As expats, we are always entering and exiting, scattered across the globe, yet our friendships remain intact—even as we cross Departures and Arrivals at Terminal 3.
They begin with timelines we never quite believe. “We’re here only for five years.” Followed, years later, by laughter—“Fifteen and counting.”
They are built on “let’s catch up over the long Eid weekend” promises, only to not meet until Christmas.
They begin strangely—over a glass of laban in 43 degrees, a flat tyre in Al Quoz, a shared bag of coal at a BBQ in Al Qudra, a collective sigh about how Dubai is perceived: a place of excess, supposedly lacking a heartbeat.
And yet, they appear quietly—while waiting for an elevator, in a familiar smile, in complaints about traffic, in the casual exchange of a dry cleaner’s number.
Dubai is often called a city, rarely an Emirate. But if you’ve lived here long enough, you know—it is a planet of its own.
Yes, it is marred by yachts, influencers, brunches, gold vending machines, Ferraris, and viral “Dubai trends.” But its deepest friendships are formed elsewhere—over shared videos of window cleaners on the 45th floor, a Talabat rider navigating chaos at an intersection, and in the small victories: Carrefour discounts, buy-one-get-one aquarium tickets, AED 5 finds in Satwa, AED 7 haircuts in Deira.
They grow through Entertainer vouchers for Pilates, and through fire scares in high-rises. They stretch across E11, Al Khail detours, and Business Bay’s stubborn signals. They mature in complaints about karak no longer being AED 1, even as expensive sheeshas are ordered without hesitation.
They survive real estate surges, echo memories of 2008, and deepen during the unprecedented rains of 2024. They run along Sheikh Zayed Road in pursuit of world records for Dubai Run, diverge in the search for wasta, and reunite in shared frustration over RTA fines.
What makes these friendships unique is that they follow no structure—no calendar, not even a shared interest sometimes.
They lie in demands for a Dubai chocolate.
What makes these friendships unique is that they follow no structure—no calendar, not even a shared interest sometimes. They are held together by a strange familiarity: brand recalls of Fairy, Almarai, and Jif, as much as aspirations for Gucci, a G-Wagon, and a Rolex. They exist in trips to Dragon Mart for curtains, Al Aweer for vegetables, IKEA for a couch, and the Palm for a Ladies’ Night.
They arrive out of nowhere—“Hey, are you safe?”—a message from an ex-neighbour now in Australia, watching the news in March 2026.
They live in Careem rides, in portions of homemade mutton biryani, in the duality of “Michelin-star this weekend?” and “all-you-can-eat for AED 12 the next?”
Over time, the Emirate has quietly accepted its identity as more than a spectacle—as a home, a safe space.
It may wear the crown of glamour, but when you truly know it—and the people who become your people here—it sets that crown aside and simply holds your hand. In humidity. In heat. In COVID-19. In war.
Ambitions, jobs, families, and geography pull us apart, but the friendships remain—softly, in the backdrop of skyscrapers, in reels, looping to One Night in Dubai.
Some do fade. They cannot keep up with the “let’s catch up” culture, rising rents, relocations, and the quiet pull of home countries.
But even then, they don’t disappear. They linger—slow, steady—beneath the grit and glamour, the dreams and discipline, the new roundabouts and the counterfeit LV bags.
And then, something shifts.
The skies fill with noise. Phones tremble with alerts. The world feels closer, heavier.
And just like that, the friendship returns.
You are back—in the same group chat, the same emotional space, the same invisible thread that never really broke. In the same city. Saying the same prayers. Making the same promises to stay in touch.
Knowing, quietly, that no one ever truly left.
And no one ever really will.
And that this, too, will pass.
And newer friendships will emerge—over Hermès bags, Hala discounts, and everything in between.
I wish I weren’t writing this, but I’ve been writing about what we are facing here in the UAE for the past 17 days. It’s not a story you wish to share, yet it’s one that has been occupying all possible mindspace as I type these words.
They ask me to flee home and come ghar
📍And if you’re curious about my journey:
Incidentally, I’ve written four books, and without even realizing it, all of them carry a whisper of food—sometimes the ultimate, sometimes subtle—like the perfect sprinkle of salt, spice, or herbs. If any of these speak to you, head to a bookstore or find them on Amazon.
- The Trees Told Me So, a collection of 11 short stories, features chai as a ritual, a memory, and something beyond.
- It Was the Year 2020—where Dalgona coffee speaks volumes as a nostalgic nod to the pandemic days and fleeting trends.
- She (translated into seven languages) explores countless coffees and Cosmopolitans shared with girlfriends.
- And #icouldhavebeenaninstapost dares to dive into burnt toast, leftovers, and all the messy bits in between.
Thanks for reading Once Upon A Table!
