The Last Bastion of True Hospitality

I know that I may appear rather ethnocentric in my complaints, but this is not true. I tend to complain about everything and everyone. What follows is a typical example of the kind of behavior that really makes me glad to be living in the Middle East, perhaps the last bastion of true generosity and hospitality in the world. Where else would your neighbor sacrifice his last sheep to feed a stranger?

During the summer, I visited London. I always apprise my friends in advance of my imminent arrival. This enables them to do one of two things: Either leave the country or suffer my company. So you see, the choice is entirely theirs.

I always make it a point to invite most of my close friends for dinner, hosting a string of intimate dinner parties interspersed throughout the two-month period. For me, this is a wonderful way of catching up with the latest developments in their lives and enables me in part to live vicariously through them for the remainder of the year. What’s more, I actually take a lot of time and trouble preparing the meal, which is generally taken for granted.

London is not like Riyadh. People in this buzzing metropolis rarely have the time to exchange a few lines with you in e-mail and are forever trying to perform a precarious balancing act between work and social commitments. When I call a friend in Riyadh, it’s always, “Why don’t you come over?” with an accompanying “OK. Give me about half an hour.” When I call a friend in London the same response is either treated like a rhetorical question with a silent but understood, “Like I have the time to scratch my head! Come over? Maybe sometime around the end of the world depending on whether I have done the laundry, walked the dog, filed my tax returns, compiled the company reports, cleaned the bathroom and washed my hair.” Really good friends, like those who were my best friends at school, will invariably respond with a more positive, “How about three weeks on a Thursday between 6 and 7:30? That way I can catch you on my way back from the bank and I can still make my yoga class.”

I called my two close school friends prior to my departure from Riyadh and was greeted by both with the standard “three weeks on a Thursday, but just let me check my filofax” response. Both assumed that I would be cooking dinner, although I had to explain that this would not be possible due to my parents being inundated with wedding guests. “Not a problem,” said one, “we’ll just meet in Soho after work. You shouldn’t be cooking all the time.”

I was relieved by the prospect of a rendezvous away from the house and called to confirm when I arrived in London. Both checked their filofaxes and confirmed that Thursday the 15th at 8 p.m. we would meet outside the venue. It is important here to give you a little background pertaining to their careers. At that time one headed the international division of the London Stock Exchange, whilst the other was a senior production manager for the BBC assigned to one of the nation’s most popular soap operas.

I arrived a little late and they were already seated inside sipping away at their drinks. They asked me what I would like and I ordered a Perrier, in between apologizing for not having them over. “Oh no!” insisted LSE, “Don’t be silly. Let’s order you another drink!” I wasn’t all that thirsty but felt embarrassed to decline such kindness and repeated my order. Half a dozen drinks later, BBC complained of feeling a bit “peckish” and although I had already eaten I agreed to accompany them. “You really are too skinny Lubna! We have to fatten you up.” “Yes,” echoed LSE, “You have to eat! You’re not getting away with that lame excuse.”

I felt so touched by their generosity that I consented to a starter. I had something simple to keep the wolves at bay, even though I was not hungry in the slightest. After the entrees and LSE declaring that she was starting a company and was leaving the stock exchange, they literally forced me to have a main course. I obliged and chomped through pizza whilst LSE narrated how her golden handshake amounted to tons of money in equities so she was buying her brother a house in Hampstead. I couldn’t manage a dessert and was contented with a cappuccino although my stomach felt rather distended.

The bill arrived and before I could thank them for their incredible hospitality, and tell them how touched I was by their love and caring, LSE who had been playing with her mobile looked at me and said, “Your share is 57 pounds and 44 pence!”

I have always found it quite bizarre how there are always such shenanigans when the bill arrives at a table. Generosity here extends to scenes where fights almost break out over who will pick up the tab.