Have I mentioned Oman is a dry country?
Dry in both literal senses of the word.
Dry as in arid and dry.
Dry as in sober.
Zero alcohol.
Occasionally, you might find a bottle shop, but the only way you can purchase anything with even the slightest percentage of alcohol is if you are in possession of a government-issued license… and those are only granted to non-Muslim residents of Oman.
We were S.O.L.
Nizwa, where we were staying, was completely dry. However, the man at our hotel’s front desk let us in on a little secret… there was another hotel about ten minutes outside of town that served alcohol to tourists.
He even offered to drive us.
How can one refuse an offer like that?
We were IN.
Wholeheartedly.
A few of us piled into his own personal car and he drove us out to the hotel and dropped us off.
We were ecstatic… until we saw the price list.
Looking back, I’m not sure how we didn’t anticipate the extortionate prices. After all, we were tourists in a predominantly dry country, drinking at an upscale, alcohol-friendly hotel. They had us completely at their mercy and could charge whatever they pleased… and we had little choice but to go along with it.
Well, if I could turn back time and change the entire course of events for the evening, I would’ve remained in alcohol-free Nizwa, instead of venturing out of town. The restaurant’s menu wasn’t exactly my style and the liquor menu was bloodsuckingly unreasonable. One bottle of Mateus rosé was the equivalent of $88 CND… and it was the cheapest one available.
I settled for a single, overpriced glass of wine. I had the choice of red or white. When our yo-yo waiter was finally ready (and willing) to take our order, I asked for the white.
“I’ll have a glass of white, please.”
“Ok.”
“What white do you have?”
He started by telling me it was a South African white… and he should’ve stopped right there.
What he said next was unlike anything I’d ever heard used to describe wine.
“It’s a dry and sour wine.”
Sour?
Granted, I’m no sommelier, but I’m pretty sure “sour” isn’t a proper way to describe wine… unless it’s corked. And yet, that’s exactly what it was… sour… and the worst sour wine I’ve ever had. Sour, through and through. It certainly lived up to its unfortunate description.
I abandoned the sour wine and switched to vodka, but that selection didn’t last long either. At $10 per shot, plus an extra $5–$10 for a mixer such as orange juice or Sprite, it was hardly worth it.
My bill was over $70…
I try not to complain about my lack of money, but when you’re paying top dollar for sour wine at an upscale hotel in a teetotaler country, it’s hard not to. I don’t want to be a Karen… literally... but I do have to try to remain on a budget.
It was time to adhere to dry.
If Oman wanted me to be dry, I would gladly follow the rules from now on.
The rest of the evening was a total bust. Mickey was in her usual fanatic form, constantly interrupting every conversation with pointless tidbits meant to impress the guides.
Earlier in the evening, before Martin and Rosanna arrived, Mickey had been casually discussing which passengers the guides weren’t particularly fond of. Surprised, I asked if Rosanna liked Denise and I.
Without hesitation, she replied matter-of-factly, “She hasn’t formed an opinion on you yet.”
Oh… ok…
How rude!
She’s just too much. This strange mix of over-the-top admiration for the guides and the smug sense of superiority she thinks she has over us is getting old… real fast.
To be honest, I’m starting to feel like I don’t care if the guides like us or not. To be fair, I don’t think either of them like ANY of us. We’re a motley crew. Hell… I’m not even a fan of most of us. They’re never going to get a chance to know us anyway, as Mickey monopolizes all their free moments. Especially Rosanna’s.
It’s quite creepy.
Ugh…
Two months with these people.
Breath…
Breath…
Breath…
I tired out rapidly and really just wanted to go back to the hotel. Judy, Denise and Martin opted to stay for a few more beers. I should’ve just jumped in a taxi by myself… that would’ve been the smart thing to do… but instead I waited with Mickey & Rosanna for our new hotel friend to pick us up.
Big mistake.
He took forever to arrive and when he did, the two of them sat in the back, whispering to each other the entire drive home. Like really whispering… sometimes even whispering their whispering. I was, undeniably, the third wheel. Or the fourth, I guess… if you include the driver who wasn’t very proficient in the English language. Regardless, however you look at it… it was awkward.
It was beyond rude.
From what I could make out, the conversation revolved around either the existing or non-existent relationship of Rosanne and Martin.
I don’t know.
I hardly care.
It was another “what the hell am I doing here?” moment and unfortunately that unsettling and pestering feeling lingered very much into the following day.
I always feel bad on these group trips when I’m required to bunk in with strangers. I’ve been told that I snore, I talk in my sleep and I make all sorts of strange & funny noises. It’s a terrible feeling, knowing you might be the reason someone doesn’t get a good night’s sleep.
There is always an upgrade option, but unfortunately I’m not that rich… yet.
Denise and I had requested to room together, although I did give her the ‘easy out’ from the very beginning. She told me that she could sleep through anything, so I guess we’ll see how that goes.
She came in later that evening, so that was a relief.
The next morning, I was still feeling a bit off, so I decided it was time for some much-needed me-time. I slipped away from the group and wandered through the lively and bustling souqs of mud-made Nizwa, all by myself. Though the historical Nizwa Fort came highly recommended, I was officially forted out.
I loved the vibe of charming Nizwa. It was very warm and welcoming, which was a much appreciated change to what many of us had been experiencing.
I found a cozy little café to hideaway and catch up on my blog in peace. As I wrote, panic began to creep in…
What if someone stumbled upon my blog and discovered my not-so-flattering, public chronicles?
I spent the next 24 hours+ terror-stricken over the possibility… although it still wasn’t enough to make me erase my sentiments.
Can you even imagine?
The trip would spiral into a full-blown nightmare. It truly would… although it seemed near-impossible to visualize that it could potentially get worse…
I had a big, hearty laugh at that.
I did manage to eventually activate my eSIM. Get this luck… I’d purchased a Middle Eastern 14 countries 3GB eSIM for $57. It lasted a total of four hours… and it was gone.
FOUR hours.
Now I was outraged…
What is it with me and money and laundry and sour wine and eSim’s?
And cue hassle… which tops my all-time favourites list, along with sand and camping.
After I’d written a very distressful email inquiring as to “why?????,” I ended up having to screenshot all my cellular usage… to which I received a ‘too bad’ email back from them.
Infuriating.
I did lodge a slight complaint and ended up receiving a $15 credit… which was better than nothing. I ended up purchasing another one, but this time I opted for one specifically for the country of Oman. It was equal in price but offers almost seven times more gigabytes.
I actually don’t even know how much a gigabyte is… or a megabyte or kilobyte… but I’m determined to learn. My eyes are now glued to my usage.
Fixated.
That evening, Denise, Marilyn, Sue and I headed up to a rooftop bar for our dinner. The view of Nizwa was stunning and the rooftop was the perfect spot to unwind and enjoy the cool and calm that Nizwa offered.
Now, let’s talk about Marilyn...
She has the uncanny ability to talk endlessly… and not in a necessarily engaging manner. Judy is a chatterbox too, but at least she’s entertaining and a pure ray of sunshine. Put the two of them together and silence becomes a foreign concept.
But Marilyn?
Her conversations tend to sway on the side of tedious and exhausting. Draining. She’s lovely… but she has a knack for overcomplicating even the simplest things with her convoluted questions, drawn-out stories and overanalyzed logic.
Marilyn is a true high maintenance traveller.
Denise and I arrived earlier than the others and placed our order, which ended up being way too much food, as usual. By the time we were finishing up, I noticed the German crew sitting at a nearby table. In the spirit of neighbourliness, I put together a plate of leftover pizza, pita and hummus and brought it over to them for an appetizing snack.
They seemed a bit puzzled and unsure of what to do with it.
Ya… ok… maybe it was a bit of a bizarre thing to do, but I honestly did just mean it as a kind gesture.
I think they even started snacking on it.
About 15 minutes later, Marilyn decided we should retrieve the food, “just in case” we got hungry later.
OMG.
What????
Absolutely not.
“Should I go get it back?” she asked, as she rose to head over to the German’s table.
Nooo!!! What????
Please, no. What are you even thinking?
It was one of the most bizarre suggestions I’d ever heard. Imagine having given them the food… and then taking it back a few minutes later…
Seriously.
I can’t make this shit up.
Get me outta here…
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