I Lost My Heart To A Starship Trooper

It started in reception.

I was waiting on a lift. My driver was running late.

So I took in a map that is adjacent to the door. I’d taken cursory glances at it before but never looked at the detail. The map is of Khobar. It is several years old and – as a result – significantly out of date. I noted that the Corniche was still a work in progress but that all the key roads were present. Landmarks such as key hotels and the pepsi cola factory were all marked.

So I looked at the junction close to Silver Tower; close to where I work. And that is when I saw it.

The map contained line graphics of some of the key sites and – sitting at Silver Tower – was a picture of a space shuttle attached to it’s three fuel tanks.

Map

I asked my driver about it but my question was lost in translation somewhere.

And I forgot about it.

Except that, on occasion, something would stir it back to the front of my mind. The slow dawning that the “Space Travel Agency” – a disappointingly normal travel agent – that is still close to the cross roads may not have just been an obscure name choice but be based on a landmark that has now gone.

Those countless occasions where I would wake with that Sarah Brightman/Hot Gossip song as an incurable ear worm.

I have lost track of the number of taxi drivers I have asked about this mythical space shuttle marked on the map.

No one could answer me.

But then I stumbled on something online. A photograph taken of Silver Tower back in the mid noughties. In front of it was a sculpture. A sculpture of a space shuttle.

I was excited.

Before I go on, I need to provide some perspective. Some background. I need to explain why I had this obsession with this detail on a map.

As a kid, I loved the idea of space travel.

Didn’t we all?

I was brought up in an era of Star Wars, Battlestar Galactica, Dr Who, Blakes 7 and Mork & Mindy. Space travel was in my blood. Popular culture seemed to obsess with it. The moon landings and Apollo missions had created this fervour for space. For the opportunity. It seemed that the Western World had become utterly obsessed. Anything and everything looked for the space angle. Even James Bond was going there.

Dr Who was a staple, but I was one of the millions that was hooked and dragged uncomplaining into the Star Wars franchise. It was bigger. It was bolder. The sets didn’t wobble as much. It always felt like I was like looking into the future. A future where two powers both believing that they were right and the other wrong fought for supremacy.

Like the cold war.

In the days pre-video and before the films had had their UK TV premier, I was lost in the books, magazines, sticker albums, merchandise and figurines that allowed the re-enactment of the battles and key scenes. More. The lack of exposure to the movie content, it all encouraged the use of imagination to create new story lines, new epic battles and new chapters of my own each day.

I was a sucker for the space ships.

I “wowed” at the weaponry.

And Carrie Fisher made me feel funny inside… Even more than Suzi Quatro or the blonde one from Abba did. Utterly smitten.

Suzi. The Blonde One. Carrie.

Dressed in white with the silly hair ringlets, dressed for the winter exploits in The Empire Strikes Back or – obviously – the bikini scene in Return of the Jedi. I’d have done anything for her.

And then, in real world, came the Space Shuttle. The first reusable space craft. It was new. It was sleek*. It was sexy**.

Back in 1981, my family foreshortened a holiday outing so that we could get home in time to watch the Shuttle’s initial launch. We gathered around a TV in the lounge of a small hotel in Uckfield in Sussex with several other holidaying families to watch history being created. Looking back at the footage today, it all seems a bit tame. A big lump of metal being strapped to a load of inflammable material, pointed at the sky and someone chucking a half smoked cigarette into the mix to create ignition.

In 1981, it was bloody magic. It tapped into all my fantasies of travelling the universe with improbable space hardware and weaponry saving planets and getting the girl. It felt as if all the Science Fiction that I was buying in to really could be the future. Everything felt slightly tangible.

Alongside my plastic Star Wars models, suddenly models of the space shuttle were being introduced into the mix.

And, whilst my fascination with the shuttle and space travel may have waned over the years, for a while I wanted to know everything about the missions. Who was on them? What they were carrying? How the future was being shaped.

But, back to Khobar. Khobar in 2015.

It got me thinking. Why would a statue/model of a space shuttle be constructed in Khobar and – having gone to the trouble of doing so – where is it now?

The “why?” answer is simple to find. Google and Wikipedia quickly explain the cultural reference, so I won’t dwell on it. National pride.

In 1985, Sultan bin Salman bin Abdulaziz Al Saud, a Saudi Arabian Air Force pilot and member of the Royal Family flew on STS-51-G. A real life Saudi astronaut.

Sultan bin Salman Al Saud

It also led me to references that show that the statue still exists and that it has just been moved. Which led to me having an adventure to relive part of my childhood, a few weeks ago.

It started on a Thursday evening as I wound down for the weekend and got chatting with a friend – Marian – online. Aside general chit chat and catch ups and Bugsy Malone, I explained that my plan for the weekend was to go searching for the lost space shuttle. It was my mission to find it. Bless her, Marian wouldn’t be drawn. Even when I started to explain that I was going to dress as Han Solo to conduct my mission, she wouldn’t rise.

I guess she liked Luke Skywalker more.

On the Friday, the sun beat down and I couldn’t face the walk the length of the Corniche from home to reach my goal. OK, the white shirt could cope with the sun but my choice of a dark waistcoat, tight, tight black military twill trousers with a red trim and black boots was not conducive to the climate.

So I flagged a cab.

The cab driver was hairy. Not just the de rigour “taxi cab beard”, but really, really hairy. Our communication was limited. The driver’s English was not good and I found that our interactions became foreshortened, direct and punctuated with gestures for directions. And guttural barks. Somehow we grew to understand each other.

We reached our destination. A traffic island just behind the main Corniche road. The space shuttle stands forlorn and slightly grubby surrounded by Date Palms.

I instructed the cab driver to pull over and wait at the roadside while I jumped out and snapped some photographs. Traffic was scarce. The roads were deserted. But the cab driver was nervous. Twitchy. He feared what would happen if the Police arrived and challenged me or him while I was isolated in no man’s land. But I was mission bound; I oozed confidence. I assured him that we wouldn’t hang around to be challenged. I knew that his white Hyundi maybe old, maybe past it’s prime, may have a few scratches, dents and war wounds but I knew that the crate could out run any other car on Khobar’s roads that day. We were safe. Invincible.

Disappointingly plastic and weather beaten. Its logos are faded and peeling. A plaque that presumably explained its significance has been stolen leaving a sad looking semi-pillar of concrete as its lonely companion.

Pleased to find it, it seems a shame that the national pride that must have influenced its commission has been allowed to fade and decay. But, still, the shuttle is there. Sultan bin Salman bin Abdulaziz Al Saud's achievements are still remembered.

Out of the way, but not out of mind.

Thankfully, my faith in the speed of the cab was never put to the test and my taxi driver drove me back home without incident.

By chance, it was only when I returned home that I stumbled over the news that Sarah Brightman's voyage into space to sing has been postponed… Hey. Such a shame... She deserves it...

Here is my ear worm...

Notes:

* OK. Not as sleek as the sports shoe shaped reality drive craft described in Hitchiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, but sleek none the less.

** Ditto

Ever The Tourist

“Hey!”

“America!”

A voice nearby becomes more urgent, more forceful. Insistant. I realise that it is talking to me.

“AMERICA!”

To my left I saw a young lad waving a bottle of water at me from the serving hatch of the Derby Coffee Drive Through in King Abdullah Park.

He was grinning ear to ear. The stand was deserted. His bosses would be pleased with his sales initiative.

“America. Want water? Water!”

I’d bought a coffee from him a couple of hours earlier which I had half discarded under a palm tree as it was pretty ropey, but he was now insistent that I sought refreshment. I was hot, parched and – as priority – felt an overwhelming urge and need to correct him on my nationality. 

I am not Huck Finn, Travis Bickle, George Alan Rekers or a child of Sarah Palin.

I am from England.

I strolled over, momentarily taken back to a tram ride in Prague where my friend Simmsy had been accosted by an undercover ticket inspector. Neither Simmsy, Fayle nor I had validated our tickets so were unintentionally fare dodging. Simmsy was picked off first. Not speaking Czech, he had no idea what this crazy guy in a grey mac was going on about and didn’t have the first clue what his badge/ID meant. The inspector, realising that he was dealing with a tourist, changed tack and started saying “English? English?” prompting a shouted, insulted, anger fuelled, angst filled yet near poetic response:

“NO... ... ... I’m FUCKING Scottish!”

Fayle and I laughed like dogs. Until we, too, were fined. After that, we just giggled.

I bought the water that had been offered. And chatted with the two lads working. Both were Filipino, from Manila. They seemed impressed that I was English. They were overjoyed that I was from London. Both were telling me that it is a beautiful city. So green, not like Saudi. That I was lucky. The conversation was such that I assumed that their knowledge was first hand but they explained that they had only seen London on the TV and in movies but that one day they would visit. It was a dream they were following, which was why they were working in a coffee house in Dammam rather than staying back in Manila. They are/were working to raise the money to see the World. Neither wanted to be there, they see Saudi just a means to an end.

I drifted away and was called to the shade of another palm where I chatted and shared my water with an old man dressed in throbe and keffiyeh who told me that he was pleased to welcome me to Dammam; to his home town. He told me that he was pleased to see me because he did not see many western visitors in the park. I explained that - for the most part - I like Saudi Arabia. It is so different to see it with my own eyes compared to way that it is portrayed in the press.

He said that he liked England. He respected it;

“England tries to be fair.”

Like many before, he wanted to assure me that if I ever needed help he would try; all I had to do was ask and he would be there. I will never see him again and maybe his offers were empty safe in the same knowledge. I will never know. But at the time it sounded genuine and heart felt. It was a pleasant way to pass fifteen minutes. As I left, he warned me that I should cover up in case my skin disease (my freckles) became worse.

Bless him. I was burned to a crisp that day.

You see, the weather is turning.

In England, we say that two swallows do not make a summer. But I’ve seen dozens over the past few weeks wheeling and twisting north to Europe and the temperature is drifting upward. It’s safe to say that spring has sprung and summer is knocking on the door. But summer in Khobar means weeks where it will not drop below 30C day or night and will stay sticky and humid. I’ve not been through it, yet, but I believe that my new best friend will live indoors and call itself “AC”. Which means I have been taking as much opportunity to get out and explore while I can.

But Saudi Arabia is not geared up for tourism.

Firstly, it is difficult to gain entry as a visitor. Second, the industry is geared toward the holy sites in Mekkah and Medina; even then, numbers are limited to ensure safety at the various venues. In addition, non-Muslims are barred from visiting either city.

But the country is trying.

I’d read and heard much about the hills around Abha in the South West and of Taif close (ish) to Jeddah. Ha’il is also reputed to be beautiful. And one day, when I have a bit more time for the long, long journeys that visits will require, I will explore. But in the meantime, I am staying close to home.

So, as you would in any country you start online…

“Things to do in Dammam” leads to a few links in Google including the following:

Saudi Arabia Tourism Site

Missing culture back home, I first plumped for the Dammam Regional Museum located alongside King Abdullah Park. I knew it would be a hot day, so thought that the indoor refuge would offer welcome respite to the sun.

I jumped a white taxi down close to my digs and had a great chat for the thirty minute journey with a cabbie from Achabal in Kashmir, India. We talked about the economics of his industry, how much he needs to make each day and how he supports his nephew’s education from the profit that he takes home. We talked of his extended family and how they all rely upon each other. We spoke of how different the West is and how family cohesion is far more broken down. Neither of us were judgemental we just spoke honestly about the differences, the constraints and freedoms that our cultures create and allow. He works seven days a week, working ten to twelve hours a day across two shifts depending on how successful his day goes. He has a seven year old son that he has not seen in over four years. He showed me photographs, ever the proud father. He asked me talk about London. He had heard all about it from a friend who had worked there for a few years; he wanted me to describe the parks. His friend would go to Hyde Park and just sit in the sun on his days off. My cabbie said that it sounded perfect. We both agreed that we missed the greenery of our homes. He showed me photos of his city. We both miss trees and hills.

My driver noted that Saudi seems a sad place; how you never see children playing in the street. He asserted that the Saudi’s just stay at home glued to the TV and computer games behind shuttered windows. I don’t think that that is quite true, but I understood what he meant. You do see Arabs out and about; in the parks. But you rarely see children out alone. They are always supervised. Mostly well behaved and apparently under control. Watched. Very different to London. Presumably, very different to Achabal.

We spoke for longer than we needed as we searched high and low for the museum. I eventually bailed at the park and immediately found the problem. The museum has been demolished and is being rebuilt. The hoardings around it seem to suggest that it will be quite impressive one day, but for now it is just a building site. I’ve found reference to it online in several locations, all of which suggest that it is still open and happily advertising its opening hours.

Yeah. Better Than a Building Site

Like I say, Saudi isn’t geared to tourism.

At this point, I will draw reference to the back drop of the politics in Saudi Arabia at the moment. You will have read of the troubles on the Iraqi border and of the Gulf States attacks on Yemen to try and restore some semblance of order to the country. I am not going to bore you with detail. I do not know enough and it is not my place. But I do appreciate and understand that the conflicts are very, very real and that they do have an impact on life across the region.

As is sensible for a person living away from their home country, I keep an eye on communications from my own and other governments that may have relevance or bearing on my life. Which is how I have come to see so much US advice online. And what I read regularly frustrates me.

This includes:

“The Department of State urges U.S. citizens to carefully consider the risks of travelling to Saudi Arabia and limit non-essential travel within the country.” (March 14^th 2015)

The one that pushed me over the edge, though, was a detailed one page report that detailed every single attack on U.S. citizens and other “Western” interests through 2014 to date. I was frustrated because it drew reference to the death of a U.S. citizen at a gas station in Riyadh on October 14^th. This was widely acknowledged as being a personal/employment dispute between three people (one Saudi born US educated man and two US citizens).

How can that ever be considered a reason for other US citizens to limit their movements?

“Don’t go out today in case someone you know decides to murder you.”

Paranoid.

The UK Embassy issue similar communiques, but they always somehow seem less emotive and more matter of fact. Perhaps our stiff upper lip rightly or wrongly continues to shadow us around the World or perhaps, having learned to shake off attacks by the IRA and their kin through the 1970’s until the present day makes us a bit more stoic. I don’t know.

My colleagues will tell you, I usually fly around the room like a deflating balloon – arguably, with sound effects to match - when I discuss this issue, ending up an emaciated, spent, dribble soaked, rubbery husk on the floor. I’m trying to be measured, here. I understand the need to share information, to advise and urge caution. It makes good sense. But, I fear that the U.S. create hyperbole and provide unnecessary free oxygen to a situation that really doesn’t need any more than it already has. It all seems so unnecessarily deliberate to re-enforce the feelings of "us and them".

Some of the Facebook responses I have read have Saudi based US citizens stating that;  “perhaps it’s time to call it a day”.

But, have they seen the US press, recently? 

I mean, if they are being advised to consider non-essential travel and to change their routes and journey times to remain safe in Saudi, I can only assume that many US cities and states will be on the edge of lock down and imposing curfew to protect the innocent if the news reports are anything to go by.

So, my tourist activities have knowingly taken me close to places that I am actively discouraged from visiting by the US State Department. Not because I am some kind of uberman, some adrenaline junkie or worse; as a naïve hippy peacenik convinced that love and peace (man) will see me through. I go because I have found people in Saudi Arabia to be nothing other than open, warm and friendly.

I go with my eyes open, in the same way that I travel other cities and towns that I visit. Believe me, I have felt far more nervous, uncomfortable and self-conscious in some suburbs of Paris, the centre of Amsterdam, on the Holloway Road in London and Wolverhampton than I have in Riyadh, Jeddah, Dammam or Al Khobar.

So I ended up on Tarout Island. Just north of Dammam. 

It is close to one of the suburbs that the U.S. Department of State singles out as a particular hotspot for anti-western feeling. Additional to that, a Bahraini colleague had also advised me not to visit, as it has; “too many, far too many Shia”.

But a look at a map assured me that it should be fine. So I went to check out a castle that was highlighted on the Saudi Tourism site I linked above.

The whole region of Dammam, Al Khobar and Dahran has developed over the past thirty to forty years. The sprawling conurbation has grown out of the need to support the oil industry. Dammam offered an opportunity for a deep sea port on the Arabia Gulf and the rest has sprung up to service it. The old town, old villages dotted along the coast have been swept away. But Tarout remains. Tarout with its 2,000 year plus history of defensive positions and a castle in situ for hundreds of years.

I love a bit of history. Tarout was too good to miss.

Francis, my trusty companion and legendary cabbie agreed to drive me and we soon found ourselves lost given that my directions were pretty vague; “drive onto the island and find the highest point… that’s where the castle is.”

It may be the highest point on the island and the castle, in its own way is quite impressive, but as hills go, it doesn’t really rank with The Malverns, The South Downs, Hampstead Heath or even Horsenden Hill. It’s more like Tower Hill. So most two story buildings hide it… Tarout Island has many two story buildings.

The castle is not sign posted. The Corniche is. The castle is not.

So we are lost in a place that I am being warned away from. We get talking with an elderly Arab guy in one of the many beat up 1970’s American cars that still crawl through the area. With the short comings of our Arabic and his English we all struggled to make sense of anything any of us said, but he seemed to understand where we wanted to be. As a result, rather than try and direct us through the byzantine lanes and alleys to our goal he chose to drive on with us following and guide us most of the way with a series of cheery smiles and waves…

You see, they hate Westerners over here…

Francis and I found the castle. It is, indeed, atop a hill. Quite a steep sided and relatively high hill, as it turns out. But in Saudi tourism style, it is fenced off and you cannot get anywhere near it. It is surrounded by private land affording only views through barbed wire and chain link fences. The closest vantage point is down by a roundabout. Still through a fence and obscured by shrubbery, it was there for me to see.

No visitor centre. A distinct lack of information. And, as an Englishman, the lack of tea shop left me truly insulted and affronted.

As I said earlier, Saudi Arabia is really not geared up for this tourism lark.

Back at the car, having snapped off a few half arsed photos, and a little despondent, we caught the eye of another local. He saw my camera and called us over. A quick discussion led us up a path, through the edge of a site where a building was being demolished to a hole in the fence. Ducking through the hole, I could sense English Heritage wincing at the ready and easy trespass access to the castle site. Turns out, it’s quite impressive up close. Some nice little views.

You see, they really hate Westerners over here… Don’t give us the time of day. Won’t help us. Awkward, awkward… just plain awkward.

Tarout Castle. All Welcome.

I’m going to keep doing my thing. I like this town. I like this country. 

Yes, I know that there are aspects to society and culture that I find hard to accept or understand, but I knew all of those before I came out here. I also knew that nothing I could ever do would change them. 

But, I am sold on the people. 

I’m not an idiot and I know that there are some pretty odd people out here and I have been lucky not to have run into them, but the same can be said of any country and of any culture. So, without doing anything fool hardy, I will keep living as I live and soaking up the culture around me. 

It will be fun and I will be fine.

…

…

Shameless plug.

Being out and about means that I have taken a fair few pictures recently. Check out my Flickr site if you fancy exploring.

Here:

FLICKR

It features shots like this...

Tarout Castle... And a Fence.

And, finally, here is something for those who want to hear another story of discovery:

England Oh England

I guess I was away for five months. 

Slightly more.

I thought that the biggest shock I would face would be the weather. I had, essentially, lived in summer from April 2014 until January 2015. Al Khobar and England are incredibly different in February. I’d watched the weather change on the weather websites with a sense of foreboding.

I didn't fancy the cold at all.

But the cold is just something that you get used to.

And it wasn’t too bad. I was expecting to be near foetal when I walked out of Terminal 4 without a coat to jump my lift back to Oxfordshire. It was dawn. It was a suitably uninspiring grey day. Damp. Dank. But not so cold. It was OK.

Somewhere on the M40. Cold. Grey. Damp. Dank. England Oh England.

I accept that the cold eventually got to me a few days later. There was a moment around 10pm one Tuesday. I walked up to Hornsey from Crouch End in the frost and ice with a shiver that was on the edge of turning into dance and teeth chattering to the point where conversation was uncontrollably retarded. This was the point where I stopped dead and demanded Lukey tell me why people accepted living in such ridiculous and uninviting cold environments. Beyond that and a moment where I had to duck into a Costa Coffee to grab a hot chocolate to thaw on the north side of Kew Bridge, the cold never really got to me.

What shocked me most was the dog shit.

It is everywhere.

I noticed it in Bloxham, where I holed up for a few days before heading back to London. Then Hornsey and Peckerwell seemed to be covered in it. Later in my trip, the area around Deptford Bridge seemed to be even worse.

You don’t get it in Al Khobar. You don’t get dogs.

Well, you do… but the dogs you see are semi-wild and they stay away from you as much as you stay away from them. Dogs are not kept as pets over here. No one walks them around town so there is no shite to clear up.

Don’t get me wrong, Al Khobar is untidy. In parts, it’s filthy. But not with excrement. Give me food waste and building materials any day. Dog shit is – well –is  just shit.

It annoyed me. Irrationally.

After a few days, I was becoming used to it. I moved on. I found other things to prickle; to aggravate.

Victoria, for instance.

I’ve never been keen on that part of town. I’d guess, because it is purely functional. It is not a destination, is it? How many times have you dreamed up a great night out in Victoria? How many times have you thought… “Oh. I fancy meeting a friend for lunch. Victoria. That sounds like an exciting Central London location to meet.”?

NB - See the little note at the bottom, where I admit to arranging to meet someone in Victoria.

Exactly!

You pass through. You move on.

But I seemed to find myself there, all too often. Dragging my luggage down Buckingham Palace Road to renew my Saudi visa; dragging my luggage up from Peckham to meet friends in the John Lewis Head Office bar (don’t get excited… it feels like a Travelodge); dragging my luggage across the station to grab a cab to St James Park; waiting for a friend at the end of platform one as a cold started to form; fighting my way into Boots to get medicine to fight said cold and; finally, battling crowds to retrieve my passport from Buckingham Palace Road, again.

I was away for close on three weeks. I swear that I spent two of them trying to find my way around Victoria’s road works.

I see that the road works will be in place until 2018. I wouldn’t have noticed, except I stopped to take a picture of two Italians in front of the hoardings in the bus station. No idea why they wanted to pose there; I had neither the language skills nor desire to know. But it did get me thinking. Perhaps they are regulars and they need something constant to measure themselves as they age. It is plausible and quite possible that, if I had wasted more time there, I would have seen families arriving from Burgess Hill, Whyteleafe and East Grinstead to measure their kid’s heights. The hoardings around the “walk way” near the bus station having been in situ so long that they have been using them over the past years to record their children’s growth spurts in the same way that the door frame to the kitchen was marked in my childhood home.

As an aside. As I was typing that, I began to wonder when all the dates and marks labelled “Alex” and “Sir” on the kitchen door frame showing our growth rates were removed. My head says that we must have redecorated while I still lived there and that they were lost many, many years before we moved out. But, my heart hopes that they were still visible when the next home owners arrived. If it was the latter, I regret not adding two final measures to record “Sir, age 19” and “Alex, age 23”.

Don’t get me wrong, though. I didn’t spend three weeks in England in a state of depression. I saved that for the days following my return to Saudi Arabia. Three weeks was long enough that it allowed me to realise just how much I miss my family and friends but short enough that it flew. It absolutely flew.

England inspired me. England is beautiful.

It was wonderful to allow myself to visit London as a tourist. All be it a really well informed and “cool” tourist, but a tourist just the same. I was blessed. Friends, intentionally or unintentionally, were able to show me things that I had never seen. Places that I had never visited or never knew. My mental maps of the city were challenged. I explored places on foot that I had never had time to find.

I took in a few places that I don’t really know. Crouch End, Camberwell and Blackheath. I got to revisit places from my past, like Upper Street, Bethnal Green Road and Hanwell. And old favourites like Barnes and Brentford and Hammersmith. I even got a few minutes in Harrow to be told all about hypertension and discuss my hopeless caffeine habit.

What sticks with me most, though, were the skylines.

Now, I can wax lyrical about the impressive nature of the Dubai skyline forever. Regardless of how I feel about Dubai generally – I’m not it’s greatest fan… I don’t like really like plastic – I cannot deny it’s sheer scale and audacity. 

Wow. Wow Squared. Not taken from an aeroplane.

A view I once caught of it from an aeroplane taking off over the sea will remain one of the most awe inspiring and remarkable sights I have ever seen. Dubai really does just appear out of a desert… Mile upon mile of nothing and, then “Bang!”, there it is, just “there”. Jagged, angular and huge. Wow. Wow squared.

But London is my home. London cannot be beaten.

You can get pulled into the classic views. Of Waterloo Bridge, Hungerford Bridge and the stunning vista’s that you can get from the South Bank. And you should. They live up to everything that has been written about them in poem, prose or song. 

I spent a wonderful Sunday afternoon with my brother and Rosie poking around between Tower and Westminster Bridges in glorious winter sunshine. Art, shopping, life, living and a really expensive gin cocktail to die for. I will level with you. I’ve visited a fair few cities that have captured my imagination, heart or soul but that part of London on its day – Southwark… pronounced “Suth-uck”… - is damned hard to beat.

Picture Postcard London

Gull

Gin with a homemade lime cordial that made you squint.
All infused with hops for extra "floweryness".
Heavenly.

But what I really loved to find again, were the views that creep up on you. The ones that are not expected. The view from the railway viaduct between Kilburn and West Hampstead on the Metropolitan line or the view of the planes heading into Heathrow you get on Barnes Bridge station. They are the views I crave and that I love. The ones that are known by the locals and are missed from the guide books. Those are the ones that I miss. And, by venturing into parts of town that I don’t really know, I got to see some more.

There are too many to single out, so I will note the luck I had with my accommodation.

Jodie’s flat up in Hornsey that allowed me to look out over the old church at Hornsey and Alexandra Palace rising up above.

Toe’s spare room that allowed a view of the city and – if you know what to look for – the top of Tower Bridge. All from Peckham/Camberwell borders.

My brother’s spare room overlooking London Bridge’s railway tracks with the awful Walkie Talkie and Cheese Grater over the river.

And Alex’s living room over Deptford Creek and DLR with a vista right across the city, Elephant & Castle, Stockwell and - if you pay close attention - the beautiful BT Tower.

Over Deptford Creek

Back in Al Khobar, I am left with memories that are gold, or oil or whatever commodity hasn’t had the arse fall out of its value yet. I was born in London. I have lived most of my life within its boundaries. I love and loathe the place with equal measure. It has treated me well and badly. And I know it will always be there for me. At the end of a three thousand mile plane ride, it will welcome me.

I shall be back. Quite soon. And I will fall in love with it all over again.

But first...

First, I shall be visiting Bristol.

My future home.

Note – OK. Admission time...

I do remember a really enjoyable lunch date that I had in Victoria, once. And I chose the venue. And it was in living memory, too. There is/was a really good little, independent café down on Wilton Road (?) where I waited an age for someone in a scarlet red coat and shared parsnip cake. Or courgette cake. Or something that wasn’t carrot cake. Whatever it was, it was good but it doesn’t really matter. In truth, I was only there for the company. xx

More Giggles & Alarm

Yesterday, I ended up in a one on one meeting with the woman I mentioned last time. 

You remember the one. The one from the advertising/marketing agency.

We were alone in the office.

And she has a name… which I will say is “Sh”.

All my colleagues had left on errands, leaving us alone. I suddenly felt exposed. Everything that I had been told would not happen and was utterly frowned on was going on around me. I started this irrational thought process, convincing myself that I was part of some elaborate set up to prove the decadence of Western Men. As the meeting continued, I assumed that a couple of fully bearded and robed Arabs would arrive backed up by a couple of overweight coppers to take me down the Clink and give me a whipping. Before the Embassy could say “excuse, me… please show restraint”, I’d be passed across to her family for the real beating to start.

Later, I spoke about my concerns with A from my team. He gave his usual faggy chuckle and assured me that:

“There are many, many women. Too many women working now. It is usual in business.”

Please rest assured, A’s native tongue is Arabic. When he says “too many”, he means “so many” or “a great many”… He is not hopelessly anti women.

I was assured that I wasn't being set up…

The meeting – as you would expect from a professional marketing executive and a semi-professional man – went without hitch. The detail is as dull as you would expect but we achieved the aims and goals that we intended to achieve.

But, we chatted a little. I established that “Sh” had studied at Dammam University where she had picked up her pretty good English. As I accepted a receipt in Arabic, she appeared a little embarrassed that she couldn't write with the same confidence as her spoken English. I found it quite charming given how shockingly my Arabic is developing.  

I found out that it was “Sh’s” birthday, establishing that she didn't celebrate but that it was custom for people to wish her “happy birthday”. I'm a gentleman and I have a default “polite” setting that is fitting for an Englishman. I duly wished her a happy birthday.

This is really mundane and unexciting stuff, but I draw reference to it because it is so far removed from all my expectations and those of the people who I spoke with from the UK and beyond before I set off to live here. Put aside the meeting content that was essential and timely, I was really aware of how exposed I had left myself - and, possibly more pertinently - how exposed I may have left her to criticism. I've said before that the law is very much open to interpretation. I've always tried to err on the side of caution. 

As the meeting concluded, the fire alarms sounded. In itself, this is not unusual. They have been going off now and again for a few days, but this time they went on and on and on. Initially, my irrational side thought “Ok, this is it. There are sensors. They know that a single woman is with a godless man.” They were the pre-warning of the arrival of the religious police.

But, “Sh” didn't seem to care, so I concluded the meeting rather than make a run for it trying to outrun them in a cab to Bahrain.

Of course, I should have been making my way quickly but without running to the established fire evacuation muster point. But I didn't. I still waited for the meeting to conclude. In part, this is because I don’t know where the fire muster point is and also, because I knew that I was the only one there. Conducting a head count for the team was quite easy. As long as I knew where I was, I couldn't consider myself “missing”.

After a while we strolled downstairs and discovered a hot, plastic smelling haze on the ground floor. All the Facilities guys were running around with fire hoses and extinguishers while desperately making phone calls. One brave soul was pushing the suspended ceiling tiles up to see if he could see the fire. But most people just stood and watched. They didn't leave the building, they just seemed content to offer support, advice and criticism to those involved in trying to work out what to do. It was like being back at Topshop… utterly disorganised, stupid and walking the edge of dangerous.

My survival instinct kicked in. 

No. That is untrue. 

It didn't so much kick as give me a little nudge. So I left the building and stood in the car park. Ignoring that it is always quite nice to stand in the sunshine, I guessed it would be in line with the appropriate “fire” protocols. 

I performed a quick head count. 

I confirmed that I was still there. No-one was missing. I didn't need a laminated sheet or clip board. Everything was good.

A joined me. He had a big smile on his face. He appeared to find it just as funny as I that most of the neighbouring office workers were content to stay in an apparently burning building. It’s different over here.

Then the Fire Brigade arrived; they were waved in by the Facilities guys. Chains were locked in place on the gates, so the Facilities guys returned to the apparently, burning building to get the keys to allow the fire fighters access. It was beautiful to behold.

Last week, while exploring Khobar, I stumbled over a Fire Station. I took a few snaps of the engines, tenders and equipment and would have strolled on without thought had a Fire Officer not chased me down shouting at me in Arabic. Although I didn’t understand a word, it was clear that the presence of my camera was not welcome…

So I took a snap of the engines arriving and was immediately shouted at by A.

A - “No. Mustn't photo. You mustn't photo.”

Me – “Why?”

A – “Mustn't photo.”

Me – “Oh. Why?”

A – “Not allowed.”

Me – “Oh. OK. WHY!”

A – looks puzzled… my incisive line of questioning appears to have him thinking… he dismisses me with a shrug and an arm gesture and lit a ciggie.

It seems that Government agencies do not appreciate, encourage or allow you to photograph them. I knew that. It’s pretty standard the World around. Everyone is sensitive nowadays. But, I've never considered the Fire Brigade as being included. It appears they are.

But, I'm clearly turning into some kind of rebel.

I talk to "chicks". I sit alone with them in offices. I'm unintentionally turning into a walking revolution…

So here are a few snaps that I am not supposed to have taken.

Man runs.

Where you get shouted at...

Close Up and Piss Yellow.

Of course, the fire wasn't really a fire. It was just the air con overheating… 

After an age, we were allowed back into the building. No-one officially said we could but we made unilateral decisions once the Fire Brigade had ambled off. I went to the office to find that all the electrics had tripped. My work mojo was broken. I took it as a cue to go home.

Yeah. Just like being back at Topshop…