Number 1

Hurry up and go – I tell my vague reflection on the shiny marble wall in front of me.  I’m giving myself a pep talk.  But this is no locker room, and I’m no coach.  This is a pee-game speech (and that's not a typo).  I’m in the men’s restroom, and my only opponent is my uncooperative bladder.  I’m trying to pee.  The man to my direct right is doing the same thing.  So is the man to my immediate left.  The significant word here being “try.”  Trying to initiate a healthy pee stream when you’re foot-to-foot with a couple of strangers is often problematic. But for some reason it’s particularly tricky right now.

Of course, once one of us loosens up enough to achieve urethral release, two more yellow waterfalls will hastily follow, but for now we are just standing with our legs shoulder-width apart, trying to relax, or focus, or anything that will get this business underway.    Why is this so hard? When is someone going to go!

For a moment I entertain the idea of scurrying out of the restroom, bladder still satiated, and finding an isolated handicapped stall. It’s strange - all of the mental and physical fortitude you can muster to achieve other things in life only work against you when you’re trying to pee.  Trying to pee is counterproductive.  It’s a very Zen achievement, peeing.  You have to try to not try, and then you will go.  In my head I hear Yoda, “Try not. Do or do not do” – but no amount of Star Wars ruminating is loosening my sphincter enough to liberate my bladder.

My ears are piqued, listening anxiously for that initial tinkle.  I know my neighbors to the right and left are listening for the same sound.  That first tinkle will be the checkered flag that commences the event. But so far – nothing. Say 15 more seconds passes and none of us goes, then someone will probably flush his toilet to drown out the silence with running water, and that will get us going, but no one here is ready to surrender just yet.

And that’s when I realize why this is taking so long.  Silence.  It’s too quiet in here.  There is no music in this restroom.  The silence is tangible.  It’s a disturbing-looking, homeless fellow who is standing too closely and looking too closely, and you just can’t go with all that attention. 

In America, the men’s rooms have music.  Mall bathrooms.  Restaurant bathrooms. Bar bathrooms.  They all have music.  Usually it’s just some trite Muzak garbage, but the kind of music it is doesn’t matter.  What matters is that there is sound.  Something to pull an audible blanket over your own sewer sounds so that you and your fellow commode comrades can relax and just go.  I can’t pee in silence.

WHY IS IT SO QUIET IN HERE – I ask the likeness of my face in the linoleum wall above the urinal.  And then, just as the guy to my left throws in the towel and flushes his toilet to get the waters flowing, it hits me. It’s the holy month of Ramadan here in Islamic Abu Dhabi, and one of the rules of Ramadan states that there is to be no music during the daylight hours.  My eureka moment coupled with the running water from my neighbor’s toilet is just what the urologist ordered, and I finally relax and feel the warm stream.  Rahhhhhhmadahhhhhn.

It was possibly the most awkward minute in Pisstory, and Ramadan is the culprit.  Of course, this is not the first time I’ve searched for the source of my misery and found organized religion at its heart. But that’s a digression I will save for another blog.

Much to the dismay of my otherwise freewheeling bladder, Ramadan presses the mute button on all of Abu Dhabi’s restaurants, bars, shopping malls, and of course, men’s rooms. It also signals a time for Muslims to abstain from eating, drinking (even water!), chewing gum, or smoking during the day.

While these regulations sound constrictive to most westerners, the Emirate people approach Ramadan and all of its regulations with the same passionate gusto that the average gift-wrapping stocking-stuffing sugar-cookie-baking American approaches Christmas.  They revel in the opportunity to practice discipline, abstinence, and to empathize with those less fortunate. 

The Holy Month of Ramadan, with all of its abstinence and regulation, stands in stark contrast to American Holidays.  Americans celebrate with brazen indulgence: Thanksgiving?   Gluttony.  Christmas?  Mass consumerism.  St. Patrick’s Day?  Binge drinking. Valentine’s Day? Sexual indulgence. 

Can you imagine Americans celebrating a holiday by NOT having something?  That was a huge fast we had for Thanksgiving.  Isn’t it fun not having presents for Christmas, kids?!  Oh man, you must feel wonderful  - you drank like zero car bombs last night for St. Patty’s.   Thanks for wearing those ugly pajamas and sleeping on the other side of the bed last night, Sarah – you know how I love to abstain on Valentine’s Day. 

There is, of course, a scarcely audible grumbling amongst the newly arrived westerners here.  We are not used to being told we can’t have something.  And that’s to be expected.  After all, we are all from the land where T.I. confidently raps, “You can have whatever you like,” and we all reach for our stacks on deck, sip Patron on ice and nod affirmatively. Right now, there are thousands of American citizens ambling around Abu Dhabi mumbling quietly…

Don’t these restaurants even care about making money?  Why is that place not open? It’s noon, and I’m hungry!

I can smell my coffee breath.  Why can’t I chew gum? Seriously!

I am sooo dehydrated, I don’t see why it’s so offensive to these people if I take a horn off my Nalgene bottle! 

I’ve spent 28 years in T.I.’s Patron-soaked utopia, so I won’t bother trying to convince you that I haven’t quietly harmonized with this chorus of complaints. I have.  But I have also become, albeit involuntarily, more empathetic to our world’s less privileged population because of Ramadan.  And that’s the whole point of the holiday. 

Every time I reach for a bottle of water only to realize I can’t legally drink it in this Islamic City, I’m reminded of the fact that some people are always thirsty – my thirst is not unique or even important.  (Although the desert heat coupled with my lack of access to water has made the color of my urine unique).  Every time my stomach rumbles at me and I have to put my chin to my chest and whisper to my stomach that I know it’s 3pm, but there’s nowhere to get food for another 4 hours - I’m reminded of all of the people who feel like this all of the time.  My hunger is not singular.  It is not special. 

FlluuushshshGURGLE...

The peeing has concluded, and I hastily wash my hands in the men’s room, careful to avoid eye contact with the other two players in my pee trio.  I am reminded of how much I appreciate music.  I can see my own reflection more clearly now, because I’m looking in a mirror, not a shiny marble wall, and I think about all of the ways music makes life better - we dance to it, we sing along to it.  It helps us tune in or zone out. We count on it to diminish the anxiety in the men’s room. 

Would I be thinking this now if it weren’t for Ramadan?  No.  I would have done my business and been on my way.  Being a forced participant in Ramadan has been good for me.  It's made me empathetic,  and it reminds me of what Joni Mitchell said in her 1970’s hit Big Yellow Taxi.  “You don’t know what you’ve got til it’s gone.” I agree with Joni Mitchell and would add that sometimes you don’t know what you’ve got until YOU’VE gone.  

Ramadan Kareem.