Holidays...I Mean Vacation

Time trickles by...like sands through an hour glass...so are the days of our lives...when there is a sandstorm...or we go outside...or we go camping...or we even look at our front door. Sands in an hour glass. And on the front stoop. And in the hallway. And even on the inside staircase. Sand and sand and sand. And it doesn't even have the decency to be proper desert sand. Instead it's dusty, gritty, fine stuff that you see best when the light shines just so...and it all seems to shine just so.

Ah, but back to where I started, which was in a pensive sort of place. Our second year is nearly up here and we will soon be returning to the States for our annual Sultan-sponsored respite in our legal place of residence. Thanks to continuing Omanization at the university's administrative level (and if you can see the relationship between Omanization and the following statement then you get a prize), our previously enjoyed Sultan-sponsored stopover in the European capital of our choice is no longer Sultan sponsored. Sigh.

The other expats we know here are a philosophical bunch who enjoy giving their two cents, as do we all, and have lately been warning of a coming shift in our thinking regarding the States. They pontificate upon the something-something that occurs during the third contract year. "You will go home and stay home for as long as you can in the first two summers and then, after that, you might go for a couple of weeks...three tops."

This is the crowd made up of individuals who, during their first two years here, purchased a little place in Cypress or an old farmhouse in southern France and, once they retire from life in Muscat, will move there. They have the sweet furniture collected over years of travel in Asia, and awe-inspiring wall hangings, instead of the press board furniture given by the university, and the blank walls we sport. They have stories of wild adventures gathered throughout their lives of expatness, and a laundry list of other countries in which they have lived. They are the crew who jumped on this teaching abroad boat back when no one did it. They are largely childless and terribly adult. In short, they are not us.

We look at our rotten snot-nosed kids and wonder how we could NOT return to the States every summer for as long as possible. Muscat is very kind to them in so many ways. This year they have developed new social connections, taken up music, studied art, been entrenched in a weekly drama class, and raised a cat and tadpoles to adulthood. They have decorated our press board home with dozens of canvases of all sorts of artistic interpretations. They have become adept climbers and hikers, swimmers, and explorers. While they have become all of these things within a very friendly and supportive foreign country, in just as many ways they need to maintain their connection with their home country and to do what is purely American, at least for a few months.

Curiously, this year has brought them into a study of the American Revolution and the events leading up to and immediately following it. Our tag-along students who are not of the American persuasion our fascinated by the story that unravels at the hands of our history book one battle and famous colonial at a time. However, my little Americans do not seem equally fascinated. Silas will jolt and squeal when he hears a place name he knows but that is the most they give.

As a matter of fact, while Hamid wants to examine the American climb to independence and world dominance with an eerily despotic inquisitiveness, and Alfie wants to role play George Washington's every move, the American crowd hangs back with, at best, an aloof detachment. What do they want to know? "So what was England doing at this time?"

Yes, they continue along that slippery slope of Britishness and I feel hopeless most days to stop them. Tian returns from weekend play dates with a marked change in her vocabulary and phraseology. She has ceased using the words "kind of" or "very" in general parlance and now opts for "a bit" or "quite" instead. Tehva describes things as "horrid" and pronounces the word "bottom" with a strong "t" instead of using the good American "d" as in, "My goodness your bott(strong T)om looks big in those trousers." They are small changes, and amusing ones. Changes are to be expected of course. But balance is important, and balancing out 9 months here with three months there is barely a balance at all.

In light of this, we will continue with the Sultan-sponsored extended holiday time. I mean vacation.

Footie With the Girlies

Evenings here as of late are cool, bordering on downright chilly when the breezes whip just right off the ocean. It is just the right sort of weather for a sweaty game of soccer. The problem up until a few weeks ago, though, was that I did not have anyone to play with. The only ones ever on the pitch have too much equipment (if you catch my drift) and women just do NOT play with men here. Even the thought of such a proposition would give men the willies to such an extent that they would trip over their soccer cleats and that would be the end of the game.

However, a few weeks ago one enterprising woman decided that she would try and see just how many women were interested in a girls-only round of soccer, and it turned out that a lot were. So, on Sunday and Friday evenings the soccer pitch is strictly NO BOYS ALLOWED, and thus has begun my education on Arabic women and "football".

Learning Point #1: Abaya-clad women make really good goalies. Most of Da Girls get to the pitch and throw off their head scarves, shed their abayas, and jump onto the pitch ready to roll. However, there is a tiny minority that insists on playing covered and NOTHING gets past them when they are in the goal. As an additional bonus, it is easy to discriminate between fielders and goalies when the goalie is wrapped in black.

Learning Point #2: Everything is negotiable in soccer, even the ref's calls. These women do not argue calls...they negotiate them, asking the ref for some give, then asking the other team for some give, and then, after everyone has had a chance to catch their breath, play resumes without a change in the original call.

Learning Point #3: "Hustle your butt" sounds the same in Arabic as it does in English. That's not to say it is a cognate, but when Soccer Momma is screaming, "Eem-shee! Eem-shee!" you know what she is saying.

Learning Point #4: When a player comes late to the field, all play must stop so that she can go around and kiss everyone hello, check in (Sa-va?), and adjust her headscarf. This routine must be immeasurably important because everyone comes late, everyone goes through it, and everyone is willing to wait through it for every single woman who enters the field.

Learning Point #5: Goals or exceptional plays call for field-wide celebrations. The opposing team gets just as goofy, giggly, and clappy over a goal as the team that scored it.

Learning Point #6: In spite of the way this sounds in the points above, these women play for blood. Thus far I have suffered violent bruises and scratched arms, Tian has been run over and tripped, and another woman recently broke her foot during a game. Funnily enough, fouls are rarely called as there seems to be a concensus that a little violence makes for an interesting game.

Footie with women--what better way to spend your evenings in Oman?