Hugged or mugged

I usually don't tell my mom stories like this. They just make her worry, but this one is too crazy to keep quiet.

We recently had dinner at a patio cafe preferred by ex-pats. I was the only girl among Kyle and several of his co-workers, The Baker Boys. Dinner was fine. Salad, pizza and good conversation carried on for a couple of hours. It was getting late so the tab was settled and we exited the restaurant into Fountain Square, one of the most jovial areas in town. Families linger on benches, kids kick a soccer ball, teenagers sit at the edge of the fountains. The Baker Boys are talking business, so I'm walking a few paces behind, just enjoying the summer night.

Out of nowhere, I'm grabbed around the waist and a vice-like grip is squishing my pelvis. The culprit: a seven year old Azeri girl, cute as a button. She keeps hugging me as I put my arms straight up in the air, indicating that this is an unwelcomed hugging. I firmly say, "No touching." And then, "that's enough honey" to no avail. The Baker Boys start to laugh until they see the fear in my eyes. She is not letting go of me and she really is squeezing me hard. I try to pry away her scrawny arms as I'm telling her, "No! No! Off! Off!" I feel bad because it's the same way I talk to my dogs, but really, she is starting to worry me. I look to the Baker Boys, and I've never seen four grown men utterly helpless. If the attack was being carried out by a teenage boy or a grown man, the Baker Boys would have jumped in to save me, but what do you do when the assailant is a female child under four feet tall and less than 60 pounds?

One of the Baker Boys says, "tickle her!" to which I respond, "absolutely not!" Baker Boy is a father himself, so he rushes over and sure enough, once he starts tickling her, she involuntarily lets go of me, but not before her little paw reaches into my skirt pocket, looking for loose change. It's finally dawning on me that someone has put her up to this. I hurriedly walk away, but she comes back for a second assault. Baker Boy starts with the tickling again and she breaks out into giggles and scurries off.

I'm thankful that when I put my arms in the air, I had kept my purse out of her arm's reach. But then I start to think, why didn't I just give her a few coins? The whole scenario was funny, but sad. Next time we visit that cafe, I will be on the look out for the tiny hugger and will be prepared. Either I have to out run her or I need to be ready to part with spare change.

A Day in the Life of Me

I wake up as Kyle heads out the door. I prepare a quick cup of coffee with a dash of "still milk." It's the only kind of milk available here, has a shelf life of twelve months and never has to be refrigerated. Take the dogs in the elevator, down 15 stories for our daily walk on the Bulvar, a popular boardwalk along the Caspian Sea. We cross several major roads that have pedestrian crosswalks, which are never respected by motorists. We wait, not so patiently for a break in traffic and haul tail (literally) across four lanes of Lada traffic. Once on the Bulvar, we see many bizarre things: young lovers out for a stroll at 8 a.m. (are they still up from the night before?), men "jogging" in full track suits and sandals (it's 85 degrees outside), a man practicing his nunchuck skills (I'm not kidding) and a local wearing a walkman and singing, "I'm a Barbie Girl." I feel like I'm in the twilight zone.



(The Bulvar)

We get back to the apartment in time to meet Tamila, our housekeeper/dog sitter. Of course, we don't need a housekeeper for a 3 bedroom apartment. It's more of a retainer so that she's available to stay with the dogs while we travel. Tamila makes some killer potato pancakes (a fav local snack) and her lemon bars rival Nancy's. Tamila does not speak English and I do not speak Russian, so I use Google Translate to communicate. Not always a perfect system.

Tamila gets working on the floors, and I head out to the gym, via Hikmet, our driver. I specifically chose a gym that was near our apartment, thinking I could walk there. You can practically see it from our balcony, but with the way traffic flows and the lack of sidewalks along a major highway, Hikmet is my safest choice.

The state-of-the-art gym is in the Excelsior Hotel and is immaculate. Tons of cardio equipment, indoor/outdoor pools, brand new free weights and machines. Unfortunately, or fortunately for me, I am one of the few people who work out there. It is simply too costly for the locals, so my only other gym companions are the rare hotel guests. Within the 4,000 square feet, I've never seen more than 5 other people.

Hikmet picks me up and we stop at the biggest super market in town. It has 5 aisles of food plus a frozen foods section and toiletries. They are out of any type of sandwich bread again, but the peanut butter shipment has come in, so I stock up and buy 5 jars at $6 each.

Lunch back at the apartment and take the dogs down the elevator again. I start some laundry in the washer/dryer combo. Sounds efficient? Not if you want to do more than one load or more than three towels at a time. Most items I hang from a drying rack, discreetly placed in our third bedroom, which doubles as our garage of sorts.

The dogs join me on the balcony, where I sit to read and do e-mails. The sounds of the city are overwhelming: car horns, horns from tankers coming into port, traffic cops yelling at people on their megaphones, tires squealing as a driver accelerates way too quickly. It's not very relaxing but at least I'm sitting in the sunshine.

(View from our balcony)


(Zoey enjoying the balcony.)

Dinner prep can be quite the ordeal, as most of the ingredients in my cookbooks are unavailable here. Or if they are available, I do not know it, as most labels and directions are in Russian. Maybe just baked potatoes tonight. We figured out which carton was sour cream. It will be a special treat on top.

Kyle and I crash on the couch to watch the fifth season of "Bones." We bought it for cheap from the guy who sells pirated DVDs. Just before bed, we take the dogs down 15 stories, one more time. Sweet dreams.

Corfu & Constantinople

I guess I had subliminally expected uncontrollable weeping and harps from heaven because I was quite surprised that my 30th birthday came and went in a very pleasant, if not subdued fashion. It was our fourth day on the Greek island of Corfu that the clocked slipped to midnight and I moved from the youth of my twenties to a respectable 30. I suppose that my incredibly sweet husband had not so subliminally thought that I might freak out on this big day, thus he had planned the trip to Greece to prevent any outbursts.

A little rugged around the edges, Corfu offered a genuine Greek experience, complete with a gregarious innkeeper, dancing Zorbas, feta cheese and olives, rolling hills leading to adorable seaside towns and bearded Greek Orthodox clergymen, but all of the interesting stuff happened on the European-style beaches. Having spent the past month in Baku (modest dress, ceaseless horns) I had sensory overload with the English and French retirees in tiny bikinis and Speedos or more oft than not, nothing at all. As a bonus, I don't recall hearing one car horn the whole week.




Maybe it was the carefree attitude of those lacking clothing or the sound of waves that put me in a zen-like state, but as I sat staring out over the Ionian Sea, late afternoon sun on my face and a daiquiri in my hand, a handsome spouse sitting close by, I felt truly content. A feeling that has escaped me many times, always having a to-do list in my purse and a feeling of "what comes next," I shucked all thoughts of anything else and watched the sunset, feeling deeply happy and loved. I could not have asked for anything better. Maybe "aging gracefully" isn't about appearance, maybe it's all about attitude.


No Massie vacation is complete without a little chaos, so we spent one day in Istanbul, Turkey (previously known as Constantinople). A lot like Baku on steroids and with thousands of tourists, Istanbul is one of the world's oldest cities and is currently the fifth largest city, and it sure felt crammed. Home to many famous places of worship, notably Hagia Sophia (once a basilica, then mosque, then basilica, now museum), you could almost imagine the sultans ruling over their empire.

We enjoyed a traditional Turkish dinner of lamb, rice, potatoes and pita served steaming in a terra cotta dish and then headed to the roof of our hotel for a look at the evening skyline. Taking in the lighted minarets of the massive mosques, suddenly, the Muslim call to prayer could be heard throughout the city. The slow, somber song in deep tenor is played from loudspeakers atop every mosque and it's hard to not stop and appreciate the moment. I reached out to hold Kyle's hand and realized that even though it might not be my particular brand of religion, it was an amazing experience to cap off our trip.

Henry Ford's Legacy

Like most of my friends in the USA, high school meant homework, part-time jobs, Friday night football and if we were lucky, keys to a car. For some, it was a rite of passage and for most, it signaled our first taste of freedom. We enjoyed this luxury and were thankful that we could go to Blockbuster, Crossroads Mall and Whitewater all without supervision. Some of us contributed whatever our meager minimum wage paychecks allowed - maybe enough to cover monthly insurance or to help with the car note. At any rate, our vehicles were a reliable source of transportation. A way to get from point A to B without having to ask mom and dad.

Regardless of age, the majority of residents in Baku cannot afford a vehicle and for most, owning a car is an unnecessary extravagance, which is just as well, as the main roads are already overcrowded with crazy drivers, who all act like 16-year olds out for their first spin. A two lane road quickly morphs into 3 or maybe even 4 lanes at the whim of a driver. Shoulders are used for passing and pedestrians never have the right-of-way. All too often, you witness cars moving the wrong direction down a one-way street and traffic can be at a stand still if someone haphazardly abandons/parks their car, blocking a lane.

As you might expect, horns are used at will and are as much a part of life as breathing. A leisurely stroll through a docile neighborhood is accompanied by a plethora of horns at various octaves, making me imagine a horn-dominated symphony where all of the instruments have been mutilated. Ranging from beep-beep to honk-honk, everyone has a horn, including the elderly man I witnessed pushing an electric lawnmower across a busy intersection, using a small bicycle horn attached to the mower's handle. The diabolical orchestra continues even where these signs are posted:


Those not fortunate enough to have access to their own ride, indifferently spend their commutes in public buses, which my friend Ryan so eloquently taught me is all "A & A: armpits and a--holes" - never a truer description has been said:


The few that have saved enough money for their own wheels, a sense of pride is noticed in the almost-obsessive rituals of daily car cleaning.

Step 1: Park car on sidewalk (the fact that Baku is a pedestrian community is irrelevant).

Step 2: Find a recycled bottle of air conditioning condensation water (readily available underneath every unit overhanging a public sidewalk).


Step 3: Go Mr. Miyagi on the car.


Vehicles are not merely for transportation, they enable many to make a living. Hence, the overwhelming numbers of taxi throughout the city. The Russian-made Ladas are a favorite in this former Soviet state. There are whole web sites dedicated to the "Loaded Lada." Clearly, this guy understands that:


Now, you are all caught up on the role of personal vehicles in Baku.

Cheese & Hams

Having been thrust into a completely different culture, little observations seem to be what I am enthralled with the most. Big things, like living in a predominantly Muslim country, bring an attitude adjustment or at least a better understanding of completely foreign concepts, but the little nuances have been the most fun to observe. A couple of things were more prevalent in Almaty, but to my delight, both have made their way across the Caspian to Baku.

Both Almaty and Baku are stocked with patio bars, lining the congested streets, offering umbrellas and comfy furniture as respite from the summer's heat. Many of these specialize in their own yummy microbrews and fresh grilled shashlyk - they call it barbeque, but it's what Americans would call kebobs. The most common appetizer is chechel, a smoked, slightly hardened string cheese, de-stringed. The chechel resembles cooked spaghetti and is best balled up in the palm of your hand and shoved right down the hatch. The sharp taste of the salty cheese, followed by a big gulp of beer can't be beat! We've had our fair share of chechel and it is consistently delicious. At every pub, sidewalk cafe or prime restaurant, you will find patrons relaxing with a cold drink, chatting noisily with their friends and sloppily eating big bites of string cheese.

(When in Rome.....)

In Steinbeck's "Grapes of Wrath," he describes the men as discussing their impending trip west while "sitting on their hams." Having never seen this in practice, it took me a few moments to get a visual image - feet planted on the ground, bent at the knees into a very deep squat position, literally, putting all of one's weight on the hamstrings. It seems that all of the construction workers, taxi drivers, teenagers on cell phones and even business men on smoke breaks have been briefed about sitting on the hams - keeps the seat of the pants from getting dirty and probably relieves lower back strain. I'm just not sure how they so easily spring up from that low of a crouch.

Dubai during Ramadan

I cannot recall a time when I was a minority. Maybe playing in a volleyball game at church in junior high, I might have been the only girl with the guys, but through the past 29 years, I have always been in the majority - white, blond, Christian. So, it came as a surprise to find that being in the minority can make you feel a bit like a freak.

The freak feeling came to the forefront this weekend at a most unexpected place. Having to renew our Azerbaijan visas, we flew to Dubai for a weekend of shopping (hello Banana Republic!) and sunbathing by the Persian Gulf. Like Azerbaijan, Dubai is a progressive Muslim nation and westerners are not restricted on much of anything. Alcohol and R-rated movies are readily available, newspapers are critical of policies and no enforced dress code. The biggest difference I noticed between the two: Ramadan.

Starting mid-August and lasting for 30 days, Muslims around the world honor the holy month of Ramadan, with the most devote fasting dawn to dusk. No water, no food.....ALL DAY LONG. Our hotel even recommended that we avoid chewing gum or drinking from a water bottle in public as it is offensive, but they ensured us that we would be able to find something to eat at our big destination: The Dubai Mall.

Dubai claims to have the most malls in the world, so it was only appropriate that with temperatures over a hundred degrees outside, shopping was to be our first priority. Much money spent and several shopping bags later, we strolled through the massive shrine to capitalism looking for a place to enjoy an early dinner. I cringe to admit it but, we were hoping to find a generic American based food chain - the kind that serves over-sized portions of french fries, large sodas with ice, maybe a margarita. No luck as EVERY restaurant, drink stand and cafe was closed. The lights were out at Starbucks, Cold Stone Creamery, Chili's, Macaroni Grille, even the pretzel guy was a no-show.

After scouring the mall for anything open, the guest service representative told us that for non-Muslims (saying Muslims so that it had 2 o's in it, like Moo-slims), there was a "secret" food court at the rear of the mall. Spy-like, we creeped along a dark corridor, hugging the walls, rounding several corners, finally coming to a light at the end of the tunnel and ta-da! All of the pale faces were chowing down on Taco Bell, KFC, Burger King and Pizza Hut. Sequestered behind 2-story tall drapes and 8 foot partitions were non-Mooslims wearing shorts and ball caps and slurping from large cups with straws. We had found our (minority) people!



During our short stay, Dubai seemed to be an incredible mix of culture. The service industry (shop clerks, waiters, taxi drivers, even the girl who takes orders at T-Bell) were staffed with mostly Indians and Pakistanis who all spoke incredible English, sometimes with a British accent and who were not strict Muslims or maybe not Muslim at all. They were beyond friendly, helpful and doled out frequent smiles. The locals were in contrast to this, both men and women wearing traditional dress, poised and stoic, displaying somber faces (could be the fasting). The westerners added to the mix with flamboyant personalities, loud voices and high expectations. It was a thrill to be a part of this societal phenomenon.

If I were to add my thoughts to Tripadvisor.com, I would say that the resort, La Royal Meridian, was fantastic, rivaling those treasured in Mexico. The Dubai airport was amazing in its cleanliness and organization. The Persian Gulf was clear blue with a hint of turquoise and the sand was almost perfectly white. All in all, not a bad way to spend a freaky weekend.

Scandalous

Clothing-wise I have always been G-rated, well, maybe a wild streak would be PG-13. There were the homemade daisy duke cut-offs when I was 14. A mean boy told me I was too chubby to wear them. Those immediately went in the trash. Or the leopard-print pants I wore to a party as a freshman in college. An upperclassman in my sorority told me I should "rethink my wardrobe choices." I think I went bra-less once with a halter top. That about sums up my provocative side.

Azeri women are devout fashionistas. They idolize the stiletto, skinny jean and snug blouse. It might be 95 degrees outside with 80 percent humidity and you might have to take an unairconditioned bus and then walk 8 blocks to your destination, but it doesn't matter. Style is priority. By no means would a local wear gym-type clothing or anything shorter than a capri pant.

I however am a no-nonsense, Nike-adoring, Gap short-wearing, hair-in-a-ponytail American. You would have thought I was strutting around in a bikini by the menacing looks I got for wearing khaki shorts with a 6-inch inseem. And this is while I was walking the dogs on our 5 mile morning trek/sweat session across the city. I reluctantly purchased longer walking shorts. They are quite restrictive, hit at the knee and look like something my mom wore circa 1985. And oh yes, I still wear my sneakers.

While adorning this awesome outfit, I bent over to scoop up dog poop (something else that is viewed as obscene) and riiiiiiiiipppppp, there went the seat of my new shorts. So I double-knotted my shoes, rolled the cuff of my ridiculously long shorts, stood up straight, wiped the perspiration beads from my brow and held my head high as we strolled the 2 miles back to the apartment. My bright pink panties were giving the proverbial finger to anyone who dared to look.