I dreamed... An impossible dream...

Since I’m still in the hotel and running out of things to blog about, I give unto you: Not one, but two (for the price of one) nonsensical dreams that I woke up with a few mornings ago:

#1: 

I had worn my contact lenses all day, when suddenly in the afternoon sometime, my left eye REALLY started bothering me.  I griped to whoever was around about how my left contact always wears out so much faster than my right one.  And I went into the bathroom to remove my contact lens.

It came off of my eye, just like normal, except when I looked at my palm, where the contact was supposed to be, there was this little wad of clear plastic.  I examined further and found that, in actuality, I had popped out of my left eye the following contents: Not one, not two, not three, but FOUR of those tiny Ziploc bags that hold board game tokens when you buy a new game.  Furthermore, there was one slightly larger shrink-wrapped bag that obviously had the contents pushed through it, as there was a hole in the side of it.

“Ahhh!”  I thought to myself, “So that’s why my eye was bothering me.”  And then I went outside to show whoever I was with…

So, apparently I was just going about my business – probably unpacking a board game – when all of a sudden, unbeknownst to me, something slipped and…  Wouldn’t you know it!  Those bags flew right into my eye without my noticing!  And, to top it off, when I popped them out, the actual contact had remained in my eye.

NO WONDER my eye was bothering me!

#2

Shannon and I were in a house.  It was a quaint old house – fully furnished.  It felt like we had just bought it or were about to buy it or something like that.  We were really excited because we liked it a lot.

Well, for some reason that I can’t explain, we decided that some of the items downstairs needed to be moved upstairs.  So I wrapped items around my neck and loaded my arms with candlesticks or something like that - so that I really had a full load.

Shannon and I went over to the stairs and went up them, all normal like.  At the top of the stairs there was a hallway going straight ahead.  It was a very quaint hallway – richly carpeted, art on the walls, wall sconces, beautiful and very homey feeling.  The only thing was that, from floor to ceiling, the hallway was only about 4 ½ feet tall!

I was slightly surprised/amused to find this out.  But I took it in stride and proceeded to do what anybody who was loaded down with an armload of random stuff would do in that situation: 

I got down on my knees, and then slowly lowered myself to my stomach, so that I was lying flat on my stomach.  And then I proceeded to use my just arms to drag myself across the carpet – thoroughly appreciating the décor along the way.

It was a long hallway, but no matter!  My feeling of excitement rose the further I dragged myself and my load.  I had an increasing sense that THIS was a house that Shannon and I could grow old in!  When we were nearing the end of the hallway, which I think is where the bedrooms were, Shannon, who was behind me and out of sight excitedly said, and I kid you not:

“Honey!  Clearly we are hobbits!  I think, when we grow old, we’ll have the little boys come and help us out when we need to get up here.”

Clearly...

Ancient Chinese Secret

(My apologies to those of you who want to know more about this country I'm in.  Since I have arrived, I've been holed up in this hotel and not very able to get out and see things.  That will soon change!  I'll be moving into a slightly more permanent residence on October 2nd. Hopefully things will get more interesting then...)

Ahhh… Life in a hotel.  If you haven’t tried it, you should.  

I’m not talking about merely a weekend stay or anything like it where you know when your departure date is, and, most likely, you’ve planned your trip to take you all the way there.

No, I’m talking about really living in a hotel.  I’ve stayed in lots hotels, but have only lived in one twice.

Really living in one means that you have considerably less space to get along.  The seating isn’t great and the kitchen is either absent or drastically reduced.  And, if you are all alone, then it’s really quiet.

But, and more to the point, your resources are limited – to the point that you will run out of them.  You have to constantly be thinking about how to replenish those resources, just as you would do in a house.  And you have to do it in far less space and probably on a tighter budget.  It can be very challenging just meeting your basic needs from day to day.

It’s an exercise in creativity and flexibility to make things work.  

Well (and here’s the reason for this post) one amenity my hotel lacks is a laundry facility.  

Actually, that’s a lie.  If you want to do your laundry, you let the hotel do it.  They have these little plastic laundry bags, and next to those bags is a price list for each item you want washed.  You know how much it costs to launder one pair of ‘trousers?’  21 Riyals.  That translates to about $5.25.  One pair.  Whew!  My budget can’t take too much of that!  I estimate that an entire load would probably turn out to cost around $25.

So, I stewed about that for several days.  What to do about it… hmmm…  Before leaving, Shannon packed for me some laundry detergent that I expected to use in the residence hall.  But I never thought that I should have packed a washing machine!

Well, I figured it out.  And I’m well pleased.  And now, once per week, I turn myself into a washing machine:

I start by putting out the “Do not disturb” sign (very important).  Then I fill the bathtub with water, add a little detergent, scrub out spots on the clothes with my spot remover, throw the dirty clothes in, gyrate them around for a few minutes (the wash cycle), scrub each item – focusing on spots, gyrate some more, drain the tub, fill it again with new water, gyrate the clothes again (the rinse cycle), squeeze as much water out as I can (the spin cycle), and place the items around the room to air dry (the dryer – I’ll shake the clothes occasionally to speed this process up.).  The sign stays on the door until all the clothes are dry and put away.

It ain’t pretty.  But it gets the job done.  And the room smells nice too.

The $5.25 pants/trousers were especially challenging to figure out because I knew that after the spin cycle they would be way too wrinkled to wear to work – and the room doesn’t have an iron or ironing board.  

But I figured it out!  I follow the same process, but I eliminate the spin cycle.  So when finished, the pants/trousers can’t hold any more water and are NOT wrinkled.  Then I nicely hang them up over the tub so that the dripping water will go right down the drain.

No, I won’t go so far to say that they are just as clean as a real washing machine would get them, but it’s good enough to last me till I get to a place that has one!  Boo yah! 

I don’t know who invented the washing machine.  I’ll bet it was some pioneer woman who got sick and tired of scrubbing out her husband’s stinky, sweaty, filthy, gross trousers.  You go, Pioneer Woman!  I have a newfound appreciation for you now!

So here’s to good, ol’ fashioned ingenuity… May it ever be present to get us out of tough situations!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mzixL7Ef-bI 

Corporate “Business”

Now, I was raised in a small farming town in Southwest Idaho.  It was a pretty sheltered community, which means that it was a long way from anywhere else.  Potatoes were the cash crop, and that’s all that mattered.  I were educated, so I knowed that other places did exist.  However, I NEVER came into close personal contact with those “other places.”  Therefore their impact on my life was minimal.  The closest I ever got was experiencing bits and pieces of culture from my friends who were children of migrant farm workers.  (Like the time a mother came to my sixth grade class and made tacos for the students.  Best tacos EVER!)

Well… there was also my friend whose parents are Japanese – first generation in the states.  He was as American as they come, but his parents were… um… hard for me to understand.  He used to poke fun at his mom by having her recite the words “Lionel Richie” for his friends.  It came out sounding like “Riono Leechee.” 

But that’s it.  That’s as international as I got.  Riono Leechee.

So, when Crocodile Dundee looked at that funny contraption in the bathroom, I thought it was funny, sure, but I had absolutely NO IDEA what that contraption was for.  And I didn’t very much want to figure it out.

Fast forward to adulthood.  Been all over this thing called North America...  Don’t think I ever did run into a bidet.  But by this time I had figured out what they were for:  “You know… to wash those parts.  Ahhh now I seeeee… no I don’t.”

Fast forward to my arrival at the hotel here.  “Ahhh… two fixtures over there.  I guess that one on the right is it!” 

Well, without going into too much detail, I’ve had some time and proximity to ponder on the matter.  And I STILL can’t figure it out!

Saudi Aramco is a HUGE melting pot with many, many cultures represented.  The hotel room service menu boasts dishes from Italy, India, Asia, the Mediterranean, etc.  And, after partaking of some of that food, I have had ample opportunity to ponder upon the nature of the bidet, and I still don’t have answers.

You see, I’m much more used to the Western way of doing things.  I’m comfortable with it.  I can relax, get the job done, and be on my way.  But now I’m in this place that has to accommodate people from the world over…  And EVERYTHING is new and strange to me…  

So, lest anyone be as ‘sheltered’ as myself, it’s easy enough to Google how to use one.  I did that.  It was funny and not TOO embarrassing.  I now have the book learning, but have yet to put it into practice…

But, even now, I just don’t get it! 

It’s time for some pictures:

You’ve seen this one already in a previous post.  

I get the upspout thing.  I can see how water can provide one with a fresher feeling…  Butt it sure seems like drying off would be a pain...

Now notice that thing in the middle – to the Westerner’s left, and the Easterner’s right.  It’s a hose!...  With a nozzle!!!!

Yeah.  That’s the part I don’t get.

You see, when I’m washing the dishes, and I decide to rinse them with the little spray nozzle, I CAN’T HELP but make a mess of things.  Water sprays all over the counter and the dry dishes, and my shirt, and I worry about water getting under the counter and causing a real problem!

Therefore… I am completely baffled by how ANYBODY – regardless of nationality – can use one of these things without making a really big watery mess. 

Well, to complicate matters, the hotel seems to be a little old fashioned.  Here’s what it looks like in my workplace.  

The hose is still there, but the upspout is missing.  They’ve combined it all into one unit!  How am I supposed to process this information?????

So, just today, I had yet another opportunity to ponder on these things, when, I noticed water running in the stall next to me.  But then it occurred to me that that wasn’t a flushing sound…

That was it! He’s doing it right now!  Right next to me!  WHAT ON EARTH IS GOING ON IN THERE?!?!?!?!?

Ahem…

Mystery NOT solved.

But that’s not the end of the story.  You see, when you enter the men’s room in my workplace, the door straight ahead leads to my comfort zone, but there’s another door to the right.  When you pass through that door, there is a standard row of sinks on the right, and a rather innocent-looking row of stalls on the left.  On the inside, each of them looks like this:

ARRRRRRGH!!!  I won’t even begin to discuss the potential issues that this brings up.  (But I saw through the window that somebody was in there – so this room does get used…  Or, maybe he was just taking pictures to send home.)

And so, the mystery deepens...  If you made it this far, I am grateful.  And in the immortal words written on the sign on the inside of the Western style stall door:

Thank you for corporation.

Perfect Pitch - a tribute

My Mom passed away nine days ago on September 5th, 2013.  It was a Thursday evening. It was expected.  And, for her, it was a blessed release from a body which had become a prison - slowly shutting down, bit by bit, over a prolonged period.  She kept her beauty and dignity till the end.

My Mom was a musician.  First an accomplished and award winning piano player, then an excellent piano teacher, and then a complex piano composer.  She was born with perfect pitch, which was both a joy and a heartache for her.  For it was a wonderful ability, except for the fact that anytime anyone within the sound of her hearing played or sang something out of tune, it was like nails scraping on a chalkboard - a sound uncomfortable for most, but excruciating for her.

Music was a constant source of wonder and enjoyment for her.  I remember listening to her practice a particular passage over and over until it met her satisfaction.  She was capable of pulling real power out of that instrument!  Both through loudness, and through quiet, even silent phrases.  And I know that power helped me to form my own musical identity - a gift for which I shall be forever grateful.

Mom used to ponder on the entire concept of music.  What is it, really?  It’s more than notes on a page, much more.  For nearly everyone can plunk out keys, but the true talent lies in something much more mysterious than the written notes.  She considered music to be ethereal.  Existing somewhere else - but impacting us here.  To her, music was the same as a story, for a story is something more than the written or spoken word.

And the role of a composer, or a real storyteller, is special.  It’s more personal because the story emanates from the person telling it.  Part of them is in that story.   And, through  talented telling of the musical story, the composer’s personality is shared, put on display.  And those listening can learn things about the creator of the story.  They can learn the very personality of the creator.  The same can be said concerning God.

Like I said, she has passed.  And I believe she is in a much happier place, and she is alive and working to support her family.  But that’s on the other side.  Right here, right now, she’s immortal in another way.  For her personality is infused within her musical creation. 

The song below is called Sunrise.  Out of all her compositions, this was her favorite.  More of her is in this song than any of her others.  Really listen to it.  Ponder on what she must have been feeling as she assigned each note with the blessing of perfect pitch - hearing every note and how it combined with all the others before it ever made it to the printed page.  

If you do this, though you may have never met her, you will know something about my mom.  And thus she will enrich your life as she has mine and the lives of thousands of students over a teaching course of 50 years.  It is her gift to you.

And in this way, she lives on.  

The Heat Is On

 Let’s just get one thing straight.  I prefer cooler climates.

I like it better when the winters are cold and snowy.  I’ve been that way as long as I can remember.  I can’t understand sun worshipers.  Purposely going out in the hot sun just to be there baffles me.  Why would you choose that?  Whenever I’m out in the sun, I’m looking for some shade to get in.  If there’s no shade, I look for a fan.  If there’s no fan, I wave quickly at my face.  You get the idea.

If I place the seasons in my order of preference, it looks like this:

1.       Fall

2.       Spring

3.       Winter

4.       Summer

In my mind there is nothing better than being outside on a crisp day in October.  Clouds in the sky.  A strong breeze in the air.  Leaves changing color.  Perhaps a cup of hot cider in my hands.  Now that’s living.  (Somehow I don’t think that I’ll get that opportunity much here!)

So, yes, one really significant concern for me before coming out here was the heat, plain and simple.  I wasn’t sure how I would react.  I went on an 85 mile rafting trip through central Utah this summer with my son.  It was hot, really hot.  Super-duper hot.  When we got home I complained to my love about the heat.  She was sympathetic to my feelings:

“I know!  I checked the weather report.  It was 106 degrees where you were.”

Ahhh, Shannon, I love you.  You understand what we suffered!

And then, in sweet compassion, she comforted me with:

“Which is exactly the same temperature as it is in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia.”

“Ummm… thanks hon.”

Well, now I’m here, and I’ve found it isn’t as bad as I expected.  Every building I’ve been in is well air conditioned.  Walks between buildings can be sweaty if you’re out more than about 5 minutes.  But you always have the next building, with its blessed AC, to look forward to.  And it feels so good to walk through the door.

I’ve been outside in 116 degree weather, and I survived.  But the day when it was only 93 degrees, and terribly humid, was considerably worse.  (Step outside and let the personal flood gates open.  Yessir!)  But I still survived.

It’s remarkable to see how there is a difference between morning temps (upper 80s, I would guess, at about 6:30 am) and crazy hot in the middle of the day, and a temperature reduction down to the low 100s at quitting time (4:00 pm).

It’s also remarkable to turn on my faucet at the hotel and get about three seconds of somewhat cool water (if it’s the first time in a while that I’ve turned it on) followed by the temperature rising to where it will stay – in something warmer than lukewarm.  Yeah – that’s the cold water straight outta the tap.  It is almost as hot as the hot water!

When I leave my building at work, there are three zones: 1. Nice AC inside, open the door and, 2. Wall of hot air slams into my face. Ugh.   But I keep moving forward through the shade cast by the building.  3. And then I walk out into the direct sunlight, which slaps me around and beats me into submission.  But then the momentary shock dissipates, and I simply go about my way.  It really isn’t all that bad. 

Go me!

Now, don’t get me wrong.  My ideal will always that cool, crisp, October day.  But I have found that I can do this.  And, for that, I am much relieved.

Now what does he do again???

It occurs to me that there may be some who don't have any idea as to what I do for a living, not to mention why it would take me "out there."  Let me enlighten you:

Firstly, I am an Instructional Designer.  That's just a high-falutin' way of saying that I create lesson plans for a living.  I know... right?...  "You can go to graduate school for that???"  

Well, yeah.  What of it?

Anyway, throughout my entire career, which currently clocks out at 17 years or so, I have been located in corporate training departments designing training programs of one sort of another.  Simple as that.  I specialize in ensuring that the education that is going on is being done in a way that actually results in people learning something.

"Ok... So why is he doin' that, you know, over there?" 

Well the answer to that starts with this photo:

That, my friends, is an oil rig.  (It's a big one too, I'm told.)

Basically, back in the early part of the 20th century, someone named Steineke (I think) discovered oil here.  So, of course, the prospectors came, led primarily by wealthy Americans looking to make some real money. They founded an oil company, which was American owned, but, of course, was located in Saudi Arabia.  So, it was named Saudi Aramco.

Well, Saudi Aramco grew and grew.  Eventually becoming the world's largest oil company.  In order to support this company, living quarters needed to be built for the people (mostly foreigners) to live in once they went home for the day.  So they built some:

As you can see, the foreground is about as desolate as can be.  But that green you see is the camp (and then the desolate further back must be the other side of camp, and the other side of that desolate would be the Persian Gulf - a.k.a. The Arabian Gulf).






Here's what it looks like close up but blurry (I took this shot from a moving car.).  You can almost see how the nice green stuff immediately stops and, just across the street, there's the desert again:

And this a slightly closer view from inside the camp:

Thousands of people from all over the world live here.  Many have families here.  This is pretty much what they were talking about when they coined the term "company town."

Well, the industry grew and grew and grew.  The company grew with it.  In 1980 the Saudi government nationalized the company so that it was wholly owned by Saudi Arabia. BUT, the people with the skills to run the company, you know, engineers, geologists, etc. were (and still are) largely foreigners.

Understandably, the Saudi government believes that a Saudi owned company (especially one valued at $10 Trillion dollars and is known as the world's most valuable company) ought to have Saudi talent running it.

And that's where I come in, literally.  There are many foreign born workers here who do a very specialized kind of work.  Many of them started working here 30 to 40 years ago.  That means they are looking to retire pretty soon.

These folks have skills that are valuable to the operation of the company.  Those skills need to be passed on.  That happens in the form of training.  Remember what I said about working in various training departments throughout my career?  That's why the company is willing to shell out a lot of money to encourage people like me to come help them out.

Enter me...

I got sucked in.  Only - not entirely.  The halls where they house the "bachelors" are full.  That means they get to put me up in a hotel.  The Dhahran International, to be precise.  On the flyer it looks something like this:

but it actually looks more like this:

or this:

but their food looks like this (yummy).

Why am I here? Where did I come from? Where am I going?

All wonderful questions - really...

Those of you who know the Russell Baxter family also know that we haven't really been afraid of adventure in the past.  We've done enough to fill another blog (which we are still trying to get around to).  That said, this one done beat all... Yessir!

It all started when my bosses left my previous company to start their own venture.  I was really happy with my job and they were happy with me.  After their departure there were others on my team who left of their own accord, while others were fired (oops... I meant laid off).  There were 15 of us when I started with them.  Out of those 15, four were left a few months ago, and I was one of them.

Under the new leadership, responsibilities were taken away from me, lies were told about me to that leadership, which led to misconceptions being built and believed.  Any support I had disappeared and I felt powerless to do anything about it.  And I watched my job shrivel up and die in spite of my desire to make it work. I was told that I needed to shape up, or it would mean losing it (or, in other words, the problem was all my fault).  But under the new leadership schema, I had no idea how to do damage control.  I didn't even have a boss that I could turn to for help. This went on for some time.

Fortunately, I was able to eventually find another job (halfway around the world).  And then, on July 1st I got my wish - they fired me (I mean laid me off).  (I can't help but chuckle... On the day they fired me, I had to be late to work, which meant the entire firing team - my boss, the VP, the EVP and the EAP guy were all sitting twiddling their thumbs wondering when I was going to get there.  Hee hee...)  I got my severance pay which has aided the transition between jobs.  In fact what has happened is that I, in effect, had nearly two months of paid vacation.

And we made the most of it.  I was able to do things with my children - much more than we would have been able to otherwise.  We floated down rivers, learned how to sail, flew in paragliders, went to Lagoon, had pizza parties, drove down the Oregon coast, and saw the Redwoods in California.  Nearly every day was packed.  It was a blessed time, a gift, where I could focus on being a dad and spend time with those whom I dearly love.  That time was sacred to me, and I won't forget it.  It was a healing time.

And then, last Sunday - 3 days ago, I boarded a plane, and flew away from my family for a very long time.

I am in  awe of the forces that conspired to get me here.  But I am also very excited to know that I am in the right place.

Looks like I made it... (or, in other words, What Have I Gotten Myself Into?)

Welcome to the long awaited, awe inspiring, breathtaking, drool inducing, astonishing inaugural post of my new blog - coming to you all the way from the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia!

I've christened it: Russell of Arabia,  aka: My Persian Excursion  (cue the Lawrence music here)

Yes, it's true, after months of preparation, I'm finally here.  I can prove it.  Look at this (I can read the squiggly at the top.  It says Dhahran International Hotel.  Aren't you impressed?):

That's the letterhead of the hotel I'm staying in.

But I can hear you saying, "Nah, he just pulled that off the Internet."

Ok, well, how about this from the promotional material in the room:

Still not good enough?

Well, there's always:                            

the view from my room

or the top of the stairs

or the hallway by the restaurant

or the lobby garden

or my room 

and what's the thing on the right for?

Yes, it really looks like I made it.  All kinds of stories oughtta come out of this...

Oh yeah, when I was in Amsterdam I had to rush to catch a connection.  I realized almost too late that I hadn't taken any photos!  Fortunately, I was able to get one from the plane.  It really illustrates the landscape in the Netherlands, don'tcha think?

More to come...