The Dubai Dress Code

For evening prayers, the entire Dubai airport is filled with muezzin singing from Bang&Olufsen loudspeakers. Fully veiled women and scantily clad New Arabs go to prayer. While the eternally yesterday at home consider a national referendum necessary for even the most modest mosque, here in the airport prayer room even non-believers are welcome – at least in the men’s area, but even barefoot.

I have seven hours to spare. After a cigarette at 8 o’clock in the evening, still a good 40°C, I am perfectly prepared in terms of perspiration for a classy dinner in the panorama restaurant of the Burj al Arab. If there is any “inappropriate” here, then I should fulfil it perfectly with my backpack and my 18-hour-old travel clothes.

The sky-blue, driverless metro is a fully automated operating theatre. An impressive forest of signs indicates possible offences and the associated penalties. Everyone complies. 14 stops later, I am near the Burj al Arab and change to a taxi. Doorman: “Do you have reservation sir?” Me: “No, but could i get one right now?” The taxi driver gives me his mobile phone and I ring the concierge at 23:00: “The panorama restaurant is already closed, sir.” Bollocks. “Okay, what about the panorama Bar?” “Yes sir, I can make a reservation for you right now. Minimum drinks is 80 €.”. Okay, I would still be there. And I would have treated myself to at least €110 for a main course.

“We have dress code, sir. No casual wear.”. “No Problem, i got beautiful suites made of the finest black and white ripstop-nylon, preferably .i’d consider wearing a wet suit. Would you accept these?”. He agrees and the doorman waves us through. But the sad truth is: I probably can’t fulfil the Dubai dress code today. My 30kg of kites are in my bag, which is at the airport. I have all my clothes for two months of travelling in a small daypack. I’ve never brought a suit.

Bentleys, Maseratis and Hummers are parked in €20 car parks in front of the Mall of Emirates. The sheikhs shop long and hard with their fully veiled wives. Employees at Ski Dubai attribute my green superhero ID card with religious powers unknown to me – they let me into the indoor ski centre, which normally costs at least €35, for free. Perhaps the airport muezzin had called.

Burj al Arab was nothing, but the food court would do. Even before I spot where I could dispose of my tray in the self-service area, a quiet waiter in a bright blue waistcoat clears it away and wipes the table. A little confused, I look down at the second strip of salt on my T-shirt, then back up at him. He smiles broadly at me.

At midnight it cools down to a pleasant 35°C. The policemen are lying on the grass in the park, the six-lane highways are still blinking Christmas trees, the first joggers dare to take to the track, and I take the metro back to the airport. While writing my first entry in almost a year, I almost miss my connecting flight to new territory number 42 at three o’clock in the morning.