So, I just trudged out into the kiln, across the car park to the little shop, in search of some tampons. Call me an idiot, but as a little shop in an office car park, I'd expected them to stock some feminine essentials. I do have some back at the Iransion, but as we left in a bit of a hurry (our new laserbeam flatmate drove us to work) I forgot to pack them. Anyway, I don't know why I was surprised to find that in spite of this tiny little shop having an entire back wall full of sanitary towels, stashed away out of sight like dirty porn magazines, there were no tampons in sight. Anywhere.
I don't know what to do, quite frankly. I've only been here two weeks. I can't very well go round asking everyone if they've got a tampon. And I'm sure as hell not buying a massive wad of sanitary towels - they come in packs as big as nappies. I'd have to take a shopping trolley down with me to bring them back up to the office. They definitely wouldn't fit in my bag. And anyway, other people might think it's ok to wear a 'nappy' under their skirt in 40 degree heat, but I'm afraid I draw the line there. I think most of my girl friends would agree, there's just no way.
I don't really understand what the little shop has got against tampons. Maybe they've got some out the back, but I don't fancy trying to mime what I need to the man behind the counter, really. He's very sweet but he barely understood when I said I wanted some Pepsi.
I do find these fabric conditioners rather amusing, though.
facebook me!
I was having trouble keeping this blog updated, due to irritating laws and rules about web access here in the UAE. So I've started posting more regularly on facebook. Add me as a friend if you want to keep on reading, although I'll post to here as much as I can! Thank you for reading, fellow bloggers, I miss you!!!
Day one at the Iransion...
Moving day went relatively smoothly on Saturday, and our Iranian inventor greeted us merrily on the stairwell of the villa, ladder in hand as though he'd spent the morning renovating our bedroom. I harboured a glimmer of hope he might have invented something for us. Such was not the case, although he has now installed two single beds, each with a built in headboard which doubles as a shelving unit. Very handy. I can fit at least three books in mine and when I lie down I lose half my head to the bottom shelf. With some clever imagining it's almost like being in a cave. We do have a fabulous view of the fleet-horse contraption, too, still sitting proudly on the driveway. And also quite nice (although clearly not as cool) is that the Burj Dubai, soon to be the tallest building in the world, stands about half a mile away from the villa. So technically, I could watch them build it from my bed, if my head wasn't stuck in the shelf.
Worth a note in itself perhaps, are the channels we can receive on the telly. He's given us cable, but along with an Internet connection that's so slow it's most probably powered by another animal on a conveyor belt somewhere, the only channels that aren't scrambled are some French news stations and a whole load of porn. I'm not saying our Iranian inventor is subscribed to the porn-package, but when you can watch an Asian secretary being taken on her office desk by a longhaired lothario in an 80's patterned shirt, yet you can't watch MTV, there's something amiss. We also discovered he's shagging the cleaner - an Asian girl young enough to be his daughter. Which is nice.
It was pretty hard to move with a hangover. Wouldn't recommend it. I met Becca for her birthday brunch on Friday, and it was an all day, all night affair that left me wondering how I ever spent my Fridays any other way. This one cost the equivalent of about 40 quid, and was in the poshest hotel I've ever seen. Seriously, words cannot describe how incredible it was. This brunch now plays a serious part in my idea of what heaven will be like. Imagine three restaurants, all linked by various corridors, all full of food and drink stations, intertwined with ice-sculptures. You can eat anything you want. Anything.
You want squid, mussels, lobster cooked just for you? You want roast beef, salad, spaghetti, a piglet on a carving tray? You want cheese, bread, sausages, beef sizzled in a wok before your eyes, smoking with Jim Beam? You want to dip delicious fruit into a chocolate fountain and then delve your hands into various sweetie jars? You want glasses of creamy custard and mini cakes that melt in your mouth? You got it. And the drinks are unlimited. You want endless champagne? You want Bacardi cocktails? Mojitos, red wine, white wine, vodka and cranberry? You can even have coffee. If you want. For five hours straight, you can enjoy a disgusting act of gluttony you never thought was in your power to display and then, when you're totally hammered and your clothes are stretching over bulges in all the wrong places, you can leave and fall asleep somewhere. Or. you can get a cab with some very nice boys, to a 70's disco night in a club called The Lodge, and dance to Wham until your ears bleed. Which is what I did.
Oh, and when we left to get a cab, I had one of those one in a million, serendipitous moments that still leaves me in shock. I ran for the same taxi as a bloke I went to summer camp with in 1999. A kiwi called Brad. What are the odds of that? I've not seen him since that sticky summer in Pennsylvania, when I taught photography to a hundred Jewish rich kids who made more money selling lemonade on their driveways than I do now. And we meet again randomly, nine years later in Dubai. I was drunk and he was drunk and my phone was dead, so I gave him my card. Oh, as I type, he's just emailed me!
Tonight, we met our flatmates - two Indian brothers, one of whom is in finance and the other of whom runs an events company. He deals a lot with laser beams. He even showed us 300 photos of his luxury events here in Dubai, all involving laser and light displays, and then he said I could work for him on a cricket event he's organising. If I can get some companies to sponsor it, I'll get a cut. And we're talking three times my monthly salary. I said I'd think about it. It could be difficult meeting clients without a car, and I'd have to do it at weekends and after work, obviously. But I guess I could give it a go. It's funny how everyone talks business here, all the bloody time. I mean, there we were, sitting in the Iransion, flicking through endless porn, and trying not to lose our entire bodies to the vortex created by our headboards, and we get offered a freelance job as soon we head into the kitchen.
Check out my meaty sausages. I've got more pics of the posh brunch so I'll make an album on facebook later if anyone wants to drool over their keyboards...
A Samsung fairytale...
Once upon a time, on the way home from a pissed up night in a karaoke bar at the top of a golden tower, a young girl called Tracy lost her phone. Much to her dismay, after making a long distance call to her prince in England from the back of taxi, upon awakening sober the next morning she realised she'd left it there.
In the dangerous land of thieves and beggars from which young Tracy came, a missing, sparkling gem like a Samsung phone, would undoubtedly stay that way. Lost. Forever. Perhaps, she thought, the taxi driver might keep it for himself, or another Dubian explorer would pounce upon the urban treasure, with a magpie-like glint in his eye and a heart of stone. She called her phone to no avail. It was switched off. Alas, alack, poor Tracy and her treasure had parted much too soon, no thanks to her Shiraz-fuelled shenanigans.
Throughout the day, the faithful Tracy dialled her number, with hope in her hungover liver. er.heart. The verdict never changed. Perhaps the insurance will cover it, she whispered into her monitor, as she scrolled through T Mobile's terms and conditions. But those unspoken words echoed around the office like a tragic love song - "We all know it'll take fucking months for them to deliver out here."
But little did Tracy know, her luck was about to change. That night, she sat in the food court of a palatial shopping mall, dejectedly shovelling plastic forks full of teppenyaki beef into her mouth from a styrofoam plate. She gazed unseeingly at the passers-by - dreaming no doubt, of a life free from communication, and every time a person strolled past with a mobile phone, she felt a thousand mini-daggers pierce her soul. Across the table, her good friend Becky - a stunning princess from foreign shores with full red lips, killer tits and reams of thick, shiny blonde hair - dialled her number once more, just for the hell of it. And someone answered.
The ladies almost spat out their food in surprise. "Ah, I been waiting for your call" said the voice at the other end. "Your battery died, so I put your sim card in my phone. I bring to you. Where you at?"
At first, Tracy couldn't speak. In turn, Becky bit a chunk off her plastic fork and almost swallowed it with some cucumber. Could it be that an angel had landed in Dubai, with a heart of gold and a taxi cab?
Two hours later, Tracy was reunited with her sparkling Samsung phone. The angel drove it right to her door and placed it into her welcoming hands. She noticed, as he handed it over, his own phone had itself been created at the dawn of time. Its weathered screen was devoid of colour. It was so large it would probably break the lining of his trousers if he tried to keep it in his pocket, and who knows if even doubled as an mp3 player with unlimited Internet access and a built in Tomb Raider game with infrared headset attachment (like hers)?
As she kissed her phone good night, back once more in its rightful place beside her pillow, Tracy swore she would never be mean to a taxi driver in Dubai again. And the moral of this story? Just because someone can't drive, speak English or navigate their way around a city for which they are paid to know every inch, doesn't mean they'll nick your mobile phone if you leave it the back of their car.
Lunch break: 10 simple steps...
Lunch hour in London:
Step 1: Exit office via lift, step onto street outside.
Step 2: Break into instant-goosepimples, folding arms against chest and performing high-pitched 'brrrrrrrrr' noise for added acknowledgement of shitty weather. Step 3: Walk/run round corner towards nearest shop featuring pre-determined, desired edibles. Step 4: Glare at local 'suits', all with more money than me. Step 5: Peruse the numerous sandwich, salad, sushi, burger, chips, quiche, Chinese, Indian, Thai etc, options on offer. Make purchase. Step 6: Head to TopShop/Zara/Sainsburys/New Look/Accessorize etc. Step 7: Glare at local 'suits', all with more money than me. Step 8: Spend unjustifiable amount on Visa card just because it's easy. Step 9: Glare at local 'suits', all with more money than me. Step 10: Head back to office, eat gorgeous, pre-packaged, hunger-busting lunch.
Lunch hour in Dubai:
Step 1: Exit office via lift, step outside into office-building's car park. Dodge speeding vehicle covered in sand. Step 2: Break into instant sweat, flapping arms about to create human fan whilst feeling any unfortunate underarm fabric develop sudden wet-patch. Step 3: Walk round corner towards four-lane motorway, developing instant tan. Step 4: Glare at local 'sheiks', all with more money than me. Step 5: Stand at crossing for 25 minutes, wondering if a food shop exists amongst the furniture stores in what once was a barren sprawl of sand dunes across said motorway.
Step 6: Cross motorway. Discover no shops selling food anywhere, except random, run-down Baskin Robbins and 'closed' Indian restaurant. Step 7: Glare at local 'sheiks', all with more money than me. Step 8: Spend no money on anything, thanks having no bank account whatsoever and not really needing a deep scarlet, camel-printed chaise-lange.
Step 9: Glare at local 'sheiks', all with more money than me. Step 10: Head back to office, narrowly missing desert safari 4x4 collision in car park. Eat another of yesterday's cheese slices. And some Ding Dongs.
Tales of a middle-eastern horse machine...
OK, so I'm not quite sure if agreeing to take the villa with an eccentric, Iranian inventor living downstairs was the best decision I ever made, but you know what, nothing's going to compare with the one we saw in the middle of the desert. And besides, this one is only 2,500 AED each a month, if we share a room, which is less than I paid for my shoebox in London and leaves me even more of my monthly salary to spend on hanging out in posh bars and restaurants, trying to find a rich boyfriend.
I'll admit, sharing a room isn't ideal. It's sort of like reversing in status from independent London career-woman, to student backpacker, even though T and I get on well and clearly won't steal each other's 'labelled' baked beans. The carpet in it is pretty minging, too. Well, it's new, but it's brown with a weird pattern on it that looks like something my nan might have had installed for visual entertainment in 1964. But it's big enough for the two single beds the landlord has promised to put in there and it comes with a telly and built in wardrobes. The bathroom, we'll have to share with the three or four other randoms about to move in (God knows who they are), and the kitchen doesn't have a cooker.. Oh OK, it's a shit-hole. Dammit. But we're seeing it as a temporary solution.
We could, of course, have considered crane-surfing, which I'm guessing is probably the Dubian equivalent of couch-surfing? There are so many of them here. I think 70% of the world's crane population resides in Dubai. Or is it that there are eight cranes per family of three? Something like that. Anyway, there are so many of them that should we adopt their cabins as our night-time shelter I'm not sure anyone would notice . Mind you, you can just see it on the news, can't you: "CRANE SURFING BRITS, WANTED IN 7 EMIRATES".
Back to the Iranian inventor. He seems to be a very sweet man, who's renting this villa in case any clients want to come and stay. By clients, I mean people who might be interested in funding his latest invention, which happens to be a car that's powered by a horse, running on a conveyor belt. No, seriously.
When we sat down in his ground-floor living room and he faced us, twiddling his thumbs and enquiring as to our heritage (very common here and not considered to exhibit possible prejudice at all), a quick glance around the room revealed a professionally produced display stand, featuring this 'fleet-horse' machine. He also had a map on the wall, of the world tour he's planning to take in this contraption. "I was going to start in UAE," he told us, "but now I think I start in America".
Because they won't laugh at him there?
When we got outside, there was actually a 'fleet-horse' on the driveway. Amazing. It looks a bit like a greenhouse on a tractor, with a strappy apparatus in the middle, presumably to hold the horse in place. The polythene surrounding, apparently, he's going to market as an advertising tool - the idea being that companies will pay him to display their logos and slogans on the side of this thing. Well, I'm sure it will attract a lot of attention. I know I'd certainly stop and stare at a galloping horse, doing a treadmill workout on the motorway. in a greenhouse. Even if I'd call the RSPCA afterwards.
I'm not sure he's really thought the whole thing through, you know. When I pointed at the suffocating, polythene sheath, trapping the desert heat inside and threatening to melt his entire invention all over the driveway, I asked: "Won't the horse get a bit hot in there, seeing as it's 45 degrees outside?" He looked at me for a second; then at the floor, as though a little dream had just been crushed.
"Shit, I have to start all over again", said his eyes.
"Er, yes. I just, er. put something inside,.. um. some cooling", said his mouth.
Yes, I think living with him will prove quite interesting. Maybe he'll even let me go on the road with him? Maybe I'll become the stable girl and recognise my true calling as a travelling salesman? Or maybe, when he pops his clogs through heat exhaustion, I'll just inherit his villa.
CATCH UP: dodgy dealings and desert drives...
Since we began "the great villa hunt", we've had a few calls from randoms living in squalor and a heard a fair few horror stories on the expat housing scene. None of this has, so far, left us feeling particularly confident. Rent has risen drastically in Dubai over the past few years. There never used to be a cap on how much landlords could increase it, so they just got greedy, milking the "rich" expats for everything they could get. Of course, now it just means there's no cheap housing alternatives anywhere. It's just 'expensive', 'extortionate', or 'bedspace' - which is basically a mattress on the floor of a hovel, surrounded by Filipino mothers.
I know I've lived in some hell-holes in my time (the most note-worthy being a warehouse apartment I shared with a bi-polar Brooklyn chick, who had a penchant for naked roller-blading). And I might be ahead of myself, but I kind of think that as an educated 27 year old who left a perfectly reasonable, two-bedroom Bethnal Green apartment just days ago, I automatically bypass the cockroach-ridden bedsit situation.
A viewing last night, our first one, was the miraculous result of a recommendation by a very nice boy I met in the karaoke bar on Saturday night. We've been sending the odd email back and forth and he actually called this afternoon to say there was a massive room to let in a shared villa a colleague of his lives in.
We met this landlord at McDonalds near Al Safa (an area on the map that seems to consist of a road junction, two hypermarkets and a Boots. Yes, there's even a Boots here). He turned out to be a frighteningly tall, well-spoken guy from South Africa, who also happens to be an eye-surgeon.
We drove with him to the villa for what seemed like an eternity and finally pulled up in an enormous driveway, next to which was an extremely well tended garden and a lovely swimming pool. The place was huge. I think he said there are about nine other people living there. Inside, the room Tracy and I were to share was the size of the entire flat I just vacated in east London. This included two beds, a dining table, a sofa and armchair, a dressing room with built-in wardrobes, an en-suite bathroom (with bidet, thank you very much) and a balcony. We'd also have access to a huge shared kitchen and a living space with yet more sofas, and a gigantic roof terrace on which to sunbathe and sleep under the stars. Everything was included in the price, too - cable Internet, bills, free purified water from a cooler - perfect.
The only drawback, aside from an entire South African family (including young children) occupying the space downstairs (thus banishing us to the, albeit massive, upper level), is the fact that it's so far away from anywhere we'd ever need to go. And the fact that neither of us really drives would be a problem after a while.
It might well be located in an area of Dubai that's growing so rapidly you can hardly navigate your way home amongst the buildings springing up each day, but at the moment, it's so "new" that there's literally nothing there, except incredible, amazing, multi-coloured villas, and a whole heap of sand. There are no landmarks from which cabs could identify our home - if they would even travel out that far to collect us. There are no shops, the metro won't be open for three years, the roads are literally dusty tracks and the only green things around are a few trees, perched on dirty mounds. They've left them there, apparently, for some religious reason, standing tall above the ground like withered hands in a desert that's been flattened around them. All to make room for this man-made sprawl of what's bound to be, I've no doubt, total luxury. We just arrived twenty years too early.
Still, we just saw another villa in Jumeirah, which we've pretty much agreed to take. We'll be sharing a room, but there's a story behind this one...
CATCH UP: sheikh, rattle and roll...
What a weekend! Its gone so quickly, but I can safely say Ive seen a side of Dubai that I can live with. There are some parts of this city that take your breath away a glamorous, special side that dazzles you with the glitz of Vegas, the promise of Manhattan and the rough and ready charms of London. It might seem a tiny bit fake, some of it, but everywhere Ive been this weekend, Ive been struck with an awesome sense of how much could be mine for the taking, whether or not I can afford it right now. Ive landed in a place thats being built around me, and for me, and anything I can add to help it grow will probably be welcomed with open arms. (Unless it's a beer selling brothel).
On Friday T and I finally met Rick for our first Dubai brunch at Waxy OConnors. Inside it was much like any Irish pub you might encounter in the UK, only, like the ugly sister overshadowed by its beatiful sibling, this dirty hole is atttached to the side of a posh, 5* hotel. Waxy's is renowned for offering the booziest brunch in town and may I add that its got nothing to do with the pub of the same name in Leicester Square, in which I once had a rather unfortunate encounter with a box of magic mushrooms and a homeless woman on speed. But thats another story.
We paid the equivalent of eight quid for an unlimited brunch and five drinks of our choosing. Bargain!
When the air became too thick to breathe and the expat engineers too much to handle, we got a cab to Ricks place in the marina. The view is to die for, although if Im honest, you have to look beyond a million cranes, bulldozers and dusty, vacant building foundations to see the sea. His place is lovely too its a two bedroom flat , oh, but when he moved in, not only had it been furnished, it had all been laid out like a show room. The dinner table was set as though he was expecting six guests. It was a bit like walking into Ikea. Still, Id love to live in a place like that, where you can literally watch the marina grow around you. Its going to be beautiful when its finished.
What happened after that is a bit of a blur, but we cabbed it to Hard Rock Café for some cocktails something I would never even dream of doing anywhere else. It was sort of surreal, drinking a mix entitled snog on the beach (Im assuming sex on the beach was banned, along with my blog?) at a giant guitar shaped bar, as the waiters nervously performed some sort of YMCA dance on cue, every 30 minutes or so.
It was there that we managed to recruit two blokes from the Navy lovely guys who then joined us for a karaoke venture at a place called Harry Ghattos. This place, with a name like my favourite dessert, is a teeny little bar in the Emirates Towers, which starts pumping karaoke at 10pm. Ive never seen anywhere like it in my life! Imagine walking into a shopping mall, up an escalator, past designer stores all dripping in gold, past Starbucks (outside which, entire Arabic families are sipping iced mochas) and then through what looks like a built in wardrobe on the top floor.
Harrys was so small that by the end of the night I felt like I knew everyone in there - and I'd sung duets with most of them, too! There were even some arabs in full traditional dress drinking pints and checking out the song-book. Who says sheikhs don't rock and roll?
The no-crime thing here is great too, Im getting used to it now. I had my bag on the floor by the bar all night as I wandered around talking to people, and didnt worry about it once. In fact, here, if you hold your bag close like you have to in London, you get a funny look, as though youre the one whos shifty. The words theres no crime in Dubai echo around every single place as women leave their bags open on bars and cameras on coffee tables. One bloke even left his laptop next to us in Starbucks in the week, when he popped to the loo. I cant see it staying that way forever, but its definitely refreshing.
Anyway, needless to say T and I felt like shit this morning. I slept till almost 2pm, and then B, another friend of a friend came to meet us. We all got a cab to the Madinat, which is one of those buildings you just cant help but gasp at. Its a huge, palatial sort of affair thats built to look old-fashioned. It's got shops, souks, bars and restaurants inside, not to mention the most spectacular view of the Burg Al Arab. We got late lunch in a trendy bar called Left Bank... then went for a glass of (very expensive) wine and watched the sun set over the sea from the terrace at the Bahri Bar such a gorgeous place. It was brochure-like, actually. You know the kind of bar you see in the posh books and magazines, filled with honeymooners? It wasnt full of honeymooners though, just standard Dubai residents enjoying the way of life theyve become accustomed to.
I could definitely get used to this. I feel like Ive had a mini holiday, and actually, I dont even mind that I have to work tomorrow. I do have to start the house-hunt though... I've a feeling that's not going to be so glamorous.
CATCH UP: the long road home...
We walked home from work again tonight - well, I say home, but of course I mean the hotel apartment, which if I'm quite honest is starting to get a bit annoying. It's baking outside now. It's so humid that when T and I step out of the office block, our glasses steam up. It's an instant thing. And when a breeze does actually blow, it's like someone pointing a hairdryer in your face.
I never thought I'd say this, but I'm actually starting to miss the tube. Even the shitty District Line is forgiven. Ramming your nose in someone's armpit all the way from St James's Park to Mile End in a square inch of space suddenly seems like luxury travel, now that we're trudging half an hour along a dusty highway by foot in 45 degree heat, feeling our lungs fill up with sand.
We've taken to stopping half way home for some air-con in the Arabic equivalent of TK Maxx. It's really quite remarkable - you're ambling along, your eye on the mirage ahead with dust in your hair and hope in your heart, when suddenly, out of nowhere appears a discount clothing store, with some surprisingly decent dresses in the window. We walk around in a clockwise fashion, holding a variety of tie-dye numbers up to our sweaty frames as though we might be interested in making a purchase, wait for our blood to cool and then leave again, back out into the kiln.
They're starting to recognise us now though. We're going to have to buy something soon I reckon, but that's ok. Most things are only 25 dirhams, which I think is about 4 quid. Even I can afford that for a ten minute pit-stop in the air-con. And if I get a muslin pair of slacks with detachable belly button ring thrown in, well,... all's fine and dandy in my world.
Although it's a tedious trek, the second leg of our journey was saved today by a certain giant Arab, riding a horse. On a billboard, I might add, about half way along the Um Zaab'eel Road. It was huge - taking up valuable Nike or Coca Cola space. I've never seen anything like it, quite honestly. It was even lit up. It must cost a fortune to keep him there, grinning through his abaya... legs wrapped tight around his wild stallion. Oh, I'm not saying there are any metaphors or hidden messages in this curious roadside rider, but it certainly stopped traffic. Well. foot traffic anyway.
I actually managed to access my blog today, when I plugged the ethernet cable at work into my laptop. I uploaded two posts and thought wa-hey! But now, back in the hotel room, it's blocked again. Cheeky. Naz said there are different "proxys" on the other side of town, so it might well work if I move out there - yet another reason to cross to the cool-side. (Not that I even know what a proxy is).
In other news - we've arranged to meet Rick (another friend of a friend), for brunch on Friday. Naz is coming too, I think. We're also going to look at some villas tomorrow night in Al Barsha, so that should be interesting. I've heard there are a lot of cowboys around, trying to rip you off. I spoke to a New Zealander on the phone today, who I contacted a few weeks before getting here. I noticed on Dubai's version of the gumtree - dubizzle.com - that she was looking for two more girls to live with. She still hasn't found a place, and said she's got friends living in Jumeirah for 2,000 dirhams a month. You can't get anything there now for less than 4,500. Rent has more than doubled in the last two years. The property market here sounds evil. We're meeting on Friday morning before brunch to see if we can join forces, which might make things a bit easier I guess.
As for these villas tomorrow, I had a bit of trouble understanding the landlady on the phone so god knows what we're actually going to look at. I'm assuming each will have a roof and a gym, and a swimming pool. Most places do here, apparently - even if they're swarming with insects on the inside... according to a bloke at work, who, since arriving here two weeks ago has moved in and out of a place, due to a lizard infestation in the corner of his bedroom.
Poor guy.
strange lunch...
Just got back from a little explore around the vicinity of the office block. “The American” told us there’s a place downstairs that sells the best samosas in the world for one dirham, which in London would be free. Almost. It’s cheap, anyway. So T and I took the SLIT-ME downstairs – that’s the Slowest Lift In The Middle East, for the uninformed. And it really is. It’s one of those lifts that seems to stop at every floor, even when no one gets in or out, and when people do get in it’s always at the last minute, so the doors shut half way and then slam back again as a little hand reaches through. Argh, I hated that in London and I hate it here. Annoying.
Anyway, we finally got downstairs and found nothing but furniture shops. There must be about six on the ground floor around a giant car park and they’re always empty, except for a gaggle of Arabic men perched on stools near the doorway, waiting to sell you a bed the size of my grandmother’s entire living room. There were no food shops, however. So we asked one of the men, who then stood up and led us out into the blistering heat of the car park, towards what turned out to be a coffee shop, shrouded in green plants and flowers. How mysterious. He then disappeared, leaving us to tentatively push the door open and step inside.
The sight was breathtaking. Well, we took what little breath we could through the cloud of shisha smoke that slammed our faces (another harsh reminder of the smoking ban that’s just come into force back home). All around us sat Arabs in traditional whites, puffing on shisha whilst eating from giant plates of steaming food and watching cricket. And the only thing the people behind the “bar” seemed to sell, besides hot rice-based dishes, was fruit juice and Red Bull. I don’t think it was the samosa place.
We paid the equivalent of over £1.50 for a Red Bull each and snuck back out into the car park, feeling a little bit like Alice must have done after exiting her wonderland. What a wonderful, magical place to have as a local eatery – if we dare to step in there again. It definitely wasn’t the Benjy’s experience of last week, when I wandered out of the office door, through the next one, picked up a tuna sarnie and left again, not so unimpressed as completely oblivious as to what I’d just done.
It’s funny how getting a sandwich in your lunch break can become so routine; how the monotony of it all can eventually force entire hours out of your head as you drift somewhere else, anywhere else in what little spare time you have. But the shisha, cricket place that hides downstairs across the car park, like Narnia sleeps untouched by most inside that wardrobe, wasn’t even of this world. Well, not of my normal world anyway. Until I get a little more adventurous, unless I want a giant bed or some energy juice for lunch in Dubai, I’m probably better off bringing a pack-up.
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