It’s a constant fight to avoid sounding like an old fart. You know: “I can remember when that was all sand!” and all that. You drive past the airport that you once flew into when it was a small white moulded concrete terminal building with a single (appalling) restaurant that used to offer ‘Foul Madams’ highlighted with magic-marker lettering on a dayglo green star hanging off the buffet and the duty free that was down the escalator left of the pink marble-topped information desk, staffed by Indian girls in grey uniforms fussing under portraits of Sheikh Zayed and Sheikh Rashid hung in incredibly heavy gilt frames. Back in the days when you had to fill in pink immigration cards: when men were men and women were interested.
And now it’s smoked glass and impersonal efficiency: all stainless steel, escalators, travelators and elevators, ubiquitous Dubai-beige and red. More on the way with new terminals springing up like springing up things.
And it’s so very boring.