Category Archives: Dubai

The Dubai ‘yes’ (read: no)

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Last week, on the day of all that rain, DH and I did the school run together and decided to get some breakfast before going home.

We splash through the rain and walk into one of my favourite places, which if I tell you has period-inspired, chintzy décor and looks like a dolls’ house (think pink), you’ll know where I mean if you live locally.

It’s raining hard and we run from the car park, so I don’t really look around until we’ve stepped over the cardboard mopping up the rainwater and entered via the back door.

It’s dark inside. Not pitch black, but gloomy enough that we know immediately we won’t be able to read the paper, or even see what we’re eating. There’s obviously some kind of power cut, and, apart from the wait staff, there isn’t a soul inside.

The culinary trend for dining in the dark reaches Arabian Ranches

The culinary trend for dining in the dark reaches Arabian Ranches

“Come in!” welcomes a waiter with a megawatt smile. “Wet isn’t it? Come, sit down.”

We’re not quite sure what to do. The waiter motions again towards a table and gestures for us to be seated.

“Are you open?” I enquire. “It’s dark!” I add, stating the obvious. My stomach lets out a low rumble of hunger.

“Yes, yes, we’re open. Just a small problem with the lights.”

I’m reminded of the equally optimistic taxi driver my visiting BF came across last week, who told her he knew where to drop her, but didn’t have a clue and needed help reading the signs (“Bad eyes,” he’d tutted.)

“But can you still cook?” I ask the waiter politely. I peer around the eerily quiet restaurant and spot four or five shadowy figures with tools in a corner, huddled around a circuit-breaker box. “Does the kitchen have power?”

“Ah,” our waiter replies, unsure. “Let me just check on that.”

DH and I stifle a laugh. Through the hatch, we can see the kitchen is also undergoing a black-out.

“We’ll come back later,” we tell him and bid him farewell. And I wonder: Do we look like the kind of couple whose idea of a decent meal out is hanging around like bats in the semi darkness with no food? 🙂 Or maybe the restaurant wasn’t trying to sell food, but instead offer a public service to wet expats who don’t own an umbrella.

Funny ole thing customer service in Dubai.

Outside my work: A day of rain and Dubai drowns

Outside my work: A day of rain and Dubai drowns

The ‘bear’-faced selfie

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It was the moment Son2 had been waiting for since the beginning of the school year: The day he got to take Bernie, the class bear, home.

Bernie arrived at our house in a bag, with his scrapbook – a well-leafed diary documenting his time spent with the families in Son2’s class. The pages were filled with photos, hand-written stories, speech bubbles, decorative stamps, evidence of baking extravaganzas and even a bear-class boarding pass.

You wouldn’t believe how creative it gets.

Son2 and I browsed the book together. ‘Oh look, there’s Bernie parachuting into someone’s garden, ” I exclaimed, my wide-open eyes settling on a photo of the bear floating into the family’s backyard underneath a make-shift canopy. “And here he is ON SKIS, in France!”

xxxx

Silently seeking attention

It got even better: Blow me down, but Bernie spent Christmas in Lapland. There were snaps of him playing in the snow, snuggled up in the log cabin and listening to music in his airplane seat. “Let’s take Bernie on a husky safari, then tonight, if we’re really lucky, we might get a shot of him gazing at the Aurora Borealis rolling across the sky,” I could almost hear the enthused parents telling their bemused children.

Our time with Bernie had much more of a homey feel. In the knowledge that on top of all the usual weekend chores, I had to find amusing things to do with a bear, I set up numerous photo opportunities – of Bernie reading books, cosy in his pyjamas, sitting on the kitchen table eating noodles and using his paws to scale the bunk bed ladder. In an inspired moment, he posed for a #nomakeupselfie.

I even remembered to take Bernie with us when we went to football, and in the car, took care to buckle him up in the back.

Son2 looked at me suspiciously as I fiddled around trying to secure the seat belt. It was a look that suggested he thought I’d lost my mind. “Mum, he’s just a toy, you know!” my 5YO reminded me, with a roll of his eyes and a casual glance in Bernie’s direction.

A sighting of Sheikh Mo

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Visitors, I’ve decided, are like buses – it’s been a while since any of my friends have visited us here in Dubai, then, this weekend, five came along at once.

Which meant pulling out the stops to show them a good time – while a sandstorm swept through the region, complete with rain, lightning and gusting wind.

On Friday night, with the weather looking decidedly dodgy, I ordinarily would have stayed on the sofa (no babysitter, early start, you know how it goes), but since my visitors didn’t come to Dubai to watch TV, we braved the elements and went on a desert safari.

Yes, during all that rain.

xxxx

Good times in the desert

I was surprised. There were at least 30 cars, hurtling over the sand dunes in a rollercoaster fashion, and while the sunset was hidden by dusky clouds, the desert landscape still managed to enchant.

After the excitement of dune bashing, the Bedouin camp offered a chance to relax, sit back, and enjoy Arabic food, a bellydancer who shimmied like a flame and apple-spiced shisha.

Even with the lashing rain, which came through in waves – and meant the camels were led away to shelter – and despite the travel sickness endured by Visitor 1, it was a great night, filled with friends, a falcon display, Henna tattoos and wine.

On a roll, my visitors and I (in various combinations) also managed to tick the following boxes:

– Cocktails at The Address hotel in Dubai Marina (not too shabby, and the most amazing view from their room)

– A boat ride around the marina and out into the Gulf

– Handbag shopping at Karama

– Lunch at Jumeriah Beach Residence, followed by sniffing the sea air and the most scrumptious frozen yogurt

– The fountains at Dubai Mall (I love these choreographed water displays at the foot of the towering Burj Khalifa – set to music, the high-pressure jets roll and sway in all directions, to make the water, literally, dance)

– Souk al-Bahar to buy stuffed camels

– The Els Club for more drinks

– The Atlantis hotel so they could say they’d done The Palm

There’s really nothing quite like having visitors in town to make you see Dubai through the eyes of a tourist. And to top it all, we spotted Dubai’s ruler Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid al-Maktoum (Sheikh Mo, as he’s affectionately called), strolling around JBR. That, I couldn’t have planned any better.

Summer: The elephant in the room

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I was out for dinner the other night with my parents and a lovely couple who’d recently moved to Dubai. They’d swapped everything they knew and loved in Surrey for a new life on the Palm, and had thrown themselves into the frenetic world of work, Middle East style.

We talked about how she’d already taken a (temporary) job that involved commuting to Abu Dhabi (I was impressed, that road isn’t for the faint hearted, even with a driver). And we talked about their daughters, embarking on adult lives on different continents.

Then, all of a sudden, there it was: the elephant at the table. Amid all the promise of beach trips, handbag shopping and desert safaris, there’s a hurdle all UAE residents face: the Dubai summer. “We won’t be able to get back to the UK until much later in the year,” she told us. “We’ll be here all summer.”

My mum looked aghast! I’m sure she visibly paled. (March is their preferred month to visit, and I do understand why.)

She's clinging on to her scarf and boots until sweat patches appear

She’s clinging on to her scarf and boots until sweat patches appear

I immediately tried to soothe things over: “It’s not too bad,” I said. “Honestly.” I attempted to explain that lots more women stay now, the city’s much quieter and working through the summer is no problem. (It’s when you have small children climbing the walls and bankrupting you every day for 10 weeks that you start throwing plates around.)

I’m posting on this subject because those of us who live here are sharing a similar sentiment this week: IT’S COMING!

We’ve entered that murky zone where you’re trying not to turn the AC on, but give in. Firms that offer AC cleaning are working round the clock, and if you pull on a pair of jeans in the morning, by lunchtime you’re peeling them off to don your summer staples of shorts and flip flops (again).

At the school gates, comments are being bandied around to the tune of “It’s warming up” and “Winter’s over”. Unless you’re particularly stubborn or sweat-proof, the scarves and wraps have been put away, boots consigned to the back of the cupboard.

Give it a few more weeks of rising temperatures and we’ll all be asking each other: “So, when are you leaving?”

Silent Sunday: Sand castles

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The eye sore that was the construction at The Walk at JBR is no more, and the amenities you’ll find there now – including an open-air cinema screen with a bean bag area and small waterpark – make it all worthwhile. But it was the amazing sand sculptures that really caught our attention…

xxxx

Stay away, kids!

Fog: Dubai’s Achilles’ heel

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At 6.45am this morning, I peered outside our bedroom window to see the everyday familiar sights of our street draped in a silky mist; the villas, carports and road hidden from view by a dense, semolina-souper, surely the worst fog of the season so far.

By 7.30am, we’d ventured into the whitened haze, on our way to school. Cars loomed into view at the last second, like images from some half-forgotten dream. Son2 was on the edge of his seat with excitement, loving the inclement weather (beats the continual blues skies in his opinion) and rolled down his window hoping the swirling vapour would enter the car.

“Are we driving in the clouds?” he asked, as I almost closed my eyes with anxiety (I wasn’t at the wheel!). You could just about see the white line marking the lane, but the upcoming roundabout, roadworks and drivers who incredibly had forgotten to put their headlights on were totally obscured by the thick fog. We were driving blind, literally.

This was a relatively clear patch - elsewhere it was white-out

This was a relatively clear patch – elsewhere it was white-out and planes had to circle for up to two hours

“It’s Dubai’s Achilles’ heel,” remarked DH, because when the fog is this bad, the delays at the airport ricochet all around the world for hours afterwards, affecting tens of thousands of passengers (hopefully the problem will be alleviated this summer, after work is carried out on the runway to upgrade the lighting).

Later on, as the fog lifted, it felt like we were in a blue movie as the sunshine filtered through the wispy mist, burning it off to nothing. I breathed easily again – both children were safely in school and we had a busy day ahead, ending with the Eric Clapton concert tonight.

Then DH’s phone rings. It’s scheduling. He’s not meant to go to work until tomorrow, but due to the fog and all the delays, he has a car coming to pick him up in 45 minutes. My best-laid plans scuppered by my DH being sent to the end of the world (New Zealand).

Darn fog.

Still, the lucky recipient is my Dad! My parents are staying, and he’s agreed to come with me to the concert. Rock on, Dad!

A brush with Bobbi Brown

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Makeup and I have always had a fairly functional relationship. But when my good friend asked me if I wanted to join her for a free makeup lesson, I immediately said yes. I think the words mummy makeover might have sprung to mind.

It turned out my friend couldn’t make it, but I decided to attend anyway, despite the little voice in my head that whispered: “Those makeup girls will eat you alive! GOBBLE you up whole!”

“We’re just waiting for a few more people to arrive,” the doll-like receptionist at Dubai Mall’s Bobbi Brown tells me on arrival – the first clue that the other attendees aren’t attempting to sandwich the lesson in between a morning’s work and the afternoon school run. “The last two are in the car park,” she announces after 30 minutes has ticked slowly by.

“It’s our fault,” they tinkle, when they finally show up, their makeup already cover-model perfect and their blow-dried hair coiffed neatly into place.

The makeup guru appears from behind a closed door and a minute or two of air kissing follows. They all know each other, I realise; they’re all of exotic descent, and I’m quite sure already own overly large Burberry toiletry cases the size of carry-on baggage.

Our host for the afternoon turns to me and asks with a megawatt smile: “What are your expectations today?”

“Erm, to look nice,” I reply. I wonder how to vocalise that I’m hoping he’ll make me look at least a decade younger and do it fast enough so I can get to the other side of Dubai in time to pick up my son – but it’s looking like I’m the only person watching the clock.

Smokey eye. Pout. At 6am. In my dreams!

Smokey eye. Pout. At 6am. In my dreams!

As the 10-step lesson gets underway, I learn just how much prepping is required to keep skin in tip-top condition. Cleanser, tonic, serum, eye cream, face cream, overnight cream; it all makes my once-daily application of moisturiser with SPF look rather paltry.

His fingers deftly massage my ‘problem areas’ with gorgeous-feeling products (yes, I’m perched on a stool in front of seven sets of eyes, being used as the ‘model’ at this point). “See, if I apply the serum to half zee face, look at the difference!”

Heads nod enthusiastically as half my face wakes up from years of neglect (it’s as though my skin pores are drinking thirstily from Bobbi’s fountain of youth and are doing a merry jig). “And don’t forget zee neck,” he reminds, with a final smoothing flourish.

I return to the table, taking my place opposite a young Emirati lady with unblemished, milky skin (skin whiteners, she tells us), groomed eyebrows and aquamarine nails, and the lesson moves on to concealers and correctors. An assistant helps me find a foundation better matched to my skin tone than my own skin, and I start to really enjoy myself as I eye up products with a colour scheme more sophisticated than a painter’s palette.

“Blending is your friend,” proclaims our make-up guru; “Bobbi never says camouflage – we naturalise,” he tells us, and with the number of references made to Bobbi herself, I start to wonder if they’re all best friends.

Just as we’re being taught how to stop lines showing in the under-eye area (gasp!), I notice the time. If I don’t tear myself away from the unlimited access to expensive products that highlight, pout, plump and pale, I’ll be late for Son 1.

One of the makeup assistants flanking the table finishes off my makeover at speed, and I rush from the room, leaving all my classmates there for, I suspect, a leisurely afternoon.

“We’ll call you,” they tell me as I swing on my heel to leave the store. “For your next lesson.” And, given that it was free and really worthwhile, it’s a mummy gift horse I won’t be looking in the mouth.

Breakfast with a son

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One son had a whole week off for half-term; the other only had a day. I felt bad for Son1, so on his day off, I decided to take him out for breakfast.

“Where shall we go?”

“Subway!”

“Well, that’s really a lunch place. Let’s go to Arabian Ranches, the new restaurant.”

“Awwww.” [Cheers up when he remembers what’s there.]

“Mummy, can I go and play?”

“Okay, but come back when the food arrives, yes?” [Scampers off to play in the little playarea by himself, while I sit by myself at the table.]

Breakfast arrives – boiled eggs for him, an omelette for me. The soldieurs on his plate aren’t exactly fighting for space, given the mouse-size portion (hardly enough to feed a boy who can almost wolf down a loaf of bread) – and the buns in the basket are too fancy for him.

“So how’s school?”

I had time to photograph the view, watch the golfers and twiddle my thumbs

I had time to photograph the view, watch the golfers and twiddle my thumbs

“Good.”

“I’m cold!”

“That’s why I told you to wear your sweater this morning!”

I run through some other conversation openers with him.

“I thought we might be able to talk at breakfast – you know, chat!”

“I didn’t.” [Looks at me as though I’d suggested dragging him through the bushes on the golf course backwards.]

“I’m REALLY cold Mum.”

“Okay, well finish bashing your egg shells into the egg cups and we’ll get back into the car. You’ll warm up on the way home.”

“I forgot the iPad.”

“No, you didn’t. Here it is.”

I hand it over while I finish drinking my tea.

“Five minutes, then we’ll leave.”

A chat – what was I thinking? Who’s coming with me next time?

School narcolepsy

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So from the high that was Amsterdam, comes the bump of real life, and dealing with a problem that presented itself just before half-term.

You know something’s not right when you get a call from school asking you to pop in. I duly did so, the very next morning. And while everyone I spoke to couldn’t have been nicer (or more helpful), the writing was already on the wall.

My son fell asleep (twice) at school.

He denies it, of course. Son2 is not stupid and knows sleeping at school is frowned upon. He has an elaborate story about his friend L telling him to lie down on the grass outside and close his eyes. When the teacher found him snoozing on the little, landscaped hill, he was actually awake and just playing a game, he claims. Hmmm, nice try!

It’s possible, I suppose (a pig might have been flying past too), but I happen to know that the teachers are right; my 5YO is too tired for school at moment, because HE WON’T GO TO BED.

He resists sleep like there’s no tomorrow. Like he’ll get kidnapped in the night by the bogeyman and injected intravenously with vegetables. However tired he is in the late afternoon, at bedtime his eyes snap wide open, as though propped apart by matchsticks. He clamours for attention: “Just one more book!”, “Stay with me, pleeeeeease!”

What should be a fairly quick routine turns into a marathon, and it’s little wonder that there are many bedtimes where I feel like this afterwards…

The school wants him in bed at 6.30pm: I wish!

The school wants him in bed at 6.30pm: I wish!

Sometimes, 45 minutes later, I’ll creep past the boys’ bedroom, treading with a feather-light step so as to make no sound, and notice that Son2 is STILL kicking his duvet around.

What happens next is, because the schools start early here, his owl-like ways catch up with him: we have to literally drag him out of bed and prop him up downstairs. He’s caught up on some sleep over half-term, but mainly by sleeping later in the mornings, which doesn’t bode well for tomorrow, his first day back.

When the alarm goes off, I’ll be yanking him from a deep slumber again – what he doesn’t need to know is that I’ll be as good as sleep walking too.

Wish me luck!

Hello Holland

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I know you might think, ‘Didn’t she just get back from somewhere?’ when reading this post, and you’d be right. But sometimes you have to do crazy things to, well, make life that bit more interesting. Like fly for 13 hours to basically have dinner with your husband.

I think most pilot’s wives would agree that being married to a man who continually packs his suitcase and jets off to the other side of the world with a kiss and a wave isn’t always easy. There’s the absences, the jetlag, the readjustment period when he gets back and the jealousy (yes, that’s me. It can be challenging being gracious when he’s headed to Hong Kong and the furthest I’ll get is the supermarket with two fractious kids in tow).

But his job does come with an enormous perk that I try to make use of, because I absolutely love travelling (well maybe not the actual travel-with-kids bit, but the getting there and seeing new places). The perk – and don’t go off me – is the ability, if the stars align, to go to work with him.

This week, several things including babysitters in town, time off from my office-job and space on the airplane (both ways!), amazingly, came together and so Monday morning saw me rising early to catch his flight to Amsterdam sans kiddos.

“Now don’t go crazy on the packing,” he told me, the night before. “It’s only 24 hours, remember.”

And packing (without having to think about the children) was indeed a breeze, as was skipping off to the airport without my usual checklist of things the kids will need to keep them entertained, fed and subdued on a long flight.

After seven blissful hours on board, we arrived in Amsterdam and immediately set out on a whistlestop tour, taking in the canals, bikes and houseboats. “Let’s go,” I urged, determined to see as much as possible. “I think we’ve got three hours of daylight left!” The next morning, we had another couple of hours before it was game-over and time to get back on the plane.

I love flying with my DH at the controls. We met when we were 15 – we lived through the Top Gun years together, when aviation was a twinkle in his eye; we listened to Pink Floyd’s Learning to Fly endlessly. Our married life started with him working as a flight instructor, teaching kamikaze pilots how to restart a stalled engine – in the air. Then, after a year of gruelling interviews during the post-9.11 airline slump and finally getting the break he deserved, came the miniscule salary paid to first officers on regional jets in the US.

It’s been one helluva (in a good way) journey, and to say I’m proud of him for making it to the helm of the A380 superjumbo is an understatement.

“Did you enjoy Amsterdam?” he asked after our trip, as I wearily got out of bed to return to work after arriving back past midnight.

“What did you think of my landing?”

I loved it DH – and I loved our long-distance Valentine’s treat.

Amsterdam: Bikes, canals, croissants and Van Gogh, in 24 hours

Amsterdam: Bikes, canals, croissants and Van Gogh, in 24 hours