Iraqi Airspace!?!?

Plane trips just aren’t what they used to be. I can remember as a kid my excite preceding all trips taken on a plane. I couldn’t understand why we drove anywhere when flying was so much cooler. I remember single-serving food and drinks and moist towelettes, the seats with the fun tables that folded down and little radios in the armrests, the little wings I used to get. So now, more or less every time I fly I get the same giddy feelings of anticipation. Only now, I’m completely disappointed. We reach the airport in Edinburgh for our flight to London and onward to Dubai, and we don’t have a gate yet. So we sit and have a drink, and our plane is delayed. And delayed again. And we’re right in the middle of a beer, when the screen changed, displayed a gate for us, flashed “boarding” once and then proceeded directly to “gate closing.” In a panic, we downed the beer (can’t let it go to waste), collected ourselves and rushed to the gate. It was nice of them to give us some warning, and the chic taking our boarding passes looking completely miffed at our less-than-timely arrival, like why weren’t we at the gate as soon as it flashed “boarding”? We were treated like “those” people, even though it was totally not our fault. This was just the first of many incidents that have led me to the conclusion that I will never fly British Airways ever again.

So we rush on to the plane and are immediately surrounded by coughing, sneezing and otherwise generally sick people. It’s like everyone in this country suffers from 8 months of crappy weather/winter funk. And nobody covers their mouths; it’s a wonder the entire population of this country hasn’t wiped itself out. But it’s a short flight, and we hop off and then on to another sickness-filled metal bird for a 7-hour journey to Dubai. But this time it’s a 777, which has fabulous little TV screens in the backs of every seat so that I can distract myself from the coughing and sneezing. Turns out the TV technology of this particular Boeing 777 dates back to the invention of the wheel, but it works well enough, and I manage to watch Atonement (for purely faux-intellectual reason, I’ll admit it). Turns out it was pretty awful. Not as in it was a bad movie, but let’s just say I know why everybody in the proverbial West is so depressed and violent: we have a strange obsession with movies that are either incredibly depressing (Atonement) or incredibly violent (No Country for Old Men or There Will Be Blood), or for Oscar-worthy assurance, both (all three?). Ugh. But I settled in, next to a fabulous little woman who didn’t speak English but understood the vague wave that means “I have to pee” on every plane throughout the world. We also ate decent food, which I really miss from US airlines. Here, they’ll feed you even on hour-long flights. It early morning or late night or both when Jonmikel nudges me and motions out the window: “Check it out, it’s Baghdad!” And so it was… we managed to fly almost right over the infamous city. JM busied himself taking pictures out the window, getting Baghdad, Kuwait, and Camp Anaconda, the big military base in Iraq. Probably taboo, but what the heck. I was surprised we were allowed to fly over all of it.

I sleep a sum total of 40 minutes on the overnight flight, and when we arrive in Dubai we are full of jetlag. I must be getting old: I used to be able to sleep on planes like none other, and I NEVER used to suffer from jetlag. Bu tired we are, and we pass like zombies through customs, hit up the taxi stand and make our way to our hotel, the JW Marriott. Did I mention I get to stay in a 5-star hotel for free? Oh yeah, I do. Seriously sweet. My parents can correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m not sure I’ve ever stayed in a 5 star hotel. It’s on the old side of the Creek, the river-ish waterway that divides the city. Last year, when Jonmikel was here for the same conference, they were on the tourist side, where all the high-rise hotels are, more centrally located but nowhere to walk. We head to the front desk at the hotel even though it is only 10 am. They can give us a smoking room, says the adorable Eastern European chic at the front desk, but for non-smoking we will have to wait. We opt to wait.

The first thing you notice about Dubai is that English is everywhere. Everybody speaks English to one another, mostly because it is impossible to tell who speaks Arabic and who doesn’t. But the sure thing is that everybody will at least speak English. You can tell the Emirati citizens by their dress: most women wear black abayas, often embellished with some of the most exotic and beautiful stitching and jewels, that cover them from head to foot, often accompanied by lavish gold jewelry and heavy, exoticized make-up; most men wear the traditional, flowy white robe called a kandura (or a dishdash if you’re a local ex-pat) and white draped headscarf, the guthra. They seem to take a lot of pride in their national dress, and varying colors and patterns can indicate specific familial ties. But present in the city are burkas and saris and shawls and skirts and suits and any other type of clothing from every corner of the world in every color imaginable. Even through my jetlagged haze, I can see the colors. But for the most part, the people you will deal with on a regular basis are not Arab, but Pakistani or Indian or Philippino or Malaysian or Indonesian or Eastern European, all speaking their respective languages to one another and English to everyone else. Citizens of the UAE are not expected to work such demeaning jobs as servers or bellmen or hosts or behind desks at hotels. So they fill the void with non-UAE-ers, which often come in the form of non-Arabs, except in, say, Lebanese restaurants. In general, they all remain fairly segregated, except in big hotels like ours where they just need workers from wherever.

So anyway, our room isn’t ready, and we decline the invitation to relax by the pool in favor of a nice morning walk before either A) it gets too hot to wander or B) we crash. We meander the city, taking note of the different ethnic groups and how many men seem curious about my red hair (though nothing compared to the stares I got in Morocco). We manage to hit the Creek and wander through parts of the Dhow Wharfage. These little traditional boats are amazing: they look ready to sink or tip over constantly, except they manage to sail away with semi trucks on top of them. Apparently they’ve been docking here for a few hundred years, so they must be stable enough. And next to them sit a whole row of multi-million dollar yachts that are probably larger than most homes. I decide immediately that I want one.

After wandering until early afternoon, we head back to the hotel to retrieve our room, which still isn’t ready, though by all accounts from the front desk it should be. They talk amongst themselves and from what catch here and there, our room has somehow managed to disappear. Not what one would expect from a 5-star hotel, but regardless… a young man looking quite smart and in-charge and very… white… comes up and asked, concerned, if we are still waiting for our room. We were, and he nicely comped us a couple of truly wonderful and freshly made juices from the Vienna Café, juices that would have cost us almost $7 each under normal circumstances. I had mango and JM had grapefruit, and it was pretty much fruit plopped into a blender. No concentrate, no added sugar, no bottles… I would visit there again. As we wait, we run into two of Jonmikel’s coworkers (or, as we were sitting down, they run into us), who were on their way upstairs to, well… start drinking. What are conferences for? We agree to join them later, are given a room, and make our way up to it. I am in desperate need of a shower, but also in desperate need for some pool action. Cleanliness wins out, but afterwards we head up to the rooftop pool to catch an hour or so worth of close-to-the-tropics sun. After a warm Katnap, we head back to the room to change into non-plane-funk clothing and meet-up with the coworkers to sneak us into the Executive Lounge. Apparently, employees of this particular company are notorious for such escapades, and we manage to imbibe unlimited free booze and a myriad of dinner-type substances (eliminating the need to buy an actual dinner) with only minimal controversy. I had never been in an Executive Lounge before, and I have to admit it suited me quite well. Plus, I managed to scrounge up very professional looking attire specifically for this trip, so I even looked as if I belonged; a young, affluent Ph.D. or IT chic. Guys dug it.

Afterward, the other coworkers went off to complete some post-conference set-up work, so Jonmikel and I headed off to the genuine Hofbrauhaus in the hotel, actually licensed by the original one in Munich. Unlike the one in Munich (or in Cincinnati, for that matter) this one was sparsely occupied, despite the cheery lederhosen-clad, oompa band in the main dining room. We were just looking for a pre-bed tipple, and had the typical mug-o-beer common only in true beer-loving countries. Afterwards, we had just enough energy, after more than a day straight of being up and about, to fall into the elevator and climb into bed before crashing for the next 12 hours.