Dear Asma,

I’m writing to you from Anantara Qasr Al Sarab’s Villa 52, for our beloved Villa 88. The word “villa” stayed with me, so I wasn’t lazy to look it up (although it doesn’t really take much effort): “a large house, usually in a rural area or near the sea”, says the Cambridge Dictionary. I found many parallels between this Villa 52 and our Villa 88. Both are large houses, one physical, the other metaphysical. Both taught me about the richness of Arabian heritage, one in its original form, the other in its elegant contemporary expression. I’m grateful to both; they deepened my love for this endlessly charming corner of the world. And I’m not the only fascinated one – my family is too. They’re visiting from Montenegro, and after a week of Dubai’s vibrant energy, I brought them to one of my favorite desert sanctuaries, for a dose of meaningful zen.

“What came first, the star in the sky or the starfish?” my niece Divna asked as we looked up at the endless blue above, at our terrace.
“Your mother might know better,” I said, “but I think the one in the sky was first.”
“Then the star from the sky fell into the sea and became a starfish,” she concluded, glowing with imagination. I agreed, admiring the purity of her thought, and wondered when we stopped making fantastical conclusions simply to delight ourselves, Asma?

A little earlier, I experienced sound healing for the first time, with the lovely Beatrice. She brought inflatables and all her instruments directly to my villa pool. Peaceful doesn’t begin to describe it. I floated above the water’s quiet rhythm while she created celestial sounds around me. Even with my eyes closed, I saw the sun setting. It was like a confident burning orange sinking behind the dunes. The air grew colder, yet something inside me warmed. I will do this again.

“I’ll meet you in forty minutes for padel,” she said as she packed her bowls and inflatables, carrying everything with surprising strength for someone so petite.
“Prepare to be blown away. I’m probably the worst opponent you’ll ever have,” I laughed. She laughed too, beautifully.

And then I played padel. Well, 2026 is certainly starting with consistency. My Seychellois Diaries introduced padel into my life, and somehow it has followed me across days, months, and destinations. It might be the first sport I genuinely enjoy. There, I said it.

Qasr Al Sarab is a magical place, Asma. I first came here last March, and it left the sweetest aftertaste. It’s the kind of place that recharges you the moment you step onto its grounds. The drive itself is an experience: desert on all sides, road and sky melting into one. The horizon dissolves, then reappears in new shades of orange with every kilometer. And then, suddenly, like a mirage made real, the resort rises from the dunes. Majestic, breathtaking. I looked at my brother, who was speechless, which is a rare achievement. “It’s something else, right?” I asked. He couldn’t even answer. Mission accomplished.

At the entrance were familiar faces: Hotel Manager Michele, HR Sonja, and Sommelier Rafa, all my former colleagues. I’ve spoken before about the quiet beauty of hotel life, and the unspoken union between those who serve and those who understand what it takes. True supporters, offering you effortlessness because they know your world is full of effort. Warm hugs, generous smiles, new memories ready to be made. They gave me more than I could ever need.

We dined at the foot of a dune that night, in Al Falaj restaurant, after my niece insisted, we greet a camel, a dog, and a falcon, in that specific order. We were served by the kind and knowledgeable Karim, who later explained the soul of Arabian hospitality he had been delivering all evening. Generosity took center stage at this table in the sand. Our plates overflowed with dishes chosen by Chef Vito. We surrendered to their guidance and made no mistake. As always, I found joy in simplicity: the crispy filo with goat cheese mhancha was my winner. If it has cheese, or is cheesy, then it’s my cup of tea.

The next morning, I was determined to run. I even laid out my running shoes and clothes after dinner. My alarm, titled “Run, Milo, run!”, didn’t help. This Forest could not leave the bed. And yes, I know a comfortable bed in a luxury resort shouldn’t be a revelation, but Asma, I slept on a cloud. Outside was misty, soft, slow, as if the whole world had turned into a milky fog carrying my reality gently forward. So, I surrendered and returned to a dream I forgot the moment I woke up. Perhaps that’s why my fantastical statements now feel less organic, because my dreams no longer stay with me.

The Ezba Tour at Qasr Al Sarab is a brief but rich cultural encounter. It is a walk through a traditional Emirati farmhouse that reveals Bedouin heritage, local nature, and desert traditions. Among the Liwa dunes, we learned about horses, falcons, camels, saluki dogs, native plants, and the delicate ways people have survived this landscape. It was exactly what I wanted my niece to experience. Her excitement was worth every kilometer of the nearly 400 I drove from Dubai. Memories for life.
At the farm, Hussain gave me mint, lemongrass and lavender. I never imagined lavender grown in the desert could smell this powerful. It brought me back to the South of France, but deeper, richer, somehow more mysterious.

I spent the rest of the day at the Amanie pool, the adults-only haven. I met a couple there, as I somehow always do. Both looked like supermodels, discussing Bulgakov and Dostoevsky. No, I wasn’t dreaming. And no, this time I’m not exaggerating. She was Russian, he American. They were exploring the Arabian Peninsula, and Qasr Al Sarab was their two-day pause, to reflect, reconnect, roam. He was curious about Balkan history and its future. – “At this point, even we are confused,” I said. “But it’s a miraculous part of the world. You should visit.” Wherever I go, the Balkans follow, and don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind. I’m in fact proud when it reveals itself.

Back to my headphones, Jessie Ware sang:
“The heart of the city is on fire
Sun on the rise, the highs are gonna fall
But nothing is different in my arms
So darling, remember, remember where you are.”

Later, I went to see the saluki dog I’d met the night before. I’d grown attached, age does this, I suppose. I first thought he was hungry, but then learned that racing dogs are naturally lean. They can run up to 70 kilometers per hour. Hunters by nature, though they no longer hunt here. Now they simply exist, elegant, gracious, reminders of a time that once was, now preserved in lyrical form.

“He can’t live in an apartment, sir,” the kind handler told me, perhaps sensing from my face that I was contemplating running away with the dog.
“Just as I couldn’t live in the desert,” I replied, “but I will keep coming back to it.”

Our phenomenal butler Shubham just informed me that they will bring a floating breakfast to our villa pool tomorrow morning. I can already imagine Divna’s face when I send her for a morning dip, unsuspecting. As the sun rises, a few more core memories will take shape. Gentle, warm, and lasting. We will be checking out then.

Consistently yours,
Milo