Part One: Buffets
If you had to classify Dubai cuisine, it would be hard. There are probably traditional desert-peoples dishes (roast camel on a bed of rice, sprinkled with sand), but given the modern and cosmopolitan nature of the place now, I’d say it’s actually the buffet. And the two greatest examples of buffets here are break-fast (intentional hyphen) buffets of Ramadan, and Friday Brunch.
Every Friday the big hotels, and some of the smaller ones, host brunch. This is a largely western expat affair and varies greatly depending on where you go. My first brunch was at the Dussit, last summer. This brunch is located on the top floor of the Dussit Dubai overlooking Sheik Zayed Road and the sea beyond. Unfortunately, when we went it was a hazy day and you couldn’t even see the street below. The food was good – a choice of three restaurants, covering pan-Asian, identi-kit continental buffet foods like a carvery, smoked salmon, etc, and breakfast (eggs, bacon, hash browns, etc). Champagne was free flowing.
This particular brunch then kicked onto Double Deckers, the Worst Pub In Dubai. This has a London Transport theme, so is overcrowded, overly loud, and full of (fat middle aged) English people drinking too much and dancing to the Worst Music In Dubai. Abba had its day, and that day was 30 years ago. Seriously, the DJ in this place was playing music older than me, and that, unfortunately, is often the norm. (I finally found a good place to go (Radisson in Media City) where they had a visiting DJ from Japan who played some seriously good music. This guy could beat-mix as fluidly as walking, whereas the analogy for the DJ at Double Deckers is more along the lines of one of those children of thalidomide trying to jump rope.) Anyway, Double Deckers also has a brunch which probably consists of bacon, eggs, baked beans, chip butties, Yorkshire pudding, and none of that foreign muck. All set in the beautiful smoky ambience of a nightclub.
Brunch Number Two was Al Qasr. At Dh300 a head, this features free flowing Bollinger, three restaurants (Spanish, seafood and identikit but with Lebanese ingredients as well). Fantastic place, fantastic food. I must go back. I love jamon and I love Morton Bay Bugs. And I’m rather fond of Bollinger, too…
Yalumba. I went with Sarah’s workmates. This is the same Yalumba as in the Australian wine label, and the food was consequently … Australian in a Rolf Harris kind of way: lot’s of sparkling confidence but no taste. At Dh350 this is easily the most ripped off I’ve felt in this town. Not only is it located on the wrong side of the Creek, but the music was too loud and plain shit. (Again, Abba is history.) And frankly, when I dine out, even if it is with a bunch of half-cut poms, I don’t want some drunken wanker from the next table falling onto me because she can’t dance and remain upright but they’re playing her favourite song which reminds her of losing her virginity behind the toilet block at Broadmeadows High when she was 15. Call me old fashioned, but in my book, no matter how drunk you are, you just don’t dance in a restaurant.
Why it’s called brunch it a bit of a mystery. They don’t start before 12:00 and they go until 4:00 or 5:00, at which point you’re most likely loaded and willing to kick onto a nearby bar. You’ll be so full you won’t want dinner, so really it should be called linner, or dunch. Anyway, a great way to spend a Friday arvo and anyone coming to visit us will be treated to a good one.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Dubai 13 - Busy times
I know, I know, I’ve been incredibly slack with this blog: sorry. I’ve had my head down leading the environmental design on the world’s lowest energy hot-climate skyscraper, so as you can imagine it’s taken a bit of my time.
None the less, I’ve still managed to get some other things done.
1. We moved house. I’ve ditched the soullessness of Legoland – I mean The Springs – the suburb of identical houses lined up one after the other, distinguishable only by the cars parked out front. The population was European, Indian, Asian, Arabian and Antipodean. After some nine months there for me sharing with Chris, about five for Sarah, and three for Tanya, I think everyone thought four people was too many, so Sarah and I left Chris and Tanya to it. I never did find out why the guard at the front gate took down my rego every time I entered, and now I guess never will.
We’ve moved to a two bedroom flat in Bur Dubai (the older part of town with bustling people, laundry hanging from balconies, stray cats and dirt – ie, character). Some people don’t like this part of town. Jumeirah Janes (see previous posts) are a rare sight here. I’ve even known people to take a shower after just walking through it to the tailor’s. Anyway, it’s super cheap as it’s owned by an Islamic bank and they don’t like ripping people off, and only a three minute walk to work!
Plus there’s a pool on the roof and a lot of my mates are in spitting distance. As a result the past few weeks have seen impromptu pool parties that, despite the total lack of organisation, have gone off like a frog in a sock. The other day the watchman came up and told us to leave as they had to have a lifeguard on duty and they shut the pool at 10:30. I told him I was rescue trained so effectively was a life guard, and that, being 4:30, it was still some 18 hours before closing time.
2. I did my Royal Yachting Associating Level 1 course (passed with flying colours) and am currently trying my best to ingratiate myself with the sailing club to accelerate my membership bid.
3. I bought a flat in Singapore. I took Sarah down one weekend to see it and to sign some papers and I’ll be back in September for settlement. It’s a three bedder in one of the best parts of town and is already valued at more than my partners and I paid for it.
4. I learnt how to snowboard. Yep, I finally got bored of skiing – at Ski Dubai. (I mean come on! It’s like doing Bourke Street at Mt Buller all day long.) Skiing is still where it’s at, obviously, but should I now find myself in a situation that requires a knowledge of snowboarding, for example being chased by machine-gun wielding thugs on ski-doos and my skis have been mysteriously mislaid but there’s a snowboard there, then I’ll be able to get away. Provided there are no bumps, no sharp turns and I don’t catch a front edge.
(If you want to learn how to snowboard, do it on a hill with plenty of snow, not a hill with concrete base. Ouch!)
5. And did I mention I delivered the concept design on the coolest bit of sustainable design in the region, if not the world? I did? Oh well, thought I’d repeat it in case you weren’t paying attention.
So that’s my life right now. Sarah’s back in Australia for a few weeks, but is back next weekend (yay!), in time for the tail end of the summer sales. Looking forward to that.
None the less, I’ve still managed to get some other things done.
1. We moved house. I’ve ditched the soullessness of Legoland – I mean The Springs – the suburb of identical houses lined up one after the other, distinguishable only by the cars parked out front. The population was European, Indian, Asian, Arabian and Antipodean. After some nine months there for me sharing with Chris, about five for Sarah, and three for Tanya, I think everyone thought four people was too many, so Sarah and I left Chris and Tanya to it. I never did find out why the guard at the front gate took down my rego every time I entered, and now I guess never will.
We’ve moved to a two bedroom flat in Bur Dubai (the older part of town with bustling people, laundry hanging from balconies, stray cats and dirt – ie, character). Some people don’t like this part of town. Jumeirah Janes (see previous posts) are a rare sight here. I’ve even known people to take a shower after just walking through it to the tailor’s. Anyway, it’s super cheap as it’s owned by an Islamic bank and they don’t like ripping people off, and only a three minute walk to work!
Plus there’s a pool on the roof and a lot of my mates are in spitting distance. As a result the past few weeks have seen impromptu pool parties that, despite the total lack of organisation, have gone off like a frog in a sock. The other day the watchman came up and told us to leave as they had to have a lifeguard on duty and they shut the pool at 10:30. I told him I was rescue trained so effectively was a life guard, and that, being 4:30, it was still some 18 hours before closing time.
2. I did my Royal Yachting Associating Level 1 course (passed with flying colours) and am currently trying my best to ingratiate myself with the sailing club to accelerate my membership bid.
3. I bought a flat in Singapore. I took Sarah down one weekend to see it and to sign some papers and I’ll be back in September for settlement. It’s a three bedder in one of the best parts of town and is already valued at more than my partners and I paid for it.
4. I learnt how to snowboard. Yep, I finally got bored of skiing – at Ski Dubai. (I mean come on! It’s like doing Bourke Street at Mt Buller all day long.) Skiing is still where it’s at, obviously, but should I now find myself in a situation that requires a knowledge of snowboarding, for example being chased by machine-gun wielding thugs on ski-doos and my skis have been mysteriously mislaid but there’s a snowboard there, then I’ll be able to get away. Provided there are no bumps, no sharp turns and I don’t catch a front edge.
(If you want to learn how to snowboard, do it on a hill with plenty of snow, not a hill with concrete base. Ouch!)
5. And did I mention I delivered the concept design on the coolest bit of sustainable design in the region, if not the world? I did? Oh well, thought I’d repeat it in case you weren’t paying attention.
So that’s my life right now. Sarah’s back in Australia for a few weeks, but is back next weekend (yay!), in time for the tail end of the summer sales. Looking forward to that.
Sunday, June 03, 2007
A quick one
I'm searching on the web for images for a presentation, including one of a PV-powered golf buggie. I want this: 
...and I get this:
Which in itself is worth posting.
More news soon, possibly about the music scene here.
Friday, May 25, 2007
Dubai 12 - 33 Today (or 3 weeks ago)
Sorry for the lack of commentary: I've been a bit busy with work, brunches, snorkelling and golf. Read all about it... now:
It was my birthday three weeks ago. No matter how much Sarah tells me I'm old now at 34, the fact is I'm a very young 33. Or is that "immature"? Whatever, I don't feel too old, despite the creaks, the reduced tone and the fact I want to do nothing else on a Thursday night other than park my arse on the couch with a large whiskey and a DVD.
So the day started out very nicely indeed with golf at the local course. It was my first round since 1998, so even though we were only playing the par 3, I was a bit crap. My medium game is still ok (thanks for the lessons as a kid, Dad!) but my putting has gone to the dogs. (As, mind you, has the quality of television news which is on in the background as I type.)
After golf we had second breakfast at the club house (my favourite meal of the day!) then a break for a few hours at home to finish Splinter Cell Undercover on Playstation (much to Sarah's disgust, but I'd had a long week and needed to shot stuff) before getting picked up for a desert safari.
Everyone has to do a desert safari. It's a bit like getting a taxi on Sheik Zayed Road or in Sydney, except the car's a Land Cruiser rather than a Commodore (aka Lumina) or Corolla, the driver's Arab rather than Indian and getting thrown around in the back seat as the car careens on the edge of control is entirely intentional. The blaring Arabic music is the same, as is the realisation that you've been taken out to the middle of nowhere...
But not quite, you wind up, about sunset, at an "authentic" bedouin permanent camp with a buffet of unnamed meat, free henna painting and a Russian belly dancer.
So, what else has been going on? Well, last week we went to Snoopy Island off the east coast for some snorkelling (3 black tip reef sharks, 1 turtle, plenty of barras and parrot fish), and the weekend before was a fun excursion all over town looking for a car for Sarah (pictured right on the desert safari). I was a bit over it by hour 7, and in the end she picked up an ex-demo Audi A3 for not very much at all. No photos I'm afraid, I only have photos of my very slick CLK, the door of which has been hit TWICE by the Chinaman (polite version: Sum Dum Gi). Anyway, enough for now. Stay tuned for my food tour of the Middle East. Coming soon.
It was my birthday three weeks ago. No matter how much Sarah tells me I'm old now at 34, the fact is I'm a very young 33. Or is that "immature"? Whatever, I don't feel too old, despite the creaks, the reduced tone and the fact I want to do nothing else on a Thursday night other than park my arse on the couch with a large whiskey and a DVD.
So the day started out very nicely indeed with golf at the local course. It was my first round since 1998, so even though we were only playing the par 3, I was a bit crap. My medium game is still ok (thanks for the lessons as a kid, Dad!) but my putting has gone to the dogs. (As, mind you, has the quality of television news which is on in the background as I type.)After golf we had second breakfast at the club house (my favourite meal of the day!) then a break for a few hours at home to finish Splinter Cell Undercover on Playstation (much to Sarah's disgust, but I'd had a long week and needed to shot stuff) before getting picked up for a desert safari.
Everyone has to do a desert safari. It's a bit like getting a taxi on Sheik Zayed Road or in Sydney, except the car's a Land Cruiser rather than a Commodore (aka Lumina) or Corolla, the driver's Arab rather than Indian and getting thrown around in the back seat as the car careens on the edge of control is entirely intentional. The blaring Arabic music is the same, as is the realisation that you've been taken out to the middle of nowhere...But not quite, you wind up, about sunset, at an "authentic" bedouin permanent camp with a buffet of unnamed meat, free henna painting and a Russian belly dancer.
So, what else has been going on? Well, last week we went to Snoopy Island off the east coast for some snorkelling (3 black tip reef sharks, 1 turtle, plenty of barras and parrot fish), and the weekend before was a fun excursion all over town looking for a car for Sarah (pictured right on the desert safari). I was a bit over it by hour 7, and in the end she picked up an ex-demo Audi A3 for not very much at all. No photos I'm afraid, I only have photos of my very slick CLK, the door of which has been hit TWICE by the Chinaman (polite version: Sum Dum Gi). Anyway, enough for now. Stay tuned for my food tour of the Middle East. Coming soon.
Saturday, April 07, 2007
Dubai 11 - Drinkies
Wow, either I was really drunk last night, or everyone else at the barbecue was talking Afrikaans.
Speaking of drinking, booze isn't hard to get here, it's just a little awkward. Technically you need a licence just to consume the stuff, and you definitely need one for take-out. The alternative is a trip to Barracuda in Ras Al Khaimer, an alcohol supermarket where the laws are different, the duty is less, and you don't need a licence. Of course, it's technically illegal to transport it between emirates (say, back home to Dubai), but you'd be pretty stiff if you got done.
The other option is to drink someone else's, which is what our cleaner does. This was welcome news in a way (it turns out I do know how much I drink), but also disappointing (Black Bush is hard to find in the Middle East, and idiotic new airline laws might make buying it at various airports problematic). So we're going to mark our bottles. I'm also going to replace my whiskey with tea, just to stick it to the dirty pig-fornicator.
Meanwhile, it's starting to heat up here, but the cold water isn't hot enough to shave with yet, so it's not officially summer in my book.
Later.
Speaking of drinking, booze isn't hard to get here, it's just a little awkward. Technically you need a licence just to consume the stuff, and you definitely need one for take-out. The alternative is a trip to Barracuda in Ras Al Khaimer, an alcohol supermarket where the laws are different, the duty is less, and you don't need a licence. Of course, it's technically illegal to transport it between emirates (say, back home to Dubai), but you'd be pretty stiff if you got done.
The other option is to drink someone else's, which is what our cleaner does. This was welcome news in a way (it turns out I do know how much I drink), but also disappointing (Black Bush is hard to find in the Middle East, and idiotic new airline laws might make buying it at various airports problematic). So we're going to mark our bottles. I'm also going to replace my whiskey with tea, just to stick it to the dirty pig-fornicator.
Meanwhile, it's starting to heat up here, but the cold water isn't hot enough to shave with yet, so it's not officially summer in my book.
Later.
Sunday, April 01, 2007
Dubai 10 - Side Trips - France and Switzerland
Following on from the previous post, I took some time to continue the World Ski and Dive Tour the other day and went to Les Arcs with Rob.
We flew into Zurich, then drove down to Luzern, a stunningly beautiful town, where we decided to take a suite for the night at a 5 Star hotel on the lake (may as well treat yourself occasionally). Bit of a look around, a couple of oversized beers and a fondue and we felt right at home.
Then it was down to Wengen where I'd been tipped off about a cheap restaurant. Wengen is a ski town (without snow in the village this year) and the drive to get there (or to Lauterbrunnen where you catch the funicular - I know, my spelling's terrible) is spectacular. Driving through Switzerland is like driving through a postcard. Everywhere you look (scenery-wise) is so spectacular you become desensitised after a while.
(Everywhere you look shop-wise, however, are souvenirs. Victorinox and Wenger Swiss Army knives, Sigg drink bottles, cookoo clocks, flags.)
From Wengen we caught the funicular to the top of the Jungfrau (ironic name considering the train that penetrates the tunnel to the top, right through the Eiger!) where there are spectular views and where I froze my phone.
Then it was onto France for a week of skiing out of Arc 2000 with Mick from London and a bunch of his mates. Good snow, but not great. It snowed just before we got there, then it was sunny for the rest of the week. So south faces got a bit slushy and cruddy, the lower runs were patchy (ie, patches of snow!) but the top was nice. Lots of nice steeps runs! It was a good crew, too.
The funniest thing about Arc 2000 was the resident sports hero: Kevin Alderton, the double blind speed skiing champion. (It took us a while to work out he was the champion twice over, not blind twice over!) Basically, this bloke holds a record in an event with only one competitor: skiing fast down a hill without proper sight. How he gets his seeing eye dog on the skis is anyone's guess! So this bloke from the rough part of London, judging by his accent, props up bars in 2000 trying to score free drinks. His record is around half the speed of someone with eyes, which I find odd as they can at least see enough to be scared!
But here's the thing. His not even blind. He's "differently sighted" at best. And it's not a congenital disorder: he had his eyes gouged in a bar fight!
France, and Switzerland, are on the list for a return visit.
We flew into Zurich, then drove down to Luzern, a stunningly beautiful town, where we decided to take a suite for the night at a 5 Star hotel on the lake (may as well treat yourself occasionally). Bit of a look around, a couple of oversized beers and a fondue and we felt right at home.
Then it was down to Wengen where I'd been tipped off about a cheap restaurant. Wengen is a ski town (without snow in the village this year) and the drive to get there (or to Lauterbrunnen where you catch the funicular - I know, my spelling's terrible) is spectacular. Driving through Switzerland is like driving through a postcard. Everywhere you look (scenery-wise) is so spectacular you become desensitised after a while.(Everywhere you look shop-wise, however, are souvenirs. Victorinox and Wenger Swiss Army knives, Sigg drink bottles, cookoo clocks, flags.)
From Wengen we caught the funicular to the top of the Jungfrau (ironic name considering the train that penetrates the tunnel to the top, right through the Eiger!) where there are spectular views and where I froze my phone.
Then it was onto France for a week of skiing out of Arc 2000 with Mick from London and a bunch of his mates. Good snow, but not great. It snowed just before we got there, then it was sunny for the rest of the week. So south faces got a bit slushy and cruddy, the lower runs were patchy (ie, patches of snow!) but the top was nice. Lots of nice steeps runs! It was a good crew, too.The funniest thing about Arc 2000 was the resident sports hero: Kevin Alderton, the double blind speed skiing champion. (It took us a while to work out he was the champion twice over, not blind twice over!) Basically, this bloke holds a record in an event with only one competitor: skiing fast down a hill without proper sight. How he gets his seeing eye dog on the skis is anyone's guess! So this bloke from the rough part of London, judging by his accent, props up bars in 2000 trying to score free drinks. His record is around half the speed of someone with eyes, which I find odd as they can at least see enough to be scared!
But here's the thing. His not even blind. He's "differently sighted" at best. And it's not a congenital disorder: he had his eyes gouged in a bar fight!
France, and Switzerland, are on the list for a return visit.
Dubai 09 - Side Trips - Mussandam
I've been slack, I know, so a quick update is in order.
Life in Dubai continues on with ridiculous amounts of work and not enough time. I've had one new starter in my team (Bridge, a good mate from my Peterborough days, who was tempted across from Dublin by tax free money and lots of it), and a graduate (Saif) starts later this month. After some cunning manoeuvring in concert with the Marketing team, I got my position renamed from "Regional Building Physicist" to "Regional Head of Sustainability", which sounds a lot more important, if possible less maningful.
Naturally, all this work encourages the odd break to recharge, so a few weekends ago Sarah and I headed up to Mussandam in Oman to cruise through the fjords.
Now, when I think of fjords I think of Norway - snow capped peaks, ice bergs, blonde women: that kind of thing. But Oman has them too.
And they are beautiful to behold. Massive peaks rising vertically from the sea, and barely a single plant in sight. These hills are barren, but spectaqcular. Luckily the sea is full of life, and our first stop on our dhow cruise was to watch dolphins. Or watch grown men frantically push little kids out of the way so they could get a better vantage point themselves. And video the sea in the hope of getting a glimpse of a dolphin. (What is it with people video taping EVERYTHING on holiday. "Look, a fountain. Let's video it and subject our mates to it when we get home.")
After an hour and a half of circling these majestic and harried sea mammals, we were told the rudder was on the fritz so we transferred to two smaller dhows to continue the cruise. Everyone piled onto the one without the hordes of screaming Japanese children who wound up with a boat almost to themselves, while we all sat almost in each others laps. After a while we anchored for a spot of snorkelling where I discovered that the side of a dhow is a little too high to do a backwards roll into the water. I also discovered that the water was full of jellyfish and that most of these had a mild sting.
That night we went for dinner at a restaurant down the road a bit. We asked the waiter what the laws are regarding drink driving in Oman. (In Dubai you go to jail. Even if some muppet runs into you, if you have any alcohol in you, you go to jail.) His response: "Don't worry. Drink as much as you like. Drive home. Crash the car. No problem." I didn't crash my beautiful new Mercedes CLK 200 Kompessor, but I did have a quiet drink with my buffet. Good old Oman.
This is a really poor way to end an entry, but if you don't like it, write in and tell me.
Life in Dubai continues on with ridiculous amounts of work and not enough time. I've had one new starter in my team (Bridge, a good mate from my Peterborough days, who was tempted across from Dublin by tax free money and lots of it), and a graduate (Saif) starts later this month. After some cunning manoeuvring in concert with the Marketing team, I got my position renamed from "Regional Building Physicist" to "Regional Head of Sustainability", which sounds a lot more important, if possible less maningful.
Naturally, all this work encourages the odd break to recharge, so a few weekends ago Sarah and I headed up to Mussandam in Oman to cruise through the fjords.Now, when I think of fjords I think of Norway - snow capped peaks, ice bergs, blonde women: that kind of thing. But Oman has them too.
And they are beautiful to behold. Massive peaks rising vertically from the sea, and barely a single plant in sight. These hills are barren, but spectaqcular. Luckily the sea is full of life, and our first stop on our dhow cruise was to watch dolphins. Or watch grown men frantically push little kids out of the way so they could get a better vantage point themselves. And video the sea in the hope of getting a glimpse of a dolphin. (What is it with people video taping EVERYTHING on holiday. "Look, a fountain. Let's video it and subject our mates to it when we get home.")
After an hour and a half of circling these majestic and harried sea mammals, we were told the rudder was on the fritz so we transferred to two smaller dhows to continue the cruise. Everyone piled onto the one without the hordes of screaming Japanese children who wound up with a boat almost to themselves, while we all sat almost in each others laps. After a while we anchored for a spot of snorkelling where I discovered that the side of a dhow is a little too high to do a backwards roll into the water. I also discovered that the water was full of jellyfish and that most of these had a mild sting.That night we went for dinner at a restaurant down the road a bit. We asked the waiter what the laws are regarding drink driving in Oman. (In Dubai you go to jail. Even if some muppet runs into you, if you have any alcohol in you, you go to jail.) His response: "Don't worry. Drink as much as you like. Drive home. Crash the car. No problem." I didn't crash my beautiful new Mercedes CLK 200 Kompessor, but I did have a quiet drink with my buffet. Good old Oman.
This is a really poor way to end an entry, but if you don't like it, write in and tell me.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Dubai 08 - Best Fans Ever
For the Melburnians among my readers, you might think that Lygon Street and Chapel Street are the places to go to see joyous football (soccer) fans and hotted up cars, respectively. Well, the last few days have made me realise that, eager as the rice-boys are back in Aus, they are lame namby-pambies in comparison to the UAE.Last week the UAE won the regional football championship and the fans celebrated in such style that, from here on in, the UAE is my team of choice. The UAE beat Oman to win the Gulf Cup final for the first time. I was in Sharjah on the night and the roads were gridlocked with people driving slowly, hanging out of windows and sunroofs, standing on running boards, all waving flags, ululating and cheering. A couple of days later a victory parade was staged in Dubai and it, and general revellers, clogged up Sheik Zayed Road and Beach Road (and many others). For once no-one was too upset by the traffic - everyone was having such fun.
But here's the thing. When Italy wins a game, you might expect mayhem on Lygon Street, but under no circumstances would you expect to see cars decorated with stars, little stick-on flags, or spray painted slogans and the national colours. That's right, people were spray painting their cars (new ones, that is - Prados and Mercedes, for example) and driving along celebrating. (Sorry for the photo quality, they're third party.) And no, it wasn't some kind of temporary paint...And here's the other thing: everyone was happy and getting into the spirit of it. A major win in Australia is met with a low key beer and perhaps a few sly digs at the poms (or a visibly drunk Prime Minister telling the nation that any boss who fires staff for being late is a bum), while a major win in England quickly degenerates into drunken brawls. A major win in the UAE and it's burn-outs, standing atop moving cars, and severe panel damage. And not a drop of alcohol in sight. So well done to the UAE football team, you have my support.
Friday, December 08, 2006
Dubai 07 - Expat sport
A few years ago I went to the annual AFL exhibition game at the Oval in London. West Coast vs Collingwood, perhaps. Frankly I don't remember and I really don't care: Australian Rules just isn't my game. Anyway, it was a beautiful sunny day and the ground was packed with Aussies munching on their ration packs from home - Twisties, Mint Slices and Tim Tams - and sucking down £6 cans of VB. My mate Jon remarked at the time that if you had 8,000 Englishmen drinking beer in the sun together, there'd be fights, no question about that. But Australians are a bit more laid back and so rather than fighting we streaked.
It started off with one galah nuding up and going for a quick sprint to the centre, before getting smacked to the ground by the cops and private security. The crowd took offence to this harsh treatement at a football friendly, and so retaliated by sending other runner onto the ground. Arrested.
The cycle was inevitable, as was the escalation. Before too long coordinated streaks occured with people running on from several directions. Eventually the police just gave up, and people would almost wander onto the field of play, (some of them clothed!) only to be smacked down by the still zealous private security personnel. All the while the PA was going on about how it was prohibited to go onto the pitch. Finally the game was abandoned once the players were outnumbered, and the PA switched to a message of please come onto the pitch, but stay off the centre square.
Naturally we ignored that message, too.
***
So last weekend was the Dubai Rugby 7s, the biggest social event on the calendar here. Everyone goes. Unless it rains. Which it did. All day.
The people who sold their Dh175 tickets to Dh1,000 in the lead up to the weekend must have been laughing as they sat at home watching the rainy event on TV. But I was there with Ben and Darren, two resilient Poms, (Christian, the Kiwi, bailed), and we got there just in time to see the Australians get caned by England in a quarter finals match. We were up in the stands (where it turned out the roof was not a roof but a loose-weave plastic sun shade), surrounded by drunken England supporters.
Now, I'm the first to admit that "aussie aussie aussie oi oi oi" isn't the most cerebral of supporting chants, and I am impressed that English crowds sing show tunes to cheer their players. But in rugby they sing a negro spiritual, Swing Low Sweet Chariot. Or more correctly, they sing the chorus. If that much. Sometimes someone will pipe up during a quiet moment with "...iot, coming for to [and now the crowd joins in with] carry me home." It's weird, and you can read more about it here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Swing_Low,_Sweet_Chariot.
Meanwhile, the other pitches at the Dubai Exiles ground (where I play touch rugby, coincidentally) were given over to club games, U21, and the like. Then, after the semis, there was a break on the main pitch for the internationals, and the school girls came out to play. And I have to say, there is nothing funnier than seeing school girls smack each other to the ground in a game of rugby. I hope next year they get to play the Samoans.
Anyway, it was a grand day out that reminded me what it was like to be wet and cold at the same time as well as the importance of proper footwear. Fun and learning in the one day. What more could you want?
It started off with one galah nuding up and going for a quick sprint to the centre, before getting smacked to the ground by the cops and private security. The crowd took offence to this harsh treatement at a football friendly, and so retaliated by sending other runner onto the ground. Arrested.
The cycle was inevitable, as was the escalation. Before too long coordinated streaks occured with people running on from several directions. Eventually the police just gave up, and people would almost wander onto the field of play, (some of them clothed!) only to be smacked down by the still zealous private security personnel. All the while the PA was going on about how it was prohibited to go onto the pitch. Finally the game was abandoned once the players were outnumbered, and the PA switched to a message of please come onto the pitch, but stay off the centre square.Naturally we ignored that message, too.
***
So last weekend was the Dubai Rugby 7s, the biggest social event on the calendar here. Everyone goes. Unless it rains. Which it did. All day.
The people who sold their Dh175 tickets to Dh1,000 in the lead up to the weekend must have been laughing as they sat at home watching the rainy event on TV. But I was there with Ben and Darren, two resilient Poms, (Christian, the Kiwi, bailed), and we got there just in time to see the Australians get caned by England in a quarter finals match. We were up in the stands (where it turned out the roof was not a roof but a loose-weave plastic sun shade), surrounded by drunken England supporters.Now, I'm the first to admit that "aussie aussie aussie oi oi oi" isn't the most cerebral of supporting chants, and I am impressed that English crowds sing show tunes to cheer their players. But in rugby they sing a negro spiritual, Swing Low Sweet Chariot. Or more correctly, they sing the chorus. If that much. Sometimes someone will pipe up during a quiet moment with "...iot, coming for to [and now the crowd joins in with] carry me home." It's weird, and you can read more about it here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Swing_Low,_Sweet_Chariot.
Meanwhile, the other pitches at the Dubai Exiles ground (where I play touch rugby, coincidentally) were given over to club games, U21, and the like. Then, after the semis, there was a break on the main pitch for the internationals, and the school girls came out to play. And I have to say, there is nothing funnier than seeing school girls smack each other to the ground in a game of rugby. I hope next year they get to play the Samoans.
Anyway, it was a grand day out that reminded me what it was like to be wet and cold at the same time as well as the importance of proper footwear. Fun and learning in the one day. What more could you want?
Friday, November 24, 2006
Dubai 06 - Queues
I gather, from reading the local paper, that people here are getting a little sick of things. Of course, I'm talking about the Letters page, so it's not just people here! The latest hated topic in my neck of the woods is queue jumping, specifically the drivers who push into a line of traffic, thus holding up two lanes at once (three if you count the guy who tries to squeeze past and stuffs it up).
Now I must really be fitting in because, altough I would never push in in traffic, I did go to the airport the other day and do something similar (and seriously, Dubai Airport is up there with San Rafael when it comes to quality and good layout. Actually, San Raf is better). I wandered up to my gate and came across a queue snaking to the left. Now I figured that if the queue is so stupid as to run to the left rather than straight, the sensible thing to do would be to form a new queue and merge. Sure, it was a queue of one, but it's an airport for crying out loud and seats are assigned. And I have French ancestors.
As luck would have it, I found myself merging in front of two Australians. Talk about confused: Their Anglo-Irish heritage told them to suffer in silence for the time being and bitch about it later, but their Australian upbringing told them to stand up for themselves. The following resulted:
Tall guy to short guy (sote voce hoping I'd hear, get embarrassed and go to the back): Look at this bloke.
Short guy: Huh?
Tall guy: Jumping in like that, etc etc etc
The queue moved on a bit, I continued to politely merge and politely ignore this poorly dressed buffoon, while he tried to wheel his oversized carry-on luggage into my feet. Then it got funny:
Tall guy (slowly and as if he was feeding an actor a line): Queue. Queue. Queue.
If this bloke had any cajones, he'd tap me on the shoulder and say, excuse me mate, go to the back. And I probably would have... considered it. Or at least let him go in front. But talking to yourself saying queue queue queue is just dumb. So finally I turned around, looked him in the eye and said:
Diddums
That went down well and elicited a "you're a blood idiot" (but an idiot in front of you in the line - ha!) and more luggage into ankles. A few more pleasantries came from him and then I eyeballed him a second time and suggested he accept his fate in this life and realise there are bigger issues at stake with a gentle
Get over it, mate
No response. He knew he was beaten by my superior reasoning. I turned back around.
Short guy: oh, he's your mate now. [grunt]
And that was it. I probably really ruined those guys' days and put them in foul moods. And I'm glad, because if you're 1) wound up that tight and 2) stupid enough to join an orderly queue that goes in the wrong direction and not merge yourself with the ready explanation of "I thought it was for something else because it started 3 gates to the side", then you deserve to have a shitty day.
Now I realise some of you might think that makes me a rude, pushy, arrogate queue-jumping bastard, but tell me you've never done it yourself. And really, except in traffic where it's dangerous, I'm with the French and Chinese in their attitude to waiting. Here's another one: I went to the hospital recently for my blood test and x-ray for my residency. I walked in to the place and the first room had a queue of several hundred Indians passively standing around waiting for god knows what. My Australian friend from the airport probably would have assumed that was a queue and meekly joined it. I went past it, found someone in a uniform and asked where to go for a blood test, and was back in the car a few minutes later. And I didn't even jump any queues. The Indian blokes could have been part of a post-Modernist art exhibition, or trying out for the world stand-silently-in-a-room record. (On the other hand, Indian blokes do seem to like standing around in groups...) Life's too short to follow the crowd - make your own queue.
Now I must really be fitting in because, altough I would never push in in traffic, I did go to the airport the other day and do something similar (and seriously, Dubai Airport is up there with San Rafael when it comes to quality and good layout. Actually, San Raf is better). I wandered up to my gate and came across a queue snaking to the left. Now I figured that if the queue is so stupid as to run to the left rather than straight, the sensible thing to do would be to form a new queue and merge. Sure, it was a queue of one, but it's an airport for crying out loud and seats are assigned. And I have French ancestors.
As luck would have it, I found myself merging in front of two Australians. Talk about confused: Their Anglo-Irish heritage told them to suffer in silence for the time being and bitch about it later, but their Australian upbringing told them to stand up for themselves. The following resulted:
Tall guy to short guy (sote voce hoping I'd hear, get embarrassed and go to the back): Look at this bloke.
Short guy: Huh?
Tall guy: Jumping in like that, etc etc etc
The queue moved on a bit, I continued to politely merge and politely ignore this poorly dressed buffoon, while he tried to wheel his oversized carry-on luggage into my feet. Then it got funny:
Tall guy (slowly and as if he was feeding an actor a line): Queue. Queue. Queue.
If this bloke had any cajones, he'd tap me on the shoulder and say, excuse me mate, go to the back. And I probably would have... considered it. Or at least let him go in front. But talking to yourself saying queue queue queue is just dumb. So finally I turned around, looked him in the eye and said:
Diddums
That went down well and elicited a "you're a blood idiot" (but an idiot in front of you in the line - ha!) and more luggage into ankles. A few more pleasantries came from him and then I eyeballed him a second time and suggested he accept his fate in this life and realise there are bigger issues at stake with a gentle
Get over it, mate
No response. He knew he was beaten by my superior reasoning. I turned back around.
Short guy: oh, he's your mate now. [grunt]
And that was it. I probably really ruined those guys' days and put them in foul moods. And I'm glad, because if you're 1) wound up that tight and 2) stupid enough to join an orderly queue that goes in the wrong direction and not merge yourself with the ready explanation of "I thought it was for something else because it started 3 gates to the side", then you deserve to have a shitty day.
Now I realise some of you might think that makes me a rude, pushy, arrogate queue-jumping bastard, but tell me you've never done it yourself. And really, except in traffic where it's dangerous, I'm with the French and Chinese in their attitude to waiting. Here's another one: I went to the hospital recently for my blood test and x-ray for my residency. I walked in to the place and the first room had a queue of several hundred Indians passively standing around waiting for god knows what. My Australian friend from the airport probably would have assumed that was a queue and meekly joined it. I went past it, found someone in a uniform and asked where to go for a blood test, and was back in the car a few minutes later. And I didn't even jump any queues. The Indian blokes could have been part of a post-Modernist art exhibition, or trying out for the world stand-silently-in-a-room record. (On the other hand, Indian blokes do seem to like standing around in groups...) Life's too short to follow the crowd - make your own queue.
Dubai 05 - My place
Dubai is made up of Deira (north of the Creek, a brackish body of water that disects the city and has only three crossings), Bur Dubai and all the stuff between it and Jebel Ali. Deira is a mysterious place I never go to unless I need a blood test for immigration purposes, Bur Dubai is where I work, and Sheik Zayed Road (SZR) is the main artery beween it and all the stuff on the way to Jebel Ali, including The Springs.Now, I'm sharing a villa with a South African bloke called Chris out in The Sp
rings. This is a really fake little suburb about half an hour down SZR from Bur Dubai. All the houses are identical and it's a bit like being in Legoland. It's a gated suburb or compound (ie, a bloke operates a boom on the only road in or out, noting down the licence plates of all cars, including the residents, for reasons unknown. Actually, I think the guy's a trainspotter, but the total loack of railways here has reduced the poor fellow to carspotting), and actually there are 11 (?) Springs compounds ingeniously named Springs 1 through Springs 11. I'm in 2. Next to me is Meadows 6, another Legoland compound, for people with a bit more money. Out the back of M6 is Emirates Hills which faces onto a small man-made lake, and this is where the really rich live.
How do I know they're rich? By the cars of course. Parked outside the mansions are gleaming new BMW X5s, and Land Rovers, with number plates like "80". And these are parked on the street because the garage is housing the Bugatti. It's pretty flash. Out in the grotty old springs it's just SUVs with number plates like D 456245 - nothing special at all.
It's come on since the satellite took the above photos, mind you. Everything is planted and green - I'll post some more photos later - and not just sand. It's nice and quiet and relaxed out here, which beats the hell out of living in the 24h construction site that is Bur Dubai...
I really have no ending for this post. Sorry.
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Dubai 04 - Copywatch
There are various moral and legal issues associated with this, of course, but on the whole I say it’s a good thing. Take watches: no one gets hurt by this trade. The prestige watch companies have the attitude that a person who’ll buy an Omega would never buy a fake Omega, and a person who buys a fake would never buy the real thing. And it’s pretty obvious why – a real Omega costs around AU$3,000+ here, and a fake one is very obviously fake – bezels freewheel, designs are ones you’ve never seen in the catalogue, the gold doesn’t look like gold, that sort of thing.
I’d’ve thought it would be the same with handbags – what is a little padlock on a Hermes bag becomes a Chubb security lock spray painted gold on the copy – but apparently the bag companies are getting a little dark at this sincerest form of flattery.
But DVDs are what I’m in the market for. This is definitely a zero-sum game with studios losing out big time, but it serves them right for not embracing new technology and coming up with a way of distributing their product more cheaply. Meanwhile, quality films from the independent studios don’t really get a look-in, so it’s not like you’re doing a struggling artist out of his dinner. And really, if I chose to watch Snakes On A Plane, there’s no way in hell I’m going to pay even the rental price to do so. And besides, how does going to the cinema or Virgin compare to the thrill of The Deal.
It goes like this: after deciding you need to add to your video library, you head down to Karama and just wander along. Within about 10 seconds some friendly chap and fifteen or so of his mates converge on you and ask if you’d like a “copywatch” (no thanks), sunglasses (no thanks), a handbag (for the ladies – no thanks), or DVDs (yes please!)
And now the adventure begins. If you’ve said yes to the wrong guy you get taken around the corner to the spot under some stairs, stopping first at a fire hose-reel cupboard to retrieve a plastic shopping bag full of pirated movies, while your man’s mate acts as a lookout for the fuzz.
If you say yes to the right bloke, though, or to someone selling copywatches or handbags, you get led away to a shop (eg, women’s ware), which is possibly located some distance away, and/or up several flights of rickety stairs in a residential building, down the back of the shop to the secret door and up some stairs into the attic where they store their inventory of undergarments and dodgy goods. You might even meet an American getting ripped off. The first time you do this you feel a little dodgy, like you’re doing a drug deal, or something.
But then you forget all that as you peruse their wares. Typically blockbuster fare or sometimes TV series. A lot of the goods come out of Europe so the cover might by written in French or Russian, but most comes from
The big recession of American industry is period, man cloth gram of New York pull the match gram for the sake of living,For feeding the family to attend the boxing match to acquire the cash award, did not thought of to therefore become the generation boxing champion.The quality is generally good, unless you get a 5-in-1 disc, in which case the video is rotten, or you get one that's still in the cinemas and you're more likely to get a bootleg (ie, camcorder in the cinema) rather than a pirate (ie, copied from the master). In this case, the sound will blow and probably get increasingly out of sync with the action as the film goes on. This can ruin an otherwise damned awful film like Superman or X-men III.
Probably the best thing about pirate movies, in this country at least, is the lack of bewildering censorship. I recently picked up a (legal) copy of Enter The Dragon, to expand my Bruce Lee collection, and was stunned by what was left out. For example, Lee fights O'Hara and kicks his arse. The bit where O'Hara smashes two bottles together and charges Lee is completely cut and suddenly the guy is dead on the floor. Han says he deserved it for his treachery and you're thinking "WTF?" Or Li fights Bolo and, mid-fight, Bolo's suddenly lying on ground, deader than A-line flares with pockets in the knees. Or deader than the continuity in Goldmember which was on TV the other night, minus the jokes (eg, the entire Japanese twins scene. I turned off after that.)
So it'll be back to Karama for me.
Friday, October 20, 2006
Dubai 03 - Jumeira Jane
(There’s currently a bit of a stink in the Letters to the Editor of the local rag: One JJ’s maid was refused entry to the country club and JJ had to look after her kids herself. She claimed racism as the maid was part of the family after eight years; everyone claims she ought to look after her own little terrors and no one wants the club overrun by screaming bastards while the parents are off playing golf.)
Jumeira Jane is typically British and, I think, would be right at home on
It’s a shame, really, because I think they’re missing out on a great experience by mixing with their own pretty much exclusively. It’s important to assimilate, if only to get something other than mindless rants in the Letters To The Editor pages of the local paper. (I seem to be doing a stirling job of integrating. Just last night Ben told me how well I was doing when he said: “I can’t believe you did that, you drive like a bloody Arab!”)
* * * WARNING: DESCENT INTO POLITICALLY INCORRECT RANT * * *
* * * Do not read the following if you are easily offended by other people's views * * *
- The paper publishes an ad for a skin whitening cream (ie, anti-spray-on-tan) and it's racist.
- A British MP recommends a debate on veils and suddenly he’s a racist.
- If you're a Westerner living over here you need to be respectful of local customs, but if you're a Muslim in the West, local customs (and sometimes laws) are irrelevant.
Or the issue of violence:
- The Pope, in a lecture on theology, quotes some dead guy in what is essentially a footnote, and suddenly Muslims the world over demand his death and kill a nun because he dared to suggest they were violent (which he didn’t).
- I write a personal opinion on a barely known blog, and I’m forced to wonder if I should.
Here's my thought for the day: Is Islam a peaceful religion? If so, are Muslims peace loving? If so, why don't they write better letters to the ed? And WHY do they constantly bring EVERYTHING back to the issue of religion? Skin whitening cream is NOT a subtle attempt to overthrow Islam in the Middle East!!!
* * * END OF RANT * * *
And end of this post.
Saturday, August 19, 2006
Dubai 02 - Driving
You know, I think hazard lights go by a different name here. Not sure what, exactly, but it could be any of:
- Parking lights (watch out, I’m reverse parking, this could be dangerous)
- Waiting lights (watch out, I’m double parked waiting for someone. I could do anything, this could be dangerous)
- Going slowly lights (watch out, I’m travelling at or below the speed limit, this could be dangerous)
- Going fast lights (watch out, I’m travelling above the speed limit, and you’re in the damned way, this could be dangerous)
- Indicators (watch out, I’m thinking about changing lanes or turning a corner, or maybe I’ll keep going straight, who knows? This could be dangerous)
Which segues nicely to the next observation: very few people seem to understand indicators here. Hardly anyone understands headlights (I can see where I’m going, so I don’t really need them) and, by all accounts, no one understands driving in the rain (omigod, there’s a puddle, better swerve wildly to avoid it, but I’ll still go really fast on this slicked up road that’s been accumulating oily residues for 10 months).
As for sharing the road with others, cutting in is an art form here. Let’s say you’re a car length behind a car in the slow lane and you’re closing in. Local thrill seekers will undertake you and then cut in, missing the slow car by millimetres and relying on you to ease off to avoid a major accident.
So basically, apart from the hazard lights, this is a city of
***
And speaking of cars, one of the satellite channels here is playing re-runs of Knight Rider. You know, I never realised how … un-macho that show was. And I’m not talking about David Hasselhoff – sure, we’ve all seen the photos of The Hoff in the buff cuddling puppies, The Hoff in the rain tearing off his frilly shirt, or The Hoff in a bubble bath wearing a cowboy hat – oh no, he was The Man in the show. I’m not even talking about his boss,
Oh no, I mean the car itself, Kitt.
It’s a 1982 Pontiac Trans Am with a steering wheel straight out of a commercial airliner and a dashboard to match. It’s sleek and black. Everything about it looks boss. It looks like it should have a throaty roar from a V8 engine with no muffler. Instead, it whirrs. It sounds like a hover-car from Star Wars. My vacuum cleaner makes a better noise than that thing. It just screams golf cart with after-sales trans am panels.
And then it speaks. “Ooh, Michael, should we drive around and scare those nasty looking villains in their tight T-shirts, or shall we go and get a latte?” It should be more like: “YO! Get that damned perm in the car and lets RIDE, MUTHA-F*CKA! Let’s kick some A-S-S!” I reckon the producers were going for an accent that suggested refined sophistication: a fine wine and classical music sort of voice. Instead, it's shandy and Rick Astley.
Dubai 01
23/7/2006
Three months ago I didn’t expect I’d be spending the Friday afternoon before last relaxing in the pool of the Radisson SAS hotel in
For anyone who’s missed the news, I’ve taken a job in
And six days later I was in
Anyway, the
I’m staying in a (company provided) serviced apartment at the moment which reminds me a little of some places I’ve stayed in China (and Sydney’s north shore), only the guys who clean it do a much better job: the bed has good hospital corners, the extract fans are always left on to suck out the cool air, the AC is turned down to compensate, and they even turn on the vacuum cleaner when I’m there so I think they’re vacuuming. It also comes with a one-size-fits-all saucepan (12”, perfect for boiling an egg), a blunt knife (for cooking safely), a dinner set for four and two glasses (for entertaining people who aren’t very thirsty). There’s even a gym and a pool, and it’s close to work, so all up, it’ll do just fine until I find somewhere better.
Finally, I thought I’d better dispel a few myths before signing off:
- It’s not that hot. 42° today, but not very humid, so it’s probably more comfortable than
- There are no anti-women rules like in Saudi (well, there might be some, but they’re obscure if there are). Women can drive, walk around unaccompanied, and they don’t need to wear veils.
- It is not illegal to drink alcohol.
- Nearly everyone speaks English (or a heavily accented dialect thereof).
Right, that’s it. Nothing really to report on the sights and sounds around town: it’s too hot to go sightseeing on weekends, and a mall is a mall is a mall (unless it has a ski slope in it, which The Mall Of The Emirates does). (Besides, this place was little more than a hamlet 30 years ago, it’s not like it has any history.)
Friday, February 13, 2004
UK 12. Nick's Food Tour of Spain
SAN SEBASTIAN. Friday 6th February
Postcards in San Sebastián showed the town covered in snow. February 6th showed the town bathed in sunshine and enjoying 24°C. Even at midnight it was still warm enough for a short sleeved shirt. Yep, the only logical explanation is that I'm a weather god.
After an hour in Spain I felt completely fluent in French. Sure, I only seem to speak that language every six years or so, but 2 days in Paris brought it all back. I know what to say in all manner of typical commercial and social situations (je voudrais...; ça fait combien?; Oh, bordelle de merde! Vous gros conasse!) but unfortunately none of this is much use in Spain.
But Day 1 passed easily. I met a Spanish speaking Aussie and his English girlfriend (fiancée? wife?) and we hung out for the day and evening and they dealt with the translating. Perfect. They also introduced me to the wonderful art of tapas hopping.
It's pretty simple, really. You start at a tapas bar, get drinks and a plate and take whatever you want from the bar to eat. Anchovy, jamon, creamed fish, artichokes... Then, and here's the good bit, you tell the barman how many pintxos you've had, pay up, go to a few doors down to the next tapas bar and repeat. The Parte Vieja (old part) of San Sebastián is loaded with such places so you can easily spend several hours working your way through a meal. My favourite was baby eel pie.
Tapas bars in other countries don't compare. There you sit down and order and a plate arrives and someone misses out on something because the number of servings never matches the number of people at your table. Here, it's all laid out on the bar, happily going off, with people happily smoking around the food and happily dropping their scraps and napkins and cigarette butts on the floor. You pick what you like the look of and it's fine. If there's something no-one likes there're not three left on the plate for you and your mates to pay for. What a great way to dine.
Apart from tapas, San Sebastián is a beautiful city with a crescent-shaped bay, beautiful beaches and two headlands overlooking the town. There's a castle (remains thereof) on one, with a not-quite-as-good-as-Rio statue of Christ making his presence felt. The views are spectacular, the walk up suitable tiring and in summer it's probably the best place in town for cool air and sea breezes.
This is one nice town. I recommend it. (Especially in unseasonably warm winters. You know, if I'm not a weather god, then this weather is probably due to global warming, something which, as an environmental designer, I'm dedicating my life to fixing up. But really, it's so damned pleasant to be enjoying the sun in February. Maybe I should get back into the oil business.)
PAMPLONA. Saturday 7th February
Seeing this country is fast becoming an exercise in culinary indulgence. I was lucky in San Sebastián to meet Michael and Rachel for tapas hopping. 2 hours for lunch and around the same for dinner. Then this morning's cold and wet weather caused me to change plans on the fly - I postponed Bilbao and headed straight to Pamplona. Just in time for lunch.
We (me and Spanish cousins) started around 3:00 with asparagus with capsicum and garlic; acorn-fed jamon (which is so far superior to "regular" ham it's as if it's from a different beast. Technically it is - it's from a black boar that only eats acorns - but even the normal jamon is far removed from the pink flabby stuff I'm used to); artichokes with clams; and marinated capsicum. This was pretty damned filling but there was still mains to come: monk fish in olive oil and garlic for Richard and me (and there's only been one better fish in my life so far - a barbecued fresh-water fish in Kuala Lumpur), steaks a foot and a half across for the girls, and a (perfectly cooked) steak as big as my head for Ana. She didn't leave any, either.
Feeling drowsy from the massive effort of digestion, we then decided to cleanse our palates with dessert. Sheep's yoghurt (basically) for me, which is another local dish; sorbet for the others.
We left around 5:00 and went home to rest up before dinner. I nibbled on some biscuits (local specialty biscuits, not Jatz crackers, or anything) for a while and about 9:30, fearing I might pass out from lack of food, Ana put some sausage and more jamon my way before a celery and walnut dinner (very small) with fruit and yoghurt for afters. Finished that around 11:00 and called it a night.
****
You know, I had been planning to write a food tour of England. (Oh, French tour: Nice duck, but the blueberry sauce was a little overpowering. Ox tongue: tender as can be, beautiful sauce, kinda weird seeing the taste buds.) But frankly, food here doesn't have what it takes. Despite the efforts of celebrity chefs like Jamie Oliver, on the evolutionary tree of cuisine, British food is situated on one of the lowest branches. On the most sickly looking twig slightly overhanging the neighbours fence line (and so asking to be pruned) is the chip buttie.
I was out cycling with some mates and we stopped at the World's Worst Pub for lunch. This place actively misled customers as to the menu, then the woman got abusive towards us when we asked where the salad was. It's always been written that way on the board, and as new customers we should have been aware that the salad is not part of the chip buttie order.
Anyway, Mike talked me into ordering this thing, saying they were really good. I received a limp hamburger bun covered in margarine with some below average chips inserted. And that was it! Apparently, at it's best, the chip buttie has better bread and nicer chips and no margarine. Wow.
Thanks, Britain, for your wonderful contribution.
Postcards in San Sebastián showed the town covered in snow. February 6th showed the town bathed in sunshine and enjoying 24°C. Even at midnight it was still warm enough for a short sleeved shirt. Yep, the only logical explanation is that I'm a weather god.After an hour in Spain I felt completely fluent in French. Sure, I only seem to speak that language every six years or so, but 2 days in Paris brought it all back. I know what to say in all manner of typical commercial and social situations (je voudrais...; ça fait combien?; Oh, bordelle de merde! Vous gros conasse!) but unfortunately none of this is much use in Spain.
But Day 1 passed easily. I met a Spanish speaking Aussie and his English girlfriend (fiancée? wife?) and we hung out for the day and evening and they dealt with the translating. Perfect. They also introduced me to the wonderful art of tapas hopping.
It's pretty simple, really. You start at a tapas bar, get drinks and a plate and take whatever you want from the bar to eat. Anchovy, jamon, creamed fish, artichokes... Then, and here's the good bit, you tell the barman how many pintxos you've had, pay up, go to a few doors down to the next tapas bar and repeat. The Parte Vieja (old part) of San Sebastián is loaded with such places so you can easily spend several hours working your way through a meal. My favourite was baby eel pie.
Tapas bars in other countries don't compare. There you sit down and order and a plate arrives and someone misses out on something because the number of servings never matches the number of people at your table. Here, it's all laid out on the bar, happily going off, with people happily smoking around the food and happily dropping their scraps and napkins and cigarette butts on the floor. You pick what you like the look of and it's fine. If there's something no-one likes there're not three left on the plate for you and your mates to pay for. What a great way to dine.
Apart from tapas, San Sebastián is a beautiful city with a crescent-shaped bay, beautiful beaches and two headlands overlooking the town. There's a castle (remains thereof) on one, with a not-quite-as-good-as-Rio statue of Christ making his presence felt. The views are spectacular, the walk up suitable tiring and in summer it's probably the best place in town for cool air and sea breezes.This is one nice town. I recommend it. (Especially in unseasonably warm winters. You know, if I'm not a weather god, then this weather is probably due to global warming, something which, as an environmental designer, I'm dedicating my life to fixing up. But really, it's so damned pleasant to be enjoying the sun in February. Maybe I should get back into the oil business.)
PAMPLONA. Saturday 7th February
Seeing this country is fast becoming an exercise in culinary indulgence. I was lucky in San Sebastián to meet Michael and Rachel for tapas hopping. 2 hours for lunch and around the same for dinner. Then this morning's cold and wet weather caused me to change plans on the fly - I postponed Bilbao and headed straight to Pamplona. Just in time for lunch.
We (me and Spanish cousins) started around 3:00 with asparagus with capsicum and garlic; acorn-fed jamon (which is so far superior to "regular" ham it's as if it's from a different beast. Technically it is - it's from a black boar that only eats acorns - but even the normal jamon is far removed from the pink flabby stuff I'm used to); artichokes with clams; and marinated capsicum. This was pretty damned filling but there was still mains to come: monk fish in olive oil and garlic for Richard and me (and there's only been one better fish in my life so far - a barbecued fresh-water fish in Kuala Lumpur), steaks a foot and a half across for the girls, and a (perfectly cooked) steak as big as my head for Ana. She didn't leave any, either.
Feeling drowsy from the massive effort of digestion, we then decided to cleanse our palates with dessert. Sheep's yoghurt (basically) for me, which is another local dish; sorbet for the others.
We left around 5:00 and went home to rest up before dinner. I nibbled on some biscuits (local specialty biscuits, not Jatz crackers, or anything) for a while and about 9:30, fearing I might pass out from lack of food, Ana put some sausage and more jamon my way before a celery and walnut dinner (very small) with fruit and yoghurt for afters. Finished that around 11:00 and called it a night.
****
You know, I had been planning to write a food tour of England. (Oh, French tour: Nice duck, but the blueberry sauce was a little overpowering. Ox tongue: tender as can be, beautiful sauce, kinda weird seeing the taste buds.) But frankly, food here doesn't have what it takes. Despite the efforts of celebrity chefs like Jamie Oliver, on the evolutionary tree of cuisine, British food is situated on one of the lowest branches. On the most sickly looking twig slightly overhanging the neighbours fence line (and so asking to be pruned) is the chip buttie.
I was out cycling with some mates and we stopped at the World's Worst Pub for lunch. This place actively misled customers as to the menu, then the woman got abusive towards us when we asked where the salad was. It's always been written that way on the board, and as new customers we should have been aware that the salad is not part of the chip buttie order.
Anyway, Mike talked me into ordering this thing, saying they were really good. I received a limp hamburger bun covered in margarine with some below average chips inserted. And that was it! Apparently, at it's best, the chip buttie has better bread and nicer chips and no margarine. Wow.
Thanks, Britain, for your wonderful contribution.
Thursday, February 12, 2004
UK 11. NHS
I had my first experience of the NHS, (or No Help whatSoever), recently. I went to the NHS drop-in place and asked to see someone with medical experience. They were a bit put out that I wasn't registered with any doctors ("Who is your doctor?" "I don't know." "Well, where does he work?" "Australia." Sigh, roll eyes) but I was ushered in to see someone anyway. This bloke examined my condition, concluded it was an allergic reaction, wrote the name of an anti-histamine for me and said "If it doesn't clear up in a couple of days, go and see a doctor."
Hang on! Who the hell was this? Don't tell me I'd just fallen for the old trick of taking advice from someone because he was wearing a white coat.
When I explained I didn't have a doctor of my own, this bloke very politely gave me a list of doctors in the area and said if I didn't have any luck, to come back after hours as a GP would be on duty.
Fine.
So the next day I rang some surgeries, keen to get a more considered opinion than that of my nurse. The anti-histamines made me drowsy to the point of feeling stoned all day at work and my condition was worsening. But do you think any doctors (or at least their receptionists) wanted to see me? Did they f*ck! "If you're not registered you have to come and fill out a form and then we've got 48 hours to decide if we'll see you." Bitch.
So it was back to the NHS drop-in place.
"I believe you have a doctor here tonight."
"No."
"But the nurse yesterday said there was."
"Oh, there is one on duty, but only see emergency cases. You need to ring and make an appointment."
Because I'm meant to plan to get myself into an emergency situation, I suppose.
"We'll, I don't know the number, and I'm here now. Perhaps I can make an appointment with you." I'd be speaking to you anyway, you bureaucratic cow.
"No, you have to ring." Huh? "You can see a nurse and then they'll decide if you need to see a doctor. There's a half-hour wait. Or you could go to the A&E at the hospital." Then she smiled in the way that says "Get f*cked and die." Bitch.
So the hospital it was. And what joy. Friendly staff who smiled and joked, a really cute doctor, some mean-arsed anti-histamines and a course of steroids. And free, too. (Well, with the level of tax I'm paying, I should hope so!) A week later my allergic reaction has cleared up with only minor scarring which will hopefully disappear altogether. The only downside is that I think I've developed an allergy to alcohol.
Hang on! Who the hell was this? Don't tell me I'd just fallen for the old trick of taking advice from someone because he was wearing a white coat.
When I explained I didn't have a doctor of my own, this bloke very politely gave me a list of doctors in the area and said if I didn't have any luck, to come back after hours as a GP would be on duty.
Fine.
So the next day I rang some surgeries, keen to get a more considered opinion than that of my nurse. The anti-histamines made me drowsy to the point of feeling stoned all day at work and my condition was worsening. But do you think any doctors (or at least their receptionists) wanted to see me? Did they f*ck! "If you're not registered you have to come and fill out a form and then we've got 48 hours to decide if we'll see you." Bitch.
So it was back to the NHS drop-in place.
"I believe you have a doctor here tonight."
"No."
"But the nurse yesterday said there was."
"Oh, there is one on duty, but only see emergency cases. You need to ring and make an appointment."
Because I'm meant to plan to get myself into an emergency situation, I suppose.
"We'll, I don't know the number, and I'm here now. Perhaps I can make an appointment with you." I'd be speaking to you anyway, you bureaucratic cow.
"No, you have to ring." Huh? "You can see a nurse and then they'll decide if you need to see a doctor. There's a half-hour wait. Or you could go to the A&E at the hospital." Then she smiled in the way that says "Get f*cked and die." Bitch.
So the hospital it was. And what joy. Friendly staff who smiled and joked, a really cute doctor, some mean-arsed anti-histamines and a course of steroids. And free, too. (Well, with the level of tax I'm paying, I should hope so!) A week later my allergic reaction has cleared up with only minor scarring which will hopefully disappear altogether. The only downside is that I think I've developed an allergy to alcohol.
UK 10. Some shallow and offensive remarks
Paris. I'd forgotten how much I like it. Maybe it was the unseasonably warm weather, maybe it's the elegant architecture, maybe its the food.
Nah. I've been in all seasons, the architecture is all the same and so gets boring quickly and the food seems to consist of steak, steak, steak or veal. What I love about Paris is the women. They're better looking and better dressed than Spanish girls, although some Spanish women make you want to weep and give thanks to God for giving you eyes. Spanish men are probably better looking than the French, but that really doesn't say much at all. Both sexes of both countries are better looking than the English (curse my heritage). Again, that doesn't really say too much, either.
(Today, back in England, I saw what I've been joking about these past eight months: a baby with a big eye in the middle of its forehead. It hadn't fully developed but it was dead centre, was eye shaped, and stuck out about a centimetre from the forehead. No mole is ever that big, and everyday bumps don't form that shape. That kid was clearly the result of frucking.)
There are no fat chicks in Paris (or Marseilles, from memory) and no tracksuits, either. (My cousin who lives there confrims this.) But in Spain I daresay decades of chav* English tourism has left its mark in the form of sportswear, cheap gold and cheaper heaircuts. The mullet may not have been invented in Spain but it definitely has a solid foothold here. Oddly, they don't have a word for it.
What the Spanish lack in style they make up for in food. It's a mystery they'll not all bloaters. Sure I've only seen one corner of the country and didn't exactly indulge in Burgos (I went into a classy restaurant there with every indulgent intention, but couldn't find any staff. Talk about laid back). I definitely prefer it to the French, but that may just be because I only ate at Parisian boulangeries where the choice was limited.
Finally, give me French language any day over Spanish, but give me Spanish friendliness any day over French.
*A "chav", I learnt yesterday, is the sort of bloke who wears sportswear and white trainers, cheap gold, cheap aftershave and gels his fringe. The nav girl pulls her hair back and is often seen, in these parts anyway, pushing an infant approximately 12 to 15 years younger than her. Both sexes bear facial resemblances to weasels. The term "pikey" has apparently spread beyond gypsies to include people who eat discount burgers and oven cooked chips and watch TV all day. They drive cheap cars with alloy wheels. A "bogan" or "Bevan", really. This starts to cross into "Kev" territory, which is essentially the "rice boy" seen in Australia or the US: ie, kitted-up cars that are probably just heavier and slower, but sound faster and have bigger stereos.
Nah. I've been in all seasons, the architecture is all the same and so gets boring quickly and the food seems to consist of steak, steak, steak or veal. What I love about Paris is the women. They're better looking and better dressed than Spanish girls, although some Spanish women make you want to weep and give thanks to God for giving you eyes. Spanish men are probably better looking than the French, but that really doesn't say much at all. Both sexes of both countries are better looking than the English (curse my heritage). Again, that doesn't really say too much, either.
(Today, back in England, I saw what I've been joking about these past eight months: a baby with a big eye in the middle of its forehead. It hadn't fully developed but it was dead centre, was eye shaped, and stuck out about a centimetre from the forehead. No mole is ever that big, and everyday bumps don't form that shape. That kid was clearly the result of frucking.)
There are no fat chicks in Paris (or Marseilles, from memory) and no tracksuits, either. (My cousin who lives there confrims this.) But in Spain I daresay decades of chav* English tourism has left its mark in the form of sportswear, cheap gold and cheaper heaircuts. The mullet may not have been invented in Spain but it definitely has a solid foothold here. Oddly, they don't have a word for it.
What the Spanish lack in style they make up for in food. It's a mystery they'll not all bloaters. Sure I've only seen one corner of the country and didn't exactly indulge in Burgos (I went into a classy restaurant there with every indulgent intention, but couldn't find any staff. Talk about laid back). I definitely prefer it to the French, but that may just be because I only ate at Parisian boulangeries where the choice was limited.
Finally, give me French language any day over Spanish, but give me Spanish friendliness any day over French.
*A "chav", I learnt yesterday, is the sort of bloke who wears sportswear and white trainers, cheap gold, cheap aftershave and gels his fringe. The nav girl pulls her hair back and is often seen, in these parts anyway, pushing an infant approximately 12 to 15 years younger than her. Both sexes bear facial resemblances to weasels. The term "pikey" has apparently spread beyond gypsies to include people who eat discount burgers and oven cooked chips and watch TV all day. They drive cheap cars with alloy wheels. A "bogan" or "Bevan", really. This starts to cross into "Kev" territory, which is essentially the "rice boy" seen in Australia or the US: ie, kitted-up cars that are probably just heavier and slower, but sound faster and have bigger stereos.
Thursday, January 15, 2004
UK 9. My weird landlord
My landlord is weird. That's all there is to it.
I called him up the other day on his mobile to see whether it was okay to pay just two weeks rent now and for the last month to be covered by the bond. That way he wouldn't have to return the bond to me (very inconvenient). Sure, he says, no problem.
Then, out of nowhere, he says: "I'm in Bermuda".
So what? "I'd better get off the phone then," I say, "this will be costing you a fortune." International roaming charges, and all that.
Him: "No not you, me. I'm in Bermuda."
Stunned silence. A bit of bewildered banter from me.
Him again: "I've just bought some jeans."
Wow! This was getting too weird for me, so I rung off.
Then, today, I got a postcard from the bloke. From Tobacco Bay.
Dear Nicholas
Like I said.
I am here.
Lovely weather
very cool.
This time of year.
Sub tropical island.
Everton
Truely bizarre.
I called him up the other day on his mobile to see whether it was okay to pay just two weeks rent now and for the last month to be covered by the bond. That way he wouldn't have to return the bond to me (very inconvenient). Sure, he says, no problem.
Then, out of nowhere, he says: "I'm in Bermuda".
So what? "I'd better get off the phone then," I say, "this will be costing you a fortune." International roaming charges, and all that.
Him: "No not you, me. I'm in Bermuda."
Stunned silence. A bit of bewildered banter from me.
Him again: "I've just bought some jeans."
Wow! This was getting too weird for me, so I rung off.
Then, today, I got a postcard from the bloke. From Tobacco Bay.
Dear Nicholas
Like I said.
I am here.
Lovely weather
very cool.
This time of year.
Sub tropical island.
Everton
Truely bizarre.
Sunday, January 04, 2004
UK 8. New Year's Eve
Okay, this is a real cack that I think you'll appreciate.
I went to Brighton for New Years and my mates Brigitte, Dan and I went to a party that Dan had somehow found out about. We rocked up around 11:00 to find a house full of women sitting around eating. No blokes, no loud music, all very polite. Naturally, we put two and two together and deduce we'd mistakenly arrived at the wrong house and had just gatecrashed a lesbian party. (Should be interesting, thought Dan and I. Bugger, thought Bridge.) Everyone was still sitting around in little groups so it didn't even have the critical mass required to mingle.
We're stoic sorts, though, and, after Bridge rifled through the mail to confirm the address, we settled down with a bottle of red to see how long we'd last until we were spotted and evicted.
But no! It was the right place and pretty soon a few dozen more people showed up, all the signs as to where you could or could not wear shoes or smoke were ignored, a DJ arrived and I made my own entertainment by telling everyone something different when they asked what I did. (I started out as a helicopter pilot and finally settled down to clearance diver with the Australian Navy, on secondment to the forces in Britain. As to why I was living in landlocked Peterborough I put down to working in a liaison role with the RAF. As you can see, like all good lies, it's really close to the truth with only a few technicalities not being entirely accurate. Still, that cover story's getting a bit old now, so it's time to think of something new for the next stranger I meet. Ideas are welcomed.)
But anyway, the funny thing about this party was the Ceremony. Just before 12:00 we were invited upstairs (a nominally shoe-free zone, with stress on nominally) for a special ceremony to see in the new year. We all sat in a circle and held hands and were asked to chant Omm three times in unison to raise the energy levels.
Now look, I don't have a problem with spirituality, qi, energy fields, religions or meditation. But sitting around with a bunch of strangers chanting is just fucking weird. Some people had a bit of a laugh at the idea and they were asked to leave by the hippie leader, I mean host of the party, so they wouldn't spoil it for the rest of us, and only people who wanted to participate should be there, unless, piped up another voice, they were already there, in which case they could stay. Quite right, says the host - all those outside the room (door was closed) who didn't want to be there should go, all those inside could stay because they were already there, presumably regardless of whether they were going to spoil it for everyone else or not. A great show of tolerance, if not clarity of mind.
Next up we had to think of something from 2003 we wanted to let go of (I think - this point wasn't communicated very well, but you get that when you have a hippie running the show), then think of something we wanted for 2004 (and I guess the earlier Omming was going to make this materialise), then someone passed me a slip of paper with a word on that was meant to be something I was to pursue in the new year. I don't actually remember what that word was, but I know it started in S and the only thing I could think of when asked later was "selfishness". This led to some an interesting discussion in which I convinced a palates instructor that selfishness is actually a good thing if looked at in the right way (thank you, Gordon Gecko).
To return to the Ceremony, no-one had bothered to set his or her watch beforehand so naturally the whole thing broke down to the hippies chanting Omm (they were working to the watch of the guy with the loudest voice, which was slow - the watch, not the voice) and the pragmatists singing Auld Langsyne (sp?) based on my watch which was fast.
The night degenerated from there and, due to the excess of smoke, I managed to lose my voice for two whole days (can someone explain why a non-smoker suffers more than a smoker?) and due to forces beyond my understanding, I managed to lose my phone as well. Anyway, I wound up watching Kiki's Delivery Service in the room that was showing animé films all night and that had the least smoke (I was really in a bad way by around 3:00). Despite the title and total lack of plot, this was not porn although it did have an unsettling number of glimpses of teenaged Kiki's underwear (that's Japanese animé for you), and no-one could sit through the whole thing.
I went to Brighton for New Years and my mates Brigitte, Dan and I went to a party that Dan had somehow found out about. We rocked up around 11:00 to find a house full of women sitting around eating. No blokes, no loud music, all very polite. Naturally, we put two and two together and deduce we'd mistakenly arrived at the wrong house and had just gatecrashed a lesbian party. (Should be interesting, thought Dan and I. Bugger, thought Bridge.) Everyone was still sitting around in little groups so it didn't even have the critical mass required to mingle.
We're stoic sorts, though, and, after Bridge rifled through the mail to confirm the address, we settled down with a bottle of red to see how long we'd last until we were spotted and evicted.
But no! It was the right place and pretty soon a few dozen more people showed up, all the signs as to where you could or could not wear shoes or smoke were ignored, a DJ arrived and I made my own entertainment by telling everyone something different when they asked what I did. (I started out as a helicopter pilot and finally settled down to clearance diver with the Australian Navy, on secondment to the forces in Britain. As to why I was living in landlocked Peterborough I put down to working in a liaison role with the RAF. As you can see, like all good lies, it's really close to the truth with only a few technicalities not being entirely accurate. Still, that cover story's getting a bit old now, so it's time to think of something new for the next stranger I meet. Ideas are welcomed.)
But anyway, the funny thing about this party was the Ceremony. Just before 12:00 we were invited upstairs (a nominally shoe-free zone, with stress on nominally) for a special ceremony to see in the new year. We all sat in a circle and held hands and were asked to chant Omm three times in unison to raise the energy levels.
Now look, I don't have a problem with spirituality, qi, energy fields, religions or meditation. But sitting around with a bunch of strangers chanting is just fucking weird. Some people had a bit of a laugh at the idea and they were asked to leave by the hippie leader, I mean host of the party, so they wouldn't spoil it for the rest of us, and only people who wanted to participate should be there, unless, piped up another voice, they were already there, in which case they could stay. Quite right, says the host - all those outside the room (door was closed) who didn't want to be there should go, all those inside could stay because they were already there, presumably regardless of whether they were going to spoil it for everyone else or not. A great show of tolerance, if not clarity of mind.
Next up we had to think of something from 2003 we wanted to let go of (I think - this point wasn't communicated very well, but you get that when you have a hippie running the show), then think of something we wanted for 2004 (and I guess the earlier Omming was going to make this materialise), then someone passed me a slip of paper with a word on that was meant to be something I was to pursue in the new year. I don't actually remember what that word was, but I know it started in S and the only thing I could think of when asked later was "selfishness". This led to some an interesting discussion in which I convinced a palates instructor that selfishness is actually a good thing if looked at in the right way (thank you, Gordon Gecko).
To return to the Ceremony, no-one had bothered to set his or her watch beforehand so naturally the whole thing broke down to the hippies chanting Omm (they were working to the watch of the guy with the loudest voice, which was slow - the watch, not the voice) and the pragmatists singing Auld Langsyne (sp?) based on my watch which was fast.
The night degenerated from there and, due to the excess of smoke, I managed to lose my voice for two whole days (can someone explain why a non-smoker suffers more than a smoker?) and due to forces beyond my understanding, I managed to lose my phone as well. Anyway, I wound up watching Kiki's Delivery Service in the room that was showing animé films all night and that had the least smoke (I was really in a bad way by around 3:00). Despite the title and total lack of plot, this was not porn although it did have an unsettling number of glimpses of teenaged Kiki's underwear (that's Japanese animé for you), and no-one could sit through the whole thing.
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