At fifty two degrees Celsius, the streets of Doha are deserted at day. The sunshine brews an impossible to breathe mix of hot dust and humidity, any sheltered environment is a precious commodity.

I operate a couple of middle-of-the-day turnaround flights to Dubai. Passengers drenched in sweat board the few 320s on our fleet and travel to the largest airport in the region in some sort of an intra-Gulf shuttle service, the borders of the Gulf Cooperation Council sprinkled with the aromas of saffron and rosewater.
Days off are now spent in a large air conditioned bubble. From an air conditioned apartment, to an air conditioned taxi, to an air conditioned shopping centre. At midnight, when the temperature reaches ‘tolerable’ thirty-eight degrees, I dine at the Souq Waqif, the salty air from the Arabian Sea sticking to the skin in drops of muggy sweat.

For those who wonder, here is what a week in the Middle East for a cabin crew looks like:

     – I check in for a flight to Sanaa, the capital of Yemen, but fail to board the aircraft due to a cut lip and copious amounts of blood. Grounded for an entire week until the wound is healed.

     – Some further training is provided. To my surprise, I am notified that I will operate the Airbus A340-600 to Paris as an observer, the thoughts of a few days in one of the most iconic cities in the world drawing a large sweaty smile on my face.