An Undertaking for the Anti-Overtakers

If you've lived here for awhile, it can be easy to become disillusioned and feel like you could never contribute to any kind of change.  It can seem that no one is interested in what expats have to say, despite being the majority of the population.  And feeling this way would be spot-on with reality.

So imagine how startled you'd be to discover that the Ministry of the Interior (MOI) has created an online traffic survey.  An ONLINE TRAFFIC SURVEY.  Do you know what this means?  It means that instead of having to resort to muttering obscenities and secretly flipping other drivers the bird below the level of your windshield, you could actually air all of your grievances to an administrative body that could do something about them.  Now that's progress!

This survey was far more thorough than anything in my wildest dreams.  OK, I don't actually dream about surveys, but if I did, most of them would suck, and this one would exceed expectations.    It has several questions, with drop-down menus to list your top three complaints on any of the subjects, and then a box to type in everything that you see as wrong with the driving scene in Doha. Someone at MOI actually seemed to care what I had to say.  It was touching.  So I let 'er rip.

Coincidentally, this past week our compound launched a "Safe Driving Awareness Campaign".  The kick-off event on the first Saturday involved a safety presentation for families, and some driving games for kids designed to help them understand the importance of playing safely on our compound streets.  This past Saturday, on the final day of the campaign, the MOI was invited to come and give a talk to teenagers and adults about road safety.

I couldn't help but ponder the irony of giving a talk to a group of people who all work for oil companies that have their own very stringent safety programs, and as a whole are probably some of the most conscientious drivers in the city. Talk about preaching to the converted.  But I was curious to hear about all the wonderful new initiatives that would be launched as a direct consequence of my own personal and very detailed contribution to the online traffic survey.  Call me an optimist.  Or a narcissistic, dreamy idealist. Whichever you prefer.

To my delight, the officials at the safety session brought up my two most favourite driving moves in the city.  About a month or two ago, the MOI announced that they would start ticketing drivers for "Overtaking on the Right".  At the time, I was elated to hear this news.  Finally, something would be done about the maniacs who pass other vehicles on the right-hand shoulder while travelling at 120 km/hr, sometimes hitting cars and squashing any pedestrians who might be, say, on their way to their jobs to support their families, and have the misfortune of standing on two insufficiently human legs.  But during their little talk, the group from the MOI explained what "Overtaking on the Right" really means, with the aid of this helpful photo:

We've all seen this classy little manoeuvre, and it's not exclusive to Doha.  Ignoring the line of drivers patiently waiting in single file to go through the light when it turns green, the white car has blown past the whole lot of them on their right, and is trying to cut in near the front of the queue, presumably because either a) he is far more important than the rest of these poor saps, or b) he really, really needs to get to the loo.  If it were up to me, when I see you pull this stunt I wouldn't say you are doing anything illegal.  I also would not say that you are tricky, smart, cheeky, or even particularly clever.  I would just say you're an jerk.  Illegal?  No. Asshole?  Yes.

My second favourite driving infraction that was up for discussion is tailgating, or as some in this city like to think of it, "The Vehicular Anal Probe".  For those of you who don't have the pleasure of driving on Doha streets on a daily basis, this might warrant a description.  Imagine a three-lane expressway with a speed limit of 100 km/hr, but which really has no business having traffic on it travelling faster than 80 km/hr.  Now picture everyone in the middle and right lanes driving at speeds far lower than 100 km/hr.  It truly is enough to make a person weep.  My strategy is usually to drive in the left lane, going precisely 100.  Now, the other factor I need to add to this scenario is the group of countless large SUVs, usually Landcruisers, that come up behind those of us travelling at the speed limit in the left lane, sometimes flashing their lights and honking their horns, and position their grilles about halfway up our exhaust pipes.

What to do, as the driver in front of one of these lunatics?  Well here, I was certain, was the MOI to assure us that, after taking my online venting to heart, strict new rules would be in place to outlaw this dangerous practice.  But no.  Here was the MOI to disappoint.  The advice given to the group, when being tailgated by a nut-job driving 4700 pounds of metal on wheels, is to "put on your four-way flashers [hazard lights], and get out of the way when safe to do so."  They actually said that.  There was no suggestion of a fine, or a law, or enforcement if one already exists.  Yes, ladies and gentlemen, there it was, the Inshallah moment of the presentation:  "Look out for your own sorry rear-end, because it is fully and completely out of our hands."

But, really, we shouldn't lose heart.  Occasionally, a tailgater will become impatient and overtake you on the right.  And while there's evidently no ticket for doing that at high speed in the middle lane, he's probably the same guy who will get one later for trying to butt in line.  In the face of injustice, I'll settle for poetic justice any day of the week.

I Just Want a 'Flu Shot

Every year around this time my ears perk up and I'm ever alert for when the 'flu vaccine will be available, and where.  About 10 years ago, when the middlest Thing was no more than two, he got a nasty case of influenza—barely controlled fever, cough, and fatigue—that lasted for 10 days, and made us decide that since there was a preventative out there, it seemed to make sense to take advantage of it.

I get anxious about this kind of thing, at this time of year.  Not only are we going to be doing a lot of travelling, but the kids, especially, are surrounded at school by many other kids who also travel.  In my opinion, if you're exposed to that many other people, who in turn are exposed to many other people, you're exposed to that many other viruses.  Protect the herd and everyone stays healthy.

Last year it was easy.  The five of us showed up at the Mesaimeer Vaccination Clinic on a Wednesday afternoon in November, presented our national health cards, and told the receptionist we wanted the influenza vaccine.  We were immediately called into a little room where the nurse was so efficient that she didn't even get us to sit down...let alone change her gloves between us.  Five jabs, out the door.  Easy peasy.

So this year, I tried to find some information about when the clinic would be offering shots.  Eventually, I found out that it is available right now, but only to Muslims who may be travelling to Mecca over the Eid al-Adha break.  Which I get.  I understand that they would want to offer this free vaccine to their own citizens first, and then expats.  But isn't a matter of public health really a matter of, well...keeping the entire public healthy?

Anyway, it was clear that if I wanted this done I was going to have to make other arrangements.  I found out that for 100QR we could have our shots done at the hospital.  I spent thirty minutes on the phone making separate appointments (which is a whole other post in itself) for myself and the kids, specifically telling the receptionist that we wanted the 'flu shot.

Arriving five minutes early for my 1:00 pm appointment, I made my way to the department desk.  Typically Doha, there was no line, just people crowded around the breadth of the desk.  When the ubiquitous Large-Arab-Guy-Who-Has-No-Concept-of-Queuing-Theory walked in and stood in front of me, I deftly slid my foot in front of him, angling my elbow to secure my position.  I figure it's all about taking advantage of teaching moments with these guys.

When my turn came, the young man behind the desk told me I had to go back out to the Main Desk (there's a Main desk for the Main desk?) to register.  "Come back when you're done," he told me.

Another desk, another non-line, another queue-butting crowd.  Ten minutes later I successfully registered for my appointment, and she told me, pointing in the direction of Main Desk #2 (or would that be #1?), "You can go and tell them you're here."  Trust me, he already knows.

I was eventually called by a child-sized nurse who brought me into a room to check my weight and height.  "But I just want a 'flu shot," I said to her.  "Yes, madame, but the doctor wants."  Evidently, the doctor also wanted my temperature and blood pressure, the latter for which I sat through five attempts of the automatic cuff inflating incorrectly.

"Can't you do this manually?" I asked.  Can you even do it automatically?

Finally she had all my vitals, and I was led in to see Dr. B., a friendly guy with a thick accent.

"So tell me where you're travelling."

Travelling?  I hadn't realized that that would enter into the equation.  It occurred to me that maybe he wouldn't give me the shot if I wasn't.  So, I answered, honestly, that we would be travelling to Greece next week.

"Ah, Greece, yes.  Chance of mosquito-borne encephalitis, Dengue fever...You should probably get the Influenza vaccine, too..."

"No, no...I'm actually just here for the influenza vaccine."

"Ah, ok.  What about your other vaccinations?  Are they up to date?  Did you bring your card?"

"Um, no, I didn't.  Everything's up to date.  I just want a 'flu shot."

"Typhoid?  Hepatitis A?  When did you have these?"

"Before we moved here.  Look," I smiled, "I just want a 'flu shot."

"What will you be doing in Greece?  You have to be careful about air-conditioning and Legionnaire's Disease.  You might want to consider getting a pneumococcal vaccine."

Remind me again why in the hell we're going to this clearly plague-infested country and our untimely, painful, and most certain death.

"Just give me the damn 'flu shot!!"

Did I just say that out loud?  No.  No I did not.  But I do really, really have to watch that.

"OK, here is the requisition.  Take it back out to the desk."  Would that be Desk #1 or Desk #2???  "Once you've paid, come back here and the nurse will give you the injection."

Naturally, I struck out at the first desk (Desk #2).  As I waited in line again at the second desk (Desk #1), I looked over my bill.  150QR for the vaccine, 150QR for a consultation (brief).  I couldn't help but notice that this wasn't the 100QR bill I was expecting.

"Is this right?"  "Yes, madame, you have to pay for a consultation.  But I will give you your company discount.  Then you can go back to the desk and give them the receipt to show you've paid."

Great.  Back to Desk #2 it is.  "The nurse will be out shortly."  No pun intended.  "Have a seat, madame."

Except there were no seats.  So I stood.  I stood and read my book.  I checked email on my phone.  I glared at men sitting in the comfy high-back chairs.  I'm fairly sure I saw the minute-hand of the clock on the wall flit backward. I watched the nurse come out from behind the swinging doors and heard her call other patients' names, expertly avoiding eye-contact with me.  I was starting to think that having a dozen actual shots would be less painful than this whole experience.

Sometime after 2:00 pm (remember my one o'clock appointment?), I finally got my shot.  There were 276 riyals and and hour and a half gone from my life that I was never going to get back.  But I got what I wanted.  All I wanted was a 'flu shot.

And people ask me what I do all day.

A Plane Crash, a Mall Fire, and 43 Reasons to Remember

What possible relevance could another anecdote about my home town have to do with my life here in Doha, you're probably asking yourself.  Stick with me, folks.  I promise to stitch it together.

On March 10, 1989, the pilots of a small Air Ontario jet prepared for their flight from the airport in Dryden, Ontario, scheduled to fly to Winnipeg.  The weather was terrible, with temperatures hovering around freezing, and wet snow was falling.  The plane had already been delayed for several reasons, weather and otherwise.  When the jet finally did take off, it was sluggish, and was unable to gain even enough altitude to clear the forest beyond the runway, shearing off the tree tops in its path.  Less than a minute after taking off, the plane crashed into the dense and remote bush of northern Ontario, 950 metres from the runway.  Of the 69 passengers and crew on board, 24 died.

The tragedy of Air Ontario 1363 was a watershed event for aviation safety in Canada.  A judicial inquiry was commissioned, and after three years (during which time two interim reports were provided to international air transport safety organizations before the final document was completed), Judge Virgil Mohansky had determined that the principle cause of the crash was ice build-up on the wings of the aircraft.  No less significant was the lack of a top-down "culture of safety" at Air Ontario.  Judge Mohansky made 192 recommendations that were adopted by airports in all relevant locations, the most important being changes to de-icing methods used on planes in cold-weather climates.

The following year, a bronze plaque displaying the names of all 24 victims was unveiled at a memorial to remember the tragedy.

So, what's my point?  There's a story in Doha playing out that reminds me a great deal of the Dryden crash.  Try to think of the two stories as those near-identical cartoon pictures you see in the funny pages; see if you can spot the differences.  I think you'll find it anything but amusing.

Last week, three and a half months after a fire at Villaggio Mall claimed the lives of 19 people, the mall was once again opened to the public.  In the time since this tragedy, much has happened as a result.  The days following the fire were filled with an outpouring of grief from the whole community.  Flowers and stuffed animals were laid at the mall's main sign.  There was news that an investigation into the cause of the fire was underway.  Fire safety inspections were taking place at other malls, leaving them closed for days, sometimes weeks, at a time.  A trial date was set for those suspected in playing a part, inadvertent or otherwise, in the sequence of events that led to this unimaginable tragedy.  And finally, there were reports that Villaggio had completed physical changes to the mall to satisfy improvements to its dire safety breaches.

A fire exit bound with a wire, when
the mall opened last week

But what does any of it mean?  The memorials were taken down.  Some of the padlocked fire exits were now bound with wire zip-ties.  The trial was postponed indefinitely because two of the three accused failed to appear.  Many of the changes that have occurred are sadly just knee-jerk reactions in a system that is so badly flawed it seems impossible to overcome.

The difference between the handling of the tragedy in my home town over 20 years ago and the Villaggio fire investigation is that Qatar does not have a culture of enforcement.  Unless there is consistent and lasting enforcement of the regulations that have been put into place, some unaware person will put padlocks back on the fire exits to prevent theft from his store, another may ignore a faulty fire alarm, and someone else will opt to turn off a leaky sprinkler system instead of having it repaired.

So WE have to be vigilant.  We need to keep our eyes open for possible safety issues and if we spot them, tell someone.  Heck, let's yell at them if we have to.  If those changes are adhered to, like the changes made after the Air Ontario crash, who knows how many lives could be saved.

And something needs to be done in a permanent, tangible manner to honour the memory of those who lost their lives.  Not only would it help all of us here now to remember, every time we walk past it, but it would encourage those who come after us to continue along the path of change, one step at a time.

My boys will play hockey again at Villaggio Mall.  To say that I'm dreading it would be an understatement.  I don't want to experience what I felt in those weeks after mothers, sisters, grown sons and daughters, and small children lost their lives.  But I also don't want NOT to feel it.  I don't want to enter Villaggio and pretend it never happened.  I want to be reminded, and I want everyone who enters the mall to remember, so that something like it never happens again.

Continuing the Marathon of Hope

It was April, 1980.  A 21-year-old young man dipped his prosthesis into the Atlantic Ocean in St. John's, Newfoundland to symbolize the beginning of his cross-country run, in the hopes of raising money for cancer research.

By the time Terry Fox had reached Ontario, there was a media frenzy over his "Marathon of Hope". Canadians were glued to the nightly news, awaiting updates on the incredible journey Terry was making.  We watched with awe the film clips of him running.  Terry had lost one leg to osteosarcoma (bone cancer) and ran with determined effort with one strong leg and a prosthesis on the other.  His gait became iconic.  Incredibly, Terry ran 26 miles daily, the equivalent of one marathon every single day.

I was a preteen at the time.  I remember talking with friends, all of us anticipating Terry's arrival in our hometown of Dryden, Ontario, eager to finally catch a glimpse of this new Canadian hero.  He would be there in four weeks, three weeks, two and a half.

And then the sad news that day in early September, 1980, that just outside Thunder Bay, Ontario, Terry had to end his run.  The cancer was back, this time in his lungs.  I remember watching a news clip of Terry choking back tears as he was loaded into ambulance, saying, "If there's any way I can finish it, I will."

Fast forward to summer 2012.  Over the course of a couple of months, our circle of family and friends was impacted by cancer so greatly that it seemed statistically impossible.  Dan's grandmother passes away from cancer in June.  The husband of a dear friend is diagnosed with throat cancer.  A friend from Doha discovers she has breast cancer.  And Nick's friend and Doha hockey teammate, at the heartbreaking age of 14, is diagnosed with bone cancer, the same kind that Terry Fox had.

Through their experiences, I learned more than I thought I ever wanted to know about chemotherapy, radiation, and post-operative complications.  But I also learned a great deal from these friends about peace, resilience, and hope.

Terry Fox

Terry Fox died of cancer on June 28, 1981, at the age of 22.  His Marathon of Hope inspired a nation to continue in his footsteps, and every September in Canada the Terry Fox Run is held in thousands of cities and towns across the country.  The run is now held in many other countries around the world, including annually in Qatar at the College of the North Atlantic in Doha (Qatar's 2012 TFR was held in February).  The organization that was founded in his name has raised over 600 million dollars worldwide to support cancer research.  Six.  Hundred.  Million.  That's money that has gone to research that has benefited cancer patients the world over, research that has most likely impacted the treatment of those I know:  Treatment for my friend with breast cancer.  Treatment for my friend with throat cancer.  Treatment for my young friend battling the same cancer that inspired Terry Fox to take up this cause.

Please consider taking part or supporting a team in a Terry Fox Run, wherever you are in the world.  For more information, visit the links below.  Make a donation.  Participate in a run.  Like them on Facebook.  Do whatever that thing is you do on Twitter.  Spread the word!

Terry Fox Foundation

Terry Fox International

Today, September 16,  is the annual Terry Fox Run in Canada.  It happens in a week when one friend returns to Doha cancer-free, and the outcome of another's surgery to remove the tumour in his leg was so amazingly wonderful that it brought us to tears.  Continue the marathon.  Hope carries on.

Natural Disasters and Other Summer Pastimes

Stop talking about it, Mom.  Stop saying "we were so lucky to get out".  When you say that, it makes me think about what could have happened.  But it didn't.  We did get out.  That's all that matters.

* * *

This is our second year returning home to Canada for the summer.  Having learned a little bit from our experience last year, we decided to change some things around.  Just like last year, the kids and I came back to Calgary for a bit to visit with friends.  But this year, instead of spending our whole time in the city, we decided to follow our friends and hop one province over into British Columbia, renting a cabin in the beautiful little mountain town of Windermere.

Our vacation within a vacation proved to be a wise choice.  We went to the beach everyday, taking advantage of the 30C temperatures and sunny skies.  A friend took us out on his boat, and the kids knee-boarded, wake-boarded, and went tubing. We sat with friends on the grass beside the lake and grazed on all-afternoon lunches.  We'd meet again for potluck dinners, and drink wine by the campfire until midnight.

The amazingly good weather stayed with us until two days before we left.  On our last day in Windermere, with the rain pouring down and no chance of going to the beach, we decided to go to the natural hot springs in Fairmont.  My friends, Lisa and Randy, and their two boys, plus another friend of the boys', led the way in their van, with my kids and I following.  Randy and I parked our vans next to a creek at the resort, but were told we were parked illegally, so made our way up to the parking lot and found spots.

* * *

The serene hot springs, as seen from the opposite side of the creek.
The creek is in the lower part of the picture.

After the boys had spent about 40 minutes in the hot springs, they started a game of Marco Polo.  Thinking that they may be there for awhile, Lisa decided that it would probably be best if she came to tell me and Jacob not to wait, and that she and Randy would bring all the boys home.  She crossed the small footbridge—really, a couple of pieces of wood across the creek.  As she headed up the path on the way back to the parking lot, she noticed that the water level in the creek was rising, and returned to the crossing to warn Randy.

* * *

Randy stayed to watch the boys while Lisa returned to the parking lot to talk to me.  He saw her return, and she told him that the footbridge had been washed away, and that he should try to find something to use as a crossing.  Above the din of the waterfall behind him, Randy heard Lisa say that she was going for help, and saw her head back toward the path.

* * *

Lisa looked up the mountain and saw creek water pouring over the access road.  As she watched, she saw not just water, but mud and trees making their way down the waterway that had once been a small creek, and was now a 20-foot wide torrent.  Panicked, she tried to return to the hot springs to warn Randy, but the path had washed out, and she was now ankle-deep in muddy water.  Without a path, she was forced to scale the steep embankment by grasping tree roots and finding footing on rocks, while calling out to anyone who could hear her in the RV park.  Several people came over to help her, and they ran to a spot directly across the creek from the hot springs, where Randy and the five boys still were.

* * *

Suddenly, Randy and the boys heard a rumbling from up the mountain, sounding like thunder.  A wave of mud, trees, and rocks rushed down what used to be the creek.  A chain-link fence on the opposite side was peeled away like a sardine can.  A garbage can that had been cemented down was caught in the strong current and churned past.  Randy saw Lisa and others on the embankment opposite to where he was, gesturing wildly and telling him that he needed to get everyone out of there.  Ben and Nick saw a what looked like a path up the steep embankment from the hot springs.  From their vantage point, the campers on the RV side could see the same path up the embankment on the hot springs side, and yelled for them to climb up.

* * *

Jacob and I sat inside our warm, dry van while the rain poured outside.  We read, and occasionally turned on the engine to listen to the radio.  After about 40 minutes, we noticed people running up to the parking lot from the public pools, most in their bathing suits, some with bare feet.  When they reached the lot, everyone seemed to be looking in the direction of the road crossing the creek.  I wondered out loud if perhaps there was a bear there, and told Jacob I was going to go and have a look.

With my raincoat on and the hood pulled down to nearly my nose, jeans rolled up to as not to get the bottoms wet, and flip-flops on my feet, I got out of the car and walked in the direction of the access road.  I stared at the spot where Randy and I had parked our vans less than 45 minutes earlier:

Our cars had been parked on the near side of the creek,
where this torrent of water is now shown

* * *

Ben was the first one to scale the embankment, and was met by lifeguards from the public pools and emergency officials at the top.  Nick climbed half way, and then helped the other kids make their way before making his way up. In the pouring rain, after he had ensured that all five boys had reached safety, Randy scaled the cliff himself, grasping at tree roots and using rocks as footholds.

* * *

Frantic, I ran down to the public pools, scanning the crowd for our group.  They were nowhere to be found.  The pools had been evacuated, and as I made my way in the opposite direction of those leaving the pool, I was told that it was a restricted area and that I had to leave.  I explained that I was looking for my family and friends, and a supervisor at the pools had me write down the names and ages of everyone I was looking for, as well as my cell number, with strict instructions to call her when and if  I did locate them.  I returned to the parking lot again, looking for them.  In vain, I went to the pools again, which were totally empty of bathers by this point.  On my second climb up the hill, with the rain still falling hard, I spotted, with a wave of relief, Randy and all five boys standing on the walkway.  After a flurry of comparing notes and piecing together what had happened, I looked around the group and said to Randy, "Where's Lisa?"

***

Lisa had been stranded on the RV Park side of the creek after the road and the footbridge had both washed out.  She was able to borrow a phone (and eventually, dry clothes) from one of the campers, and after a couple of anxious phone calls to Randy and I, we all finally knew that everyone was accounted for and safe.  

The aftermath of the slide

The five boys were cold, wet, and muddy when I returned them home.  Lisa was later able to get a ride by helicopter, and was home by about 9:00 pm.

My kids told me at first that they felt they were never in any danger, and for that I credit Randy with remaining calm during the whole ordeal.  It wasn't until later, when we had pieced together stories from all seven people, and the media had descended on our neighbourhood in Windermere, that I realized just how close a call this was.  Lucky, for sure, and grateful that I am able to report this as a near-miss.

Time Zoned-Out

A serial expat friend of mine once declared that jet lag didn't affect her.  "What's the big deal?  You're really tired on the first night, so you sleep well, and by the next day you're turned around."  I remember gaping at her, incredulous.  I also remember secretly wanting to sneak out to her driveway and let all the air out of her tires.

Dan's parents have come from Canada to visit us in Doha twice.  (The fact that they made that trip more than once affirms my opinion that those 26-hour journeys are a lot like childbirth:  long, painful and unpleasant, but the horror is instantly forgotten, leaving the optimistic feeling of wanting to try it again in a year or two.)  On both trips, my father-in-law behaved like any normal person for the first week:  he was up at the ungodly hour of 3:00 am for a few days, kept trying to catch a nap during the afternoon, looked vacant and pale just shortly after dinner, and begged off to bed well before the rest of us.  My mother-in-law, however, acted like she had been living with us for the whole year, or at the very least taking a well-scheduled combination of melatonin supplements and Red Bull.  She'd get a solid 10 hours on the first night, up at 8:00, and then proceed to do all the dishes, play three two-hour games of Settlers of Catan, dead-head my petunias, and clean out my Tupperware cupboard.  She'd turn in only after completing the border of a 1000-piece jigsaw puzzle, long after the rest of us had given up and gone to bed.  This was her pattern for the remainder of her stay.  Sleep-of-the-dead, up, frenetic pace, repeat.

Is it possible that the two women described above are superhuman?  I ask this because last week, after a 13-hour overseas flight, followed by a 4-1/2-hour flight across four provinces, I felt quite a bit less than human.  In fact, not to put too fine a point on it, but I felt downright short-tempered and bitchy.  Kind of like my normal self, only kicked up a few notches.

For those of you who have experienced jet lag, you know the drill.  Night One, after being awake for 30 hours in transit, you are delirious with exhaustion and sleep a good eight hours.  "Ahh, 6:00 a.m.!" you might exclaim upon waking.  You will think, mistakenly, that you are "turned around".  But Night One is all a big set-up for your pending and most certain disappointment.

The best advice I can give for the day after Night One is this:  don't sign any legal documents and don't drive heavy machinery.  It is also a good idea to avoid attempting any transactions that are complicated and confusing.  (Note:  all transactions on this day will be complicated and confusing.)  On Day One, I made the mistake of visiting my local mobile phone service provider to get my phone working here in Calgary.  My recollection of the conversation is something like this:

"We have a plan that allows for free messaging, with 25 cents a minute for local calls for the first five minutes, or calculated at a rate of the integral of the speed of the call, whichever is greater, unless they are calls made to numbers consisting of only prime numbers, in which case unicorns will fly over rainbows, and...ma'am?  Ma'am?  Could you get your head off the counter?  We try to discourage the customers from drooling on the pamphlets."

Nights Two through Four are cruel, cruel times, indeed.  During dinner, the whole family will be unable to stay conversational, all of you holding your forks above your plates, silently chewing, your gaze just slightly to the left of your placemats to an intriguing spot on the table.  You'll order the kids to bed at 7:30 (there won't be a big fight), and force yourself to stay up until 9:00 in the hopes that you'll get another solid eight hours.  This will not happen.  Here's a tip:  no matter what time you go to bed, you will wake up, for good, at 4:00 a.m.  Go about your day.  Look cheerful—remember, you're on vacation!

The next few nights following these will be short, and the days will drag on.  You'll find yourself high-fiving the kids for sleeping in until 5:45.  You'll stubbornly refuse naps and watch a load of crappy TV just to stay awake until 10:00.  Your brow will be furrowed, and people who are a) related to you, and b) shorter than you, might get on your nerves.  This may or may not pass.

The rule of thumb for figuring out how long it will take someone to overcome jet lag is one day for every hour of time difference.  Tomorrow marks Day Nine in our struggle with the nine-hour time difference between Doha and Calgary, so by this estimation, we should be turned around.  I think the kids are already there.  As for myself, it's a little hard to tell.  I'll know I've reached complete turn-around when there is only one 6 o'clock in my day, and when I don't have the urge to take my still-non-functioning cell phone outside and beat it to smithereens with a tire-iron.  I think you'll need to give me another day or two.