Bounce Off

So, let me get this straight…

In Dubai nightclubs it’s ok for a grown man in his thirties to march up to a woman who is minding her own business and tell her to f*ck off, but it’s not ok to take your shoes off when dancing on a podium?

This was the case in Elegante on Friday night. There I was, doing my best Beyonce impression (don’t knock it, I’ve at least got the thighs down to tee), when this burly bouncer of 6 foot 4 completely ruined my style by pulling on my shorts. I looked down to see him pointing at my shoes. Or rather, the lack of.

“Do you want me to fall down,” I yelled.

It was a case of ‘tell it to the hand’ because girlfriend really wasn’t listening. Shoes had to come back on. I didn’t realise that in addition to alcohol and premarital sex, walking around bare foot had also become illegal in the UAE. I must have missed that memo from Sheikh Mo.

So I carried on with my best Beyonce impression, only this time I was trying to balance my body weight, plus alcohol consumed (hence, me, plus two), on four inch stilettos. You don’t need to be a mathematician to know that’s one dodgy formula.

Five minutes later, a random oaf decided to join my friend and I on the podium. He mouthed something along the lines of f*ck off to her (out of nowhere. This is how men like to court in Dubai), to which my natural bull to red rag reaction was to yell who the hell do you think you are (while trying to balance my body weight, plus alcohol consumed, on four inch stilettos).

We grabbed the same bouncer who had so heroically upheld the law on shoes and podiums five minutes earlier, to which we had no response. It seems that it’s perfectly acceptable to tell a girl you’ve never met before to f*ck off. Bare feet on a podium however, Christ, the scandal, call the popos before there’s an upheaval.

It seems that bouncers in Dubai have a problem with women. It’s not just Elegante. I’ve been spoken to like I’m a Russian whore a million and one times (I’m Western and I wear low cut tops. I clearly therefore must perform tricks to earn my dirhams), and when I’ve tried to get a bouncer to intervene, they look at me like I’m the one with the problem.

We eventually were told to get down off the podium, because we wouldn’t accept free drinks from some perverts that were sat on the table beneath us. I mean, who wouldn’t want to share vodka with aging, receding hair-lined, married Lebanese men. We clearly need our eyes testing.

The lesson learnt? Bouncers in Dubai are misogynist bare feet haters and most men in Dubai are (I will let you guess what word I was going to use here). I would say it was never to go to Elegante anymore, but I like the music too much.

Time - where does it go?

It's been a while. Almost a year to be precise. It occurred to me the other day that I hadn't written in my blog in ages - what I genuinely didn't realise was that it has actually been a whole year. I am very aware that what I'm about to ask is the most clichéd of questions, but, seriously, where on earth does time go?

When you're a child and your parents very annoyingly tell you to make the most of your school years because "before you know it you will be old like me and wishing you were young again," you brush it off with a "whatever" and get back to that very important game that you were playing on the Commodore 64 (now I'm really showing my age) without giving it much though. What do grown ups know anyway? They just like to ruin all your fun, embarrass you in front of David from year 10 who you've got a not-so-secret crush on and say things like 'time goes so fast Andrea. Don't wish away your childhood.' Cringe. Dude, cut it out.

Now if only there was a way of ensuring youngsters actually listened to their parents. I'm now 25 (dreaded 26 in May, but let's not get into that right now) and realising that I made a very big mistake in wishing my years away. OK, I'm by no means 'old' but I'm 'older' and realising that some of the best years are already over and done with. Along with those have also gone some of the best experiences.

Climbing a tree and building a house.
Discovering the thrill of winning your first race at school.
Getting drunk for the first time on cider and throwing up while trying to hide the evidence.
The excitement of seeing your first falling star (geeks like me lap stuff like that up. Others might replace this with their first experience with weed or something)
Having your first kiss. (admintingly, my first one was a disaster. This memory has been replaced with a very nicely made up version that involves a young Pacey from Dawson's Creek thank you very much).
Passing your GCSE's and A'Levels.
Getting into university.
Your 18th and 21st birthday (for those of us who actually remember them).
Graduation.
Getting your first job.

Hmmm. Tick, tick, tick. Done, done, done.

Onto my point. As we get older, we get so consumed with our day-to-day lives that time just passes us by without us realising. When you're young and not-so-jaded, every day lasts so long because every day is amazing in one way or another. The only problem is, you don't actually realise it's amazing until it's all over and done with.

Unfortunately, there is no way of making children listen to adults.The only child that will listen to you now is the child within. Life is tough, life is cruel and life is demanding. But don't let it pass you by. I'm guilty of it. I love nothing more than writing, but I let the fact that I write all day for a living stop me from expressing myself with words in the evening.

Embrace every experience and every minute as much as you can. Because that minute that just ticked by while you read this sentence? It just went, and it's never coming back.

As adults it's our responsibility to make sure not a moment passes us by. So, from now on I promise to write in my blog as often as possible, no matter how tired/angry/upset/jaded I am, and even if I have to resort to writing like a child.

Andrea A 4 George Clooney 4Eva.

A Cynic's Melted Heart

To the untrained eye, I’m rather cynical.

I claim that love at first sight is a load of cods waddle, that being sent a bunch of roses would make me want to vomit into my 400 dhs shoes, that men who cry need to take a masculinity test, and that no, there is no such thing as a love that can better you as person. Pretty Woman was rescued by a beautiful looking Richard Gere in a limousine, when the truth is, if she were real she would have probably wound up a wrinkly crack addict, still on the game today.

How very different to the little girl I used to be.

I find it hard to try and figure out when exactly I came to bat for the side of cynicism. I cannot pinpoint one single event that made me turn from the girl who used to pretend that the 10 pound tiara her mum brought her from the Early Learning Centre, was in fact part of the Queen’s crown jewels, and that I was a Princess-in-waiting. Yes, Prince William was promised to me. He just didn’t know it.

I was the little girl who used to kick back on one of the sun loungers in our big green garden and let my head hang off the bottom. I’d then look up at the sky and watch the clouds make different shapes and make up stories about each and every one of them. When asked what I wanted to be when I was older, I’d list off something different every day.

‘Doctor!’, ‘Singer!’, ‘Actress!’, ‘Fashion Designer!’, ‘Rally Driver!'...

I have come to realise that my lack of decisiveness wasn’t because I didn’t have any direction or focus. In fact, I used to exclaim from a very young age that I most definitely would be going to university some day, to a ‘far, far, far away land’. The reason I had so many choices, was because I was such a big dreamer. I wanted to do it all. One lifetime didn’t seem like enough for me. Anything and everything seemed possible.

Now, cynicism prevails.

The batter of life has tried to change me from the girl full of dreams, to the girl who cannot even bring herself to believe that love, may in fact, be real.

The reason I bring this up is because yesterday was Valentine’s Day. As the years have gone by, I have grown to loathe it with a passion. So, when I woke up yesterday, I decided to pretend the day wasn’t happening. It was just any other day. I’d go to work zombie-fied, go through the notions, run out at 6pm, then watch the clock until it turned to midnight and the whole bastard thing was over with.

But then, something happened.

I received a text. From my mum.

‘Happy Valentine’s Day my darling girl, I love you so, so much, will call you later, love mom’.

I paused.

Because of all of my cynicism towards this ‘commercial crap’ of a day, I had completely forgotten what it is supposed to represent. This isn’t a day just for lovers. It is a day to celebrate any kind of love-an often forgotten and less reported human emotion.

I should know, I’m a journalist. Just log onto www.bbc.co.uk/news and try to count how many stories are about love. You will struggle to find many. Now as for the more negative spectrum of human emotion: hate, fear, jealousy, bitterness. That’s all there in abundance.

Love is the forgotten human emotion.

Yet, does it not exist? Without sounding too much like the trailer for ‘Love Actually’, if you do actually look around you, it’s always there. I only had to look on my phone to realise how loved I actually am. I only had to log onto Facebook and see a message from my cousin telling me ‘love u 2 much baby girl’ to see it again.

You see it when a dad is pushing his child in a pram, gleaming with pride. You see it when the elderly couple who are struggling to walk to the grocery store hold hands. You see it when families reunite at the airport’s arrival gates. You see it in a mother’s goodnight kiss to her child.

So why am I focusing on the negatives? Isn't that what evil and cynicism want?

I broke my reverie and decided to go for a coffee. As I walked past one of my colleague’s desks, I noticed her beaming smile. Her husband had sent her a beautiful arrangement of deep red roses. She looked ecstatic. It was almost infectious.

I then realised, I would not vomit if someone sent me an arrangement like that. This guy’s love for his wife was manifested through this bunch of flowers. Why would I not want that? How have I become so cynical to actually believe I do not want that?

My belief, as of yesterday, has changed.

Love is everywhere. And one day someone will love me enough to make Valentine’s Day take on that different special meaning. For now though, I’m one of the very lucky ones. I already have an abundance of love around me.

Now that’s something worth believing in.

A City On Heat

I’ve only been here on and off for about a year, but one of the things that struck me very early on is how much more, well, forward men are.

In any one given night out, the average Dubai gal will pick up numerous business cards, telephone numbers, stalkers and propositions for a bit of hot loving in the desert, on a camel, or under Garhoud Bridge. The amount of times I’ve opened my purse in the morning to find various business cards flying out at me are uncountable. Ahmed, Mohammed, James, Thierry, Justin etc etc. And yes, most of the time I’m sat asking Ahmed? Ahmed who?!

Now, this isn’t an excuse for me to sit and boast about my admirers (trust me, some of them are nothing to boast about). ANY girl living in Dubai (single, or otherwise-makes no difference even if you’re wearing a wedding ring) will find the same thing. The guys are persistent, pushy and will stop at nothing to get a chance with you. A combination of the fact that men outnumber women by about 3 to 1, desert heat, and ex-pat loneliness seem to send men wild out here. (well, more wild than normal)

One particular French guy that I met in Boudoir one night stands out in my mind. About five minutes before leaving the bar, I got talking to him through my free cocktail haze. We exchanged numbers, and I left.

Half an hour later, I already had a missed call from the guy. I ignored it, I was too busy dancing. The next day I woke up to three missed calls and a text message ‘Good morning beautiful’. At this stage I couldn’t even remember what the guy looked like, let alone anything else.

He persistently text every day for about a week asking what I was up to. By the seventh day I caved and sent a message back apologising, that I’d been really busy and maybe we could arrange something in the future. My bad, I know, but I hate being impolite!

About a week later I got a rather annoyed text from him. It was something along the lines of ‘hello Miss I’m so overbooked all the time, guessing you’re too important to meet me’. Now I don’t have many experiences with French guys, so I don’t know whether they think being ignored is a good thing. Brits tend to get the hint when they are ignored…well Brits living in Britain that is. It seems that once guys pass Dubai immigration, their crotch area takes over even more brain capacity than normal.

It took him two months to stop contacting me. I’d only been in touch once.

Another French guy could not take the fact that I didn’t want to meet him, so decided that it was my friend’s fault and began texting me insults about her. What a way to try and win me over!

We’ve been in all sorts of crazy situations. Guys chasing after us in cars, guys following us down the street, and even guys trying to follow us into our apartments.
There’s been Matrix guy, French guy, French guy number 2 (even more of an ass), Egyptian guy (who somehow found my work number and thought it would be a good idea to ring me there), Shisha guy(s), Local Hottie, Local Attire guy…The list is endless.

All in all, I find it quite amusing. But it’s hard for a gal like me who isn’t a subscriber to the ‘Fast Love’ plan to separate the players from the bigger players. For now, I guess I will just sit back and observe the fun until one of the normal ones gets off a plane.

Maybe my best bet is to go and snatch one before immigration?

The Taxi Mystery Solved

Following a couple of burgers and a side order of grease at TGI’s in the Crowne Plaza on Thursday night, we made our way into a waiting taxi.

As soon as we got in we were greeted to a rather amusing message from the cab’s GPS system.

‘You have just rejected a job. You have incurred a penalty.’ said the American robot.

The taxi driver collapsed into a fit of giggles.

Now I bloody know why the taxis that I order never turn up.

Welcome

Almost a year ago I had reached a stale mate in my life back home in the UK. I was trapped in Groundhog Day. More unfortunately for me, my version of GD consisted of rain, grey skies, a local government job and the drying up hope of a high flying, post-university life.

Through sheer fear of becoming boring (always my worse nightmare), I decided to pack my life and stilettos into a suitcase (yes, that’s all it took) and move to Dubai. I had nothing to lose, and everything to gain.

Here I am some time later, and I can easily say I achieved what I set out to. My life is no longer boring. In fact, it’s something completely off the other side of the scale. Living in Dubai is bizarre, exciting, intriguing, mesmerising, and at times scary (daily taxi cab user). I work hard, party even harder. And I’m finally on the job ladder I want to be on.

Being single, and female (and Western may I sheepishly add) means some of the experiences I have are, well, worth a mention. I live in the city where Fast Love should be its theme tune and where varying versions of morals (or lack of), beliefs and customs collide in the 48 degree desert heat. So I’ve decided to share my experiences, wonderings and ponderings and general gossip with you all. Those who know me, know I love to talk ;)

I could sit and give a running commentary of my time here so far-it already makes an interesting read. However, I have every confidence that sources of material will not dry up. In fact, things are just about to heat up.

Happy reading. :)