Skip to main content

Worlds Tallest Tower

Dubai, United Arab Emirates
An image of a turquoise door popped-up on my computer screen, [Incoming video from 1740 Tsavorite Lane]. Magically, his front door opened and Hercule Peridot appeared on my monitor. As always, he was impeccably dressed; a fine silk vest, and dashing gold necktie. His lean, congenial, smiling face radiating from my screen.

Sensationnel, how in the world does he do it? I thought. He is always dressed to the T.

“Adamas Bontemps, how are you my boy?”

“I’m better than ever Peridot, and you?”

“Fine, absolutely splendid. Have you considered the trip to Dubai?”

“Yes, I’ve been reminiscing about my last adventure there.”

“Your thoughts?” asked Peridot.

“You mentioned visiting a Pearl dealer but . . . ” I hesitated a moment, “I’m wondering?”

“Yes?”

“Have you made plans for our accommodations yet? I asked.”

“Well, interesting that you ask.” said Peridot. “I’ve narrowed it down to three possible hotels; The Emirates Tower, The Burg Khalifa, or The Burj Al Arab. Do you have a preference?”

“That’s quite a sophisticated range of choices.” I said.

“Only the best - retirement suits me well,” said Peridot.

I could see Peridot pour a glass of wine from a small carafe his desk. Settling into his luxurious leather office chair, he took a sip of wine, dabbed his mustache with a napkin, cleared his throat and began; “Are you aware of the provenance of these particular hotels?”

Short on time, I quickly responded before Peridot could launch into one of his extended lectures. 

“As a matter of fact I’ve visited two of your three choices; The Burj Al Arab, and The Emirates Tower. They are magnificent!”

It was early evening, the conversation with my colleague about visiting Dubai to examine Pearls had piqued my interest. My last trip to the Emirates of Dubai had been over eight years ago.

While tapping my chin, I wondered just how much Dubai had changed?

Instinctively I grabbed my phone and engaged Siri, “What is the Burj Khalifa?” I asked.

“Let me think about that.” was her response.

“This is what I found.” said Siri. Within seconds my iPhone displayed the following; 

Burj Khalifa (2,717 feet)
Dubai, United Arab Emirates
163 floors
Construction cost $4 billion (U.S. Dollars)
Completion Date, January 2010.

With a quick motion, my office chair rolled to the bookshelf behind me. Scanning the titles I pulled the book Emirates Towers. My last trip to Dubai I was invited to visit a dear friend who worked for a diamond consortium. His office was in the Emirates Towers, completed in 2000. Decidedly one of the most stunning architectural highlights of the Dubai skyline. At that time it was the tenth tallest hotel in the world at 1,0000 feet; now ranked 61st.

To provide some perspective; One World Trade Center in New York stands 1,792 feet tall. The Willis Tower, formerly the  Sears Tower is 1,450 feet. The Empire State Building at 1,250 feet. Wow, the Burj Khalifa is over twice the height of the Empire State Building.

With a melancholy expression on my face I smiled as I examined the souvenir Emirates Tower shaped key that sat on my desk.

“How things have changed.”

Peridot’s voice brought me back to the present. “Splendid, that settles it then, we will stay in what is now the Worlds Tallest Tower - The Burg Khalifa. Pack your things my boy, next week we leave for Dubai!”

To be continued . . . 

Comments

Most Popular of All Time

The Gopher Problem and the High Powered Solution

Vacationing in Maine this week, just a short drive down the coast from Freeport, it is hard not to think about the outsized impact one frustrated outdoorsman had on the gear we all use today. Bad equipment can ruin a perfectly good day on the water or the trail, but it takes a special kind of vision to turn cold feet into a century-old empire. This is the story of the company we now know as L.L.Bean, but more importantly, it is a masterclass in integrity, learning from failure, and standing behind your work. In 1912, Leon Leonwood Bean faced a persistent problem: returning from expeditions in the Maine woods with cold, wet feet. Instead of complaining, he got creative. He had a local shoemaker stitch waterproof rubber soles onto the flexible leather uppers of a hunting boot. He called it the Maine Hunting Shoe and mailed a flyer promising perfect satisfaction. Then reality arrived. Ninety of his first 100 pairs failed when the rubber separated from the leather. Not an effective product...

On Becoming Real

Some things get better with wear: old shoes, old friendships, and old books. Especially old books. A new volume arrives with crisp corners and a spine that hasn’t yet learned to bend. An old one has been somewhere. It has traveled through time in the hands of people who may no longer be around to tell us what they found inside. The copy of The Velveteen Rabbit (first published in 1922) on my desk is one of those books. My friend Don Hanley gave it to me. This late-1950s Doubleday edition features William Nicholson’s original illustrations and cream paper boards softened by age. Worn corners, a split spine, and colored tabs mark passages worth revisiting. Don didn’t hand me a keepsake. He gave me homework. When we talked about the book recently, he pointed me straight to the nursery conversation between a young rabbit and an old Skin Horse. The rabbit had noticed the mechanical toys around him—the ones with internal gears, bright paint, and stick-out handles that seem terribly impressiv...

A Dog, a Beer . . . and the Ghost of 1912

Whenever you step into an American cathedral of our National Pastime built before modern ergonomics, municipal zoning, or crowd-flow dynamics, an unspoken understanding forms, creating a welcoming, timeless atmosphere. You trade legroom, sensible corridors, and personal space for the privilege of communing with ghosts. Last week, Lori and I made our pilgrimage to Fenway Park to watch our Chicago Cubs take on the Boston Red Sox (a taut 0–2 contest that felt spiritually tied to their 1918 World Series meeting). Staying just across the Charles River at the Courtyard Marriott in Cambridge gave us one immeasurable tactical advantage: we walked. While the automotive gridlock around Kenmore Square took on the character of the Siege of Yorktown—horns echoing across the asphalt like musket fire—we simply strolled across the Boston University Bridge, enjoying the river breeze and feeling smugly superior to everyone trapped behind a steering wheel. Fenway, built in the spring of 1912, holds rough...

Paris – the End of Silence

✈️  In this special episode: Paris – the End of Silence Sometimes, connection arrives in the most unexpected form—not through grand gestures, but through a quiet voice carried by technology. In a Paris apartment, I finally understood my family’s words . . . and felt my mother’s presence in every sentence. Since I was a little boy, France has been both a beautiful and frustrating paradox in my life. Every six to nine years, my mother, Mauricette, would take my brothers and me back to La Rochelle to visit our French family. The moment we arrived, the air would fill with a sound I loved but couldn’t share in—the rapid-fire, musical rhythm of French. My aunts, uncles, and cousins would warmly sweep me into hugs and kisses, their words flowing like a lovely melody I couldn’t quite catch. I’d smile brightly, trying to communicate with my eyes and hands. But as soon as we stepped off the plane, my mother and her sister-in-law, Joséan, started talking animatedly. They were gone, chatting h...