Nunya, you wicked woman. Did you just show me some hate?
Who names their kid Nunya is what my friends said to me. A modern day Hooper Humperdink it’s so sad to see. Please go away. If you don’t like this place move. It not as difficult as it appears to be.
Nunya, just go away. I am sure most will agree. You’re ruining our picnic and our Friday brunch too. We like our chocolate fountains, our cocktails and brie. You’re a cloud over our parade — so Nunya go ahead and leave!
I’ll call my favorite company they will Delight-fully pack for you. They’ll have you out of here in a day or two.
Nunya, I don’t understand it. What are you doing here? This place isn’t for people like you. It’s best that you just stay home and keep your nastiness to yourself. Call all your nasty friends over and lock yourself in a room. Because the good people of the world want nothing to do with you.
You remind me of some toxic chemical or maybe the flu. There’s no way anyone can like someone like you. I mean seriously, you spent your time spewing out hate when you could’ve gathered some friends and had some hot tea and sweet dates.
Nunya, I don’t understand why you’re here. If I hated this place I’d seriously pack up and leave. I would shake this place off like it were a disease. But instead you took the time to blab a few jabs, at someone who intended no harm to you. I’m just a PTA mom writing down a few thoughts that happened to have a viral blog post.
Oh, god, I hate the haters. They really bother me. I’m told don’t give them the time of day, just let it bounce off. But for some reason it drives me up the wall. There’s something that I feel brewing from within. So instead of forgetting about it, I take out my pen. Nunya, I’m afraid I’m just like Taylor Swift. If you treat me dirty then I am going to spread the word — and then turn around and flip you the bird.
So go ahead Nunya, you little Hooper Humperdink. Â It’s time for you to go. And next time please give it a little more thought before you publicly jot down all your nasty thoughts. Nobody is interested in your toxic smack or the craziness that circles around in your head. If you can’t come up with something sensible then do us all a favor and just go to bed!
Be careful over there! my American friends said to me. As if the Middle East is simply one big mosh pit of danger, mayhem and debris.
Be careful doing what? I thought to myself. Choking on lobster, slipping on a marble floor, or poking my eye out with a canape skewer?
What exactly do they think could happen to me? — I LIVE IN THE UAE!
Oh, no, you’re mistaken. I don’t live in Saudi Arabia. I can drive here. It is fine. And I don’t wear an abaya. Although on a bad hair day it sure would be a snap. And if I decide to do so it does not effect my feminism. My human rights are not limited as you might think they would be. I just can’t look like a harlot when I’m walking the streets. So far that hasn’t been a problem for me.
None of the craziness you see on TV is anywhere near me or my family. This is the wealthiest place in the world. There are no beheadings or prison camps or things like this you might read. I am perfectly safe here — I LIVE IN THE UAE!
In the UAE, they prefer that I not scream obscenities or flip my middle finger at the crazy new driver that cut me off at the pass. Yes, in the States I would shout, shake my fists, and tell them to kiss my arse. But I really don’t miss that privilege and it is okay by me, if we all focus on a little more civility. You see, it is a conservative place in many regards. They prefer if we all do not behave like total schmucks, lugheads or goofs. In fact, everyone here uses their manners and are extremely gracious; they call me madam and my husband sir and they go out of their way to please us.
They must be thinking about Iraq or Iran and they are as close to the UAE as New York is to West Virginia; although, you must agree, there is a huge difference between them. If you lumped New Yorkers and West Virginians together, any American would tell you they have nothing in common. They may be the same religion and in the same country but there is a world of difference between them. We live in a bubble, a very expensive bubble it may be; that separates us from the rest of the Middle East. Life here is grand we have no complaints. We live in a world of over-the-top excess. Free from the badness many nations face.
There’s no danger here. We are a very happy bunch. We shop and we explore and we eat fancy brunches. Tell the media how happy we are and to stop lumping Muslims together. There’s nothing threatening about being here. Get out your maps and look into it. Get on a plane and come visit us.
We are here of our own choosing we like our little Utopia. Please save your be careful over there for someone who needs it. We are living the dream. Please come and see it!
We love living in the UAE!
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“Gone Girl” was filmed in my hometown…how exciting! Stay tuned for more on this subject.
Whew! The summer has come to an end. And for most expats we are very excited to get back to our own lives. Not that we don’t love you. Not that we didn’t love visiting you. But the summer exodus to our hometown is absolutely, positively, exhausting with a capital “E”. Ever wonder how it feels to be a displaced person no place to call your home roaming from place to place? Well, we do. Not that we don’t love you. Not that we didn’t love visiting you. But coming home is kind of weird.
The Expat Exodus is an annual event — and it’s free. It’s either free for the taking or a small charge that is nominal, there’s so much to choose from its almost farcical.
First people start with their boats, their cars and then move on to their bicycles. They snatch their kid’s toys and all unnecessary obstacles. As the weeks roll on they are selling blankets and breast pumps, clothes and shoes. Next comes hair dryers, air fryers, and everything else they can afford to lose.
The fishing equipment they’ve used once is gone. And so is the ping pong table made in Saigon. The potted plants will be snatched up so quickly you’d think it was cannabis or something else as addictive.
They barter and shove “Next please!” they shout. I must. I must — have that ugly couch!
They line up for miles to pick through the debris, of a once glamorous life like you see on TV. The sailboats, the yachts, the bubbly brunches and more; have been carefully chronicled on Facebook galore.
They came to this oil country dollar signs in their eyes, they bought Tiffany, Louis, Cavelli and Valentino. “Is there gold on my lip?” they ask with a smile. No worries mate, it’s only my joe. Let me lick my lips and wash down with prosecco.
Oh, don’t we wish the good times could go on forever. Yaallah — be a dear and go get the driver. The housemaid will carry the suitcases to the car. As they mentally prepare to go back to their flat in drab cold London, or boring St. Pat.
How do we go on without rose colored glasses, around the clock helpers, and dirt cheap gasses? Not to mention the around-the-world trips, the absence of jerks and all the other many, many, perks.
For years, the stories they will tell of their time in the desert and the land of the surreal – gold plated cars and tigers on leashes — champagne, cavier and aqua colored beaches.
Good bye UAE. We will miss you it’s true. But maybe now we can be a big fish too. We are not Sheiks, Sheikas, or live in ginormous palaces, but the children of countries just as rich in heritage, and history, with families who love us.
Khalas — we are finished! Shukran, we say. Thank you, thank you UAE for allowing us to stay.
I attended my first women’s gathering at an Emirati’s home. It was like a baby shower on steroids. It was a mix of about 40 local and expat ladies; friends, families and acquaintances held at the magnificent home of one of the local ladies.
It was pouring rain and Brenda, Samia and I all rode together in Samia’s car. We arrived like a band of hooligans. Rolling in like a pack of wet mutts. Unable to find a parking spot that wasn’t in the middle of a small pond, we kept pulling in and out trying to find a better option, and each time we struck out, the more embarrassed Samia became. It must be a South Asian/Middle Eastern thing because as an American, I found it all amusing, as a South African raised in the apartheid, Brenda found the puddle a small problem by comparison — but Samia wasn’t so nonchalant.
“Brenda, please pull your umbrella inside the car!” In the crazy, wind-blown, rain splattering event of getting from the car to the “palace” Brenda’s new umbrella was turned inside out and it resembled more of a white flag than it did an umbrella. While we were pulling in and out of unacceptable parking spots Brenda stuck her umbrella outside the car window as if a symbol of surrender.
“Brenda, please bring your umbrella inside the car!” Complete embarrassment was all over Samia’s face. “No, really. Please, Brenda.” Chuckling Brenda agreed.
“Look at this place!” Samia marveled. As I said — it was definitely impressive. But I had more fun watching the expressions on Samia’s face. It’s like she was entering the Taj Mahal for the first time.
“Oh, my, we have to take our shoes off before entering the house! What do I do? I don’t want to take my shoes off! I am 4’11 if I take my shoes off I will look 15 pounds heavier!” Perplexed and horrified with her choices Samia’s Middle Eastern Cinderella’s Castle fantasy quickly came crashing down. “Well, I guess we do not have a choice. We must take off our shoes.” Brenda offers up advice in her years of international diplomacy experience. “When in doubt; don’t offend.”
I followed Brenda and Samia inside and noticed that at these types of events proper dress is either formal or national dress. Samia is in her best shalwar kameez, looking like a Pakistani princess, and Brenda is wearing a modest African dress accessorized with a small cocktail purse. They reminded me that I am a lost soul. Americans do not have national dress and until events like this, it never seems to be a problem. Aside from a Budweiser/American flag bikini, American women do not have anything to wear that says: I am an American. This has always been a huge problem with the Miss Universe pageant. Every other country looks like a million bucks in their bejeweled national ensemble and then there’s the American girl typically draped in the some fashion modification of the American flag.
As we entered into the palace our hostess greeted us in a beautiful leopard print floor length gown with a neckline too tempting for even most American ladies. She looked absolutely stunning and in a million years, I never would’ve guessed this was the same lady that could easily sneak past me in the school halls without ever grabbing a moment of attention. One by one, they arrived draped in abayas and then slowly removing them to reveal ridiculously elegant and some rather sexy gowns. I sat there feeling somewhat prudish, definitely under-dressed, and embarrassingly boring in my simple Ann Taylor outfit.
We sat in the ladies majlis, a formal entertaining room off of the center entrance hall, which was decorated in a bold rose decor and offered a variety of seating options for more than 30+ ladies. I could tell this wasn’t the type of event that only occurs when someone gets married or has a baby, or some other typical life milestone; but instead, this rooms gets a lot of use — these ladies gather frequently and this room offers all the accoutrements necessary for a super swanky tea party. Hired Filipina ladies served up Arabic coffee, tea, and dates in exquisite dishes as I relied upon Brenda to fill me in. What is this? What will it do to me? And should I partake? Which basically means, will this have me glued to the powder room while I am here at this super swanky event?
The bell rang for dinner. Yes, I am not kidding. A. small. bell. rang. to signify that we should all move to the enormously large extended-family Lawrence of Arabia dining room. The table itself was huge. Ever practical me, I am thinking to myself how many immigrants did it take to carry in this massive hunk of a dining room table? It was certainly larger than an operating table. It would’ve definitely been large enough to hold both Jack and Rose from the Titanic. It’s too bad Jack didn’t have this table. He would’ve made it to New York. One thing I am eternally grateful for is the towering baskets of fruit in the middle of the table. Thank goodness there wasn’t a baby animal on a platter laying peacefully dead in a mound of rice, dates, and a few random cashews —that would’ve blown the whole thing for me.
I looked around the dining room table to see the look of confusion on the faces of the expat ladies. What fork were the other ladies using? I think I was using the wrong one. If Martha Stewart would’ve concentrated more on these tid-bits of Middle Eastern etiquette versus insider trading, I probably wouldn’t be in this quandary I am in tonight around the Lawrence of Arabia dining room table. But no, the American capitalist let me down, but then again, Martha was probably never invited to a swanky Arab ladies dinner party. One-up. Fist bump!
After dinner, some of ladies were touring the upstairs of the villa. And I almost joined them but I caught the gaze of an Arab princess. Maybe she wasn’t a real princess but she could’ve been one. She was absolutely lovely. Far lovelier than Princess Di. Sorry Brits, but she was much more elegant. And she appeared to be staring at my small trio of hooligans. Either in amusement, interest, or dismay, her eyes followed me as I snapped (pre-approved) pictures around the magnificent villa.
Brenda really wanted to go upstairs to-see-what-there-was-to-be-seen. “B, I’m not going up there. I already feel like a third-class citizen.” I said, half jokingly. “Seriously, I don’t want to look like an uncouth and uncultured troll that’s never seen the inside of a place like this….really, we shouldn’t draw attention to ourselves. Okay?!?……. Really, Samia is just now recovering from the earlier embarrassment.”
“Ladies, I think we should at least get a picture of the three of us before we go. Let’s sit on this beautiful sofa together. This is perfect.” Samia smiled elegantly in her national clothes.
“Pardon me” I said. “Please, do you mind retaking this photo because it looks like I am breastfeeding my friend.”
OMG…….you can’t take us anywhere!
*A very big thank you to our most gracious hostess*
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You’ve always know we crave adventure. Even as a child we got bored. Running, exploring and asking questions. Why is it now a surprise when we expect more?
There was always a new challenge to win, another adventure to seek or a new goal to meet: That’s why we have gone away.
There’s nothing more exciting than staking claim to a new city, a new culture, a new way of life — it is really quite exhilarating to see. Making new friends, new memories, and experiences; that’s the oxygen we breath.
The Money.
Who can blame us? Working the same hours for less pay? If there’s a better option why not take it and dig the treasure while we can exhume it, because someone values us, enough to pay us, for the knowledge and skills we have invested — that’s why we’ve gone away.
Do you know how badly it would hurt us to see the disappointment in our children’s eyes, if years from now we told them the story of the opportunity we abandoned which would’ve changed their perspective for the rest of their lives? That’s why we chose to go away.
The Disappointment.
Companies dispose us, banks abuse us, and our civil society has become far less humane.
Talent is ignored when the company becomes bored and restructures just for the fun of it. There are no gold pens or extravagant parties for 50 years of dedicated service. We are bought and sold. Disposable commodities of the frivolous. As our professional careers are left teetering on the edge.
Why have we gone away?
We’ve gone away because the world has become smaller and our options have increased exponentially. Now working in Dubai is as easy as working in Shanghai and all we have to do is open our minds to embrace it — that’s why we went away.
The Dream.
There once was a dream of the happiness one would feel at the end of one’s working tenure.
But traveling stinks with weak knees, irritable bellies, and exhausted stamina. As we wished we would’ve enjoyed this in our thirties.
Retirement is no given, and we prefer not to risk it, and never see the globe while we can enjoy it.
Instead we will show our children the world, and share our picture books of all of the places we’ve explored, and tell our stories to all that will listen.
A very big thank you to UAE Murals for the use of their beautiful artwork!
Maria Hegedus is an American artist from South Carolina who lives in Abu Dhabi.
She has worked as a freelance muralist and has completed a variety of custom designed murals in businesses and homes.  She has done many commission pieces including portraits, watercolors, landscapes and more. She has painted on canvas, watercolor paper and various items including vintage luggage, pottery, mannequins, ornaments, etc.
She is expanding her client base in the UAE and is excited about focusing on “local” Arab-themed art. Â She is intrigued with the rich culture and heritage of the region and will be featuring this in many of her upcoming pieces.
Please visit the UAE Murals website to see more of Maria’s beautiful work.
The two words you never want to hear an expat say are “I’m leaving” — and regardless of how many times you hear them it never gets easier.
The first time my nine year-old felt the pain of these words was when his sailing buddy, his soccer buddy, his first friend and his best friend said, “I’m leaving.” My heart ached for him as he quietly cried in hidden places and he moped around for weeks before deciding that his life would go on.
At school, we have seen families come and families go. Either back to their home countries or off to new adventures. Favorite teachers leave. And the learning still continues. Companies relieve people. And new companies hire them.
There have been times during this journey when I stopped myself and thought, this is one of the best days of my life. I want to capture it and keep it forever. But life evolves and changes: and while recovering from a loss, we are preparing for a new beginning. The fact that things change is what keeps it interesting and yet emotionally exhausting at the same time. It is a love affair with the unknown. An addiction to the experience. A memory that may never be forgotten.
Constantly saying goodbye and saying hello. An old friend leaves as a new friend walks in the door. Knowing there’s no time for sadness because you need the new person as much as you needed the friend who just left. We hold each other up, and watch out for each other’s best interest; we band together like brothers and sisters. Ready to take on whatever is thrown our way as we try to make sense of the mysterious and the illogical.
The expat life isn’t intended to be enjoyed without good friends. You have to share the experience. You need a sidekick, a buddy — a girl pack in order to navigate the craziness; otherwise you will be lost in the experience. And that would be really sad.
Hello…Hello…Hello. I don’t know why you say goodbye; but I say Hello.
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Twice I was in a room filled with people who looked just like me — and it was odd. Nobody with dark skin. Nobody with a Middle Eastern accent. Nobody dressed in their country’s native clothes. Only white people, in white people clothes, having white people conversation — and I was bored.
Since I arrived in the Middle East I have been immersed in a melting pot of cultures and I have not stepped outside my melting pot since I arrived. Here in the UAE, my norm has been a mosaic of languages, clothing, and exotic features; all of which I now consider ordinary. One day I asked my friend Wlede, “Is this dress too African for me?” Of course not! was the response. In the States I would have received many stares for exploring fashion outside of my own ethnic group. Here nobody raises an eyebrow. Many days I ask myself, “Who have I become? Do I even still feel American anymore?
I never realized the extent of our global education until Max called out to me, “Yalla habibi! (Come on my loved one — which, as a nine year-old boy, he obviously didn’t quite understand or he wouldn’t have said it.) Another day he tossed out a “Ya know mate” that would rival any Aussies’s. And then he surprised me with the British terms keen, trolley and trainers almost in the same sentence. Who is this kid?
Raising an expat kid is different. They absorb the culture of their classmates and sometimes identify it as their own. They will swear up and down that they are from countries outside their home. Laura, my Italian friend, has three children who assumed they were Chinese. Imagine explaining to your child that although they’ve lived in China all of their lives, they are not Chinese. Interestingly, in their little view of the world they do not recognize the difference.
My friend who is a kindergarten teacher asked her class, “So class where are you all from?” One little boy screamed, “Exxon Oil!” While another little girl with a Texas accent said, “I’m from Saudi.” Many American children of teachers teaching internationally and other expats living abroad have never lived in the United States. They’ve lived here and there around the world, moving from assignment to assignment. Kerstin, my American friend whose children have never lived in the USA said, “I hated it when my kids lost their Aussie accent!”
Of the nineteen children in my son’s class there are probably ten different ethnic groups represented. During holidays the children disperse around the world to visit family or vacation in far away places. The cultural experience an expat child receives in the UAE is unmatched. Yes, we are living in the Middle East but we are truly receiving a global education due to the overwhelmingly large expat community. We are a melting pot larger than New York City. And fortunately for me, I am learning to pick and choose the best each country has to offer.
When deciding to move internationally, our goal was to create a global citizen. Someone who isn’t defined by geographic borders, an inherited culture, or misinformed by the evening news. Someone who is as comfortable in Dubai as he is in London. Someone with a kind heart, an accepting spirit and a thirst for knowledge and exploration.
And then one day Max said something to me that was so British it made me smile.
I realized with the quip of his little British slang that this experience was achieving its bloody goal.
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Life is a trade-off. I have the Maldives and you have Miracle Whip. You have NY&Co and I’m trying to squeeze my arse into French fashion. Expats do not have Girl Scout Cookies, Andes Mints, and beef that tastes like home. Chili powder, Cheerios that taste right, and good New York bagels. Pork? Forget it! Whatever they do in the UAE twists the taste into something unrecognizable.
We traded a country that operated pretty much like a well oiled machine for a multi-ethnic experience where we only comprehend answers to questions, directions, and a restaurant menu about thirty percent of the time. And since we have no other choice, we have learned to trust people with things that would absolutely shock Americans.
Yes, we live an exotic life.
Which may sound like a dream to some, yet in reality it is a trade-off for things expats hold dear but gave away for the experience of traveling the world and seeing places and things many only see when they close their eyes.
Loved ones die and we are not there.
Families have holidays, weddings, reunions, birthdays and graduations; and we wish them our best from across the globe.
We miss the loved ones we really love, the ones we only like to see once a year and even the dysfunctional ones that cause more grief than good. We miss them all.
But we get to see place like the Maldives, Malaysia and Rome because they are as close to us as Florida, California and Mexico are to you.
Two of the top regrets for dying people are they wished they would have traveled more and they wish they would have lived their lives authentically. I believe I am doing both — but it comes with a price.
Expats trade the comforts of home for the excitement of the unknown. Instead of regular hugs from grandparents, our children see Buddhist temples, ancient history and the wonders of the planet many children will never experience.
But they miss hot dogs. Doritos with the good cheese. Chicken in the Biscuit crackers.
Life is a trade-off. You can’t have it all. We chose the Maldives and you chose Thanksgiving with family.
The best thing about this experience is that we can both live vicariously through one another. Keep sharing your pics of home cooking, family get-togethers, your dogs and your other experiences; and I promise to show you the world.
On the first day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
a crazy Pakistani Taxi Driver
On the second day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
2 Bubbly Brunches
and a crazy Pakistani Taxi Driver
On the third day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
3 Shisha Pipes
2 Bubbly Brunches
and a crazy Pakistani Taxi Driver
On the fourth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
4 Belly Dancers
3 Shisha Pipes
2 Bubbly Brunches
and a crazy Pakistani Taxi Driver
On the fifth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
5 Gold Drizzled Coffees
4 Belly Dancers
3 Shisha Pipes
2 Bubbly Brunches
and a crazy Pakistani Taxi Driver
On the sixth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
6 Luxury Sports Cars
5 Gold Drizzled Coffees
4 Belly Dancers
3 Shisha Pipes
2 Bubbly Brunches
and a crazy Pakistani Taxi Driver
On the seventh day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
7 Towers of Chocolate
6 Luxury Sports Cars
5 Gold Drizzled Coffees
4 Belly Dancers
3 Shisha Pipes
2 Bubbly Brunches
and a crazy Pakistani Taxi Driver
On the eighth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
8 Bleating Goats
7 Towers of Chocolate
6 Luxury Sports Cars
5 Gold Drizzled Coffees
4 Belly Dancers
3 Shisha Pipes
2 Bubbly Brunches
and a crazy Pakistani Taxi Driver
On the ninth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
9 Indian Tailors
8 Bleating Goats
7 Towers of Chocolate
6 Luxury Sports Cars
5 Gold Drizzled Coffees
4 Belly Dancers
3 Shisha Pipes
2 Bubbly Brunches
and a crazy Pakistani Taxi Driver
On the tenth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
10Â Dancing Camels
9 Indian Tailors
8 Bleating Goats
7 Towers of Chocolate
6 Luxury Sports Cars
5 Gold Drizzled Coffees
4 Belly Dancers
3 Shisha Pipes
2 Bubbly Brunches
and a crazy Pakistani Taxi Driver
On the eleventh day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
11 Whispering Arabs
10Â Dancing Camels
9 Indian Tailors
8 Bleating Goats
7 Towers of Chocolate
6 Luxury Sports Cars
5 Gold Drizzled Coffees
4 Belly Dancers
3 Shisha Pipes
2 Bubbly Brunches
and a crazy Pakistani Taxi Driver
On the twelfth day of Christmas
my true love sent to me:
12 Ethiopian Housemaids
11 Whispering Arabs
10Â Dancing Camels
9 Indian Tailors
8 Bleating Goats
7 Towers of Chocolate
6 Luxury Sports Cars
5 Gold Drizzled Coffees
4 Belly Dancers
3 Shisha Pipes
2 Bubbly Brunches
and a crazy Pakistani Taxi Driver
P.S. Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus in the Middle East.
Life is a trade-off. I have the Maldives and you have Miracle Whip. You have NY&Co and I’m trying to squeeze my arse into French fashion. Expats do not have Girl Scout Cookies, Andes Mints, and beef that tastes like home. Chili powder, Cheerios that taste right, and good New York bagels. Pork? Forget it! Whatever they do in the UAE twists the taste into something unrecognizable.
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