The tricky rules of being a good host

Whenever someone tells me: “Thank you for offering to host me” — in a tone that sounds gratuitously grateful — I start feeling very stressed. It happened to me recently, when after a long, long time, I had a guest coming over to stay with me for a couple of days, and I was told these exact words.

But before that, a brief recap. During both the ages of BC (Before Covid) and PC (Post Covid), I have often wondered if I am good host. I don’t think I am. Because I get irritated when I am at the end of what is deemed “good hospitality” and realise I could never be in the shoes of a conventional ‘good host’s’ pair of goody two shoes. So, if I am at somebody’s place and they begin to ply food and drinks on me like they were going out of fashion (believing it’s a hospitable gesture), I start feeling claustrophobic. “Why aren’t you eating? Here, have some more of these kebabs (or dim sums or falafel or whatever)…” and then they proceed to dump stuff on my plate. My position is, if I — the guest — want food or drinks or conversations, I will seek them out. At my convenience. Giving someone enough space — to eat voraciously or sparingly, to circulate, to talk, to stand on the balcony (and admire the views) — I think is the hallmark of being a good host… it’s what I follow assiduously when folks are over for dinner or lunch or to take part in a movie marathon.

The rules get tricky when there is a guest who’s staying over. Add to that the fact you don’t know this person too well, and haven’t really established a comfort level. Such an eventuality descended upon me in a post-pandemic phase when I think I’m displaying signs of being anti-social: I get tired, bored, annoyed at the drop of a hat. “Oh GOD, someone is coming over,” was my immediate thought, but I had to put on my game face for a visiting cousin who I’ve never interacted with much — but is still family, which means there was a good chance that the grapevine will get working if my efforts fell below expectations.

I live in a one-bedroomed apartment, but I do have a sofa in the living area that morphs into a bed. Do I offer the bedroom to my guest, was my first thought. “You should totally take my bedroom,” I started, my heart already sinking at the prospect of him opening my wardrobe door and discovering a right earnest mess.

He was nice enough to insist — adamantly — that he was going to sleep on the sofa. He made his own bed (the sofa that turns into a bed). As a first-timer to the city, he found his way around Dubai while I was busy at work (“It’s such an easy city to navigate,” he remarked), and even managed to buy jewellery for his wife from Gold and Diamond Park without the added benefit of my female gaze. He also was most insistent that he pick up the bills each time we ate out.

sushmita@khaleejtimes.com