More about the big race later, firstly, I thought I would talk about new 5 star life-style.
I’ve never considered myself to be rich or poor. Despite the fact that I have thousands of pounds of debt left over from being a student, don’t own a flat or a house, and have a pension that’s not even two years old and has already been shot to hell by the credit crunch. I do own a car, but it’s neither new nor high in value.
Anyway, the point is that I have always been comfortable, middle of the road, right through childhood and adulthood. The very wealthy is not a group of people or a lifestyle that I have ever really been a part of or known. Yet this past 9 or 10 days or so, I have experienced a little bit of that lifestyle, firstly with the Club World Travel, which I have already talked about, but also with my 5 star beach resort hotel in Abu Dhabi.
From the complimentary shoe shine and bottles of water to the daily bowls of fruit, to the hello Mr. Meade from all the staff who seem to know my name whether I’ve spoken to them or not, it’s all quite incredible. My room is even serviced twice a day, something I hadn’t realised until last Thursday, as I have not spent much time in my room due to work.
It was early evening and a particularly speedy taxi driver had got me back earlier than normal. I dumped my bag on my made-up bed, turned on the TV and started drinking a bottle of water only to hear a knock at the door. I opened it to see the room service trolley and a man from guest services standing outside. I quickly pointed out that my room had been serviced already. He responded, “Yes, Mr. Meade, but would you like it prepared for the evening?” Curious, I said yes. He came in drew the curtains, turned on the soft lamps, added a few more bottles of water pulled out the complimentary bedroom slippers and placed them on a special slipper mat that he had produced and set by the side of my bed. He then placed a fresh flower on my pillow. It was only then that I realised that was how my room normally greeted me every evening. Class.
The laundry service is another perfect example of this quality. At the weekend I stuffed my t-shirts, boxers, socks, and shirts into a bag and with one quick call to guest services a man appeared and took it away. They returned 12 hours later, the shirts cleaned and ironed, resting on hangers, the t-shirts and other clothes arrived in a wicker box. Inside they were neatly folded and ironed, with the cardboard supports you get in new shirt packaging helping them keep their shape. The socks were all neatly paired up, some of those socks haven’t been paired up since they were bought, it must have been quite a shock for them.
I am sure I could get use to some of this, especially the attention to detail that seems to separate this kind of service from the normal hotel service. I could certainly get use to the complimentary hot chocolate I get every evening in the business lounge and the way they clean and tidy the room. Not sure I can get used to the constant, “Mr. Meade” or the way that most of the staff acts in a subservient way when around me. They certainly don’t see themselves as equals in anyway and I feel very uncomfortable about that.
I’ve never considered myself to be rich or poor. Despite the fact that I have thousands of pounds of debt left over from being a student, don’t own a flat or a house, and have a pension that’s not even two years old and has already been shot to hell by the credit crunch. I do own a car, but it’s neither new nor high in value.
Anyway, the point is that I have always been comfortable, middle of the road, right through childhood and adulthood. The very wealthy is not a group of people or a lifestyle that I have ever really been a part of or known. Yet this past 9 or 10 days or so, I have experienced a little bit of that lifestyle, firstly with the Club World Travel, which I have already talked about, but also with my 5 star beach resort hotel in Abu Dhabi.
From the complimentary shoe shine and bottles of water to the daily bowls of fruit, to the hello Mr. Meade from all the staff who seem to know my name whether I’ve spoken to them or not, it’s all quite incredible. My room is even serviced twice a day, something I hadn’t realised until last Thursday, as I have not spent much time in my room due to work.
It was early evening and a particularly speedy taxi driver had got me back earlier than normal. I dumped my bag on my made-up bed, turned on the TV and started drinking a bottle of water only to hear a knock at the door. I opened it to see the room service trolley and a man from guest services standing outside. I quickly pointed out that my room had been serviced already. He responded, “Yes, Mr. Meade, but would you like it prepared for the evening?” Curious, I said yes. He came in drew the curtains, turned on the soft lamps, added a few more bottles of water pulled out the complimentary bedroom slippers and placed them on a special slipper mat that he had produced and set by the side of my bed. He then placed a fresh flower on my pillow. It was only then that I realised that was how my room normally greeted me every evening. Class.
The laundry service is another perfect example of this quality. At the weekend I stuffed my t-shirts, boxers, socks, and shirts into a bag and with one quick call to guest services a man appeared and took it away. They returned 12 hours later, the shirts cleaned and ironed, resting on hangers, the t-shirts and other clothes arrived in a wicker box. Inside they were neatly folded and ironed, with the cardboard supports you get in new shirt packaging helping them keep their shape. The socks were all neatly paired up, some of those socks haven’t been paired up since they were bought, it must have been quite a shock for them.
I am sure I could get use to some of this, especially the attention to detail that seems to separate this kind of service from the normal hotel service. I could certainly get use to the complimentary hot chocolate I get every evening in the business lounge and the way they clean and tidy the room. Not sure I can get used to the constant, “Mr. Meade” or the way that most of the staff acts in a subservient way when around me. They certainly don’t see themselves as equals in anyway and I feel very uncomfortable about that.
In other news, I went for my usual run tonight, and for the most part it was no different than any other night. However, as I was heading home along a pavement where the road it runs beside has been closed for maintenance, an Indian guy rode up alongside me on his bike. The bike was fairly old fashioned and even had a grocery basket attached to the front. It certainly wasn’t anything that would grace Lance Armstrong’s shed. In a very nice manner and with a smile on his face he turned to me and said, “I challenge you. Race? Challenge?” I was a little shocked at first and wasn’t sure what he meant, but he said it again. I don’t know if he was joking or serious, but he looked a little taken back when I accepted his challenge and inquired where the race was to finish. He suggested the traffic lights at the end of the road.
So we were off. He started peddling hard and I managed to stay level with him and still keep a little something back. It was at this point that I noticed his nice polite smile had gone and he was genuinely working hard. I am not sure he had bargained for this. I had abandoned the pavement and taken to the road at this point to get closer to him and the pair of us passed another bemused cyclist. Half-way and I was just hanging on, but still felt I had more to give. My challenger was pushing hard, head down and trying to break away. Unfortunately for me, at this point he did start to pull a way, so I had to give it everything. My arms were pumping, my chest heaving to the point of breaking and I could feel the jelly legs coming, but I wasn’t giving up. Unfortunately, there aren’t too many cases of man beating bicycle, even one as beat up as this, and with a hundred metres to go until the lights he got a couple of bike lengths ahead of me and in the end his victory was assured. He pulled up, turned and smiled, although it was full of relief rather than joy. He said thank you, waved his hand goodbye and then carried on. I had enjoyed our little race, but I was slightly disappointed, if it had happened at the start of my evening run, rather than the end, then I might have beaten him, maybe. Still all good fun and technically my first Abu Dhabi race!
And finally, when walking down the corridor of my hotel I passed a guy who I guessed was from the UK. He was and as we passed he just turned to me and said, “Wottcha!” I haven’t heard that in years, I didn’t realise anyone still used this expression. I was so tempted to say it back, but instead opted for the boring, “Alright.”
So we were off. He started peddling hard and I managed to stay level with him and still keep a little something back. It was at this point that I noticed his nice polite smile had gone and he was genuinely working hard. I am not sure he had bargained for this. I had abandoned the pavement and taken to the road at this point to get closer to him and the pair of us passed another bemused cyclist. Half-way and I was just hanging on, but still felt I had more to give. My challenger was pushing hard, head down and trying to break away. Unfortunately for me, at this point he did start to pull a way, so I had to give it everything. My arms were pumping, my chest heaving to the point of breaking and I could feel the jelly legs coming, but I wasn’t giving up. Unfortunately, there aren’t too many cases of man beating bicycle, even one as beat up as this, and with a hundred metres to go until the lights he got a couple of bike lengths ahead of me and in the end his victory was assured. He pulled up, turned and smiled, although it was full of relief rather than joy. He said thank you, waved his hand goodbye and then carried on. I had enjoyed our little race, but I was slightly disappointed, if it had happened at the start of my evening run, rather than the end, then I might have beaten him, maybe. Still all good fun and technically my first Abu Dhabi race!
And finally, when walking down the corridor of my hotel I passed a guy who I guessed was from the UK. He was and as we passed he just turned to me and said, “Wottcha!” I haven’t heard that in years, I didn’t realise anyone still used this expression. I was so tempted to say it back, but instead opted for the boring, “Alright.”
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