The Solitary Swimmer

Once again I was alone when I swam at the hotel in New Delhi. It is dry cool winter here, and the pool, enormous, was not heated. Strange to be a swimmer in a city of millions who can't.
Meanwhile, India, with its long history of religious diversity - home to Hindus, Buddhists, Jains, Christians, Jews, Zoroastrians and Moslems, is no stranger to the burdens of being the minority or the dangers of being the majority.
One thing seems clear, and that is that change is ceaseless, and sometimes beauty remains. The tombs built for Humayun and his grand daughter in law, the Taj, still stand, alone and loved.

May You Live In Interesting Times

Yesterday, as we flew from Dubai to New Delhi, the Arab world changed.
As we flew, I was thinking about the conversations we'd had on Dubai's Metro.
When we boarded, a young man jumped up and offered me his seat. I looked up at him and asked "Do I look that old?" Laughing, he demurred, and of course we fell into conversation with him. He was Egyptian, from Alexandria, so of course was watching evens in Cairo with even more interest than we. Like all of the people we met in Dubai, he was a guest worker, trained as a lawyer, but working in the hotel industry.
To finally expunge my nagging jet lag, I had a message after we returned to the hotel. As I drank a post-treatment cup of herbal tea, I spoke to the woman seated next to me, who it turned out was Saudi. Our voices tinged with emotion we talked about our hopes and fears for the people of Egypt. "We don't know what to pray for," she confided and I concurred.
Thursday night we waited with the Arab world to hear what Mubarak would say, and groaned with impatience, and fell asleep in hope and fear.
This morning we awoke to the news that Mubarak had fled to his summer villa and the Swiss banks had frozen his assets. We are in another world now, that of Northern India. Today we will visit Humayun's Tomb, Hasht Basht, Eight Paradises, the marvel of Arab mathematically derived architecture and garden design from the era which say Islamic rulers coming from the west rule various regions of India with varying degrees to tolerance and reliance on their Hindu subjects. More recently, Hindu nationalists were incensed that it was the only site US Pres. Obama saw when he visited.
I'm the sentimental old cold war orientalist who wonders if everything has to be black or white, ready for democracy or not, rich or poor, modern or ancient?

Ful Medames and Cairo

I'm out of time and place. 15 hours on a jet took me a half-day into the past, and into a city that wasn't here. I wake up too early and really hungry. What to eat? Hotel breakfast buffet of the usual Teflon eggs and shoe-leather bacon?

I turn the corner and there it is! A deep brass vessel on a burner, keeping hot the breakfast of Egyptian champions: ful (pronounced fool). The last time I ate ful, I made it for my 6th grade Ancient Civilization students as part of our Egypt Unit. We had learned that in Modern Cairo it is a popular breakfast, eaten with flat bread. So I made the rich fava bean stew, and served it to my mostly Hispanic students, who devoured it with pieces of tortillas and chopped cilantro.

I'm not sure how ful came to Dubai. It is associated with Cairo because it used to be cooked in huge pots buried in the embers of fires that heated the Princess Baths, and ladled into your bowl by street vendors.

For sure, the version that filled my bowl here in Dubai was far more flavorful than the one I conjured up. I hope someone in Cairo is taking bowls of ful to the protesters in Tahir Square.

My Fastest Deckchange Ever

You have just flown 15 hours. It is nine at night where you are, 9 in the morning where you were and your body is crying out for a swim. You put on your swimsuit and appropriate cover-up, this being Dubai, where many women are draped in abeyas and go in search of the pool. Kindly staff direct you to the palm fringed, turquoise-tiled intricately shaped water. Problem: the pool is surrounded by tents and groups of gentlemen relaxing with shisha pipes. No one is swimming. Torn between offending and needing to move before dinner and sleep, you pause for an instant. The maitre d assures you the pool is open until 10 pm.
Later, Dick and I will return to this same space, with me fully dressed. We'll have Arabic pickled vegetables and dried garlic flavored yoghurt reduced to small balls, stuffed grape leaves, okra salad, garbanzo and lentil soup with a rich lamb base. We'll drink lemonade with cucumber or mint. All the flavors crisp, distinct, fresh. It is our first night at the Palace in Old Town, and we fall asleep looking out over the man made lake that reflects every glittering light.
To swim or not to swim? The maitre d takes me to a group of divans and chairs. I quickly remove my scarf and calf length dress, and in my modest one piece suit, with goggles, slipped into the intricately tiled pool. I swim about 1000 yards, and then the spectacular fountain midst the lake begins its fireworks to music. The tune is one of my favorites "Time to Say Goodbye." Everyone on the lakeside terrace turns to watch, and I take advantage of the moment to slip out of the pool and back into my clothing.
Is Dubai like Disney Land or Las Vegas, two places I detest? Like perhaps, but far from the same. Dubai isn't imitating anything.