Panic!

 

Friday 20th March 

 

The first thing I do on waking is check the ferry company’s news site. It has become routine to check several times a day. So far the less than comforting message that all services between Spain and the UK had been cancelled from the 22nd of March. With a crossing booked for the 21st it at least gave us hope.

This morning however the only message that appeared was:

“Currently all passenger services between the UK and Ireland to France and Spain have been cancelled until 13 April 2020”

Now, how would you react? Me? I stormed into the lounge and tried not to scream at Neil “They’ve cancelled our ferry!” I like to think it came out in a calm and collected voice.

Neil immediately emailed them, phone lines not being open until 9:30. As there’s no response by then, he gives them a call. “Due to the high volume of calls we are currently experiencing this enquiry service has been suspended until further notice”

So what now? Flights are still leaving at present and friends have already decided to take that option leaving their car and most of the other belongings they brought with them ​in Spain. As we only have the one car and I tend to pack all our worldly goods into it, that was a none starter for us. That leaves the channel tunnel. Eurostar are still running but France is in lockdown, too. So how is that going to work? Thanks to the brilliant social media community on Jávea Connect I discover it is possible by downloading, filling in and printing a form, one for each of us and for each day to be shown to the police. They even posted the exact phrase, in French, we would need to write on the form. With breaking up the trip difficult to say the least; it would not be a journey most sensible people would choose to do in peace time but it is an option.

Meanwhile, Neil had the inspired idea of ringing the actual port in Santander. Miraculously he got through to someone who spoke excellent English and patiently reassured him that our ferry was “definitely” still running tomorrow. Panic over but this constant state of tension is doing nothing for my blood pressure, I can tell you!

First Days

Summer in Abu Dhabi is not the time for sightseeing. Just as well, then, that we’re not here on holiday. Neil had an extra day off for the weekend of my arrival so it was time to get down to the serious business of shopping.

As usual on these rare occasions with Neil, the whole thing has to be done with a military precision. He doesn’t do browsing. To be fair, we had a lot to get through. Left to my own devices we would never have made the ever-growing list of things we need to buy for when we eventually have our own apartment. Ah, now there’s the rub.

You see, the owner of the apartment we want to rent, are committed to rent, has gone on holiday. For a month. To Canada. Without signing the contract. To cut a long story short, this means we now have to move out of the hotel where Neil has been staying for the last month and into a temporary holiday let. More expense. So our “shopping” trips were all about choosing the exact furniture and white goods we need to buy rather than actually buying them. The frustration continues.

In the meantime, then, we’ve been making the most of hotel living. Swimming is the only form of exercise that it is possible to do outside at the moment, so the rooftop pool, with its stunning views over this amazing city, is a regular part of our day. The mall, a couple of hundred metres away via the fan oven, is also another daily haunt. It seems a lot of the social life of the city takes place in the hotels and malls. This is curbed at the moment because I have arrived during Ramadan.

The Muslim holy month comes with severe restrictions. The observant are not allowed to eat, drink or smoke during daylight hours along with other, more private, abstinence. The mind should be focused on prayer and charity. With this in mind, the working day is reduced, offices and shops open for shorter hours and cafés, bars and restaurants remain closed during the day. Out of respect, those not observing the restrictions are also required not to eat or drink in public places. In fact it is against the law.

It’s a different story come nightfall, though. The breaking of the fast is a social and communal activity. Come 7:15, as the call to prayer echoes around the city, there’s not a seat to be had in the mall’s food court and everywhere seems to come alive. Hotels and restaurants specialise in Iftars, a sort of all-you-can-eat buffet that traditionally breaks the fast, with the most amazing food, all beautifully presented. As those who have not been fasting are also welcome, we have been indulging. My expanding waistline can vouch for that.

Arrival

Friday

From the moment I stepped onto the plane it was apparent my life was changing. More used to the cattle class of the budget airlines, even Etihad’s “Coral” class seemed a cut above. The polyglot cabin crew in their unusual head gear seemed exotic and somehow out of place in drizzly Manchester. It wasn’t long, though, before it became plain that I was the one who was displaced.
Taking that first tentative step out of the chilly air-conditioned cabin into the Abu Dhabi evening was enough to make me realise I had left everything familiar behind. My mind couldn’t quite comprehend what had hit me. Suddenly engulfed in what I thought was the hot blast from the plane’s engine, it took me a few seconds to realise that this was the weather.
The fan-heater afternoons of a Greek summer hadn’t prepared me for this. I’ve been trying to find some way to describe the sensation and can only come up with standing in front of a giant and powerful tumble dryer vent. The humidity is staggering. My glasses immediately steamed up and as I gripped the steel pole of the shuttle bus my hand slipped in the condensation.
It soon became apparent that the majority of my fellow passengers weren’t terminating their journey here but were travelling further afield. This meant that there was no comforting crocodile of people heading for baggage collection or the exit. No problem, I could follow the signs which were in both Arabic and, thankfully, English. Except suddenly I was in a shopping centre. Not a sign to be seen, just a queue snaking its way between the stores. It was only my aversion to standing in line that stopped me joining it and searching furthur afield.
Once I was back on track, though, it was plain sailing. My cases were already going round on the carousel, a luggage trolley was at hand and Customs didn’t bat an eye. Best of all, there was Neil waving to me. Suddenly I was right at home.