It has been about three months since the blue sofa broke, seven since the dog chewed the arm of the gray sofa, a year since she grazed the edge of the rug in the living room. WeвЂ™ve been saying we need a curtain in my office since we moved three summers ago from our old apartment in Motor City, a community in the hyper-developed Dubailand, to this house slightly further inland toward the desert. You suddenly want to properly inhabit the place youвЂ™re leaving soon, to get things done around the house that youвЂ™ve been meaning to do for years. Sometimes it takes a departure to begin staying. My polluted, raucous, nonmanaged, no-traffic-light, no-bike-lane cities were never pedestrian-friendly, but what was this place of seven-lane highways where you canвЂ™t simply make a U-turn if you miss an exit? Where you have to learn to use Google Maps instead of relying on friendsвЂ™ directions? (The joke goes, вЂњYou see where thereвЂ™s a broken glass bottle on the floor next to the trash? Eh, turn right there.вЂќ) In Beirut and Tripoli, I walked across small alleyways, on broken sidewalks, alongside dirty walls and small shops, and looked up at water dripping from air conditioners, clotheslines, balconies. Which is why my main longing when I moved here in 2011 was about streets. My idea of a city: a place you can cross on foot with friends. The January morning sunlight, weightless, warms my face and my arms. I donвЂ™t want to cross the big roundabout on Al Qudra Road before I search my phone for that song about autumn. I slow down enough for the traffic light to turn red.

The radio says this winter is the coldest Dubai has ever seen.

Orange wandering willows