old souks, dubai
I decided to visit the Old Market one evening, and it turned out to be one of the best choices I made in Dubai. Everything was outdoors, so going at night felt perfect. I took the metro from JBR to Baniyas Square, and as soon as I stepped out of the station, I was struck by how alive everything was. It was around 10 pm, the streets were glowing with lights, and the market stretched endlessly, buzzing with people. I had always pictured Dubai as a city of malls, hotels, and air-conditioned luxury—but here was a whole other world, full of chatter, color, and life under the night sky.
Being Indian, I instantly felt at home too. There were so many Indians around, and slipping into Hindi with strangers gave me a sense of comfort, like I could belong here for hours without effort. I wandered, browsed, got lost in stalls. There were ridiculously affordable finds—sandals for 25 dirhams, a soft cashmere shawl for just 11, little tools and trinkets that felt both practical and charming. I picked up a fridge magnet too, not necessarily to display at home—I’m actually quite private about such things—but more as a quiet reminder for myself, a small token of where I’ve been.
The market seemed endless. Beyond the usual chain shops, there were places bursting with authentic flavors and scents—spices stacked high, dried fruits from across the Middle East, raisins from nearly ten different countries, dates in every shade of brown. I couldn’t stop staring at them, each variety carrying its own story. There were perfume shops too, where you could mix your own fragrance from concentrated oils—an idea that felt so luxuriously personal.
And then there was the gold souk. I don’t think anything could have prepared me for that. It wasn’t just jewelry on display—it was an entire fantasy of gold. Necklaces so heavy they looked like armor, bangles stacked endlessly, and even full body suits crafted entirely of gold draped over mannequins, like something out of a surreal fashion show. Gold could cover your whole body if you let it. It struck me that here, gold wasn’t just an accessory—it was a statement, an unapologetic declaration of wealth and grandeur. People weren’t limiting it to a chain or a ring. They were dressing themselves in it from head to toe, without hesitation, without shame. It put into perspective just how rich this country really is.
After hours of wandering, I took a short boat ride across the creek to Al Fahidi. It cost barely anything—just a dirham or two—but that four-minute ride felt magical. On one side was the bustling market, on the other were sandy, castle-like structures that looked straight out of another world. The district itself was beautiful, artistic, almost European in its quiet charm.
But not everything was picture-perfect. As a solo female traveler, I felt the flip side of being out at night too. At one stall, a shopkeeper pressured me into buying pouches. At first, I thought they were a bargain at 5 dirhams, and when he realized I was clueless, he kept insisting “so cheap, so cheap” until I gave in and bought four. Minutes later, I found the same kind of pouches for a fraction of that price—along with bookmarks and other trinkets that were much better deals. I felt a strange mix of frustration and naivety, but also a quiet lesson in listening to my gut and standing my ground next time.
Time slipped away without me realizing, and by 11 pm I had to rush to catch the metro back. Halfway through, it shut down for the night, and I ended up taking a long bus ride from the very top of Dubai back down to JBR. Nearly two hours later, I finally stumbled home, utterly drained. It had been such an intense day—one of those where you’re exhilarated, exhausted, and forced to confront little truths about yourself. Traveling alone does that: it throws you into unexpected situations, and it’s on you to find your way out.
When I reached, my friend opened the door and I began recounting everything that had happened. Part of me wanted to make the story sound grand, maybe even to spark a little envy, but midway I caught myself. I realized some experiences are too beautiful to lay out carelessly for others—they’re meant to be kept close, guarded like secrets. As Khaled Hosseini once wrote, “People ruin beautiful things.” At the same time, I thought of another line: “Happiness is only real when shared.” Both felt true in their own way, and maybe that’s the beauty of traveling—you get to choose which perspective you want to carry home.
