A Week in Paradise

My brother Steve, his wife Renata, and their daughter Celeste came to visit us in Abu Dhabi this past month. Since Steve is a professional writer and Renata is a professional photographer, I thought it would be nice to share their views of the city as an entry in our blog. Except for photo captions, the text is by Steve. I have added some of my own photos of the visit to the entry, but Renata's are indicated with her initials:

This faulty memoir of the Breth-Osborn journey to the United Arab Emirates begins with our arrival at the Abu Dhabi Airport shortly after midnight on the first day of spring, 2011. My wife, Renata, and I were on vacation, and I had no intention of keeping a journal or even any notes, but my sister Adrienne Winner, whom we were visiting, has since pressed me into service for her blog, so I am unearthing these unreliable recollections three weeks after the fact.

Ironically, I had been trying for at least the third time to complete the first volume of Marcel Proust’s “In Search of Lost Time” on the long plane ride from San Francisco, and somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean I had reread the famous scene where a single bite of madeleine unleashes several thousand pages of turgid prose. Surely if Marcel writing longhand can accomplish that dubious feat I can generate a few screens for a blog.

Our first experience of the U.A.E. early that Sunday morning was standing in line at passport control for almost two hours with hordes of guest workers from India and other South Asian countries. Many of the workers had “Flying Bengals” labels sown on their shirt pockets. One of these labels was backwards, which made me realize how Eurocentric I was in expecting words to read left to right. The bilingual signs around me paired rectilinear left-to-right English phrases with their sinuous right-to-left Arabic cousins. When the words appeared on one line, they collided in the middle.

The dishdash-clad (white-robed) Emirati who finally examined my passport smiled weakly as I employed one-twelfth of my Arabic vocabulary to thank him for his efforts. “Shukran” (thanks) was in fact the only Arabic word I got to use with any regularity over the next week. Practically everybody I met spoke English, so all those hours listening to Pimsleur Arabic CDs while commuting went for naught.

My brother-in-law John, ever the saint, met us in the airport lobby around 2 a.m. and whisked us over the next half-hour to the spacious downtown Abu Dhabi apartment where he lives with Adrienne and their daughters Hannah and Mackenzie. Adrienne was still up when we got there and promptly announced that she had a cold. Nonetheless, we all stayed up until 4 a.m. talking, even though John had to go to work in a few hours.

We lay low the “next” day (it was Sunday all along), adjusting to the 11-hour time difference and letting Adrienne nurse her cold, which had all the usual congestive symptoms. We did manage to go for a leisurely stroll along the nearby Corniche, an impressively wide palm-lined boulevard, bike path, sidewalk and park that runs the length of Abu Dhabi’s gorgeous Arabian Gulf beach. The Corniche was remarkably like Chicago’s Lake Shore Drive, offering a green transition between a placid body of water and a forest of glass-and-steel skyscrapers.

We ate dinner that evening at a beachfront Hilton Hotel restaurant, served attentively by Filipino waiters, who dominate the upper-end restaurant staff in Abu Dhabi. As we soon learned, each group of foreign workers has its own particular niche. Filipinos are waiters, South Asians are construction workers, Ethiopians are maids, and so on. John is also a foreign worker, one of the many so-called western expats toiling in the fertile soil of Middle Eastern architecture and construction.

The languorous dinner should have been followed by a good night’s sleep, but the airport called once again, and the angelic John transported us in his Mitsubishi Pajero SUV to pick up our daughter, Celeste, who was likewise arriving on a midnight flight. John and I placed bets about when she would emerge from the passport counter. When she finally appeared an hour later, she explained that she had been delayed by an official who couldn’t believe that the 15-year-old girl displayed on her passport was the same as the 23-year-old woman standing at the counter. There was also much concern for the innumerable stamps in her well-traveled passport.

The next day was Monday, and Adrienne felt well enough to drive Celeste, Renata and me to the Grande Mosque, a staggering edifice that can hold up to 40,000 worshippers in the central prayer room, two side prayer rooms and an adjoining courtyard. After the women donned abayas (body-covering gowns), we joined a tour conducted by a jovial Emirati volunteer, likewise covered by a dishdash. I felt out of place in my khakis and polo shirt.

The guide pointed out the many sumptuous features of the mosque, including the world’s largest chandelier, the world’s largest handmade rug, the ubiquitous gold leaf, and the 99 names of Allah on the eastern wall. We learned about the five daily calls to prayer and saw how the carpet design allowed worshippers to line up in neat rows. We admired the 82 domes and countless minarets and stayed long enough to hear the midday call to prayer intoned over the loudspeaker by a cleric with one of the most beautiful voices I have ever heard. The guide said the cleric’s exhortations are piped live to all the mosques in Abu Dhabi, and with good reason. Who would dare to compete with perfection?

Steve, Renata, and Celeste at the Grande Mosque

After the opulent spirituality of the mosque, we descended into mere opulent capitalism, visiting the first of many souks (marketplaces), this one aptly named Shangri-La. The stores were all pricey, but we did find a reasonable sandwich shop with balcony seating and a view of the water. That evening Hannah and Mackenzie joined us for a trip to the local mall, not quite the world’s largest, although it does have an indoor ski slope (currently under repair) and an ice rink. Celeste began her weeklong search for cheap sunglasses, and I likewise prowled in vain for postcards. Given the advent of Facebook and Twitter, to say nothing of blogs, no one sends postcards any more, certainly not in cutting-edge Abu Dhabi.

We retired early. In the middle of the night, I awoke with a tremendous sneeze and eventually tiptoed downstairs to drink some tea, blow my nose and share the predawn hours with Helen, the resident golden retriever. She sat in a leather armchair while I arrayed myself Proust-like on the couch, a box of tissues by my side and a Kindle full of congested prose propped up on my chest.

As night turned to day, I was amazed to observe that a blanket of fog had crept in from the gulf and devoured the magnificent view of Abu Dhabi from the Winners’ balcony. I unearthed my heretofore banished notebook and wrote the following nonet, a nine-line poetic form that I’ve been favoring of late.

View from balcony

Obscured by rare desert fog

Flowing from the gulf.

Dog sits in armchair

Her golden fur turning gray

Her gaze fixated

On the white expanse

That stretches from the railing

To the deep blue sea.

Helen seemed unmoved when I read this for her benefit, although her wan look did betray a certain existential ennui. I crept back upstairs and tried to grab a few moments of sleep before our morning expedition to Saadiyat Island. The girls were in school and John was at work, so Adrienne served as our guide.

Unlike the manmade islands of Dubai, those of Abu Dhabi are the genuine article, and the oil-rich Emirati have launched various colossal enterprises on their formerly pristine shores. The most developed to date is Yas Island, which features Ferrari World, with (what else?) the world’s fastest roller coaster.

Saadiyat may have gotten a later start, but its vision is far more grandiose, as we learned at the one building erected to date, a museum displaying the museums to come. The main exhibit began with a wraparound movie explaining how Saadiyat Island will become a cultural Mecca, with branches of the Louvre, the Guggenheim, and the British Museum, topped off by a performing arts center that makes the Sydney Opera House look tame, all at a cost of $3 billion and counting. Not merely for the effete, the plan also features a championship golf course and a wealth of other recreational opportunities.

One of many impressive models for Saadiyat Island.

This one is for the Jean Nouvel's Louvre - RB

Tadao Ando's Maritime Museum - RB

The remainder of the exhibit offered models, drawings and other depictions of the wonders to come, with many homages to Sheik Zayed (may he rest in peace), the George Washington of Abu Dhabi who originally envisioned the Saadiyat project. We would encounter Zayed repeatedly over the next week (his picture is everywhere), but for now all I could do was whip out my notebook and compose another nonet.

Saadiyat Island

The vision of His Highness

Land of the future.

The world’s museums

Connected by a golf course

And an oil pipeline

Each a masterpiece

Of artistic endeavor

And limitless wealth.

We were hungry by that point, so we drove downtown to have lunch with John at a Vietnamese restaurant. Abu Dhabi has just about any type of cuisine imaginable, with the exception of actual Emirati food, which is hard to come by. The restaurant was filled with expats on their cell phones, relaying business deals to their distant corporate parents.

After lunch we visited another souk, this one designed by Norman Foster, a local favorite. High-end jewelry stores and the like were nestled into nooks and crannies so well hidden by the intricate design that few shoppers seem to have discovered them. After wandering around in a fruitless search for bargains, I stumbled across a bookstall that sold postcards. The shopkeeper was so excited to have customers that he raced off to the back room and emerged with another stack of cards. We selected a dozen or so, including the noteworthy “It’s much more better in Dubai.”

That evening or thereabouts we began an epic game of “The Settlers of Catan” at the Winner abode. For those in the know, this is the 21st-century Monopoly, an intricate pastime where players strive to collect Victory Points by developing settlements and cities, along with the Longest Road and the Largest Army. Hannah teamed up with Renata, and Mackenzie with Celeste, leaving Adrienne and me to fend for ourselves as mere individuals. We were only about halfway through by bedtime, but Hannah had already developed an enduring affection for Jeremy, one of the sheep displayed on a Pasture card.

The next day (Wednesday) my cold endured, as did Adrienne’s, but the Osborn-Breths headed out with her nonetheless to Al Ain, a magnificent oasis at the base of the mountains about 100 miles inland from Abu Dhabi. We visited a history museum, where we learned more about the Bedu culture, and then we ate lunch in a vaguely Emirati establishment that featured finger-food chicken and Kleenex. Napkins don’t seem to have penetrated the inland areas, but the restaurant did have a helpful sink in the corner. The food, needless to say, was superb.

As the afternoon began heating up, we ventured over to one of Sheik Zayed’s forts (he was originally from Al Ain) and stumbled on a spectacular exhibit of photos by Wilfred Thesiger, the author of “Arabian Sands,” the definitive account of pre-oil Abu Dhabi and environs in the 1940s. In addition to being an excellent writer with a sharp eye for detail, Thesiger was an accomplished photographer, and many of his images of the Bedu, including Sheik Zayed, are unforgettable. Particularly memorable was a photo of camels wading across shallow water in front of a seaside fort.

Al Jahili Fort in Al Ain - RB

Al Jahili Fort

Al Jahili Fort with Steve, Renata, and Celeste

Photo of Sheikh Zayed the Great from the Thesiger Exhibit - RB

Photo from the Thesiger exhibit with one of the few original

structures in Abu Dhabi that still stands today - RB

Back in Abu Dhabi that evening, we ventured to a Lebanese restaurant and wandered home through a shopping district where most of the stores were open until 10 p.m. (they’re closed for much of the afternoon). Celeste spotted some bargain sunglasses in the Al-Sham boutique, which featured many items of dubious provenance. In contrast, a local bakery offered baklava and other items fresh from their own ovens, and a candy store featured mountains of Arabic chocolate.

Later that evening, I downloaded “Arabian Sands” on my Kindle. What a relief after Proust, who had utterly lost my interest near the middle of “Swann in Love.” By the next day (Thursday) I was completely entranced by “Arabian Sands,” even as my cold worsened. I begged out of an expedition to the Emirates Palace, yet another local marvel, and spent the day on the couch, communing with Helen once again.

This is what Steve missed at Emirates Palace: Fancy cakes and expensive "Camelccinos"

(cappuccinos with camel's milk and gold leaf. No kidding.)

Happiness at the Emirates Palace Hotel - RB

 Renata and Celeste, content after coffee and cake.

Mackenzie experiencing post cake bliss.

More bliss

One of many restaurants at the Emirates Palace - RB

 View of the Etihad Towers from the front of the Emirates Palace

Celeste, Mackenzie, Hannah

I felt well enough that evening to join everyone for a leisurely cruise on a dhow, a classic Arabic ship of elegant design. We started out topside, admiring the sparkling view of Abu Dhabi by night. Soon enough we were ushered downstairs for a seven-course meal, more or less. The dishes kept arriving even as their predecessors had barely made our acquaintance. We staggered back upstairs, just in time to receive several pieces of chocolate cake from an Emirati birthday party.

Dinner in a dhow - photo taken by waiter

In the U.A.E. and other Muslim countries, Friday is the equivalent of Sunday. The devout flock to the mosques while the expats head off to the country. We did our part by riding kayaks through the mangroves in the morning and embarking on a desert safari in the afternoon. The mangroves, which cover large stretches of coastline, are a joy to paddle through, affording glimpses of the distant past.

In contrast, the desert safari is a thoroughly modern affair. The main feature is a four-wheel-drive SUV that transports you to the top of a remarkably steep sand dune and plunges you down the other side.

“Dune bashing,” as it is known, is not my cup of tea, but I was a minority of one and am happy to report that I had an emesis-free experience. Afterward, the Iranian driver delivered us to a walled compound, where I penned the following nonet.

Desert safari

Four wheel drives and ATVs

Obliterating

The shapely sand dunes

As if on roller coasters

With no tracks or frame.

An amusement park

In which the world is victim

Of endless conquest.

We compensated for our mechanized excess by riding camels for a brief moment, and then we settled into a lengthy dinner capped off by belly dancing and a stroll over to a corner shisha (hookah) bar. I didn’t partake of the sweet tobacco that others smoked in hookah pipes, but the woman next to me, an avowed cigarette smoker, coughed violently each time she exhaled.

As the night wore on, I began pondering what life must be like in the walled compounds that dominate Abu Dhabi’s suburbs and other wealthy environs. Perhaps under the influence of the drifting hookah haze, I pulled out my notebook once again.

Within the compound

The horizon is below

The top of the wall.

The day ends early

And the night is extended

Well beyond the dawn.

Only at high noon

Does the sun illuminate

The desolate square.

Late that night I finished up “Arabian Sands” and read with interest Thesiger’s prolonged lament about the advent of the automobile as desert transport, coupled with the decline of the camel. Various writers have expressed the same sentiments about the western United States, substituting horses for camels.

Lulu is a well loved local camel. She is very pregnant and was due to give birth shortly after our visit.

Her babies are worth millions of dollars.

Never look a gift camel in the mouth. Her babies are still worth millions.

Speaking of horses, we journeyed the next day to Dubai to witness the world’s richest horse race, with a $10 million prize for the winning steed. Before navigating our way to the racetrack, we ascended the world’s tallest building, the Burj Khalifa, and shopped in what seemed to be the world’s largest mall. Its features include the world’s largest sheet of Plexiglas, fabricated to contain the sleepless inhabitants of an enormous fish tank. Ignoring the siren cries of the world’s clothing merchants, I headed for the bookstore, where I found a hardback copy of “Arabian Sands,” along with “From Rags to Riches,” by the Emirati businessman Mohammed Al-Fahim. The latter takes up where the former leaves off, charting the remarkable course of Abu Dhabi and the U.A.E. from provincial backwater to one of the world’s wealthiest countries.

Model of Burj Khalifa in the waiting area before taking the elevator up - RB

This is not a model. This is a view of Dubai from the 124 floor out of 162 total - RB

Interesting transitions in the Burj Khalifa - RB

Lunch at the Dubai Mall

Portrait of John, Hannah, and fish with the world's largest piece of acrylic - RB

Inevitably, the quest to see the world’s fastest horses resulted in an epic traffic jam where any old nag could have easily beaten the slow-moving cars desperate to find a parking spot. Once we secured our berth amid a sea of SUVs, we mounted a bus for an even slower journey to the lower reaches of the world’s largest horse track. We proceeded at such a crawl that we eventually got out and walked.

After viewing one race from ground level, we wondered about the cost of balcony seats, only to learn that they were sold out, but individual ones might be available for a mere thousand dirhams (about 300 dollars). The venue was a little rich for our blood, and the betting was nowhere in evidence, so we made an early exit.

That night we consoled ourselves by finishing up “The Settlers of Catan.” Celeste and Mackenzie won, but I think Hannah was able to hang on to Jeremy until the bitter end. I imagine the girls will be experts by the time we return.

The next day (Sunday) was our last in Abu Dhabi. Renata was sick as well by this time, and the girls had to go back to school, so Adrienne, Celeste and I drove out to Masdar, the city of the future. Local leaders realize that U.A.E. oil will run out in about 50 years, so they’ve already engaged futurists to come up with sustainable habitations that depend on solar power and the like. Masdar, designed once again by Norman Foster, features magnetically powered cars, ubiquitous solar panels, and all manner of advanced eco-technology.

The city of the future was impressive, but it was as nothing compared to our next stop, the falcon hospital. The Emiratis have a long tradition of hunting with falcons, but the poor birds are always getting tangled up in bloody fights with their prey, so they need frequent repair. The waiting room in the hospital was straight out of a New Yorker cartoon. A half-dozen dishdash-clad Emirati sat on benches along the walls, gazing with concern at the middle of the room, where their half-dozen falcons perched in neat rows on knee-high rails, their heads covered with tiny hoods. I’m virtually certain they were facing east.

We returned home early, so we sat around the Winner living room doing nothing in particular. The ever-intriguing Helen began to lick the carpet under the dining room table. She developed this peculiar habit back in the United States and brought it with her to the land of expensive handmade rugs. The condition seems incurable, but it did inspire one last nonet.


Dog licking carpet
Unable to distinguish
Between paws and wool
Between self and world.
Thus does nature rule the beast
And those proud humans
Who strike the same pose
As they bend their heads in toil
Digging through the earth.


That night we ate dinner at a fancy restaurant that featured the world’s largest pepper grinders. After the salads were served, the waiter appeared at our table with a three-foot tall grinder, but John spotted a five-foot grinder in the corner and insisted that we receive our pepper from that device. The waiter willingly complied, hoisting and twisting the massive instrument with aplomb and spilling not a flake.


For the third time that week, the recently canonized John drove the Breth-Osborns to or from the airport. This time we passed through passport control with ease, only to languish in the central terminal, which is definitely not the world’s largest. Upgrades are under way, however, so anything is possible.

Looking up in the Abu Dhabi airport - RB