The final part in the my first series of travelogues on Dubai – the French-flavored dating scene!
For Part2 on the Dubai yoga scene, click here.
For Part1 on first impressions and touristy thangs, click here.
As for the Dubai dating scene … well, I was only there for a week, but I can safely say the French contingent is rather determined when it comes to the chase! There are fifteen thousand Frenchies in Dubai, in a city of four million, and somehow, someway, I managed to meet two Frenchmen in one night. Both of which are professionals in the city, having lived there for exactly four years. Both of which grew up 30 minutes from the town where my dad is planning to retire. Both of which are 28 years old – one born October 21st, the other born October 22nd. Oddly, one sported a black hat, the other a white one. Coincidence? How could it be?
White dudes in Dubai are well dressed, well educated, generally good looking, and very confident. This all makes sense considering the circumstances. These guys have been filtered down by internationally successful companies to carry out big business on a global scale. They’re smart, bilingual, if not poly-lingual (hot!), likeable, ambitious, focused, and being all the way out here in the desert, we can safely say most of these fellows are pretty adventurous.
All this being said, after the initial niceties and charming wooing on their part, I did start to feel a bit like I was in an interview for a position as their VP of Lovin’ Affairs.
Yes sir, I’d be more than happy to debrief you at a future date. Beyond that, I’m afraid I’m simply not available for any specific positions…
Black hat French dude gave me an interesting perspective on being an investment banker (you’d never guess his job, talking to or looking at him). He was disgusted by how much he had to watch his back for gold diggers. And he was quite astonished when I couldn’t remember what he said his job was – apparently, most girls really care about investment bankers. Go figure.
So he says that women go to this bar at the bottom of his building, a building where thousands of investment bankers work, a bar where hundreds go to take their daily dose of relaxation. The women flock here to hunt down men with “a bright future” and are relentless in their tactics. Given, he could have been exaggerating, but I thought about it for a sec, and to be fair, if I were a gold digger, I’d pack my bags and go straight to Dubai myself! I mean, what better place to meet attractive young men, in an environment where only the brightest have been chosen?
“Yeah,” the Frenchman elaborated, “I can just see her now. Sitting somewhere in Manchester devising her plan like, ‘Yeah, I’m gonna get him. I’m gonna go to Dubai!!’” We had a good laugh over the hypothetical gold digger. And I wondered how much of that was true.
I also pondered how these Frenchman had chosen me, out of a bar full of ladies, to actively pursue on the dance floor and beyond. Sporting jeans and a tattoo is already rather “hardcore” in this city of cocktail dresses and salon hairdos. Totally immersed in our “ladies night out” I had no intentions of speaking to men, entertaining their ideas, or even getting much dance time in. Regardless of intentions, the French charm was irresistible.
White hat Frenchie got my number as I walked out the door of our first venue.
“Please can I have your number?”
“Why? I don’t live in Dubai.”
“Well, where are you going next? We could meet you and your friends there.”
“I’m not sure where we’re going,” though I most certainly did, “have a good night, though!”
“Could I just have your number then? I’d like to see you again.”
“Hm.” I had to give him points for persistence. “Well, I’ll tell you what. If you can remember my name, I’ll take your call. Otherwise, you’re shit outta luck.”
We’d had a brief conversation earlier in the night about Plaisance, the town where my dad is moving to for early retirement. This fella grew up a stone’s throw away, so we had some means of connection; the demi-peche, the Marciac Jazz Festival, a love of wine. I couldn’t remember if I’d even told him my name, nor did it make much difference to me. Sure, he was cute, but how would anything of worth ever come from making a connection with some random French guy who lived four hours away?
Well, he got my name somehow and I came to get to know him a bit better later in the week. He was a salesman for a telecommunications company – which would explain the hard sell at the lounge – and he spent most of his hours playing rugby – which would explain the bulging muscles. Muscles which, oddly, I didn’t notice at first. Friends had to remind me later of how “hot” a body he had. If anything, meeting him the second time, when he wore a skin tight polo shirt, only made me feel a little … intimidated.
What I found attractive about homeboy on our third meeting wasn’t his muscles or his steady job, but the fact that he was a painter – a brilliant painter, actually. Mostly abstracts, bold with subtly layered colors, harmonious in vibe, touches of mystery sprinkled throughout, well composed … such a beautiful surprise. A rugby playing painter. On top of that – he’s the best Salsa dancer I’ve ever been dipped by! What else could be in store?
At the time of writing, however, I’m pretty sure I won’t be finding out much more about the dude. After a night of great conversation and incredible visceral fire, he kept playing out this weird hot-cold game. “Sweety” one minute, not returning calls the next. Perhaps he’s bipolar – perhaps he’s just French. Either way, I don’t like games, and I’m not looking for a DIY romping partner, so as it stands, I’ve let this one pass.
Good times in Dubai. Who knows what else lies in store for a single woman like me, on a spiritual path, saving up for my life of yoga and writing, looking for my life partner, living in a land of riches and temptation. Oh my!