Travel Musings

Five Star my Ass

Allahdammit, I just looked up concrastinator online and it's actually a word! Here I thought I was So witty, So clever...

By the way, I despise the JW Mausoleum with the intensity of 10,000 white-hot suns. Never before have I encountered a hotel so abysmally bereft of personality. Who awarded it "five stars"? Star inflation. Poor Pat is paying over $400 a night ($250 on the weekend) for the privilege of puking in this place.

I accessed the internet this morning from the JW Marriott's business office, which could sell me two 15-minute internet passes (at $5 each), but the 30-minute pass (at $7.50) was unavailable. I'm no mathematician, but...

I called Pat earlier this morning, and he still sounded as though he was in death's grasp. He told me that he suspected the source of his food poisoning was a tangy-tasting turkey sandwich from Subway.

WTF? I was empathetic with him until now: I figured, it's not his fault that he's sick on the trip, but now I'm now so sure. Who eats at Subway? Seriously. That's like walking through Riviera Beach at night in a bikini or being a minority at a George Allen (R-Va) convention. You're just Courting Disaster.

I approach the concierge desk with a fistful of Dirham; my Luxe Dubai City Guide (a stylish, snarky, hip pocket-guide); and my practical, yet au courant, Time Out Dubai (both purchased at the one-of-a-kind Flight 001 store). From what I can surmise, a top-notch concierge is invaluable in this emirate. Thankfully, I have a crackerjack JW Marriott concierges at my disposal. Ha, I jest!: this is the JW Marriott Deira: they're clueless! I don't begrudge the concierges: Dubai simply cannot train a professional workforce at the exponential rate at which it's expanding.

Beware the Hurly Burly

I grab a cab to the gold sukh, which closes from 1:00 - 4:00. Damn, the traffic is oppressive! I don't understand how Dubai can continue to aggressively court tourists and expats when its transportation infrastructure cannot adequately support the existing population. According to an article I read in the local newspaper, Dubai currently has 35 5-star hotels, and it will have 130 5-star hotels by 2010 (then again, they count the JW Marriott as a 5-star hotel). Still.

No sooner do I exit the car then I regret my decision: this area is charmless. I'm clearly in Dubai's business district, which is every bit as boring as any business district of any large city. I just want out of here, which isn't easy, as Dubai Creek separates me from where I'd prefer to be, Bastakia, the oldest, and most "authentic", part of Dubai.

I eventually locate an abra station, and hire one to transport me to the opposite bank. I pay ten times the going rate, but what the hell -- it's only three bucks. On land, I explore the narrow, snaking, covered alleyways of the Bastakia sukh, and lose myself in my Arabian surroundings for a minute or two. But then I wander back into daylight, and congested streets, and snap back into reality.

I find my way to the semi-interesting Dubai museum, which consumes a quarter-hour of my time. I exit, continue my walk up the creek, and pause at the Basta Art Cafe.

Time Out Dubai states that the Basta Art Cafe courtyard "offers cool respite from Bar Dubai hurly-burly (funny)" and "[it is] a wonderful place for those in search of a bit of Dubai character." It is quiet and peaceful. My server, much like my concierge and taxi driver, appears to have been imported into the country just yesterday, but I don't care: she's trying.

My Luxe Dubai City Guide, which also recommends the Basta Art Cafe, reads: "...head down the alley between Majlis Gallery (next to BAC) and Local House (a restaurant) until you get to a little square with trees, go straight, right, then left, and carry on round bearing left, to find on the left, Contempo Ostra Gallery. Exit left and just around the next corner you'll espy the delightful FAE, a gem of funky beady bags, shoes, and a kaftan-lovers g-spot.  Exit left and you can't miss the lovely XVA Gallery. This boutique-y hotel/art gallery/cafe is the perfect retreat from the heat and hurly-burly." Who knew Dubai would be so jam-packed with hurly burly?

As complicated as this complex sounds in my Luxe Guide, it's even more difficult to navigate in real-life. I find the Ostra Gallery easily enough and it's nice -- a little pricey. FAE, unfortunately, is closed, but, with some determination, I eventually locate XVA Gallery. You would not want to attempt to wander back to your XVA hotel room drunk at night if you stayed here: it's near-impossible to find while sober.

I wanna stay here. I wanna stay here. I wanna stay here. The XVA ($135 - $160 per night) is So! Cute! It's remote, and tranquilic, and so-not-a-part-of-the-Marriott-Corporation-chain-of-hotels-lacking-an-ounce-of-character-and-dispossessed-of-the-tiniest,-most-miniscule,-glimpse-of-charm. The art on the walls is fabulous, and I'd seriously consider buying a piece if I weren't feeling so cash-drained of late. XVA is listed on the Chic Retreats website.

By the way, regarding the JW Marriott, I know what you're thinking: you're thinking, how can you continue to bitch about the JW Marriott when it's not costing you a dirham; it's absolutely free? But I can bitch about it, and I will. Bitching: it's what I do best.

We're S-H-O-PP-I-N-G, we're shopping

Locating an empty cab on the street is impossible so I return to the museum parking lot and snag one as it drops off passengers. I ask the driver to take me to the Village Mall, an "avant-garde shopaholic's dream," according to Time Out, on Jumeirah Beach Road (the main resort road). I'm a sucker for "avant-garde"!

What passes as fashion in the Middle East does not pass as fashion in the Midwest. The clothing sold here is extravagant: flashy, spangly, sparkly. I would be laughed off Michigan Avenue if I were caught in any of this stuff. But, but...the women in Dubai manage to pull the look off, and I endlessly enjoy analyzing their sense of style.

The One home decor store, which is oft-referenced in guide books, is located across the street from the Village Mall, next to the beautiful Jumeirah Mosque.

This grandiose store is good, plain fun. Unabashedly kitschy, it doesn't take itself seriously. Much like Dubai fashion, the stock screams for attention. Merchandise crams every inch of floor, wall, and ceiling: linens, stationery, holiday ornaments, furnishings, furniture, plateware: you name it, it's here, and it's ostentatious. Expat and Arabic women, no doubt exhausted from shopping the first floor, pack the cute cafe on the second level. Bags bursting with colored paper lie at their manicured feet.

No Tabbouleh for You

Back at the hotel, I toss a package of rehydration tablets from the local pharmacy into Pat's room from ten feet away in the hallway -- sure, he's probably only suffering from salmonella, but just in case it's plutonium 210 poisoning, or avian flu, I maintain a safe distance.

A voicemail from my uber-concierge awaits me. She concedes that I am correct, the camel races are held on Thursday mornings (she had insisted this morning that the races take place on Wednesday evenings). She also informs me that the races are closed to the public, which is contrary to several articles I have read on the subject. I try calling the racetrack directly, an exercise in futility.

After a nap and shower I stop by the concierge desk and inquire as to the location of Bastakiah Nights, where I hold a dinner reservation.

"I think it's located somewhere around here," says/asks the concierge, drawing a circle on my map large enough to lasso all of Bastakiah andthen some. Hopefully my taxi driver will be more familiar with the establishment location.

My taxi driver, Whiplash I affectionately call him, is stumped, but we eventually figure out the location together. I read today that 4,000 traffic violations are recorded in Dubai daily. That figure does not seem far-fetched.

Bastakiah Nights, while austere in daylight, is quite fetching at night, all lit up. As usual when I dine abroad, I'm one of the first diners of the evening: we dorky Americans partake of "supper" about the time the rest of the world settles in for their afternoon snooze. I'm seated at a low wooden table in a dramatic open-roofed courtyard. Surly, my waitress, begrudgingly hands me the menu. It's a prix-fixe menu with several dishes listed under each course. I don't care about the cost, (which is reasonable), but I can't eat this much food, nor do I want to dine alone for the next three hours.

"May I order off the menu?" I ask.

"No." Surly departs and returns with my lime and mint drink (what I really want is a glass of wine but BN is an alcohol-free joint).

I order one of the appetizers, assuming that the prix-fixe menu includes one choice from the various categories. I'm mistaken: the prix-fixe menu include every dish listed.

"I'll start with the hummus..."

"...Are you ordering off the menu?" asks/accuses Surly, clearly pissed.

"Yes?"

She relents. I order four of the twenty dishes listed on the menu. Surly delivers each with more disdain than you would imagine a person could muster: she might as well be tossing bread crumbs at pigeons. The bill (finally) arrives and the sum of the four individual items is nearly the same as the prix fixe price for twenty items. I contemplate my inhospitable service. Do they think I'm a prostitute? It's the most logical explanation for the contemptuous treatment I've received. Eastern European prostitutes ply their trade all over Dubai, but if I'm a prostitute, I'm doing a poor job of self-marketing: my dress is too long, my heels to short, and my neckline too high. I'd make a lousy prostitute.

I give Bastakiah Nights a C: Great atmosphere, and an opportunity to try a variety of native foods. On the other hand, the dishes were mediocre and the service (to use the term loosely) inexcusable. No doubt their business will plummet when my dozen+ subscribers read my review. That'll teach 'em: no one puts Mitzy in the corner!

We're C-R-A-SH-I-N-G, We're Crashing

I forego the camel races: I'm not awaking at 5:30 and shelling out for a 45-minute cab ride for a spectacle that may or may not be open to the public.

My taxi driver is Indian. He misses his family back home and dislikes living in Dubai: the off-season produces a dearth of passengers and the influx of tourists during season paralyzes the flow of traffic: he's perpetually damned. Dubai is a land of The Haves and the Have-Nots. Buses of have-nots return to Deira each evening: the workers are crammed into the seats and slumped against windows, their exhaustion palpable.

And The Haves? They shop at the The Mall of the Emirates, the "world's first shopping resort." Does the world really need a shopping resort? The Mall of the Emirates is famous for housing Ski Dubai, an indoor ski park consisting of five runs.

Ski Dubai is interesting for approximately two minutes, but the rest of the mall, is, well, a gargantuan, upscale, very well-organized mall. I relate to the Griswald family arriving at the Grand Canyon: I study it for a minute or two, shrug my shoulders, and move on.

I don't even like malls, but what else do you do when you're in the shopping capital of the world and your traveling partner is locked in his room kecking/talking to the dinosaurs on the big, white telephone/praying to the porcelein god/upchucking/technicolor yawning/paying the rent/expectorating/street spamming/honoring the Japanese Prime Minister (I made this one up myself!)/or what have you...? You visit the malls, that's what you do.

(Funky, cold) Madinat Jumeirah mall, along the Jumeirah strip, is actually charming -- as charming as a mall can be, that is. It resembles a traditional Arabian marketplace, down to the open-aired ceiling. I welcome the absence of air conditioning, which is otherwise omnipresesnt in Dubai.

SMJ is less commercial, less western than the other shopping centers. It's home to several boutiques featuring native, hand-crafted merchandise -- or at least decent facsimiles of native, hand-crafted merchandise. I drop a few Dirham here on Middle-Easterny knick-knacks.

In keeping with Dubai's reputation as Mid-East Party Central, SMJ hosts a nightclub and 20+ restaurants, including Noodle House, a hip and casual dining spot referenced in every guide: according to one publication, His Highness Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid al Maktoum (not a bad looking dude) noshes here occasionally. Noodle House is ok. It's not great. I can sit outside and order a decent, cold beer, which is a nice change, as this has been the driest vacation since I was sixteen.

I exit the SMJ and casually stroll towards the Jumeirah Beach Club, hoping to crash it, only to be stopped by a guard. I mumble something blonde and slink off.

I retreat to the Jumeirah strip, pass the world-famous Burj Al Arab hotel (left). I looked into JAA prices on internet prior to my arrival and found a rate of $1,400, which is deep discount, but far too rich for me, not that I'm not worth it, though.

I continue on to the Jumeirah Beach Hotel (right), where they allow me to indulge in a lime & mint refreshment on their deck. I like it here: the people watching is first-rate: designer-clad guests talk loudly on rhinestone-studded cell phones and my fellow trespassers are denied access to the pool and sand by the beach bouncers.

"You can drop the attitude. You only work in a shop." - E.M.

Back at the ranch, I check-in on Pat: he is still alive (good), but not yet up for dinner (bad). I'd prefer to have his company, but my lack of it is not going to prevent me from indulging in a heaping plate full o' "signature Singapore-style pepper crab smothered in knockout, piquant sauce" (Luxe Dubai) at Peppercrab.

I arrive at the Grand Hyatt at the un-cool hour of 8:00, just in time for my reservation. I approach the hostess stand, which is guarded by Nordic Bitch Hostess, who glares down at me like Cerberus. I explain to her that my dinner companion is ill, and that the reservation for two will be for one instead. Judging by her reaction, this a major, MAJOR, I mean really-effing-MAJOR-inconvenience that I've caused, reminding me of the snooty art gallery assistant in the AbFab "Death" episode. Don't make me get all Edina Monsoon on your ass.

After working through her consternation, NBC deigns to guide me to my table, known in "the business" as a five-foot (diameter) round". I look around at the empty dining room and request a more "appropriate" table: even if I had honored my reservation for two, this table would clearly be ridiculously large. NBC responds that no other tables are available. She can stick this five-foot round up her NBA.

What is up with dining alone in this town/state/emirate?

The other Grand Hyatt restaurants don't appeal to me so I catch a cab to the Shangri-La hotel, which seems to offer the best confluence of restaurants in Dubai. Marrakech, which serves modern Moroccan cuisine, is inviting, but I crave something different after dining at Bastakiah Nights. Hoi An, a Vietnamese restaurant exhibiting a French influence, is a "comely little salon" (again, the cheeky Luxe Dubai), but alas, they have no room for moi. I end up drinking a beer and ordering an appetizer at the bar next door while gazing down at the lobby-bar crowd below me. The bar-food is mediocre at best, but hey, I'm just happy that the server is nice to me.

Have Yourself a Merry Little Foot Massage

I ask my taxi driver to take me to More, a restaurant buried deep within Garhoud, an unappealing, concrete business park.

Per Time Out, the main dining room at More is "a warehouse of kookiness: under a purple ceiling, you'll find a room filled with melons on pedestals and sofas studded with ball bearings. Clients sit on comfy leather seats and eat at huge mahogany tables scattered with papers and magazines."

Luxe Dubai refers to More as a "groovy little joint with eclectic decor, pics, photos, mags, and wireless internet..." I'm beginning to suspect that the Luxe Dubai writer relied heavily on Time Out...

I take to More instantly: I like its expat-y vibe. Sitting at the communal table with other single diners, riffling through magazines, is a welcome respite from being treated as a pariah. And, someone is obviously preparing the food with care here.

After a most satisfying lunch, I mosy around the corner to Bliss Reflexology, a "massage and reflexology center" (spa) my driver and I passed on the way to More. The rates at Bliss are surprisingly reasonable for Dubai: a one-hour reflexology session is only $35.

I remove my shoes and follow my therapist upstairs, which is divided into "treatment rooms" by cloth curtains. I change into cotton scrubs and lie on a mat on the floor. Although I love royal treatment and five-star anything, I actually prefer the spare, natural surroundings of Southeast Asia spas (Bliss is modeled out SE Asia spas) to their more showy equivalents in the U.S.: naugahyde massage tables, air-conditioners operating in overdrive, and Enya are overrated.

Except... Instead of dripping water, or golden silence, or windchimes chime-chime-chiming...a speaker system pumps out western Christmas songs, set to a cha-cha-cha tempo, performed on what sounds to be a circa-1982 suburban mall Yamaha organ demo. Kinda ruins the mood...

But, stalwart spa-goer that I am, I manage to transcend what now sounds to be carols set to an unflagging calypso beat, and settle into welcome semi-consciousness.

Sometimes, it's Ok to be a Tourist

2:55. Pat and I meet in the lobby. He claims to feel ok, despite his pallor and the dark half-moons beneath his eyes. He tells me that he successfully managed a trip to the business center this morning to check his e-mail, and that, according to the computer's address look-up function, someone in the hotel has been accessing Perezhilton.com.

"Um, Pat? That was me."

The Alpha Tours SUV arrives, and we board with a few other passengers. Our concierge booked Alpha for us.

We gather in a convoy in the desert, not far outside Dubai. After deflating the tires to allow for greater traction, our drivers organize into a linear formation, and drive up, down, and across the dunes, sand flying in all directions and tires spinning wildly as we dip and fly. Scary fun. But not too scary: just scary enough. I'd laugh right now if I weren't afraid of vomiting. Apparently I'm a wimp: even in a compromised condition, Pat endures the ride better than I.

Just when I've had about enough slipping and sliding, we stop for photo ops. I'm quite taken with the picture I've snapped of the desert at dusk (I love dusk!), but too bad it's marred by tire tracks.

Our caravan continues to a walled campsite. Pat and I claim spaces on some cushions beneath an awning, and I execute a beer run to the makeshift bar.

Beggers can't be choosers, so I order two Heinekens from our bartender and ask him when I'm going to see a camel spider. He laughs at me good-naturedly, and informs me that camel spiders are only found in the summer. I ask if he has ever encountered them, to which he replies proudly:

"Of course, I am a Bedouin!"

I recall reading somewhere that the Alpha outfit is run by Bedouins (or is the plural Bedouin? Bedouini?). Pat and I agree that our hosts are exceedingly amicable. Now that Ithink about it, I recall that A spoke highly of the hospitality characteristic of the Bedouin/Bedouins/Beduoini of Oman.

I approach the buffet of barbecued meats and traditional dishes with skepticism: this is a tour: it's gotta suck. But the lamb and roast chicken are surprisingly tasty, and I return for seconds, breaking my No-Seconds Rule. Having finished our meal, and experienced the desert at night, I'm ready to leave. But no, the recorded music blasts and a bellydancer writhes her way to the center of the campsite, where she is surrounded by tourists. Oh great, cheesy "entertainment". But we watch for awhile, and reluctantly admit that she's pretty good (I think Pat may be faking the reluctance part: I suspect that he may be enjoying the bellydancing more than he lets on). At one point, the bellydancer lies a sword across her bosom and gyrates around the circle, sword perfectly balanced. I look down dejectedly at my pathetic pair, the twosome incapable of supporting a single butterknife, let alone a sword. I feel efemulated.

At the end of her final dance, she draws everyone to their feet into a circle, and the most diverse crowd you've ever seen dances with abandon together to Arabic music. It's kind of cool to witness, in an 80's We-Are-the-World sort of way. I sorta want to be dancing in the circle, but I'm too reserved to join in: I'm from Minnesota!

We are herded back to our SUVs, loaded, and Dubai-bound. Pat turns to me and asks, "So what do you think about tomorrow?"

Allow me to explain: Pat is in Sales, so he's programmed to ask these open-ended questions. So maybe I AM a freak: I can't process obtuse inquiries: I take everything LITERALLY.

"Well, I hope it arrives..."

I finally figure out that he would like to know how I would like to spend the day, and we agree that a helicopter ride would be amazing.

Meanwhile, here's my official position on tonight's Alpha Tour Desert Excusion: it is commercial, touristy, and slightly schlocky: I wholeheartedly recommend it! For $145, it's not a bad night of entertainment for two.

Do Not Try This at Home

I check-out of the JW Morgue and check-in to the Al Bustan Rotana Hotel (the JWM is booked tonight, and is not accepting points). I booked my reservation on Priceline for $130, which is fairly inexpensive for Dubai.

According to the ABR website, "guests are enchanted by its unique blend of traditional Arabian hospitality and modern luxury...[the ABR] offers luxury accommodation in Dubai and is an ideal choice for discerning business and leisure travelers."

Huh-what? This here hotel, the Al Bustana Ramada? If you don't believe me, check out the picture of the "superior suite" on the website. But it's no worse than the JWM.

I pop over to More for breakfast (it's a five-minute taxi ride) and then indulge in a reflexology treatment at Bliss. Back at the ABR, luxuriating in the luxiousness of my avocado green superior suite, I ring Pat. Pat has been trying to line-up a helicopter ride for this afternoon, to no avail: every tour operator is booked. But wait, the JWM concierge pulls a few strings on our behalf and arranges a ride for us. Ha! Just kidding! She does no such thing! I suggest parasailing at Kite Beach instead: Pat declines.

My taxi pulls along Kite Beach, and I spy no parasailing outfits: judging from the waves, it's probably too windy to parasail today.

Well, hell...I don't know what to do with myself. I reluctantly ask the driver to drop me off at the Wild Wadi Water Park. I'm embarrased even uttering the words: they sound so juvenile. Wild wadi. Wild wadi, wild wadi, wild wadi. I pay my $45 entry fee and plod along to the locker rooms. I can't believe that I'm visiting a water park. By myself. How bizarre is it that I'm alone in a water park in the Middle East on Thanksgiving weekend while my high school contemporaries are at home in Minnesota taking a walk through the woods or making cookies with their three kids right now? I don't fool myself--it's very bizarre.

My first ride: the Jumeirah Sceirah (left) The line takes 30 minutes, but I don't mind as the 360-degree view is amazing: a bird's-eye view of the ocean, the Burj Al Arab, the Jumeirah Beach Hotel, the ski slope at the Mall of the Emirates, the Emirates Tower, etc. If only I could spy the resplendent J.W. Mortuary from here, my view would be complete.

Crap! I'm up! The cute line manager asks me how I'm doing. I peer down at the narrow, undulating chute at my feet: it's nearly a straight drop down.

"I'm terrified".                                                                                                                              

I'm instructed to lie on my back, cross my arms, and cross my legs. H...O...L...Y...C...R...A...PPPPPPPPPP...............I'm aware that my body is suspended in air: a human luge; my legs and back touch only water. The walls of the chute, whizzing by me, seem perilously low. Exhilirating? Yes. Fun? I don't know...

In theory, the bottoms of one's feet striking the water at the base of the slide stops one's momentum (50 miles per hour!), although if one fails to close one's legs tightly enough...Without going into further detail, let's just say that I feel violated six ways 'til Sunday right now. I've inadvertently pulled A Britney, which I believe is punishable by death (by stoning!) in most Islamic countries.

Next Ride: Flood River. I'm assisted into an inner tube and pushed down a winding "river": floating around bends, hurling through surges, and pausing under waterfalls. I'm approaching a tunnel and the current beneath me picks up speed. Darkness...Pitch. Black. I'm propelled around curves in solid darkness, quite rapidly, and I. Can't. Stop. Giggling. I giggle uncontrollably for ten seconds: the sensation is just so deliciously disorienting. Too fun!

The Flood River ride lasts twenty minutes and justifies the $45 entrance fee. As I struggle to extricate myself from my inner tube I notice a woman, obviously Muslim, dressed head-to-toe in a black hijab, only her eyes showing, negotiating her way onto an inner tube. Surreal.

I spend the rest of the afternoon at Wild Wadi reclining on a chaise in the sun, reading my book, enjoying the (western, contemporary) music, and watching Flood River patrons of every age, color, shape, and size float past me, as I brunt the occasional splash. Who needs turkey and football?

But How do They Get the Cranes down from the Top?

Pat and I are meeting at the JW Marish prior to setting out for the evening. I go straight to his hotel room (which should probably be under quarantine), as he requested my advice in selecting a tie for the evening.

Guys: I know that this sounds like a ploy to lure me to his hotel room with unsavory intent, but he really does want advice on which tie to wear tonight.

Pat unfurls not one, not two, but seven -- yes, count 'em, seven -- ties.

"Um, Pat? Why did you pack seven ties for your trip to the desert?" And then I further rip into him because he has laid-out a Paulie Walnuts sweatsuit and shiny white tennies for his flight back tomorrow.

"I thought we had a no tennis shoe/fanny pack/shorts rule?" I pretend-ask; really I'm stating. We have a no tennis shoe/fanny pack/shorts rule.

I'm informed that, the infraction is not really an infraction, as we are not traveling together.

As a friend, am I obligated to tell him that it's not about me: it's about him, and how he'll never, ever get laid if he's traveling in a sweatsuit (at least it's not constructed of maroon velour with twin white racing stipes down the sides) and white sneakers?

Our taxi driver takes the Sheikh Zayed Road to our first destination: the Emirates Towers Hotel. I've enjoyed the rides down the Sheikh Zayed Road, as it offers the best vantage point for appreciating not only Dubai's current architecture, but for grasping the scope of the new construction overtaking the emirate: skyscrapers consume the skyline and cranes litter the horizon. Dubai is oft-quoted as utilizing 20% of the world's cranes at any given time. It seems plausible from my current perspective.

The Emirates Towers are, simply, stunning. I don't know the first thing about architecture, but I'm in awe of these buildings: something about their proportions and relationship to the other strikes the perfect chord.

Vu's Bar is located on the 51st floor of the Emirates Towers Hotel Sheihk: it's rumored to offer the best view in town. The drinks are surprisingly reasonable, the people-watching is above average (although don't worry too much about what you wear to the bar, despite the dress-code warnings: the place is overrun with ill-clad tourists), and the view unrivaled, although we're disappointed that neither of us has glimpsed the artificial islands off the coast. But the best part of Vu's, by far, is the quote from the man who befriended Pat at the urinal:

"I don't normally chat-up other men when I've got my wanker out, but I like meeting Yanks."

Classic!

The Burj Dubai, located on SZ Road, will be the world's tallest building when completed. According to Wikipedia, the exact number of floors is undetermined. I've read since arriving that the construction on the building is behind schedule. However, even in a state of incompletion, it's a helluvan impressive building.