Travel Musings

Dubai-ous

Initial Post: Dubai, Oman 2006 Trip

Everyone asks me, after I tell them I'm heading to Dubai for vacation: 1) "Where is that?" followed by, 2) "Why would you want to go there?"

I explain that Dubai is located in the Middle East, which meets with mixed reactions: one or two persons obliquely accuse me of betraying my country (?); some people admire my intrepidness; but the majority just think I'm weirdo begging to be the victim of a terrorist attack.

"Dubai is the Switzerland of the Middle East," I explain robotically to the latter (but not to those under the mistaken impression that I'm intrepid). And sometimes, if I'm able to muster up the energy, I point out that, the Sears Tower being less than two miles away, I may be more safe in Dubai than here at home.

As for why I would like to visit Dubai, well that's more difficult to defend, as I'm unsure that I really do want to visit Dubai: I feel as though I'm obligated to visit Dubai. I owe it to myself to witness the spectacle that is Dubai (world's tallest building, man-made islands in the formation of the globe, the only seven-star hotel, indoor ski slopes, etc., etc., etc.). I liken Dubai to Orlando or Las Vegas: I suspect that I'll be happy to arrive, happy to have seen it, and happy to leave and never return.

I am not a Freak

On the other hand...I'm quite excited about my (brief) trip to Muscat, Oman prior to visiting Dubai. Unlike Dubia, Oman is mysterious, unsullied, authentic.

Those who think I'm a freak for wanting to visit Dubai are unable to process the fact that I'm also traveling (alone) to Oman. It's too foreign to them to process.

"Have a fun trip to Dubai..!..?...," they wish wanly.

"And Oman!" I remind them.

"Err..Enjoy Dubai!?!"

Upon hearing about my foray into Oman, many react as though I had just announced my acceptance into the Church of Scientology. They fidgit. Bite their nails. Grimace. Change the subject.

Carol, my former hairdresser in Minneapolis, turned me on to Oman. She lived there for seven years during her twenties, and spoke so affectionately of the experience that I vowed to her that I would visit the country someday.

Other than picking Carol's brain, I've located very little information on Oman. I've not found any books on Oman and Fodors.com is of little help planning my trip. The Tripadvisor Oman forum is a decent resource, however.

Somebody needs to write a travel article on Oman, perhaps in exchange for a free trip and a handsome stipend. National Geographic, Traveler, Travel + Leisure: Call me!

Lonely Onanism

Oman sounds like Onan, which reminds me of Lonely Onanism, the name that Brian the Really Cute Bartender and I christened a cocktail we concocted one Minnesota evening in January at Bronc's on Broadway some time in the late 80's, when we had zero customers because global warming had not yet kicked in and people were afraid to leave their houses for fear of freezing to death. But that's another time, another story...

I'm on a Swissair flight from Zurich to Dubai to Muscat, which I booked using my United miles. I'm tempted to elbow my dozing neighbor and direct his attention to the sunset out our window: "Hey, getta loada this!" I refrain from doing so.

Hours later, approaching Muscat, the familiar pre-approach panic sets in: we're descending, yet I spy no headlights, no streetlights, no houselights, no nuthin': just blackness. Crap. I booked a ticket to nowhere. Will never be heard from again.

Midnight: The landing is smooth; the airport a breeze. Visas are now available at the airport, but they can be obtained in advance (call the Oman consulate at 202 387-1980 to request that they mail the paperwork). The driver that I had pre-arranged is nowhere to be found, but the curbside taxis charge only seven Rial (approximately $21 USD), which is less than the fee that my scheduled driver had quoted.

Not wanting to squander dollars or points on a bed for eight hours of unconsciousness, I booked the Coral Boutique Hotel through AsiaTravel.com for $130 (or e-mail the hotel directly). It suffices just fine. In fact, the retro music piped through the lobby--Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me and Close to You--is comforting to this weary traveler far from home.

Morning now. I'm the sole diner in the restaurant, a timely opportunity to practice my Arabic on my server (a good sport: he humors me): Marhaba ("hello"); Min fadlik ("please" to woman), Min fadlak ("please" to man); Shukran ("thanks"); Afwan ("excuse me"); Ma is-salaama ("goodbye").

The general manager makes an effort to chat up the other guests and me as we check out. I drag my luggage across the street to the Grand Hyatt Muscat, where I'm staying on the Grand Club floor in exchange for several thousand Hyatt frequent stay points. The points are well-spent here, as the rates are high and a nightly complimentary cocktail reception in an Islamic country where alcohol is scarce and expensive pays for itself.

Chez Hyatt

The Hyatt lobby is opulent, but not quite to the point of tackiness (granted, the plastic palm trees are a tad much). My room is unavailable this early, so the competent front desk staff stores my bag as I trace the walking path along the ocean, behind the hotel: the coastline is stunning. Every person I encounter greets me good-naturedly.

The neighborhood surrounding the Hyatt isn't too shabby. I must be in the wealthy part of town. I explore a couple streets: the houses are either white or beige, quite large (3,000 - 4,000 square feet on average, I estimate) and very detailed: turrets, stained glass windows, ornate moldings, etc.

I return and my room is ready, my luggage already delivered. The space is comfortable, but I have no view of the ocean, probably because I paid with points and not cash.

No matter--I feel safe here, at home. Welcome, even.

The Two Muscateers

A, Carol's friend, picks me up at the Hyatt. We drive through the Qurum district, the *"Ellis Drive" of Muscat. The residences here put the shacks around the Hyatt to shame.

Ten minutes of driving and we arrive at the old Muttrah souk, a labryinth of shops and stalls peddling claw-like Khanjar daggers, bronze coffee urns, incense, silks, and elaborate jewelry: the bigger, the older, the golder: the better. The shop owners are pesky, but manageable.

We leave the souk, bound for the venerable Al Bustan Hotel for lunch, stopping along the way for a photo op of the oh-so-seventies Sultan's Palace. Golf, anyone? I'm on the lookout for swarthy men clad in pastel dishdashas, recalling Carol's insider tip that the never-married sultan, well into middle-age, employs quite a few single male employees, who can be distinguished by their vernal attire.                

The Al Bustan, once THE place to stay in Muscat, is beginning to show her age. The exterior is outdated, and the lobby begs for a face-lift, but the dramatic five-storey arch, decorated in tiles, is worth viewing. The Al Bustan is best enjoyed outdoors: it boasts an expansive lawn and garden, which will undergo a massive overhaul (including the addition of a long-awaited spa) in the near future. A and I enjoy our lunch al fresco, and I'm growing fond of this tart lime and mint softdrink A recommended.

We detour slightly before returning to the city, past the dive center, along the rolling coast, to the Shangri-La Hotel. A and I eye it critically: it's in the middle of nowhere, it lacks windows, and it resembles a correctional facility. However, perched atop a cliff, I bet the view of the ocean is spectacular. Still, I'm glad that I'm not staying here.

The Chedi Hotel is our final stop of the day, as I am fading quickly: my body just realized that it's something like 6:00 a.m. CST. The Chedi is slung low to the ground, inconspicuous, low-key: it's cool and it knows it: no need to announce it. Like Bananarama in their day.

The lobby is sexy. Dark, and sexy, and well, sexy. And dark. Moorish, sultan-ish, 1,001 Arabian Nights, sultry, harem-esque decor. So this is where the hipsters hang out! I can't suppress a pout when I compare the lanterns loll-about couch to the Hyatt's plastic palm trees straight out of the set of Gilligan's Island.

We tour the swanky restaurant and perch at a table near the pool for a second round of these addicting (alcohol-free!) lime and mint drinks (we were primed for a beer, but apparently alcohol is verboten in the afternoon at The Chedi!?!)

A deposits me back at the Hyatt and I retire to my room for a nap/coma. I awake just in time for cocktail hour in the lounge, where I sit on the balcony and catch-up on the Tomkat wedding in The Oman Observer by candlelight, tabbouleh, and a glass of cabernet.

p.s. According to The Oman Observer, today is World Toilet Day. Cheers!

*A private joke for my multitude of Charles City readers (both of them!)

Oh Money

I awake to the hypnotic call to prayer emanating from the nearby mosque,open my balcony doors, scan the white cityscape, and breathe in the foreign-ness of it all.

After breakfast I walk forty-five minutes along the ocean to the Crown Plaza in Qurum, mindful of A's advice to avoid the deserted walking path in favor of the openess of the beach (for safety's sake). Arriving at the hotel, I wander the neighborhood in search of fabulous houses. They're everywhere:

Hey -- Did I happen to mention that the Omani, by all appearances, are not hurting for money? According to A, the huge-huge mansions are owned by members of the royal family and the merely huge mansions typically belong to government ministers.

Poor A humored hundreds of questions from me yesterday:

Q: Women in the workforce?

A: Oman is progressive. Many of the women are professionals: all of A's sisters-in-law are well-educated and occupy professional positions (accountant, detective with the police department, etc.)

Q: Arranged marriages?

A: Yes and no? I didn't follow her 100%, but I gleaned from her explanation that the dating process can be very formal, yet parties have a choice...In the case of one of her relatives, the now-husband fell for the now-wife from afar, so he approached his mother (?), who approached her mother, and after a very supervised courting regimen, they married. I might not be understanding this concept entirely correct.

Q: Ramadan?

A: To paraphrase, "a pain in the ass". For an entire month, people fast the entire day, so when sunset approaches, the masses are so starved and eager to reach their dining destination, that the roadways are havoc & chaos. Furthermore, every evening meal is spent with the extended family, which is nice at first, but could you imagine four weeks straight of family time?

Q: Camel spiders? (I'm morbidly fascinated by them)

A: A has encountered them in the desert, and she doesn't care for them one bit.

Not on my Meter

I walk from Qurum to Sabco Center, which is a mistake: the sun beats down on me, I'm receiving unwanted attention from male drivers (apparently a floppy skirt down to my knees is too sexy), and now the sidewalk has ended at several busy lanes of traffic, sans crosswalks or traffic lights. Still, I spy the shopping complex just on the other side, so I go for it, not unlike Frogger.

I barely make it to the Sabco Center, and it's really quite unremarkable (plus, I'm dusty, hot, and irritable). I could find these stupid stores in Chicago. Amouage is the exception. Amouage, coincidentally, sells Amouage, "the world's most valuable perfume," brewed right here in Muscat. I enter the store tentatively, painfully aware that I'm sweatier right now than Brandon Davis on a bad day. The sales clerks are hospitable nonetheless (and probably a little bored): they allow me to sample each of the fragrances. The ornate bottles are gorgeous. What a nice little gift this would make for me, if someone wanted to send it to 17XX North Clybourn Avenue, Chicago, IL 60614 (no signature required: leave inside gates under mailbox). I'm too cheap to indulge in a bottle for myself: the little number to the left (less than two ounces) costs $380.

I jump into a cab in the parking lot and off we go. And now we're stopping --not at my hotel, either. We're in front of the mosque, and the driver conveys to me that I am to wait in the car. I totally get that it's got to be difficult to stop and pray five times daily, but there's no way I'm sitting in this stuffy car a minute longer than necessary.

Back at the hotel, I change clothes, grab a book and head to the pool. Aside from the absence of overpriced alchoholic drinks, you'd never realize that you were in an Islamic country: several corpulent tourists are (barely) clad in thong bikinis, which really should be outlawed in any country, Islamic or otherwise. I came here to see camel spiders, dammit, not cameltoes.

That would be Me (reluctant finger-wave)

I have nothing to wear! Crap. And I wasn't imagining the smell of burnt plastic: my curling iron overheated, despite my using a converter. I pick it up and it wilts in my hand like a Dali clock.

A has invited me to accompany to her to a dinner her sister-in-law is throwing to welcome a new in-law into their family.

I hadn't exactly packed for attending a private party -- in fact, I try to dress as plainly as possible when traveling alone to foreign countries to avoid standing out. I throw on my darkest jeans and "best" long-sleeved tee. Of course, the only jewelry I've packed is a watch. I look like a camp counselor, for god's sake.

We pull up to a large house with several cars in the car park: a red Ferrari, a silver Hummer. And not the pansy, run-errands-in-the-suburbs, Hummer-Lite Hummer, mind you: I'm talkin' the '06 H1 Alpha male, big-swinging-dick model.         

N, our hostess, greets us at the door. She couldn't be sweeter. And, thank Allah, she's wearing jeans. Of course they're eighteen times cooler than my jeans, but they're jeans nonetheless.

I dream about houses like this. No, really, I do. Spacious, white, open, contemporary houses. The gracious N provides us with a tour of the place. One of the family rooms is outfitted in the orange Togo line, a modern classic from Ligne Roset. Abstract art lines the walls of every room. I examine the signature on one of her wall-sized mirrors. Starck. Figures. There's the front kitchen, and of course the back kitchen, bustling with domestic help. And the private theatre. And N is as down-to-earth as can be.

We join the other 30 or so women in the sprawling backyard. To employ a Tyra Banks expression (not that I ever would), Arabic women are fierce. Long, thick hair; dramatic eye make-up; jewelry up the ying-yang; and elaborate dress: sparkly Fendi sandals, gold Dior bags, flowing, BeDazzled™ gowns and tunics. And, I learn, Oman's most famous clothing designer (I had read about her recent fashion show in The Oman Observer last night) is among us. My Arabic is a little rusty, but I'm pretty sure everyone is asking WHO IS THAT DRAB AMERICAN DORK WITH THE BAD HAIR?

In a panic, I search desperately for the bar or a passing cocktail server, but the most potent drink served here tonight is watermelon juice.

Don't Believe What You Read

Perhaps sensing my discomfort, N's husband, the only man present, makes an effort to welcome me.

In the company, now, of both a native and an expat (A), I broach the subject of Oman taboos that I had read about on the internet. They laugh at me.

Taboo one: Only use your right hand. The reality: my host holds his beverage in his left hand. Sure, if you're meeting someone, extend your right hand, as you would in the U.S., but otherwise...don't sweat it.

Taboo two: Don't expose the bottoms of your feet. The reality: rubbish. If you're wearing shoes, act naturally. On the other hand, if you're at someone's home, eating on the floor, barefoot, don't stick your feet out. But that's common sense anywhere.

Taboo three: Don't discuss pet dogs: Omani don't care for them. The reality: A owns three dogs. My host owns two.

Taboo four: Muslims don't consume alcohol. The reality? Who knows. A confides that her husband enjoys his wine when at home. But that's an N of one.

Dinner is served, buffet-style. Having spent a large portion of my existence in Minnesota, where spices are outlawed, I savor the mint, cumin, tumeric, etc.,

A and one of her sisters-in-law (who resembles Selma Hayek) and I engage in a fun conversation while eating: I asked them about the discernable differences between peoples of different Arab nations. I've struck oil. I learn that men's head garb differs by nation. I now know that Kuwaiti women can be identified by their aggressive walk. And Saudi women act coquettish (not in a good way). And, this catty little nugget: Dubai women wear their hair in only two hairstyles: parted on the side and swept down across their forehead, or swept up across their forehead, 80's hair-band style (A and Selma clearly disapprove of these hairstyles). I will test their observations tomorrow.

Try It, You'll Like It

I compared rates on Kayak.com prior to booking my flight, settling on a Gulf Air flight from Muscat to Dubai for $239. I don't think an antonym for procrastinator exists, so I'm going to create one now. Anyway, being the concrastinator that I am, I booked my damn flight well in advance, only to visit the Gulf Air website later to discover that they were running a "Hot Deal" on the flight for a scant $28, so I guess the moral of this story is that sometimes, it pays to procrastinate.

Fun fact: DBX accommodates over 25 million passengers annually. No visa is necessary for visiting Dubai.

I could probably walk to the hotel faster than this taxi cab is carrying me. I'm booked at the JW Marriott, which I booked with my points (reward category six). The JW Marriott is located in the Deira neighborhood, which is close to the airport (typically an indicator of a less-than-luxurious property), but the traffic is bumper-to bumper. The taxi is cheap, though: $9. How gracious of the JW Marriott to have offered me a shuttle ride for a mere $32. Bastages.

I call my friend Pat, who is meeting me here, from the front desk.

"Hehwhoa?..." I'm not kidding: he sounds like Elmer Fudd.

"Hot enough for ya?," I ask. This is my best line and it always elicits a guffaw, or at least a chuckle... ... ... No guffaw, no chuckle. Should I have used "Did you order this weather?" instead?

"I'm really sick," he moans. "Food poisoning." I point out to him that the day that he spent on his hands and knees for eighteen hours in an airplane bathroom was, coincidentally enough, World Toilet Day, but he doesn't seem to appreciate the irony. I tell him I'll call him later.

The front desk clerk informs me that the bellman on duty, Sherpa, will take my bags to my room.

"Sherpa?" I quip very, very wittily, "My God, how far away is my room?"

He laughs. I'd be devastated if he didn't get it. Although poor Sherpa is wondering why we're laughing at him. Oh, Sherpa.

My room is run-of-the-mill Marriott, with the garish green and red flower patterned bedspread and matching curtains (you know the ones: they're in every Marriott room on Earth) to disguise God-knows-what sorts of fluids. The space is void of charm, lacking warmth. Literally. I turn the AC to off, the fan to off, but damned if a chilly draft doesn't continue to waft its way around the soulless space (I just used the word "waft").

Starving, I drop my belongings and head outside. Deira. Deira, Deira, Deira. What a crappy part of town in which to spend your vacation: insane traffic, junky stores, oppressed and downtrodden folk all around you: it's clearly the blue-collar part of town. Where the hell am I going to eat? I walk into a few local restaurants, lose my nerve, and exit hastily. I finally settle upon the smoky Al Shami restaurant, next to the Hypermarket. I wonder if people shop really frenetically in the hypermarket.

Inside Al Shami, I note that, not only am I the only Anglo in the place, I'm the sole female present.

I order the "fatta with meat" and a Diet Coke from my server, who is a sweetie with long eyelashes and big, brown eyes. I'm probably the first woman he's served all month. My dish arrives and, never having mastered the art of the poker face, Cutie asks if everything ok in response to my reaction. I force a smile and reassure him that everything is a-ok, although I can deduce from his look that my look is unconvincing. This dish looks disgusting, and that's being kind. I dip my spoon in trepiditiously. My eyes roll slowly back into my head. To quote Rachel Ray (not that I ever would), yum-o! Now I'm digging in -- I've never tasted anything like this before. Flatbread lines the bottom of the bowl, drenched in a warm yogurt sauce (a savory, white gravy), topped with spicy, ground lamb, and pine nuts.

The bill arrives: I've just enjoyed one of the best meals of my life for $6.