Nightflight

This is all I got to see of Dubai

Time does not pass properly on planes. And I’m not just alluding to the fact that you cross multiple different time zones – I mean, my 14-hour flight to Dubai took approximately five years. Five years in dim lighting (for some reason, no one wanted the window shades open for the ENTIRE FLIGHT. Woe.) watching mediocre movies and longing for the food trolley to come around again.

I sat next to a friendly and trendy thirtysomething lady who was happy to chat with me several times during the flight, who had a habit of procuring extra snacks, and who was as much of a cat-lover as I am. She was also terrified of air travel and gripped my hand as we came into land at Dubai during a turbulent sandstorm (“Hon, I’m so sorry. Is your hand ok? Oh look, I’ve absolutely crushed it. Thank you. I’m so sorry hon.”) As an anxious type myself, I never would have predicted that one day I would be counseling a nervous flyer through a wobbly landing.

Dubai was shrouded in a haze of sand as we landed. It was apparently 40°C outside, but the airport was so well air-conditioned that I still needed to wear my jacket as I raced through it towards my next flight. Airports are strangely anonymous places – here I was, in Dubai, on the other side of the world, in a totally foreign land, and yet if it weren’t for the Arabic script on every sign, I could have been in any airport anywhere. I felt like I was missing out on something: missing out on the lavish and exotic Dubai culture. But I had another plane to catch.

The second flight, despite a delayed boarding and takeoff, was a much more pleasant experience than the first. I guess it didn’t hurt that it only went for half the length of the first flight – suddenly seven hours sounded like a breeze compared to the fourteen I’d just been through. Once again I immersed myself in movie-watching (Man on a Ledge was surprisingly good), unsuccessful attempts at sleep, and gazing out the window next to me at the sprawling landscapes and cotton-wool clouds below.

At long last, the plane finally touched down at Heathrow airport to typically British weather (rain, cold and light fog). I was anticipating long queues of an hour or two to get through border control, delayed or lost luggage, and mean customs officials who might want to confiscate my contact lenses or my Clexane. This almost paralyzing trepidation was more stressful than hurtling through the air at over 30,000 feet.

With a sense of dread building in my gut and being almost too tired to function, I made my way through the labyrinthine Heathrow terminal 3. The queue at border control was long – about 45 minutes – but nowhere near what I’d been expecting. Another stamp on my passport and it was time to collect my baggage.

I have never been so glad in my entire life. Well, okay, that’s probably an exaggeration. There have been many events more joyful than seeing a black suitcase with a purple luggage strap and a tag in the shape of a bee sliding towards me on the luggage carousel, but the sense of relief puts it up there as one of the Glad Life Moments list. I had to resist the urge to hug my luggage. Instead, I chose to lug it through the airport and out into the cold. No need to go through customs at all. What a breeze.

Less easy, though, was catching the bus to my hotel, where I managed to forget that the zip on my wallet was open. Australian coins rained down as I walked towards my seat, scattering themselves noisily all over the ground and making me seem like the biggest clutz to ever enter London. The bus driver looked at me sympathetically before pointing out that I’d also forgotten to take the ticket I’d just purchased (“It’s okay. You’re tired. Long flight?”)

By the time the bus pulled into the Holiday Inn Express, I looked and felt like an absolute wreck. Despite some noise from other guests and an irritating water-saving showerhead, the hot shower and welcoming mattress were heaven. I slept like a rock.