Lacuna Matata

la·cu·na (noun) -- a gap or missing part, as in a manuscript, series, or logical argument; hiatus.  It's appalling that the lacuna in Tiffany's blog has lasted ten months.

I have been sitting here staring at the computer screen for the last fifteen minutes, trying to come up with a clever excuse for why my blog has suffered a lengthy lacuna.  Sure, I've been busy.  Yes, I've been lazy.  But I think the bottom line is that I have gone through such a transitional period these last ten months that I just had to take a break from blogging and ride the rollercoaster for a while.  (Not to mention the fact that someone very near and dear to me whose opinion is important to me told me that my blog was narcissistic...ouch.)

Now, I'm ready to pick up the metaphorical pen again and get back to it (and thank you to those of you out there who encouraged me to do so!). 

I last left you in August 2010 as I was preparing to embark on a solo trip to Italy.  Before I break down my time since (which will happen in my next blog entry), I want to briefly enlighten you on the change of heart and soul I experienced on that fateful trip (and please refrain from comparing me or my experiences to that self-absorbed woman who wrote "Eat, Pray, Love" or else I will puke). 

Colosseum

I knew the trip to Italy, my first solo backpacking trip since El Accidente, was going to be rough.  Understatement.  Cobblestones + steep hills + intense heat + stairs, stairs everywhere + strolling tourists who don't look where they're going because they're too busy mouth-raping gelato cones + ruins + crutches = HELL. ON. WHEELS.  And let's not forget that I had only been back on crutches after my bilateral ankle surgeries for just under two months, so I was still quite weak.  Two days in, I was berating myself for not having gone to the Maldives instead.  Nevertheless, despite all the factors working against me, and because of my irritatingly stubborn determination, I hobbled my way through the country for twelve days.

Trevi Fountain

I spent four days bulldozing through the major Roman sites and one day recovering in bed while watching "Jersey Shore" (the only English program on TV).  I then traveled north to the medieval town of Siena,  followed by a three-day stay at a 16th century farmhouse in the midst of an organic farm and vineyard in Tuscany.  The trip finished with a few lovely days in Florence and Milan.

 

Mmmm...

It was in that farmhouse in Tuscany, three days of reading, drinking wine, eating home-grown olives, cheese, and pesto picnic-style, where I entertained some deep thought processes regarding my life:  what it was before, what it was now, and what I wanted it to become.  I knew that even though the trip was exhausting and frustrating and at times extremely tear-inducing, it was not a complete failure because I finally felt like "Me" again.  I still had that exhilarating feeling inside that I hadn't felt in years; that feeling that only comes from hopping on and off public transportation and aimlessly wandering down quiet foreign streets with a backpack and without an itinerary.  I've always been my worst critic, but I finally felt proud of myself and thrilled with how far I had come and accomplished, all by myelf!  I had been depressed for months about my lack of independence, and finally I realized that I had recaptured it and I was certainly never going to let it go again. 

The introspective Italian holiday set the wheels in motion in helping me realize that I needed to completely (or at least mostly) stop depending on people, Spaniard included, and finally take charge and full control of my life again.  And that's what I did...and what I've been doing for the last ten months.

Next blog:  The 10-month breakdown...

Due Gambe in Italia...

According to trusty (and not always correct) Google Translate, that means "Two Legs in Italy..."

Last Wednesday I was riding the stationary bike, trying to remember why exactly I want a job, remembering that it has something to do with an ailing bank account, wondering where I'd spent all my money, remembering that it had all gone to physical therapy, flights to the US, doctor's appointments....

I thought about how dependent I've become, how I can't do anything for myself, how I always need people to help me do things, take me shopping, reach high objects, pick up things I'd dropped, piggy-back me when I'm too tired...

I thought about my upcoming trip to Europe in September with Spaniard, I thought about how long it had been since I'd been anywhere by myself, for myself...how long it had been since I'd spent my money on something fun, something exciting, something other than these two freaking skinny-ass legs...!!!

Lightbulb!

Within 24 hours I had changed my flight to Frankfurt on September 3rd to a much earlier flight to Italy.  I'm off in just a few hours...I'm flying into Rome, staying in an apartment right next to Trevi Fountain in the city center for a few nights before heading to Tuscany, Florence, and Venice.  I'll have about twelve days to explore the country before I fly out of Milan on September 5th.  Punchline: By myself. Completely Solo. Me, my crutches, and a 20 Liter backpack...Now that's what you call a recipe for disaster!!

I'm completely excited and nervous and I have no idea what to expect.  I know it will probably be more miserable than fun, but I'm prepared for whatever challenges come my way, be it Roman ruins or Vatican staircases or Tuscan hills or Venetian bridges!  And this time I won't have anyone to carry me (or my bag!) when I get too tired!

 

I'll meet Spaniard in Brussels on the 5th and together we'll continue our pre-planned trip through Belgium, Germany, and Switzerland.  If you don't hear from me before then, then it means I've probably fallen into a gutter somewhere...

Hello Ramadan

Last Wednesday was the official moon sighting/start of the Holy Month of Ramadan.  If you're not well-versed on all things Islam, it's basically a month where the Muslims fast from food, drink, sex, smoke, and impure thoughts from sunrise to sunset.  Of course, there is a lot more to it than that, but I suppose that's the part that affects us non-Muslims the most.

Anyway, Dubai strictly enforces the fast, and most restaurants are closed until sunset.  If you want to eat, smoke, or even take a sip of water, you have to hide it well, or risk getting a ticket...even if you're not fasting!  Throughout the entire month, the city is eerily quiet during the day, roads are empty, and most businesses have shortened working hours.  However, when the sun dips below the horizon and the calls to prayer erupt from the minarets, the city comes alive.  The streets become snarled with traffic as drivers race to restaurants for the Iftar meal and shopping malls are bustling with shoppers taking advantage of extended opening hours.

Anyway, as you can imagine, Ramadan is basically a month where things slow down to the point of shut down, particularly true this year as it falls in the summer.  This also means that there are zero jobs on the market.  Not a good thing for me. 

Just yesterday I was contacted by the company with which I had interviewed in Abu Dhabi; unfortunately, they had to put the job on hold.  As soon as they told me, I felt a wave of relief...who was I kidding?  I did not want to move to boring old Abu Dhabi, no matter how much I tried to pep-talk myself into it!

So now it's back to square one...I've pretty much given up on the job search until after Ramadan.  Actually, I'm off to Europe for a few weeks the first week of September, so I might as well put it off until I'm back on the 25th!  No need to rush these things...

Omani Run

To celebrate my one-month anniversary back in Dubai, Spaniard and I decided to spend the weekend in Muscat, Oman (read:  My 30-day UAE visitor's visa was about to expire and I needed to make a run to the border). 

This was supposed to be a cheap trip.  After all, I am chronically unemployed.  Muscat is about a four to six-hour drive through the desert and mountains from Dubai (depeding on the busy-ness factor at the border).  Once you arrive, there are plenty of cheap, roachish motels in a corniche and souk area called Muttrah (one of my favorite places), not to mention tons of laid back and inexpensive restaurants. 

However, somehow things went a bit off course from the original plan.  First off, I found a special online deal at the über chi-chi Chedi Muscat:  Stay two nights, get the third night free.  Who in their right mind could ever pass up such a steal?  I then looked into flights and discovered that it's pretty cheap to fly...why drive when you can fly?  Hmmm...

So Thursday afternoon we were on a plane to Muscat!  We arrived at the swankypants Chedi  and were immediately whisked to our posh seaview room.  After that the weekend was a bit of a blur of delicious food, infinity pools, sunshine, prosecco, and even a facial.  We didn't even leave the hotel!  So much for my big plans of trying to be like locals for a weekend.

When we got in the taxi to leave the hotel on Sunday, I asked Spaniard if I could see the bill.  As I opened it, I gasped and tears began to well up in my eyes...No!  This can't be!  I can't afford this!  I felt my heartbeat quicken and Where was the fresh air?!  But then I figured that overall it wasn't so bad, considering it was three nights and all meals, not to mention that facial.  I began to calm down, and said, "Whew!  I was really worried for a second!"  But then Spaniard reminded me that we had already paid for the room online...this bill was only for the extras...

Let's Get Physical!

I am happy to say that I have finally started Physical Therapy.  Just over a month after el accidente, I went to San Diego, California for two months of intensive therapy at Project Walk.  I also traveled to Barcelona on two separate occasions within the past year for a bit more therapy.  As for all that time in between...well...I have pretty much done my own thing (if anything at all), and I'll admit that it has not been very consistent.

So now that I am back in Dubai and turning over a new leaf, I decided to jump right into my fitness aspirations again.  After some research, I finally settled on a certified Physical Therapist/Pilates Instructor who has experience working with cripples like myself and who is suprisingly familiar with the Project Walk method.  The week after I arrived, I had my first appointment.

The sessions are held one-on-one in a private room full of trapeze machines and mechanical chairs and springs and other Pilates gimmicks.  I don't do any major meathead moves or anything, but all the exercises hit right in those small muscle groups and I'm always tired at the end of each one-hour session; however, I'm not exhausted, but at the "Oh Dear Jesus!" price of $110 per hour, I can't exactly afford any extra time.  

At any rate, I'm going to physical therapy twice a week, riding a stationary bike for one hour every day, quickly depleting my bank account, and getting stronger by the day.  I've even started working on taking a few steps without using crutches (one crutch is pretty easy).  These tricks are definitely not ready for the public yet...I do still have my pride, after all.

Headband--Check.  Knee Socks--Check.  Off to physical therapy!

The Great Job Hunt

My number one priority now that I'm back in Dubai is to find a job.  Once I have a job, I will have free healthcare.  I will also have a paycheck.  I haven't had a paycheck in ten months, and my bank accounts are certainly looking worse for wear.  When I have a paycheck, I can finally kiss cohabitation goodbye (that's another blog altogether!) and move into my very own flat with all my own furniture and personal items and use the bathroom with the door open and eat cereal for dinner again.  But, like I said, I'll save all that for another blog. 

My point is this:  Job=Independence.  Now many of you out there might shake your heads in disagreement, convinced that slaving away 9 to 5 (8-8 in these parts) for, proverbially speaking, "The Man" is the antithesis of independent living.  I would have wholeheartedly agreed with you two years ago.  However, given my current circumstances, I just want to feel normal again, and by normal I mean no longer living out of a suitcase, no longer depending on others for everything, no longer being a leech.

Therefore, Operation Job Search has now commenced and I'm taking no prisoners.  Within days of arriving in Dubai, I began setting up meetings with recruiters, scouring job boards, sending my resume this way and that, even updating my Linked In profile (although I'm still not convinced people actually look at that).

So far, the search has been quite interesting, to say the least.  For example, a colleague had passed my resume on to a guy who was hiring.  This guy immediately began to constantly hound me for numerous examples of my previous work...I spent hours sending him this information while he ignored my requests to see the job description.  The final straw came when, after a week of back and forth correspondence, he asked for my picture.  I politely told him to *&%@ off. 

I have also started to get a bit disgruntled with recruiters in particular.  There have been countless incidents in which a recruiter has contacted me, told me about an available position with such-and-such company, asked for my updated resume, gotten me excited about it...and then disappeared off the face of the planet.  And when I do call them back to find out what's going on, they always act flustered and nervous and give me some lame run-around excuses, like "Oh, I was just about to call you!," and "Unfortunately, that position was put on hold," or "Yes, well, they were already in the final stages of interviewing when they received your resume..."  Cut the crap!  

Not all is doom and gloom, however, as yesterday I had my first official interview.  It was for the position of Training Manager at a US-based company in Abu Dhabi.  I met with the HR Director and the Head of Recruitment, and they loved me (naturally!).  The job sounds interesting, the company seems stable, and the pay is great...but it is in Abu Dhabi.  Abu Dhabi is an exhausting 70-minute drive from Dubai on a road where driving 80mph would put you in the slow lane.  I would never do that drive twice a day, so I would move to Abu Dhabi.  Since most of the good jobs seem to be in Abu Dhabi, I'm trying to make peace with the probability of having to move there.  Pros:  Fresh start, good salary, change of scenery, more cultural events (art, music, performances).  Cons:  Boring city, high rent, far from friends, chiropractor, social life (not that I really have one), and comfort zone. 

So let's see what happens.  I am trying to be open to everything but at the same time I don't want to get desperate and just jump for the first opportunity that comes my way.  Ramadan is coming up in just a few weeks and everything completely dies for a month, so I am hoping I can get something before then!

Oh, the joys of job hunting.  In the wise words of Dolly, "It's enough to drive you crazy if you let it!"

Back in the Sandpit

After seven official months away, I am finally back in Dubai--for good (hopefully).  Of course, I've been reminded numerous times that I could not have chosen an absolute worse time to return:  July is the smack dab middle of the stifling Middle Eastern summer and just a month shy of Ramadan.  Despite this, I am ecstatic to be back and to finally experience a bit of normalcy again after so many months of vagabonding.

As soon as I arrived at the airport and was met by the Spaniard, we immediately whisked to Ravi's, a former hole-in-the-wall cheap Pakistani secret in the heart of what I call "Real Dubai" that has gained a massive cult following among expats.  I had been craving the greasy, ghee-laden Palak Paneer, Dhal Fry, and hot Roti for months, and once again Ravi's did not disappoint.

Much of the weekend was spent relaxing by the pool, catching up with friends, and of course battling my jet lag.  However, the highlight was yesterday's World Cup Final.  I donned my thick polyester Spanish jersey, emblazoned with a mustard-yellow 9 and Torres (my new football/soccer crush...Cristiano Ronaldo just doesn't do it for me anymore), and watched the match at an empty flat in the building.  Thankfully, the Spaniard was able to continue riding his high with the slightly boring but nevertheless happpy-ending match. 

On another note, I am back on my feet...since getting my cast removed last week, I am now sporting two bulky black walking boots and therefore out of the wheelchair and moving about on crutches.  You wouldn't believe how wonderful it feels to walk again after five months sitting on my bony bum...I am pleasantly surprised that while my legs are still quite scrawny and pathetic, I haven't lost as much strength as expected, and my walking gait is 100 times better than what it was before my surgery.

Anyway, at this point I have pretty much beaten the jet lag bug and am now focused on the biggest challenge of all:  getting a job.  Here we go!