A pink taxi

A pink taxi

February 17, 2012

The Journey


I break dawn on a friday and head to the only remaining patch of desert in the center of Dubai: Nad elSheba and Meydan. DJ Nathalie's voice and choice of music warm the february cold morning. I take my neighbourhood DIFC roundabout, turn onto royal Zabeel and before I know it, I am on the ribbon highways that circle our city. An overpass leads me over the flamingo lagoon. The day has risen and my short journey to Meydan is overwhelming me. I can anticipate the smell of saddle leather. I enjoy my journey to Meydan, by dawn, or by morning and also before sunset and its precious twilight as much as I love the horse ride itself.




The penultimate part of the journey is the drive off the beaten track, as so to speak because its signage reads: private access. In the desert midst, with its rarified plants are the monstrous electric pylons: the electric wires are unseemly (editor's note the word unseemly is incongru in French and is the precise meaning). I recognise them from Syriana, the George Cloony movie. They add urban delight to my desert escapade.


The journey to an anticipated activity is always a pleasure. Even my evening drives to Club Stretch, for bikram yoga, are pleasurable. By this time, I have organised my family before I left them. The feeling of accomplishment and self-awarding accompanies me. I can relax in the traffic, isn't that an oxymoron? I can tune in for new lyrics on the radio. My journey to zen begins in the car.


"Always ask pink taxi where she is and where she was and where she will be." Sms I sent a few days ago.



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