Water on the bathroom floor

It might not sound like much. But most everything here is tiled, which means it is slippery without moisture. And when you add a giant puddle from goodness knows where pooling in my bathroom every day, to flip flops, you basically have a hotel room/skating rink.

I have slipped a half-dozen times because of this water leak, which I have gently and kindly inquired about having fixed at the front desk. Each time I've pulled a different muscle - happens when you get older, doesn't it? - and cursed the puddle. This week I asked again, and when I went back to find out why the water was still there, Gemma, the lovely woman who seems to reside at the front desk each day, every day, tracking my movements with precision, sighed, shrugged her shoulders and said "I think it's normal, Miss Ann."

Then, last night, as I prepared to go out to my first Abu Dhabian house party, I got a phone call. While heading for the phone, I slipped in the hall. Again, because of the freaking water. I fell down hard but the worst part is, my big toe and the toe beside it (what are those toes called again?) were propelled, at a high rate of speed, into the corner of the wall, which had been thoughfully baseboarded with a different kind of tile. The kind that had chipped away at some point to form the ragged, evil edge that tore my toes apart. They both began hemorraging immediately. Sorry, that's haemorraging, in British. I think.

Mother&*%$#@. That's what I said. My big toe, more than 24 hours later, continues to bleed. They feel like those cartoon injuries - I think the big one might actually be visibly pulsating.

This morning, I limped down and said to Gemma, 'do you see what happened to my toes?' (I had used every last Bandaid in the box wrapping them up - it looked like a child's work, I realized too late) 'Oh Miss Ann,' she said. 'I send someone to fix.'



One minute later, two blue jumpsuit-clad workmen ring my doorbell. They came in and assessed the problem for about two minutes. They left and said they would be back. I swore one of them said "with a new one." A new toilet? I thought. Good.

Five minutes later, the doorbell rings again. I open the door to find the two workmen, the hotel manager, and another fellow from the front desk. They all stand there. The front desk fellow hands me two neatly folded bath mats.

'Would you like your room cleaned?' the manager asks.

Abu Dhabi weather watch

It was 41 degrees Celsius today The weather forecast said "Extremely hot. Sunny. Dry."

I mention this because 41 degrees Celsius is bound to feel hot. (And it does) But it's become a bit of an obsession here among those of us who don't know, trying to reckon (that's me being British - is it annoying or charming?) just how another nine or 10 degrees will feel. Because that's summer in the desert, the kind of heat you hear about but just can't quite imagine. I can't imagine two more degrees, let alone 10.

Everyone talks about it. It feels like we all have this sense of collective doom. Especially the cab drivers, who make me feel that it's going to be a bit like living on Mars. (But then again, they can be overly dramatic to impress, just like the rest of us.) I do find I'm already going outside less. When I get a coffee, before work, I have to set it down on the curb while hailing a cab. It's too hot to hold. I'm looking for smaller sunglasses, because the ones I've got melt my makeup. I consider five minutes exposure to the sun "tanning." I actually avoid drinking cold water, because an Egyptian pharmacist here who gave me antibiotics for a throat infection told me it's just too much of a shock to a Westerner's system. A couple more degrees and I am going to start carrying an umbrella around with me.

And I am really, really looking forward to the new ice-skating rink opening up at the Marina Mall next month.

For some reason, I have started collecting pictures of this man

NOOOOOOOO!

Sales tax in the UAE? It's like the beginning of the end. And I just got here.

I still don't exactly understand the men in the tiny kitchen

Once The National moved into its permanent headquarters, a lovely, sprawling room shored up by royal blue pillars and decorated in all white, I noticed a man in the tiny kitchen where the kettle sits. There is a much larger, more modern kitchen around the corner. Oddly, it does not have a sink or a kettle.

But back to the tiny kitchen and the man inside. He wears a yellow vest and a white shirt and looks quite smart. He has a bushy black moustache. After a couple of days, I realized he runs the little kitchen. Mostly, his job seems to be keeping the kettle full of piping hot water for tea. I have been so gobsmacked by this feature of my new job, I failed to notice when there were not one but two kettles and, before long, not one but two men manning the kettles. And quite often, one of them actually serves some of my colleagues tea and/or coffee, right at their desks.

Also, they wash our mugs. I know this because my treasured "What's the news?" mug disappeared one day. Then, the next day, it was back on my desk. A couple of days later, it felt as though I had just taken my last swig of tea when I looked at the place where it had been, and it was gone. When I looked back at that spot again, about four minutes later: clean mug. I never even saw the hand that took it away. These guys are good. Not to mention stealthy.

I was speaking with some of my co-workers about this (the ones who are served tea at their desks) and they inform me I should be giving these men money because they are expats and probably aren't making much at all. Also, that is how they've been getting served tea at their desks. Now I just don't know how to give the men money. It feels so awkward. When I pop in to get some tea, should I just lay down some bills? Should I make a big production of it?

Just imagine if you had no answering machine

I don't have to imagine this, because I am living in a new world where there don't appear to be any answering machines. Not on my pay-as-you-go cell phone (cell phone plans are apparently "complicated" to get) and not on my work phone. Not on anyone else's work phone either.

Do not ask me how the full-time reporters deal with this. I wrote a story last week, and scheduled times via e-mail where I would call the people I interviewed for it. If I had to do this all the time, I would be very cranky for awhile and then I suppose I would get used to it.

The HSBC rep who set up my account (and three new credit cards, just to see which one I "like best") also does not have voice mail on his phone plan. Nor does the travel agency I called last week. Or the gym I am trying to get into.

All this leads me to my point. No one under the age of 30 in North America much bothers leaving messages anymore, at least not for their friends and anyone else who is familiar with their number. But if you do get a strange call in North America, and they don't leave a message, and you call the number, you are some sort of weirdo.

Not in Abu Dhabi. Not by a longshot.

I didn't think I would miss pork this much

I really didn't. I rarely even have it back home. But then again, you always want what you can't have, don't you? It hit me, just now, as I ate some chicken wonton soup. It was just not the same. Not the same at all.

A couple of weeks ago I ordered breakfast and it came with weiners. Probably chicken weiners.

On Tuesday I went into a local cafe to get lunch. The fellow there proceeded to list off the menu items (as there did not appear to be an actual menu, more of a fluid thing, I guess): "chicken club, tuna salad, BLT - "

My eyes must have widened, because he stopped, smiled, and said "but without bacon."

I said, "so an LT?"

He didn't get it.

Anyway, I had chicken salad. And continue to dream about, well, you know. Apparently I can get pork, somewhere. And I think I will.