I’ve walked up and down the long hallway that leads from one gate to another trying to find the women’s room. I find a women’s mosque, but I don’t go in. I find a long carpeted area where men have lain their scarves and are asleep on rucksacks. I find small pockets of women and I try to sit near them. There isn’t a chance my bright yellow hair and red scarf don’t stick out. The airport is somber in a sense, but then the walls are painted with Aladdin like windows and purple skies and stars. One of the flat escalators goes by a mural. On it are painted a dozen Arabian horses. I want to be outside Dubai: in those desert-like areas amongst the steep hills and sharp cliffs that we flew over. A string of towns strung together by a narrow road, parallel to a narrow river glinting underneath. I read Christina Lamb’s new book, Foreign Correspondent of 2007, she started working in Afghanistan at 21. I’m behind, I feel urgent. If I wasn’t broke I would head out at least into the city center.

I’ve sat on the floor and talked to a Cameroonian guy. Friendly, staring in an awkward space when my scarf slipped, sells random items in Cameroon, exported from Dubai. An apartment costs $3000 in Dubai he tells me. He checks his cellphone (I think) to verify. He tells me, almost gruffly, that not all countries are undemocratic in Africa. I ask him which is the most democratic, he says South Africa. I tell him I’m not a fan of the current government. We’re speaking in French by now. He knows I’m from Montreal, it’s one of his dreams to visit. I can’t figure out why, if he lives in Dubai, he’s at the airport waiting for a 10 a.m. flight. I eventually depart. I buy some orange juice at a stand, I have no idea of the currency here so it ends up costing me 6 dollars, or something ridiculous. But, it’s delicious. Sour, and sharp and fresh, no sugar, no water. Like Svea’s delicious juice, courtesy of summer and large boxes of oranges in the garage and the little juice squeezer who’s top was always lost in the chaos of the cupboard. A group of Iranian men come and sit next to me. Eventually, I can’t help it, I ask him about Iran. I was reading about the recent deal the country has been offered in regards to cutting its nuclear plans. He tells me I speak too harshly, he doesn’t speak more than a few words of English, I feel a bit insulted and realize that my gruff attitude that some find charming in Canada is something I’ll have to shed. Soft approaches, asking about family, asking about health, then leading into the questions I want answers for.