Won't you be my Neighbor--?

It's a beautiful day in The Neighborhood. Bur Dubai, to be specific. I am in the heart of the action. In the mornings I am awakened by children singing Christmas Carols at the Montessori preschool. They use a microphone and their little voices carry well. Sometimes it is a little disconcerting if their choir practice coincides with the call to prayer which is also broadcast on speakers.

In Abu Dhabi, the solo voice ringing out the call to prayer was tranquil and beautiful. Somehow in Dubai, the voices from many different mosques overlap and don't harmonize well. The result is dysharmonic and a little frantic sounding. I miss Abu Dhabi. However, while I was sipping tea the other evening at a sidewalk cafe, I had a rare experience. One of the muezzin accidentally left on his microphone. After prayers we heard coughing, spitting, and muttering. This went on for some minutes while other guests at the cafe and I gaped at each other in disbelief. Then a loud exclamation in Arabic (what I wouldn't give to know what he said) and the microphone went silent. It was difficult not to laugh, but I didn't want to seem disrespectful.

My favorite place to dine is a tiny little place called "Burger Time." They don't serve burgers, but they do have french fries on the menu. There is a table for two, and a table for four. That is it. Six chairs total. When I go there I am given a table to myself, as the "ladies section." I usually have sharwama (roasted chicken in a pita wrap, with cilantro, lettuce, and a little onion) and a fresh watermelon juice, total for the meal including tip is about $4. A couple of times I saw a customer order a soda, and one of the employees ran next door to the grocery store and came back with the soda. I thought nothing of it, just that they must be out of that flavor. Then I started noticing that EVERY time a customer ordered something, a run to the store was standard. It seems that the only food they keep in stock is a stack of fresh fruit, the pita bread, and the chicken sharwama meat turning on a spit. On the menu are items like "Zinker Burger" and "Hammour Sandwiche." By experiment I have determined that Zinker is chicken, and Hammour is fish. The photos for these two items on the menu are identical. If there aren't any other customers to cook for, the employees sit and watch me eat with rapt faces. I don't think they get many female customers , . . .

After dining I take an hour stroll in the souk. Brilliant Saris and Salwaar Kameez shops, gold jewellery shops, and electronic stores line the narrow streets. I have yet to determine how one chooses which of the hundreds of identical shops to patronize. The streets are crowded with people from about 18:00 to 22:00, I never buy anything but it is fun to look. I avoid getting lost if I keep turning right-- I end up close to home eventually.

When I reach my building I slip into a side entrance and up the elevator. Our apartment complex is mostly Indian families, with a few chinese families on my floor. I live in a four apartment "flat" with three Indian families. We share a large kitchen, but have private bathrooms attached to our studio style apartments. One of the families is my landlord with his wife and two small children. They are all respectful and friendly, and the hall and kitchen are kept spotless. Perhaps it is to keep a boundary, but I don't engage in long conversations. I slip in and out quietly, and try to be a polite neighbor. It is comforting to me to have them near, however. The children playing, the pots banging in the kitchen, the comforting sounds of domesticity on the other side of my door, these sounds of life keep me from feeling lonely.

I have learned to sleep between 22:00 and 3:00 am, because across the street, next to the Montessori preschool, is a hotel that is the proud host of one of the biggest and most popular night clubs in the city. With the exception of traffic, it is relatively quiet until the club closes. Then loud music from cars, honking taxies, yelling and laughing and probably intoxicated people hang out for about an hour. It is so loud that even I can't sleep through it. And I can sleep through about anything.

I go back to sleep at 4:00 and then at 5:30 the first dysharmonic call to prayer breaks with the dawn. It is much more comforting than the sounds of the club closing, marking a time for me to close my eyes and get a few more hours sleep.

The rhythm of my surroundings fill my day with an enchanting continuity. My neighbors and I get along just fine.