Daydreaming, of a Holiday before it Happens

Nothing like ramping up the ol' pre-holiday fever, whilst driving along in, close to, 50degC temperatures, staring out at sand, sand, dust & sun.

In this final run-up to our trip, I have been daydreaming about all the things I am looking forward to during our upcoming trip.

It feels like it adds days to our holiday, which is a jolly thing.

I have distilled them down thus:

NOT being in 50degC temperatures & being away from the sand, dust & sun. 

Just for a bit.
And what is going on with the kabillion% humidity these last few days??!

NOT having to steer with just the tips of my fingers. 

Tough call this, hands welded to a burny, roasting-tin-hot steering wheel OR everyone in here dying in a fiery ball of flames.

Trees

oh, the Trees.

To save me repeating myself, you can see last year's Hug a What Now? post.

"Gorgeous, lush green big OLD trees.  Juicy, rich trees. Rounded, friendly leaves, not spiky, resentful & tense with the effort of staying alive"

 Suffice to say, brace yourselves, Trees.

The chance of some Welly action

Again, things won't have changed since last year's Her Soul Yearns for a Welly

Seriously, Glorious Sunshine can get stuffed, I need me some rain.

Family

Being with Family. The family that have known me since I began. The family with whom the British half of me shares real history.

Family that have stories that I keep meaning to write down so they don't get lost.

Family that I have known since THEY were born.

Family that I sadly, only ever see on these trips, but who are no less important to me because of it.

Nothing lifts the spirits
like crossing the bridge and
finally spotting this sign
(& now, cue panic-scrabbling for the toll fare)

Wales

Yes, Wales.
Wales feels like home in the UK now.
Wales = Family too.
Wales is very special to our family.

Love Wales.



Food

The bread. The chips. The crisps. The bacon, cheese and mushroom pastries.  Basically, the carbs of Britain.

Supermarkets

Even if they flummox me with their ever-changing technology - Self-Service Counters this is the year you will not intimidate me.

Rows and rows of alcohol. Just sitting there. Waiting for me to purchase, no limits, no judgement.

The Colours

The Greens.  The Yellows. The Blues. And, yes, the Grey.

The Driving

So orderly. So well-mannered. Trust me, relatively speaking it IS Orderly & well-mannered.

See you on the M4, Purple-faced Man. 

The Radio

ahhhhhhhhhhhh, hello again BBC Radio 4 & 5Live. And all you others.
Live, and in context.

The Bookshops

I can and will spend a fortune in bookshops.

Books bring me the Happy. 

And, the anxiety of overweight suitcases.

 

The Coming Back To Your Own Home again
Love that. However, obviously, it is always tinged with some sadness.
But it is a marvellous thing nevertheless.
All your own stuff, your pets, your car, catching up with the Here Friends - that is all worth looking forward to too.

THINGS I AM LESS EXCITED ABOUT

Flying.

Don't love it. Never loved it. Best not dwell on it.
Packing

Packing sucks. There is nothing more to be said on this.

Petrol prices

Boring Dubai expat moan but ...... OUCH. Best not dwell on it.

The Indigestion

(see above, Food) No matter, a fistful of Rennies and I am good to go again.

Those Extra Kilos

Thanks for nothing, British Carbs and my greatest love/foe of all ..... Fish & Chips.
Running out of time 
And not getting to see all the people that I would like to.

Feeling bad that we cannot travel the length & breadth of the country

A common complaint for many of us, I know.
It boils down to this - Try to do it all, ruin what is supposed to be a holiday.

The Leaving Bit

Without a doubt, the very worst bit.

but also (see above, The Coming Back to Your Own Home again)

The Calm is nearly here

Just a few more days till the schools are out & Dubai shuts down.

Never thought much about it but, until fairly recently, the Life Punctuation Point known as:

"End of School / Summer Holidays" that dominated my world for so long, was dead to me.

But now, behold, the Resurrection!

I am a Phoenix, thrust back into the world which is dominated by the School Year.

*************************************

Since that heady Summer when:

the jeans were still 501s,









and tights were still 50 denier.




When our boots were Biker & the trainers, Adidas Gazelles or Sambas.

 AND ....... when that University coughed up that Degree so ferally clawed into existence laboriously achieved

....................................... the doors to 8-10 week holidays slammed SHUT!

For the next 15ish years, holidays were limited to 2-3 weeks A YEAR!!!

Pretty tough going when you live in a different country to your family, it has to be said.  My Dad put it into perspective though by reminding me that when he first went overseas, he didn't return home for 3 years!!!

Let us pause a moment and think about that.

Yeesh.

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But, now I have a kid.  Things are different.

My life is back to being punctuated by School-Events (bloody Christmas concerts, sodding Dress-up Days, Leaving Presents for Teachers, school photos, holidays blah blah blah).

Especially the Summer Holidays.

Especially in Dubai.

It starts around April/May, people start announcing they will be leaving. Hate that.  See Goodbyes Suck

Also, every conversation seems to take a "So, what are your plans for the Summer?" turn.
It is just a given that you will be going away.

'Where' and 'How Long For' are the only variables.
Some people literally, are on their way to the airport as the school gates close & stay away for, like a bazillion weeks.

And this is what I have noticed, for those of us who largely spend the bulk of the Summer here in Dubai, when we find someone else doing the same, there is a Comrade In Arms air of mutual respect that blossoms. A nod of respect.
Nice one.
We are in this together.

During the non-parent years, I delighted in the quiet roads of the Summer & the general calm that settles over Dubai.
I still do.
50+ deg heat notwithstanding, I like Dubai in the Summer.

Being Home

Where to begin.

Last Summer I wrote of how refreshing it was to be back in the UK ( see Hug A What Now?) & oh my, it was.  

But, to get my feet back on to, or into, the place, where I truly belong, well, there ain't nothing like it.

Whilst I am at home in the UK, HK IS Home. Not home (with a small 'h') right now, but Home.  

It is a cruel twist that in order to know where you belong, you have to leave it.

Also, after more than 20 years of living as one kind of Expat or another, I realise that you also don't have to live in a place to be part of it, or it you.   Like Family.  

This place speaks to me.
The sounds of the pneumatic drills, the unique roar of taxis, the double-deckers & mini-buses, the smells of food on the air, markets, the inside of IFC (never has a Mall smelt so good! If anyone can tell me what that is, I want my house to smell like that!).  

Me, I find the sounds of HongKong life comforting. Soothing.  

I can hear Hong Kong. HK speaks to me. Maybe because I am listening.
It isn't always pleasant, but I don't have to love everything about it, to love It. I understand it. The understandable bits. The bits I don't understand, I doubt any one else does either.  

 

And, it understands me.  I am a genuine Made In HongKong.

You either love Hong Kong, or you hate it.
Marmite Town.

AND, in a typically 1 Country 2 Systems, East Meets West, Yin Yang (yes, all the cliches) way, that thing that people love about it, others hate.  

Those that love it, call It Energy, Drive, Can (& DO), those that hate it use words like 'frenetic, rat race, materialistic, superficial'.  

Yes. It cannot be denied there is that, alot of that.

But also, I see the Colour, Life, Attitude (sometimes THAT could be dialled down) & richness (cultural, not $$).  

Some lament a lack of culture in this town. I am not sure to what they refer. Swanky art galleries? Chamber orchestras? Theatre? Seems no shortage to me.  

The culture I see all around is real living, joss stick burning, social media savvy, pop culture evolving, stuff.
The Old Ones observing the old ways, The Young Ones looking like they aren't but are, if you really look.  

Many superstitions and folk traditions are so entrenched, I fail to see HOW anyone can really think this town is devoid of culture.

The rules, the structure, the efficiency, whether it be bureaucratic interactions, public transport, eating out or the bill-paying etiquette. All frustrating and comforting, in equal measure.  

Everywhere has its contrasts but here, I seem particularly aware.  You can boggle at a HK$395, 000 watch in Central and, within a 20 min MTR journey, settle down to a DaiPaiDong dinner (street side restaurant) amongst a night market of knock-off 'back' massagers and handbags.

Coming Home for these visits are a lifeline. An anchor for the soul.

It knocks the scab that forms over our united homesickness but it is worth it.

I am blessed to have found someone who holds MarmiteTown as dear to his heart as I. He understands and loves the slightly off-the-wall childishness combined with the cynicism and confidence that eons of history both gifts and curses the collective psyche.  

We return to a room that has been mine since I was 7, and now, my nearly-7 year old sleeps next door.  We pilgrimage to roads where Trousers and I have individual & shared personal histories dating back to Miami Vice & Madonna hairstyles days. And beyond.  

But, we are not as unique as we once thought, for Hong Kong appears to have spawned a unique tribe. One that only fairly recently I have been aware.

The Tribe is made up of people who never really leave. They, physically, might but they never really let go completely.
They are the ones for whom HK has burrowed deep under their skin, set up home and refuses to ever leave.
A squatter. That demands to be heard.
A squatter, with rights. That will not be ignored

I stand to be corrected but I wonder if other countries have FaceBook groups titled 'I lived in xxxxxxxxxxxxx in the 70's' or 'xxxxxxxxxxxxx Was / Is/ Will Always Be My Home' etc.  

There are many of us. And the Tribe grows.

For now though, Me & He live somewhere else. Life is good there. We are glad of all the blessings it brings. For now.

One day though, we will run home.
And we will finally Belong again.

A Christmas Miracle - Day 16

Here we are, Sweeties, on the final approach.

Not much longer now.

Christmas Day, minus 8 days.

Current status:
mad panic!!

Why?

Well, in a few days time, we are throwing a party for 50+ people at home :)

Looking forward to it massively, though One feels tremendous responsibility when undertaking the Fostering of the Festive Feeling, for Folk Far from Home.

We all have to work a little extra hard at getting all Joy To The World & Frosty The Snowman.

Stands to reason when, daily, we must battle decidedly unMerry elements - blue skies, temperatures in the 20's (Celcius) and all this goddamn sunshine.

However, by hook or by crook, I am getting my Noel on and I'm taking every man jack of you down with me.

Also, we have, like, 3 glasses.  The Maths are against Us.

******************************************************************

I do.  I, seriously, LOVE Christmas.
There's so much to love.

But today, I only want to talk about ..........

The Tree

Doesn't everyone
have a Christmas
Sea Monkey?

The Tree is plastic.  There. I said it.

Built and decorated complete with Family Tension.

The Tension is de rigeur & as much part of Christmas as eating mincepies in the morning throughout December & running out of sticky tape on Christmas Eve with a mountain of presents STILL to wrap.

Also, there is only tension because He, The Big Boy of The House, does it all wrong.
He is a Christmas luddite.
Who, WHO, puts the tinsel on first?
FIRST???!!!

I mean I ask you.

Christmas friggin' Caveman.

Finally, we agreed.
translation: I did it

In any event, I love plastic and, spare me the gushings about the smell, blah blah blah.

As a kid, the tree was always plastic, so Arôme Arbre de Noel Plastique is a very exciting, happy one for me.

Further, no pathetic tree corpse will be lying outside our house in early January.  Discarded.

We don't need you now, get out.
No one wants your smell in January.
In January, Tree, you stink.

How do you people live with yourselves?!

Come the Resurrection of Christmas Trees Past, I tell you, I am in the clear.

*
*
*
*
*
*

Also, there's something else.
If we have a real one, the dogs would wee on it.

So you see? The Christmas miracle has come early.  Day 16 and Tree has NOT been soiled.  Yet.

This, Friends, is a PB for Ollie (The Stripy One).

Our very own Christmas Miracle.

Goodbyes - the hidden Expat Tax

Did you know?

Expats, certainly ones living here, are soulless, money-grabbing, selfish capitalists who only wish to accumulate more of the filthy lucre. At any cost.

We booze and swill hundreds of ££ or $$$'s down our ever-open, ever-stretched gullets like so many young magpies.

Gorging. Gorging. Gorging.

Having invaded, and driven out the smaller weaker of our kind, from their palm-tree shaped nests (swimming pool included), we roar with evil laughter whilst rolling naked in our money-pits (we all have them), twirling our evil moustaches.

Apparently.

All of us.

I don't think so.

Can I just say, before we move on, that I am not convinced that I drink/get drunk here, any more than I did in either of the other countries I have lived in.

In fact, I think there is a good chance I do it less.

Now, this is NOT because I am oppressed, by virtue of my weaker inferior sex nor in fact ... as everybody outside the MiddleEast seems to think* ... because I am not allowed to.
*Ditto driving.  Ditto eating pork.

Here, let me explain.

I like to call it:

The GeMTHH (GetMeTheHellHome) Quotient 

It looks like this:



Essentially, we need to establish if A is greater than the value of G

A = Amount of Alcohol-induced Fun likely OR Alcohol-Required to Induce Fun
G = Getting Home Afterwards Aggravation / Urgency

Thus, in Dubai, I often drive.

In HongKong, you step outside (unless it is raining), *BOOM* there's a cab & before you know it, you are getting yourself the Hell home.

It is less easy, in my experience, here in Dubai. Unless, I guess you are doing your Mr Creosote obscene amount of consumption in a hotel.

I just like to get home, when I want to go home.

I don't wish to order a taxi at a specified time BEFORE I've even begun to have all the Fun .......... nor do I wish to, when I have decided to call 'time' on the Fun to wait for what could be anything from
"10 minutes away" to
"30 minutes coming" to after all that,
"not coming now. No taxis."
(assuming they even answer the phone at that point).

I digress.  Yet again.

I have a habit of doing that.

See? I did it again.

Taxis and drunkedness is not what I want to talk about here.
_________________________________________________________________________________

Goodbyes.

That is what I want to talk about.

Good byes are the hidden Expat Tax. And it weighs heavy on us all.

There are the most commonly thought of Goodbyes -
* the agonisingly sad driving away from home, airport-bound.

* the stomach-churning Let's All Be Brave & Practical Until the Very Last Second and Pretend This Isn't Really Happening.

OR the hideous farewells actually AT the airport.  The Stomach-Churn will follow you here.  You cannot escape the Stomach Churn.

Both scenarios.  Horrific.  The guilt.  The good ol' fashioned waaaaaa-hahhaahahaaaaaaaaa sadness.  The suppression of the I Wanna Drop Everything and Run All The Way Home reflex.


There is another kind of Expat Goodbye too.  Which also hurts.  And doesn't require you to go anywhere.

The one where people leave YOU.

No no no.  WE leave!  WE do the leaving! Goddammit. ..................................WE do NOT get left!

This Goodbye happens when other Expats leave, to either stop being Expats or, to go be Expats somewhere else.

Making strong connections with other people can be really hard anyway, but, when you are an Expat can be really extra-hard.
Our world is very transient.

When you live away from family & friends, people that have known you through the bad haircuts, teenage dramas or relationship euphoria and hiccups, when you DO make what feels like a real connection, it can be quite intense.

I've touched on this Friend thing before - in The Rugby Post & also, in The Happiness Vampires

Friends, the good 'uns, become an immediate practical source of support when you do not have your family immediately at hand.

Sometimes that support comes in the very simple form of just a Proper Belly Laugh.

Maybe handing you a cold one, that makes you contemplate a certain algebraic equation.  Remember what we were talking about earlier?

Or letting you roll in their Money-Pit.

Goodbyes suck. All of them.
Whether you are the Leaver or the Leave-ee.

Courage, dear sweaty friends! (a rallying cry)

September =  high humidity.  In Dubai.

This will be my 9th September & frankly, familiarity is definitely breeding contempt.

As the years pass, the contempt rages out of control.  It mounts, it builds.  A forest fire of red-faced, ill-tempered sweatiness.

I hate you, September.  You and your 85% humid conditions.

Perhaps the answer is to spend September lying flat on One's stomach, on the tiles.  The dogs have got the right idea. School run & going outside, be damned, say I.

I wish.

Well........... unless anyone has a better idea, join me on the (9th) Annual Perspiration-athon, which is September in Dubai.

Standard Sweat Schedule (SSS)

HOUSE TO CAR
status: Sweaty

CAR JOURNEY
status: for 1st 5 mins, too hot to be sweaty. The sweat rivers accrued from House to Car evaporate off you, thanks to the oven hot temps inside that tin box.  You are, for now, dry as a bone.

Key in ignition - instant facial desiccation by initial blast of hot dry air, direct from the centre of the earth, as you whack the AC up to MAX.

Steering - there may be some variation on this but anything up to the 1st 6 kms of your journey will be steered by your fingertips.

As the white hot heat of your steering wheel eases, now you are freezing from the sweat-sodden clothes sticking to you in the chilly interior of your car.

CAR TO HOUSE/WORK/SUPERMARKET
status: Immediately Sweaty, again.

And, now, your glasses (sun or seeing) have fogged over the millisecond as you opened the door.

You will now drop your phone, iPod, keys, everything, as you can see nothing.

TOP TIP: just take the glasses off & squint, the fog never clears as fast as you think it might.

Squinting as you dash indoors is not going to make much difference to those crows' feet, sweetie.

After all, you already have Face of a Mummy (see earlier facial desiccation) so, what the hell, in for a penny.



WORK/HOUSE
status - here you reach a comfortable equilibrium thanks to the earth-destroying AC that is, ironically, keeping you alive.
(we can talk about the panic that a malfunctioning AC causes later.  People come together to help in a similar vein to Blitz-time London.  But we haven't got any good songs.  We should get some good 'Together We Stand When Your AC Fails' songs)

Not a patch (sorry) on the clammy heights
One's pits are capable of reaching

But, my Glowing Brothers & Sisters, screw your deodorant to its sticking place & take heart, for together, we head into the final push of the Dubai Summer.

Ahead lies the idyllic season known as ........*cue: choirs of cherubim & seraphim* ............. Winter in Dubai.

This.
(apart from the windmill & acres of green meadow)

The jolly months of blue jeans & blue skies (if I was going to be a complete bitch about it I MIGHT moan about there not being enough clouds. I do love a fluffy white cloud.), sunshine and glorious temperatures hovering around the 20 - 28 degrees C mark.

26 degs Celsius, now there is a magic number.

When the mercury drops to 26, it is .............. Boot Time!!!!





Yaaaaaaaaaaay, permission to bust out the Uggs/Emus/or whatever floats your booty boat & get All. Over. The Boots Time.

Last winter I was booted from November till early May.  True story.




I'm keeping my eye on you, September. Your days are numbered.

Don't let me down, Winter.

Bring on the boots.

Holiday (Summer) 2013 - Ride that wave

(This is an old post. The Moment was had about 3 weeks ago.)

I think I may have just had a Moment of Perfect Bliss.

In a Swansea conservatory, with this book, is where it happened.

The book choice was inspired by Dad. Possibly the first book I recall him talking about it, I must ask him if it is coincidence that he shares a name with the author AND a nickname of one of the Men.

FINALLY I have got round to it & by pg.7, I am utterly in love.

Seagulls are squawking, in the distance and nearby, the garden birds are cheepy-cheepy, tweet-tweet, tweeting.

Bouncing off the windows, in an unconcerned, half-hearted manner is a woolly, chubby-bottomed bumble bee.  I don't think he really wants to leave.  Perhaps Bumblebee doesn't want to spoil The Moment either.

In the kitchen, Classic FM is on.  For dog, but I like too.  Maybe Bee does too.

Sky is the perfect combo of cornflower blue with fat happy fluffy cloud-sheep, just milling around.  They are in no hurry.

At my elbow is a cup of tea, Lady Grey, as you ask, (I have gone Full Pompous now, haven't I?  You would think so but, any minute now it is going to get worse) .......... in one of my birthday presents.  A Portmeirion (Botanic Garden) mug.

See?

For this Moment, all feels calm. All feels well, and I, for one, am more than happy to ride the crest of this wave of serenity, for as long I can Hang Ten.

And this book, oh, THIS BOOK.......

There go the seagulls again.  Damn, I love a seagull.

[This will be the last post from our time in the UK.  Holiday comes to an end tomorrow and we head back to The Pit, to regular life.]

An Unmade Bed at the Food Court United Nations

Yesterday, I dropped the Kid at his SOUTH AFRICAN school-buddy's birthday party.

Tried to be brave about the fact that I was in a mall & the 1st (BRITISH & IRISH) Lions test against AUSTRALIA was taking place.

BUT, it wasn't a dead loss.  I WAS in a mall during the DUBAI Summer Surprise Sales so, silver lining & all that.

Spent from a mere smidge of pre-holiday shopping, I rewarded myself with a monster skinny cappu (from Gloria Jean's, incidentally.  AUSTRALIAN.  Hoped that it wasn't a sign.  Remember, I knew nothing of the outcome of the afore-mentioned rugby match at the time) & some chips from McDs, for a spot of SRM (see Spontaneous Reading Moments post).

Sitting there, in my SRM bubble, with caffeine & carbs, I became aware of the family to my left.

A lone man, with 4 abaya'd ladies.  A baby in a buggy, 2 girl children (un-abaya'd) and an older boy child (playing on some handheld electronic device). 
I don't know but I guess it is possible that more than one of these ladies were his wives.  It's a thing that is part of life here.  I don't judge & anyway, they are all having a nice time sharing their mega Mac Attack meal.  THIS I get.

I glance around.  A positively psychedelic plethora of racial & cultural representatives are sharing the Food Court experience with me, on a weekend, one of the last before Ramadan.

There was a mainland CHINESE, maybe TAIWANESE, family, INDIAN families, LEBANESE families, families with their SOMALI, ETHIOPIAN, SUDANESE (I am toooooootally hazarding a guess here, you understand) helpers & FILIPINO families.

Just from where I am sitting I can see full abayas with burkas & hijabs all the colours of the rainbow http://www.hijab-styles.com/.

Hands up if you've ever spotted skintight trousers, gigantic boofy hair, killer heels & unnaturally inflated lips (& the rest!) in a mall in Dubai.  Honest to goodness, there is a whole table of them over there. 
Their children & maids are at the next table.

Maxi dresses, shorts & sleeveless tops are here too, alongside plenty of salwar kameez(s), men & women.  Is that the correct plural? 

Here too, in the KFC queue, the 'long shorts with flipflop' combo.  The weekend uniform of the standard male Western expat.

The crisp, utterly uncrumpled kandoras are modeled perfectly by a host of fathers, husbands & teenage boys.  HOW is that possible?

In 9 years I have never seen a dishdash in any form of disarray, whereas, whatever I do, I always look like an unmade bed.

Everyone is just doing their thing, not paying attention to anyone, except for the lady with a froffy coffee & a bag o'frites, scribbling on a napkin.

OK, need to stop staring.

Back to book.  Book about the fall of the BRITISH Raj in INDIA.

If I don't press on, I'll never find out how it ends & these chips aren't going scoff themselves.