Still single in the city

Misadventure in the Serviced Apartment

I am up to my neck with serviced apartments. Almost every big building I see in Dubai (and you mostly see big buildings on the main roads) houses serviced apartments. The synonym is hotel apartments. It's a convivial marriage between two sectors: hospitality and housing. You're supposed to feel you are endowed with all the trappings that come with a hotel stay (furnishings, room service, housekeeping, swimming pool, sauna etc etc). Yet you have the luxury of feeling a bit like a chef once in a while: you can stock up the fridge with stuff you buy from the supermarket (there's a BIIIIG refrigerator to take in the load), you can cook (there's fully-fitted kitchen), and you can eat a full meal (or host a candle-lit dinner) that can be laid out all propah (there is cutlery/crockery AND a dining table set).

I don't know why I am giving you a lecture on serviced apartments. Yon find them in India too.  Only, it's a nascent trend, and the few that are around cater only to the premium end. In Dubai, serviced apartments are all over the place -- and meant for everyone.

Whatever happened to me probably won't happen to most people - so please, please don't take this as a benchmark. It was an aberration. And it all happened because I was looking for a bit of culinary adventure: dying to cook some of the prettily laid-out veggies and meats in the supermarkets that pop out of every conceivable corner in Dubai. I fantasised about rustling up a broccoli and spinach soup, peppered with mozzarella, sprinkling it with croutons and wolfing it down. "Just you wait," I promised everyone who cared to listen in office. "Once I have MY OWN KITCHEN, I will get sandwiches for all of you."

I checked out of my nice but boring hotel, and checked in to a serviced apartment, a few paces down the road. I had to go to work early, so I dumped my luggage in the lobby and told the helpful-looking faces there to take my bags to the room; I would come by in the evening. "AFTER a groceries-and-garden-fresh-veggies shopping spree," I thought to myself gleefully.  

I DID happen to notice that the lobby was overrun by Malayalis (Keralites; I've been asked here by people whether Malayalis have anything to do with Malaysians, or Malays -- no they don't!). I have nothing against Malayalis, many of my really good friends are Malayalis. Hell, Tiger is a Malayali. But it was strange to see so many of them at the same place: bellboy, receptionist, cashier, even the general manager who came rushing out to meet me, assuring me of the best service. For two minutes, I thought I was in Calicut or Kochi or Kottayam, and that green fields and coconut trees were right outside the lobby door. But of course, it was only the office car waiting for me outside the lobby door.

It was a bad day at work, and I finished rather late. So I came back straight to the serviced apartment. Dubai is not like Delhi that shuts down at 9 pm, I told myself excitedly (I've been talking to myself a lot lately), so once I have a shower and freshen up, I'd be ready for my shopping expedition.

In the lobby, I saw new Malayali faces. Change of shift. "Your luggage madam," one of the front office chaps said, "is in your room." Having said that, he burst out laughing. Oh, alright, a man with a sunny disposition, I thought to myself and walked towards the elevator, images of sun-soaked Kerala beaches floating in my head.  

The elevator took an awfully long time getting down to my level. The doors creaked open, and the sound reminded me of ‘Shhhhhh... Koi Hain'. Then, it took an awfully long time to climb up to the third floor where my serviced apartment waited for me.

I had to use brute force to get the door to open. It was a mostly ungainly sight, me trying to push open the door using my body frame. Luckily, no one saw me, and I entered my new home.

In five minutes, I had a few facts under my belt: the curtains (of the long window) wouldn't close so everyone in the buildings opposite mine would be able to see me if the lights were on; the kitchen looked unusable; the bedside light didn't work; the bed linen looked dirty as hell.

I sat down on the bed that was covered with a dank sheet, and felt miserable. Let me try and make the best of a bad situation, I decided, fingering three misshapen spoons (three different sizes). I tried to plug in the electric cooker to check if it was in working condition. The power tripped and the room plunged into darkness. Using my cellphone as a torch, I groped my way through the room, and found the door. Much heaving and yanking followed. When the door finally opened, I ran to the elevator. It was stuck on the sixth floor, and came down after 4 minutes precisely. The doors creaked open.

There was a bunch of young men -- seven of them -- in drag, standing inside. Well, okay, it wasn't as if they were clad in saris or skirts -- but they were wearing floral printed pyjamas, chintzy tops, had full make-up on and hair done to death. "Going up or down?" I managed to croak rhetorically. I mean, obviously it was going down. "Going down," one of the boys giggled.

I stood in the centre of seven dolled-up men, all of who smelled like Eau de Parfum factories -- so the intense combined effect was that of Chanel‘s Pour Monsieur Concentrée -- while the lift creaked its way downwards. From time to time, the gang of seven went nudge-nudge-wink-wink and giggled hysterically, and I desperately wanted the earth to open up and swallow me.

Fighting back tears bravely, I flounced up to the front-office chap, the same one who had the habit of laughing. "The power has tripped in my room," I said as authoritatively as I could. "Can you send someone up please?"

He burst out laughing. "It happens all the time."

"So? You won't send someone to look into the matter?"

"Okay, I'll come myself."

Both of us took the creaky elevator upstairs, where I huffed and puffed and finally opened the door to my room. He fixed the fuse and power was restored. "Any chance of this happening again?" I asked. He burst out laughing again. "You know where to find us."

"Er, the bedside light doesn't work too," I edged in. "Can you fix it?"

He laughed, and then checked it out. "Sorry," he said cheerfully, "this can't be fixed right now... I'll try and do it tomorrow." Another hoot of laughter, and he was gone.

I was teetering on the brink of a tearful breakdown. I SMS-ed the Boss (God bless him) at 11 in the night: "I can't stay in the serviced apartment: it's a weird place, nothing works, and there are strange people around. I want to go back to Delhi."

Five minutes later, the Boss called. "You stupid woman, I told you to hang in there in the hotel," he scolded. "Move back to the hotel: do you want to move rightaway?" I might be able to spend the night somehow, I blabbered defensively. "I'll move tomorrow morning."

The next day, I was back in the hotel. And when I went to office, there were no sandwiches for anyone.

Ah, yes, an Omani sheikh sauntered into my hotel room one day, soon after my Misadventure in the Serviced Apartment and tried to befriend me.

More on that next Sunday.