Happy Birthday, UAE! Get your silly string ready...

There are middle-aged men I play pick-up basketball with that are older than the United Arab Emirates. That probably explains why I was the leading scorer last week.

The UAE just celebrated its 43rd birthday. Only 43 years old? I know, crazy.

Another December 2 has come and gone in Abu Dhabi as the capital celebrated National Day in style. And when you think of celebrating a country's birthday, overly-decorated cars and silly string comes to mind, right? Only in the UAE...

For more pictures, check out The National's photo gallery from UAE National Day.

They love to celebrate with silly string. I'm not really sure why. What exactly is silly string? Well, the good people at Google helped me clarify your inquiry.

Silly String (generically known as aerosol string) is a toy of flexible, sometimes brightly colored, plastic string propelled as a stream of liquid from an aerosol can. The solvent in the string quickly evaporates in mid-air, creating a continuous strand.

I spoke with a party vendor in the city and he said sales of the product jumps five fold around National Day as he can barely keep the item on the shelves during that faithful week in early December.

Then I asked if there were any other hot times for silly string sales?

"No, not really," he said. "We get a kid's birthday party every once in a while but that's about it. National Day is the biggest day of the year -- by far -- in terms of silly string distribution."

Kid's birthday parties and National Day celebrations? I'm starting to see a trend here.

***

The government announced a five-day break for all employees, but that did not really apply to us in the media. Someone has to put out a newspaper...

Regardless, the mood was also festive inside our office with balloons and lights but unfortunately, there was no sign of any silly string.

And when the dust finally settled on the silly string party that was National Day, it was the country's faithful maintenance workers were emerged as the true heroes.

They spent most of the wee hours following the celebrations cleaning up the corniche in Abu Dhabi and other festive zones through out the country.

Click here to read a story from The National about their silly string heroics

Happy Birthday, UAE! 

Hospital visit in Abu Dhabi?

WARNING: The following blog post is not for the squeamish. There is graphic material with some bloody images towards the bottom that may make some readers feel uncomfortable. If you are here just to see the photos, then scroll down, be lazy and have a good day. Cheers.

Have you ever been in a situation where you felt just completely embarrassed, but because you were surrounded by children, no one really noticed?

Let me explain.

When I leave my office at The National, I usually walk a block or two to meet my ride, catch the bus or hail a cab. During this mundane journey, I occasionally run into a gang of neighborhood kids who are usually playing soccer or cricket.

When they recognize me, they start calling out some nickname for me so I will play with them. I suspect the nickname is probably an insult in Arabic, because they tend to giggle afterward but it does not bother me. I was young too once, and even today, I enjoy the social ritual of public mockery.

On this day, they were kicking the soccer ball around and I had to throw out some of my moves. They cheered. My respect was restored. Everyone was happy.

Then the ball strayed into the main road and I ran after it so the kids did not get hit by a car. I grabbed the ball up, took a step onto the curb to avoid a passing car and accidentally collided with the corner of a metal traffic sign. Coincidentally, the sign was installed to alert drivers of ‘children at play’ in the neighborhood.

And when I mean collide, I mean the corner of the sign cut straight into my head. Like when Caribbean island folk use a dull machete to slice a hard coconut. My head was the coconut and the corner of the sign was the sharp object. Yes, immense pain.

Out of anger, I immediately let out monster F-bomb that was within ear shot of several nearby mosques.

They kids froze. They had probably heard their fathers or teachers use such forbidden language in the past and knew something was very wrong.

I tried to calm myself and then just threw the ball back to them, “See you guys later.”

No other adults had seen the quiet collision. The kids started playing again as soon as they got the ball back. I felt a strange tingle on the side of my face and that is when I knew this cut was gushing blood. A decent amount of blood.

I scurried into a nearby convenience store where the clerk recognized me. I essentially wanted to blurt out, “I NEED HELP!” but could only muster a whimpering “Do you have any tissues?” with my hand covering the gash on my head.

At first, the clerk pointed up toward a tall stack of unopened tissue boxes. He wanted to sell them to me. Then I took my hand off the wound and a stream of blood flowed down the side of my face and seeped into my shirt near my left collar.

He freaked out. The clerk stumbled back a few feet and then scrambled for his personal tissue stash. I don’t what it is about tissues here but everyone has them.

After I grab a few to put on the hole in my head, he looks at me like I’m an alien and does not know what to say. “Thanks,” I say as I stagger out the door.

Miranda was already on her way to pick me up so I did not really know what to do for the next 5-10 minutes. I grab a reflection of myself from a nearby car until an Emirati woman walked up and assumed I was trying to rob her by looking inside her car. She gave me a second look and then blankly asked, “Oh my, are you OK?”

I said I was fine and that my wife was on her way. She did not give it a second thought, got in her car and drove off. Seeing a man bleeding profusely from his head on the street did not peak her interest.

Miranda arrived shortly after and my main goal was to keep her calm.

I jumped in the car but she could see something was wrong. Probably because I had a hand cocooned by bloody tissues stuck to the side of my head. 

“Don’t worry babe,” I said. “Let me just take a shower. I’m sure I can just wash this off…”

I really thought that. That was my opinion at that exact moment. I must have been concussed.

After a brief debate, we decided that a visit to the hospital was next. But where is the hospital? Dammit, we really should get the GPS in our car updated…

After several U-turns and some white-knuckle driving, we arrived at the Al Noor Hospital near the Zayed Sports City complex in a hurry. I had just started to feel a little woozy. Perhaps it was from the blood loss. Maybe I was just hungry?

Anyway, after we found the ER, which was a mission in itself, there was a wide range of characters in there waiting for medical attention. The doctors were overwhelmed. I think from the pure fact that when your child has a cold, you are not supposed to bring them to the ER and then demand treatment.

How are you going to deny this wounded man?

I even heard the woman in charge tell a very concerned Emirati woman holding her sick child, "I am sorry but we have to serve people based on priorities. Your child has a cold. Do you see that man standing over there, bleeding from his head? I think he is next.”

Yes! Score one for the regular folks!!

But just as I was gearing up to go behind the ER closed doors, a female rugby player arrived by an ambulance and was laid up in a stretcher. She was surrounded by her dirty teammates fresh off the pitch and other medical staff. She was also gripping her ribs and moaning like death.

I then looked back at my supporting cast. Miranda gently waved and gave me a smile. “That’s OK, she can go ahead of me,” I said to the woman in charge.

When I got in the back room, the doctors gave me a quick look and wasted little time with the diagnosis. “Five stitches, maybe six.”

“And you just wanted to take a shower to wash it off…” Miranda said, as she shook her head.

“But doc, you won’t have to shave my head, right? I can’t lose these wonderful locks,” I asked.

The doctor, bald as hell, took solace in my request. “Just a little bit,” he promised.

They got to work, and shaved just area near the cut. The rest of the head was spared. Miranda was there to document the procedure even after some Arab man opened our door and demanded that the doctors ignore me (the guy with the head wound) and see his daughter, who had coughed three times the night before. Three times!

I have to give it up for the staff at Al Noor that day. Half of their work involved crowd control and dealing with irate locals, who are used to having their way. They were very courteous to Miranda and myself and had us out of there within an hour or so.

Oh, they also prescribed me a plethora of pain killers and strapped me up with a cool bandage around my head that kind of made me look hardcore. Like I should not be messed with.

The whole ordeal was very embarrassing and the worst part was that I could not play for my flag football team the next day. And it was the playoffs. Sorry, fellas.

For me, it was only my second ER visit since moving here almost two years ago. Once a year is not a bad average. Hopefully, 2015 will bring better fortune. 

Wearing a new red shirt to work that day was an unfortunate omen. The blood stains did come out after some deep washing and Miranda even said I could go anywhere I wanted after we left the ER. 

Several options came to mind: Fuddruckers, maybe the beach, or perhaps to the nearby ice skating rink (it is literally next door to the hospital). 

Since I had already fulfilled my concussion quota for the day, we chose the only place that really made sense to me at that moment…

International vibe on Turkey Day in Abu Dhabi

As I looked around the table at Thanksgiving, I couldn't help but crack a smile.

At first, I felt homesick because my family was gathered back in Herndon, Virginia and they had just started on their appetizers at about the same time we were trying to fight off the dreaded half-drunk, half-turkey consumption nap weariness.

But then, I felt that international vibe that you only get when you travel. That sense that you are surrounded by other like-minded people, who want to learn new customs, ask questions, and eat.

By the end of the meal, I felt like comparing passports with the people around me.

On this glorious American holiday, we had one Brit, one Frenchie, a Palestinian and two Indians (actually from India -- not the folks who broke bread with the white settlers) sitting at the table inside my apartment. For some, it was their first Thanksgiving and we were happy to host them and expose them to such a proud tradition.

My wife and I are American and don't worry, the US of A was well represented. Even though we had an eclectic group that would make the Model UN proud, to my left sat a US Navy SEAL.

I had not really spoke to Curtis in about five years. He reached out to me when he arrived in Abu Dhabi about two months ago. I quickly lost track of him because he had to go on one of those secret desert missions. You know, it was the hush-hush kind of stuff.

But he returned and messaged me two days before the feast. I couldn't think of a better way to honor America then to host a service member in my home for Thanksgiving.

I made sure to introduce Curtis to the rest of my international contingent. They all had heard of the US Navy SEALs but had never really met one in real life before. I think it was a pure case of America overload for them.

Later on in the evening, Curtis was supposed to tell them what the true meaning of Thanksgiving was but red wine took over and before we knew it, everyone was involved in a hotly-contested game of pin-the-tail-on-the-turkey.

Because isn't that what Thanksgiving is all about? Having fun with loved ones?

My wife cooked up a storm. We had family on the Skype screen. Loved ones from around the world were sitting at our table. I tell you, it does not get any better than that.

Happy Thanksgiving from Abu Dhabi!

Yes, even Americans need a visa to travel to India

A very short and kind Indian man rang my door bell this morning around 8.45am.

He was a little mad because my phone was turned off (as he had been trying to reach me) and his feelings did not improve when I sluggishly answered the door half asleep and while wearing just my boxers.

He sort of shook his head in disgust. In his hand, he had my US passport. But to understand why, we have go back to three weeks ago, when this story first started...

One of our good friends in Abu Dhabi is Niharika. In this photo, she is the one on the right. Looking sober as ever.

For months, we had flirted with the idea of her showing us around her native India. We know how much an international trip can be enhanced when you have a local calling the shots. You know, what's the term I'm looking for here again? Street credit. Yup, that's what we needed.

Basically, we did not want to be those cliche white people wandering around the depths of India second-guessing our decision to drink that murky-looking water or take that exhausting route to see (enter a typical tourist destination here).

We needed some street credit. Nihrika was it. She gladly volunteered her services. Plus, she is awesome to party with so we knew everything would work itself out.

We picked a date: long weekend in early November.

We picked a city to pillage: Goa. Chill beach city on the southeastern shore of India.

Now it was time to book flights, hotels, rental car and secure some spending cash.

"Oh, don't worry, you're American -- you don't need a visa," Niharika said in between swings of beer at the Belgian Cafe. "We let Americans do whatever they want..."

Sounded pretty awesome to me. She was right. Americans are the best, right?

With less than two weeks before our trip, we learn the hard way that Americans -- like everyone else in the world -- also need a visa to travel to the exotic and wonderful land known as India.

It was not time to hit the panic button just yet but we had to act fast. We needed answers. Quick, to the Internet!

So we had to go to a place in Abu Dhabi called BLS International Visa & Passport Services, which is a passport processing service and an exclusive trusted partner to the Embassy of India.

But before that extravagant visit, we needed to fill out and print this online form that asked all type of questions like who was my father, what I did for a living and if I have ever traveled to Pakistan before? Because if I had, a visit to India would probably be out of the question.

Then we went to BLS -- they were open on a Saturday -- waited in a few lines, spoke to a couple of nice clerks, waited some more and then...

"Umm, Mr. Gray, we have a slight issue," one gentleman said to me while he perused my mounting pile of paperwork. "It says here you are a journalist?"

"Oh no, not again..."

Click here to read all about my attempt to enter Bahrain after the passport monkeys realized I was a journalist and I was staying with a woman, while also traveling with another woman

So after waiting in a few more lines, an official paper had to be printed and then signed by some higher-up at the office. More waiting, more waiting.

Then came the final price tag. For two Americans trying to acquire a six-moth, multiple-entry visa to India, it came out to 745 UAE dirhams (approximately 200 US dollars). And, they did not take credit cards. Cash only. Sounded real shady to me. So I had to walk a few blocks away to an ATM.

Now I do not know that given our amazing American status, that our price tag was higher or lower that anyone else visiting the country. But regardless, India is making out like bandits! If every single person, besides actual Indians, have to pay something like 100 dollars to the country before they even touch down on an India airport runway, then India should be the richest nation in the world.

We paid. Said goodbye and off we went.

I immediately had to go to work and I was not in the newsroom for more than 20 minutes before I got a call from BLS. It was the lady who was processing our visas.

"Mr. Gray, we had a slight issue with your visa," she said. "You actually owe us 145 dirhams more."

"What? Why?"

"Because you have a journalist visa. That means it is more..."

Now I wasn't mad that I had to pay more. I've come to expect that. Countries all around these parts love to stick it to journalists. What I got irate about was that she just did not charge me the right amount when I was sitting right in her office an hour earlier.

"Mam, that makes no sense. You guys are the ones who messed up. I even left, walked to an ATM, came back, and paid the full amount in cash that you charged. How did you not get this right?"

"Oh sir, it's because you are a journalist."

"I understand that but what do we do now?" I had started to lose my cool.

"Can you please come back to our office?"

"No, I cannot. I am at work now because I spent my entire morning in your office."

"Sir, you are at work? What do you do?"

"I AM A JOURNALIST!!!"

It was about this moment when the lady started to sense my anger. She asked if I can just send the company driver to her office with the additional money. Because if not, she could not process my visa. She then let me know that my wife's visa had already started.

The call ended on a sour note. No apology from her. And because of her mistake, I found myself at the BLS office very early the next morning. Once again, I was the only white person in the room.

But this time, there would be no lines. There would be no waiting for this pissed-off American. I demanded satisfaction! Well, not really.

The same lady saw me as I approached her desk and excused herself from the person she was attending to. She walked up to me with kindness and her manager was with her. I had cooled off since the previous day's phone call and accepted all the apologies and pleasantries.

I then placed 145 dirhams in her hand like it was some sort of drug deal. Everyone in the room had watched because the unique transaction took place away from the desks and after she grabbed the cash, she slipped into some door in the back of the room. It was all very shady.

She came out with a receipt and promised my visa would arrive at my home within 3-5 business days. Finally, it looked like a visit to Goa was in my near future.

Three weeks later, I stood in my kitchen and wondered if the leftover Indian food in my refrigerator would make for a good breakfast. And then the door bell rang.

Weary expats go back to America

Three weeks. Eight states.

Trains, planes and automobiles.

Two NFL games. Two MLB games. Two weddings.

Countless beers, laughs, friends and family.

Miranda and I made our annual pilgrimage back to the United States last month and two pretty cool videos came out as a result. The first one was filmed and edited by our good friends in Chicago.

The second one is self-explanatory.







It does not matter where you are from because there is one thing all weary travelers can agree on: Sometimes, it is good to be home.

After living in the desert for almost two years, a sudden avalanche of America made us appreciate our country even more. We got to visit some cool places, see some of our incredible family and we filled our love tanks with things we miss the most (yes, that includes Taco Bell).

Home is where you make it. But while you attempt to do so in a foreign land, it is always nice to come back for a visit to where it all started.