We were at the Immigration Office in Abu Dhabi today to handle an administrative chore pertaining to passports. Eventually, pretty much everyone here spends hours at the Immigration Office.

The office is in several buildings on 19th Street, near the church district. It may be one of the busiest government offices in the city, behind only the Abu Dhabi Health Services building, where medical tests are given and blood is taken for screenings.

But before we could get any business done inside the building, we needed to stop at one of the “official” typing centers to obtain the correct form and have it done in clear Arabic from a bilingual typist.

Six small shops are lined up outside the Immigration building, and they provide identical services. I dismissed the tout for store No. 3 (“too crowded”) but followed the directions for tout No. 4, who directed me to the back of the busy shop, where a large, jolly looking African woman, wearing a colorful headscarf, was stationed. The tout made clear that she was adept in English, and she motioned me to sit in a chair on the other side of the table.

And then followed one of those sometimes strange but often illuminating cross-cultural conversations.

Women rarely enter (or work at) the typing shops there, but Leah was with me because we were taking her off my visa, and she took a chair a few feet away, in the waiting area against the wall.

I told the woman in the headscarf what we were there to do. To wit: “Cancel my wife’s visa, please.”

The woman looked at me from over her glasses and smiled conspiratorially.

“Ah, you are tired of this wife,” she said, close enough for Leah to hear her plainly.

Picking up on her leap into joshing, I said: “Yes, she has been a burden.”

“Of course,” she said, nodding as if she had heard the story many times and sympathized with it.

“Maybe then you will get another,” she added, now watching Leah.

“Yes, perhaps so. If I can afford it.”

And we all smiled, and everyone was having a bit of fun in what was otherwise a crowded, busy place.

That’s when the woman’s husband walked in and stood near her station. He had just struck up a conversation with Leah, making the typical query about children, when his wife came across the “occupation” line on the old visa, and interrupted her husband to tell him about it.

He said to both of us: “You are journalists?”

Explanations were exchanged.

“I was a journalist here for 40 years, but they let me go. I am too old.”

We talked about how things like that happen, in journalism, especially of late, and he said, “But they could have kept me as a consultant. I know many things. But no, nothing.”

We commiserated.

He expanded on his life story. He is from Somalia, which is a short plane ride from Abu Dhabi. He asked if we were English. We said “American” and, as is often the case when we identify our homeland to people in the UAE, we were told about their personal connections to the U.S. (And nearly everyone has at least one.)

“I have many friends in America,” he said. “Somalis. They live there now. Once, I was to go to America, a man named Gary was helping me, but I did not go, and I stayed here and worked 40 years.”

We asked him where he would go next, given that expats over the age of 60 usually cannot stay in the UAE.

“Back to Somaliland,” he said, dredging up the British Empire colonial title. “Somalia,” he quickly added.

And it was clear he would prefer to stay in the UAE, perhaps because Somalia remains a chaotic, dangerous place.

He asked where we were going, and we said: “California, and then to France.”

He exhibited no problem with the first bit, but at the name of France he made a funny face. More than one.

“France.” He frowned. He pursed his lips. He shook his head. He had turned serious.

“France makes trouble,” he said.

Which apparently is not an unusual sentiment, for those who live in North Africa, given the French military presence, here or there.

We were wrapping things up on the typing side. The woman had not let the friendly banter slow her down.

I handed over the money to the Somali wife and thanked her in English and Arabic.

We wished her husband good luck, as we got up to leave, and he said: “Maybe somewhere not France.”