Where I went Wednesday

Having realised that the long summer school holiday won’t go on forever (after all), I decided it was time to take the children up to London, and give our hosts, their grandparents, a well-deserved day off.

An added incentive was that my BF agreed to come with us to Covent Garden’s London Transport Museum – and there was also the inkling that we might be able to sneak lunch in at my favourite sandwich shop, Pret a Manger.

But apart from that, it was all for the good of the kids – honest.

The funny thing about taking BB and LB on day trips is that, for them, it’s the journey that’s the exciting bit. Not the destination, and certainly not lunch. It’s all about the getting there – on South West Trains, and the Northern Line.

They didn’t mind one bit that the train to Waterloo was really crowded and so we had to stand right by the toilet – they got to watch people going in and out the loo and could even time them.

How to make a train-mad 6YO boy’s day: Operate a tube train

Given that in the UAE, apart from the new, driverless metro, there are no railways – and BB is obsessed with trains – it makes sense that the Woking-Waterloo service is a thing of amazement for him. On passing through Clapham Junction, his eyes nearly popped out his head and as we went down the escalator to the underground, I promised him we’d travel on the deepest line.

Not such a thrilling ride if it’s your daily commute, but we got some smiles five minutes later, with both kids pressing their noses against the window, peering out at the tunnel, absolutely loving trundling through the darkness.

The trouble with their enjoyment of train journeys is that when we reach our destination, they usually just want to turn around and go home again. But, today, I’d thought of that: The Transport Museum – ta-daaa! They could even drive a tube train! A brilliant, foolproof plan, surely.

And it was a success, until it came time for lunch, and we made them walk to Leicester Square (all of five minutes), triggering a tirade from my hungry oldest son. “But I can’t walk, my legs have died. This is my baddest day ever.”

Kids, eh – I could have sworn that a few minutes earlier he was energetically running around and playing inside a bus exhibit as happy as larry.

London bus drivers seem to be getting younger…

And the magicians are getting cleverer – took us ages to figure this out!

The Expat Summer Olympics

If you think about it, it’s a funny ole thing that expats spend such a big chunk of the year away from their adopted home, living out of a suitcase. While most people take 2-week holidays, for expats 6-8 weeks is often necessary in order to see all your family and friends who you don’t see the rest of the year.

And, for expat families in the Middle East, an extended vacation over the long summer school holiday also provides a solution to the how-to-entertain-the-kids-when-it’s-46˚C problem.

This is what the summer heat in Dubai feels like!

But being gone for such a long time isn’t all plain sailing, by any means. Inspired by Mrs Dubai’s brilliant Mummy Olympics post, I’ve been thinking about some Olympic events that expats the world over would be in great shape for this summer:

Speed

Catch every flight, with time to spare

Pole-position passport-queuing

The find-your-holiday-home-before-dark Road Race

The 32-hour-day Time Trial

Sprint to the toilets before the inevitable

Endurance

The up-before-dawn jet-lagged 6YO (how long til you lose it?)

The bath-book-bed triathlon in new surroundings

The time zone jump (how many days to adjust? Bonus points for family members under 10)

The Eventing marathon (plan and execute 4-6 weeks of events and get-togethers without leaving anyone out)

The 1,500km cross-country steeplechase (how many relatives can you visit?)

Sofa surfing (who needs a good night’s sleep anyway?)

Circles staggers over the final hurdle to win gold in the 3-in-a-bed at 3am relay!

Gymnastics

Stay vertical at the Bar during reunions with friends

The Parallel park on tiny roads

The Roll-your-clothes test (does this mean you can fit more in your suitcase?)

Pommelling-it-shut after repacking

The Beam-me-up-Scotty moment (when it all gets too much)

The Dismount (when DH extricates himself from the travelling circus and goes back to work – no blubbing)

Skills

The daily Dress-Arghh competition (find something uncreased to wear in your capsule wardrobe)

Ride public transport in rush hour with children and suitcases

The don’t-stick-your-oar-in family regatta (aka, don’t rock the boat if it’s best left unsaid)

The triple shift childcare derby (one mum, two whining kids, DH gone)

Synchronised schedules (find a good moment to Skype your absent DH)

The overtired tantrum throw (how many until you have one yourself?)

Peace, serenity – the kids, who are STILL on American time, go quiet after 11pm here!

Silent Sunday: Historical scandal

We went on an outing to Hampton Court Palace today, home to more than 500 years of fascinating history and King Henry VIII’s favourite royal residence (literally dragging ourselves away from the Olympics coverage on the TV). This advert made me smile – how fun, I thought, to hear scandalous tales about mistresses and misdemeanours that can’t be told during the day and how similar, I mused, does the Baroque court sound to life on a Dubai compound?

For age 18+ only, the tour tells risqué stories that aren’t suitable for younger visitors – and you get a glass of champagne too. Sounds pretty mummy-friendly to me!

Watching the sun set on my 30s

Along with seeing dear friends again, one of the things I was really looking forward to in Minneapolis was visiting all my favourite lakes.

I quickly realised, though, that my excitement hadn’t worn off on BB. “Not another lake,” he’d yawn, rolling his eyes at us and letting out a sigh as long as the Mississippi. “They’re bor-ing!”

“Get over it, BB!” we’d reply. “There are 10,000 lakes in this state and if you continue to complain, we’ll take you to EVERY.SINGLE.ONE!”

His little brother, meanwhile, revealed to us that he hadn’t quite grasped the concept of a scenic lake surrounded by nature with no belly-dancing fountains on it.

“Is it indoors or outdoors?” he’d enquire – seemingly satisfied with the answer at least.

As our holiday progressed, the boys did start to appreciate the natural beauty more, especially once they discovered they could kayak, ride pedalos and learn to fish – and they were definitely won over by my favourite lake of all: Lake Superior.

Does this look like a lake to you?

I love America’s Great Lakes. So much so that I couldn’t imagine a nicer place on Earth to celebrate my big birthday. Though to call Lake Superior a lake is surely the biggest under-statement there is. Like calling the Burj Khalifa a high-rise, or the Himalayas a series of hills.

I know I’m really very British – and grew up thinking the English Channel was to be feared – but isn’t a body of water that measures nearly 350 miles from tip to tip and has 350 shipwrecks, tempestuous storms and numerous lighthouses more of a sea than a lake?

The three quadrillion (3,000,000,000,000,000) gallons the lake contains would cover all of Canada, the US, Mexico and South America with one foot of water. Seriously impressive, don’t you think?

Having taken a little jaunt up the North Shore by car and train, what better way to experience the vastness of the lake than by boat. A ‘pizza boat’ to be precise.

Queuing up beside the vessel (bobbing about in surprisingly choppy water, and that was just the harbour), I was astonished to see women in floaty, chiffon dresses and heels with smartly dressed partners. They were led to the lower deck, however, for a more slap-up meal, while we – the pizza eaters (aka families with small children) – were herded to the busy, upper decks for a Pizza Hut-on-sea buffet.

Actually, I think it was Domino’s, as we saw the delivery van speeding off from the port, and the sunset cruise was unexpectedly wonderful. As it was my birthday mini-break, DH chased the boys up and down the decks and stopped them falling overboard, while I gazed out over the water and reflected on the fact that the sun had set on my 30s.

Very special – despite the soggy pizza and the fact I swear the boat lurched as fellow hungry passengers stampeded like elephants over to the buffet.

Dedicated to @Circles in the Sky (DH): Thank you for an amazing, eye-opening decade xx

Stand back: As befits the mother of two small boys, my American birthday involved planes, trains, boats and stone-throwing

Reflective mood: Learning to leave my 30s – but I hear 40 is the new 30?

The Six People You Meet In Travel Hell

“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…

Chaperone wanted

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

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

Where I appeared Wednesday

No, not on TV or anything like that, but I was quite excited today because a guest post I wrote called Circles in the Sky was published this morning on a website in America and I thought I’d link to it here because it’s my first guest column, plus it actually makes me sound quite experienced at something!

Not experienced in anything useful or lucrative, but in flying with little hellions – something many expat mums will be thinking about as we prepare to head home to reintroduce our children to grass, grandparents and wellies.

Apologies to those who’ve read parts of this before – it’s adapted from a blog in my archives, and, yes, you might notice that I don’t mention I’m married to a pilot. I figured a more competent, all-round more together pilot’s wife wouldn’t lose a child on board, or nearly cause the take-off to be halted, so I decided to gloss over this piece of information while regaling some of my travel tales.

Without much further ado … here’s a teaser. Just click on the link for Airports Made Simple below to read more:

“Please…help….me….”


Waiting at the gate for a flight from Dubai to London last year, Son #1 came out with: “We’re going to go up, up, up and then we’re going to C.R.A.S.H!” – announced loudly, repeatedly, and with suitable sound effects. No amount of shushing would stop him and nearby passengers started looking really scared. Read more at Airports Made Simple

Glamping in the Middle East: Part 2

I realised over the past week that as expats, we may spend a lot of time in hotels – because that’s where the bars and brunches are – but to truly experience the full extent of Arabian hospitality you really need to book into one. Preferably for a few days. Maybe more.

Sure, we’ve had visitors who’ve stayed at hotels here and been ‘upgraded to an executive suite’, with an on-call butler serving champagne, dates and refreshing rolled face towels on silver platters. So I knew there was a very good reason why holidaymakers love Dubai – returning home with a renewed zest for life, an armful of gold bangles, a Persian rug, a comedy camel souvenir and their best-ever tan (persuaded?).

Behind the tent…Looks inviting, no?

But, until now, all our travel has either been to visit family back home, or – when we’re travelling with the kids – to countries within a tolerable four-hour flying time radius.

At the Banyan Tree Al Wadi resort in Ras Al Khaimah (an hour’s drive from Dubai) this weekend, I learnt that you really haven’t sampled UAE hospitality until:

● Your accommodation is even nicer than it looks on the photos and has its own private, crystal-clear pool outside

● You are transported anywhere you want to go in the resort by gulf buggy (not as lazy as it sounds – the temperature was in the mid 40s)

● A call to reception to request a buggy ride to breakfast also means maids arrive from nowhere to make the beds before you get back

“Honi, I don’t think there’s room in here for both of us!”

● The bathroom (pictured right) is bigger than your living room

● You’re greeted at your breakfast table by a falcon (the UAE’s national bird)

● Luxurious dressing gowns are laid out on the duvet during the nightly ‘turn down’ – and slippers placed by the bed

● The decorative pebbled pools are lit up by ‘fire features’ from which dancing flames arise

Of course, this is all bank-busting stuff if you pay full price, but there are deals-a-plenty to be had in the UAE (we booked one night, and got the next night free thanks to a summer offer). And the great thing about Dubai is the amount of choice available.

If you fancy staying in a vast waterscape, with exhilarating wild-water rides – two of which catapult riders through shark-filled lagoons – and you want to swim with dolphins, then book the Atlantis on the Palm. Or if you can stretch to a seven-star, super-luxe break, check in at the iconic Burj Al Arab, where there’s a private reception desk on each floor and you can arrive by helicopter.

Or, wait a while, and you may actually be able to stay in a room with an underwater ocean view. Believe it or not, architects have designed a half-submerged spaceship-shaped hotel that, if it gets built, will offer guests the chance to sleep below the surface of the sea.

“Are we going there for my birthday?” BB just enquired, totally enthralled by the concept of sleeping with the fish.

Silent Sunday: Glamping, UAE-style

I’ve discovered the most comfortable tent in the world – at the Banyan Tree Al Wadi resort in Ras Al Khaimah in the United Arab Emirates. There were even desert gazelles wondering by. But just wait till you see what else was out the back…

Quite possibly the easiest, most hassle-free camping ever