The Post-Dubai Chronicles

Happy Halloween to you all!

Christian chose a bumble bee costume for Halloween this year. Thankfully, a few days before October 31, the costume arrived in the APO (that's our mail system, for those of you who remember writing real letters and sending real care packages ;). To celebrate, we took the little stinger to Hard Rock Cafe. He buzzed all around the restaurant and melted everyone's heart. Our waiter was so distracted, he brought us a full salad even though we only ordered a half portion. A few nights later, we took him to the American school for a trick or treating party. Christian was in a daze about it all. He was scared by plastic skulls with blinking red eyes that let out a recorded scream when you walk by, but loved the idea that all you had to do to get candy is say "trick or treat." After about 45 minutes, Halloween was over (which as long as that holiday should last in my book) and Christian had way more sugar than his little mitochondria could process. For the record, we did carve a pumpkin, which oddly enough turned out to look like Henry himself--four-tooth grin and all!

Henry celebrated surviving his first year, which is saying a lot, considering how many times we started walking away from his baby carrier and sneering with everyone else in the store (or theater, or office, or park), "Boy, who's screaming kid is that? Wonder why his parents don't love him enough to calm him down." But, things are much better for all of us these days. Henry is still wired to the hilt, but he is a lot easier to read--and cute as a bug's ear! Some of you know our family tradition (thanks, Mom and Dad!) of presenting an entire birthday cake to the birthday boy. The rest of the celebrating guests get left-overs, if any. Well, Henny grabbed two fistfuls of cake and decided it might be nice to rub his sleepy little eyeballs--looked like a gol-dern grizzly bear!

At long last the month of fasting--or sneaking food while driving, as the case may be--is over! To celebrate the end of daytime sleeping and nighttime gorging, Muslims take three days off work and call it Eid al-Fitr. (It's pronounced "aid-all-fitter," tragically only one letter off from "Adolf Hitler." Needless to say, I was a bit shocked when Amy was explaining her disappointment that her employer, the American University in Dubai, doesn't celebrate Adolf Hitler.) Since the three holiday days fell around a weekend, we had nearly six days to play around, and since we had heard excellent things about Muscat, the capital of Oman, we decided to vacation there. Like all of our trips, they were the best of times and the worst of times . . . at the same time . . . .

I should have known things might go awry when I tried to check our hotel reservations a few days in advance. A travel book about Muscat listed the website for the Intercontintal Hotel as an internet address that was a website about incontinence. Well, I didn't spend too long at that website--just enough time to get read up on the latest adult diaper solutions--and then googled the hotel name, which is what I should have done in the first place.

One hour into our trip with confirmed, hotel reservations in hand, we realized we had forgotten the all-important portable crib. After tossing around a few ideas involving extra bed linens, the bathtub, and a good story to tell the hotel staff, we crossed our fingers that the hotel would have a crib that we could borrow.

With that problem swept nicely under the proverbial rug, we drove right by the local border control booth. (In my defense, there were no signs or other instructions telling us we had to stop.) When we arrived at the Omani border, we were told to go back and get an exit stamp. •disapproval grunt• I walked my American swagger up to the visa officer's window (how's that for role reversal?) and presented four passports, proudly signaling to the folks behind me in line that this would only take a minute. The officer inspected our passports and noted that we had not presented our diplomatic passports, the ones with our current residency visas in them. I explained that we had left those home and brought our tourist passports instead since we were going to Oman as tourists not diplomats. He handed me the passports back, and that's when I started to really sweat. After talking to three other visa officers, I schlumped back to our car and said that we were going back home to get that portable crib after all.

We had timed the entire trip there so that Christian and Henry would fall asleep at the same time, Amy and I would fall asleep at different times (and neither of us while driving), we'd all be hungry at the same time and want the same food, we'd stop at a gas station at 3 hours and 15 minutes into the trip, and Mercury would line up with Venus. By the time we returned home to get the passports, we were talking about canceling the entire trip in lieu of masterminding an equally brave plan. And then it hit us. Or, hit Amy, rather: try the crack-of-dawn method. The kids'll be so tired they'll have no choice but to sleep. Amy and I laughed maniacally in sync. (We really did, and Christian really said, "Don't say mu-ha-ha! That's not nice.")

So we did it--we set our alarm for oh-dark-thirty (that's for you, Billiam) and were on the road by 4:30 with the right travel documents this time. Henry and Christian didn't fall asleep until about 7 AM, but, surprisingly, they were gems for the 2 hours they were awake. The roads were clear and we saw a truly beautiful sun rise over stark, rocky mountains--well worth the wait.

Well, Muscat is a beautiful city--so much greener and less commercialized than, well, other middle eastern cities we know. The city sits in a natural harbor and has a very authentic Arab feel to it. It looks like a Mediterranean coastal town (like in Greece or Italy) but with distinctly Arab architecture. The culture is also very alive there. Three-fourths of men are dressed in dishdashas and beautifully embroidered round caps. Speaking of which, we visited Muscat's souk (a few city blocks of shops selling local handicrafts, clothing, etc.) on our last night there. I was interested in finding a cap for myself, and after tracking down a few that didn't look like a two-layered cake sitting on my head, I asked the peddler how much they cost. He replied 25 rials. Bartering is essential at the souk, so getting up my best cheap-skate genes, I left as if disgusted by the price. When I came back a few minutes later, I told the guy I'd give him 20 rials for my favorite cap. He said, "Uh, that's okay. This one's only 15 rials." Realizing it would be impossible to now bargain him down from 15 rials, I quietly said thank you and left the store, capless.

If you don't put yourself out there, there's still always someone willing to rake you over the coals and give you "a very special price just for you." Besides local handicrafts and silver jewelry, the thing to buy in Muscat is frankincense--yes, of Bible lore, goes with gold and myrrh. So, we bought an incense burner and honest-to-goodness frankincense for ourselves. We bargained back and forth until he offered a great deal. Then, we got two more sets for our friends who wanted to give them to family as gifts. Later that night we did the math, and turns out his "great deal" and all our bargaining were worth about a plug nickel as he had charged us pre-bargaining prices. Oh well--that's life in the souk.

We're back now and planning our next trip to Jordan. With any luck, the boys' circadian rhythm will get back to normal . . . just in time to go globe-trotting again.

Love you and miss you all,

Rich, Amy, Christian and Henry

"Did somebody call IX-I-I?"
--Roman guard, having discovered Hercules unconscious, MST 3K