Exactly a week ago I was sat on the twenty third floor of a hotel overlooking the glittering lights of Dubai while drinking an Espresso Martini with two old friends, and a certain someone else. We had just been to the tasting at the opening of a brand new Michelin starred restaurant downtown and were uncomfortably full of good food and copious cocktails.
Exactly two weeks ago I was nursing the mother of new year hangovers which followed a VVIP (no idea what the extra ‘V’ stands for #soDubai) night at The Meydan; dancing away to my teenage tunes, watching N.E.R.D and Pharrell, Busta Rhymes and some other famous singers who turned into a blur with every Belvedere and cranberry I consumed.
At midnight I had as much Dutch courage as a tulip growing under a windmill (that’s very Dutch) and when the clock struck midnight we were stood on a (now heavily cranberry stained) white sofa, in the open air as Pharell counted down from 10 and fireworks started exploding in the background from the World’s tallest building. I said it. The L word. He said it back. Then I thought ‘shit’. I haven’t said the ‘L’ word for almost two years and I didn’t think I would again to be quite honest. This was big.
I don’t remember much else, apart from trying to hail a massive Range Rover while holding my shoes helplessly by their heels, and offering the driver £50 for a lift back home. He declined apparently, so we ended up on a bus halfway home, followed by a taxi the rest of the way and making friends with the driver, standard. The day after was, possibly, the best hungover new years day to date, spent with this certain someone else.
The certain someone else, if you’re a regular follower you may have guessed, was the infamous ‘Dubai Guy’. He does have a name, I promise.
We spent the following two weeks sampling food from the best restaurants in Dubai, being treated like royalty (at Zengo, definitely recommend that place) and staying in another (I hate me too) five star hotel in a neighbouring Emirate. Luckily all free as he (and I) were invited (blagged) to review them. We had beach days, pool days, picnic days, drunk days, sad days (remembering a passed loved one on the beach and toasting to her life) and lazy days. We were living the champagne lifestyle on lemonade money, but we didn’t have to pretend.
Before getting sickly sweet on you and making you vom up your hobnobs, I think it’s an understatement to say it was a bloody good holiday. SO, what now? Dilemma. We knew it would come to this. We both have great jobs we’d be stupid to leave and migrate across continents so soon, so I guess it’s the cliche of ‘if it’s meant to be, it will be’. Pressure isn’t in my vocabulary, but apparently the ‘L’ word is. So if it is strong enough, I guess (another cliche coming up) it will find its way. How? I have no bloody idea, no clue. I’ve never been one for choosing the easy option.
Right now? I’m sat in Cafe Nero on Tottenham Court Road drinking a much less glamorous espresso mocha, from a cup made by a company called ‘Solo Cup Europa’. What a difference a week makes..
Update: Dubai guy was seeing another girl all along, I didn’t love him, I was infatuated with the lifestyle and I loved that. I had a great time with him and I learned a lot- mostly how not to let myself guard down for the third time.. another one bites the dust !