In the opening chapter of The Art of Travel, Alain De Botton examines the ‘relationship between the anticipation of travel and its reality’, using his trip to Barbados as a case study. He is weary of the ‘ominous steel-grey sky’ and relentless December rain in London, when he receives a brochure, and is captivated by its pictures of a tropical idyll.
Its cover displayed a row of palm trees, many of them growing at an angle, on a sandy beach fringed by a turquoise sea, set against a backdrop of hills, where I imagined there to be waterfalls and relief from the heat in the shade of the sweet-smelling fruit trees.
The honey trap works and he books a trip to Barbados. But when he reaches the Caribbean island, a couple of months later, he is dismayed. The holiday destination he had envisioned — a paradise consisting entirely of golden beaches and azure skies — turns out to also possess earthly, and often unsavoury, aspects: immigration lines, open waste grounds, crowds of tour guides, and other joyless features.
Like so many of us are wont to, De Botton had let his anticipatory imagination colour his expectations in the lead-up to a trip. In his eagerness to trade the cold, wet London days for sunny afternoons in Barbados, he had endowed the latter with Elysian qualities — thus setting himself up for disappointment when he encountered the real thing.
Thankfully, I ran no such risk when planning my visit to Dubai.
I travelled to Dubai, convinced that I would dislike the place. My friends had alerted me to the many ills of the city. Foremost, of course, were the warnings about the weather. I knew the heat would prove them right, but I was not prepared for the intensity with which it would happen. I could hear a smug ‘What did I tell you?’ — as a fiery midday breeze lashed my face and the buildings swam before my eyes — every time I stepped outside. Ovens have been known to be more temperate.
If only they built a climate-controlled city district under a giant glass dome that could house, oh, I don’t know, maybe an 8-million-square-foot shopping mall, a Broadway-style entertainment area and the world’s largest indoor theme park. That would really do the trick. But I suppose it’s too ludicrous to imagine anybody sanctioning a project like that.1
The second cautionary note I received was about the traffic. There were indeed long waits at the intersections — I could see my fingernails growing as we waited for the lights to turn green — but in truth, it was refreshing to participate in such an orderly traffic jam. At one point, a driver honked and the occupants of a dozen cars turned to glare at him, shaming him into silence.
In Mumbai, when you’re stuck in traffic, the only response to a honk is a louder, more vehement honk — the back-and-forth duet rising in tempo until it escalates into a chorus with a road-full of vehicles joining in for a crescendo that can last several minutes.
Dubai may be harsher on your skin but is gentler on your ears.
And finally, there were the grim predictions that I would spend all of my waking hours inside shopping malls. As it turned out, this was not the case at all. I only spent 90% of my waking hours in shopping malls; the rest was spent in cabs — or, to be precise, it was spent waiting for my father to get in, and out, of cabs.
We are a family of ponderous movers — especially during situations that demand haste and swift action. It drives my wife mad.
Every time we have to catch an early morning flight and our moment of departure draws closer, my wife’s preparations gather speed, while I, in an attempt to maintain balance in the universe, decelerate my actions at precisely the same pace. As she stuffs a few last-minute items into her backpack and slips on her shoes, I can be found — still in my pyjamas — taking long sips of my coffee. On one memorable occasion, when we were already running late and she was frantically calling our airport cab while punching the elevator button, I had paused to consider the washing machine on my way out, and then enquired if there was time for me to do the laundry.
I do not do it on purpose, I swear. It is just the way we Banerjees — the males, at least — are built. In moments of stress and anxiety, we can access a Zen state that protects us from panic. This self-preservation instinct allows us to slow down and function without being overwhelmed. It does, however, exasperate the people around us.
At the hotel and parking bays where cabs stood patiently, my father’s measured movements were no cause for concern. But whenever we had to board a taxi on the side of a road, as a queue of vehicles formed behind us and our driver urged us to hurry, he took it as a cue to embrace the Zen state.
First, he would study the open door of the vehicle, as if amazed by the concept of hinges. Then, he would approach the seat — with as much care as one takes when advancing towards a viper — and diligently execute a series of yoga postures, before settling into the faux leather. At this point, the other four occupants — the driver, my mother, my wife, and I — would implore him to close the door so the car could move. He would sigh and stretch an arm out, the way you would extend a scarf to catch the wind during a leisurely drive, and pull the door shut.
The third time this happened, it dawned on me that my father’s cab-boarding routine was not evidence of his Zen state. It was evidence of his age.
It is a funny thing to see your parents grow old. You never think of them as young people, but equally, you rarely envisage them as being elderly. That grey-haired, wrinkled-skin status is reserved for your grandparents. Until the day arrives when your grandparents have halved in number, and your parents’ knees don’t allow them to join you on multi-hour walking tours.
It sneaks up on you, this realization — and once it has a hold of you, it does not let go. It changes the way you see them, the way you behave with them, in subtle ways. Family vacations acquire brushstrokes of a different hue.
You are still the child but certain responsibilities shift. You feel their weight when you have to make decisions on their behalf, plan evenings that they’ll enjoy. You try to give primacy to their needs and ensuring their happiness becomes your paramount concern. You do not experiment with desserts, choosing their beloved baklava over the unknown künefe. You visit spice markets and join the throngs taking pictures of the Dubai Fountain. Your itinerary begins to include things you would typically avoid, and avoid things you would typically include. But you don’t mind this — because their joy of being able to travel with you, to be travelling as a family, is fulfilling.
When you return and people ask you if you liked Dubai, you struggle to respond. Reality and your anticipatory imagination once again failed to align. You liked the malls (more than you thought you would) and the wide promenades. You did not like the heat and having to pay for water everywhere. You don't quite know what you feel about the place.
But perhaps those banalities do not matter. Perhaps what matters is that your parents — with whom you may never travel to Dubai again — cannot stop telling you how much they loved it. And for now, that is all you need to know.
The ‘Mall of the World’ project — a ‘fully air-conditioned’ district, in Dubai, measuring over 48 million square feet — was first announced in 2012. It was intended to be the largest shopping centre of its kind in the world.
If Wikipedia is to be believed, then ‘as of 2024, construction has yet to start’. Perhaps they are still workshopping the name.
'Family vacations acquire brushstrokes of a different hue.' There are a couple of lifetimes in this one line. Loved the varying moods in this essay. 💙
Lovely essay, Rohan. Thank you for making us laugh and tear up in one fab essay!
I can never forget this tweet which said: 'One of the most heartbreaking moments in life is when you realize that your mother is growing old.'
They were always middle-aged and then suddenly they are old :(