The Kids Want a Camel: Dubai... Eight Years Later

“And you Americans elected Trump,” she says with a sneer.

It’s the moment I realize we’ve actually left the country.

The flight attendant continues with a smile: “Wouldn’t it be great if we land in Dubai and he’s been assassinated?”

It’s a jarring statement, especially coming from a woman whose headband sprouts two bouncy Christmas reindeers popping forward on springs.

“I’m hoping for a heart attack,” I say meekly.

“Yah, I hear he has McDonalds twice a day.” And with that, she pushes her beverage cart down the aisle.

We are sitting in coach on our flight from London to Dubai. How did she know we weren’t Trump supporters?

I can only assume that the international contempt for our president is so far-reaching, it wouldn’t even occur to her that I’d be offended by the remarks.

It’s been almost eight years since I’ve taken this flight. On our plane from Los Angeles to London, PopPop and I were in business class, and the upper level of the enormous aircraft had been largely empty, it being Christmas eve and all. The most prominent passengers were two well-dressed and obviously-well traveled gay men, who knew precisely when in the flight to change into their night clothes for sleeping, and precisely when to change into their smartly accessorized day outfits and shiny shoes before landing.

Down on this lower level, it’s a whole other universe. Turbans, headscarves, face veils, crying children (one of whom I think just threw up in the seat in front of me), every shade of skin color. This is part of what makes me feel so emotional about Dubai: I love its universal appeal, and how a group like this one puts our full humanity on display. Back in southern California it’s so easy to become comfortably numb amongst the homogeneity; on this plane, by contrast, it’s impossible to ignore our different customs, languages, and styles of dress. All of us in coach are suffering through each wailing baby and moment of turbulence together, and I feel like we are bonded together somehow. If a dramatic flight event took place like it does in the movies, I have no doubt that we would coalesce immediately into a functional and effective team, all superficial distinctions erased.

On this trip, I hope to revisit the sites of my Dubai past—the supermarket, the mall, the gated neighborhood—to see if the reality matches my memories. And of course, to be reunited with my best Dubai friend, a.k.a. the Australian, and our driver, a.k.a. the Z-Man!

I can’t make sense of the in-flight map because right now it’s in Arabic, but I think in about four hours, I will be reunited with Dubai. I can’t believe it.

It’s 4am. I’ve been awake since 1:45am. Because jet lag.

Our arrival into Dubai was exhilarating. It was 11:45pm when we landed, and I immediately switched from worrying about whether we’d get held up in immigration due to the one Xanax pill I had in my wallet to worrying about how the Z-Man was going to find us and whether my dad would be surprised. I also didn’t know if I was supposed to have some visa paperwork or if we’d be asked a lot of questions about our travel plans (would we omit the part about our plan to swing through Israel?), so it was a relief to be greeted by an immigration officer (dressed in the traditional white Arab robe and headscarf, naturally) who was smiling and friendly and let us right through. We were passing by the long line of Indian drivers when I heard my name called—and there was the Z-Man, beaming, jolly, beelining towards us—and thankfully I had phone in hand and was able to record my dad and the Z-Man’s joyous reunion (the Z-Man had tears on his cheeks!).

Stepping outside for the first time in 24 hours, the air felt heavy and warm (the Z-Man’s protestations that it was cold notwithstanding) (it was around 70 degrees; everything is relative!). The Z-Man drove us to our hotel, chatting the whole way about the city’s new developments in that broken English way that both charms and confounds me (hence my famous misunderstanding of his pronunciation of the word “government,” which led to a thousand family “Gorman” jokes). We said goodbye to him at the curb with such gusto and hugs that the Filipino bellmen exchanged glances.

The hotel (Emirates Jumeira Towers) was gorgeous and decadent and all the other things you’d expect from one of the world’s great tourist destinations, even at 1am. Pop and I said goodnight and tried to get some sleep, but the 12-hour time difference and the excitement kept us both awake.

After reveling from our respective windows at the foggy spectacle taking place outside our 43^rd floor hotel rooms, we met for breakfast in the fancy club lounge, saying “I still can’t believe we’re here!” over and over again.

Morning view from the 43rd floor

I didn’t think I’d cry but of course I did when the Australian arrived to pick us up; it had only been 3 years since our last visit (she’d traveled to the US for my 40^th birthday party!) but even 3 years is a long time between close friends.

She took us on a tour of some of our favorite spots: first our old house (it looked the same, albeit with a Rolls Royce now in the driveway), then the neighborhood clubhouse where Pop had transformed himself from round to ripped in the gym (not one but TWO of the gym trainers recognized Pop—by name!), then the shopping plaza where the girls had taken ballet classes, then the beachfront where Pop used to take his daily walks, and finally one of my favorite malls, Ibn Battuta. At each stop, I began by saying, “I don’t remember any of this!” but then, a muscle memory would reliably kick in, and I’d think aloud, “I feel like there’s something over here…” and follow some internal GPS and sure enough, there would be the cat food aisle or the playground or the Starbucks of my past.

A lot was unchanged—the green park in front of our house, the ornate tiles decorating the vaulted cathedral-like ceilings at the mall, the children’s nursery school entrance; a lot was renovated and more spacious—the supermarket and Dubai’s answer to Target, Carrefour!, had both been remodeled to give them a more open, fluorescent-lit feel; and some were absolutely unrecognizable—the beach at JBR, which had once been an untouched expanse of sand, was now crowded to near overflow with pop-up shops, craft markets, and new hotels. There was even a new ISLAND right off the shoreline (man-made, of course), sporting an absolutely MASSIVE ferris wheel that’s still under construction (Dubai’s answer to the London Eye, the Australian says).

housemaid advertisement

another

McDonalds innovation!

magazines

the beach is now a shopping center!

Five Guys in Dubai

fanciest Starbucks I've ever seen

When I’m home in the US, the dismal state of American politics is always at the forefront of my mind (maybe because I can’t look away from the train wreck of the 24-hour cable news cycle). But here in Dubai, the political undercurrent is still the Israeli/Palestinian conflict. The Australian told us that in her daughter’s homework assignments, Israel is referred to by an “I” with a line crossed through it (!!!), and at the craft market, we saw t-shirts with images like, “My heart beats for Palestine” and an outline of the state of Israel with a huge Arabic word written though it (“I don’t know what that says, but I KNOW what that says,” remarked Pop). My senses were heightened by the fact that I’d just watched Season 4 of Transparent on the plane ride over, not knowing in advance that most of the episodes chronicle the family’s tour through Israel, and I was weighed down by the character Allie’s crisis of conscience at having befriended a bunch of politically active Palestinians who recommended a complete boycott of all Israeli goods. I was looking for a newspaper but no luck; I’d wanted to see if there were still references to “Occupied Jerusalem” as I recalled.

We returned to the hotel without having bought much—a belt for Pop, a Muslim-garbed Barbie for me—fully feeling the jetlag and wondering if 3pm was too early for bed. I ended up turning in at 7:30pm, but Pop was the ultimate good sport and rallied for dinner with the Z-Man that got him home at 8pm. I hope he is sleeping now!

Today we plan on visiting Karama, the market of knockoff everything, and Mall of the Emirates. I am already getting nervous about our adventure to Israel early tomorrow—please, universe, don’t let the letlag and lack of proper meals slow us down! And now, another attempt at sleep…

3:39 am. We need to leave for the airport at 5:30am so I think the sleeping portion of my evening is over.

Perusing a newspaper yesterday at breakfast, I discovered that yes, articles about Israel still state that the events are taking place in “Occupied Jerusalem,” so apparently that situation hasn’t evolved. While I have been making a concerted effort to avoid watching the news while we’re here, for fear of finding out something that will make me anxious during our travels, it was a relief to see that the front page news stories were about medical tourism and Dubai’s architectural achievements as opposed to some pending international crisis.

"Occupied Jerusalem"

After breakfast I headed with the Australian to Mall of the Emirates because I wanted to see the ski slope again. To my delight, I learned that the attraction now has penguins (which the Australian tells me were shipped in from TEXAS, of all places!). The penguins were sleeping but I was at least able to watch an adorable video of their antics on a huge jumbotron over the snow play area.

The mall—just like the city itself—seemed so much BIGGER than I remembered. And unlike our first days in Dubai back in 2008, when my skin prickled every time we walked passed a fully veiled woman or a man in traditional Arab dress, yesterday they hardly even registered in my consciousness. And when the call to prayer was played over the mall loudspeaker at lunchtime, I could barely hear it over the din, and I did not notice anyone making any movements in response. It was just background noise.

We stopped by the pharmacy because, on principle, I wanted to buy a medicine that is prescription-only in the US (cheap thrill!). So I picked up a 6-day supply of Zithromax which I can pretty much guarantee will now sit in my medicine cabinet forever as a souvenir.

After spending some time at the Australian’s house with her family (where her daughter explained to me that kids at school use the word “transgender” as a slur, and they are taught in their classes that Israelis are terrorists) (yikes), I came back to the hotel to pack up my bags. Even though traffic lights have replaced many of the roundabouts, plenty of them still remain, as do the maddening speed bumps. Between that and the heat (it was only 77 degrees but for some reason felt oppressive), I was glad to take a rest.

We had one more item on our Dubai checklist: karama, the knockoff market typically frequented by low-income housekeepers and wayward tourists. It was a virtual ghost town at 7pm on a weeknight, so at the sight of Pop and the Z-Man and me, every vendor leapt out of his folding chair and began aggressively badgering us: “Rolex watch.” “Handbags.” “T-shirts.” “Good price!” Pop and I— in what must be somehow American social conditioning—could not help ourselves from politely responding with, “No thank you,” and, in Pop’s case, “I don’t need a watch, I have nowhere I need to be.” But of course, engaging only encouraged the vendors more. I wished I could follow the Z-Man’s lead: he just kept his head down as he walked and ignored them altogether. I tried that but I couldn’t do it, perhaps because I felt that ignoring them would have angered or provoked them, and there were just so many of them.

I ended up buying a soap made with camel’s milk (?) just because of the adorable cartoon characters on the front of the canvas pouch, and didn’t bother negotiating the price because, again, Americans!, the process made me uncomfortable and it was only about $6. In light of the #metoo movement, I wonder if I didn’t want to bargain because bargaining feels inherently confrontational, and why would I want to confront a group of four Arab men when I’m alone in their shop in a largely deserted marketplace? Of course Pop and the Z-Man were in a nearby shop so it wasn't a logical fear… but it directed my behavior nonetheless.

We headed back to the hotel and I already had a lump in my throat at the prospect of Pop and the Z-Man’s goodbye. The Z-Man will probably never be able to get a visa to visit us in the US, and I have no idea when we will be back in Dubai next. The Z-Man had tears in his eyes before he even got out of the car, and I fell apart myself when Pop offered the Z-Man some money as a thank you gift, and the Z-Man stepped back in horror. There was a sad exchange where the Z-Man, tears on his face, was saying, “No, no,” and Pop was trying to put the money in his hand, saying, “Don’t insult me, my brother, this is for your kids, I love you.” Lord, I'm getting emotional just writing about it! The Z-Man eventually accepted the money and we all rushed away after a hug because it was all just too much.

The only thing I wasn’t able to do during our visit was check in on our housekeeper, Alice… neither the Z-Man nor the Australian had any information on her whereabouts. I wanted to see her not because it would have been at ALL like our reunion with the Z-Man (my interaction with her was always markedly uncomfortable, presumably because my distinctly American social style was so different from how she was used to being treated by her employers), but because my heart still hurts for her two sons growing up without their mother in the Philippines, and I wanted to give her some Christmas money (or, as Daddy calls it, her 401K installment).

Other than that, we accomplished everything we wanted to in Dubai, and I was able to take many, many postcard-esque photographs from the window of the 43^rd floor. Dubai is as shiny, dusty, crowded, deserted, smooth, jagged, and mysterious as I remember it… Pop even said, “I think maybe Dubai saved my life.” I think he’s right.