Our Arabian Prince in a White Escalade...

We had just arrived at Club 400 and found a cocktail table to place our bags on when Rosie got the text.
No, not the late night booty call... Lana and I exchanged looks and we both knew what it meant.
"Guys, I'm going to go meet him." Rosie pleaded, guiltily and I tried to persuade her to stay but all to no avail. We watched her walk right back up the grand staircase we had walked down just two minutes earlier.

"Why is she doing this? She's just going to get hurt in the end!" She was really upset about it. See, Rosie had trapped herself in a situation many single women in Dubai have been in - getting involved with the married man. Rosie was at the beck and call of an 'unhappily' married Syrian colleague (yet another no-go there), who promised her that his arranged marriage was not because of love and that if he could leave her, he would. We all knew (even Rosie, deep down inside), that this would never happen. But she was in love, and it's hard to budge a strong-willed girl in love.

I tried to remember the fact that Rosie was a big girl and could look after herself, and made my way over to the bar to buy Lana a much needed drink.

"Ok, but one vodka-red bull for me, because I'm driving home". We clinked glasses and danced away.

As the club got more crowded, we got shoved around between all the people we found ourselves as wallflowers up against the back wall. This worked well for us, since it gave us room to actually dance.
"Be right back, look after the drinks while I go to the bathroom". I snuck away for a moment to the nearby bathroom and after doing what I needed to do, gave the attendant 5 dirhams for fixing the back of my hair and giving me a mint.

Back out at our tiny cocktail table, Lana was being hounded by some creep.
"Get lost, dude" she was saying, but he was the type of creep who wouldn't take no for an answer.
We decided to get out of our little corner and back at the bar. We ordered one more vodka-red bull for Lana, and a cola for me. Halfway through our drinks, although we were on the other side of the club, creep found us and starting grinding on Lana. I was shocked and appalled that she wasn't pushing him away.

Something was definitely wrong.

[Why is this wall lamp smiling at me? Wahhh]

She was leaning into him and he had his creepy hands all over her and my eyes were being molested. Lana was an ice queen in the clubs, if a guy even thought of looking her way or approaching her, she'd give a death stare mean enough make cute little puppies yelp in fear. Her behaviour was not normal.
He tried kissing her and even tried walking her out of the club!! I couldn't stand my friend being subject to this creepy voodoo man's hands anymore. So I picked her up and as she dragged her heels, I dragged her up and out of the club.

While waiting for my car at the valet stand in front of the Fairmont, Lana staggered about with a glassy look in her eyes.
"Are you ok?"
"Yeah, I feel fine. Well, I feel drunk, actually, I want to throw up..."
Just as my car pulled up to the drive.

We made it half way home before Lana started to feel even worse, so I pulled over into McDonalds on Jumeirah Beach Road and we sat in the parking lot for a bit. She flung the car door open, ran out and bent over into the small gardens at the near the curb, retching. Everyone passing by stared at us, which I guess was an uncommon sight to see, but still, it was 2am on a Friday night, surely they'd know what was happening! I wasn't really sure how to act to my friend because I'd never been in a situation where someone was throwing up constantly for more than 10 minutes. I ran into the McDonalds and asked for a large cup of water. When I came out again, there was a giant white Cadillac Escalade parked next to my tiny little car. So many empty parking spaces, why did they have to park right next to mine? 
I crouched next to Lana, who was pale as a ghost, and handed her the water to drink. She drunk it up, then threw up a bit more. I was so scared, I wanted to take her to a hospital.

The driver's window on the Escalade shot down and a handsome, concerned face peered out.
"Are you girls OK?"
"We're fine, go away." Lana snarled. Ok, so she was getting back to normal.
I looked up at the mystery man and shrugged my shoulders a bit.
"Here, I want to help you..." He got out of his truck and ran toward McDonalds.
"He seems nice..." I said to Lana,
"Yeah, right". She replied. Yep, she was definitely coming back.

He returned with a drink tray full with four tall cups of water.
"Here, drink this. Make sure you stay hydrated".
This guy was for real. No creepiness in his concern, no ulterior motives, he was genuinely worried.

He stuck around and chatted with us a bit more. He gave advice on what to do and assured me she'd be fine. He definitely kept the whole situation from geting out of control (ie, me freaking out and hysterically driving her over to Al Wasl Hospital). Lana thanked him for his time, said she was feeling a bit better and that he could go, as it was now definitely an odd hour of the night.
He obliged, and handed her his business card. He (our handsome prince) hopped back into (onto) his white Escalade (white horse) and sped off into the night (rode off in the sunset). We squealed and giggled and I told Lana she must, must, must call him the next day.

After the weekend, Lana felt better and Rosie's heart was still intact. A satisfactory end to an odd night.

Things I learnt from this experience:
Don't ever take your eyes off your drink, even for a second (Lana is positive her drink was spiked, because she had never reacted to alcohol in this way before)

The one that wasn't James McAvoy...

Lana and I dressed up in our shiny black threads and drove over to Al Garhoud for a bit of Drum & Bass at Club Alpha. Alpha is probably my favourite club in Dubai. Quite small but the music was always good. The night started off slow, as usual, and the crowd picked up only at about 1.00am just as the international DJ hit the decks.

Lana and I danced on the edge of the dance floor... That's when Mr McAvoy approached me and asked if I wanted a drink. He brought his tall Lebanese friend over to chat with Lana while asking me many questions I couldn't hear. I dragged Lana over to the bathrooms and squealed in excitement about how much this mysterious European looked a lot like my favourite actor. After calming down, we decided to go back out and dance.

A few sweaty hours after dancing and being subject of several random photos, the music died down, the lights came on and everyone made their way out of the club. Then Mr McAvoy asked for my number. I thought about it for a moment because I didn't know if I wanted to see him again. He did look like James McAvoy though, so I typed my digits into his phone and saved my name. Unfortunate thing though, was that I didn't quite grab his name. It was too foreign, and the music was too loud, for me to figure it out.

Over the next few days, I'd have completely understood if Lana slapped me silly because I did not stop talking about Mr McAvoy and how I hoped that he'd call me. Luckily, I was put out of my misery and he called me mid week to see when I was free to catch up. He said he was a pilot for a private airline and travelled a lot, sometimes he wasn't even sure how long he'd be away for. I told him to let me know when he knows he's free, and I should be fine.

The next day at work, I got an email with an attachment from Lana. She didn't actually write any description, she just attached one photo. It was a photo from Alpha, taken by one of the roving photographers of a weekly magazine. When I looked at it, all my fantasies of being whisked away on a private jet with Mr McAvoy dissolved into thin air, due to my shallow brain.
Mr McAvoy of Club Alpha, looked nothing like James McAvoy of Hollywood fame. He wasn't 'ugly' but let's just say, the darkness and strobe lights of the night club complimented his face REALLY well.

Once again, Lana was the one I shared all my burdens with. Whether I should still go out with him even though he wasn't perfect? If I was just being silly and shallow. If he really was a pilot or was he just some casanova with such a tight schedule of pleasing the ladies that he hardly had time for a new one...
You could say my imagination ran a bit wild.

He did, eventually, call me about a week and a half later but by that time, in my head we'd already bid farewell and I didn't expect to hear from him ever again. So I just let the phone ring. And ring. And ring. Shame that I didn't even catch his name (I asked him on our first phone conversation, but was too embarrassed to ask him to repeat himself for the 3rd time... Way too foreign sounding), I didn't even have a chance to Facebook stalk him.

One day I'll meet my real James McAvoy.

Things I learnt from that experience...
If a guy looks Hollywood glamour in the low lights of a club, there's the high possibility he doesn't look the same out in the scorching Dubai heat
If a guy tells you not to expect him to answer your calls all the time because he's a pilot, he's probably lying (or he possibly isn't, so maybe you should give it a shot)

For a laugh...

It was a regular Friday night out in Dubai... No, erase that.
It was my first time at I2 Lounge at the Metropolitan Hotel on Sheikh Zayed Road.
I had no clue about how this night would turn out.

I usually fall into the same patterns on weekends…. Clock off work 5pm on Thursday afternoon, have an early one or on the rare occasion get dolled up for a night at Club 400; beach/pool/gym Friday morning OR sleep in until early afternoon (depending on my Thursday night decision really); Friday evening get ready for a boogie to some electro-synth favourites at Alpha or head over for a cheesy 80s night at The Lodge.

When Tracy suggested heading to I2 Lounge to celebrate her birthday, I was a bit hesitant to attend. Don't get me wrong, I've heard many good things about I2 from my peers, but the fact it was located at the seedy Metropolitan Hotel gave me doubts. An old establishment (for Dubai standards), its red flashing signboards screamed 'tacky' to me. Also, it was home of one of the seediest bars of EARTH, the notorious Rattlesnake. The Rattlesnake was a brothel, but since brothels were illegal in the Islamic state of Dubai, it wasn't really a brothel. Basically, if you wanted some action and were willing to pay for it, your best bet would be to head to the Rattlesnake.

Still, I brushed my worries aside and put on a nice dress and took a taxi out to JLT to meet the others (there was no way I would arrive there alone). Me, together with Tracy in her birthday best, Tracy's best friend Ramona, Ramona's buff boyfriend Dan, and Tracy's neighour Allan, all squeezed into a taxi and drove the long road down to the Metropolitan. I2 was located around the side of the hotel, and was a small underground place full of plasma TV's showing film clips from the 90s and furnished with white leather couches. It was small, or perhaps you might say intimate, and everyone there seemed chill.

A couple of hours later, after some beers and cheers, I found myself just staring at the TV just watching the corny film clips accompanying the music. The music was good, but we were starting to get restless and ready for the real party to start. We lasted 10 minutes in the hip hop club inside the hotel and re-evaluated out plan. Then Ramona screamed out "RATTLESNAKE" and after initial bouts of laughter and my very defiant "that's disgusting!!", the plan was set. We were all in it 'for a laugh'.

As we approached the Amercian Western Roadhouse themed bar, we could already tell that the Rattlesnake was alive and kicking. Although there was a small group of guys hanging around the enterance, Dan walked straight up to the door man and he ushered us in, handing us two drink vouchers each. Did we pay for entry? I really don't remember.

My first thought as we entered the noisy, smokey bar, was  a reminder to myself not to make eye contact with anyone, especially the men. It was hard though, the place was bustling with tight lycra clad bodies and dirty denimed men. If you weren't looking at faces of these women, you were staring at their ample busts, their long manicured nails heavy with massive jeweled rings or their appropriate CFM boots (not forgetting that at midnight in Dubai the weather was still a cool 30 degrees)...

Myself and Romana found a spot at the bar, waved our drink vouchers at the barman and in no time had two Coronas in our hands. We were almost cheek-to-cheek with the patrons of this bar. I looked up at a tall women on my right and she looked down on me with the dirtiest look I've ever been given. I leaned over to Ramona and whispered,
"These women are thinking we're a bunch of new skanks taking their business away". We laughed and made our way over to the dance floor.

Ramona found an oddball loner on the dance floor and started a dance off with him, while the rest of us shared a quiet boogie on the sidelines. After a few songs from the band, I realised all the alcohol had caught up with me and I desperately needed to go to the bathroom. The bathroom in this place was the last place I wanted to go to... I dragged Tracy and we made our way over...

Tracy kicked the door open, so as to avoid touching anything. And inside the worlds seediest bathroom, we looked at the slimy walls, then back at each other, and I made a silent prayer that we don't catch a disease from here. I kicked open the cubicle door once again, and avoiding direct contact with the lock, used my cardigan as a glove to shut it. The back of the toiler door was scribbled with Russian text.
'Anna, 050-5555555, 1000 dhs', 'Katy 050-5555555, 2500 dhs'. Something for every budget I guess.

As I walked through the crowd, I was positive that myself, Tracy and Ramona were the only women there that were not prostitutes. I felt sorry for the women, but even more so for the men. The feeling was hard to describe. I felt such a deep humiliating pity for the men there. I wanted to cry.
Then I had a thought, what happens if I saw someone I know? It wouldn't be embarrassing for me; since I was there 'for a laugh', practically dragged there against my will, unable to ditch Tracy on her birthday since I'm such a good friend; but I'd be so embarrassed for that person, who obviously enjoyed being there. Maybe I was being to judgemental.

Back at the edge of the dance floor, I again avoided eye contact with anyone. I felt a guy creep up close to me. I ignored him. He nudged me and said hello. I moved closer to Dan, ignoring him completely.
"Hi, how are you?"
No response. Maybe a quick dirty look to make him go away but he didn't get the hint.
"How much?"
I really didn't know what to say. I turned to him and felt like punching his face in. But in a place like the Rattlesnake, could I really blame any man asking me this question?

At the end of the night, we tallied up our requests: I had 2, Tracy had 2 and Ramona didn't have a clue as she was too drunk to remember anything.

Topping the night off, instead of making our usual Burger King run, we decided that it was perfectly normal and hygienic to grab a table outside the Rattlesnake to purchase a few burger and chips combos.

When I got home, I showered immediately.

Things I learnt that night:
The dirty side of Dubai is very, very dirty
Going to a brothel 'for a laugh' will still make you feel dirty and disgusting
Those flashing red lights outside the hotel really do mean something

Marhaba...

I've always wanted to start a blog about my antics in Dubai – it’s not the Sin City of the Middle East; that title definitely goes to Beirut; but it’s a close second and deserves an equally saucy nickname… Any suggestions?

I’ve lived in Dubai for many years now. I exited from DXB into the big heat as a sweet, naive 20 year old with no love, life or world experience at all. I still think I’m somewhat sweet, but not at all naive, and living in a city like Dubai has definitely taught me a lot about myself and the world around me.

I hope you enjoy the stories I tell. And being the socially anonymous butterfly I am, names and places may be changed for privacy reasons ;-)