DarrenConley.com

This post is actually a little overdue, since I got my haircut a few days before I had my job interview yesterday.  However, it kept getting postponed because of other, more relevant posting material.  Still, it's a good story, and well worth reading.

I had been rockin' the beard and curly hair situation for a few weeks now, and while Larissa and I both liked the look (especially in the suit), the feel of the beard was starting to get me down, and when it comes to job interviews, I figured that "smooth face" would have a better chance of getting hired than "unshorn".  I'll admit, I felt a bit like I was giving up on the beard too early, but this is my career.  I'll have time for growing facial hair again after I get hired.

The barbers here take care of everything.  More than everything, in fact (as you'll read in this post).  My plan was to walk down a nearby street that has several barber shops, step into the first one that looked reputable, and ask for short hair and a clean face.  I ended up walking into the second shop I saw (the first one was too full) and was seated in the barber's chair immediately.

There are many barber shops in Qatar that are run by Turkish people, and this one was no exception.  I've actually heard that the Turks have a good reputation for cutting hair, so I felt like I was in good hands.  One of the 4 or 5 barbers came over and asked me what I was looking for, and I explained that the hair should be short, and the beard should be gone.  He nodded, picked up his scissors and spray-bottle, and went to work.

The haircut itself was much like a typical North American haircut would be like.  Snip snip, a little trimming with the electric clippers, and ten minutes later, it's nice and short.  My only complaint was that he decided to give me the typical "side part" style, while I'm used to something that's a little spiky at the front.  But no matter, I could fix that up on my own later.

Then it was time to take off the beard.  He started by using the electric clippers to trim it down to a reasonable length.  He then worked up some shaving cream lather and applied it to my face by hand.  After letting it sit for 30 seconds or so, he washed off the lather and applied something more gel-like.  Then out came the straight razor, and off came the beard in short, methodical strokes.  When he was finished the initial shave, he wiped off my face and applied the gel again.  Then he took a different razor and quickly went over everything one more time.  It was a little strange being shaven by another man, but not entirely unpleasant.  I noticed that it wasn't quite as close a shave as I would have liked, but maybe I'm a little to picky (or too hairy).

After I was shaven, I noticed the barber get out some creams, and he asked me "Do you want…?" while making a motion with his hand that represented spreading cream on the face.  In the spirit of adventure I said "Sure!  Why not!"  I had no idea what was going to happen to me next, but whatever I was getting, it would be cheaper than getting it back home, and it would make for a good blog post.

First the barber spread a white cream all over my face (forehead and everything).  He rubbed it in with what felt like the touch of a masseur, and then did the same thing with a more orange-y cream.  After this, he sprayed my face with water and toweled it off.  Then he put on this gritty cream which felt like it had sand in it (some sort of exfoliant?) and gave it a thorough rubbing-in as well.  Another spray and toweling, and then he walked away and brought over a machine.

This machine looked like a robot arm with a nozzle on the end of it.  The barber flicked a few switches and I noticed a clear compartment with water in it that had started to bubble near the back of the machine.  What in the world had I gotten myself into, I wondered.  After waiting a few minutes for the water to boil, the barber noticed steam coming out of the nozzle, and proceeded to throw a towel over my head and the nozzle, which then sprayed me with hot steam.  I was getting a steam facial.  

The steam was fine at first, but after about 20 seconds it started to feel uncomfortably hot, not to mention that it was difficult to breathe under that towel.  I started sucking in gulps of air and then blowing toward the nozzle to give myself a few seconds of sporadic relief during the procedure.  After what felt like a full 5 minutes (but was probably a minute and a half in reality) the barber took off the towel and wiped down my face.  

But there was more to come!  He started applying another cream that looked like the foundation that women use for makeup, but thicker.  He rubbed this all over my face in a thick layer, and then sat down on the couch behind me to watch some TV.  I wasn't sure what I was supposed to do, so I just sat there and pretended to be relaxing.  After a minute or so, I felt like something was pulling the pores of my face in several different directions at once.  It wasn't really painful, but it did feel weird.  When I looked in the mirror, I noticed that the cream had begun hardening in several spots, and that it was difficult to move my facial muscles.  

5 minutes later, my face was essentially a mud statue.  I felt the various parts of my face being tugged at as the drying process moved across several different areas of skin.  I imagined that this is what it would be like to be turned into stone by looking at Medusa.  Fortunately, the face that was staring at me in the mirror was devoid of snakes.  When the barber thought I was dry (hard?) enough, he got up off the couch, gave me a spray with the water, and wiped the mud off.  One more moisturizing cream and my face was finally clean and fully visible.

The last part of my haircut experience was a quick massage, which the barber performed on my forehead, head, back of the neck, neck, and shoulders.  It took less than a minute, but it was a good way to finish up a haircut/shave/steam facial.  After brushing down my face with talcum powder and giving me a quick blow-dry to get rid of hair bits, I was out of the chair and paying my 90 Riyals (which works out to a little under $30).  If I had just got the haircut, it would have only be 20 Riyals, but then I wouldn't have had as good a story about it.

When I returned from the barber's, I looked like a completely different person.  Larissa screamed when she saw me, but she loved the feel of my smooth skin (which she hadn't felt since before we left for France).  I did miss the beard, but Larissa made sure that I appreciated the benefits of a smooth face…!

If you've taken the time to read the previous post, you'll know that I had a job interview today.  I was interviewing at CNA-Q, the place where Larissa currently works, and what is pretty much universally accepted as the best EFL teaching gig on the planet.  I had been holding out for a long time to get re-interviewed by CNA-Q, and today it finally happened.  How did it go, you ask?  Let me tell you.

First, I was told last week on the phone that the interview would happen in Building 11, first floor, Room 26 at 3:30pm.  I double checked with the HR rep on the phone to be sure of the time and location.  Today at about 3:20, I made my way to that particular place and found that it was a random teacher's office which had the door closed and the lights turned off.  However, Larissa had told me that the interviewer's office was in Building 7, so I decided to run over there before 3:30 and check it out.  It turned out that it was in building 7, in Room 37 or something.  It's a good thing I figured that out.

Before I even left for the interview, Larissa had sat down and given me some practice questions that she remembered from having her interview last April.  It turned out to be a very good practice session, since most of those questions were included in the interview itself. 

The interview took place with one live person (the Assistant Dean), and another HR person, who was on the phone from Newfoundland.  It took about 6 tries and 10 minutes to establish a working speaker-phone connection with NFLD, and during that time I noticed the interview question sheet lying on the desk.  So I took advantage of the opportunity to prepare my first set of answers while I waited.  At one point, after we were about 10 minutes into the interview, the phone disconnected, and after we re-established contact I had to repeat the last 6 or 7 sentences I had already said for the benefit of our phone participant.

By the end of the interview, I felt confident that it had gone well, but I tried not to get my hopes too high.  I met Larissa at her belly dancing class (which had just ended) and we discussed the particulars of the interview on the way home.

Well, it turns out that my confidence was well founded, as I received an email a few hours later saying that I had made it to the second interview stage!  The second interview happens tomorrow, and mostly deals with questions of how well I can handle living in another culture.  Since I'm here already and doing great, I'm sure there will be no major issues to deal with.  Pretty much everyone who makes it to the second interview gets hired, so needless to say, we're very happy tonight!

To celebrate, we decided to go pick up our newly framed painting (see yesterday's post for the story of how I negotiated a good framing deal for 160 Riyal) and to take care of some grocery shopping.  We also ordered pizza.

Larissa took care of the grocery store items while I walked to the framing shop nearby.  I saw our painting as soon as I walked in, and it looked perfect.  I spoke to the owner who I negotiated with yesterday, and said "So, 160 Riyal, right?"  "No, no," he said, "150 Riyal."  "150?!" said I, "I'm sure we agreed on 160!"  "No, no, 10 Riyal discount tonight!" he replied.  I didn't know what to say, so I thanked him heartily and told him that I would send any other framing business his way.  

He then asked me if I had a car.  I said no, that I was going to carry the painting home myself.  It's a decent sized painting (71cm X 79 cm), but it didn't seem to be too heavy, and what else was I going to do?  The owner then called over an employee and spoke to him in something that was not Arabic, and definitely not English.  Next thing I know, this guy who looks like he's 14 years old is picking up my painting and taking it outside.  I assumed that the owner had asked an employee to give me a ride, but as I walked outside, I realized that he was getting this kid to carry the painting home for me.

I told the owner no, that I could carry it myself, but he insisted that I let this tiny guy carry it instead.  "And no money – Don't give him any money!" he said to me.  I was grateful that this framing store guy was willing to offer me free delivery of my newly framed painting, but to be honest, I kinda felt bad for this 14 year old dude.  In the end, I gave in, and me and this scrawny fellow made our way down the street for the awkward 10 minute walk home.  I kept asking the kid if he was okay, or if the painting was too heavy, but he kept saying he was fine.  We made it to my building without incident, and I took it upstairs myself.

The only problem was that Larissa was still at the grocery store, and I was supposed to meet her there, so while I was saved the inconvenience of carrying home my painting, I still had to walk almost all the way back to the framing store to meet Larissa at the grocery store and help her carry her new purchases back home.  It just goes to show you – slave labour may seem like it's saving you time, but it ends up being more work for you in the end.

I have a job interview today, but it's not until 3:30, so I'm spending my day feeling cool and confident, and gradually working my way toward paralyzing anxiety and nervousness.  Right now I'm just feeling a mild case of discomfort, but I have yet to eat my "3 bowls of Frosted Flakes" breakfast, so that might be relieved post-meal.  

On my "to do" list for yesterday (which is sitting beside my computer), I noticed that I had written "Iron suit".  By this I meant that I needed to get my suit pressed so that it is presentable for my interview today, but looking at the list today, my first thought was "Why did I want a suit made of iron?"  My second thought was "I have got to get a suit made of iron!"  Depending on what they're looking for at the job interview, it could either clinch the position for me, or possibly lead to deportation. 

Either way, it would make for a great blog post.

It's funny how, when Larissa and I are discussing things like how to spend our weekend, or where to go for dinner, I consistently think to myself "Well, even if it's a complete disaster, at least it will make for a good blog post."  Perhaps I should found a new branch of philosophy called the "View Life As A Blog Post" philosophy.  I think it would encourage people to view life's difficulties with a more healthy perspective.

Speaking of where to go for dinner, Larissa and I tried a new restaurant last night.  Our area is littered with small restaurants, so we could probably try a new one each week and not have to repeat ourselves for at least year.  We went to this place last night because we had walked past it a few nights earlier, and I noticed that the sign outside said "Chinese, Indian, Middle Eastern, Italian, American".  I might actually be leaving a few nationalities out.  I thought that there must be something on the menu that I like if so many countries are represented there, so we gave it a shot.

The name of the place was something like Bukhara, and two doors over from it was another restaurant called "Bukhara Palace".  As I looked at both restaurants, I wondered if maybe the Bukhara Palace would have higher food quality than the first one.  After all, it's a palace.  It did seem a little more fancy, but it didn't have multiple nationalities represented on its sign, so we just went to Bukhara.  We'll do Bukhara Palace for a different "restaurant of the week" outing.

We walked in and noticed that (like most restaurants in Qatar) there were a bunch of men (presumably employees or friends of employees) sitting around, not eating, but watching TV in Turkish or Nepalese.  The first thing that one of the employees asked us was "Do you want to go upstairs?"  We said "sure", even though we were happy to stay downstairs too.  One of the exciting things about adventuring in another country is saying "sure!" to every question, and seeing where you end up.  

We ended up in an upstairs room with 5 tables, a bunch of air conditioners, and not a single other customer to be seen.  We picked our seats, were offered the menus, and ordered some drinks.  I had my standard strawberry soda (which is actually cream soda) and Larissa had her standard water.  I know I shouldn't drink so much pop, but most places sell it for two riyal per can, which works out to about $0.60 CAD.  That's too cheap not to buy.

The menu seemed heavily weighted towards the Chinese and Indian side of things, but I did notice some American food ("Fryes", which they had also labeled as "Chips" for customers from the UK).  There was seriously way too much to choose from, with item names that I had never encountered before.  There weren't even any pictures to help us.  We settled on a few dishes that sounded safe enough to be delicious, but exotic enough to be adventurous.

But in the end, it didn't matter what we chose, because our server pretty much ordered for us.

When he came to take our order, I guess we didn't speak up quick enough, because he said to us "You want [insert Indian chicken dish that I forget the name of] ?  Many English people ordering [that dish]."  "Sure!" we said.  "You want vegetable?  This one [he points to something on the menu] is very good."  "Sure!"  "Okay, and [something-er-other] rice is good with this."  "Sure!  Sounds good!" we replied again.  "And some bread – with garlic or butter?"  "Garlic," we replied.  "Okay, thank you!"

Our meal was ordered and we didn't even have to think about it.  Of course, I had no idea what we were going to be eating, but I was almost too hungry to care, and I thought "This will make for a great blog post."

When the food arrived shortly after, it turned out to be absolutely wonderful.  The chicken was served as boneless chunks covered in a deep red sauce, and was a little bit spicy.  Like most Indian dishes that I've tried, I couldn't identify the exact mix of flavours, other than to say it was "really good".  The vegetables were similarly covered in a sauce, but it was bright green and not spicy at all.  It was like a tangy gravy, and also really good.  In fact, I couldn't believe I was eating vegetables – it was more like a really good stew.  The rice was a standard yellow-ish spiced rice that we've had several times here in Qatar, and the bread was Arabic bread with garlic butter melted onto it.  I love that bread.

We finished everything but the rice (there was just too much of it) and were completely stuffed.  The bill came to 41 Riyal, but I gave the guy a 10 Riyal tip, so when all was said and done we paid about $15.00 CAD.  Not bad for a) a tasty meal that we would not have ordered on our own, and b) some nice blogging material.

After leaving the restaurant, we walked across the street where I picked up my newly pressed suit (less than $2 CAD to have it professionally ironed) and stopped off at home.  Larissa stayed at home and Skyped her mom, while I went back out to run a few more errands.  

The first stop was the video game store where I exchanged my non-working copy of Super Mario Galaxy for Metroid Prime 3.  Then I hit up the bank machine for some cash (since our replacement credit cards have yet to arrive – long story, but I'll just say this: Don't move to another country and then hope to get a Canadian credit card replaced without a mountain of hassle).  With cash in hand, I made my next stop at a mirror/framing store, to get our painting from France framed (you might remember the painting from this post).

I had visited that framing store last week, and after describing the type of frame and the size to the owner, I was told that it would cost 100 Riyal (about $30.00 CAD).  However, when I went back a few days later to show Larissa the frame design, a different employee had told us 200 Riyal.  So this time, as I walked in with the painting itself, I was prepared to do some negotiating to get a good price.

I saw that the first guy I had spoken to was there.  I unrolled the painting on the large workbench, and reminded him what I wanted to have done.  He thought for a few seconds and said, "Okay, we can do it for 200 Riyal."  "Really?" I said, "Because I'm sure I remember you saying 100 Riyal when I was in here before."  "Oh, but you see, we need to put wood behind the picture, since it's not on a hard canvass.  This is extra cost."  "Ah," I said "Well, how about we meet in the middle and do it for 150 Riyal."  "No, no, 175 Riyal, okay?"  "Well, I was told by another framing store that they could do it for 160 Riyal" (which is actually quite true – we checked out a few other places).  "Okay, 160 is good."  "Excellent," I said, "And I can pick it up tomorrow?"  "Well…" said the owner.  "Tomorrow at this same time, okay?" I pressed.  "Okay, tomorrow night" he confirmed.

I gotta say that I felt pretty good about that negotiation.  I haven't done a lot of haggling in my life, but it's one area that I want to improve in while I'm here.

After the framers it was off to the dry cleaners to pick up some clothes that Larissa had left there a few days earlier.  I paid my 16 Riyal (less than $5 CAD) for 2 pieces of clothing, asked him if I could leave them there for 5 minutes (along with my video game) and ran into the grocery store next-door to buy some butter.  I didn't want to walk into the store with my game in hand, in case they might think I didn't pay for it – this grocery store sells more than just food.

There are some interesting differences in buying groceries here.  One is that you don't buy milk from the fridge (or at least, most people don't).  You buy it from a shelf in cartons that look like large juice boxes.  And when you bring it home, you don't have to refrigerate it until you open it.  There's a different procedure for fruit and vegetables as well.  They have to be bagged, weighed, and tagged while you're in the produce section, so that when you get to the checkout line, the cashier just scans the UPC code on the tag.  The cashiers here are basically just scanners – they don't do any weighing or code-entering at the till.  I, however, was just buying butter, which is pretty much the same as at home.

With my butter in hand, I went back to the dry cleaners, grabbed the clothes (and my new game), and walked the 7 minute route back to our apartment.  On the way back I bumped into another guy from our apartment who had just picked up dry-cleaning as well.  We talked about how the Emir's daughter is visiting CNA-Q today, and that he was told to dress up for the occasion.  I figure I should be well-prepared if I bump into her on campus today, since I'll be sporting my fancy suit for my interview.

And there goes my nervous meter – up one more point.  Time for some Frosted Flakes.

Thursday night Larissa and I had what could be considered our first real Qatari social experience.  The evening started out like this:

We had originally made plans to go see the movie Burn After Reading, which is playing at a theatre nearby.  We had asked a bunch of the other Canadians if they wanted to come, but everyone seemed to be busy.  At about 4pm, I got a call from our friend Michael, who told me that he had been invited by one of his students (whose name was Feisel) to come hang out for the evening at the "Family Farm", and he was welcome to invite any friends of his.  So he invited us.  I spoke to Larissa about ditching the movie, and she was game.

The only problem was that we weren't sure if she would be welcome, since most Qatari social situations are single-gender events.  Michael double-checked with Feisel that it would be okay for me to bring Larissa, and he said that it would be no problem, as long as she was comfortable hanging out with a group that was entirely male.  We had our driver drop us off at Michael's place, and about 10 minutes later, Feisel came by in a giant SUV to pick us up.

Feisel, like almost every other Middle-Eastern student I've ever met, was extremely welcoming and sociable.  As he drove us through Doha, he pointed out various landmarks or events that were going on, and told us which cousin or uncle or friend of his was involved in the business or event.  We saw several wedding celebrations, and Feisel explained how Qatari weddings work.  He also showed us where his family houses were in the city – Yes, I said houses.

I guess the way it works is that Qatari families often own a chunk of land in Doha, and as their children get married, they build houses for them around the main family house.  The married sons live next door (or nearby) their parents, and the married daughters live nearby their husband's parents.  Feisel's family's houses were huge – at least on par with $700,000 houses in Ontario.  We saw one of his brothers watching an LCD TV out on his deck.

Speaking of Feisel's family, he is the youngest of 6 brothers and 6 sisters, all of them married except for him.  He told us that a dozen children is fairly typical for Qatari families, although the newer generation is tending to have fewer children.  This "Family Farm" that we were driving out to, though, was not just used by Feisel's immediate family, but by his cousins, uncles, grandparents, etc., as well as their family friends. 

Now, when we think of "farm" in Canada, we think about a place out in the country with big fields, farm animals, and a fairly rustic dwelling.  I didn't know what "farm" meant to a Qatari person, so I asked Feisel what we should expect.  Were there animals?  Was it outside the city?  He told us that it was about 10 or 15 minutes outside of Doha, and that they had all kinds of animals there, although we probably couldn't see them because it was already dark (we got picked up at 7:00pm).  But he said they had horses, sheep, goats, cows, camels, chickens, and even gazelles.  He said that if we come back another time earlier in the day, we could ride the horses and camels.

After driving through what appeared to be desolate nothingness for about 10 minutes, we turned down a long dirt road and saw some lights at the end of it.  Then we turned a corner and entered the farm.  

Let me just say that this was not like a Canadian farm.

This place looked more like a country club.  There was a huge lawn that was greener than any grass I've ever seen in Qatar, and meticulously maintained to look like a golf-course.  Part of the lawn was a soccer field, part had a full-sized outdoor volleyball court, part had an outdoor seating area with couches and tables, and part had a fountain and gazebo.  It was amazing.  I'll show you the pictures, but keep in mind that they were all taken at night, so you can't see how nice the grass was or get a feel for the real size of this place.  Click on the pictures to see them enlarged.

This was an outdoor seating area.

This is the fountain and gazebo.

This is the volleyball court, with the soccer field in the background.

As soon as we arrived, we walked into a large, brightly lit sitting room that was being used by the 25 or 30 men who were hanging out there.  They were spread across the room in groups, talking and laughing, while hot drinks were being served on silver platters and snack trays were placed on tables nearby.  The older men were wearing thobes (probably 10 or so of those in attendance), while most of the men under 40 were dressed in casual Western clothes.  Larissa was the only female on the entire property.

As soon as we entered the room, 5 or 6 guys came over, shook our hands, and introduced themselves to us.  Most of them were related to Feisel in some way, but some of them were friends of the family as well.  Among those whose names I can remember were AbdurRahman, a long-haired student of Michael's who is related to Feisel through the marriage of their siblings (I think), and Ahmad, who did a Masters degree in Seattle, Washington and a PhD in Economics in London England – he was extremely sociable and introduced us to anyone who came nearby.  He was also hilarious.  

The guy who was in charge of the evening was Muhammad, Ahmad's brother, who owns several large hotels and over 30 restaurants in Doha.  He is also the office manager for the office of the Emir.  As soon as he found out that Larissa is an English teacher, he said (in a voice and tone that only someone with that much power can use) "You will teach English to my daughter, two or three times each week.  Give me your phone number.  I will send a driver to your home."  We did give him Larissa's mobile, but we have no idea if he'll call or if Larissa even wants the extra work.  It was hilarious how he said it, though.  Not a request, but a statement of reality, in his view.

We had heard that it is rude to turn down food when it is offered, so when a servant came with a tray of various drinks, we decided to be adventurous.  All of the drinks were hot, and they were served in small ornate glasses that were a little larger than shot glasses.  There was Arabian coffee, tea, tea with milk, and hot camel's milk.  We tried the camel's milk.  

The taste was different than anything I'd ever had before.  It tasted like there was some sort of spice in it (which there very well could have been), and while the texture was creamy, it did not taste at all like cream.  The Qatari men nearby started explaining to us with great enthusiasm about the benefits of camel's milk.  "It's high in protein, prevents sickness, makes you strong, good for energy, builds strong bones, calms the stomach, etc. etc."  They were convinced that it was a miracle drink.  We were also told that you can't drink it cold "because of the bacteria", so it should always be boiled first.  Hence, the reason why it was hot.

After snacking on some banana bread and finishing our camel milk, everyone started heading outside to play volleyball.  The teens and young(er) adults started setting up the net and play area, while the children (there were 7 or 8 kids under 12) played around in the soccer area.  The older men sat beside the court to watch the game, or had some more tea and coffee in the seating area pictured above.

As we were waiting for the game to be set up, Ahmad showed us where they were baking fresh bread and cooking the chicken and beef for the meal we would have later. 

Michael took this picture of me standing near the baking area, taking a picture of the oven.

And below you see the photo that I was actually taking:

As you can see, the dough is rolled flat and stuck to the side of the stone oven (called a Tandoor), with the fire and embers below.  The bread cooks on the stone and bubbles up in places as it heats up.  This is the traditional method of making Qatari bread, and they are very proud of it.  They like it to be a little brown or slightly blackened on the outside.  When the first few pieces were done, Ahmad offered them to Larissa and I to sample.  They were very good, but I didn't want to eat too much before volleyball and the meal which was to follow.

Nearby the cooking area was what Ahmad called their "tent", although it was nothing like what we would consider a tent to be.  It was huge, ornately decorated, and air conditioned.  As we walked in, we thought that this must be used for some sort of religious purpose, but we were told it was just for hanging out and socializing.  Here is a picture of the inside.  

You may notice what looks like kleenex coming out of the small tables placed between the seats.  It actually is kleenex, which the Qataris use for napkins.  We've noticed many restaurants here with kleenex boxes on the tables for the same purpose.  I guess the box design makes for a handy dispenser, even if the tissues themselves aren't as absorbent as I would prefer.

We went back out to the volleyball court, and after some last minute fiddling with getting the net set up properly, we took up our positions and started to play.  The Qataris were all fairly good players, and could get aggressive in serving and spiking the ball.  One guy even stood on a chair at the side of the net to keep score, and blew a whistle to start and stop play.  I generally achieved my goal of "don't look stupid", although one of my serves went a little off course.

Since the game was "men only" (and because she would likely get overheated if she played), Larissa sat on the sidelines and made a new friend in the process:

The Qatari man she's speaking to is Yosef, and he was one of the nicest people we've met since arriving in Doha.  I actually went over and joined Yosef and Larissa after the first two (of five) volleyball games, since I was getting a little too hot and sweaty.  We talked about Yosef's family, Qatari clothing (he gave me advice on buying a thobe), places to see in Qatar (he wants to take us to a very nice beach), and he tried to teach us some more Arabic words. 

Ahmad liked to tease Yosef, and had nicknamed him "Minus One".  The nickname comes from the Muslim rule that permits men to have a maximum of 4 wives.  Since Yosef has 3 wives, he is "minus one" from the maximum.  When the odd wild volleyball shot would come flying nearby the place we were sitting, Ahmad would yell "Hey!  Come on, Minus One!", as if he should have returned the shot.  We laughed a lot about that.

When the five rounds of volleyball were done (at about 10:15pm), it was time for dinner.  Everyone headed over to the far side of the first sitting room (beside the pool) where there were 7 or 8 large round tables set up, much like in the photo below.

You'll notice in the picture that there is food laid out in the centre of the table.  That not the case for most of the other tables at the meal.  This table was special, because this was Muhammad's table, and it was one of his hotels that was catering the meal.  As soon as Larissa, Mike and I entered the dining area, Muhammad motioned towards us and said "Please, sit here, please, please, sit here."  He said it several times, so we figured that we should probably sit there.  I didn't understand it until a after everyone else sat down, but we were being treated as guests of honour and seated at the head table of the meal.  I myself was at the right hand of Muhammad, which is the highest position.  I was awestruck, and a little intimidated.

Everyone else at the meal got up and made their way to an elaborate buffet setup nearby, taking what they wanted and helping the children with their plates.  Here are a couple shots of what the buffet looked like:

These were the main hot dishes.

And these were some of the other fingerfoods or cold dishes being offered.

Our table, however, had a large amount of food already on it, and as Muhammad called over the head food manager, men with trays (filled mostly with the items that were available at the buffet) came over and started loading food onto our plates.  They made sure that Larissa and I had at least one of everything, even after we said "No, no, that's enough!  Thank you!"  Aside from the kababs, rice, roast chicken, fresh bread, hummus, and other items on the table, there were spring rolls, pastries filled with meat or cheese, a stew, pasta, and other items that I couldn't quite identify.  Everything was delicious.  And let me just point out that this huge dinner wasn't for any special occasion – this is just the way that the family likes to spend their Thursday evenings.  

As we were finishing the meal, Muhammad left our table to speak to some of the other guests, while I stole some bites of the 6 or 7 different dessert items available.  Yosef came over and took Muhammad's spot at our table, so he could talk with us some more.  He told us that he had a nephew or neice (I can't remember which) who was getting married the next day, and that if Larissa and I wanted to come to the wedding, we would be welcome.  We told Yosef that, unfortunately, we already had plans to spend Friday afternoon and evening on a boat (I'll talk about that experience in a later post), but that we were honoured to have been invited, and would love to come to any future celebration.

When dessert was finished, everyone abruptly got up and got ready to go home.  I guess that in Qatari culture, you do several hours of socializing before the meal, and after the meal it's time to go straight home.  We gave people our mobile numbers, and shook many hands before heading to Feisel's SUV.  We were told several times that these people meet here every Thursday evening, and that "now that you know how to get here," we could come anytime.

We actually have no idea how to get there, and even if we did, we don't have a car, but we would love to go again, if only to have the chance to see the animals, ride the camels, and see how "Minus One" is doing.

Here's a quick post for y'all to let you know the latest haps out here.  

First of all, it's still pretty hot.  Right now I'm looking at 32 degrees on my online weather gadget thingy, and that's considered comfortable here.  In the evening, it's in the high 20s, which I have no complaints about whatsoever.  I think that back in Ontario it's about… oh, look at that – it's zero degrees right now, going up to 6 this afternoon.  Wow, that sucks.

I've been getting into a comfortable routine at home these days: I spend my days walking back and forth between the computer in our office and the Wii in the living room.  Oh yeah, we bought a Wii, for those you haven't heard.  Maybe I should talk a bit about it first.

The idea was that we could use the Wii as a socializing tool and have people over to play, but so far it's only been myself and Larissa using it.  I'm sure that at some point we will invite people over to share it with us, but in the meantime, it's getting a lot of use.  I pretty much conquered Super Mario Galaxy in a week, and I'm currently playing through Super Paper Mario.  I've also more or less dominated Elebits, which is the only game that Larissa will consistently play.  If you want to see a bit of what Elebits is like, check out this video:

I know it might look weird, but trust me, it's fun and addictive.  You basically run around the house with the remote control in your hand and hunt for these little critters (elebits) that are hidden everywhere.  The more critters you grab, the heavier the objects you can lift and move.  Once you have a certain number of critters, the level is finished.  This game gets into your brain – sometimes I'm sure sure that I've seen a little elebit scurrying under our couch or refrigerator.  

I should probably get out more.

Speaking of getting out, I've been leaving the apartment occasionally in the hopes of enriching my life a bit more beyond what's available electronically.  A couple days ago I went to a tax seminar at the College.  Yes, I voluntarily attended a tax seminar.  Why would I do such a thing?  The seminar was about tax considerations for overseas employees, and a large part of it dealt with non-resident Canadians (which is what Larissa and I are).  I wanted to make sure that we did everything right with the CRA so that sometime in the future, if we move back to Canada, we don't have the whole tax system come crashing into our lap like a sack of rusty hammers.

The seminar more-or-less confirmed that we're doing things right, and that we're very likely to make a nice chunk of coin without having to give anything to the Canadian politicians.  And speaking of politicians, I heard there was an election in Canada?  I honestly had no idea until about 3 days before the polls opened.  I guess I was too busy concentrating on the election that will actually affect the world.

I also checked out a newly-formed Art Club that meets at the CNA-Q campus on Tuesday afternoons.  The idea is that a bunch of people get together and do some drawing and painting under the direction of a Canadian artist who is employed by the College.  The materials are all provided, and it's free to join.  So far, we've only done contour drawing, which (if I remember correctly) was one of the first exercises that we did in grade 9 Art class.  I felt a little babied, but it was nice to sit around with other like-minded people and feel artistic for a little while.  And I wasn't entirely disappointed with my drawing of several pots and a pair of sunglasses.

The beard is still hanging onto my face, although I fluctuate between wanting to keep it or shave it almost hourly.  On the plus side, my shaving/trimming time is down to about 5 minutes (from 50 minutes when I was shaving the whole thing), but on the minus side, it still feels like barbed wire most of the time, and I'm still constantly fiddling with it.  I think I may get it shorn off when I get a haircut, which is going to be soon.

What's really crazy (and a little unnerving) about the beard is watching people's reactions to it.  People who met me two months ago when I was (relatively) smooth-faced do a double take when they see me.  They also often make comments like "So I see you finally gone and done it, eh?!", which leaves me feeling very confused until I figure out that they're talking about the beard.  I guess every man out here goes through the "beard phase" at some point.  

What's even more strange is how strangers react.  From the neck up, I look like a Qatari (or at least I could pass for an Arab), but from the neck down I look like a North American tourist (shorts, t-shirt; basically no thobe).  Because of this discrepancy, shop owners or restaurant servers often don't know how to interact with me at first.  They might start out talking to me in Arabic, then quickly switch to English after I say "Pardon?".  I sometimes get stared at on the street by the Indian men, since they don't know how I fit into the social hierarchy here.  

Case in point: The other day, Larissa and I attended a workshop at the College that was put on by Cambridge University Press.  It was basically a two-hour long commercial for a new series of English instructional books that they're publishing, but disguised as a professional-development seminar.  We left at the break after they served us Cinnabons.  What does this have to do with my beard?  I'm glad you asked.

After the Cinnabons, but before we left, I visited the washroom to get the sticky off my hands, and as I entered the washroom, I walked through a little "lobby" room with a drinking fountain in it.  When I came out of the washroom-area to use the fountain, there were 4 Arab men there getting drinks too – all dressed in suits (not thobes) and chatting happily with one another.  One of the men turned to me and said "Did I see you earlier today?"  I said "Maybe – I've been on campus for a few hours."  He replied "No, weren't you at [something] highschool today?"  I said "Nope."  His next question was "Where are you from?" (I get this question a lot).  I answered "From Canada".  "Oh," he said, "I thought you were from somewhere else."

The beard.  It confuses everyone, even the locals. 

So do I count this phenomenon in the "pro" or "con" category?  It is kinda fun to watch this stuff happen.  And if I knew more Arabic, I would totally play along with the "I'm an Arab" assumption, until my accent gave me away.  But my Arabic sucks, and the delayed recognition factor on the part of my friends and acquaintences can be uncomfortable.  Maybe I'll give it another week.

As for now, I've got online videos to watch and elebits to catch.  Until my next burst of blogging motivation…

As you may know, Qatar is officially an Islamic country.  With this in mind, there are many organizations that must apply certain rules of censorship to otherwise available content.  For instance, my internet service provider (Q-Tel) actively blocks access to websites which a) are pornographic, b) criticize leaders of Gulf countries, or c) are anti-Islamic in nature. 

Such censorship seems (to me) to be a hindrance to open and critical dialogue on important matters, as well a demonstration of a certain amount of insecurity on the part of the regulators in their attitudes towards the critical judgment of their customers, and nowhere in my experience has a more ridiculous example of censorship in this country been as clearly evident as with cereal boxes.

Yes, you heard me, cereal boxes.  It seems that sometimes cereal from the West displays images on its boxes which threaten the social stability of the country, or perhaps would provide men with an irresistible opportunity for temptation and lustful indulgence.  Allow me to furnish you with an example.

On a recent outing to the grocery store, I discovered these boxes of Kellogg's Crunchy Nut which displayed the partial form of a bikini-clad woman (presumably for the purpose of convincing potential customers that eating this cereal will magically lead you to look like the woman on the box).  However, since this cereal was showing a little too much skin, an employee had been assigned to use a marker to cover up the more lust-inducing areas.  I managed to procure an example of a pre and post-censored box (click on the picture for an enlarged view):

As you can see, the upper arms, the legs below the bathing suit, and the chest area have all been covered up.  I'm guessing that the only reason the belly was left untouched was because of the text written on it.

Now, first of all, I can't believe that there is actually someone who was assigned the job of censoring these boxes.  Imagine spending your entire afternoon staring at bikinis with a marker in your hand, practicing your artistic skills in redesigning cereal box fashion.  Isn't anyone concerned about the mental state of that poor guy?  Won't he go home consumed with uncontrollable urges after staring at so much skin in the grocery store?

Also, it seems as if the assigned censor was not as vigilant as he should have been – look what I discovered when I turned the censored cereal box on its side:

Uh oh!  What's going to happen to those poor lust-infected men if they accidentally knock over the box, or store their cereal on a high shelf?  Whole new worlds of hithertofore unexperienced emotions might sweep over them during their breakfast meal.  

There are actually immigration police who will scribble over the revealing parts of female bodies in women's beauty magazines as well, or cover the skin with some well-placed stickers.  Once again, how do people apply for those jobs?  I would guess that those most eager to get those positions are probably the least suitable to be in them; just like in politics – but that's a topic for another post.

I was doing some reading today on Wikipedia about the Nazis.  I didn't intend to read about the Nazis – I just kinda ended up there through a trail of other interests and web pages.  [If you really want to know, it started out by my watching Persepolis on DVD this afternoon, which led to my wanting to know more about the history of modern Iran, which led me to the fact that the name "Iran" (as opposed to "Persia", as it was called in the past) is cognate with the word "Aryan", which led to the Nazis.  Whew!]

And just to show you how that rabbit trail led to me writing this post, whilst reading the Wikipedia article on Religion in Nazi Germany, I came across this paragraph which contains some dubious spelling and grammar:

From the mid 1930's, anti-Christian elements within the Nazi party became more prominent – they were restrained by Hitler who thought religion would die by its self as science advanced. Never the less the Party began to suppress religious teaching, closed religious youth movements and excluded religious instruction from the Hitler Youth. The public collection of money for religious charities was forbidden. In 1937 all confessing church seminaries and teaching was banned. Dissident protestants were forbidden to attend universities and state-sponsored denominational and privet religious schools were closed. During Hitlers dictatorship, more than 6,000 clergymen, on the charge of treasonable activity, were imprisoned or executed.

This led me to think about how poor spelling and grammar can cause us to dispute the accuracy of reported facts.  I believe this line of thought is something that comes naturally to everyone – Poor grammar must mean poor education, which means that the writer is most likely poorly informed on the topic.  However, is the logic of those linked ideas really sound?

True, in the modern world literacy is much higher than it was in the past.  Also, standards of education are (arguably) better than they have been for most of human history.  Besides these, with the invention of the printing press and widespread communication networks, standardized spelling and grammar have been commonplace for (once again, arguably) centuries.

But with the development of computer technology, a chunk of the mental labour in constructing coherent phrases has been handed over to the computers.  As people become increasingly dependent on computer technology to check spelling and grammar (although grammar checkers are crap, in my opinion), more and more mistakes are able to slip through the cracks.  Most of the mistakes in the paragraph above would never show up on a grammar or spell checker in MS Word (i.e. "never the less", the use of "From" at the start of the first sentence, and the lack of proper parallel structure in the second sentence)

It is quite possible, even probable, that many intelligent, educated individuals could speak (or write) knowledgeably about a topic and not have their grammar in perfect working order.  I wonder how political speeches would look if they were read verbatim without being run through a spell checker and several assistant party members.  I myself use a built-in spell checker when I write all my posts (which I am extremely thankful for) and even with my 3 university degrees (yes, I am aware of the irony of my current unemployment) I still had to double check that the past tense of "lead" was "led" and not "lead" (like in the word "read").

I guess my point is that maybe we shouldn't question someone's factual accuracy (or intelligence) merely by their abilities in grammar and spelling.  A well-written lie may be easier to swallow than a poorly-worded truth, but it is a lie nevertheless.  And vise-versa.

It's come to my attention recently that a good chunk of my regular readers are having a hard time making it through all of my posts about Paris.  I can understand how they can be intimidating, since they look extremely long and have lots of words and links and stuff.  So, in the interest of helping those of you who are struggling, I've decided to offer some encouragement in reading the Paris posts.

First, consider that despite how long they look in your web browser, there are lots of pictures to look at, and they make the posts look longer than they really are.  I'm not saying that the Paris posts are actually short, I'm just saying that they might not be so scary in length if you disregard the pictures.  

Second, it doesn't take quite as long to read them as you might think.  You may be saying to yourself "Self, this Paris – Part 7 post looks like it will take forever to read!  And it takes at least 9 clicks of my mouse on the scroll bar just to get to the end of it!  I have other things to do this morning, like… reading other websites, looking at pictures of my friends acting drunk on Facebook, and maybe getting some work done!"  

In the interest of dealing with such objections, I undertook an experiment just now and read Paris – Part 7 at an average reading speed, stopping to look at the enlargements of each photo along the way.  It took me exactly 10 minutes in total (which does not include following the links in the post – you can do that later).  To respond to the other issues mentioned in the paragraph above:  Let's face it, there are very few other websites as jam-packed with awesomeness as this one.  Your friends' Facebook pictures will be there for many years to come, and there is no shortage of Facebook albums featuring people partying, so you're not missing out on much.  And when it comes to getting work done, come on, man.  If your company wanted you to work, they wouldn't have given you internet access at the office.

Okay, a third encouragement for you in getting through the Paris posts:  There are hidden goodies in each post (actually in nearly every post on this entire site) to keep you reading further.  Every photo has text that will pop up if you hover your mouse over it.  Every link has this hover text too, and while the text ususally tells you where the link leads to, it sometimes displays witty or humourous messages for those who grow weary of too many words on one page.

Fourth, I recently edited each Paris post to put a small navigation dohicky at the very end.  This dohicky will allow you to navigate through each post in the "Paris posts" series, so even if you get lost, you should be able to find your way back to where you left off in the story.  

Finally, if you just can't sit for ten minutes straight to read one post, break up your time to accomodate blog-reading, or work it into other parts of your day.  Read the posts while you eat lunch (usually a 10 minute meal, for me).  Read them to your children as bedtime stories – they'll either be extremely entertaining (good for you), or be boring enough to put your kids right to sleep (also good for you!)  You could also consider setting aside a quiet portion of your day to be devoted to reading DarrenConley.com – You might want to call it your "quiet time" or "devotional time", to make it sound important.  

So hopefully those suggestions and considerations will help you.  I will now move on to blogging about other, shorter things.

Many of my loyal readers will know that I am currently unemployed.  I am living what many consider the true dream of all men, where my wife is earning far more money than we need, and I spend my days surfing the internet and considering how much hair can build up under my computer desk before it can be considered "carpet". 

Speaking of hair, lately I have come to more fully embrace my unemployment through the growing of a beard.  Now, this beard was not entirely intentional.  It all started when Larissa and I headed off to Paris a couple weeks ago, and then two specific factors came together.  One was the beard being sported by our friend Dan, who we hung out with in Paris for a couple days (along with his wife Marie, who is not bearded).  His beard did not look too bad, and got me thinking "I bet I could grow that by the end of the week."

The other factor was that I had brought the wrong adapter for my electric shaver, so I couldn't actually plug it in while we were in Paris.  I should mention that I did end up picking up the proper plug adapter on our third day in Paris, but by that time the beard was already developing, and Larissa had  mentioned on several occasions "You know, you can grow it if you like."  I still made use of my newly-adapted shaver for taking care of the neck hair, but I let the facial hair lengthen.

The long and the short of it (but mostly the long) is that I haven't shaved since leaving for Paris, and I'm now sporting two weeks' worth of growth on my face.  Long time readers may remember this post, where I discuss in detail the many annoyances involved in my particular shaving situation.  I mentioned in that post some of the potential benefits of growing the beard, and for the most part these benefits have been realized:

• I have freed up more spare time (as if I needed it) that was otherwise taken up in shaving.  This is actually a bigger deal than it would be for most people, as my shaving routine had begun to reach the 50 minute range.  I don't know how, but that's how long it takes to make my face smooth.
• I have been able to use my face as a scratching tool for the back of my hand or my arm, eliminating the need to use my other hand for this task.  Thus, if I am carrying something in one hand (say, a nice turkey and processed-cheese sandwich with butter), I can scratch an itch on my free hand (or arm) without having to put the sandwich down first.  It all gets taken care of in the midst of the sandwich-transport procedure.
• My face has been feeling slightly warmer than it was before, which is not that big a deal (despite the hot climate in Qatar), since the temperature has been dropping lately to the point where a beard is not uncomfortable in warmer weather.
• As a bonus, I now actually fit in more with the look of the Qatari locals (as long as you ignore my clothing) which might earn me a few extra points of "street cred" (which I would completely lose as soon as I tried to speak Arabic).  However, if I could actually score myself a full thobe, I'm sure I could (silently) fit in perfectly with the Qataris.

On the other hand, as I'm spending more time engaging the reality of a fully-follicled face, I am experiencing several disadvantages which I had not foreseen (or foreseen to this extent):

• For one thing, the beard is not entirely comfortable.  Depending on where and how I touch it, it can feel like small needles prickling me, or tiny itchy spots across my face.  I'm suddenly aware of moving my chin "against the grain" when I'm lying on my pillow, and how it affects my ability to get comfortable as I'm trying to sleep.  
• Speaking of comfort, Larissa herself is not particularly enjoying the feel of this furry face-rug.  Every time I kiss her, she gets poked by small barbed-wire points, and I even find her cringing or wincing as I move closer to her in order to show her affection.  I have to move very slowly, and awkwardly maneuver my lips so as to have minimum contact between my hairy face, and her smooth, beautiful skin.  I'm concerned that it may psychologically condition her to be repulsed by my kisses.
• The most annoying thing (on a minute-by-minute basis) is how I keep playing with it.  I end up fidgeting with my beard constantly – touching the hairs, seeing how long it is, checking its prickliness, and especially using my top lip to feel the hairs growing under my bottom lip.  This last unconscious action is actually causing my jaw to feel quite sore by the end of the day.  So now this beard is having a negative effect on other adjacent areas of my body.

When it comes to the look of the beard, I can't seem to make up my mind.  Sometimes I think it looks great – that it actually makes me look like someone approaching their mid-thirties, instead of an undergrad student who can't finish his program (I've been mistaken for a student at Larissa's campus several times).  It usually depends on what I'm wearing, and strangely enough, I think it looks best on me when I'm naked.  Maybe it's just a pleasing contrast: my non-naked face beside my naked body.

But going out in public while naked is not a good idea, especially in this culture.  I don't want to know what they cut off as punishment for that crime.  And I don't want to have to get rid of all of my "doesn't look good with the beard" wardrobe.  I had decided that I would shave if I landed a decent job interview in the near future, but that still hasn't happened yet.  

I guess what I'm looking for here is a little feedback.  Take a look at the photos throughout this post (which I took earlier today) and tell me what you think of the beard.  If people generally don't like the look, maybe I'll go back to subjecting my entire face to the shaving treatment.  If people enjoy the new look, maybe I'll leave it on for a while and hope that the whiskers soften up before Larissa bans all kissing in the Conley home.

Normally I wouldn't consider devoting an entire blog post to talking about traveling back home from France, but this trip home was not your usual boring plane ride.

First of all, while we made it onto the plane on time, we sat in our seats for a full hour, unmoving, on the runway.  The captain said over the loudspeaker that "There is a piece of baggage that [message garbled], therefore we'll be at least one hour before we leave."  What is going on in France with their baggage situation?  You might remember that we had similar baggage-related complications when we arrived in Paris, way back in Paris – Part 1.

After working out whatever needed to be worked out, we were speeding down the runway and heading into the sky.  I had been reading my book for the hour we were waiting on the ground, while Larissa had gone to sleep.  I periodically kept checking the entertainment system to see if it was turned on yet, since the in-flight literature said that the newest Incredible Hulk movie would be playing on our flight, and I hadn't seen it yet.

I've always had this problem on airplanes where I can't get in sync with what's going on.  For instance, I'll fall asleep right before meal time, or be wide awake when everyone else is having nap time.  Part of this problem is that I often miss the beginning of in-flight movies, which is a shame, because usually the movies that you watch in planes are already so edited and shortened that missing ANY part of them can wreck the entire story.

Needless to say, I got bored checking every 3 minutes if my TV was working, so I read some more of my book and noticed 15 minutes later that everyone else was watching movies.  I fooled around with the controls until I found the Incredible Hulk, and of course, I had missed the first 10 minutes of the movie.  To make matters worse, for some reason my headphone jack was not functional, so I had to ask Larissa if she wouldn't mind watching my movie, and shared her jack (there were two jacks for each person – neither of mine worked).  

The movie was decent, though Larissa didn't like it that much.  It was also a bit frustrating, because by sharing the two headphone jacks on her side, we were actually splitting the audio signal from stereo to mono, so each of us only heard the movie in one earphone (the plugs were designed for headsets with two plugs to operate in stereo).  The sound quality was noticeably diminished, and when the screen is only the size of your hand, the Hulk doesn't seem quite so Hulkish.

When the movie was done, I decided to have a little nap, which is always difficult in an airplane.  What made it even more difficult (and caused me to become fully awake) was the crazy man two rows up and across the aisle who decided that it was a good time to freak out.  Yes, we had a crazy man on our airplane.

Now, there are some places where crazy isn't so hard to deal with.  Say, in a big park – you can always walk away from crazy and let it act out its problems with the pigeons.  Even in a public building, if crazy decides to show up, there are people one phone call away who know how to handle crazy and will take it away to the crazy house.  Crazy on the subway is more problematic, because generally you're in closer quarters, and there's nowhere to get away from crazy until at least the next subway stop.  But still, you can just hop off and grab the next non-crazy subway train that comes along.

Crazy on a plane is bad.  On a plane you have the close-quarters factor without the benefit of being able to hop off and grab another plane 5 minutes later.  You're generally stuck with crazy until the plane lands, which could be many hours later (and in our case, we still had 4 hours to go).  Besides this, there is no guarantee that there are any professionals on the plane who know how to properly handle crazy, and even if there are, there's a good chance that they are just as tired and cranky as the other travelers.

Our particular crazy man stood up out of his seat and started shouting at several of the passengers a few rows in front of him (in French) that they had killed his mother and his sister (and a bunch of other stuff that were beyond my skills in French/crazy talk to understand).  He was ranting hysterically, and punctuated each sentence with a sound that I'm not sure how to spell, but sounded like when somebody spits at you insultingly.  Maybe "Ptff!"  Something like that.

The other passengers were looking at him (understandably) like he was crazy.  What made it even stranger (for me) was that I had never heard crazy being spoken in fluent French.  It somehow sounds more dignified than English crazy.  It was, however, no less uncomfortable.

After about 5 minutes, during which time the crazy had been building in momentum (the man was now pacing up and down the aisle), a man in an airline employee uniform (who I do not think was a steward, but maybe their boss) came up to the man, sat him down in his seat, and tried to find out what was going on.  The crazy man switched to English for this conversation, and while I was fairly close, I didn't hear much of it, since I was trying to look like I wasn't paying attention.  If you pay too much attention to crazy, there's a chance that crazy might turn its attention to you.

The airline guy talked to the crazy guy for a good 10 minutes, then told him that they were going to move him to a different seat for a little while.  I saw the guy sitting beside the crazy man breathe a sigh of relief when this was decided.  Nobody wants to sit that close to crazy on a plane.  I didn't see the crazy guy for the rest of the flight, and I can only assume that the chair they put him in had a decent set of restraints, and an I.V. full of anti-crazy juice/morphine/alcohol/all-of-the-above.

At this point, I thought some more TV might be in order, so I flipped through the channels a bit, only to discover that I had hit that "lull time" when all of the movies are just finishing, but none of them are ready to restart.  It was my stupid out-of-sync problem again.  So I was left with more reading, which eventually lead to more napping.

My second nap was interrupted by another bout of commotion nearby – this time in the far aisle and 4 rows up.  "Oh no," I thought.  "Crazy broke his restraints and is coming back for a second helping!"  But no – this time it was an elderly woman who had lost consciousness on the way back to her seat from the bathroom, and had collapsed into the aisle.  7 or 8 passengers who were nearby helped her into her seat, but it was a good 20 seconds or so before she was moving again.  I don't think she was seriously hurt, but it was still freaky.

I prayed (not for the first time) that the plane would actually make it onto the ground safely.  I also resolved to stop falling asleep, since bad things kept happening when I drifted off.

I ended up finishing the book I was reading, and somehow, with no other options left, I fell asleep again.  Luckily nobody freaked out or fell over (did we book the charismatic plane?) but as we started our descent into Bahrain (where we were transferring to our Doha flight) I heard someone speaking in raised tones several rows behind me.  I turned around I saw the same airline employee guy speaking very harshly to a man in the centre section, 6 or 7 rows back.

I couldn't hear very much of this conversation either, but I did her the airline guy say "You will listen to me, sir" about 5 times in a row.  Maybe crazy guy #1 had a friend or distant relation at the back who was a few hours out of sync for "crazy time".  Believe me, I know how difficult it is to stay in sync with the crowd when you're on an airplane.

So, to wrap things up, we made it to our second flight, and crazy was nowhere to be seen.  After a quick 30 minute hop over a small slice of the Gulf, we landed in Doha, safe and sound (though the "safe" part was what concerned me more – arriving "sound" was more a concern for those particular individuals who distinguished themselves to us on the first plane).

I would recommend a trip to Paris to anyone who is willing to part with the necessary cash, and would be happy to advise you on things to do and places to see.  I would also recommend booking the "non-crazy" flight.  It may not be as exciting, but you'll have far less chance of falling down in an aisle or being accused of murder.

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