If you could go back and forward in time simultaneously, Dubai is where you would find yourself. There is an old Dubai and a new Dubai, a dichotomy of sandals and sports cars, prayer time and Rolexes, bartering and Bentleys, somehow off the coast like a capitalist Hong Kong to an old world China circa 1997. Gold pillars line the palace walls. Monorails snake their way to the setting concrete of massive towers that pierce the sky and beckon trade, suits and Rolexes. In the shadow of the towers is the spice souk (market), where the salt of the earth trade saffron, ginger, and cumin. Pausing like clockwork to pray in a cycle of life that expects no promotion, no change in status, no fame. A respect exists for the natural ebb and flow, the yin yang, the birth to dust, with a seemingly gracious acceptance.
There is a wide eyed wonderment for the new world, encroaching like polished concrete into sand, previously under foot for centuries.
Crowds of men stare at the western woman who has arrived from a brave new world brandishing; Prada and a right to vote, Dolce & Gabana and free will, Este lauder and self esteem, a short skirt and a long resume, a flood of emotions and a dry white.
Eight hours short flight away, four hours behind, and thirty years in front lays Paris. Very bohemian, and at the same time chic (tres bochician). The mannerisms, traditions and old world charm of a Napoleonic era gyrate and pulse to the beat of a tribal drum. They mix beautifully, but at the same time are both distilled and contrasted against iconic architecture. There is little violence and a vibrant mood of celebration in the streets, however blink and you will be fleeced by a professional opportunist who will lift your wallet, clone your credit card and charge you ten euro for a string bracelet you were unaware was being made on your wrist.
France is all about the baguette, cheese and great wine. What Australians consider an expensive delicatessen, the French would see as an average supermarket or intermarchet.
A nationalistic pride is predominant and pronounced, and the cheer for the French rider, beaten in the last few days of the Tour de France was louder than the cheer for Cadel Evans who won. And so I stood on the Champs Elyse, baguette and beer in hand, waving the Eureka flag as the first Australian was adorned with the yellow jersey.
Jonathan
