Bargaining for Fake Barbies in the New Cold Medina

Before TRADE necessitated paper shuffling zombies entranced by cubicled computers…Before the era of coke addled Alpha males speed vomiting numbers over their stockBroke aspiring protégés…Before the likes of Carlton Crotchrockit picking up a phone to Anderson Samuelson, his former co-worker and golf partner, to simultaneously initiate and finalize the Wactel deal, there existed a world of merchants. Ports of call harbored multitudes of men buying and selling, buying and selling; through the day and into night.

Spices, Fabrics, Metals, Goats, Slaves…If it could be bought, it could be sold. And of course there were the Ladies, unique amongst the port's goods in that they could only be bought temporarily before resuming their place aside the Frankincense and Cardamom.

I, Enrico Ernesto, was in search of such a place.

While Vegas has become synonymous with Sluts & Slots, Dubai is gaining repute as the land of The Swank & Surreal. International media seem to boast of a new custom built island on a weekly basis. Images of skyrocketing glass & instant oasis' dominate the P.R. blitz. European designers and London prices are forcing the global community of swanky surrealists to get their islands at partially built island prices. Yes, yes…it may look like a squirrel turd now, but please wait, because soon you will have your very own replica of the great nation of Luxembourg. You will show all your friends. Yes. This was not the Dubai I came in search of.

The problem with being a poor white man in a non-white world is that everyone thinks you have money. And a small pee-pee. You are white, surely you must want your own island. Look, sir, no need to colonize. You have no more to kill or enslave. We have special island just for you. Very good price. Yes. I don't want an island. I don't want a hotel room on the 73rd floor where my personal Indian butler will hand cut my testicular hair while the 94" Plasma screen offers voice activated controls to select my evening meal, via live satellite feed, of course. I am just looking for the bus. Surely, there must be a bus in Dubai. You are funny sir. Very funny. Yes indeed. You don't want bus. Please, let me take you good place. No man from India to cut hair on special area, but quite good. Yes.

The Rich require services. Services their Penthouse neighbors won't provide. People to sweep their rugs & brush their ball hair. Somebody to open the pantry door. Another to remove the box. And a third to cook it. And of course, mortal hands are still building those shiny towers. These people don't take taxis. They'd probably walk if their pay didn't prohibit it. This system is not unique to Dubai. All large metro areas require some version of a motorized cattle car to transport the Pawns. The trick as a foreigner: Finding It.

Walk away from the airport in any major city, and just keep walking. Out the automatic doors, away from the paparazzi of cabs, past the waiting cars, and eventually you'll come across a motley crew of people, most of them having never been inside those large flying machines. They usually appear to have been ejected from a large commercial dryer, halfway before the timer stopped. Will the bus come today? Nobody knows when, but patience has taught them that it eventually comes. Doesn't everything?

He came from the Indian state of Karnataka. The lure of opportunity, that hallowed American bedrock, translated into "more chances to win more dough" was the elixir that sequestered my new BusBuddy.

From where do you come?

I from America.

And just like that, the accent began. A misfiring synapse transmitter. Lost neurons. Maybe a desire to seem equal. Partial retardation. Not sure. But like family Christmas reunions, the trauma was back.

Ah yes. Good country. Your people are good people. Only people from America give me tip.

We are teach this at birth. When exit mother with no problem, father put cash in doctor pocket. Baby sees this and no forget. Sometime, parent, when baby get bigger, give tip every week to child for keeping his room clean. Maybe for flushing after making big poop. Or even if tooth come out of mouth.

Ah yes. I like your country. Maybe one day, I will go. But now, I look for better job. No pay nothing here.

Ponteril, or some name similar, had been working in Dubai less then five months as a room attendant at the airport Hotel. Room rates started at $300 a night but he was bringing home around $170 a month. All workers in Dubai are required to have a contract. These contracts stipulate they have a one year work agreement mandating 6 days a week and 9 hours a day. Currently, no kidney donation is required. If the employee completes said contract successfully, he, or she, is allowed a 30 day break before being granted another work invitation. That sounds so sweet…hey honey, guess what I just got in the mail. An invitation to clean. I'm so excited, I'm going to start washing our sheets RIGHT NOW. I'll be back in a year, but don't worry, I'll send home money every month. Live. Oh, I'll be fine. I only have to share a room in a small one bedroom apartment with 14 other people, and I will have enough to eat something and send you the rest.

His story would be repeated several times over the next few days, but never with the slightest hint of bitterness.

There it was. The new Global CrossRoads. A physically active United Nations of trade. Thousands of Kofi Annans in red sateen suits and fake alligator skin boots. Mustachioed Indians in linen pyjamas. Or were they Pakistani? Gulf Arabs in an assortment of head dressed sheik hats and long flowing robes. More Black men smiling brightly in their colorful dashikis. The poetic Farsi of the Iranians sank into the harsh idiom of the Russians. Mullah Omar look-a-likes played nicely with secular Turks. The Chinese appeared sporadically like purple elephants on LSD, double checking that their plan for World Domination was near completion. Men in small shops overflowing with product were greeting their visitors who sailed freely from one portal to the next. Walls stacked 10 feet high with bars of soap. Or plastic dolls that piss on command. Or cheap batteries. Power drills. Blankets. Oh my, so many different blankets. And enough fabric to halt Global Warming and contain Al Gore's ego. There were stores full of dancing monkeys. And inferior quality knapsacks. Gold. Diamonds. Even a ruby or two. Perfume stock to guarantee the planetary elimination of that rotting Italian bologna smell from the shower deprived. If it could be made, fit on small boat, and pass Arab Porn Control (apparently, one question from the U.A.E. state licensing board for admission into the esteemed Porn Control division of Customs asks potential candidates to decipher which of the following items are currently banned under the Anti-Perversion and Repression Act of 1982: Cosmo Magazine Cover, Packaging for Land O' Lakes Butter, and a Zucchini. Answer: All of the above), then it was for sale.

The Dubai I sought. Alive and kicking, just like the baby I saw in the dumpster. This was not the city of Al-Jazeera. Nor was she the home of Portly Pale faced Pretension, sipping ostracized daquiris in the looming shadows of mirrored phallic monsters. No Sheiks in Bronzed Land Rovers slurping melted Dom Perignon condensation from the siliconed breasts of imported Swedish nannies. Sure, these things all exist in the metropolis of SurrealSwank. But there is that one sector, the one which assures Dubai solvency in the face of disappearing petrol, and here she lay.

Encounter upon encounter, traders would confess a desire for more business in their homeland, but that didn't seem to stop one Kenyan's purchase order for a thousand stuffed frogs that burped at a button's touch. In pre-paper currency days, these men were known as Traders. Today, where no one is down with the P.P.C., we tend to confer the title of 'Buyers' and 'Sellers.' No more. The notion of exchanging paper notes for a container full of poorly made Hello Kitty backpacks , as well as other such deals, shall be referred to by the romantic, 'Trader.'

These Traders, the self selected Conveyors of Style for the global majority, seemed to have no need for Four-Wheel drive baby carriages, or stainless steel kitchen appliances, or universal weight training machines. They did want IPODS, and laptops, but also crates full of fabric, and perfume by the gallons. Blankets, too. So many god damn blankets. Maybe it was some kind of new weight loss program. One Egyptian man was buying 75 varieties of animal emblazoned blankets. His stock showed a slight bias in Tiger faces over Eagle wings.

Isn't it too hot in Egypt for those warm blankets?

No problem. My people will like. Maybe use for car or window.

Why you not buy some Elephant ones. I think these will sell much in Egypt. People are upset that other African countries stole their elephants.

Yes. You make good point. I get 10, maybe it is ok.

You want to buy a winter coat?

How much you ask?

It was like a game show where the smarmy host bequeathed upon some rural tractor mechanic a set sum of money and a 24 hr. deadline to return back with the maximum amount of goods his money could buy. If successful, the hapless honky would win a trip for two to Orlando, Florida and a new sofa. If he should fail, the derision of his local bar mates would drive the dejected John Deere Dappler into a life long state of shame and end-of-the-bar exile.

In and out of the shops, nothing was dormant. Even empty stores produced middle age balding men on large cordless telephones. They may not have been discussing business, but at least they looked busy. And that's what the Port Pervert wants to see.

Meanwhile, as the Marco Polo fantasy played out, eyes continued to track me down. Dubai holds as one of the few non-anglo cities a white devil can wander without becoming a ridiculed celebrity, tracked constantly like a black man on a Mississippi Golf Course. Nobody cares what you look like or who you are in the trading sector of Dubai. Surrounded by the homogenous fabric fascist culture of Arabia, Trader's Dubai is an island of racial ambiguity, ignored under the crush of incessant activity. So what the fuck were these monkeys looking at?

Was it the "I'm an INFIDEL" t-shirt? My guardian Angel, Millie. The protruding nose hair. Something lower. They kept looking down. Then smirking. Or wincing. My impish ankles. Were they too revealing? Ah. So that was it. Midgets from Mongolia can stroll unnoticed, but a respectable looking white man can't have painted toe nails?

There I was, surrounded by a majority of Arabs and Indians, members of the most sexually repressive cultures on Earth. People are always joking about the high numbers of latent gays in both cultures. And its worthy of a snicker. Until you are the desired object of affection. The only women in sight were black ghosts, honoring Mohammed in man's utter ignorance of her existence. But me, cheaply produced Chinese heir to Marco Polo, was a sitting duck for some late night Emirati Emission. It only got worse. As I froze in recognition of my sandal peering art work, further peeved by my poor choice in masculine color, the stares multiplied, like the panicked peak of some accidentally swallowed hallucinogen, and I realized, "I've got to get some friggin' toe polish remover."

Stores full of useless crap. Surely, somebody would have toe polish remover. Unless the Indians were using curry to get off that Hot Magenta polish, this should have been pretty easy. But just like landing in Paradise after the bomb went off, 70 virgins are not as easy to satisfy as one would assume.

Weren't you here looking at blankets and talking to somebody before?

Yeah. But I need toe polish remover.

What is this toe polish remover?

Something to take paint off of toe nails.

I no understand.

Look.

[Laughter] {repeat…}

Apparently, traders don't need supermarkets, and no one seems to be demanding a container of toe polish remover in the former Belgian Congo. Well…one way to have an adventure, or to simply learn about a new environment, is to give yourself an errand. Normally, it should be something obscure, like an exact size metal snap to fit your vintage suitcase. The simple pursuit of this object will ensure you encounters that would never take place if you hadn't insisted on closing that trunk without deflating your doll.

Distributors of perfumes and body oils kept sending me to other distributors of perfumes and body oils until I knew the entire quadrant. I had been offered a variety of expensive lotions, but I just needed a tiny bottle of ninety-nine cent rubbing alcohol. Where was the Dollar Store when you really needed one?

Sizing up character is a key ingredient to survival amongst strangers. Any university student who passed his macroeconomic exam by cheating off the nearest Asian kid can attest to that.

Eyeglasses, a rock-band t-shirt, young, and employee of a computer repair shop. I found my concierge. Another guy appeared from behind the 8 foot stack of flash memory drives. Portly and personable, his competing MTV stylings only further guaranteed success.

Moss and Idie, as they preferred to be known, were a pair of twenty-two year old guys who actually had family in Dubai, and spoke the Queen Latifah's English. Not exactly full blooded Bedouin, but products of the multi-cultural society. Moss, especially. Born to the daughter of a South African immigrant from 50 years previous, and an Iranian merchant, Moss had grown up within the new Dubai mosaic. He spoke nine different languages. NINE! Most of us struggle with one. Playing with children from different parts of the world he assimilated both their idioms and physical nuances. On command, he would change from fluent English into southern India's Tamil while helping a couple upgrade their digital camera. He even mimicked their gyrating head nod. As they left, he mocked the Tamils for their usual frugality. Two men approached the shop. One with a red checkered turban and one with a white turban and heavy cloth robe. He immediately identified one as Saudi and the other as a local policeman, who most likely had partial roots in Iran. An Egyptian man played with used computers on the countertop as Moss spoke fluent Arabic. He later claimed to have used specific Nile based slang to secure the customer's purchase. But that didn't stop him from mocking the Egyptian insistence on using Windows 98. He said that's why their country can't advance cause they keep training there people on outdated software. The Indian looking man looking for a hard drive was probably his best performance. He switched between four different subcontinent dialects before finding the connection. Tough crowd though, as the prospect merely continued the conversation without the faintest hint of glee that some non-Indian guy spoke his language. No purchase.

The toe polish hunt had led to a dissertation on Dubai society. Moss often celebrated the holidays of other cultures as he grew up with friends from around the world. He openly laughed at the Emirates free-flow of cash to their very own, which included $30,000 payments to local blood who married their own ilk. He knew the courts were sketchy and a local would always be guaranteed more pay then he would probably make. Some native sons had so much spare cash that the government would auction off license plates with different numbers on them, since those numbers were considered more desirable. Winning bids had been as high as a million dollars. The government cared about business, and free download sites were among the hardest to access. In an overt display of political correctness' failings, he unleashed on sharp comedic bits that mocked every nationality to pass the shop. One particular bit had a Kuwaiti getting beat up by a Syrian. The Kuwaiti got his friend from Turkey to help trounce the Syrian. In the end, the three of them (played by one) were on top of each other, each one trying to penetrate the other. But then, He could fill you in on the nuances of those cultures, and harbored no apparent scorn for any of them. Moss only did what humans have always done: casually deride those different from themselves. But with one key difference - his neighboring assimilation provided him the intrinsic knowledge that no cultural idea ever threatened his own, but at times seemed to strengthen it. People are people, he said emphatically. Every groups got assholes, but they're all fine, especially those Lebanese Christians, if you know what I mean.

What do you want toe polish remover for anyway? Don't put that stuff on your keyboard. That's something a Somali would do.

Look.

Yeah. What's the big deal. This is not your American South. Nobody gets hung here. Leave it. Not sure about your color, but it's fine.

His advice was normally my own, but somehow that rugged American individualism was hiding. Maybe it was a case of minority syndrome, like a brutha trading in his oversized Iverson jersey for a tucked-in Izod. Or, it was those three Arab guys, intensely giggling, as they scanned over me. MUST GET POLISH REMOVER.

The warm Persian Gulf air was beginning to chill. Wolf Blitzer was nowhere to be found. The Moon was trading shifts with the Sun. And the odds of getting a meat kebab in my rimhole had not decreased. There was one place amongst the Gold & Plastic that I had not entered. The Pharmacy.

A smiling Indian man played pharmacist behind the raised platform counter. The thickness of his mustache ensured honesty. And a lack of clientele ensured minimal mockery.

I'm looking for some toe polish remover.

What do you want to remove?

Paint from toes.

But why?

Its for my wife. She is sick in bed and wants something to do.

Yes. Ok. Here. {Relieved, I graciously accept} From where do you come?

Further conversation revealed that he had been living in Dubai for the past 20 years. He went home every year to spend time with his family before returning. He had been present to see Dubai's meteoric growth from trading port to trading mecca. Yet, he said despite rapid population growth, and a further increase in the number of nations who did business there, crime was rare, and there was always work for people. He thought the Emirate's tough rule on crime and deportation coupled with the immigrants need for money kept things docile. Meanwhile, as we discussed life in Dubai, my eyes were continually drawn to the glass showcase.

Do I need a prescription to buy Viagra?

No. You can buy as much as you need. How much you want?

I don't use it. Not yet. I was just curious.

At this point, I thought maybe he was the guy who kept spamming me about discounts for bulk Viagra under such catchy subject headings as "Fuk longer, Increase stamina, satisfy woman now." This was it. Fate's cruel twist. I was Not in Dubai to wander and talk amongst modern day Traders. Nor was I meant to clean off my unmanly toe polish. I flew 9,000 miles to meet the man who would forever alter my sexual life. My Personal Pusher of Penile enlargement. My very own Ganesh in the flesh. The Satisfying Shlong Swami. Finally. I could cancel my yoga classes with Guru Bob. Destiny had accelerated me straight to the uppermost ranks of Hindi Holy Men.

Oh. You are so silly, my friend. I do not sell on the internet. Only here for local customer.

I wrote down one of the catchy headlines on a piece of paper in case he was being audiotaped.

I am so sorry, but I do not understand. What does meaning, 'Faster,Harder,Longer, 70 percent off'. Are you needing a prescription?

Nono. You didn't write that. Many many times and send to me. Everyday. For 5 years.

I assure you sir, I am not writing such things. Would you like me mail you something?

Beginning to smell a false prophet, I sensed that maybe the pharmacist was being honest. I should probably re-enroll with Guru Bob and take the hard way.

I think maybe you are thinking you are special. Look at you. Look at yourself. You are a young man, but you can not be young for so much longer. Men who are fifty and sixty, even older, they will be needing such thing, and so will you. [at this point, the pharmacist, dressed business casual but without the long white lab coat, began to simulate a dog procreating]
You see, now is not so easy for me. And soon, I will be wanting these pills. Many many people wanting.

I decided that I liked this man. He may not be ordained my swami holy man by thou who ordains such, but any man, especially a pharmacist on duty, willing to simulate sexual acts of human like creatures is a friend of mine.

I was invited to sit. And so it went, a couple of hours in a Dubai pharmacy, watching Traders succumb to modern medicine while The Dispenser engaged me between customers.

Two black men had just left.

You see the man over there who had no paper, he is from Somalia. I tell by his accent and the sandals that he wear. And the other, he is from Ethiopia. They speak better English then other Africans here and are very kind. Not like Nigerians. Very rough people.

With alcohol hard to come by, the Pharmacy was becoming an Islamic Cheers.

Each exiting customer was followed with a comment on their nationality, why their drug of choice may have been wrongly prescribed, and miscellaneous local yarns.

Over 100 nationalities were rumored to co-exist here. Sultan of the Medicine Cabinet claimed a ready availability of jobs promised people were off the streets and contributing. A reliance on labor that earned substantially more then home promised commitment. And a tough deportation policy that promised exile upon criminal conviction kept workers straight, and apparently far happier then the Stalinist Commy approach.

A young lanky man sporting a unibrow and a semitic nose joined the Guru of the Dispense behind the counter. His complexion was European but his ill fitting jeans spelled Eastern European, 1989. His broken English revealed that a dismal Syrian economy, and a recent pharmacy degree from Moldova (an interesting example of the sub-country brain drain when one economically poor country sends a worker to a nation only slightly less poor) forced him to attempt life in Dubai. My Swami was the first Indian man he had ever seen, and he continued to be surprised by the variety of Human available to him in this new territory. In an attempt to differentiate himself from the Indian, he immediately made it known that he was available for importation into the United States.

You will probably work at the CVS, or maybe the Walgreens. Depends on Homeland Security and your ability to understand the new Medicare plan.

What is this CVS and this Wall of Greenz?

We only have two pharmacies in America but they each have over 10,000 locations so don't worry.

And the difference? Which one I like more? I think, maybe the Wall of Greenz.
Sound like place to make money.

The main difference is probably the employee break room. One time, I accidentally walked into the CVS break room, and I was impressed with their selection of heating devices which included a microwave, toaster/oven, and sandwich press. Plus they had ample reading material if you forgot your own. Walgreens probably has peeling paint, broken chairs, and 8 year old copies of Ebony magazine. Otherwise, the two stores are identical.

You say break. I think you mean eating. I very much like to eat in room. In my country, and here also, only eating here at desk. No have special place. And I want making of sandwich. This I must have. I think must be very good job in America to have such thing.

At this point in conversation, a foreigner from an immigrant desirable nation is urged to quickly change topics lest you give false hope to the hopeful. And you oughta be thankful you come from a land where Jordache jeans are no longer legal.

So, have you found some places in Dubai that you like, maybe something much different then Syria?

There are many places. Nice beach. The shopping centers. And the hor. She is beautiful. You will love the hor. This is special in Dubai.

What? You found a whore that you think I should visit. {was he serious?}

Yes. Please. I think the whore is most beautiful. She have a park and you can ride on her too. Very nice ride.

Thinking I was still misunderstanding, I had to ask one more time. He said it with such a straight face I figured maybe somebody told him that was the polite way of saying 'prostitute.' Plus, I was still de-traumatizing from an episode months earlier in which I falsely accused an acquaintance of calling me a 'cocksucker,' when in fact she had merely asked if I was a cot snuggler.

If I go to the whore, and I ride on her, do I have to pay much money? For the whore.

No. Whore is free. Everybody can look at whore. No problem. But to ride cost 2 dirham. But private ride more money.

Where was he getting this euphemism for 'sex' from?

So if I only pay 2 dirham for ride with whore, this means other people will share my ride. But how many people will whore take? Can not be more then 4 or 5. I saw a movie once with many more but this was a professional.

Nono. I promise you. You will like. If you want private, ok. You get private. But I always share and she is very pretty.

The element of surprise is always there. In new cultures among new people one must be prepared. But this…a kind faced young Syrian pharmacist looking to advance his noble career who openly proclaims his love for hired Sex. Maybe the Viagra Vishnu got him hooked. I felt like this neophyte upon the world economy was dooming himself to a life in Jordache selling flatbread in the Syrian countryside.

Look. I am telling you this as a friend. New friends, ok? Whores are a part of life. But you have only been here three months. You are handsome, educated, and appear to be European. Women will sleep with you for free. So maybe you have to talk more with them then the whore, but its not so bad. Really. I just don't want to see you spend all your money on this whore and end up broke, back home with no future.

I no understand. It is ok. I do not ride on whore too many times. I work over here in Old City. I don't always have to time for ride. But you should go. Really. She is very nice. Maybe favorite thing to do here.

Meanwhile, the Indian man swiftly re-directed an Egyptian's need for anti-inflammatories to anti-histamines in fluent Arabic before rapidly changing to his native tongue for an elderly trader who apparently lost his eyeglasses or something up around his face.

Night had fallen and the foot traffic seemed to be slowing. The pharmacy should really be serving beer. So many people like to complain about their health problems and the only difference between a pharmacist and a bartender is that the former holds an actual degree in intoxicating substances. Imagine, going down to your local RX, and instead of waiting in some chair with a malfunctioning blood pressure machine for your prescription to be filled, you got a cold one and started bitching about your arthritis to a lady nearby who countered with a "Well, you should have seen mine act up during my grandkid's birthday, it was terrible, I tell ya, terrible". Then you both said, "cheers to that", and the pharma-tender doled out a tale about a man with arthritis so bad that he lived on morphine and couldn't communicate with his kids cause he was high all the time. The cocktail maker then went on performing an over-the-counter trick in which he removed his shoulder from it's socket.

All this talk of whores and pills and imagined alcoholic consumption was making me antsy. Where does one go out around here?

The Syrian spoke out. You should go to the mall. Mall of the Emirates. Here is where most people go on Saturday night.

I am not looking for your whore, though. Ok. Just want to see what people are doing in the night time.

This is not near the whore. Very far from her.

One should probably look nice when going out in Dubai. Being upscale muslim and all. What do classy male muslims wear?

Slacks. Actually, this is daytime attire as well. So, off to the slack shop. There was a whole street of 'em. Shorts will no longer be allowed. According to Koranic scholars, Mohammed did not enjoy the viewing of either sexes lower limbs. Nor did he permit shorts in Club Medina. However, girls under 18 were allowed in free.

Do you have a dressing room where I can try these on?

Hi. Yes. The man downstairs said you have someplace I can put these on.

But that is not a dressing room, are you sure it is ok?

With the toe polish yet to be removed and a broom closet missing a door, another 'note to self' was about to occur. Wearing underwear is appropriate on certain occasions: Frying chicken in the nude. Giving a presentation to the Board, after a lunch hour break at the Strip Club. Going to your Doctor. Expecting a last minute swim in a clothing required hotel pool. Trying on used clothing and rental tuxes. And a new one can now be added: Getting dressed in a doorless cubicle located in the confines of a Muslim country.

Many would think that a simple solution would be to check for oncoming traffic, drop 'em and slip on the new pair. Seconds. No biggie. Well, if you've ever seen a horror film, you should be well acquainted with the 'failing to start car syndrome.' Yeah, sure, anybody with sober balance can quickly remove and hike up a pair of slacks. But try doing that under the scornful eye of the most sexually repressed religion on Earth. Maybe it was nerves. Maybe I imagined the detestful eye of Mohammed lurking in the cracked ceiling tiles. I don't know how or why, but somehow, I managed to fall. The first leg went in no problem. But the second leg got stuck. Probably in the crotch area, which was unusually narrow. Who cares. I was on my knees in some makeshift utility room, my hairy bottom prostrating toward Mecca and my toes hanging out in the hall. Not good. It was either go to jail, or learn what my Gay friends have been bragging about all these years. Neither one was an option. I rolled around on the floor like a chick putting on jeans three sizes too small and prayed to Shamoo, my other guardian angel, to shield me from the impending doom. Seconds ticked like hours. Somehow, just as the footsteps were approaching, my feet untangled, and I rose in my new dark purple slacks. The clerk passed by and nodded approvingly. I was now a Muslim.

Shopping malls somehow managed to do the impossible: pair the most banal of sports with the most banal architecture and, voila'…the ultimate in suburban banality. Removing the need to constantly re-expose yourself to the elements, the fresh air, the street sounds, the sidewalk musicians playing instrumental versions of 'Moondance', the surprise stock and endearing personality of independent merchants and replacing that with an enormous funeral casket, bustling with gangs of roving teens sporting matching antiestablishment slogans, men by the dozen holding purses on prefabbed wooden benches, and, well, the Food Court. No shopping experience is complete without a $6 slice of Sbarro and a Haagen Daz milkshake. Is this really what Dubai aspired too?

11:30 p.m. The gangs of roving teens were wearing tight fitting black sheets with colorful lace trim around the face opening, giving peeks of their newly applied rogue. This was rebellion. Mothers in saris chased after renegade children. And men..oh the men here shopped. Some carried more bags then the women. No man holds purse around here. Maybe he grabs hold of a cock or two in his spare time. But in public, there will be no purse holding. Shopping. This was what the locals due. Turbans, Djellebahs, Sheik costumes, Dashikis, pyjamas, suits, the occasional western wear. The city didn't stop shopping. People bought and sold all day, so what better way to celebrate, then Saturday night at the Mall. The Syrian Whore lover was right. The mall is where it's at.

The mall supermarket could envelop two super wal-marts. Each variety of fruit had at least 6 different countries of origin. Each food aisle appealed to a different ethnic group. No pork though. You are not going to succeed in life without pork. Just ask the Chinese, and the reformed Jews. Appliances, cars, furniture, motorcycles, electronics. It was all available and people liked what they saw.

One local explained to me that we are used to this style of shopping in the West. But they are not. He admonished me for thinking that people here should enjoy shopping in more primitive environments They may wear certain traditional clothing, but they wanted to get a 1/2 kilo of cucumbers and a 6 cycle washer just like me. I explained we use the 'pound' system of weights but to no avail. The mall was here to stay and I better get used to it.

If a shopping mall does teach you one thing about the heart of a nation, it's their ability to improvise upon a pre-existing idea. What could Dubai do upon a Mall, which the land of Malls, America, has not done before?

In the middle of the desert, amazing feats have occurred. Moses conversed with a burning bush. Mohammed shot up to heaven on a mule with wings. A camel was sodomized by an Arabian dwarf. And the Emirates built an indoor ski mountain complete with a woodcrafted Swiss chalet overlooking the 'Run.'

Snowboarders came careening down the 200 meter desert ice mountain before grinding to a halt just below the boozeless après-ski lounge of Al-Alps. But no woman in full black ghost regalia could be spotted. No, these fashion warriors were sent to their very own hill. The Sledding hill. And on said hill, once could watch girl after girl, black sheet plastered, eyes out loud, sliding merrily into desert snow. Sure, this was a true sign of progress. Both economically and socially. It's been every progressive Islamist's dream that one day all children of the desert would have a place to enjoy the cooler climes of their Infidel adversaries to the WEST. A place where their choking and sexless black smocks could tangle up under their sleds as they laughed at the joy which is snow. But, hey, SwankySurreal it was.

This could not be the only evening event of Dubai high life. In the hypermarket, I even saw the omniscient sign of a city's nocturnal credibility, "TIMEOUT" magazine. Surely, there were some people in the throes of the Neon Wilderness. But if not at the Mall, then where?

A hip looking Filipina girl in an upscale women's boutique would know. Appearing detached and concerned in equal measures, she directed me toward the hotel scene. They harbored the discos and bars. Trying to engage her, I prodded her about the seemingly endless signs asking for "Filipina waitresses." I had recently eaten in an authentic Iranian restaurant complete with fresh Pomegranate Juice. That's how I knew it was authentic. No one else makes that. But I was thrown off by a wait staff full of Filipinos. Nothing against them. They're lovely people. A wonderful combination of Spanish, Asian, and American. Could any other people be so charming, demure, and pushy all at the same time? No, my prejudice was against not getting the full native service. In America, it's quite common to see Asian restaurants, especially Japanese, pass off Mexicans and native south Americans as Asian. Ok. Technically, they may have crossed the Bering Strait thousands of years ago, but this argument is not valid at my table. Imagine a quiet Japanese girl serving you fries and a shake at a loud Diner, or watching an Indian guy toss your Pizza in the air. Maybe some highschool Goth chick at a Thai place. Food racism has validity. Our taste buds enhance flavor when we think our food is coming from the motherland. Sure, most kitchens are full of the cheapest immigrant labor available but unless the john is located next to the stove, it don't matter, cuz we ain't gonna see it. The concerned girl became quickly detached. Maybe because many muslim women no working. We speaking English and good serving. You go to this Hotel. Very good.

Disneyfied modernism. Suburban architectural design sensibility. Whatever you want to call it. A faux Moorish style fort, or was it a palace, bisected by Venetian canals and mini dhow gondolas. Well dressed adults, of varying nationalities, walked quietly along the quarried stone corridors, courteously lined with designer boutiques. No need to visit that overbearing shopping mall. Perhaps that is some kind of apocalyptic sign, when the alternative for something banal surpasses it's competition in banality. Alright, fine. Maybe the author is some kind of grunge snob, preferring chaos to civility, vintage to varnish, and one other comparable with two words beginning with the same letter. But the more I strolled the pleasantly pallid hallways, the more I began to miss the cacophony of Old Dubai. The Filipina salesclerk was right, a small smorgasboard of watering holes and dancing bays anchored the complex. Each one complete with that perfect brochure shot: sophisticated looking couples chatting idly at a non-intimacy violating table distance. Bars forsaken for private corners. Dancefloors empty, waiting to swallow their first victim, as the score-card sharks circled aimlessly in pursuit of discobait. Bedouin canopies protected the booze of modern day nomads. Giggles erupted over sparkling new hookahs. You're such a pussy. Stop your demented elitism. Would it make a difference if the clientele wore robes and turbans? Is that your problem? Listen, inner voice, go fuck yourself cause it was all about the energy. Don't you get it. Dead. Cold. Like walking into an Amish funeral with a Keg & 3 strippers. You just didn't fit. Get over yourself and your ill-fated attempts at literary styling. You want to meet Dubai. You want to see what's up. Then go sit down and make a friend. But I already found my corner. Don't you remember? Back when we started writing this thing. Traders and Ports. I came in with a bias against the new, what the hell did you expect? What did I expect? I expect an open-mind. The same mind that confronted coodie revulsion at the glue & snot eating epidemic ripping through the second grade with a "sure, why not, let me try some of that" attitude. The same open mind that confronted a pre-existiing skepticism against formulaic dancing with the best rendition of an uncoordinated white man doing the Macarena that Cancun has ever seen. The remaining staff at Carlos n' Charlies are still talking about it. So, what's it going to be? Since when did a lack of single female patrons inhibit you? That's not why you came here and you know it.

I chose the club with the most barriers to entry. 4 brawny bouncers, dressed for Prom with Coach's clipboard in hand. A trio of sultry hostesses, and a moat of velvet ropes. My intention was not to fool that bastard child of an inner voice by setting up a guaranteed denial, but rather to test a personal dictum: White Men are given priority status in Non-White Nations. Normally, the nations were formally colonized but not always. This dictate holds greater cause for alarm since your author has been shown to private executive offices in West Africa, granted line cutting privileges in South America, allowed entry onto sold-out Indonesian ferries, and excitedly given invite for dinner among the upper class of India. Oh, all while sporting long hair, scruffy face, and torn t-shirts. I approached the Gaggle of Entry Judges with confidence and purpose. Smiles were emitted flirtatiously for the women and cocksure for the men. The clipboard cynicism of the lone European was overruled by the remaining three Arabs. The clips undone. The Velvet Vagina Barrier lifted. Free vessel passage granted.

Karl was a gregarious Bavarian. He welcomed me as the second occupant of the 40 person bar. A marketing consultant for one of the myriad developments ripping through the sand, Karl was eager to learn my fair trade. Maybe Dubai is more well-integrated then I thought. He saw nothing strange with my being a distributor of large plastic dolls that made wee-wee. In fact, he even offered to email me a contact if I had shipping difficulty. So the two sides of the town do interact. When in town, all liederhosen were off, and Karl was ready to play. This complex was among his favorites, as it normally offered him a chance to cut loose after a hard day promoting seaside penthouses. His favorite victims appeared to be vacationing daughters visiting their ex-patriated executive fathers. Especially during Christmas time. Allegedly, Daddy had to work in the morning, and the girl needed a night out. The wealthy confines of the hotel-plex offered security. And the roving bratwurst promised instant company. He was nice. Perhaps in desperation of company, but nice. Canadian nice. I hate Canadian nice. But not Canadian earnest. He wasn't that, Thank Allah. He shared enough giddy perversions to guarantee him denial at the Maple Leaf Advisory Board. Maybe I was some kind of cultural freak snob. Here I was, in fine company, with a good German man. And not any German man, but a Bavarian man. Two men bonding. But my mind was elsewhere. Like a mistakenly dismissed lover appearing in the faces of all new encounters, Karl kept appearing darker, swathed in a flowing robe and ornate headdress, his cocktail replaced by a small cup of tea, and his almost impeccable English surrendered to a barely decipherable pidgin. Slowly, my mind began to drift, leaving the Babbling Bavarian, magic carpeting my thoughts across town, to ride alongside the ceaseless street hustle of freaky dashikis and turbaned tunics.

The coup was complete. With the inner voice deposed and Mr. Schnitzel Socks left in the company of a visiting PoshSpice clone, White Meat was departing for the Dark side.

1st. 2nd. 3rd. Which world does your country belong? Well, there is an easy test. One that has recently passed the rigid standards of the United Nations High Commission on World Placement, sponsored by UNESCO. If your homeland does not have color coded taxis, and patrons are forced to entrust ordinary looking, which is to say 'dilapidated and gracefully rusting', vehicles to taxi services, and those vehicles range from broken plywood floor flatbed trucks to exhaust jizzing mopeds, interspersed with the occasional Communist sedan, then…CONGRATULATIONS. You and your patriarchal soil have won a coveted place in the Third World. If your taxis have some sort of decipherable color scheme and employ working meters, then I apologize. You are deemed a First World Nation. You may pass GO, but you have to pay 1% of your Gross Domestic Product to the 3rd World. However, if you choose to do so, you may still pass GO by neglecting to pay and simply offering those formally educated in the 3rd World the glamorous position of Meter Arbiter in your 1st World. If you so choose, you can either promote those of the 2nd with funds to properly meter, or you can systematically work with fellow 1st worlders to ensure that those in the 2nd are never, ever, ever able to accurately meter those they take for a ride.

Dubai is no longer a desert outpost of Koranic camel turd and roofless mud huts. It's at the forefront of making the High Commission declare a new world, to be known officially as: 1+. And it's not because of the soaring economy or chic skyscrapers. Their meters are awesome. GPS equipped with large screen fare and mileage Read-outs. A menu bar offers services that are yet to be determined. Knight Rider's K.I.T. is finally available at 1/8 of a Mile rates.

The ride back was far more talkative then the bus ride out. The tuxedoed disco staff must have missed that or my "It's a white man, he's got money" scheme would have never worked. The Happy Pakistani was pure praise of the growing city. He felt confident in the ruling authority's tough crime procedure on 'guest workers' and felt that one month home a year was currently sufficient to spend with his wife and two small children. He was pulling in $600 a month and sending $450 of that home. He also praised the way of Islam, and continued far longer then desired on the merits of Muslim-dum. Apparently, expressing my deep rooted belief in the occult was of no consequence to the Prophet Preaching Pakistani. I kept looking at his world class meter, hoping for a revelation. Or a re-run of that episode when K.I.T. was demonized by his evil twin. Finally. An opening. His cell phone rang. No, no. Please answer it. The Proph would expect no less of a modern man. Arabic and giggling. Ok. What's up. He was suppose to meet his friend at 2, but she was pushing back their meeting till 4. Oh yeah. Now we have something.

So, who is this friend?

She is one friend of mine. She is working in Dubai.

You meet her for tea and maybe discuss your day.

You can say that if you wish so.

Wish so. Yo, brother, we're pals now, right? I am going to Mosque on Friday to check things out, see if maybe I like it. What's going on here?

We are having some meetings and such. She is a friend of mine.

Ok. It's you, me and the meter. Are you sleeping with this girl. Fucking. You know fucking, right. (I stuck my index finger in a hole shape formed by touching the opposite hand's thumb with neighboring digit. It's very easy, and you can do this at home. If you would like to insinuate the penetration of a larger hole such as those found on Oklahoma Barnyard animals, or the AARP's pornography branch, then simply connect the ring finger with the thumb)

I am, yes. You are correct. But she is beautiful. From Morocco.

How did you meet a Moroccan woman? I didn't think there were any single Arab women who went out here.

Only I meet her, and start seeing her, and then, we are friends.

Look, if me and you, are going to have an open honest conversation, then you are going to stop referring to her as your friend. She is not a friend. You are not getting tea with her and discussing cricket scores. You are not going to Bollywood films and Sari shopping with her. Nor are you helping her prepare couscous tagines. She is your fuck buddy. Get that in your head. And how were you 'seeing' her?

I have one friend who was seeing her and he tell me, so I meet her and like her and so I am seeing her also. Now we are friends…I mean to say now we are boodies. Yes.

No. That's not what I said to say. And anyway, are you fucking a prostitute? You are calling a Hooker your friend under the judging eyes of Allah. You're nuts. Can I do this if I convert?

You are not understanding, only she is my friend.

The driver finally admitted to having sex with her. Here's the deal. And I can't believe I was naïve enough to dismiss a thriving Escort Hooker scene. Taxi Man was paying for a weekly service. Somehow, she fell for his charm, and decided to no longer charge him but he would have to wait until her nightly calls were finished until they could meet. Hypocrite Seekers and Fidelity fiends are uniting in admonishment. I understand. It's obvious, but this man was a portal into the subterranean world of Dubai Friends for Hire.

Were they as international as the outside trading floor? No, but they did represent 3 continents. The Chinese took care of the cheap crowd. The Russians focused on the middle spenders with occasional girls going to the upper classes, and the Moroccans normally handled the top Sheiks, probably due to their commitment to Islam. Although, it seems as if some Moroccans were not deemed worthy and left to tarnish under the sweaty sacks of cheating Taxi drivers. His information was partially confirmed on another night when a befriended hotel concierge directed me to a nearby cocktail lounge in his hotel, where Russian dyed blondes preyed openly for Moroccan Sheik Meat. It should be noted that the concierge was approached using the White on Non-White rule only to find out upon reaching the counter that he was Aryan stock, of the pure grass-fed AdolphAustrian variety. Don't be concerned, he said. He also had a cultural disdain for his own kind, proudly bragged about his sharing of accommodation with 12 other Indian laborers, and casually told me he knew I wasn't a guest of the hotel but would gladly give me all the information I wanted. To confirm his disgust of the wealthy, he casually talked for over an hour while ignoring the growing line behind me. He was adamant about one point. Trained in the finest schools of Swiss concierge, he would not provide Escorts for his guests, but would merely direct them to the appropriate bars. This was Swiss etiquette.

Prices range from $60 to over $1500 for the most desired Moroccans. The low end seemed a bit high for your average laborer but like a guy marrying into the lawn care business, this driver was now equipped with an encyclopedic knowledge of hooking in the emirates.

Why is the bridge closed? Did you know about this? It says 'Al-khor' bridge closes at 1a.m.'

Yes, I know, but normally it is open later. There is another way to cross the whore.

What? What do mean 'cross the whore?"

We can still cross al whore. It is not a problem. There are two ways over The Creek.

What do the whore and the creek have in common?

Al whore and the Creek are the same. In Dubai, we use both Arabic and English. The Creek in Arabic is 'Al-khor'. Sometimes the people, the people they are mixing some words. Not a problem, sir. Don't you worry. The Creek and Al-khor are very famous. They separate the city. Everybody know them.

I knew that pharmacist was too nice of a guy to be throwing around such a word. I should really tell him that he may offend the wrong person. And probably teach him the correct utilization of personal pronouns. Unless 'she' is a Moroccan, Chinese, or Russian looking for Herpes cover-up.

Watching the meter grow meteorically, which is a really lame way to say that it was getting way too expensive, I exited the Promiscuous Paki's car and treated myself to a 46 cent boat ride across the Whore's creek.

The pharmacy light was still on. 24 hours. I missed that the first time around. There he was. He must be working the graveyard. The entrenched Indian probably bestowed that upon his new acolyte. Things looked quiet at The Pharmaceutical Bar & Grill.

Hey. I just wanted to stop in and say thanks for information. The Mall was really fun. And I took your advice and went over to the Whore. She is really something. I went for ride on her.

I am glad you like the Whore. She is something special here in Dubai.

On that note, I quickly departed. He would remain a friend during my time in Dubai. And I can proudly admit that it was for his ability to bring joy to my soul. I could prostrate myself to Mecca all day, but nothing could provide enlightenment like prodding a regal law abiding Syrian into pronouncing his love of a Whore. I would continue to visit him for daily reminders of the "whore's" beauty and ready availability.

All this talk of whores and faith was leading me somewhere. A simple joy of unplanned, solo travel, is that every wander down a previously unseen street brings upon some new event. It may be a vendor selling an edible concoction you didn't think existed. Perhaps a toothless baboon chained to a fencepost, or maybe an international disco club.

Nestled amongst wholesale storefronts and 5 story concrete office buildings stood a poorly built hotel fronted in 1980's style tinted glass and an outdoor lobby with a list of tenants.

Floor 1: Iranian Disco.

Arabian Disco.

Mezzanine: {illegible, but someone' disco)

Floor 2: Bengali Disco.

Pakistani Disco.

South Indian Disco.

Indian Disco.

Each regional group of contracted labor had their own discotecs. Americans know this concept via chain specific shopping centers offering such culinary diversity as Baskin Robbins, Dunkin' Donuts, Pizza Hut, Kentucky Fried Chicken, and that one Chinese place. Plus, let's not forget that upscale restaurant anchoring this gastronomical cornucopia: those savory Neopolitan sauces of the Olive Garden. So fresh. Soooo tasty.

Dubai's visionary leader, Sheik Mohammed, is not strictly a high-tech advocate, but an genuine innovator. So many men laboring to keep the city afloat, or is it quenched, the latter being a more apropos term to allude to desert survival. Yes, so these so many men, the Sheik knew his muscle needed a place to unwind, and perhaps sensing a revulsion in the wealthy hotel ranks, he permitted this unique set up where alcohol and dancing would be permitted. Right on, Mr. Sheik. Cause really, when my wife is on holiday visiting me here, I don't really want a group of Pakistani men holding hands at our Hotel bar, staring at her enormous knockers, which were not intended as an open invite to gape. But, Sir Sheik, for your willingness to overlook my DUI last summer, I cordially invite you to a private knocker viewing, available at your convenience.

But with so few women workers, with whom would this mass of testosterola dance?

No velvet ropes. No bouncer clipboards. Just a heavily tinted door pulsating to music that, well, frankly, just pulsated too much. A roving security guard ignored the Infidel's presence. Groups of Iranian men huddled along the back wall. Exhaled smoke created the special lighting affects. An elfish man sold canned beer from a dorm style refrigerator. And the dancing? Well, it wasn't co-ed. A gaggle of women, dressed in sequined fabrics twirled around in circles on stage. I thought that maybe the little Ayatollahs were simply waiting for the Great Satan to get on stage and get this party started. Coughing prohibited further movement. Maybe the Bengalis were up to something more adventurous.

The smoke: less dense. The smell: more ripe. One small group of men were sitting to the rear of the room while another group were sitting stage center, front row. An Indian looking woman, or was she Bengali, or Pakistani, ah, for fuck sake, why the hell did you have to partition yourselves off? You just made things more confusing for the rest of the world. That's why America doesn't acknowledge Canada. They are merely another state with some language complications, like Florida. If we, as Americans, took the time to actually acknowledge that another group of 3rd and 4th generation residents, primarily European descended, speaking the same language, driving the same cars, and eating the same luxuriously crafted Olive Garden sauces shared a border, while having a validated claim for sovereignty, despite their continual milking of the Queen's fat crumpets, then Toronto would have been modern day Baghdad. Ice warriors in 'Jason' masks and sharpened hockey sticks would be slapshotting Maplesyrup Molotovs into our occupying Humvees. In turn, we would conduct midnight raids on their split-level ranches where pogroms would end in shared Ham shanks and ice cool Molson's while the occasional G.I. would be getting it on in that 1/2 bathroom in the basement with the daughter, the one who looked like his prom date, Kelley. Not Randy, from the Junior prom. She's a dog now. At least, that's what the guys up at State say. Meanwhile, over in Alberta, Haliburton would carefully be siphoning oil into Alaska. British Colombia's highly prized cannabis crop would be replaced by soybeans. And the Yukon territory, we'd change their name due to GM's copyright claims, and re-settle our Natives there. Land in western Oklahoma has become just too valuable to let a bunch of redskins live taxless and careless.

So, to our Muslim & Hindi, Sikh & Jain, Tamil & Buddhist friends of the Indian subcontinent, can you just cut the bullshit, and get back to Kama Sutra basics. Y'all used to live so happily together. Plus, you really got to do this thing soon, cause you're simply taking up too many country origin domain names. It's just not fair to the rest of the world wide web. Y' know, we've got religious differences too. Not to mention, divisive regional issues like Common Sense and federal toll road funding. But are we mandating that Georgia gets to be dot GA or California gets a dot CA. Sure, we'd like it, and maybe we'll eventually do it, but right now, we respect international domain law, and refuse to let petty politics divide us.

As if these tangents actually needed proving, the entire Indian basin necessitated a whole floor in valuable Dubai property to showcase the same thing: groups of dark skinned men, mustachioed and giggling, sipping tea or the occasional beer. They watched intently as a group of women, similar looking in each room, stood along the back wall of the stage. Dressed in saris and bangles, they would take turns twirling for the crowd, in a sort of G rated version of Showgirls. Bollywood was more suggestive. And to further prove the influence of cinema, they taunted these men. No money was tipped. No flesh shown. Just a single file line of Indian women who would spin and shake while doing the occasional 'towelling off the neck' move with their additional sari shawl. All I kept thinking was, "Do you these women actually tell people they are strippers?" I hope they don't try emigrating to the U.S. and apply for a job down at the BoobyTrap on Route 37. They'll be out on stage, the crowd going crazy for some exotic beaver shots, when Rory from Penzoil, the lumberjack looking dude up front, with the bushy goatee, would start the crowd chanting, "Take it off, Take it off." Lakhma would respond with more intense hip shaking and the occasional eyelash bat. Rory would increase his cadence. Lakhma would increase the twirls. Back and forth until Lakhma was drowning in ones and Rory was leaning over the stage, his mouth inches away from her crotch, bewildered at her failure to vulvically snatch the suspended George Washingtons. Eventually, the blue-balled crowd chants of "Rory, Rory" would compel the jury to acquit based on the defendant's justifiable fear of mob violence if he refused to savagely tear off her native dress and hand deliver her to each member of the audience for a complementary Squeeze These Please.

Absurd, sure. But that's not my culture. Those men were happy. Maybe all a hard working Iranian or Indian man needs after a long day's work is a hot tea and some swirling saris. Who am I, or who are we, to push upside-down, gravity defying boob pole dancing? Keep labor happy, and democracy is irrelevant. Pay people enough to buy things they want but never enough so that they don't keep wanting more. Make sure housing is available & affordable, even if sharing rooms is the reality. Provide adequate forms of entertainment and recreation. Keep the streets clean and safe. Never stop assaulting them with the goods they could one day own. And then, as leader, you can blow up coral reefs to enlarge your port, siphon state money to increase your real estate holdings and change laws at your whim. No one's got time to protest. And frankly, if you're not screwing up their life, then why should they care?

One, or two, may argue that the system may be a more honest one then America's false preachings of democracy, where the people assume their wishes are being heard, in a land where the leader doesn't need the majority to elect him while wielding totalitarian authority to overturn publicly driven legislation, in a land where the judges are appointed for political views, in a land where the elected officials vote on issues important to them rather then their constituency, in a land where the state claims to be separate from religion and in a land where business interests control legislation. Everyone in Dubai knows how things are handled, and the leadership doesn't pretend otherwise. The Emirates seem intent on building upon the one attribute American immigrants leave their homeland for: Economic Opportunity. The majority of recent American immigrants aren't there to publish blasphemous articles against the state (sure, there are always political refugees, at least one half of one whole percent of each year's immigrant class but if you're gonna get all technical you can pack up your things and move out - The ACLU is now closed), or preach political dogma on some city corner. They didn't leave behind their families, their friends, their comfort zone to start practicing witchcraft in a country cabin. They didn't pay a clandestine smuggler the family savings so they could commit crimes to be democratically judged by a minion of the naïve and uneducated. They want jobs. And they are always plentiful in the U.S. They want stuff. Lots of stuff. For comfort or greed. Security or pomp. It doesn't matter. Capitalism works for those willing to work. And they know it. And so does Dubai. Abu Dhabi, Qatar, Bahrain, all those little twerp Gulf places you forget in Trivial Pursuit are following. Religion in the state. Shariah inspired legal systems. Unelected leaders. No one seems to care. A 2nd term president is selected on the economy, namely unemployment rates & overall GDP growth, and occasionally his willingness to inhale. If an economy is booming, whether it be in China or Dubai, shouldn't true capitalism show them the way, & Not some hopeful leader that promises he will or will not support the termination of a tiny egg living inside a women's stomach.

The narrow alleyways and wide shop strewn streets of Old Dubai were slowing down for their late night siesta. Assorted circles of the racial rainbow still appeared milling about, smiles and hand-holding. Another day lived. Despite the late hour, a few food vendors were still providing hot beef shwarma, right off the rotating spit, and freshly squeezed juices. Plastic patio furniture clogged the vacating streets as the remaining hold-outs saddled up for a pre-dawn nibble.

I homesteaded the last available table. Small circles of men, from at least a dozen different nations, filled the air with an orchestral array of syllables and consonants; distinctively unique but uncannily harmonious. And, naturally, not understanding a goddamn word only upped the romanticizing ante. Ledger books and sample bags competed for table space with booze-free cocktails. Who knows? Maybe it's all one big freak show for me, and my own zoo stopped being of interest many years ago. Maybe it's this accessible camaraderie that doesn't appear so publicly anymore. Maybe it's that one dude with the really cool leopard print robe and the turbaned guy behind him sporting a groomed handlebar mustache. This Dubai was alright. And as if someone was reading my thoughts, a table full of Taliban looking gentleman gave me a look. They raised their mango banana slurpees and we all exchanged a smile. Yeah, maybe they were celebrating their recent success with that newspaper stand bomb in Kabul. But more then likely, an order was sold for 100 pairs of brown faux leather sandals. That was enough. They'd go to bed happy.