours in the lobby of the main hospital. Gold star for husbandry. As it were. 
• The waiting room chairs had black marks on them from abayas. I was alone, along with guardian nurse angel, in Western gear.
• Forgive the repeat info, because I think I've told everyone who might possibly read this blog about this, but the entire day - ER visit, baby heart monitoring and a complete ultrasound - put us back approximately $30. This is when we decided to move to Qatar to give birth to every baby.
• Ok, onto the superficial! Western hotels.
• This is where ex-pats hang out and also can drink without a liquor license. Yes, liquor license. They are fancy, fancy, fancy. I've been to the St. Regis and Grand Hyatt so far. That's, I mean, enough. Not that I don't love spending $80 on an unmemorable lunch, because I do, but...well, these things exist in 'murica, too. We're hoping to spend more time in the authentic, down-and-dirty Arab culture hangouts. So, Bahrain.
• Our home!
• Samrya Gardens apartment compound, where a lot of Westerners live, and which few taxi drivers or delivery guys are aware exist. (Our first night here we tried to order shwarma. Two and a half hours and at least five phone calls from the delivery guy later, we got our shwarma.) 
• We have a small grocery story, a lovely pool, a gym, and so much air conditioning. And as of yet, no car. Which is to say, we haven't gotten out a lot just yet. But the apartment is lovely and huge and eventually I'll post pictures. 
• Our shipment of goods from home has been held up either stateside or here numerous times, so we're still lacking in a few items. Most are entirely unnecessary, but we could really use: 
• Our books. (You can only reread Life at Blandings Castle so many times.)
• My spices. (Yes, I know, we live in the Middle East. But I packed them; I don't want to buy new ones...)
• Our knives. Turns out, this is not included in the "furnished" part of "furnished apartment." Good thing Carlos has a pocket knife. Yes, that's how we're cooking. When we don't use butter knives to chop vegetables.
• Georgetown
• Finally, something from home. Except for how it's not like Georgetown at home at all. Like the part where I have an office. It's surreal; I wonder if this is what having a job is like. (Not any sort of job I'll get, but I hear some people get offices?)
• So far no word on what my job will be. Probably TAing for Comparative Government or International Relations, but as I understand it, it's very rare for a class to have discussion sections, which means that I won't have to stand up in front of a group of 25 students who all know the material better than I do and pretend to teach them something. Grading, sitting in lecture; I think this might be - fingers crossed - the extent of my job here.
• Oh. And finishing my dissertation.
• And having a baby.