I'm ready. I've got my employment visa and plane ticket. An attested marriage certificate and diploma, international driving license, and 18 million passport photos are waiting patiently in my moving folder. Bank accounts in yet another foreign land are set up. My wardrobe has been trimmed down to what will fit in two suitcases (the rest will go by air or sea). The medical exam for my residence visa (basically, a blood test and a chest x-ray to prove I don't have consumption -- does anyone actually have consumption these days?) is scheduled for the day after I arrive. One team of movers is coming on Monday; the other crew on Tuesday. Farewell get-togethers with the neighbours are set. Our villa looks (we've heard) as if it's actually going to be ready by the time we land in Abu Dhabi. I'm still cooking, but that's about to stop once Monday morning arrives. Anxiety, excitement, impatience, and a general feeling of queasiness are the ruling emotions of the day. And why wouldn't they be? We look at one another at least once a day and say:
We're moving to Abu Dhabi.
Crikey.
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