Next morning, our hospitable friends make breakfast for us and we conveniently behave like guests, offering only to eat it. Unshaven and un-showered, we head to a beautiful farmer’s market where I buy overpriced but promising honey from Yemen. We sit on the ground sharing coffee and talking about how we miss such a thing in India. Few business plans are made and dumped. The olives are fantastic and we buy a lot of it. A LOT of it. Funny how my stories invariably turn out to be about food. Or missed flights.
Next up is a trip to the super market with the objective of buying stuff we don’t need. We do precisely that. I buy a toothpaste which promises everything. In fact, they ran out of space to have those tick marks on the box. White teeth, check. Great gums, check. Long lasting sex, check. No missed flights, check. A friend buys gluten free pasta. Yes, they are available in India, but there is something about paying in a foreign currency that makes you feel you spent it well. A few bags full, we go back home and open some beers. And then a few more.
A little later, lunch is at the beachside, again with great music and delectable food. Pity, everyday cant be like this. But then it can be. Time to think more on how to manifest that.
We come back to play poker. Few sick beats later, another friend joins us for a drink. We decide to make it three.
Conversations revolve around real estate, children and health. Pretty much what everyone talks about in every corner of the world with a drink in their hand.
Post that, it’s bar hopping time. We head to Iris, the terrace bar at The Oberoi. Beautiful faces and smiles surround us. Unfortunately, most of the other bars that we ‘hop’ to are empty, being end of the weekend. I have a choice to make – sleep a couple of hours before catching my 5 am flight back or stay up all night.
I guess you know what I did. Or do you?
I am now over my missed-flight depression.
Later in the day, we talk. About life, death, food and health. Some of it scares us but most of it makes us hopeful. We drink cups of ginger tea and reminisce old times. The desert sun says bye for now and we plan for the evening. Dubai hospitality at a friend’s house-party ensues. We come back, tummies stuffed with some finger-licking lamb biryani. Apparently, it is only available only if you know who-you-should-know and if you wade through the narrow lanes of the older town. For me, such stories always up the flavor by a few notches.
We decide to make the most of it with an after party but I doze off on the couch with my mouth open before the coffee is ready. I am politely asked to move my ass to the bed, which I obediently do, only to encounter unique resonances of a friend snoring next to me.
I was always a morning person.