out in my headstraights by appointment only

Since I got so much love on my previous blog post about apartment-hunting in Dubai, I thought I would do a quick follow-up article for your amusement. I’m happy to say that I have FINALLY found a place of my own to rent, and yes miraculously it was through Dubizzle. But having gone through nearly hundreds of adverts before finally stumbling upon the right one, I though it would be a good idea to highlight some useful tips to follow if you happen to be lucky enough to be renting a place in Dubai. If you follow these steps, I guarantee that you’ll have people ringing you constantly, eager to move into your amazing place. Let’s get started, shall we?

1) Come up with a catch headline. This is the first thing that people will see when they type in “shoebox to rent dubai” into the keyword field. You want to make sure that it grabs their attention and teases them a bit about what an amazing deal you have. Some excellent examples are:

WOW—WOW— VERY GOOD OFEER STUDIO ==
BOOK NOW !!!!!!!!!!!!!! FULLY FURNISHED
HOT,LUXURIOUS Studio for rent
1st comes,,1st serve ,BRAND NEW STUDIO
Tremendous Marina View!! Studio in The Addres…
Live On The Beach! – 4 cheques!
DONT WORRY PAY MONTHLY~~~STUDIO IN GREECE

Well, you get the idea.

2) Make sure you include pictures. And by pictures I don’t mean photos of the interiors of the apartment – oh no, not at all! You’ll want to include as many photos of the OUTSIDE of the building as possible. These are included but not limited to: the nearest metro station / bus stop, what grocery shop is below the building, the surrounding desert views, the view of the corridor, a close-up of a garbage chute, a photo of the security guard standing at the door – just use your imagination! Also, feel free to use 3D render models of the building rather than photos of the actual building. I mean, they’re practically the same thing, right?

3) There is greatness in numbers. Once you’re done posting up your ad, post it up again! Repetition can be a bit dull, so make sure you use some of the catchy headlines posted above. And if Dubizzle detects that you’re trying to paste the same advert again, just use this handy example:

GREAT STUDIO FOR RENT!
GREAT STUDIO FOR RENT!!
GREAT STUDIO FOR RENT!!!
>>>GREAT STUDIO FOR RENT!!!<<<
>><<GREAT STUDIO FOR RENT!>><<

4) Size really doesn’t matter. Someone looking for a studio? Tell them you have a 2-bedroom available. Pitch the idea that they may have to initially cover a high rent that’s totally out of their budget, BUT they can then sub-rent out the other room for a nice little profit. Remain calm if caller hangs up abruptly.

5) Most importantly, NEVER TAKE YOUR AD OFF. This is crucial to getting new customers in, who will be ringing you to inquire about an apartment you’ve listed that actually got rented out (or possibly demolished) back in 2008. When they ask why the advert is still online, remind them that you’re a very busy and successful realtor who has no time to explain to them the many intricacies of the Internet.

So there you have it – a fool-proof way to renting out your property on Dubizzle. If you’ve got some awesome tips you’d like to share, make sure you post them in the comments below!

Problems finding the perfect friend to patiently listen to all your problems and give you advice!? Well here he is!! Once fully inflated this PVC doll stands at 50cm tall and takes on the roll of the perfect gay best friend.

Everyone knows someone who is in need of a caring, stylish and funny friend!!! This is a hilarious gift! All of your girlies out there would love to have someone to patiently listen to you and give you advice. All you need to do is blow him up and you will instantly have a new gay best friend!

He loves to shop, loves to dance, always listens to you, gives great fashion advice and most importantly will always tell you if your bum looks big. This PVC doll comes packaged in the colourful box as seen in the picture which makes this the perfect funny gift for your friend or colleague!

Guuuurl, buy yours today at Amazon (since Tesco came to their senses)

I’m writing this post aboard my return flight from Paris, and I think I might be pregnant. No, not from the countless French men who swooned over me during my stay (all three of them), but rather I’ve been eating so much over just two days that I certainly think there’s something growing inside of me. Let’s hope it’s a choux bun.

But seriously, I didn’t realize just how much food I’d be enjoying during my stay. Of course, my culinary journey was purely by accident – having a whole free day to myself before I flew back, I decided to do the Parisian thing and wander the streets, trying hard not to look like a tourist.

Turning the corner from my hotel, it dawned on me just how many patisseries there are nearby. I walked into the nearest one, eyes wandering over the perfectly glazes tarts and melt-in-your-mouth éclairs. I opted to start my day with a baguette that had been stuffed with sliced boiled egg, lettuce, tomato, Dijon, smoked salmon, and was finally peppered with a few black olives. I underestimated two things about this sandwich – one that the crust was so hard that I had to clamp my jaw shut completely in order to break off a chunk to chew, and two that it was actually the length of a foot-long Subway sandwich. But some kind of feral hunger took over me, and within twenty minutes the only traces of the sandwich that remained was a crumpled up sheet of wax paper with a few crumbs. Of course, what’s life without dessert, so I opted to polish off a vanilla éclair. The top of the éclair cradled an impressive amount of vanilla glace icing, but biting into it revealed the soft, yellow custard that lay within. It was a gorgeous moment, one that I relished over and over with each bite I took. Towards the end the glace icing was really starting to get to me, but I didn’t care – I’d put a great number of things in my mouth over the years, but nothing compared to this sandwich and éclair.

Content with my choice of breakfast, I ambled down the streets, stopping briefly only to wander into a gigantic bookshop and later, just for kicks, to buy a bottle of water from a Carrefour. About half an hour later, I walked into something completely wonderful and unexpected (no, it wasn’t a taxi stand). Set in the middle of an entire stretch of road, there was an open market, with vendors selling everything from cheese, wine, meat, sandwiches, carpets, jewelry – you name it. The place was teeming with people, most of them tugging along a small trolley laden with fresh produce. Babies grinned from their prams. Elderly people stood hunched over at counters, peering at shopping lists hastily scribbled on Post-It notes. Vendors shouted at customers and each other, desperate to attract attention. “Melons! Melons! Un melon un Euro!” The smell of everything was intoxicating. Fresh fruits and vegetables, chickens roasting slowly at a rotisserie, a fragrant coconut curry being sold at a Columbian stall, fishmongers skillfully portioning fresh salmon – there was activity everywhere.

For reasons I still can’t fathom, I was hungry again. I wondered if I had only dreamt about eating the sandwich I had polished off less than an hour ago, but nevertheless the sights and sounds around me compelled me to take part in this opulent feast. I walked up to the nearest stall, which happened to belong to an Italian proprietor. Freshly made pasta sat in mounds at the front, while gigantic wheels of cheese in every size and flavor sat in neat rows behind him. I greet him shyly in French, but within minutes he’s figured out that I’m essentially a tourist, and his tone becomes laced with flattery. I sample some of the olives swimming in huge vats, but I politely refuse when he tries to sell me a bottle of olive oil. I settle instead on a miniature lasagna, this one cooked with a mixture of beef and pork mince, mixed with tomatoes and carrots and topped with a gloriously perfect layer of béchamel. The portion is no bigger than my palm, but only after eating it does the mixture of pasta, meat, and cheese take its lethargic effect on me. And while I stand there in my half-pasta bliss, I realize that I haven’t even paid the man, and he’s been standing there quite patiently watching me eat. I grab my wallet and thrust a note at him, mumbling something to the effect of how wonderful the dish was and he can keep the change. He smiles gratefully and scoops up a small plastic container, the contents of which I immediately spot as Tiramisu. I smile gratefully and accept the divine dessert, which is consumed within three feet of leaving his stall. It’s at this point I also discover that the proud chef seems to have been a bit generous with the Amaretto in this dessert (must complain to the kitchen when I regain feeling in my right leg).

I then walk by a stall manned by a woman who’s deftly churning out crepes of every flavor to a crowd of eager (and surprisingly patient) customers. Beside her crepe station are huge mounds of pastries and breads, each one more delicious looking than the next. I intelligently choose to not expedite my food coma, and smile as I move along through the crowd. A little bit later I come across another Italian stall, this time selling a beautiful selection of hand-made cannoli. I delicately pluck one up and pop it into my mouth. The crusty shell caves in almost immediately in my mouth, giving way to a smooth and creamy filing that’s been faintly caressed with lemon. I pick up four more and much on them as my nose leads me forward, past the huge displays of sausages and cuts of meat.

I find myself among produce vendors again, rows of fruits and vegetables gleaming brightly in the sunshine. I wander to the nearest stall and admire the endless variety on display, stopping to gaze longingly at the various boxes of berries that lay in neat rows. I pick up a small tray of raspberries and inhale deeply, their subtle fragrance begging me to pop the entire tray into my mouth. I pay a ridiculously low sum for two trays (even by Paris standards), and have eaten one entire tray even before I’ve stopped in front of a small coffee shop to rest.

I’ve been walking for about two hours straight, and it was only the constant stream of food and activity that distracted me from how far I had walked. I ask the waitress for a simple cup of hot chocolate, but she decides that I also need to eat something because I look hungry. At this point I can either narrate everything I’ve been eating or just agree with her, so I just end up saying “Oui” and she disappears. She then returns triumphantly with a small plate with three neatly folded crepes on it, swimming in a light caramel sauce. “Ah, Crepe Suzette?” I ask her “Non, non, monsieur!” she replies, smiling as she lays the plate and steaming mug of chocolate on my tablet. I cut away a small portion of crepe and bathe it in the sauce before popping it into my mouth. I was right about the caramel, but it tastes slightly nutty and has a distinct tang of alcohol in it. I later learned that it was crepe served in a butter caramel sauce made with wild honey, and mentally I made a note to reverse-engineer it when I got back home.

Having had enough of the market and now feeling extremely full, I began walking back up to my hotel, passing by the vendors still singing and shouting to each other, the bags overflowing with fresh produce, the small brown packages that cradled fresh cuts of meat and fish, and baskets packed with freshly baked bread and pastries. Yes, this was Paris all right, but a Paris that was head-over-hells in love with food.

P.S Yes, I never thought I’d see the day when I penned a food-related blog post on here, but there’s a first time for everything, n’est pas?

I originally was born and raised in the wonderful city of Sharjah (please hold your gasps till the end), and after 20+ years of living there decided that enough was enough and I needed to move to Dubai. After all, I worked there, shopped there, had friends there, went out there, and pretty much spent the rest of my time driving up and down from Dubai to Sharjah. So finally a few years ago I moved in with my sis into a wonderful villa. Fast forward to today, and it’s getting a little bit cramped in here. So bravely and with sheer determination, I have begun my search for a place of my own.

Now ask anyone in Dubai and they’ll tell you that if you’re looking for anything, the first thing you should to is go to dubizzle.com. Dubizzle is like the Middle East craigslist, except you can’t sell a bong or look for a third person to join you in your bathtub. So I spent an entire afternoon scouring the 28+ pages of apartments to rent on dubizzle. Now of course I have a budget in mind, and initially I think my expectations were a bit too high because all the places I saw listed gave me a serious inferiority complex when compared to what was actually in my bank account. But a few clicks later, I was pleasantly surprised – at least 28 properties were available to rent that were in decent locations and actually in my budget. This pretty much describes how I felt at that moment:

I then promptly scribbled down all the locations, phone numbers, costs, and everything I needed and closed my laptop feeling quite smug. This property thing wasn’t so hard after all – I just had to spend a day calling up these numbers and driving out to see the properties.

So on a bright and early Saturday last week, I woke up early, had a good breakfast, and hopped in my car, eager to kick off my house-hunting. I glanced a little apprehensively at the 19 properties I had written down, which were dotted all over parts of Dubai. Still, I was determined to see as many of these as possible – after all, what could possibly go wrong? I confidently dialled the first number on my list.

Realtor: Hello?
Me: Hi, yes – I’m calling regarding an ad I’ve seen for a studio apartment?
Realtor: Oh that place I rented out long time ago, 3 months back.
Me: Er – you did? Then why is the ad still online?
Realtor: Oh I guess I forgot to delete it.

And that’s exactly how it went for almost half of the listings I had written down. “Sorry sir, just went.”  “Oh I forgot I had listed that!” “That unit not available, but I have 3 bedroom instead?” I wondered who in the nine hells had given these people a brain or a realtor’s license. I move on to the next batch of properties and am relieved to find that the place is available and the realtor is more than happy to meet me there to show me the place. I drive out to my first point and arrive on time. I shove my car into the parking and bound up the building steps to meet the grinning realtor. We chat about the somewhat depressing location but he cheerfully adds that the sand around us will soon be transformed into bustling properties – in 10 years. We head up to the 27th floor where the studio is, and he throws open the door of the apartment.

At that point in time I would have loved to walk in two people fornicating on the polished tiled floor, but what I walked into was far worse. Standing right there in the tiny kitchen was a man signing an agreement contract with another realtor. He looked up at the two men who had just charged into his new apartment, and all we could do was stare dumbfoundedly. Before my realtor could even say anything, I spun around and punched the elevator button, wishing instead I could open the elevator doors and just jump down the elevator shaft.

My next realtor promised me a fantastic studio in Jumeirah Village Circle, so I promptly drove over to locate it. Now having been to JVC only once in my life, I wasn’t too sure of the roads and so was relying on Google Maps on my phone to give me directions. Unfortunately, Google decided to tell me to take a particular exit exactly 5 seconds after I zoomed passed it. To say I was pissed off would be an understatement, but what really peeved me off was when the phone blurted out “In 9 kilometers, take the U-turn“. Yes, that’s what you get for missing your exit on Dubai roads. Eventually I did take the bloody U-turn and pulled into JVC. I rang up the realtor for further directions and his response was as follows:

Me: Okay, so I’m parked in JVC at the entrance, where do I go from here?
Realtor: Where are you now?
Me: Just at the entrance, I’ve literally just come in.
Realtor: Okay, you see security box nearby?
Me: Yes – there’s a security box nearby
Realtor: Okay, just go to security, and tell him which building you want to go to and he will give you directions

Rather than express my frustration by driving through the security box, I pull up to it and discover it’s empty. I call a friend of mine who lives in the area and he helpfully guides me to an area where he thinks the building is. I drive over and after a few circles, fail to find it. I ring the realtor again:

Me: Hello, yes I still can’t find the building – can you give me any directions?
Realtor: Actually sir, I can’t give you directions because I don’t know where the building is…
Me: Sorry, what?
Realtor: Yes sir, I’ve not actually been there so I don’t know where this building is…

I hang up silently and make the adult choice to stay calm. I spot a new-ish looking building to my right and frantically call the mobile number that’s plastered across the side of the building.

Me: Hello? Yes I’m calling regarding apartments in the building in JVC?
Realtor: Ah yes, but that building currently under construction sir.
Me: Er, no, no it’s not, it’s finished.
Realtor: No sir, still under construction sir.
Me: No, I can see people walking in and out of it and there is laundry in the balconies.
Realtor: Oh, so they finished construction already?

And that was the end of that conversation. The rest of the places I saw were either magically no longer available (“You must be quick sir, property is going fast fast!“) or was just plain awful. I drove out to my last stop for the day in the middle of the afternoon, praying that this would bring me even a glimmer of good news. I met with the realtor at the building entrance, and he chatted to me on the ride up in the elevator.

Realtor: This sir, is  great studio, last unit we have in this building. There is car parking also down, and below three restaurants also. Many people interested in this studio also, so you let me know if you like it sir, okay? Easy payment, only 25k in 6 checks..

Er – 25k in 6 checks? With something that sounded that good I knew there had to be something wrong. And boy was I in for a treat – unlocking the studio door, this is what greeted us:

Nothing quite says “Home sweet home” than seeing a bed that’s been the victim of a ferocious roman orgy. I gingerly walked around the tiny studio, covering the space front door to the back wall in five strides. In the bathroom four square tiles outlined the skimpy stand-in shower, and if I sat on the toilet and turned to my right, I would knee the bathroom sink. This must be what solitary confinement in jail must feel like.

So I’ve taken just a tiny break from househunting this week so that I don’t scream in frustration. Although to confess I did see a landlord about a place in Al Barsha today, but after showing me the place he then chose to reveal he was only renting it out to married people or families. THEN WHY THE HELL ARE WE LOOKING AT IT YOU CRETIN?

At the end of the day, what frustrates me the most are the idiotic realtors. I don’t think they should regulate the rents in Dubai – they should regulate the realtors, so that no one with an IQ of 62 is EVER put in charge of a property.

Care to share your property horror stories in the comments below?

When a PR invites me for an after-work product launch

When a PR sends an email and forgets to BCC everyone

When another journalist wins the ‘business card raffle’

When a PR reschedules an event for the millionth time

When I get asked to tweet at an event with an incomprehensible hashtag

When a PR asks me to talk about an irrelevant press release (like an electric body shaver)

When a PR emails you a press release and then calls 5 minutes later to ask if you’ve published it

When a PR thinks it’s a good idea to email you 300dpi product images

When an event is delayed because you’re waiting for the other journalists to arrive

When a PR insists that an event will ‘start on time’

I can’t quite decide what’s worse – the lighting or the pungent smell of tobacco that hangs in the air, even though no one near me is smoking. I stare down uninterestingly at my drink – there certainly aren’t very imaginative ways to serve Coke, but the bartender has taken it upon himself to include a lemon wedge and two cherries in mine. I successfully stab one of the cherries with my straw and pop it into my mouth, gazing around at the people tricking in for a post-dinner drink or two. I catch a woman at the other end of the bar with a bored expression on her face – we lock gazes and she straightens up a little, but I break eye contact and viciously murder the leftover cherry. She orders another drink and looks at the men in the room, sizing each one up before she slides off the bar stool and makes a catwalk-like trot to the restrooms.

It’s not at all like I remember it, but then I again I chose to not keep many memories of this place. The bar is fancier now, with rows of bottles standing at attention behind the counter, not haphazardly hidden underneath amongst dishes and jars of olives. The band is different. The floor looks cleaner. People are actually sitting down and having conversations. It’s a world away from the place I knew, yet underneath the somewhat glimmering makeover, pockets of old memories still seem to linger.

The music is deafening and the band is enjoying every second of the crowd tonight. The weekend brings many strangers here, and tonight is of course no exception. I find my seat at the bar and he smiles as I sit down. “I’ve ordered you another drink!” he confesses, and I smile in appreciation as we clink glasses. I sip the drink through the straw, but in my mouth I block the straw with my tongue,  so it appears that I’m drinking but a drop never enters my mouth. I put the glass back down on the bar, which is littered with empty glasses and cigarette stubs. He picks up right where he left off, droning on about his work and how important he is in the company. I give him my full attention, but my mind completely shuts out his rambling for my own good. I ponder if I should actually drink whatever he’s ordered me, no matter how foul it smells, just to make him a little more bearable. But as if on cue, ___________ bounds towards me with a man in tow, nearly tripping a waiter over. He lights up when he spots me, and in one swift move he wraps his arms around me and slurs a hello to us. For a split second I wonder if he actually is drunk, but I smell nothing on his breath and his eyes are as bright as ever. All an act then, of course. Some men have a penchant for being with someone only when they’re intoxicated, and it seems like _________’s companion is having more than enough for the both of them. He thrusts a fresh drink into ____________’s hand, a mixture of blue and red hues with a mountain of ice. ____________ flashes his biggest grin and grabs the drink, moving closer to his companion. “I want to DAAAAANCE!” he exclaims, wrapping one arm around the man and dancing vigorously on the spot, despite the pressing crowds. I chuckle quietly to myself as I spot __________ making sure to slosh as much of his drink as possible, so that most of it is on the floor by the time he’s done with his little distraction. Not a very nice time for whoever had to clean up the puddle that had formed around my bar stool, but it was an excellent tactic for fooling people into thinking we were actually drunk. We knew better than to have anything that was offered to us, be it food or drink, and that wasn’t going to start changing tonight.  

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starlight at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there; I did not die.

– Mary Elizabeth Frye

Requiescat in pace, R.N 1983 – 2013