21 Hours in Dubai

I think I've finally found a way to do business trips right, in a way that feels sustainable and doesn't leave me drained and needing another vacation once I get back home.  The answer is at once glaringly simple yet also counter-intuitive to basic productivity: build in the longest layovers possible.

I'm sure there are far more efficient ways of getting from Seoul to Lusaka than via Dubai.  But flying that route gave me a fairly decent night of sleep on the plane, followed by a four hour layover in Dubai.  It was the most relaxing and rejuvenating four hours I've spent in an airport: I splurged on a massage, which then gave me access to an incredible hot shower afterwards.  I took a morning flight to Lusaka feeling refreshed and ready for the day.

On the way back home to Seoul (home to Seoul, did you catch that?! -- it's really starting to feel that way), I outdid myself in terms of layovers.  Landed at 6am this past Friday and didn't leave until 3am on Saturday.  My "old" self would have tried to see everything in this 21 hours.  But my "new" relaxed self decided to just focus on one thing: food.  I would eat my way through Dubai and learn something about the city's history along the way.

Good thing I had a trusty guide.  My friend and former colleague, Arva, left consulting to return to Dubai and start a food tour company called Frying Pan Adventures (they're really amazing; check them out here).  While she was at the Drones for Good conference for another company she's helping run, she left me with an incredible treasure map: a foodie trail of Old Dubai (full article here).

I can't say the morning started on a good note.  This being a Friday and thus the holy day, the subway was closed until 1pm.  I went outside to get a cab, finding myself being ushered to the "ladies cab" section (only women drivers and passengers), with a driver extremely judgmental of my choice of destination ("Old Dubai?!  Why would you want to go there?  I can take you to the mall instead -- it's very nice.")  Some negotiation later, she reluctantly dropped me off in Old Dubai.

Now, for those of you who have been to Old Delhi or Charminar (the old part of Hyderabad), you have a sense of what I was expecting: narrow, curved alleys; the smell of spices wafting in the air... let's just say Old Dubai is not like this.  There are sidewalks with palm trees and old concrete buildings that seem more like from the 1970s (not 1870s).  But after re-adjusting my expectations, I realized this actually is a really interesting part of town, which exhibits "old" Dubai from the days before oil was discovered in 1966 and utterly transformed the landscape.  Looking around, the restaurants represent an old Spice Trail of sorts, with various ethnicities represented.  Arva writes: "A discerning visitor who is willing to trawl the streets of Old Dubai will find that this city plays a unique role in preserving and showcasing culinary traditions from across the Middle East, North Africa, and the Indian subcontinent."

Since the foodie trail guide did not have actual addresses, it was a bit like going on a delicious scavenger hunt.  My heart skipped a beat when I found the small eatery I was most excited to try: a Lebanese breakfast place called "Breakfast to Breakfast" that serves Manakeesh (essentially a breakfast pizza from an open-faced oven).  I followed Arva's recommendations and ordered a Manakeesh with za'atar (which I learned is a fragrant herb mix of thyme, sesame seeds, a lemony spice called sumac, and other "secret" herbs that comprise the restaurant's secret blend) and labneh (a thick yogurt).

Feeling stuffed from breakfast #1, I wondered how I would continue on this breakfast tour of Old Dubai.  I got a reassuring text from Tyler saying: "Fight the good fight."  So with that, I continued.

The next stop was close to a mosque (which made me smile because this was the place I first tried to get my cab driver to drop me off at: "What do you mean, it's near a mosque?!  There are mosques on every street!")  It's a small Egyptian eatery called Soarikh, with a proudly all-Egyptian staff.  I go off-menu and again heed Arva's recommendation, ordering Alexandrian Foul Medames, a brown fava beans stew of sorts, with a history that can remarkably be traced back to Pharaonic Egypt.  It's not necessarily much to look at, but boy is it filling.  I took my time with this, sitting upstairs with traditional stringed music playing and people watching down on the street below.

Completely stuffed, I waddle outside.  I find myself noticing all the amazing restaurants of various ethnicities in the area, like this Iraqi restaurant with beautiful doors.

I consider taking a break from eating (as Tyler's former colleague would say when over-worked: "I'm just one man!")... but the next stop is breakfast dessert, so how can I stop now.  Thankfully, it involves a bit of walking, so I'm able to digest just a bit.

The directions are awesome: "Wander to the right and get lured into a neighborhood baklava store that has satiated many a sweet tooth since the 1980s: Al Samedi Sweets."  Walking inside is a bit like being transported to what I imagine dessert places in 1950s America were like: glass displays showing all sorts of culinary decadents.  I ogle at the dessert "pizza" and the "birds nest" of pistachio seeds, which I learn are called "Ashulbulbul", a salty-sweet Lebanese dessert.

I order a Kunafa in Ka'ak -- a Palestinian semolina and cheese pie drizzled with sugar syrup inside a sesame bun -- along with a Turkish coffee, and the proprietor asks me if I'm a friend of Arva's.

Lingering over my coffee, I finally get kicked out for what I assume is their lunch break.  I walk for a while, taking in all the palm trees and amazing weather.

Then I head to Part II of my self-guided food tour: New Dubai.

It's a bit hard to adequately describe Dubai Mall.  For one thing, it's the largest mall in the world, with over 1,200 retail stores.  As if that's not enough, it also has the largest fountain in the world (the Dancing Fountain, which apparently did a full-day tribute to Michael Jackson when he died, with the water doing the moonwalk), the largest book store, the largest indoor ice skating rink... the list goes on and on.  It feels a bit like Vegas, in that "not-real-life" sort-of way.

Here, I meet Asim, another Acumen Fellow who I had only "met" a couple weeks before over email (a bit like a modern day pen pal!)

I have the most amazing complement to my morning of gluttony: an avocado salad with a refreshing fresh mint lemonade and succulent sweet dates for dessert.

Feeling fueled up, we're now ready to brave the Dubai Mall.  It's all a bit overwhelming, but I'm not gonna lie: it made me super excited to see Eataly and Magnolia Bakery... felt like a bit of a walking dream, with all my New York favorites in one surreal giant mall.

I have Shake Shack for dinner (even better than I remember it) and then sleepily head over to the airport for my final leg home.  Thank you, Dubai.  My stomach leaves happy.

To everything...

I haven't been able to get the song out of my head for days: "To everything (turn, turn, turn); There is a season (turn, turn, turn); And a time to every purpose under heaven."  It was in a movie I saw on the plane to Zambia (and the part of the movie where the waterworks started... happens every time on a plane -- doesn't matter if it's The Notebook or 22 Jump Street, the flight attendant always has to hand me more tissues).  The song has been following me around ever since.

I remember having a conversation with my high school boyfriend, Michael, where he said something like: "You know, I often think I like a song just 'cause, but then only later when I reflect on the words, does it really hit me why I was drawn to it in the first place."

And so it's been with me and this song, whose lyrics are from the Book of Ecclesiastes and the Song of Solomon (and thus bears the distinction of the #1 charted song with the oldest lyrics, from the 3rd century BC).  Over the last few weeks, all anyone has been talking about is the weather: the tremendous blizzard that hit the east coast, the snow that's started to fall upon Seoul again... But as I'm realizing, the winter season isn't just on the outside.

Since coming back from the Philippines in early January, all I've wanted to do is burrow and nest, pointing our space heater at my feet (which I'm doing right now) and nursing a big cup of hot tea.  In fact, nesting and turning our apartment into a sanctuary has been our primary goal for January (more to come on this).

One blog I follow talks about this linkage between the outside weather and our internal state of mind, saying that winter is a time to "rest, meditate, reflect, and nurture the seeds of new plans you want to execute in the spring and summer."  The article continues: "If you tend to work against the winter season because you don't want it to interfere with your obligations -- if you stay up late, take on extra tasks for other people, and book all your time with projects and responsibilities -- you probably experience winter symptoms like colds and flu, intense cravings, weight gain, and seasonal depression.  These health problems arise because you body feels stressed and needs you to slow down."

And slow down I have.  I have taken my doctors' advice to heart and have focused on getting at least eight hours of sleep each night (an average of 8 hours 24 minutes since I started the sleep challenge 13 days ago), with the data to prove it (of course, getting this average up has included me sleeping 11 hours this past Saturday night to make up for jagged sleep on the plane and during my work trip).

But it hasn't been easy.  As we plan our upcoming Valentines / Lunar New Year trip to Bali, my new "self" is bumping up against my old.  Sunrise hike up a volcano?!  Wreck diving?!  YES!! -- oh but wait... can we still sleep a lot and meditate?

I gotta say, while I've been resisting this ("how can I be productive if I sleep so much?"), it's actually proving to be a real game changer.  My mornings have never been calmer, and even Tyler remarked yesterday how much more relaxed and happy I seem.

This new mindset is also how I found myself snuggling with cheetahs on my last day in Zambia last week:

Let me explain.  As soon as I landed in Lusaka, Zambia for a work trip, I started researching what to do with my extra day there.  All the sites I looked up and everyone I spoke to pointed at the same thing: Victoria Falls.  "It's one of the wonders of the world"; "Now's the perfect time to go"; "When else will you be this close?!"  My omnipresent FOMO ("fear of missing out") combined with my (somewhat-manic) sense of adventure found me madly looking up flights to Livingstone in my dark hotel room with slow internet.  Around $500 for a roundtrip flight on a tiny prop plane for a quick 24 hour hop to Livingstone in the midst of the rainy season... It's something I easily would have done ten years ago in my mid-20s.  I joked around to my colleagues that marriage has made me conservative, but really, the answer of whether to stay in Lusaka or fly to Livingstone became glaringly clear when I simply asked: "Which option would be more relaxing and rejuvenating?"

With that, I switched tactics entirely and instead began to research how to spend a relaxing day in or around Lusaka.  Turns out, Chaminuka Game Reserve, with its 10,000 acres and airy lodge seemed to fit the bill perfectly.  Between game drives (giraffes and warthogs and zebras, oh my!), bird watching on the lake, and feasting on avocados, I read an entire book just relaxing in the open air lodge (great book, by the way, called The Invention of Wings).  Here are some pics from my nine hours there:

Oh yea.  And cheetahs.  As it turned out, there happened to be a pair of cheetah cubs whose mom was killed by hunters.  Aged 18 months, they grew up being conditioned to humans... and as a result, were just like giant house cats who loved to be pet (and had the loudest purrs I've ever heard!)

What's more, I was the only tourist with these crazy cats all afternoon (along with three handlers-turned-photographers), so I reveled in petting them and watching them frolic.  Just like good dogs, they didn't seem to mind the leashes, and we went out for a magical afternoon walk along the grounds. (My favorite reaction from friends and family seeing this pic is from Tyler's second mom, Robin, who said: "I enjoy big dogs, but you... You've got big kitties and it appears you have them under control.  I guess I don't have to worry about that Bolender boy you married getting out of hand.")

All this magic because I chose the "relaxed" option of staying near Lusaka.  But that's the thing.  I'm learning through this crazy experiment that relaxing doesn't actually mean I do nothing interesting all day or that I'm unproductive.  In fact, I think I was the best facilitator I've been in a while during my work trip simply because I made a conscious effort to be relaxed and know (in Tyler's words), "this wasn't about me."  In being more relaxed, I was able to be more present and thus be a better facilitator, drawing out insights from the amazing group assembled.  In choosing the "relaxed" option of staying near Lusaka, I had a sublimely magical day, which came nearly effortlessly (just thinking about hiring a car and hoping the small plane landed in time for my flight to Dubai makes my heart beat faster with stress).

It's like the song: A time to rend and a time to sew... a time to be productive and a time to just chill.  Okay, maybe those aren't the words exactly.  Bob Dylan gave a speech at the Grammy's last week that's really worth a read (transcript here).  He talks about how he learned lyrics and how to write them from listening to folk songs: "For three or four years all I listened to were folk standards... If you sang "John Henry" as many times as me -- 'John Henry was a steel-driving man / Died with a hammer in his hand...If you had sung that song as many times as I did, you'd have written, "How many roads must a man walk down?" too."

It made me remember an interview I read about Bono.  He talks about the music already being there, somewhere out there in the universe, with the songwriter pulling the verse out.  He says: "When you stumble on certain melodies, you think, 'that was already there... like "I've got sunshine on a cloudy day."'  It's like Michelangelo speaking about David: "The sculpture was already in the stone."

And what I'm learning is this: It's only by slowing down and taking time to do "nothing" that you can sing folk songs until they become "Blowin' in the Wind", or snatch that song from the air or see David in the marble. I now have a much more nuanced understanding of my doctor's advice to "do nothing for one hour every day."

I'm not saying I'm Michelangelo or anything like that (though it did feel wonderful to break out a coloring book and pencils and just sit on our couch, coloring birds this past weekend).  But it certainly is a new perspective that's the direct opposite of my old mantra to "go go go" and the one that permeates all the productivity hack websites I read (usually written by men), with life lessons like: "If you're not up early, you're sleeping too late".  Maybe.  And maybe I'll get back to that and join the 5am club one day.  But maybe now's my time to hibernate, rest, and rejuvenate.

After all, to everything, there is a season.

A Celebration

This week celebrates Celtic Imbolc, marking the lengthening of days and the beginning of spring.  Also called Brigid's Festival, it's a celebration of the divine feminine.

And so what started as a casual glance at Instagram (thanks Robert!) has taken me down a virtual rabbit hole (what did we do without internet?!), seeing old beliefs and traditions in a new light.

Turns out that there's much more to Saint Brigid (the namesake of the church I was baptized and married in) than I ever knew... even after doing research on her for our wedding programs.  What I learned then was that Saint Brigid was likely born near Louth, Ireland in 453 and that her parents were baptized by Saint Patrick.  Her feast day is February 1st.

Turns out, there's a reason for that.  Just like Christmas Day falls on the Roman pagan holiday of Saturnalia (the New Testament gives no date or year for Jesus's birth), Saint Brigid's feast day falls on Imbolc, the pagan holiday of Brigid's Festival (and the midpoint between the winter and spring equinoxes).  Turns out that long before she "became" a saint, Brigid was the Celtic goddess of fertility, who was reborn on Imbolc from the "crone of winter" to the "maiden of spring".  She represents regeneration and light.  One article I read said that "For me, Imbolc is an honoring of what's not present yet.  It represents the words yet to be spoken, the potential in our spirits, the "calm before a storm" of growth, the quiet before the snow, and the unknown baby before its birth... Imbolc's beauty is in its waiting and not knowing."

Because she was so revered through to the Middle Ages, it seems that the Catholic Church canonized her into a saint (though others believe she was a real person who was later given some of the goddess's attributes) -- there's even a word for this: "syncretism".  Even in articles that talked about her historically, there were always fantastical elements to them: "legend says that Brigid's mother was a slave, who forced her to sell her daughter to a druid when she became pregnant.  Brigid herself was born into slavery, though from the start, it is clear that Brigid is holy"... She vomits when 'unpure' people try to feed her; and "a while cow with red ears appears to sustain her instead."

What shocks me (though perhaps it shouldn't) is that the goddess of fertility with wild red hair becomes a virgin clothed in black instead.  It's a bit like Mary Magdalene... growing up, I thought she was a prostitute; but it turns out that she was from a very well-off family and was actually Jesus's "sugar mama" and one of his main financial sponsors (the Church has apologize for defaming her name for hundreds of years).  This past summer, I devoured an amazing book called Reveal: A Sacred Manual for Getting Spiritually Naked by Harvard-trained theologian Meggan Watterson, who writes of the divine feminine and the missing stories of women's spiritual voices.

She writes of Imbolc and Brigid: "Brigid is a fiery Gaelic fertility goddess still celebrated in my native Isle of Man.  She is honored by fire light, food, and wine, and frankincense and myrrh.  I intend to appease her.  To consider the recovery of the goddess as sacred work.  Because I love god, but I also love the goddess who gave birth to him."  Happy Imbolc.