Category Archives: Expat

The childless 20-something with no clue about motherhood

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We all know her (and many of us, including myself, used to be a bit like her). I came across her last week, sitting at a table right by me in a small café.

I was doing some work. She was chatting to her friend, leaning towards her like a flower bent by a breeze. She was lovely: Jasper Conran top, satin skirt and soft leather boots. She had clear, peachy skin, glossy auburn hair and thin, crescent-shaped eyebrows.

When, just say, she discovers that having a baby is like starting a demanding new job, beginning a passionate love affair and suddenly mixing with people who speak a different language – all at the same time – she might change her tune!

When, just say, she discovers that having a baby is like starting a demanding new job, beginning a passionate love affair and suddenly mixing with people who speak a different language – all at the same time – she might change her tune!

As she talked, she lifted her coffee up with a freshly manicured hand; she had red nails and I could imagine her in a bar, tapping a cigarette over an ashtray, then pursing her pouty lips around it.

I really didn’t want to hear their conversation, but they had a lot to say to each other, loudly. They’d barely finished one sentence before they were tumbling over the next.

They were talking about mothers.

“If you have children, you should look after them yourself,” she said. Fair dues. They’d covered trips to Sri Lanka, plans for the weekend, a new line of makeup; and after exhausting these topics were conspiratorially discussing a mother they’d met who had hired help.

It was the tone that caught my attention: a little bit sneering. I could see the word LAZY captured in a bubble above her head. Why can’t mothers do it ALL themselves?

I was tempted to give her a look (and maybe I did!), but realised that in her childless state, she’d have no clue what it’s like to find yourself far from home, with a new baby barnacled to your boob, a job to go back to, 20km school runs, half as much sleep as you used to get, a household to manage and someone judging whether it’s right or wrong to hire a nanny.

One day, she’ll find out!

So how was your weekend?

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It’s something you don’t expect to hear when you ask someone about their weekend. But with my son attending a school where at least 60 per cent of the students come from airline families (who get super cheap tickets), I’ve learned not to bat an eyelid when mothers tell me about what they’ve been up to.

“Did you have a good weekend?” I asked a fellow mum.

“Yes … Actually we went to Johannesburg.”

Anyone else want to tell me about their Christmas in Lapland?

Anyone else want to tell me about their Christmas in Lapland?

“Really, just for the weekend?” I have to admit I was impressed – the South African city is a good 8 hours’ flying time from here, and that doesn’t include all the getting to and from the airport shenanigans.

“We had 24 hours there. Yesterday morning, we were in the lion park! The children loved it, especially as they’re doing Africa in class at the moment.”

“An amazing field trip!” I agreed. I’d just been looking at all the photos of big animals and African plains on the classroom wall.

“It was really last minute – my husband was flying there, and I woke up and thought ‘Why aren’t we going too?’ Half an hour later, we were on our way to the airport.”

“It’s not like me at all,” she added. “I usually plan everything far in advance.”

“Well good for you,” I said, as we were spat out the school gates – and I really meant it.

Sometimes you just have to grab life by the horns.

Why dress-up days should be outlawed

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First, let me just say that Son2 loves to dress up, and finds it a big thrill to go to school in anything other than his navy-blue shorts and pinstriped, button-up shirt. In his closet, you’ll find plenty of costumes depicting numerous genres, from spiderboy to alien, vampire and terrorist. Yes, you read that correctly: he came downstairs this weekend looking like this:

Erm, DH: What was Santa thinking?

Erm, DH: What was Santa thinking?

But every time the school announces a special theme day, I have to admit my heart sinks a little bit. I can’t sew; if you handed me a piece of fabric I’d have no idea what to do with it; and the prop that would accessorise an outfit perfectly is never just lying around the house. It’s usually buried at the bottom of a cupboard, lost, broken or still in the shop.

And I’ve come to realise that this is a universal problem: there’s my good friend in London who had to come up with “a simple homemade fez” – with a tassel. (“We want the tassels to swirl when the children dance,” the teacher said.) Then there’s the kind commenters on my blog who’ve dressed their child up as a triangle and seriously considered crocheting a pilot’s hat after trawling the mall and finding nothing.

Oh yes, we mums do try when faced with these challenges – because you just know that there will be crafty mothers who got straight onto Pinterest. Not to mention that on, say, Book Character Day, school will be invaded by a mini fictional force made up of Harry Potter, Dr. Seuss, Angelina Ballerina and other favourite storybook characters. The look on your child’s face if their outfit is a laughing stock is enough to make any otherwise sane mum start cutting up the curtains.

I’ve even heard of dads having to get in on the act too, in some cases taking over as costume-deviser extraordinaire, and sewing! Another friend tells me her DH is the go-to person for dress-up days; for an Easter Bonnet parade, he constructed a spring hat with a giant carrot protruding from the top, which we were all still talking about the next year – a pilot by profession, creative genius in his spare time.

In the Circles household, given enough notice, I’m able to dispatch DH to a costume shop in New York on one of his trips here (yes, we cheat, big time!); and he came up trumps last term, with a ghoulish-grey Area 51 costume and mask for the day aliens landed on the playing field at Son2’s school.

The news that today would be African Explorer Day came a week ago, just as the reality of getting back to the grind was hitting, and saw me arguing vehemently with Son2 at 7 this morning over why he couldn’t take that stonking big nerf gun pictured above into class (huntsman, explorer, it was all the same to him).

As we got out of the car, Son2 – donned in hurriedly assembled safari-type garb and wearing binoculars round his neck – got cold feet. No-one was in costume! Mum must have got it wrong! (I hadn’t, it was only for his year). I did wonder for a moment – until, at the gate, we saw a stressed-looking mum with a teary, uniform-clad child, being asked by a teacher if they had anything at home resembling the mishmash my son was wearing. As she headed off (upset boy in tow) to figure it out, I ’m sure she must have wished dress-up days could be outlawed too.

Travel post: Stepping back into antiquity

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Finding yourself alone inside a pyramid is now a real possibility

After the revolutionary chaos of the past few years, many people will have struck Egypt off their list of must-see places for the time being. With good reason. But there’s an upside for travellers: low visitor numbers.

Egypt’s tourism industry has been decimated since 2011, with income plunging so low that the Antiquities Ministry has struggled to pay thousands of staff. Tourist hotspots such as the market in central Luxor emptied out as holidaymakers shunned Egypt in favour of destinations not plagued by social unrest and travel warnings.

Against this backdrop of turmoil, I was initially taken aback when DH suggested Cairo as a getaway, saying he’d heard the hotels were quiet (and cheap), and the historic sites uncrowded.

A week later, we found ourselves gazing at the Great Pyramid of Giza, awestruck in admiration. And sure enough: the sense of wonder surrounding the magnificent, ancient pyramids is much easier to experience when the site isn’t overrun with tour groups.

Part of the glory of the majestic pyramids is their magical atmosphere, and watching the shadows lengthen on these extraordinary monuments in their glorious settings is made all the more special when the place is this quiet

Space: Part of the glory of the pyramids is their magical atmosphere, and watching the shadows lengthen on these extraordinary monuments in their glorious setting is made all the more special when it’s this quiet

Enormity of Cairo
We travelled to Egypt with our children after I satisfied myself that tensions appeared to be easing. What I wasn’t prepared for was the intensity of Cairo. One of the world’s most densely populated cities, the capital is huge (with a population in excess of 16 million), and driving through the sprawling, chaotic metropolis is a hair-raising experience. But while Cairo is noisy, polluted and disorganised, it’s also incredibly vibrant, colourful and, above all, alive.

Egyptian coffeehouses like Fishawi’s Ahwa have been important gathering places since Islamic times

Cairo cafe: Egyptian coffeehouses like Fishawi’s Ahwa have been important gathering places since Islamic times. Fishawi’s is said to have been open 24/7 since the 1700s

As we crossed the Nile – the river on which the first package holiday tourists travelled in 1869 – I peered out the window to take in its impressive wideness, then hastily retreated as we passed the rubbish piled up in Giza along the banks of the canal. Nine kilometres from the Nile, on the edge of the desert, we arrived at the Pyramids, built by the ancient Egyptians as tombs for the pharaohs and their queens.

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Hotel: View from the Mercure Cairo Le Sphinx

Our accommodation (the Mercure Cairo Le Sphinx Hotel) was indeed great value, and set in the most amazing location: at the swimming pool, you literally stare up at a pyramid from your sun lounger. You almost have to pinch yourself to truly believe you’re swimming at the foot of the last surviving Wonder of the Ancient World. At night, after the pyramids have been absorbed into the darkness, I recommend viewing the sound and light show from the rooftop terrace.

I was prepared for hassle from tour ‘guides’ and other touts, so wasn’t surprised when our taxi driver suddenly thrust his mobile phone into my husband’s hands so his friend could attempt to sell us a tour; or when the hotel driver we hired took us less than a mile, to a stable, where we ended up shelling out more money for four-legged transportation (one camel, one horse-drawn cart, with several stable hands and a guide) to see the pyramids.

But, actually, the ‘hassle factor’ wasn’t as bad as I’d feared, especially considering how desperately people need the business. Nobody leapt into our taxi on the approach road to the pyramids and demanded to be employed, and everyone we met was friendly and warm – just trying to make a living. At Cairo’s Grand Bazaar the next day, there was even a sense of humour amid the kaleidoscope of shops, smells and sights: “Maam, how can I take all your money?” one vendor joked with a cheeky glint in his eye.

Guided tour
The downside for me was realising that the animals used to ferry visitors around the pyramids are most likely mistreated. Our guide, on the other hand, was excellent, engaging our young boys with illuminating stories and drawing triangular diagrams in the sand to demonstrate how the pyramids were constructed.

Sphinx: A man rides his horse and carriage past a scene that’s been part of the landscape for thousands of years

Sphinx: A man rides his horse and carriage past a scene that’s been part of the landscape for thousands of years

During our two-hour tour, we rode past the limestone Sphinx (the oldest known monumental sculpture and largest monolith statue in the world) and stood alongside the pyramids, admiring their advanced geometry and massive scale. We also climbed inside one of the smaller pyramids (claustrophobic and hot, but I’m glad we did it), and marvelled at the carvings inside the tomb of Queen Meresankh III.

Not everyone enjoys their visit: there’s litter clinging to the fence and the touts are out in force, plying camel rides, souvenirs and refreshments. Plus, when you get there, it doesn’t initially look like the thousands of photos you’ve seen. While one side of the pyramids faces the desert, the other is right up against a rundown residential neighborhood. The Sphinx literally looks at a Pizza Hut.

But with so much of the pyramids’ majesty retained, I, for one, will never forget our magical and mellow afternoon spent clambouring around the world’s most famous manmade structures. Knowing I was standing at a site visited in history by Julius Caesar, Alexander the Great, Mark Antony and Napoleon left me feeling pretty inspired. As did the fact the biggest pyramid was the tallest structure in the world for close to 4,000 years. The Burj Khalifa, it seems, has some way to go.

Geometry: It could have been because the blocks the pyramids are made out of reminded our boys of Minecraft, but their imagination was captured

Geometry: It could have been because the blocks the pyramids are made out of reminded our boys of Minecraft, but their imaginations were well and truly captured

Silent Sunday: Collecting red phone boxes

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The picture on the left was taken in Abu Dhabi more than a year ago (excuse the filter – must have had sand in the brain). The one on the right is an up-to-date photo, showing their new addition.

You might remember the picture on the left, taken in Abu Dhabi more than a year ago and featured on the blog as a little piece of home (excuse the filter – must have had sand in the brain). On the right is an up-to-date photo, showing their new addition. I bet these iconic British phone boxes don’t come cheap either!

Why grins are banned from passport pics

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A joyous task I had to accomplish this week, before travelling back to Dubai from London, was renewing my passport – and this time, I was determined to get it right. The story about when I totally messed up, and attempted to fly from the US to the UK, with a three-month-old baby, on an expired passport, I’ll save for another time. Suffice to say, after securing a brand-new passport for my newborn, the instant wipe out of 40 per cent of my brain cells meant the demise of my own got overlooked, and, yes, I can still picture the way the colour drained from DH’s face at the check-in counter when he realised my error.

I always tell DH that I’ve learnt from this mistake, so he did snigger when, having spent the past six months warning me that my British passport was running out of space, I discovered you can’t just waltz up and ask for more pages. I needed a whole new passport. The nice lady at her Majesty’s office told me I could pay the princely sum of £137 to obtain a jumbo document, using their fast-track appointment service. Didn’t sound too difficult, and it didn’t even need to be countersigned by a police superintendent / magistrate / local Mayor.

Sorry, too smiley! Try looking like a bulldog, or failing that, a criminal

Sorry, too smiley! Try looking like a bulldog

Even so, I laboured over filling out the form, which had to be done beforehand. I got my mother to check it, and as I signed my name in that boxy thingy where you absolutely cannot go over the line, I’m quite sure I stopped breathing and nearly chewed my lip off.

All was going remarkably smoothly – by that I mean getting to London in icy weather with a broken rail en route and finding the office on time – when an unexpected hitch occurred. My passport officer, let’s just call him J, wasn’t convinced I was the same person as the smilier younger version pictured in my existing passport.

J looked at me sagely, his eyes boring into mine. He squinted at my new photo, held it against the old picture. Tutted. Compared them again in a different light. And several seconds later, called his supervisor over. “It’s me,” I wanted to tell them. “So the hair’s a totally different colour, there’s a few more fine lines, my eyes look different (less red-rimmed this time due to not crying over thwarted travel plans). But both photos are ME!” How much older and saggier do I really look, was what I really wanted to know.

The supervisor eyeballed me carefully, and I started nervously shifting my weight from one foot to the other.

“Smile,” she barked. “Don’t smile.”

“Now smile again – mouth open.”

I must have looked like an absolute loon, standing there alternating between toothy, open mouthed grin, closed lip grin, and menacing grimace.

Thankfully, she was satisfied.

Turns out it was the cheesy smile in my old photo that was making me unrecognisable. Since getting that done, travellers have been ordered to look like criminals not to look too happy in their passport photographs to avoid confusing facial recognition scanners.

So, all together now: 1-2-3 SEETHE!

Work-to-rule Santa

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Where would Christmas be without a repeat? Here’s a rerun from 2011 … apologies if you’ve heard it all before.

At the Wafi mall this morning there was a long line of harassed-looking parents, with kids orbiting round a giant Christmas tree two houses high and decorated with baubles the size of small planets.

"C'mon Santa! You can do it!"

“C’mon Santa! You can do it!”

Barely concealing the fact they wished they were spending the morning sleeping in and reading the paper rather than queuing for Santa, the Christmas-weary parents were doing their best to keep their overexcited offspring under control as the queue inched forwards painfully slowly.

Some of them must have been waiting for up to two hours, but most remained resolute – the promise of seeing Dubai’s most authentic-looking Santa, followed by a free cup of tea and entrance to the play area, proving to be a crowd puller.

Santa’s top-security grotto was heavily guarded by toy soldiers and you couldn’t even peep at the man in red – we tried, but just found ourselves face-to-face with animatronics.

Then, at about a quarter to one, a Filipino lady appears and walks over to the queue. There’s a pause as she surveys the expectant little faces and restlessness among the ranks.

“Santa’s taking a break at 1,” she announces. No apology.

“For 30 minutes,” she continues, deadpan.

You’d think, wouldn’t you, that since he only works for a couple of weeks a year, Santa might be able to plough on through?