40 days

The three of us sit in a café overlooking the “new-old” souk of Doha, a rambling labyrinth of a market featuring Iranian saffron, gold and crystal tea sets, orange and blue bunnies, birds in wire cages, and tiny, hot shops where bread is sold as if hatched from the center of a scalding Earth. We breathe in the scent of sheesha smoked by the ex-pats and tourists and the nearby passel of G.I.s on leave. It’s late. I’ve lost my green umbrella. And while much can’t be said here or now because I’ve catapulted myself into a world of self-censorship (more on that later), this is what one might call a perfect moment. An authentic one. I am being taught to read the future using the remaining sediment in a cup of Turkish coffee. The grounds are so thick they resemble tannins lifted from the dark and watery heart of Amazonas.

The story of the next 40 days is etched there, black grains on white porcelain, clear enough to spot high plains and scraggy mountains, and two climbers straddling jagged peaks, a large spider set beside a man with thin lips and a hallowed face. The tiny cup turns, and a bare woman sits ramrod straight against a crumbling wall. It is a daunting future, but a beautifully poetic one. As to whose fortune this is, it’s unclear, as we all bungled the rules of the mystics and shared sips from the same cup.

In UAE we were sent into the desert in 4WD vehicles to bash dunes and ride anemic camels until they ground loops into the hot sand, to gaze at a Russian belly dancer against a backdrop of Western pop music, clutching video cameras as if to secure our past. It was fun and whimsical, undeniably so, but it’s the rattling metal fans and offshore Gulf breeze and new friends who remind me ever so gently why I came to this part of the map. This is one of the highlights of being in Arabia, this confluence of trade and people and moments.

If much of this post makes little sense, it’s because it’s impressively hot in Qatar. The temps are expected to soar into the 120s when we reach Kuwait in four days. Last Saturday we found comfort at the Islamic Museum of Art, a new structure of impossible simplicity providing cave-like protection from the weather. It was such a beautiful diversion from the spasmodic, herky-jerky, spontaneous and cemented landscape of Dubai. The museum structure is muted with shades of beige and subtle changes in texture, while inside, treasures from Spain, Iran, Iraq, Turkey, India, and Central Asia are awash with vibrant color. Entering the doors was like slicing open a Kiwi fruit for the first time. Word has it that when the museum opened one year ago, Yo-yo Ma made an appearance, and the dark Gulf sky was backlit by an explosion of purple fireworks.

There is a kind of comfort in the permanence of these classic structures. The brassy and modern of Doha seems haphazard and confused, like a messy office desk. And speaking of which...