Some people in the West think the Middle East is completely backwards. Arabic script, which is read from right to left, reinforces this idea nicely. Of course, the argument works in reverse too. I’m sure my Arabic friends had a good laugh as children when they learned that English is read from left to right.
So where does this leave us? Who has it right?
If you’re the touchy-feely post-modern type, you’ll say neither, both are equally correct. Conversely, if you’re the Grouch from Sesame Street, you’ll say that both are wrong. Granted, if you’re the Grouch, you’re probably too busy rooting through trash and criticizing Ernie and Bert’s lifestyle choice to care, but that’s a topic for another day.
From what I’ve seen during my short time in the Middle East, I’m throwing my vote in with the Arab world as the backwards ones. Now, before you label me an insensitive hedonistic Western pig, walk a mile in my cheap Chinese sandals.
The short version goes like this:
In the span of six hours, I went from one of the Middle East’s (and possibly the world’s) swankiest nightclubs to the region’s closest approximation of Des Moines, Iowa.
The long version goes like this:
On Thursday night, my roommate and I went to a friend’s flat in Dubai’s Marina. His place in itself is swanky, as any 33rd floor apartment with a balcony and city view’s is expected to be. There, we prepared to go out for the night. Rumors were swirling around that we’d be going to a very nice club but I don’t put much stock in rumors, so as not to be disappointed when they don’t come true. In this particular case, however, I should have prepared for what was coming. Eventually, it became clear that we were, in fact, going to the swanky club and were expected to dress to impress.
I was not dressed to impress.
Had I walked down San Diego’s C Street during the right time of day, people would’ve thrown me spare change. My wrinkled khakis and borrowed shirt weren’t even the worst part. I haven’t had a haircut in a while and the scraggly fortnight beard I’ve got going isn’t doing me any favors either. Rodney Dangerfield once said, “Ya go downtown lookin’ like that, ya get a free bowl of soup”. Yep, that was me.
With this in mind, you can understand my concern when we arrived at the club. As it turns out, the place is in the basement of a hotel which occupies the first 30 floors of a skyscraper. The hotel is the Armani Hotel and the skyscraper is the Burj Khalifa (the world’s tallest building. You may have heard of it). The club, as well as the hotel, is owned and operated by Georgio Armani. According to the club’s Facebook page:
“Armani’s signature style is evident throughout, best reflected in the always-glamorous crowd of the most exclusive guests radiating an elegant class, creating the exciting international ambiance that fills every corner of the club.”
Classy doesn’t really capture it. There were a few Maybachs and Ferraris in the valet area, if that helps.
The rest of the group arrived and we headed for the door. At this point, all the scheming I had done was beginning to grow faint and I resigned myself to fate. Getting turned away for looking like a slob became a very distinct possibility. It didn’t matter if I went in the front of the group, hoping the first few would be ushered in quickly so as not to hold up the line, or the back of the group so as to spare myself from embarrassment in front of friends. If I kept my head down and went in the middle, my chances were no better. It’s hard to blend in with a bunch of Brads and Angelinas when you look like Joaquin Phoenix.
Joaquin Phoenix could hardly get into a public restroom, let alone Armani Prive.
Contrary to popular belief, the Age of Miracles is not over. In a stroke of divine intervention, God reached down to earth and shielded the bouncer’s eyes to my appearance and like a thief in the night, I hustled into the club. I could hardly believe my good fortune. Riff-raff like me had infiltrated the world’s most stylish nightclub. Designer suits and cocktail dresses brushed past me as I smugly reflected on the fact that I got my belt at Ross Dress for Less for eight bucks. I’d beaten the system.
We had our fun, dancing and taking in the scene around us. Our eclectic group of Italians, Iranians, Germans, and an American, took in the pulsating beats that accompanied flashing LED’s from the 3-story full-wall display. Until 3:00 in the morning, we bounced and bobbed to the beats, incredulous at the fact that we were partying with the closest thing there is to professional clubbers. Stunning waitresses swept across the room, bringing six-liter bottles of Belvedere to important looking men surrounded by snooty looking women.
When the lights came up, and the music died down, those who remained in the club reluctantly headed for the door. There were no long faces. For all the snobbery of partying in the world’s glitziest nightclub, there was an inescapable joy. Sure, it was just another day in the life for some people but for me, it was a memorable experience I was excited to share. As we waited for our ride outside, my eyes were drawn up the 160-some floors of the building we’d emerged from. Scanning from the ground floor to the top of the tower, my eyes continued upwards into the night sky. Things had turned out pretty well, I thought. Thank heavens.
No comments:
Post a Comment