Category Archives: Expat

The Six People You Meet In Travel Hell

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“I think we might have been gone too long,” I whispered to DH, an hour or so into our American Airlines flight from London to Chicago. A bored-looking, dishevelled flight attendant had just flung a packet of pretzels at me and told me, categorically, that there were no children’s meals.

Remembering that getting food is a stroke of luck on US carriers these days, I asked for chicken and looked grateful. “I’m running out of trays…Try the other side,” she replied nonchalantly, motioning at the cart being pushed by a disinterested Joan Rivers lookalike with a headache making her way reluctantly up the other aisle.

“There isn’t a hint of red lippie in sight,” I remarked to DH, with amusement. “We’ve been really spoilt flying everywhere on Gulf airlines, haven’t we?” I admitted.

SkyHag: “Does this aisle make my butt look big?” Unionised American cabin staff are very different from the pretty, young things hired by Middle East carriers

But nothing was going to dampen our enthusiasm – not the 4am start, the eight-hour transatlantic flight with small children, or the fact I’d been singled out for ‘special screening’ at the gate – akin to being frisked by a human body scanner with octopus arms. This was our first trip back to the States in four-and-a-half years and I’d been looking forward to it since moving to the Middle East in 2008.

I was so excited – literally couldn’t wait to get back. The U.S. of A! We were finally on our way! Actually on the ‘big silver airplane’ we’d been telling the kids about and crossing the pond.

In retrospect, it wasn’t surprising that my words ‘been gone too long’ rang true precisely seven hours later as we attempted to negotiate our way through US immigration at Chicago’s busy O’Hare airport.

During our marriage, we’ve left an electronic trail around the world. America, the UK, Dubai – we’ve had to get our ducks lined up in several countries now, and despite having had a lawyer on the case during our time in the US, there are loose ends, I know.

“When were you last in the US?” asked the steely eyed immigration official, sizing me up from behind his spectacles.

Border control: “How long are you staying? Where? Why? Where’ve you been? Please step this way….”

He’d already processed the 75 per cent of my family who hold American passports, but my green card, which I’d proffered proudly along with my trusty British passport, was ringing alarm bells. “Umm, we left four years ago,” I mumbled apologetically – wondering to myself if all the gallivanting we’ve done round the Middle East since had got his attention.

“If you could just foll-ar me,” he beckoned, stepping down from his kiosk and leading me into a room with several rows of plastic chairs and a windowless, artificially lit ‘interview’ office on one side.

I started getting worried – our connecting flight to Minneapolis was in three hours’ time. I really didn’t want to miss it. The boys were bored and scrapping with each other like gerbils.

Students with visa problems, a plane-load of Koreans and three generations of an extended family from Asia were processed before me, despite the fact I’d been sitting there the longest. “Are you going to jail, mommy?” asked BB, still full of pent-up energy.

Two hours rolled by and we discovered that, contrary to the posters on the wall promising respect and courtesy, the woman in charge didn’t give a rat’s arse about customer service (okay, we weren’t exactly customers, but we did have questions).

“Immigration issues ain’t a quick problem,” barked the supervisor. “Ar’ve got a whole load of people we’re sending home – we’re doing ‘em first,” she drawled, closing her office door on our faces.

By now, I was panicking. DH, always the voice of calm, even looked annoyed. The boys, high on half a night’s sleep, were restless.

Our luck only changed when a new shift started and a much kinder official looked into our case. We had, indeed, been ‘gone too long’. As a green card holder, I found out I need to return to the US every year, or apply for a special visa. Two-and-a-half hours after being led into the waiting room, we finally left – $560 dollar lighter (yes, we were fined!) and with less than 40 minutes until our next flight.

There was no choice but to queue jump at the long line snaking its way through security. I whipped off my shoes, belt and jewellery and we hustled the boys through.

But there was worse to come.

The airplane was waiting and the crowd of people at the gate looked like they were ready to elbow their way on board – when some unwanted news changed our plans.

“The 1.30pm flight to Minneapolis/St Paul is cancelled,” the gate agent announced, deadpan. No apology, no explanation. Nada. “Passengers can line up for rebooking” – on a flight nine hours later.

I’ll say that again. Nine hours. Longer than the time it took to cross the Atlantic.

There followed a reminder that travelling round the US these days on bankrupt airlines is like a lottery. You purchase a flight online, but the chances of actually getting your scheduled flight are about the same as being struck by lightning, twice.

Two little ole’ ladies who’d also flown from London looked aghast. A travelling mum with kids even younger and less manageable than ours sat on the floor and wept quietly. Other passengers conversed in hushed grumbles, cursing every now and then as though they had Tourette’s.

I know, I know, it wasn’t her fault. But she delivered the news with no apology whatsoever – and I was fed up by now

It was at this point that my DH, who’s always brilliant under stress and spent four years flying regional jets round the US, came up with an escape plan. “Can we go to Rochester instead?” he asked the lone gate agent in charge of rebooking the long line of disgruntled travellers. “Yes, in two hours’ time,” was the reply. And after much tapping on the computer, we were re-routed and on our way to a new destination.

Arriving at Rochester, Minnesota, was a blessed relief, despite the fact our luggage didn’t make it (it was never going to, was it?). We hired a car after being put on hold by our American credit card company for what felt like ages (yet another fraud check) and set out on the drive to Minneapolis, drinking in the green farmland and marvelling at the open road on which we were travelling.

On which there was very little traffic compared to the UAE – and which had, unbeknownst to us, a ridiculously low speed limit.

You’ve guessed what happened next, haven’t you? (stop laughing!)

“Gotcha! Do you know how fast you were going?”

Yes, we were pulled over – by a police officer who had no sympathy for our sorry story about a tiring, long journey from London, our cancelled flight and lost luggage, and who issued us a speeding ticket. Straight out of Dubai and with nearly-there-after-one-helluva-journey enthusiasm, we were fair game, I suppose.

Welcome to the US, indeed! Thankfully, things got a lot better over the next two weeks…

Silent Sunday: Home sweet home

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Would you believe me if I told you that getting here involved a 2.5-hour run-in with US immigration at Chicago airport, a cancelled flight, lost luggage and a little incident with an American cop. Well, more about that later! But we made it, and I’m absolutely loving being in the States again after a four-year absence. Minnesota is as lovely as I remember it…and how cute is the house we’ve rented?

I especially love the fact it’s like the Tardis – bigger inside than it looks

But best of all was seeing our very own house again (pictured below and currently rented out)..Tissues, camera, memories…before DH whisked me away so the renters didn’t report us for suspicious activity.

Hmm, the renters aren’t taking as good care of it as I’d like, but no major problems at least

It’s raining, it’s pouring

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“Ag-ain, again!” LB’s eyes were cast skywards, taking in the granite clouds above. The heavens had just opened for the umpteenth time and raindrops were rolling down the window pane. “It’s raining again!”

Pitter-patter. Splish-splosh. Quite honestly, I think I’ve seen more rain in the UK over the past five days than the UAE has seen in a thousand years. There’s been floods of biblical proportions, a month’s worth of rain in 24 hours and a lifeboat rescue, inland. 

All because the jet stream has apparently moved south, meaning the British summer is taking place somewhere over the mid-Atlantic.

I must say, I’m rather enjoying it.  I know, I know. I haven’t had to put up with endless showers for the past two months, and in the morning we’re leaving for the States, where the weather is freakishly hot. But, aside from the length of time it takes to get out of the house (wellies, raincoats, brollies, waders, lifebelt..I’m so out of practice), it’s really refreshing to see the wet stuff again.

Not only are the kids in puddle-jumping heaven, but LB also saw his first-ever rainbow yesterday – a double-arched one too. For me, the wayward weather is a chance to sit on my favourite sofa in the conservatory, listen to the sound of the rain pounding on the roof and admire the lush view outside, in all its greenness.

Splat!

Chaperone wanted

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While flying from Dubai to London with the boys (and no DH) on Wednesday, it occurred to me that this is a task most mums of small children would dearly love to outsource.

Just imagine: if you hired a chaperone (and I think you can when they reach a certain age), you could come on a later flight by yourself, watch a whole movie, read, sit and think, drink wine and eat the meal, including the chocolate, in peace. Your clothes would remain stain-free, your sanity intact and you might even get some sleep. Remember those days of stress-free, champagne-swilling travel?

So without much further ado, here’s the advert:

Want to travel and get paid?


Position: Chaperone

Job description: Team leader needed for temporary work in a cramped environment. Candidates must enjoy travel and be willing to work long hours, sometimes nights, in pressurised conditions

Job requirements:
∙ Expert planning skills required, including the ability to pack for six weeks and two continents

∙ Must always be on time and have the ability to negotiate airports/airport toilets/fast food outlets with military precision. The candidate must also be able to speed walk, while dragging two small children along, to the furthest gate, without stopping at Duty Free

∙ Must always hope for the best but be prepared for the worst. Situations such as a sick child, delays or a lost favourite toy should be viewed in a positive way

∙ Ability to multi-task essential. Must be able to handle several difficult situations simultaneously, eg, consoling a distraught child who got stuck in the toilet, while stopping his brother waking sleeping passengers and balancing three meal trays

∙ Must be able to keep a smiling demeanour for fellow passengers while practising above-mentioned skills in conflict resolution. Must also be able to withstand withering looks from those seated nearby

∙ A basic aviation knowledge, so as to answer questions such as ‘What makes the wind move?’ and ‘What’s that noise?’, is a plus – as is the ability to tackle technical challenges such as operating the games

Airport hug: The smiles at the end make it all worthwhile and I wouldn’t miss this for anything

∙ Must be willing to be immobilised in a tight space for extensive periods of time, to dive for flying objects, to crawl on the floor for lost items and make multiple trips to a bathroom the size of a phone box (being double-jointed would help)

∙ Must possess the physical stamina of a pack mule and preferably have a third or even fourth arm to carry all the luggage at the end

Dressing/grooming: In addition to following the airline’s dress code, it is expected that, for the duration of the shift, the chaperone will have makeup applied, not wear elasticated clothing of any kind and not develop crazy eyes

Previous experience: None required. On-the-job training offered on an exhausting basis

Possibility for advancement: None. Your job is to remain in the same position for years without complaining so that those in your charge can ultimately surpass you

Overtime: Responsibilities also include rising at 5am the following morning with your jet-lagged, overexcited, overtired travellers

Benefits: Overseas travel and the joy of the airport reunion

The World Tour

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You’d think it should be easy organising a family holiday for four. No third child to have to book an extra hotel room for, no need for the millions I hear are required in the bank before you can take a family of five away.

But, believe me, our imminent World Tour has taken months to plan. Along with the flights (which were rising meteorically in price due to a certain event of Olympic proportions taking place in London), there’s the holiday we’re taking to break up the main holiday. The mini break for a certain birthday. Connecting flights (three legs each way), the hire car (with car seats, somehow), the rental house in the States. And Catherine the Great’s ticket for her home leave to the Philippines, via Hong Kong.

Long gone are the days when it was as easy as booking a package holiday to Crete, packing a few dresses and a sarong, and jetting off to drink tequilas in the sun

Quite honestly, my DH, who took on most of the organising, deserves a gold medal for – fingers crossed – pulling all this off.

So after much deliberation (should we try doing all this on staff travel? Can we fit Florida in too? New York? Wouldn’t it just be easier to go to Thailand? Or Wales?) and many late-night calls to the States, here’s what the itinerary looks like:

Dubai-London. Then a few days later, London-Chicago-Minneapolis. Then, by road, Minneapolis-Lake Superior and back. Two weeks later, Minneapolis-Chicago-London, then nearly four weeks later, London-Dubai. All with two small, high-energy boys, and the extended UK part without DH (who gets a month of bachelor-living in Dubai).

Excited, very. Anxious, yes. Worried the boys might turn feral with jet lag and give up sleeping, yes.

But I’m counting the hours now!

There were definitely moments when our desert escape plans seemed too complex, but during all the planning, we discovered something that added a whole new dimension to our search for a holiday home – a secret weapon that meant we could practically spy on the properties we’d seen advertised.

While I trawled the Internet and followed leads sent by kind friends, my DH – who loves anything to do with navigation – would bring up Google Maps to pinpoint the house. Not content with me calling out the name of a neighbourhood, he’d say, “Look, here’s the road, and if you just go up here a bit, this must be it…Look, right on the end…Right by an enormous patch of industrial land.

“With some construction. And a huge area of …. wait, is that SAND?”

Thank goodness for virtual reckies!

When you’re hoping for a leafy neighbourhood, and discover it looks more like Dubai, you’ll never book a summer holiday home again without using Google Maps

In need of a vacation

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“How many more days Mommy,” enquired BB this morning. “Is it one day or two?” he asked, his eyes shining with excitement at the prospect of the epic summer holiday ahead.

“Three days BB, three days to go,” I replied, with an equal measure of trepidation.

I don’t usually admit to feeling stressed on the blog, but if ever there’s a time to come clean it’s this week.

It’s the last week of term, the temperatures are in the 40s, we’ve all been ill due to being cooped up indoors, there’s the kindergarten graduation to attend, teachers’ presents to organise, we have a visitor, there are friends to see before they leave, and then there’s the thought of the 10-week summer holiday ahead of us. Yes, I’ll say that again, 10 weeks!

In fact, the mass exodus from the desert to cooler climes has already started. Yesterday, I parked right outside the supermarket and I’m convinced the roads are already quieter. School seems to be sliding into the holiday and every time I meet a friend, the conversation starts, “So when are you off?” and ends with a cheery, “See you in September!”

Crazy, never-to-be-repeated week

Some mums are leaving practically the moment the school gates clang shut, most of us are following within a week or so, and a few brave souls (and women with jobs) are staying in the sauna.

Aside from the good-byes, there’s the emotion of the school-year ending, lost library books, packing, and – of all the weeks we could have chosen to do this – the nightmarish task of potty training a boy who has a deep, deep mistrust of the toilet. Traumatised isn’t an exaggeration, and that’s both me and him – all witnessed by my visiting mother-in-law.

So, while I know I’ll feel like I’m in free fall once the structure of school is gone and DH jets off away from it all to Sydney, I’ll be so glad when this week is over, the farewells are said, the 10 tonnes of artwork filed and LB actually makes it to the toilet in time without screaming blue murder.

There are weeks when my office job feels like a walk in the park in comparison.

Photo from: The Brotherhood of the Stinky Underpants

Help! I need somebody

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I’m not sure whether to post this as it makes us sound terribly spoilt, but here goes.

In the Middle East it’s possible to outsource every task you could conceivably think of – from the ironing to banging a nail into a wall, changing a lightbulb and assembling Ikea furniture.

Even things I didn’t think were possible to avoid can be delegated. Had we wanted to, we could have valet parked at a children’s party this week, and already today I’ve politely declined having someone carry my groceries to the car and having the car washed while I shopped.

Expats tend to follow a typical pattern. They hire a cleaner, pay a teenager to babysit, then farm out the ironing. Before too long, they realise it’s cheaper to sponsor a live-in maid

Because the truth is, it’s really, really difficult not to have help in Dubai.

One of my favourite bloggers, Where’s my ruby slippers?, posted a wonderful and honest account about this aspect of Dubai life, and I found myself nodding in somewhat shame-faced agreement when she described how, that morning at the mall, a lady had taken her parking ticket at the exit and put it in the machine that operates the barrier. “Had she been able to shut my car window without cutting her arm off, I have no doubt she would have done that as well,” she wrote.

The drawback, of course, is how lazy it makes us. How it becomes too easy to throw money at a problem – and, the most concerning part, the effect it has on our children. I’m constantly reminding BB and LB that there are many things in Dubai that aren’t normal (“Where’s her nanny?” asked BB once in England, on meeting a little friend in a park filled with mums, not paid staff).

But, here’s the thing: apart from our trips home, this is the only existence my children know, and teaching them that life here can be a little too easy is a challenge.

This week, our doorbell rang and it was DH’s dry cleaner, dropping off his freshly laundered and pressed uniforms. We thought nothing more of it until we realised the impression it had made on BB.

I bought him some new school uniforms a couple of days ago, but one item was out of stock so I placed an order and left my phone number.

“They call when my shirt arrives?” BB asked, looking a little puzzled. “Won’t they deliver it, like Daddy’s work clothes?’

Sigh! Time to revisit real-life for a reality check, me thinks.

A man with a van on a hot afternoon

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Sitting indoors after school today, we heard the tinny strains of Greensleeves – just about audible over the noise coming from the TV (yes, it’s summer, we’re stuck inside and the TV is all that stands between me and the kids climbing the walls with boredom).

As the tinkling notes got louder, so did the boys’ excitement. “Mummeee, it’s the ice cream van. QUICK!!”

The boys ran outside to buy brightly coloured lollies and I couldn’t help but smile at the sight of the van, which comes round our neighbourhood bringing a welcome chill to our desert compound. On long, sultry afternoons, it not only brings back childhood memories, but also provides good old-fashioned entertainment as you watch the vehicle being mobbed by kids.

It might be 41 degrees in the shade, with 75 per cent humidity today (yes, you sweat from pores you didn’t even know existed, and don’t get me started about humidity hair), so the ice cream man’s arrival doesn’t exactly mean we all get a breath of fresh air. But as my boys and BB’s girlfriend from next-door sat on the porch step licking the drips from their lollies before they melted into gloopy puddles, I enjoyed a few blissful moments of peace and quiet in the air-conditioning inside.

Results all round! The next time we hear the van’s chimes ringing out across our compound, I’ll have the money ready.

Set up by two British brothers in 2009, the entrepreneurial young pair spotted a gap in the market and filled it with an imaginative small business that left everyone else wondering why it hadn’t been done before – obvious really!

Surely they don’t keep cows in the desert?

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And other Dubai myths debunked

At the weekend, we visited a hotel we haven’t swum at before and discovered a little Britain. Full of holidaymakers from the UK, there were accents from every part of the motherland and suntans in numerous different shades (ranging from English Rose to mahogany).

DH and the boys jumped into the pool, and I was taking a few extra minutes to get lotioned up (I don’t mess with the sun here), when a sweet lady started talking to me – ostensibly to tell me that there was a bird’s nest in our parasol, but partly because I think she fancied a chat.

She must have been in her late 50s and was on her honeymoon. After I congratulated her and enquired where her new husband was (chatting to a buxom bikinied lady at the swim-up bar!), she asked me when we’d arrived.

“Oh, we live here,” I replied, realising she’d assumed we were also on holiday. “My husband’s job brought us out here,” I said, by way of explanation, as she shifted her bikini straps around so she wouldn’t get tan lines.

“Really? You live here?”

“Well, not here, in this hotel, but in Dubai,” I continued, glancing over to check the boys were settling into the pool OK, as I had a feeling the lady – lovely as she was – didn’t know much about living in the United Arab Emirates and would have some questions.

Before we moved here, we came across a few surprised reactions from people who’d never been to the Middle East and were, most likely, fearful of the region. “Will you have to wear a veil?” “Are you allowed to drive?” “Can you drink alcohol?”, “Is it true they cut your hand off for stealing?” they’d ask.

She didn’t roll out any of these myths, but immediately honed in on the heat.

“But it’s so hot – and the driving!”

“Yes, it takes a bit of getting used to,” I assured her, smiling as her husband swam away from the big-breasted woman and gave us a cheery wave.

“And what about that sandstorm the other day? It was terrible,” she remarked, referring to a Mission Impossible-style blowy day that must have appeared to herald the start of the apocalypse, but which I couldn’t quite remember given that there are so many sandstorms here.

After 20 more minutes of chat, I’d persuaded her that we actually have a really nice life here – the kids are happy; the schools are great; I can and do work out here; I don’t speak Arabic but the kids learn it at school; and yes, I do get homesick and miss family (a lot) but we have plenty of visitors.

There are more than 10,000 cows in the UAE on farms scattered around the country. They’re kept in open, air-conditioned sheds that allow the animals to wander outside and they eat imported alfalfa. Cornflakes are added to their feed, with compost under foot rather than grass.

And, then, she got me. Square on. I was blindsided by a question that came out of left field and for which I had no answer.

“But where are all the cows?”

“There’s no shortage of milk,” she correctly stated, “But where do they keep the cows?”

With the searing temperatures and lack of grass to graze on, there are, of course, no fields of lowing cattle here, but I knew there were dairy cows somewhere (Al Ain?) I just didn’t know where, or how.

(I’ve since asked Google – see right – as the answer is really interesting).

Moving swiftly on, the only thing I was able to tell her, with any certainty, was that milk – and indeed water – is more expensive than petrol in the UAE.

As much as I was enjoying our chat, I was just about to say I should join DH and the boys in the pool when she brought up one more topic – that people probably want to ask about, but don’t dare to.

“You must all be very rich out here, what with not paying taxes and all,” she quipped, audibly tutting as she pondered the amount of money she’d paid into the British government’s coffers.

I think I snorted – for the first couple of years, we were honestly living from pay check to pay check. Politely, I replied, “No, not everyone! The cost of living in Dubai is astonishingly high. Have you been to a supermarket here? It’s about £5 a fish finger, you know!”

How about you? Do you find yourself debunking myths about the country you live in?

The birthday week

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It’s DH’s birthday – a big one! The actual day was on Tuesday, but as it’s a nice round number it’s turned into something of a birthday extravaganza.

Last year, the day passed in a bit of a blur, because of a medical drama in our family. DH’s lovely brother, who also lives in Dubai, returned from Africa with flu-like symptoms that turned out to be malaria. He came to stay with us while he recovered, so while all this was going on – and I was busy swatting gnats just in case (despite being assured by the hospital there was no risk to the boys) – my attention wasn’t really on birthday celebrations.

This year, I promised myself I’d make up for it, so in dutiful wifely fashion, I’ve been busy organising a birthday DH won’t forget. I think I’ve just about managed to pull off a three-part celebration that’s taking up most of the week:

PART 1: (the day) Presents at silly o clock, before school and work. Then Bab Al Shams, a desert resort located in the middle of absolutely nowhere, for a late-afternoon swim and dinner. We’ve done our fair share of camel riding in the Middle East, so we lounged in the pool and watched tourists clambering on the camels, shrieking as they were pitched forwards at the start (camels use their knees to get up and down). It was quite comedic.

Bab Al Shams Desert Resort & Spa – not too far from where we live and very, very nice


PART 2: (the weekend) We’re taking the kids away, to Ras Al Khaimah, one of the seven emirates of the UAE, for more swimming and more desert. The resort, the Banyan Tree, looks amazing and we’re staying in a ‘Bedouin-style tented villa’. It’s not a tent, I did study the website photos carefully to check, and I suspect it won’t be the ‘oasis of serenity’ it’s advertised as once we arrive. I also just found out my boss is going there this weekend.

PART 3: (the piece de resistance) Using a ‘buy one, get one free’ voucher in the Entertainer, I’ve booked a ride on a seaplane. I may yet bottle out.

Of course, no birthday is complete without cake. Baking is not my forte so I ordered one from Bakemart. I wasn’t sure how it would turn out and fully expected something like exhibit A. So was very pleased with exhibit B, despite the squashedupwriting!

Exhibit A: On facebook (from Walmart in the US)


Exhibit B: Happy birthday DH!