Istanbul - Dubai 19 August 2004 - Sheiksayed road
Today is the second test of Kim's flying abilities. I am f***ing nervous as well, the emergency landing has rattled me far more than I can admit to Kim. Truthfully, I was absolutely shitting myself. All I could think of was the Swiss Air flight that blew up over Newfoundland (due to a fire in the cockpit). If Ben m or Seeta reads this please could you slap Mark from me, I wish he had never told me about that crash. I was convinced that there was a fire in the avionics bay in the plane, and that it would be game over for us.
Tempers are slightly frayed this morning, as we both completely fail to get up in time. I have what's known as travel 'fever'. I am hopelessly over punctual - which seems great - until you have the family affliction. My particular record is turning up for a 3 hour train ride 1 1/2 hours early - the train left from waterloo and I lived in Clapham - a 25 minute maximum tube ride.
So I am out of bed (after Kim) raging about being packed and ready, wanting to get to the airport 2:15 before the flight leaves. It's 2:30 before the flight, and I get frantic if i think i am going to be late. Kim's out of the bathroom, I rush in. Cartoon moment.
Someone for the second time in our relationship, has left a thin extremely slippery coating of water all over the tiny bathroom. It has a bath / shower cubicle, and a sink and lavatory. There's just enough space in the bathroom for a approximately six foot man to hit every part of their body while falling over at full tilt and folding up completely. Survey of the damage - two extremely bruised knees, two sore feet, one sore shoulder and an extremely sore head where it hits the toilet pedestal.
To Kim's credit she deals quite well with a very angry, ashen boyfriend sitting on the toilet, after hearing a spectacular series of crashes. A few rather angry words. She says sorry. Closes door. I jump in the shower. Then pay hotel extras, run for the taxi. Hair raising driving at three times the speed limit. Arrive airport.
It continues to amaze me how stupid people are. We are in a massive queue to get through the first level of security at the airport. Every single, and I mean every one, of the people going through the metal detector, sets it off. The usual culprit a mobile phone. It is truly baffling that you watch fifty other people set off the detector with their phone, and then do exactly the same thing. Anyway, rather smugly, manage to be the first person in two hours not to have set the detector off on first attempt and into hellish check in. This smugness will be rewarded later.
Every Arab or Turk trying to check in to the flight to Dubai has at least one full trolley of stuff, most have two. So there are endless arguments over the amount of excess baggage they are going to pay. Finally we check in. They don't recognise Kim's frequent flyer card, which bodes badly for the trip. Passport control is another half hour wait, and we get through at the exact time that the plane is due to leave, 1:30 PM. We're turning into more seasoned travellers, and therefore stubbornly sit in a bar until final call has been on the screen for a about ten minutes. Then we go to the gate. More security. Leave the X-Ray machine with nagging feeling something has been forgotten.
Our names get called over the speaker, Kim's in a dreamworld, doesn't hear. Get very nervous about some kind of infidel inspection - Kim's already been given a closet based strip search in Nuremberg. We get sent to the desk - and joy of all unexpected joys - an upgrade. Obviously taking Kim's crappy frequent flyer card for something more important, we're suddenly to enjoy the joys of business class, and Kim who hasn't flown business class before gets rather over excited.
Then a potential second - much feared - bottom inspection. A rather intimidating guard comes over and starts asking my name, I try and brazen it out, expecting the full cavity search. I hand over my passport, he smiles. Then returns my emergency container - filled with $600 and two credit cards, plus USB key with all digital documents, which I left in the X-Ray machine. Considering my slightly (read extremely) anal retentive approach to travel Kim is most amused by my considerable stupidity. He insists I check the contents in front of him, score several points for Turkish honesty.
I spend the next hour trying to tell Kim that business class is not that special. I formerly flew quite a lot of business class for work, to the level where I used to get annoyed when flying economy. But after flying business loads of times, my conclusion is that it very definitely better than economy, and very definitely not worth paying the difference for. After all flying is still a pain, business or economy. But to get upgraded is a real pleasure, and it is a first for me.
Kim loves business class, very impressed by the stewardess coming around before the doors close to ask what our first drink will be, have a very classy white Chablis. Kim fiddles with the controls and accidentally calls the stewardess, is very embarrassed. But ,eventually, takes to it like she was born to it. When her second large Bailey arrives, Kim is practically purring, all flight worries forgotten with the joy of business class. A very good flight.
The luxury continues as we get into Dubai airport to be met by an executive greeting service, a girl walks us through customs, skipping the queue and helps us to orientate ourselves. This is the first of the many acts of superb hospitality that we get from Eimear and Martin, Kim's expat friends in Dubai (and former Richmond drinking buddies). We have already been given an order from Eimear for duty free, 2 bottles of Gin 2 of Vodka, as alcohol costs the earth in Dubai. We get to the counter to find out that 4 bottles is a single allowance, so its back for four more. Hoping that 8 bottles of spirits will actually mean that we leave Eimear and Martin with some extra booze.
Eimear meets us outside the Airport, where it is sweltering 40 degrees centigrade something like 80% humidity. It feels like being in a combination sauna and oven, so probably a bit like a pressure cooker. It is appallingly hot. Eimear drives us back to their flat on the Sheiksayed road, which is a motorway with loads of skyscrapers on each side - the image of Dubai that everyone has been sold. Dubai has definitely been oversold - this is practically the extent of the skyscrapers - the rest is very American - low rise suburbs and malls. It's quite an extraordinary place. Martin is still at work, so its straight out for a serious session of power drinking, expat style. It's Thursday - so tomorrow is Friday- the Islamic Sunday - so this is a combination friday/saturday night out. The second bar is overwhelmingly full of partying expats, so we head upstairs when Martin arrives, for a bit of Irish chat.
Then its back to their flat for some more drinking, and some takeaway fried chicken - which along with all possible types of food, seemingly, can be delivered to your door.
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