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TOAST OF THE TOWN

As I type this I'm jetlagged to hell. My Slovenian bandmate and my German bandmate and I charmed the pants off our Finnish flight attendant, who ladled us with Baileys Irish Cream until the last bottle on board was finished. It was Abu Dhabi to New York, a flight that took us halfway around the world in 15 hours. I think. Hard to be sure. Please forgive the rambling, excursive character of what follows. I'm barely aware of the time zone I'm in.

I was in the United Arab Emirates for six days. I was there as part of a contingent of jazz musicians sent by New York University to christen the latest arm of her global campus initiative. NYU is taking over. She has satellite campuses all over the world; in Italy, China, Czech Republic, Ghana, and now the UAE. We packed our bags. Off to Abu Dhabi we went.

In Abu Dhabi there are mosques and picturesque water fronts. Wacky architecture. Muslims. Lenny Pickett of Saturday Night Live was also there. Like a crazed beast, he devoured all things music. What a treat to play with him.

Despite regulatory attempts to mask their figure, Arab women look fantastic. Most of the female locals wear scarves and robes that don't begin to hide their pretty faces or strong suggestions of womanliness. You'll see these outfits everywhere you go. Less sexy—but equally common—is the dark assassin getup. It's a black sheet that covers every part of a woman except her eyes.

My mouth. It was next to impossible to keep its cynicism in check; for the most part I didn't even try. Early attempts at civility were tepid and noncommittal. An environment of insults and sarcastic remarks ensued thereafter, exasperated by fellow musicians who are as dark-hearted as I am, if their constant laughter is any indication. My bandmates goad me with laughter every step of the way.

So when I'm sitting on a park bench at the American Community School of Abu Dhabi, killing time before our next round of musical master classes and clinics, and an attractive lady teacher walks by to ask me if I'm waiting for my child to be let out of school for the day, it's only natural to answer: "Yes, I've been coming here, alone, ever since I lost my wife in the fire..."

And it's only natural for me to lose my drunken temper at Hazel, the petite Filipino barmaid with an aversion to smiling at customers. The venue is "Toast of the Town," an unforgettable little pub discreetly connected to the lobby of our hotel. Come nighttime we order round after round of drinks. I order a beer; Hazel is not impressed that I can say "thank you" in Tagalog. She should be. Onstage, two singers and an unconvincing drum machine are covering hit singles from the 1960s, 70s, 80s. They launch into Lynyrd Skynryd's "Sweet Home Alabama." They play to the chorus. We sing "SWEET HOME, ABU DHABI!" as loud and as obnoxiously as our voices will allow. The singers think we are funny, at first. We do this several more times, twice each chorus, getting louder and more obnoxious with every pass. SWEET HOME, ABU DHABI!!! People are laughing, staring. The song is over. At our table, meanwhile, Hazel is standoffish, unreceptive to my Tagalog charm. I pull her aside. I tell her that she hates her life in Abu Dhabi. It's obvious you're not happy here, I say. This culture has stripped the joy from your life, de-feminized you. Go back to your family in Manila.

TIME OUT. Now's the time for self-reflexive gesture (that is, neurotic, autobiographical wanking). It's the part of the text where, if I were a dishonest man, I would claim that none of this ever happened. Or that the narrative below isn't exaggerated in any way. If I were a deep man, I would talk about religion. Or make a broader point about the equality of the sexes and the need for cultural tolerance, like an ironic affirmation of the human spirit. If I were more sensitive, I suppose I'd be less cruel. No one likes a jerk. If I were more serious, I'd privilege ideation and information over crass humor. One does not get into heaven by laughing. I'd stop telling jokes. I'd build up someone's self-esteem, for once.

Forget all that. This sentence you're reading is the closest thing you'll get to true repentance or reflection today. Because I'm ablaze with the flames of injustice. I was wronged overseas. The Muslims mistreated me. I was wounded! I am the vengeful master penman. In the upcoming paragraphs, I will write the Emirati people into scoundrels and myself into their hapless victim. Because this country had its way with me. That is what happened. I was victimized.

The trip to Abu Dhabi was terrific, of course. It always feels good to inspire children, and to play music for responsive crowds, and to see the world. It also feels nice to represent my school, NYU, and to press forward as a jazz musician. All of this is great. However. On my first day in Abu Dhabi I had a hard time buying alcohol. I wanted a bottle of vodka but I couldn't find it. It took me nearly three hours—three hours!—to get the stuff. True story. By the way, let me get my priorities in order. This is the most important thing I have to write about—THAT IT WAS WAY TOO HARD, FOR A FEW HOURS IN A WEIRD PART OF THE WORLD, FOR ME AND MY FRIENDS TO GET DRUNK. NOTHING IS MORE IMPORTANT TO ME, RIGHT NOW, THAN TELLING THIS STORY. NOTHING.

TRUST ME, YOU NEED TO HEAR THIS. IT'S A STORY ABOUT HOPE IN THE FACE OF TRIBULATION. IT'S A STORY ABOUT LOVE, SUFFERING, AND THE SAVAGERY OF MEN FROM OTHER COUNTRIES. THE STORY TOUCHES US ALL.

TYPING IN UPPER CASE IS SOMETIMES CALLED SHOUTING. THAT'S WHAT I'M DOING NOW. IF I TALK LIKE THIS EVERYONE WILL LISTEN. HEY, DID YOU HEAR WHAT'S GOING ON IN THE GAZA STRIP? DID YOU READ ABOUT THAT? THE ROCKETS AND BOMBING AND SHIT? THAT SHIT WAS UNREAL! SPEAKING OF UNREAL, WHAT IF SOMEONE OPENED UP A STRIP CLUB AND CALLED IT THE "GAZA STRIP CLUB"? WOULD THAT BE FUNNY, OR WOULD THAT BE CALLOUS? IT'S A PORTMANTEAU OF "GAZA STRIP" AND "STRIP CLUB." THE GAZA STRIP IS A THIN STRETCH OF LAND IN THE MIDDLE EAST. A STRIP CLUB IS AN ESTABLISHMENT WHERE WOMEN DISROBE AND DANCE FOR TIPS. WHAT IF SOMEONE OPENED UP A STRIP CLUB, DOWNTOWN, SAY, AND CALLED IT THE GAZA STRIP CLUB?

It's been said that this writing project of mine is dishonest, that it lacks perspective, that it is insensitive, that it is unserious. I'd like to address these criticisms. The complaint seems to be that I'm a petty writer. That my writing is trivial in a bad way. That I help no one. Well then, let me help you. My response will take the form of an admonition, of moral corrective. Ok here I go:

Men, don't cheat on your wives. Women don't cheat on your husbands, either. In general, don't be an asshole. Don't start wars of aggression with foreign powers. Don't assassinate world leaders for economic gain. Don't collect tribute from vassal nations. Don't control Tsar Nicholas II or his wife Alexandra, and don't be a religious charlatan. Don't store your gunpowder in the Bastille when the monarchy is hated. Don't remilitarize the Rhineland. Stop the spread of AIDS in Africa. Stop the proliferation of nuclear weapons. Stop harvesting the human organs of prisoners. Brush your teeth, floss. Recycle. Convert to Christianity. Vote. Watch TV sparingly. Read a book. Don't go to third base with your girlfriend unless you're super serious about her. Feed the homeless.

There. How did I do?

*      *      *



Stalwart liquor champions, from left to right:
Karl Matthias Konrad, Murray James Morrison, Lenart Krecic.


Except for hotel bars, you'll need a liquor license to purchase alcohol in the UAE. A UAE liquor license is like a passport. It has separate pages for each month of the year, with purchasing limits based on how much money you make. Better paying job = higher booze allowance. Other restrictions may apply. Liquor licenses are not sold to Muslims. Applicants with Arabic names may find difficulty obtaining a license. Married women who drink must be licensed under the names of their husbands. And so on.

Before we knew any of this, Matthias and Lenart and I were sure to find a liquor store, no problem. We left our hotel and scoured the nearby shopping mall for booze. No dice. We walked to the grocery store, and asked a worker there for booze. No dice. We approached the female cashier. She seemed hesitant to answer our questions. In a soft voice, she gave us the name of another grocery store (Spain? Smeara? Spirra?) and made a lazy gesture with her right arm. What? Those are our directions? An arm wave? "Two signals," she said.

We guessed that "signals" meant traffic lights, and started walking in the general direction that she sort of indicated with her arm. After two sets of traffic lights we came upon another grocery store. We entered the store. I asked the Arab shopkeeper where we could buy alcohol. He pointed to some cans of malt beer in the corner. "No," I said, "we want American beer. You know, with alcohol. Where can we find this?" The man became angry, rude. "No, no, no," he said, "No." We left.

An hour passes. We've received bad directions and "no" directions from at least seven other people. The liquor store, we eventually find out, is hidden behind Spinney's (not Spirra), a Western-style grocery chain. The closest store is almost a mile away. We walk there. Two heavy wooden doors mark the entrance. Hours of operation are listed, but nothing else.

We walk in, victorious. We start arguing over what to buy. I want vodka! Lenart doesn't drink vodka, but he does drink Jagermeister. I'm sorry, what? Matthias agrees with me that vodka is a good idea. He suggests we buy Smirnoff. Again, I'm sorry—What? Smirnoff?? Some Balkan guy overhears our conversation. We talk to him; he tells us that we can't buy alcohol in Abu Dhabi without a liquor license. We don't have a liquor license. We can't buy alcohol in Abu Dhabi.

There's another place, he says, in an alley, behind a building with a yellow awning, behind a bank several blocks away. Maybe they won't ask for your license there. Really? Yeah, sometimes they don't ask. We thank the Balkan guy. We leave.

An hour later we find it. A name on the awning says "African and Eastern Store" in big, ambiguous letters. Just like the liquor joint before it, the entrance is marked by two large wooden doors, unidentified and hidden from public view. Weird, but no matter. There's no turning back now. This is the moment of truth! Of the three of us, we nominate Matthias to buy our alcohol. Matthias looks the most normal by far, plus he's German.

Germany goes shopping; Germany wins. Finally we have the prize: a bottle of Jaeger and a bottle of Absolut. As we walk back to the hotel, we notice the same grocery store from earlier. It's the place where I asked an Arab shopkeeper for alcohol and he told me "No, no, no" in an angry voice. Lenart points out that we're back where we started. This store is directly across the street from the place we just bought alcohol. So when I asked the Arab shopkeeper for booze—and then he turned into the wild, disagreeable man who ushered us out—the booze was literally across the street. Which in his haste and villainy, the Arab shopkeeper neglected to mention. I tell Lenart and Matthias that all is not well in the UAE. These Arabs are barbaric, vicious people. They are fiends and scoundrels. And we are poor tourists, abused and oppressed in a distant land! We wander about, thirsty, in search of liquid goods that are ever denied us. We are persecuted travellers! Men most to be pitied! Why, oh why? Why were we treated this way???

Abu Dhabi makes us sad.


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