The perils of parking

Have you ever waited in front of a posh hotel for the valet to bring your car from the underground parking and then squirmed when the only car that arrives at the entrance that needs a good wash happens to be yours?

The reason my car is usually coated with white dust is because my car-cleaning guy is an early bird and starts washing the car even before the birds wake up. But by eight, the north-westerlies decide to have some fun and stir up a white, powder-like dust haze.

The moneybags get into their gleaming and waxed cars and glide away silently without tipping the valet, while I wonder whether Dh5 is enough to give the parking attendant to make up for the ignominy of driving a dirty vehicle in his gleaming white uniform.

Most of the time I don't have Dh5 and end up handing over Dh10, which surprises the valet and he smiles at me and tells me to have a good day.

I wish I could be like the rich guys who are not bothered about anybody but themselves. I suppose you get to be a millionaire by keeping a tight grip on your money.

I am learning from them and once followed a group of doctors in search of a concierge. They convinced him to stamp their valet slips and I slowly slipped mine in too. When the slip is stamped you don't pay the exorbitant parking charges and can totally ignore tipping.

I know this is Dubai and things like valet parking is a must for most people, many of whom cannot even get down from their cars to order a cup of tea from the corner cafeteria.

At around 4pm, cars start arriving at a cafeteria I frequent for my evening cup of chai, honk and wait till a waiter comes out with a tray on which there is tiny, plastic glass of a concoction that passes for tea. (I once looked at my tongue after drinking this tea, and it had turned a golden yellow brown).

The tea is kept boiling in a yellow, metallic kettle and I am sure the tannin content must be sky-high. The waiter then drips a long stream of sweetened milk into the cup and presents the concoction to the motorist as if it is the sweetest ambrosia. The motorist enjoys his tea and drives away; this is what I suppose you would call a mobile society.

But things are getting a bit out of hand. Malls now offer valet parking. I wonder if someone will think of introducing personal shopping assistants at these malls.

I could drive down, hand over the keys and laze around and just window-shop while somebody gets my boring veggies.

I went to the emergency section of a hospital for a report the other day and there was a sign saying that valet parking is available. This, I think, is a valuable service.

A motorist suffering from a heart attack can pull up at the entrance of the hospital, toss the keys to the valet, wheezing, "Careful, the paintwork is expensive," and walk to reception clutching his chest.

A valet service is also useful in a mall where everything looks the same in the parking lot. "I am totally lost," I overheard a flustered woman tell a security guard. "Ma'am, this is P2," he said. "There is another P2 on the other side of the mall."

Though they make it easier for mentally-challenged people like me by naming the parking aisles 'camel', 'hawk' or 'strawberry' with accompanying simple, child-like drawings, I invariably remember that I parked on level 32, but for the life of me can't remember whether it was 'leopard' or 'tiger'.

"Dad, I need to be home by 4," says my son with a tinge of panic in his voice as we go from aisle to aisle, sweating in the petrol-choked, humid atmosphere.