off to a rough start...

right... so we're back to R&R. which of course includes travel, and myself being put in very odd and entertaining positions… not that I think so at the time… but it gives me random things to write about later…so I’d like to think I have a stomach of steel. I *used* to be able to eat anything. apparently after 8 months of MRE’s, local cuisine, and nonpotable water, I’ve come under the false impression that I have one again. it’s just not true…apparently lactose intolerance is not affected by any of this, not for the better and thankfully not for the worse. but here’s a little hint, if you have problems with dairy, you shouldn’t eat unrecognizable foods… especially when the list of ingredients is also unrecognizable. (yeah, I don’t read dutch either…) in the effort of giving fair warning, i'm assuming that no one is reading this post while eating. because, like a lot of things i say... it's probably not great dinner conversation. but for those of you who were eating, i'd suggest coming back to this post later... like after dessert. needless to say, I was having some GI issues when we landed in dubai. as a side note… dubai isn’t like traveling through, say, chicago-o hare. first off, very few people speak english. signs are useless, unless you read Arabic or can make sense out of the broken english-esque language. and western people, especially women, stick out like republicans at pride. about half stare, and the other half consciously try to avoid eye contact… anyways, what I’m trying to say is it’s just different here, and I’m way out of place. oh, and as another side note… per the local culture, they have daily public prayers. it’s kind of crazy, how the corridors will suddenly be deserted, and overhead on the sound system is this 2 minutes worth of singing/chanting in Arabic. where do they go, you ask? …some go to mosques, which about as abundant as Baptist churches in the south, and have 20 minute prayer parking out front for your convenience. in other public places, malls… airports and so on, they have prayer rooms. seems that the men have theirs and the women have their own. apparently coed praying is not acceptable. makes the amish look like heathens. but I digress….…so these prayer rooms in the dubai airport are located adjacent to the bathroom… kind of a one stop shop. the Arabic sign could possibly say “Pee and Pray” and I wouldn’t know the difference. so I’m off the flight, and waiting for my luggage I’m not feeling all that great. if I were in the middle of the woods, I wouldn’t be wasting time picking out a good spot, any bush would do. so I’m doing the “shuffle/sprint” to the nearest restroom. (you know the one I’m talking about… don’t act like you don’t.) now, 3 flights had just off loaded, and I figured it was just my luck that I needed a bathroom and it was at full capacity. it was a sea of cloaked women. I was beyond desperate… handicapped stall, large sink… explosive diarrhea doesn’t wait. so the end door opens and I nearly run over someone’s grandmother in the race against time. I slam the door, drop my bag, and as I’m fumbling with my belt I turn around to see that I’m in the hodji style bidet stall. there’s a tile floor with a 6” diameter hole in the ground… with little grooved areas to indicate where you’re supposed to put your feet to perch. oh, and a nozzle. so now I’m trying to unbuckle my belt and think at the same time… how do the hodji’s *do* this? there should really be instructions posted… there’s got to be a trick to not making a mess all over your pants without completely removing them. of course, the instructions would be in Arabic most likely…so I didn’t know the accepted squatting technique, but I knew I was going to learn in a hurry. so the pants, being the only ones I had with me, came all the way off. of course, the shoes had to come off first… so we did that. and I could just see myself slipping on the tiles in my socks, cracking my head against the wall and getting myself stuck to the ankle in this little hole… so they came off… better traction barefoot. I was stripped waist down in a matter of seconds… I’m pretty sure it would take longer to get actively flaming clothes off of me.…and then the prayers start. which I’m actually thinking is a good thing for a couple of seconds, cover noise is always appreciated with an impending explosion. I just wasn’t, um, exploding like I was used to. I think it was the squatting position… it was delaying the process. and then the prayers were over. and the silent meditation started. ever seen the movie “american pie”? probably 40 or so women piled into the next room with no door to divide us… obviously trying to have a pious experience… and I was trying so hard to let them. I really was. I held it until I couldn’t anymore, then all hell broke loose… like some candid camera bit. to add insult to injury… I had to figure out how to use the sprayer. nope, no toilet paper. now, with a fire extinguisher we teach people how to do a little “test squirt” to make sure it’s charged and works and you’re familiar with the reach of the stream before you approach the fire. *this* would’ve been a great strategy… too bad it’s not the one I employed. on a positive note, I was very glad I had removed my pants and shoes… but I wished I had removed my shirt as well, because I managed to drench that also. I’m not sure what you’re supposed to dry with… so pretty much I was stuck drip drying. the good news is that it gave all 40 or so prayer goers plenty of time to clear out and leave me alone with my shreds of dignity. what a crappy way to start my R&R. (i couldn't resist... sorry.)