I have recently been considering the service industry in my new country of residence. In certain areas it knocks the UK out of the park. I have, for example, taken the luxury of employing a cleaner who is so good at her job it’s like walking into a new apartment every week, and for a fraction of the would-be cost back home. However there are also some notable differences, as anyone who read of my first taxi trip to get a Covid test will know. I will therefore declare ‘taxi drivers not feeling the need to know the whereabouts of your destination’ as my Interesting Service Industry Observation #1.

After seven whole weeks of Google Classroom and learning bubbles (they’re not as fun as they sound) we were all very much ready for a half term break. School was out at lunchtime and I was glad of one major similarity with breaking up in the UK: before you could say ‘happy holidays’ I had dismissed my socially distanced charges and was in the garden of the local cafe bar (part of the art gallery opposite school) raising a glass to a week of freedom and rest.

Unfortunately restrictions are still tight and very much doing what they say on the tin. But r&r was very much on the cards and so a staycation was booked. Jemima, my Director of Music at school, offered me a space in her family’s rented car which I accepted with thanks and off we set, through the desert, to the Oman border and the other major city in the Emirate: Al Ain.

I am pleased to report that the Al Ain Rotana was extremely comfortable and even more pleased to report that they upgraded me, due to running out of standard rooms. In this case, the hotel did not have a standard room available. Despite me having booked a standard room. Interesting Service Industry Observation #2: the service in hotels is exemplary but they sometimes don’t have the room you have booked. Odd as this seemed (after all, the main task of a hotel is to give you a room if you book one) I had, this time, come out very much on top.

Despite being half term the resort was by no means rammed; there was plenty of space by the pool for me to ensconce myself, book in hand, for a few days of total relaxation. This was fortunate as the leisure and tourism opportunities in Al Ain were somewhat limited. Jemima asked if I would like to join in a trip to the zoo; as a native of the UK city of Chester I have been to the zoo a great deal more than your average zoo-going Joe and so politely opted to remain on my sunbed working on my tan.

(I say working on my tan, what I actually mean is my pathetic attempt to become gradually less palid. A northern English upbringing and a dread of the heat in my younger years has not helped matters. To me, sunbathing feels like someone has lowered me into some sort of man-sized toaster and whacked the dial up to 5. I am using my relocation to bring down the system from within. Very gradually.)

I did, however, accept the invitation to join a voyage to the top of the highest mountain in the UAE. Also the only mountain in the UAE. And so we began the 12km drive to the summit of Jebel Hafeet. The road was fantastic; it reminded me of the excitement-fuelled ascention to a ski resort (without the snow) and could easily have featured on Top Gear or The Grand Tour (though I don’t think it has). The views from the top, of both the Emirati and Omani desert, were breathtaking.

Having made the descent our designated driver (Jemima’s husband) declared that we needed to make a stop for fuel. Our arrival at the gas station heralded the arrival of Interesting Service Industry Observation #3 (bet you’re glad you decided to read this today). You arrive at a petrol station. You remain in your seat. A man arrives and fills you up (with petrol) and presents you with a contactless card machine. You pay. You leave. Upon suggesting to our driver that this seemed unnecessarily idle he explained that he had at least been kind enough to turn his engine off whilst our gasoline provision professional went about his business. As doing this will lose several precious minutes of air conditioning inside the car, most patrons apparently do not.

Just as I was processing this cultural shock to the system, we saw the following vehicle at a set of traffic lights. It seems the act of even going to a fuel station is an inconvenience….

And so it was time to schlep back through the desert to Abu Dhabi, and I had great cause for excitement upon our return. Now, I am going to make a conscious effort for this blog to not become a platform for my golf fanaticism. I am somewhat self aware when it comes to my status as a golf bore. People who love golf have told me I am in incredibly boring on the subject of golf, so I dare to think what I could potentially do to the golf non-enthusiast. Suffice to say, then, that 18 holes on the Abu Dhabi National course, home of the HSBC Championship (a European Tour event), was another Very Good Day in the life of your blogger……

And so half term came to an end. In a vague effort to be organised for the week ahead I arranged a Carrefour groceries delivery. It’s arrival leads us to Interesting Service Industry Observation #4 and (thankfully for you, dear and very bored reader) the end of this installment. In a country that can deliver petrol to your car on your own driveway, this seems to me to be a questionable substitution for a mild curry sauce….

I think I’d rather have petrol and rice for supper.

There was a children’s TV programme in the late 1980s and early 1990s called Knightmare. It was my favourite. It was a game show for teams of four children: one who plays and three who act as the advisors and guides. The player was blindfold (in the form of an oversized knight’s helmet) and it was the teammates’ task to guide them through a fantasy medieval dungeon consisting of many different rooms with various challenges to complete. Every time one of these was successfully completed, a door would open and the player could progress to the next room.

In the past week I have received my Emirates ID card and my resident’s visa. In the case of the former this is excellent news as you essentially don’t exist here without it. In the case of the latter it is quite nice to have a whole page of my otherwise baron passport filled with a very official looking document.

My newfound resident status has caused me to look back at the process of obtaining it. A process that goes back to April. For the sake of brevity (and beaucse I like them) here is a little list….

1. Complete an online profile for the Education Department.
2. Get an international police check.
3. Get a letter from my previous school confirming I am who I say I am and I worked where I say I worked.
4. Get all my educational certificates attested by the Foreign Commonwealth Office and the UAE Embassy in London (which involved employing a Notary)
5. Obtain transcripts of record for all my education certificates.
6. Realise what a transcript of record is.
7. Once in the UAE, complete a medical examination and have fingerprints taken.

Now I like thoroughness. I like things done properly. If a job is worth doing:…. you get the gist. But I really do not know how many times it is possible to prove your identity and your qualifications. (For example, point 3 was followed up with a phone call to my previous school from UAE immigration confirming they had written that letter and I had definitely been employed there). I really don’t know whether to respect the fastidiousness or despair at the beurocratic superabundance. That said, given that I am living in an expat paradise tax haven with high wages, free accommodation and beautiful year-round weather, I can see why job and resident applications by non natives are as high as they are and must be managed stringently.

Throughout the entire process I have had no choice but to maintain patience and a touch of humour. In every job that must be done, after all, there is an element of fun. None more so was this the case than a couple of weeks ago when I was sent to complete point 7 on the above list. I was to meet our HR rep at a downtown medical centre at 7.45am. Not well known for my morning disposition, I did not think this a suitable time for the appointment. Still, I proceeded to the waiting room and was given a ticket with a number on it. After some minutes spent cheering myself up by imagining I was in a delicatessen, I was called forward. There was a door behind the reception desk that I was asked to walk through.

This led to another waiting room. Again, I was called forward through another door.

Here I had my chest x-rayed and, despite my attempts to smoke less going slightly worse than planned, seemed to gain the approval of the medic operating the machine. I was then shown through another door. On the other side of the surgery from which I had entered.

This led to another waiting room. Again, I was called forward through another door.

Here I had a blood sample taken. Despite sometimes not being the best with needles this went smoothly and, once again, my designated healthcare professional seemed satisfied. I was then shown through another door. On the other side of the surgery from which I had entered.

This led to another waiting room. Again, I was called forward through another door.

Here I was given a document saying I had completed my medical examination. The forthcoming result would (if a good one) allow me to go to have my fingerprints taken and finally become a UAE resident. Despite my having been prodded and probed at such an uncivilised hour of the day I felt extremely amused, and not just because the blood test made me a little light headed. My merriment derived from being allowed to go through the next door at every stage of the medical, as if on some medieval quest for clean health and residency.

Right then my mind flew back to the 1980s and a young boy sitting in front of a luxurious 20 inch family television set, watching in childlike bewilderment as that week’s contestant made it to the next room, then the next, then the next. I don’t know when I was more nervous, then or a few days ago in my own medical Knightmare.

I like to think that failure might have resulted in being thrown into some murky chasm of ill health, cast aside in favour of a less wheezy music teacher. Instead, I am a proud UAE resident.

And I didn’t even have three friends to guide me safely through…..

Birthday

(16th January 1949)

I thank whatever gods may be
For all the happiness that’s mine;
That I am festive, fit and free
To savour women, wit and wine;
That I may game of golf enjoy,
And have a formidable drive:
In short, that I’m a gay old boy
Though I be
Seventy-and-five.

My daughter thinks, because I’m old
(I’m not a crock, when all is said),
I mustn’t let my feet get cold,
And should wear woollen socks in bed;
A worsted night-cap too, forsooth!
To humour her I won’t contrive:
A man is in his second youth
When he is
Seventy-and-five.

At four-score years old age begins,
And not till then, I warn my wife;
At eighty I’ll recant my sins,
And live a staid and sober life.
But meantime let me whoop it up,
And tell the world that I’m alive:
Fill to the brim the bubbly cup –
Here’s health to
Seventy-and-five!

– Robert William Service

Birthdays. Everyone seems to have different ideas about them. It seems that Robert Service had quite similar thoughts to me and, despite not being 75 (nor, to my knowledge, having a wife or daughter), his poem rang true in many ways when I happened upon it.

The day began with golf and a trip to the Yas Links Club, courtesy of my Music Department colleage Martin. He is new to the game and enjoyed his first ever round on the 9 hole Par 3 Course. What a place to have your first game. Breakfast on the terrace of the clubhouse followed and served as confirmation that everything I have heard about this club is true. The quality of the golf is equal to the incredible views and fine hospitality. I felt very grateful ‘that I may game of golf enjoy’ at such a location. Birthday: so far so good.

Suitably caffeinated, we made our way back to base for pre-brunch preparations. Regular readers will know (if indeed any exist) that my first brunch experience was not at all disappointing. So what to do this time? A colleague had recommended the Ritz-Carlton as ‘the best brunch in Abu Dhabi,’ a bold claim indeed, and so a booking was made for a party of eight on two, socially distanced tables of four. The taxi ride provided me with my first ever sighting of the Grand Mosque; utterly breathtaking and surely worthy of an entire future installment.

Upon arrival I was informed by my guests that I was being upgraded to the Champagne brunch and didn’t have a choice in the matter. A waiter promptly arrived and proceeded to ‘fill to the brim the bubbly cup’. Mr Service would have been pleased.

Not as pleased, I suspect, as I was over the next three hours. If my first brunch was excellent (and it was) this was on another level. Station after station of enticing cuisine unfolded before me like the pages of a gentleman’s magazine of culinary provocation: antipasti, seafood, Chinese, Indian, Italian, a barbecue at which you selected your cuts raw and gave your table number to which your freshly grilled meat could be delivered. And cheese. Lots of cheese. One particular chef was at a station right in the middle preparing ostrich egg scrambled eggs, finished with truffle. A man appeared with a trolley offering laksa cappuccino with a crab croissant. Puddings were served at the table which revealed the next surprise my kind guests had laid on (see below). And all the while, the waiter continued to fill the bubbly cup. Until near the end, when more waiters appeared with trays of espresso martinis. This was only my second stroll down Brunch Avenue, however I can’t help thinking it is going to take some beating.

How could this day then be bettered? Surely the right call at this juncture would be to retire home, happy with the successes enjoyed thus far. But this would not be in the spirit of our introductory poem. As we have established, I am not yet 80 and thus my intention to in the ‘meanwhile let me whoop it up’ needed to be fully realised. I had again asked more established colleagues for recommendations for a bar. Once again they did not disappoint. I managed to persuade my guests away from post-brunch chats over cheese, into taxis and away with haste to Ray’s Bar in the Jumeirah Etihad Tower. My desire to shepherd my co-indulgers with such alacrity was so as to arrive in time for the sunset, as Ray’s Bar is situated on the 62nd floor. Now I do not profess to know who Ray is, but he certainly had a good thing going with his idea for a bar…..

Returning to our friend Mr Service, he promised that, “At eighty I’ll recant my sins, And lead a staid and sober life.” As I sit wallowing in a pit of rank, self-induced despair, the morning after the night before, I’m more minded to implement this immediately.

But I am no fan of self pity. Yesterday was officially A Good Day. A very, very good day. If ever proof were needed that this life decision I have made was a good one, yesterday was the closing statement. If I could tap ‘like’ on the social medium of life, I would. Instead……

I thank whatever gods may be
For all the happiness that’s mine;
That I am festive, fit and free
To savour women, wit and wine;
That I may game of golf enjoy,
And have a formidable drive:
In short, that I’m a gay old boy
Though I be
Seventy-and-five.

Well, eight-and-thirty, but you get the jist.

In order to research this week’s installment I took to the academically reliable source that is Wikipedia:

Brunch is a combination of breakfast and lunch, and regularly has some form of alcoholic drink (most usually champagne or a cocktail) served with it. It is usually served anytime before 3 o’clock in the afternoon.^[1][2][3] The word is a portmanteau of breakfast and lunch.^[4] Brunch originated in England in the late 19th century and became popular in the United States in the 1930s.^[5]

It then goes on to quote an article from 1895 by one Guy Beringer entitled “Brunch: a Plea”:

“Brunch is cheerful, sociable and inciting,” Beringer wrote. “It is talk-compelling. It puts you in a good temper, it makes you satisfied with yourself and your fellow beings, it sweeps away the worries and cobwebs of the week.”

It seems that in the UAE brunch is a big deal. A very big deal. I know this as I was invited to my first one last Friday. Despite being a very short cab ride away, I had been reliably informed that the Market Brunch at the Saadiyat Rotana is one of the best in town and so was delighted that it should be my first.

It’s hard to understand unless you have experienced it, so I shall try to summarise as best I can for my UK audience: you sit down at 1pm, you pay a fixed price, you then proceed to eat and drink as much as you can until 4pm.

That’s about the jist of it, however this brief summary is in danger of creating the wrong impression. It may have caused you to imagine one of those wretched ‘all you can eat’ buffets that permit you to gorge on as much cheap pizza, pasta and other beige items as you like, washed down with free-refil lager and followed by unlimited ‘ice cream station’ or some such culinary purgatory.

Imagine now, if you can, the opposite. Station after station of beautifully presented treats from around the globe. Rows of fresh seafood, antipasti and salads made for a delicious starter. This led on to more international cuisines: sushi, noodles, and curries abounded. I returned with a second course of dim-sum and, of course, Peking Duck rolls. Round the corner from there was a board of roasted meats that seemed to go on forever. At the recommendation of the server at this carnivores’ paradise I ended up with a Beef Wellington that melted on the tongue and reminded me of Sunday afternoons back in Blighty (apart from the fact that I wasn’t freezing cold). Rows of puddings included feather-light macarons, chocolate raspberry parfait and giant Ferrero Rocher (about which I am unsure how I feel, but they shall be included for the sake of completeness and so as not to upset the Ambassador).

Finally, the icing on the brunch cake: an entire cheese station. Which I am fairly certain is what heaven will look like.

At this point I refer back to our Wiki-expert, who informs us that our brunch “regularly has some form of alcoholic drink“. What this meant in our case was a drinks list that stayed by your side the whole afternoon and from which you could order at will. After pre-brunch cocktails I opted to move onto white with the food: there was a waiter walking round with an open bottle the entire time. My glass was not (despite my best efforts) once empty for the ensuing two and a half hours.

And so we can conclude that Mr Beringer, our erstwhile correspondent on all things brunch in 1895, got it spot-on. Come the end of this feast I was indeed ‘satisfied with myself and my fellow beings’. It had very much ‘swept away the worries and cobwebs of the week’. It had without doubt put me ‘in good temper’. Such good temper, in fact, that paying the bill and moving on to the next door Hamiltons Gastropub until well into the evening seemed like the only course of action.

Until the next morning….

It is my fourteenth day in the UAE and my final day of quarantine. To say it hasn’t been frustrating would be a lie. Arriving in a new place and not being able to explore it is certainly a test of patience. I intend to make up for this in the coming weeks and, as a result, have some slightly more interesting content to relay. That said, yesterday was an exception as I was permitted an outing…..

We were asked to take a taxi to the nearest Covid screening centre and take a test before starting work next week. The nearest place was just off the Corniche, the main stretch of road that runs alongside the promenade and the beach. This would make for a pleasant car ride and a spot of initial sightseeing, interrupted only by the briefest nasal discomfort.

So I made my way to the foyer, the taxi app informing me that my transport was nearing. I waited. Nothing. Eventually the phone rings, the taxi driver informs me he has arrived. I made the point that he hadn’t, which I thought was fair as there was no cab to be seen in either direction. This seemed to get lost in translation and a fairly fruitless conversation ensued. It turned out that the driver was at the newly opened Berklee College of Music, Abu Dhabi, which is across the road. Either his satnav had gone wrong or he had grossly overestimated my musical abilities.

In terms of misunderstandings this was more the overture than the coda. The driver failed to understand the term Covid test centre and no amount of Googling provided a location. Someone had posted a map with a drop pin on the WhatsApp group for new staff so I tried my best to direct my driver using this, in a city I have never been to, using a language he clearly had no grasp of. When we eventually arrived my fare was higher than it could have been, but on the up-side I had seen most of the city.

Like all good dramas, however, there was a final twist to this tale. I was about to get my first lesson in the insistence upon strict beurocracy over here. We had a code to submit, provided by my school, that would allow us to obtain a test. In my haste that morning I had found this code in an email and scribbled it down on a scruffy piece of notepaper. This did not pass muster with the man at the entrance. An official email was needed, I was told, and my taxi was directed out of the queue and into the adjacent car park. Disaster. Returning home testless was not an option as it would mean not being allowed to start work on Monday. A phone call to my kind colleague (and soon to be new Director of Music) got me a screenshot of the official email with the code and the school logo at the top. My esteemed chauffeur and I rejoined the queue for a second bite of the screening cherry. We got to the front: one flash of my phone and the document thereupon and we were through with no further fuss. The PPE-clad nurse administered the necessary brain scratching and we were heading homewards. Safe(ish) in the knowledge that the driver could find the place from where he had picked me up, I sat back and enjoyed the beautiful views of the sea on one side and the cityscape on the other.

Here endeth the first cultural lesson. In a city where cutting edge modernity is king, the smartphone is mightier than the notebook. It is true that the man who makes no mistakes makes nothing at all, but it is also true that the man who sits in his flat quarantining for two weeks makes nothing at all. Tomorrow I regain my freedom and I have no doubt whatsoever that I will make many more mistakes as I adapt to life here. For now, I will be grateful that I am allowed out to make them.

It is my fourth day in the UAE. Already. Which is good news as it means a mere 10 days of quarantine remain.

The flight from Manchester to Dubai was excellent: 3 movies back to back (Woody Allen’s latest really didn’t deserve the harsh criticism it got) accompanied by a chicken dish that wasn’t inedible. Having landed shortly after midnight, all that remained was to get a taxi from Dubai to Abu Dhabi. However (as I had been forewarned by colleagues on an earlier flight) this would involve showing a recent (within 48 hours) negative COVID test. As the tests we had done in the UK were already more than 48 hours old this was not going to be possible. The solution: a testing centre in a tent on the side of the road going into Abu Dhabi. With the taxi waiting outside. At 2am. It goes without saying that the safe arrival at my new accommodation at 4am was a welcome moment.

What came next made Tentgate a distant memory. As I was greeted by the porter and shown to my new digs I knew all was going to be well. The door was opened to reveal a very smart apartment: fully-furnished (or at least far higher equipped than the part-furnished I thought I was getting) with floor-to-ceiling windows and a basic stock of food to keep me going until I could order groceries. On the table sat a lovely welcome card, propped up by a couple of Ferrero Rocher. I climbed into bed exhausted but happy.

Since then life has been as uneventful as you might expect for someone in quarantine. In 12 days’ time I will, with any luck, be able to get to know my new home city as well as I know the interior of this flat. One thing that has struck me immediately, however, is the influence of the expat community here. I am told that anywhere up to 90% of the city’s population is expat, with a large number of these being from the UK. For example, the other day I ordered groceries from a very smart online farm shop that delivers fresh produce in lovely cardboard crates to your door (with the arrival of my new frying pan today I am very much looking forward to sirloin steak and chips for supper). On my desk when I arrived was a complimentary day pass for a private members’ club down the road that could easily be a country club outside any well-to-do English suburb (apart from it’s on a beach). And, unlike anywhere I have been to before, they have the same plug sockets.

Finally, as if all this wasn’t enough, having travelled 3500 miles to discover wonderful new cultures and customs, I had a Deliveroo last night. It was, however, Lebanese…….

It is my final night in the UK. I have finished the last supper, checked things off my list, felt pleased about my list efficiency and written a list for the morning.

I have also finished packing. Sometimes you find solutions for problems you didn’t know existed in the first place; in this case it was the Space Saver vacuum bag. Mention was made of these on one of my new staff WhatsApp groups and I was, of course, quick to pooh-pooh such a notion. Then I ordered some and wondered where this polythene genius had been all my life. Apart from the mild exertion needed to operate the mini reverse-pump and suck the air out of your clothing (and, incidentally, the fun out of the afternoon which could have been spent watching Netflix and eating biscuits) I can’t see the downside. My clothes fit easily into my suitcase and when it came to closure the zip zipped round with ease without me having to sit on it.

As the sun sets on my last day in Liverpool (until Christmas, let’s not get too carried away) I feel unnervingly calm. Perhaps it is because an ending is inevitable before you can have a new beginning, and as a wise lady once said, “Where the Lord closes a door, somewhere he opens a window”. And so I am left wondering how many more problems I will encounter over the coming days, weeks and months and how many more solutions there are that I don’t yet know about. They are doubtlessly waiting for me in the vacuum bag of life.

So why a blog? Why now?

As I write, in July 2020, everything has changed. And the change was quick. For 12 years Sussex had been my home; first Brighton, then the Ashdown Forest. It was comfortable, familiar, homely even. Dividing my time between Sussex and Liverpool had done no favours for my regional identity: friends in the south would mercilessly mock my northern-isms (the cruellest of them used to accuse me of being from the Midlands, they know who they are) whilst any conversation with a Scouser would gather momentum towards the inevitable “you’re not from round here, are you?” Despite my status as a north-south divide nomad, life was good.

Then I made a decision.

For anyone that knows me at all, this decision will have seemed peculiar at best. For Richard Coppack was many things, but a traveller was not one of them. So many of my friends are windswept, interesting globetrotters. They are well-travelled. This is not me. Nearly 4 decades of life (repeat, nearly) has barely seen me venture outside the EU. As a student I had no time or inclination for GAP years. In my 20s I wanted a career. I also developed a love of skiing that took care of many an annual holiday budget. And all the time the world was still out there, a place that others visited, a place that I might see one day. But not now.

So when, back in April, I accepted a teaching job in Abu Dhabi, those who know me would have been forgiven for being somewhat taken aback. And rightly so. I am not just visiting a far off land (3500 miles is quite far) I am staying there to work. For a minimum of 2 years. In at the deep end would be putting it mildly. The deep end would be more like the shallow end, then with an extra end that’s even deeper. I think.

Anyway, it seems to me that if you get thrown into the (extra) deep end, you have no choice but to swim. But what can be done to make this metaphorical feat of watersport heroics more achievable? It seems to me that one way would be to connect with everyone back in the UK. This would be cathartic and rewarding for me, and hopefully not so excruciatingly boring for you that you have already sacked it off to check BBC news or track your latest Amazon order. So what follows is something for everyone (I hope).