I left for Dubai in the early (snowy) hours of Sunday morning. CB had been staying at mine for a week and a half and, surprisingly, I didn't want to go. Aside from no one wanting to get out of a warm snuggled bed on a very cold Sunday morning, I also didn't want to leave him. A first for me as after a week and a half history would have had me bolting out the door quicker then you could say, Warm Weather and Duty Free Await You. Never the less, reluctantly I left and a mere 12 hours later (flight delays surprise surprise) I was stripping off layers to manage my body temperature on the way to the car from the airport terminal in DXB. I used to hate Dubai, soulless and plastic, it reminded me of all the people I left behind in LA. The people that I considered myself better off without. The people and the places that would crumble to dust if you scratched the surface of their pristine and shiny surface. I have come to enjoy my time here though and it never hurts to be in a warm climate. The airport in Dubai, however, always makes me panic a little. Partially because I am usually hand carrying far more IT then one should, but also because of the bodies everywhere. It's odd and I don't understand it, but the airport is littered with half covered bodies. Fully clothed except for shoes and socks, travellers pull a blanket over the entire top half of themselves and lie on the ground all around the terminal. There are so many migrant workers here building the towering structures that glint under the unforgiving rays of the constant sun. My assumption is that this makeshift sleeping quarter is a result of transient workers with no place to stay either en route or leaving the UAE. Regardless, it was particularly disturbing this time round. First, I landed in the early morning hours which might account for the particularly large numbers of floor patrons. Additionally, I nearly finished a book on the plane about Afghanistan's struggle for freedom over the last 30 years. The book was amazing, but to say the least it was very sad. There were numerous stories of refugee camps and people dying of starvation at best and by militia at worst. So when I walked through the airport, the images my mind had painted from the book, sprang to life in the stuffy confines of terminal 1.I didn't sleep save for a couple of hours Sunday night. The book, the airport, the large empty bed. Nothing was missing and everything was incomplete. I drifted through my meetings yesterday in a haze of exhaustion and after a hot bath and 2 generous glasses of wine, poured myself into bed to finish the final chapters in my book. 30 minutes and a box of tissue later I called CB with a horrible case of middle class guilt (and maybe a little PMT?). I often travel to places where there is extreme poverty behind a thinly veiled facade of a city thriving. I travel for business, so I stay in hotels that are impossibly expensive for most of the people living in the country. I ride in taxis and eat at restaurants that insulate me from the reality of 90% of the population. When I can, I stay on in places and try to see the "real" side of the city, but this isn't always possible as my schedule can get really tight. I don't know if I am alone here, but I feel incredibly guilty for this. Yes, I am contributing to the local economy in a round about way, but why should I be afforded these opportunities when others can't afford to eat. The vivid pictures painted in the book of starvation, of fear, of desperation, of longing and of love; only served to reinforce this already existing sentiment for me.
I couldn't sleep again last night, so I logged on the read what Fweng had to say. I am not sure which was more disturbing, his post or my self imposed loathing of all things luxurious. I can't decide if it's my mind that won't let me sleep or the absence of the first person who makes me not want to be alone.
