11. Chapters_Back to Germany?

After a year and a half, the water was on my neck. Life in Dubai was exhausting. You had to steer all the reins with your hands at the same time and play five cards at once at the same time. The Arab says, "Life is a play and only the best show wins" and it was so true. In Germany, we leaf through the smallest part-time job in our CV and every village exhibition counted. But who cares about this village? In Arabia, what counted was the appearance, the heart, the handling of the situation, the stays abroad and the power of persuasion. It was paradoxical and I didn't understand it. I felt like a baby who had to learn to walk and talk. German thinking and the German language were not compatible with the Arab lifestyle. I thought etiquette* was international. We, the land of poets and thinkers. We are the doers and the rest of the world is running after us. We Germans have the technology, we have the science, we have the diplomacy, we have the cars, the big companies and Germany are rich.

We are bosses and it was frustrating that people on the escalator went up to the left and not on the right like we did. I used to walk towards the side of the escalator that was just coming down. Everything was reversed and then this overly friendly niceness of the people. How are you? How was your day? You look good. Can I help you? I have a little gift for you. I'll pick you up and we'll go out for something to eat or have a drink in a bar. Come on, I'll show you the desert and the starry sky, and on the other hand the German: Day. Can you do it? I need it. No, not today. Headache. The neighbor has. No time. What do you want? On the other hand, I was in this country, where the culture is really a challenge and understanding it is indescribably difficult and I was touched by the warmth of the hearts of the Arabs. So that I couldn't say anything. I wasn't used to being so polite and welcoming, and it was so hard for me to say! I couldn't be nice, as if shot from the hip and the words stuck in my throat like a lump. I was over it. Torn inside.

This country magically attracted me, and I didn't understand why I couldn't escape it anymore. Nevertheless, there was still the rest of the longing for German security in me. There came a sour cucumber time, I didn't sell a picture and withdrew. My apartment was on the brink. The Landlord gave me a reprieve until the end of the month, otherwise I would have to move out, and I would also be kicked out. Bye, bye Jumeirah Road.

I had hardly any money left and temporarily moved to Bur Dubai, the oldest and most run-down part of Dubai. This is the old and still historic Dubai with the construction method where wet clothes were still hung in towers to cool the house in the heat and the first houses ever, with which they began the long road to today's gigantic and architectural skyscrapers. But what the Indians naively built up 50 years ago without any talent for craftsmanship has long since collapsed again. It was the first generation of migrant workers who came to Dubai to build the city.

The loyalty of the Emiratis to the Indians is remarkable. You could say that they are now integrated, enjoy the status of locals and are entrusted with key positions professionally.

Bur Dubai is now historic and is falling apart in all the corners that photographers love to document. It is not possible to dare to gentrify there in terms of construction and to renovate old Dubai and the last original locations.

The term "restoration" has not yet arrived in this throwaway society. At some point they will renovate these spoiled houses. Bur Dubai as the centerpiece is the only way to authentically understand and understand.

The room I stayed in was only 15 euros for the night and had a hard bunk with a falling apart closet and a shared bathroom. At night I heard the rattling of cockroaches on the floor, the squeaking of rats and next door the sounds of the street hookers who used the hotel as an hourly establishment and screamed loudly because, so I heard it through the thin wall, it was not a simple business. Kiki had made her room available for painting. That meant that when she went out of the house to the office in the morning, I could go in with her and in the evening half past seven the room had to look like I had never been there.

At that time, the trip was still a trip around the world. It took three hours to get from Jumeirah to Deira. Today, this bus ride is done in 30 minutes. I changed at the Gold Souq, not without first buying the most delicious coffee ever for 20 cents to wake up. Because my night was over around 3 o'clock so that I could use the time on time to paint at Kiki's. The way back meant an even greater disaster. The ancient and not TÜV-tested buses were overcrowded with Indians and Pakistanis. Squeezed together like sardines in a can. They, Asians and Chinese, spit the snot from the deepest throats on the walls and on the footpath all day long. For her, this is quite normal. They use it to "cleanse" their throats. In addition, there was this disgusting stench of indefinable spices and body sweat.

I don't even want to think about what kind of workers' accommodation they lived in. They talked and shouted loudly through the whole bus. At the front, behind the bus driver, the women sat in three rows of seats, each of which was to have two women. There are actually twelve women per bus, two seats each in six rows. Only three women always sat on two seats in two rows of seats, huddled together in black abaya and faces veiled with chadors. The women seemed frightened and sometimes they were insulted and beaten by the majority of men. As a European, it would have been courageous action for me to stand up and say: Stop to violate Woman! But I also got scared and pulled my sleeves over my wrists and once again murmured softly to myself, a woman twelve goats.

One Woman has the worth of twelve goats.

After all, I was crammed into the confines of the two rows. Sometimes there were days when these stinking nasty Indians just sat down in the women's seats, and they didn't care if they were allowed to do so, and so the bus driver stretched his big white palm on his endlessly long arm out of his bus door to me and said: Stop, the bus is fully occupied! There we stood at the stop sign of the bus stop and waited an hour for the next bus. He picked up the Arab women and left me standing. Again, I waited an hour and the next bus driver opened the door and said, "Sorry Ma'am fully blocked!" and drove on.

In the late evening, three or four seats were free again for the women! Sometimes this wait for a bus driver to pluck up courage and take me with him lasted up to six hours. Then I came home, fell into bed, and got up after three hours to go through the same ordeal. Konrad went on vacation to Germany and offered me to stay with him at the Flora Creek Hotel for the 14 days. He had been slipping on me 100 dirhams lately so that I could buy something to eat and I was grateful that I was getting out of this ratty ghetto. Away from the stench of the filthy Indians ad away from the guest workers from Pakistan, Bangladesh, Afghanistan, the Philippines and Sri Lanka.

I also drove the residents into the villa up the wall. Recently, when I was waiting for the bus on Jumeirah Road in the evening, a black Mercedes S-Class with darkened windows stopped in front of me at the side of the road. At that time, I could not yet recognize the nationality of the man who stopped, got off and spoke to me. He was dark-skinned and had a button in his ear. Like a security. He opened the rear door of the car for me and asked me to get in. At first I didn't dare and stopped. He spoke an English that I didn't understand and had to rely on his body language. We drove about 20 minutes towards Mirdif and stopped in front of a villa with a high wall. The gate opened slowly and we drove in. It was more of a palace with columns and fountains. Torches lit the entrance and I entered. A palace with historic old architecture with gildings, mosaics, ivory carvings and fountains. In those moments, I always said to myself, "Katha, keep cool." This is not a luxury. This is all quite every day and quite normal and please don't let it be known that you are fainting inside.

In the middle of the lobby there was a buffet with lots of roasts, vegetables and fruits. I was offered water from an antique ceramic jug to drink. A crowd of sweet Arab children came running, chattering like startled sparrows from the roof, and I think they knew I was coming. On the opposite side, the Emirati family sat in a row of chairs set up. It was like in a play. The children ran between the parents and me, back and forth. They tried to talk to me and understood me quite quickly in a playful way. Whenever they learned something new, they ran to their relatives and told them excitedly. That I am German and an artist and what else did they say? I was the attraction and when I had finished eating, the tension subsided and the driver of the limousine came back and bowed to the gentlemen. I, on the other hand, was not allowed to shake hands, but still thanked them with gestures and went back into the car. The driver took me exactly to the Flora Creek Hotel and I got off. Thank you!

"God bless you," he replied, smiled and the piece of security for me that evening, drove away again. I accepted this invitation five times and didn't understand how they became aware of me. Later, the secret was revealed. The residents in our villa in Jumeirah shook their heads. I was tired of life. That would be madness. You can't get into a complete stranger's car!! I could be abducted.

Konrad lived in a sharing apartment hotel, which means that it was an eight-room apartment, where other families with many people lived in a room in a very small space, and they used the common kitchen and bathroom. I was able to shower at Kiki's. This shared bathroom was too disgusting for me and I only went to the kitchen before four o'clock in the morning. So most of the time no one saw me there. I was only there to sleep. Konrad was super neat and well-sorted and I was happy to be able to sleep in his bed. Even if only for two weeks and then, what will happen to me afterwards?

I noticed that people in Dubai had an affinity for horse and polo sports and that the international jet set was in the VIP areas. These would be potential buyers, and I've always used my artwork as a ticket. They captured the lifestyle and contemporary feelings at an early stage. Even then, brand brands showed what has become completely natural today thanks to Instagram. Among my Facebook friends, I had a Polo Peter who sometimes commented on my pictures and so I wrote to him that I was in Dubai and asked him if he could authorize me a polo player by name. I would then paint it. He thought the idea was great, praised me and my pictures about the green clover and wrote that he was unfortunately in London at the moment and that we should meet at the next polo tournament in Arabian Ranches. In order to be able to adjust it better to my pictures, I painted my first polo player. Unfortunately, this did not bring me any luck for the time being.

I couldn't get a foot in Dubai anymore and was only saddled by my acquaintances. That was no longer possible. They couldn't always drag me through and I pulled the ripcord and called an acquaintance in Munich and said hello Martin, please get me out of Dubai. I have no apartment, no money and can't get any further. He worked at SIEMENS, a German parent company that had international branches and was also present in Abu Dhabi. Can you please let me fly out through the company? I used to be a curator of a gallery in Munich and in this context I also gave capital art salons for companies such as Thales, BDO, EON, Alliance Group and Siemens. They used the cooperation with my art gallery and me as saloniers to acquire customers and also to motivate the employees through the salons and to interest them in art. When I went to Dubai, I remember it was a bit of a scare for the companies. They asked me to buy my concept as a franchise business plan and offered me 25,000 euros. Unfortunately, I didn't know what it was at the time, and I couldn't imagine that I was transferable. The pulse of my salons was in my blood and I lived this passion and could not be replaced by any event manager or young secretary. I am a saloniere in the 4th generation and real saloniers are matchmakers and connect people with each other lukewarm and they have the gift of magically attracting.

For me, there were only two options. Either you like me or avoid me.

One of the managers from Siemens remained friends with me and I called him. A day later I saw an unknown number from Abu Dhabi on my display and I answered. "Hello Katha is speaking." "Hello Katha.", Martin from Munich here, he called the headquarters in Abu Dhabi. "Of course. I can have you put on the DXB-MUC machine on Friday morning." "Friday! Tomorrow, the day after tomorrow, the day after tomorrow. So fast!"

I was in a maelstrom. In a pull downwards. Gone, you my beloved Dubai. I wasn't strong enough for you. I have to go. "Soulmate" by Natasha Bedingfield was just on the radio. This song was my soulmate. Later, whenever I drove along Sheikh Zayed Road, near Emirates Towers, and slowly down into the tunnel, my heart burst and I feared that I wouldn't come back. So I packed up my belongings.

The polo player and two finished pictures in one package and passed the time with crying. Germany again, having to live there. I love Munich very much. However, the Dubai experiment had failed and I realized that I had to lick my wounds in Germany and regain my footing.

The evening before my departure, I met an acquaintance from Los Angeles. He was also an emigrant from Germany and after 10 years in Dubai, he was now more often in America. It never happened to meet. I've been in Dubai for a year and a half now and before it didn't work out at all, please tonight. We met at Al Khayma at Dubai Marine Beach Resort. A wonderful Arabic café with a divine buffet. During this brunch you could motivate your inner peace and celebrate the food, the selection and the concentrated conversation in a relaxed way for hours and talk and click and here's to your well-being! A delicious Primitivo! Kling ́ and Salute!

Our ceremony of enjoyment and getting to know each other lasted at least three hours. Right down to the seductive sweets for the expensively eaten gold rolls on the hips. Everything your heart desired. Pleasurable weakness. We talked and laughed. An artist has an aura, is strong, polarizing and erotic at the same time. A bit of drama that allowed for a brief moment of closeness. That's how it happened! Tears slipped from my eyes down my cheeks.

My companion cleared his throat embarrassed and moved back to the table and asked, "But you're not really crying now? You're laughing, aren't you? What's going on!" I confessed that I would go to the airport and back to Germany in 6 hours.

I didn't make it here. I don't sell paintings and I don't have a permanent job. It's all too risky, my gypsy life is too worrying for me and my friends in the villa. It's better if I give up. He was visibly distracted and stared silently in front of him. Embarrassing Katha, now his image of the great Pop Art painter is collapsing like a house of cards in his eyes.

He looked at me, then into the void and then completely away again. Me again. Later, I'll fly to London with the morning plane for 4 weeks. "Can you still postpone the flight?" Why?

"Well, go to my house in Al Safa for another 4 weeks and from there you can still decide whether you want to go back to Germany." We left the restaurant and the wonderful night sky over Dubai and since Germany was three hours behind us in time, I reached Martin on the phone. "Please postpone the flight for me again. I can live in a house of an acquaintance for another 4 weeks and would like to accept the offer very much."

We postponed my return flight to Germany by exactly four weeks and I moved back from Deira on foot to my wonderful Jumeirah. Just a little higher near Safa Park and more to Sheikh Zayed Road. It was a street without a name, it was just called 8B Street. The district was simply called "Emirates Accommodation". It was a long street of identical villas, which were divided in half and yet you couldn't see the neighbor over the dividing wall. They were the first apartments that Emirates Airlines was able to offer its employees and so only pilots, stewards, stewardesses, these also called juice pushers, lived there. The flight attendant already had her own status 80 years ago, so at least one thing in our lives has not changed. The fabulous stories about adventures in airplanes and relationships with Emirates stewardesses. I lived in the middle of it for a month.

Every Friday, my acquaintance sent a Filipino couple to me to fill the almost cupboard-sized refrigerator with two huge shopping carts from the nearby Union Co-op. I already knew that from Al Qusais. From fresh oranges to champagne I had everything from one day to the next and people whispered in my circle of acquaintances that you yourself live in a simple sharing apartment and I live in a villa and you wouldn't even have had to sleep with anyone for it. Why? Should I? Is that how you do it? I don't!

Time picked up speed again and I began to settle into the apartment. It was perfectly furnished, in an Arabic cozy style and out of respect I only used the area downstairs. Where the servants were allowed to live. I unpacked my three pictures and the circle of acquaintances reappeared. Katha had an apartment and champagne. So they sat with me and the world was beautiful again, if it hadn't been for the word "if". Not my apartment. Not arrived and once again only temporarily. I sold a painting. An abstract to a Lebanese woman I met in a designer showroom for interior design. It was luxury incarnate. Fully dressed in Dior, with gold jewelry set with diamonds and so perfect that I felt completely out of place next to her. She had no fear of contact and I got her respect in advance because I am a German. Rich millionaire's wife, married to an Omani oil sheikh. She did a big business in Dubai and was widely networked with the Lebanese community.

The lady liked the Pop Art style of my paintings and invited me to the inauguration of my newly purchased artwork in the Dubai Marina.

It was the Princess Tower. It is part of a series of the most expensive skyscrapers in the world. Right in the front of the pearl necklace of the skyline overlooking the sea and the beach bars and luxury yachts. Her apartment was 400 square meters with a kitchen that was similar to the size of a restaurant. Cooks and waiters streamed out of it and offered their dishes under golden dining bells. The guests stood on the balcony with champagne flutes in their hands and there were about 50 invited people, all of whom made a great impression. They talked about the trips made to the Maldives and elephant polo in Cape Town, the summer house in Bali and about the financial crisis in America. Unfortunately, they haven't been to Germany yet. A German car dealer was kindly invited to talk to me, dressed in Louis Vuitton, right down to the emblem in gold on the suede moccasins. His gaze wandered over the sea and he looked as if he could already see his container ship with the next Porsches from Germany on the horizon. He was not interested in me. Later, after my return to Dubai, we ran into each other more often. At VIP events or at pol

Nevertheless, my time in Dubai was over. I won't get a visa here, forever as a registered tourist every three months have to go to the visa run and Dubai was expensive. Because I financed myself alone and lived independently. The jet set was warm-hearted and really interested in me, but I felt that I was emaciated and broken. I stayed away from further invitations. No money, no Louis Vuitton bags, no luxurious outfit. I felt like the little pile of pity to whom one wanted to do something good out of politeness and wished for the day when I disappeared from this highly technocratized country, and I take my shadow with me!

In retrospect, it was only back in Munich, in contrast to Dubai, that I realized that I was completely burned out. I stood next to myself and understood that I could not come close to absorbing all the experiences and experiences of a year and a half and processing them for myself. It seems to me that today, 19 years later, I only have enough distance and inner peace to not only tell everything hastily in gasping breath, but also to understand that Dubai has shaped and changed me. I have often said in the last few years, if I ever met a girl who also goes to Dubai in the "scammer-smuggler-peasant-catcher" way like me, I would knock her out, put her in chains and wait until she comes to her senses again. But today's girls are no longer driven by curiosity. Fortunately, they plan everything perfectly beforehand.

In addition, Dubai no longer resembles its old country today. In the meantime, the playful, the loving, the Arabic ornament, and the fascination of the Arabian Nights are missing. The belief in his Muslim culture, which the preacher always sent so enthusiastically and emotionally in prayers in the mosque about the awakening city, gave way to compromise and international diplomacy and transferred economic agreements.