Some things they never change...!

It’s back! The foggy misty morning that soaks my car and keeps it cool when I head out for work at 6:30 am every day… Foggy mornings in Dubai are the clearest sign that winter has arrived in this Metropolitan desert of the modern world. And they are my favourite. Imagine racing into the underpass leading to the infamous SZR Highway and seeing nothing! Absolutely nothing after 50 metres… huge towers shrouded in white, cars slowing down with hazard lights on, more people walking than driving… My favourite season is here! And that means I sit on an instantly cheerful high. I smile my Good Mornings, find excuses to stay out of buildings and am generally a nice person to be with. As I sit and plan my South American adventure that will start in a couple of days, I think of just how much this city and it’s daily life has come to be my own. The seasons, the people, the food and the festival – I am a fully developed expatriate who calls Dubai her first home. Growing up on the same block for the last 19 years of my life has given me the kind of security and comfort I could find nowhere else in this world. Year after year, I have seen the city go from an oasis trying too hard to accept western modernization - to a gem in the desert with an identity of its own. When the Shopping Festival first started out in 1996, it was a retail event that invited people to the creek side for a pizza or cake with their families, and some bargained shopping to do. Since then, it has turned into a jazzy experienced with retailers from around the world coming down to display artefacts that reflect the culture and heritage of their countries. Traffic was never a problem as there was just so much of place to drive around in and park your car. The buildings – they were buildings not towers. Trade Centre was the landmark. Today it is lost in the concrete jungle of Shaikh Zayed Road. This highway was our gateway to the capital city of Abu Dhabi – all we found was stop at the solitary supermarket to buy our picnic supplies from – I don’t quite remember which of the 56 supermarkets that now dot the highway it was back then. The roads, never had so many accidents. Accidents were for picnics and highways. People did not die on Maktoum bridge. Maktoum, Bridge – half of Dubai gathered to see the wonder when it first opened high up to allow dry dockers to pass through. But winters were just as beautiful. None the more or less. I remember standing on the street side waiting for my school bus to come pick me up a decade ago – I would look up at the winter skies and see the clouds swirling around. I remember once exclaiming to my uncle, “Abab! I can see the world go round!” And he nodded in amazement at this prodigy of a niece. I think that is the beauty of a season you love. Despite everything that you may have gone through, that the city may have gone through… the first ray of the summer sun (a not so special highlight in Dubai of course), the first drizzle of the monsoon and the first foggy misty morning, can only make you smile as you realize that beyond man’s destruction of land and forests and beyond his greed of putting everything on a chipset, beyond the need to make money to pay for these extravagances, nature delves its magic and still makes your day in the simplest way possible! What a fulfilling morning this was. Now… all I need is a flake of snow.

Riding High...

The most embarrassing moments of my life, thankfully, have transpired when nobody was noticing – or rather – when nobody who mattered was noticing. Off the top of my head, I can recall the single most embarrassing journey I went on – a plane trip from Dubai to Copenhagen, via Milan… alone. I have to mention though that I had only traveled between Dubai and Mumbai before this and incidentally, never felt the need to use a blanket, the restroom or change the audio station on a 2.15 hour flight. I was a rare flyer who had towed along with mom and dad on an annual vacation for the most part of her life. What made this single journey so pathetic back then was the fact that I was over-prepared with everything – I have to confess I was nerve-wrecked, just as anybody on an important business trip would be, especially the first one. Let me just begin by going back to University when I was speaking with an exchange student from the west – asking her how her long-haul to Dubai had been: “Oh My mum was too scared to let me go ‘coz she thought I was gonna’ get blown up out here… I almost didn’t make it you know! I’m so glad I’m in one piece. You know mums…!” Of course I know mums. Shaky mum in the west oughta’ know that my mum doesn’t trust them either. She had a tough time letting me go. She knew I was prepared with two copies of everything – even the original passport I was carrying. She hates it when I get nervous, and yours truly here was bawling out orders to one and all even by the time the limo drove her to the airport. Erm yes the Limo… well by a stroke of luck I was traveling Business Class. To think it made things easy. I got an aisle seat. Bang in the front row of the Boeing. The airline does a fairly good job of ignoring passengers for what they’re worth. But I assure you, this trip did more damage to my reputation than it ever could to theirs. I was given the look when I asked if I could change over to the ‘empty’ seat alongside as I had to be next to the window to avoid getting air-sick. Lesson number one: If the plane has taken off, you can be quite sure nobody’s occupying that vacant seat. You don’t need to ask them in the first place because when you do, they will whip out a lecture on how you should have done this when you booked the flight. Lesson number two: Book that window seat when you book your flight. I was starving. But when lunch arrived, I wished it hadn’t. I really don’t know how meat can be grey. I was skeptical about the preparation and politely asked for an explanation. Lesson number three: Order an Asiatic meal when you book your flight. 7 hours in flight usually teach you how to use the restroom. I learned the very hard way. The typical smirk, a wave of the hand which they hoped I would understand. I did not. Instead of working my way to the grossly under-sized door that looked like the oven, I dashed to the pilot’s cabin and tried to jerk open the door. In a world of we-don’t-know-who’s-coming-at-us-next, I encountered the wrath of the entire cabin crew in that one moment. The most obnoxious Italian “No” I could ever hear in my life – fully justified – froze me in action. I turned in horror to see the senior steward walk up to me as if he was going to shoot me and blame it on my apparently evil intentions. I yelped as they waited for me to pull out a gun or a 3 inch knife: “I am so sorry, this is a big mistake… when I was a kid, it used to be somewhere in the middle… I have never traveled in the front of a plane, I could never know…” But before I could use any of those phrases, I was quietly whisked away - away from the groggy staring eyes of the senior executive frequent flyers who withdrew with suspicion as I passed them by. I did use the restroom on my way back though. Lesson number four was imprinted on my mind forever. I can never forgive myself for dressing in pink cargoes and an Esprit turtle-neck. That totally gave me away. When I reached Copenhagen, I confidently strode through the terminal, picked my bag up, exchanged my money, walked and walked and walked… and without having to pass through immigration… walked right out of the airport. This time, I was sure I had made a mistake. How can there be no passport control?! How was I not checked in?! Was Milan also a Schengen State?! With 30 kgs in tow, it was probably not the best time to ask passing strangers if they knew. But I did. I wonder why I finally brought myself to write about something that happened in fall last year. Since then, I have been transformed into a raving backpacker who knows air-routes and visa regulations in every major country in the world at the back of her hand. I guess, I think it’s funny now.

The Other Side...

Last Wednesday, lunch hour in the office was different. I went on a mindless hunt all by myself to find a different than usual place to eat. But working in the hot spot of Dubai’s main business district meant that my options were, to say the least, boring. The unforgiving summer afternoon bore down on me and I cursed myself for walking half a mile to nowhere from my cool and cozy workspace. The smell of Somewhere Fried Chicken and Pizza Somewhere wafted by and spun around me. I stopped, inhaled and tried very hard to control. Beads of sweat trickled down and the ever-ready migraine made a quiet and creepy start in my head. As I turned to mop my face, the usual Somebody’s burger joint caught my eye. Nearby stood a posh café that I had enjoyed a sandwich in a few days ago. A pricey little place with a snooty staff that makes Salads look like the greatest gift of God to mankind. Between the two, I was dying of hunger. I needed fast service. Really fast service. So the junk-house was my best bet after all. I spun on my feet and dashed through the revolving door of the building it was housed in. The first cool breeze of the centrally air-conditioned lobby hit my blazing face. All around, there was the familiar hobnobbing of office-goers all out for a breath of fresh air in a building other than their office towers. One passerby loudly muttered into his N70, making it a little too obvious of course, that “money was not so important”. It is always amusing when you walk through a crowded public spot and overhear bits and pieces of conversation. Human enough, your mind conjures up the beginning and ending of that story – one of its own. Perhaps the gentleman who bellowed that money was not so important probably had some bankers on his tail. But I didn’t have much time to cook that up while my tummy rumbled. I hopped down the corridor and made my way to Somebody’s Burger joint. The buzz was uplifting and the aroma of freshly grilled patties tucked under sesame seasoned buns reminded me just how hungry I was. I dashed over to the counter, erm, the line. Sixth. Fifth. The little kid runs away. Fourth. Third. Second. Grr… Miss-Neverland wants know the difference between spicy and original. Now she wants to wash that cola down for a diet version. First. Yay! I took a moment and rattled off my order. Everything I could think of on a tray or two fitted the bill. I stood there beaming… No, did not forget my purse. The bill was settled, the food was served. I bludgeoned my way through the meal. As I looked around satisfied, people from all walks of life sat there. Talking, eating, resting. The salad people reading through some terribly fancy magazines and picking on their bowls. The executives sawing their way into double sized burgers. Two teenagers tired of scouring for summer jobs sharing French fries. It was the teenagers who made me look twice… Back at University, meals were discounted in our food court, or so you’d think. Still quite expensive when I think back to it. So two of us shared one meal. It was a matter of personal pride to coax the servers into pouring extra chicken gravy on our combos. The girls always ordered the food for the group a) because the boys were lazy and b) because they returned with value for money i.e. more complements with the same meal. In our last semester, a new ‘fast-food’ restaurant opened up in the food court. Ridiculously cheap. The food was something we are all very accustomed to in Dubai. Homestyle wraps and sandwiches with a dash of French fries and fresh juice – a meal conjured up by the very ambitious South Indian entrepreneurs and served in almost every “cafeteria” you visit in Dubai. One of them had the brainiest of ideas to open up at our Uni foodcourt and instantly attracted a herd of students with large appetites and marginal pocket money. I went on those meals for one full week until I fell sick and swore myself off them. And here I was… choosing between a meal that costs 7 times my Uni meal and Somebody’s burger joint which by current standards is ‘cheap’. Gobbling an experimental burger down. Sipping orange juice. Tackling my apple pie and thinking of carrying donuts back to the office. Well, I was also thinking about the report that was due. And the cheques that needed my attention. The travel allowance I had to settle… Before I knew it, my meal was over… and I saw the 17 year olds sharing a funny sms on their phone. For a moment, I reacted with a giggle, just because I saw them laugh. They turned and looked at me. Dressed to the nines. My bulging branded wallet seated next to my Peugeot’s keychain. A prominent access card hanging from my neck. A couple of embarrassed faces giving me a passive smile as I reciprocated. I don’t know if at that moment, both sides wanted to swap places. I still don’t know what could be more fun. But I do know I envy the kids. Darn… do you have to give some to get some ?!