Why I am definitely, most certainly, not a cat person.

A long time ago, I was having a sleepover at my American expat girlfriend's flat in Baku. After a few  glasses of Baileys, cigarettes and chats about useless men, we decided to go to bed. 'Oh, can you put that turkey somewhere so the cats won't get it?' My friend asked sleepily as she got into bed.
She had a huge turkey specially delivered for the Thanksgiving party the following day. I went into the kitchen, picked up the huge box and shoved it on the top of the fridge.

The next morning, when we took the box down, there was a huge gaping hole in the turkey's chest.

The thing is, you see...i am not a cat person. I have always had dogs. And dogs don't go around jumping on top of fridges, carefully sneaking inside cardboard boxes, leaving no evidence except for a huge hole in the turkey's chest.

Dogs are not like that. And cats...well, my dislike of them was deepened by the traumatic experiences associated with the above mentioned American girlfriend and her desire to adopt every stray cat in Baku; which was okay until she moved to Turkey and got a wild thing who now spends every single day of his life attempting to kill her and every friend who dares to step into her flat in New York. Ironically, she chose to call the evil monster Ashgim, which in Turkish means My Lovely. Yeah, right.

And then, there are the endless cute pictures of frigging cats on Facebook. And now...the dead cat in my car. Yes, inside the fan shroud.

It all started with a text message my compound friend sent me a few days ago. 'I have a dead f@@@@ing kitten in my car!' She said. 'I have just spent two hours having this thing scraped off the car engine at the Salwa road garage!'
According to my friend, there was a cross eyed dwarf male specialising in dead cat removals.  Oh, i laughed. I thought it was unbelievable. What a funny story! A dead cat in the car engine! Hahaha

Well, let me tell you. It is not that funny.

Imagine my feeling when two days ago, i started my car and heard a funny thumping noise coming from deep inside it. Hmm, i thought, something is wrong with my car? How worrying!
But after one more suspicious noise, before i could concentrate on what was going on, the noise stopped. The next day, husband commented on the bin getting quite stinky outside. I was just getting ready to go to the shops to get some food, and having started the engine, was revolted by the smell.

What was most disturbing, I knew, I just knew like we all do, somehow, that it was the smell of a dead body decomposing. Perhaps, we all have this knowledge deep inside our brain. Perhaps, we are pre-programmed to know and fear this smell. In any case, I told myself the chances of me having a dead kitten in my car after my friend just had one in hers were pretty slim. Let's think probability here. Let's think statistics, right?

Well, to hell with those.

In a few hours, walking the baby outside in the summer heat, I noticed that flies were not particularly interested in the rubbish bin. They were all trying to get inside the bonnet of my car.
I went home, and told Husband that, despite it sounding unrealistic, there might be a dead kitten in my car.

That day, we could not see anything. I say we, but you of course, realise, that there was simply no way I could make myself look inside the bonnet. Husband opened the bonnet and announced that there were cat paw prints all over. That was not a good sign. There was no body discovered at the first search.

However, the next morning, the smell was getting worse. Husband took the car to the garage but, sadly for us, the cross-eyed cat removing dwarf was having a day off. Husband decided to look properly.  Are you sure, I asked. 'I have seen a of of dead things before', he replied proudly. And then, I heard him retching  outside.

He tried to poke it out with a stick. The thing was baked on and would not come out. He then tried to pull it out with a bin sack. Right, right...enough details. Let's just say...it was pretty awful, and husband deserves a medal.

For hours later, all we could smell was the dead kitten. It was following us around. To the shops, to the jacuzzi at the pool...And even now, as I type this, my nose gets filled in with the disgusting, unmistakable smell.

'I will go get myself a glass of wine', I have just told Husband. 'I need a drink tonight!'

And guess what I saw on the box of wine? Yep. A frigging cat.

Just another morning in the multicultural compound, or a story about Vanilla.

On a sunny weekend morning my husband was enjoying the company of his compound friend  over a pot of freshly brewed coffee. They were having a man talk.

'We should buy a boat between us!', I heard one say...'No, we should buy a big old truck!' You know, that kind of stuff.

Suddenly, the neighbour glanced into the back yard. 'Hmm, he said. Is there any reason you have a covered up lady wandering in your garden?'

What? he caught my attention. He is kidding, was my first reaction.
-No, seriously. She just went behind the water tank!

Slowly, I crept up to the glass doors at the back of the house. At first, I could not see anyone, but then I noticed a pair of slippers placed right next to the wall of the water tank area. And, before I could think any further, a lady, covered up in black, appeared from behind the wall. She carefully put her slippers back on and slowly walked back to the side gate.

 As we tried to figure out what she might have been doing in our tank area, Husband jumped off his chair.

'Look!' He pointed to the kitchen window. 'She is walking back! With a chair this time?!'

I suddenly recognised the woman. It is our Malaysian neighbour, I thought.

'Well, go on then! Go ask what she wants?' husband encouraged me.

Why me? I wanted to know. Confronting a stranger in my back garden was not on my agenda for a relaxing Saturday morning.

Husband pointed out that he could not go. 'It might be rude and inappropriate for a man to ask her any questions'. Hmm, I thought. Either that, or the real reason is he is afraid she might actually be a stalker or a psycho of some sort, and is sending me out first to find out. But curiosity took over, and I peeped outside. Some excited voices were coming from the side path of the garden.

I walked around and saw my neighbour (I guessed correctly, even though I barely met the woman and never saw her outside before) and two other women, one of which I guessed to have been her maid and another-her daughter. The maid was holding a wicker chair up to the high concrete wall calling to a white fluffy cat who was clearly not that interested.

 'Vanilla!!! Vanilla!' she kept calling, offering the chair to the cat. I was relieved. The women did not look that scary. (Maybe a bit silly for thinking the cat was ever going to come down on that chair, but that's a personal opinion. I could be wrong about that as I am not a cat person, whatsoever.)

I cleared my throat in my most polite British manner.  'Khmm...Excuse me?' I called out and smiled, just in case. I did not want to make it obvious that I thought it was very bizarre for me to catch them standing in my garden, without having knocked on the door and informing me beforehand. They saw me and thought it was funny. They laughed- happily and openly and I could not help but laugh with them. 'The cat!' They shouted all together, pointing to Vanilla, who was successfully ignoring all of us.

Ah, OK, I said. What else could be said? I returned home, to a very curious Husband and his friend.

'So? what are they doing in our garden?'

 I explained.

' Strange, isn't it' I said thoughtfully. 'Why would she not knock on the door first before appearing in our back yard?'

'Well, she might have been embarrassed in case I opened the door?' Husband tried to be culturally sensitive and understanding. 'Maybe she should not be speaking to strange men?'  'Yes, I said, but what if you were sun-bathing in your garden? Now that would be an inappropriate encounter!'  True, we all agreed. But the truth is...when such different cultures clash, there is no simple explanation. What might be a natural thing for a British (or an Azeri turned British for that matter) might never occur to a person from a completely different part of the world. Perhaps, it was not the question of being shy or not allowed to speak to a man, but also the desire to not bother or disturb us that was the case? And when you try to understand, it almost makes sense.

The world of freebies.

So, does anyone know how old the Queen is? Because I don't. Neither do I care, to be honest. But, last night, I was enjoying myself immensely at the British embassy's celebration of that significant day.

Don't ask how come we got invited. This is the beauty of expat life. You get to go to some very random, bizarre events, and do some very random stuff. 

Oh, Britain, love. I thought my feelings for you dried out like an old prune, but really, it was just that our relationship is so much better with some distance between us. It is almost like comparing an affair with marriage. I had an exciting affair with you, and I thought I would be oh, so happy if only you married me and let me live with you. But then, after 12 years...I figured I was getting quite bored. So I left. And now, look at this! I went out on a date with you last night, and what a fantastic time did we have! Oh, you looked so handsome to me again! (Even with Boris Johnson present.) And I was so proud of you. I thought you were a great, sorry I mean Great place to be in a relationship with.

But, joking aside, the reception pleasantly surprised me. I thought I was going to a very boring place, full of incredibly boring people standing around in a circle listening to boring speeches and sipping cheap wine. However, the set up was pretty good. There was a band full of good-looking boys; and an elegant young girl playing a harp, and a bunch of very English cars on display...and, and and...most importantly (for me anyway) there was a lot of very nice food. And a whole table full of CHEESE! And ALCOHOL! Pimms! G&T! Vodka! Wine!

Also, very interestingly, there were NO chavs. None, whatsoever. It was like someone took all the very best there is about Great Britain and left behind everything I dislike.

Finally, the best part of all of that was that everything was totally and utterly FREE. 

And this is something I am beginning to really enjoy. Recently, I have noticed that in the past two months or so, I barely paid for anything. Whether a day at a spa in a 5-star hotel, or a splendid dinner at the Four Seasons...someone arranged it for me, or paid or invited...in any case, I ended up enjoying a few fantastic freebies. I got so used to it now, that I announced to Husband that I cant imagine paying for expensive things like that ever again.

Even right now, as I am telling you this, my face is relaxed and moisturised, the fine lines smoothed by Lancome skin expert who gave me a free mini-facial earlier this afternoon. It was part of Doha Mums Mother's day treat. I mean, did stuff like this happen to me in the UK? Ha! Never.

I have discovered this fantastic new joy in life- getting expensive things absolutely for free, and I am terrified how I could ever be expected to give it up now. The only way is up. More treats, please and more freebies!

Oh, and Britain...I still love you.

Why I would hate to try to date again.

I have been thinking recently, after some long chats over vino with a newly single girlfriend, that, despite the known fact that husbands can be incredibly annoying, it is still a good job that I am married. The girlfriend, beautiful, still quite young and very much, you know, datable; is now starting to date again after a few years off. Listening to her stories, I was shocked like an old lady who has just found out what young people get up to these days. Things that single people seem to be doing to attract the opposite sex are very different to what I personally would attempt to do, or find attractive in a man I was trying to date!

I mean, what’s up with all these photos of themselves taken with the smart phone in front of a full-length mirror? Unless you are a teenager, taking photos of yourself and sending them to your potential date is just pathetic, isn’t it? Especially if naked? And, according to my friend, sometimes not just naked but also…hmm…ready for action, so to speak? I am curious if this method ever works with any woman. Would someone actually feel aroused seeing such a thing sent to their phone from someone they barely knew?

That discussion made me think of the times when I almost went out with a guy. There were so many of these almost dates in my life that I am surprised I ever actually ended up with someone long enough to have his children.

Like this one time, when I met a handsome young man who I thought I quite liked. We exchanged email addresses at some party and, to my delight, the very next morning I came to work to find an email waiting for me. I got myself a cup of coffee and got ready for something pleasant to read first thing in the morning. Perhaps, I thought, it was an invitation out for a dinner? Or just a little note to say he was happy to have met someone so sophisticated and wonderful like myself. You know. Something along those lines.

But what I actually found was a photo. “Ha-ha!”, the subject line read.

“It made me think of you” was in the body. I opened the picture. At first glance, I did not even understand what it was that I was looking at. And then, as I realized, to my horror, what it was, I had to quickly delete the email and get away from my desk to get some fresh air. It was a photograph of a woman’s foot, wearing a stiletto shoe, standing on exposed man’s balls. It looked extremely painful, to say the least. And revolting at the same time.

Now, I wanted to know what made this stranger think I was into such stuff. I came back to my desk, and composed an email, where I informed him that he was very possibly the most weird man I had met until then in my entire life, and asked him what could have possibly prompted him to send this to me. Not simply send it to me, but also use my work email address.

Oh, he was very upset! He never meant for it to create such a reaction. He only viewed this as a symbol of feminism, he said. He thought I would appreciate this, being such an emancipated, sophisticated and modern woman that I was.

Yeah, right, I thought. F**** weirdo.

Needless to say, there were no more meetings or dates. The guy ended up marrying a girl I knew. I wanted to warn her at the time, but she was so excited about finally finding a man that I knew she would have never listened, or believed in my good intentions. They ended up divorced shortly after.

And there is this one guy who I actually was dating for a little while. I had quite fancied him, really, until he told me one night that he was into writing, too. Oh, really? I exclaimed. That is amazing. Let me read it!

'No!' he said. 'I am too embarrassed'.

The usual 'oh, come on, let me' followed with some more begging and asking until he confessed the short episode he had written was a bit erotic and about me.

Now, I was a bit unsure I wanted to read that. But yet, I had to.

Let me just say that any feelings of sexual attraction I felt towards that man were gone the second I saw his thoughts about me on the paper. It was such a huge turn-off that I cant think of anything else he could have possibly done or said that would have the same effect. It was disgusting. Yeeeuuw! I kept thinking. Yuck! I am sure that was not the reaction he had expected.

So yes, dating is hard. I have forgotten just how difficult it can be. Weird pictures, soft porn stories…And now, photos of themselves naked, posing in front of a mirror? I guess the reality is harsh. All normal men are either dead, gay or married. So, next time my husband is being annoying again, I will remind myself what I could be dealing with right now. Weird single middle-aged men, taking pictures of themselves with their iPhones.  What a nightmare. 

A few thoughts on expat friendships

You may find yourself in another part of the world

You may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile

You may find yourself in a beautiful house with a beautiful wife

You may tell yourself, this is not my beautiful house

You may tell yourself, this is not my beautiful wife

DAVID BYRNE

A long time ago a very close friend of mine hurt me. I was so shocked and upset it took me years to forgive her. But if I tried to explain to you now what had actually happened, it would sound very silly. You would think I must be overly sensitive to be upset about something so insignificant. Fine, I might be. But, after thinking it over and over again, I realized what it was that hurt me. It was not what she had said or done. It was the pain from having to admit to myself that, even though she was my best friend, it did not mean that I was the best friend to her.


Funnily enough, once I realized that, I found it quite easy to talk to her again. I would not want to never see her again, after years of friendship. Seemed a bit of a waste to me. So we sort of made up.  I just treated her as an acquaintance since then, not a good friend. And, looking at various girlfriend problems I might have had at various stages of my life, I am realizing that the times i got really upset were always for this very same reason: I thought we were closer friends than we really were.

And to be honest, I am just as bad at this as the people I am complaining about. I must sometimes send wrong messages to people I think I barely know, whereas they clearly expect me to be their good friend.

So I am just curious: Why, how does this happen? Is friendship basically the same as dating? Do we tend to send wrong or mixed signals to each other? Are there such concepts as exclusive friendship and a casual one? Are some people just trying to have some fun with us whereas we would like them to take things more seriously? Are they sometimes maybe looking for a weekend F*** buddy? Where F is for friend, not something else, yet you still feel as used and unworthy of a real relationship. And here is me thinking that I did not have to worry about all these things ever again, since I no longer am in the dating game.

Now, as an inexperienced expat, I had no idea how friendships develop when we are away from home. I thought I had. I already did this once, you know. I had to leave my home country and move somewhere completely different, and try to start all over again: building a circle of friends, and some sort of a social life for myself. And England was hard. England took time and effort to find good friends. In the end, I did pretty well.

But expat friendships are proving to be a completely different ballgame. A little while ago, a friend of mine got very upset as someone she thought was her good friend clearly decided to not see her again. For no apparent reason, whatsoever. (And not just her, in fact, but me, too! Difficult to imagine, right?)

And, after thinking of reasons why this girl decided to dump us, I realized that it must be something that just happens to some expat friendships.

To start with, we are all very different. We come from all sorts of bizarre countries and cultures. There are ways to avoid this complication. Some people, like the Irish guys I know in Doha, tend to stick together. It works for the Irish as I suspect, they like each other, and enjoy being Irish together.

Note: Now, that will definitely not work for me, since I don’t like many fellow Azeris and they generally don’t like me. Plus, I have a complication in the form of an English husband.

Then, there is a syndrome of the new arrival. We arrive feeling all enthusiastic, ready to make effort, extend our welcoming hands to new people who are all in the same boat…make wonderful friends, and be all happy together. Just like at university, as Husband pointed out, we spend the first few weeks making friends with anyone and everyone, only to then spend the following months trying to get rid of most of them.

Finally, we all know, deep in our hearts, that this, here is not our real life. These, here, are not our real friends. Tomorrow either we ourselves, or our fellow expat friends are going to go back home (to their real friends), or move on to another pretend life somewhere else where they will have to start all over again; and will maybe send us a few emails, but most probably will just Like our photos on Facebook- at the most.

And yet…In this imitation of the real life, with the substitute friends we surround ourselves with…I still tend to make the same mistake. It is like falling in love, you can’t help it. And, even knowing all of the above…I still treat people I like as real friends. Only to discover sometimes, that they don’t feel the same way. 

Teaching your child about cultural differences and respect.

I was over the moon this morning when my older girl used a Russian word. It is a biblioteka day, she said picking up her library book. 'Wow!' I said. 'How do you know that word?'

I was prepared to believe, naively, that she actually took a lot more in than she ever admitted to. Maybe, just maybe, she knew a lot of Russian words somewhere deep inside her head and they would suddenly start pouring out now?

'No, mummy', she quickly disillusioned me. 'It is in Spanish!'

'Guess what!? It is the same word in Russian!' I cried out enthusiastically, still hoping to make her want to speak my mother tongue.

'And in Polish, too!' She shouted out, running out of the door.

I sat in the car later on, thinking about her school, which I never fail to complain about. I was, however, having positive thoughts for a change. It is, however you look at it, pretty cool that, at the age of seven, my child has such an experience of the international community around her. Her school, with hundreds of different expats, creates this amazing environment where she just happens to know random foods, cultural habits and words of various world nationalities.

They also teach them about cultural differences, tolerance and respect for each other. And yes, sometimes she gets confused. She is only 7 after all, you know?

And that is when she needs her parents. To explain things that the teachers are either afraid to explain or present in the wrong light because it makes their lives easier.

'You know',- my daughter was telling me the other morning, munching on her favourite (very healthy of course!) breakfast option- a Nutella sandwich-'how we are all told it is a nut-free school, and nobody is allowed to bring Nutella sandwiches to school?...'

Here she paused, waiting for me to proove I was listening.

'Yes, I do know that.' I confirmed, tearing myself from Facebook.

'Well, a few Muslim kids keep bringing Nutella to school, and the teachers never tell them off! Ever! That is so unfair!

'Hold on a minute!' I said, laughing. 'What does Nutella have to do with them being Muslim?'

'Well, she said, looking slightly puzzled- 'Ms N. says we should not ask questions like this because it is their culture and we must be respectful to each other's culture and religion.'

'Hey, hey, hey!- I even got up from the chair. 'You go to school, and next time you see a child- whatever religion or country he belongs to!- eating Nutella at lunchtime, you go straight to Ms N. and you tell her that Nutella has nothing to do with religion or culture. Nutella is not like pork. ( My child at the age of 7 is also well aware of the sensitivities surrounding eating pork around the world. How cool is that??) Nutella is about allergies and the school rules about those. And the rules, you tell Ms N should be the same for everyone, no matter what culture, religion or country they come from'.

That is what I call being respectful. Respecting the rules. By everybody. Unless they are, of course, from a khm...khm...some  important family. In which case I can sort of see why the teachers might keep quiet. Because, as we say, all people are equal. But some people are more equal than the others.