House-hunting in Dubai (not for the faint hearted)

So, we’re trekking round Dubai looking at homes – not because we want to (see previous post), but because we’re being evicted and thought we’d better check out all the options. Secretly, I absolutely love noseying around other people’s villas and I’m not averse to a bit of property porn – so off we go. Google Maps at the ready.

Town Square

Town Square on Al Qudra – some imagination required for this one

First stop – Al Furjan. I’ve heard good things, and Son1’s school isn’t too far away. We pass lines of giant electricity pylons whose wires stretch for as far as the eye can see in each direction, and I spot the enormous, curvaceous satellite dish that must surely pick up some interesting TV shows (always reminds me of the James Bond movie, Golden Eye). We’re close – but that doesn’t mean anything in Dubai. After several attempts, we find the entrance.

My husband winds down the car window and politely asks if we can see the show villa.

The security guard shakes his head. “No,” he says, deadpan.

“We’re Emirates,” we say, trying again. You think they’d make this easy, right?

Sunlight streams through the window and I squint at the guard through narrowed eyes. He smiles back. A smile that comes out like a newborn foal – its legs buckle straight away. “You need to contact the company to get key,” he says, and no matter how much we argue our case (“the company sent us here”), he won’t relent. He lets us in, however, to drive around.

I like what I see and spot a man I decide to ask a question of. Unfortunately he’s up a ladder. He’s standing on the uppermost rung doing something to the carport roof, and all I can see are the bottoms of his legs above white trainers. I wait. Once he’s safely down, I ask one or two questions, which he helpfully answers and then we’re on our way.

To Jumeriah. By now, we’re getting hungry and the car’s running low on gas. Just a quick stop, says my husband – it’s such a fabulous location close to the beach, and it’s a jewel of day, as bright and shiny as a new-minted dirham. I’d love to live this close to the sea, I think. But the reality is our schools are nowhere near, and we find ourselves lost and struggling with the dual numbering system on the villas.

Jumeriah numbers

Hmmm … helpful. We’re lost

My husband isn’t one to give up easily, and so we do see one villa – which we disagree on due to me not wanting to spend all day on the school run.

Onwards we go, and to cut a long story short, I’ll fast forward straight to our viewing at Mudon, where – if we won the lottery – we could possibly buy a villa or townhome. We’re immediately seduced by a sign to the 5-bed showhome. “Let’s just look,” I say, hopefully, and we drive deeper into Mudon, following more signs laid out like breadcrumbs. Arriving, I climb out the car, and stare at my dream home. I walk round with my eyes on stalks. It’s incredible, exhilarating. I’m almost breathless with excitement. It’s property porn. And it’s totally beyond our reach.

Sigh.

“Well, let’s look at the smaller ones,” I suggest.

We walk into an office and a woman greets us.

“Could we have some information please?” I ask.

“What sort of information?” she says. A puzzled look flickers across her face. Then she looks blank.

District 11

Meydan South: Where we’ll likely end up, even if the well-known book series/movie reference is a little disconcerting! (“District 11: A large district in the south… The punishment system is much harsher in this district” – The Hunger Games)

“Erm, about your villas?”

She’s still looking confused.

“What you have available, prices,” I suggest, trying to help her out. I begin to wonder if they are actually trying to sell villas here. Maybe it’s all a big ruse for displaced expats.

“Sorry,” she says, shaking her head. She points to a number. “You need to call.”

“Could you tell us about the facilities?” asks DH after we’ve looked round the townhome she said we could see.

The quizzical look returns. She doesn’t have a clue, and we leave wondering what on earth her actual job was. Dubai can be a funny old place, you know.

secret of change

Geographical schizophrenia

“I’m hot. Why do we have to live here?” Son1 asks petulantly, after coming in from the heat outdoors.

He looks at me with accusatory, dark-brown eyes, his cheeks flushed red and a bead of sweat trickling down his sticky forehead.

“Well, Daddy got a job here,” I explain, for the umpteenth time. “You know Daddy AND Mummy have to work to pay for all the thing you want, right?

“Besides, it’s our home and we’re very lucky to live here.”

He goes quiet for a few seconds.

“But WHY can’t we live in England?”

At this time of year, Dubai mummies are leafing through their little black book of playdates

At this time of year, Dubai mummies are leafing through their little black books (for playdates)

I explain, again, that, if we moved to England, it wouldn’t be summer all year round. There wouldn’t be fun outings every day, ice cream on demand and late bedtimes. It would rain, a lot.

“And,” I counter, trying to define winter to a child who has no recollection of this particular season, “You’d have to go to school there – and come home in THE DARK.”

I do get it, and I feel it too. Returning to the scorched, dog days of a Dubai summer after spending time in the motherland with family isn’t easy for many expats. It’s infernally hot, most friends won’t surface until school starts, everything is covered in a veil of atom bomb dust and the air is heavy with sand.

But it’ll pass Son1, you know it will. It’s the same each year and, soon, we’ll be dancing to the tune of glorious sunny days, under blue skies, with school in full swing. (Did you hear me whoop?)

In the meantime, darling Son1, could you please STOP whining – I’ve rallied every single 6-8-year-old playmate I can find within a five-mile radius and am on the verge of booking a reality-check trip to the northern hemisphere. In January. THEN, you’ll see, there’s no perfect place to live.

Life’s a beach (if you’re new!)

The other day at work, there was a new lad sitting next to me. He was there the day before too, but because we were so busy getting four publications to press, we hadn’t had a chance to talk.

We’d said hello over the filing trays and wished each other a nice evening, but that was it.

So the next day, when I noticed he was still there, I greeted him with a good morning (with the hot-desking that goes on, I half expected him to have vanished).

He smiled back, then asked:

“Do you live in Dubai?”

I was a little surprised. I’d just assumed he lived in Dubai too.

“Do you know where the Burj Khalifa is?” he enquired next.

“Yes, I do,” I replied – still confused, because you really can’t miss it.

I took him over to the window to show him and realised the tall, pointy tower was completely hidden in the haze.

“Well, that’s where it normally is,” I explained, peering through the dusty sky.

We went back to our desks and talked a little more. I found out he lives in Abu Dhabi and is commuting to Dubai, does something in marketing and had only arrived in the UAE on Sunday.

A few more weeks, and his desk will look more like this, unfortunately

Straight off the plane, literally.

I felt guilty I hadn’t welcomed my desk buddy earlier (although, honestly, it was like drinking from a firehose at work this week).

Plus he was cute in a boyish, amiable way!

He had an air of excitement about him. If it’s possible to be star-struck by a city, then that’s how I’d describe it. As he told me how he’d been swimming four times that week after work, and had discovered the aquamarine-sea-lapped beach, his face lit up with wonder – which does tend to happen when you’re newly arrived from a country heading into a cold, dark winter.

“Don’t you feel like you’re on holiday the whole time?” he laughed.

“No,” I smiled, thinking about the school runs; the homework. Driving to the office, on congested roads. The 14-hour days I’ve been putting in this week dropping LB at school, working and then rushing home to get the children to bed.

Because contrary to what the Daily Mail would have the rest of the world believe, living in Dubai isn’t all about champagne-swilling, wave-frolicking, sand-between-your-thighs abandon. There are tens of thousands of housewives going about the minutiae of daily life.

But, it’s ALWAYS good to be reminded, to have your memory jogged that Dubai IS a really fun, glitzy, sun-soaked place, and that, for eight months of the year at least, it’s a fantastic city to live in.

Something that stayed with me as the silver silhouette of the Burj Khalifa started to take shape as the haze cleared a little later.

Now, if someone could just pass me a cocktail please…