In journalism, some days just turn weird. You think you know how things will go. It seems slow. Routine. Boring. At the 4 p.m. news meeting I all but said “sorry, folks, sports is dull today …”

And four hours later I was in a cab in the posh northwest corner of Abu Dhabi island, in search of the world’s most famous free agent soccer player, one David Beckham.

It was about 6 p.m. that a section head at The National forwarded to me a note that one of his reporters had sent him … in which the reporter asked to leave a bit early to attend a “gala dinner” hosted by an Abu Dhabi-based think tank at the Emirates Palace marina.

Oh, and David Beckham was supposed to be there.

I had been saying and writing, for a few weeks now, that Beckham really ought to come to the UAE for that one last “challenge” he talked about as he left the Los Angeles Galaxy.

It just makes too much sense. People here would go crazy. He would fill stadiums. He could make a nice wage while playing maybe 14 or 15 games in four months. And he could live in comfort in one of the ritzy addresses in Dubai or Abu Dhabi, mostly during the UAE’s “winter” — when the weather here is nearly perfect.

And now we had a tip that he was going to be at this magazine launch. In Abu Dhabi — a place you don’t get to by accident.

I got in touch with the reporter who had heard the rumor. The dinner was scheduled to begin at 7:30, and I asked that if any sighting of the great man was made, to please call or text me.

I had already done nine hours getting the section ready for the next day, and I was tired, and I didn’t want to go off on a wild-goose chase. And then, a bit after 8, came the text message: “He is here. He is at the table next to mine.”

I considered the options. A couple of our Abu Dhabi-based sports writers might be available, but maybe not. And I was getting ready to leave, anyway. So I decided to go and see … what happened. But the mental effort I knew would be expended made me tired. I was muttering curses under my breath as I left the newspaper building. “This is nuts.” Et cetera. But I went. I had to.

When you don’t get over to that part of the island, for long stretches of time, you forget just how astonishingly posh it is. With the Emirates Palace as the over-the-top landmark for it all. (Check the hotel’s home page for some photos of the glittering enormity of it all.)

As we went along, my Pakistani cabbie, who said he has been in the UAE for 13 years, was pointing out to me the palaces of the Al Bateen area. “Sheikh Abdullah lives there, Sheikh Mohammed is there …”

And eventually we got to where the big rollers shack up. The Palace.

I had been told to go to the marina, which is across the water from the hotel, and follow the signs for “gala dinner”. That took me to a security checkpoint. We stopped. I got out of the cab. A large man in a dark suit asked what my business was. I said I was going to the dinner. “Invitation?” Well, no, but I should be on the list. (My colleague said my name would be left at the gate.)

A guy in a kandura and another guy in the brown suit began to study a sheaf of papers, looking for the name on the business card I had given them. It looked hopeless. I then used my final bullet, and mentioned the name of a man I do not know. “If you have any concerns, call Mr. Jassim Al Marzouqi.”

Bang. It was like I had said the secret passwords. “Please, sir. Go ahead.” The bar to the parking area was raised, the half-dozen guys guarding the gate stood aside, and the cabbie drove forward. But not for long. The parking lot was jammed. The cabbie asked another wandering driver looking for a parking spot about where to let me off. The guy said, “Right here” and said, “Ask for a buggy ride.”

I got out and headed towards a path running along the sea, and saw another big guy in a brown suit. (They were stationed every few yards in all directions.) “How do I find a buggy?” He pointed to one pulling up behind me.

I rode in the golf cart about half a mile out to the tip of the narrow peninsula, and as I got closer to a big, white tent-shaped structure at the end of the land, I saw more guys in brown suits, and more security-like men in kanduras, and dozens and dozens of Emirates Palace workers pulling up with carts filled with meals.

A mag-and-bag area. I was wondering if I would be asked for an invitation again. I also worried that I was under-dressed. Hard shoes, khaki slacks, blue-and-white striped shirt … but everyone else in Western clothes was wearing a suit.

The wind was surprisingly brisk. Blowing in from the Gulf. I remember thinking it was almost cold, and it would be warmer inside.

I took the plunge. I pulled out my phone, my keys, my wallet, and put them in the tray next to the magnetometer, and walked through, and it beeped (my belt buckle!), and another big guy in brown suit passed the wand over me, shrugged … and I was in!

The white building had at least two igloo-like entrances. Half-circles, and low, leading to the main room. I entered the nearer aperture, and on either side of the tunnel were lines of hostesses. Etihad flight attendants, perhap? They smiled at me. I walked ahead, as if I belonged there. Ha.

I entered the main room, and saw perhaps 250 people at tables throughout the round area.

I sidled over to the fence behind which the sound engineers sat. Some Power Point-type presentation was being beamed on an opposite wall. I texted my colleague. “Where are you?” My colleague replied. “I will stand up, and Beckham will be right in front of me.”

I scanned the room. I saw my colleague rise. I was about 50 feet from the free-kick master.

At this moment, however, a parade of men in kanduras went out the entrance I was standing at. They had security guys in front of them and on either side. And I recognized one of the men inside the cordon as Sheikh Mansour bin Zayed, one of the wealthiest men in the UAE. He owns the Premier League champion side Manchester City — but is also the chairman of the Abu Dhabi soccer club Al Jazira. Which has the nicest stadium and best facilities in the league.

Beckham and Mansour in the same room! And no other sports reporter in the world knew about it.

I found my colleague, and learned that Beckham was not the only celebrity in the room. “Some guy named Reggie, I think. Jackson? By David.” I saw a graying man with a round head, and yes, it was Reginald Martinez Jackson, formerly of the Athletics, Yankees and Angels, now (and forever) a member of baseball’s Hall of Fame.

“Oh,” said my colleague, “and Serena Williams is sitting on the other side of the room.”

This was getting too weird. Three athletes most recently associated with the U.S., and they are all in the same tent at a magazine launch in Abu Dhabi?

But I was there, however, for just the one.

Beckham rose, looking dapper as hell. Not a blond hair out of place. I tried to memorize what he was wearing, for later recapping. Was that suit dark blue, or was it black? What color was his tie?

He walked to the edge of the room, and to another entrance/exit. I followed, trying to look like I wasn’t following him, exactly, and like I had a reason to be sidling between tables of elegantly dressed people. I was going somewhere, although not too fast. Remember, I was not supposed to be there, and I knew I was the only sports print media guy in the place.

When he got into the hall, he posed for a couple of dozen photos. The smile never left his face; it only got brighter when some random person got up next to him. “I cannot imagine anything more pleasurable than having my photo taken with you” was the vibe he gave off. Like a veteran politician running for high office.

I placed myself strategically. When he went back to the hall, he would have to walk past me. And here he came. I had my one and probably only question ready to fling at him. But as people made way for him, they edged back past the door, and suddenly I was three-people deep, and he glided past me.

(Beckham in person is taller than you expect, but he is very slender. I’d guess 5-10, 150. Really slight. And he wears a suit like he was born in one. Or maybe a lot of us would look that sleek if we paid that much for a suit.)

He returned to his table, and now I had a new problem. The only way to pose my one question was to dive into the space between him and Reggie Jackson. Dinner was being served. This would be a bit too paparazzi-like — ambushing a guy at dinner. I might get thrown out, too, and a complaint filed with the newspaper — though I didn’t actually think that, at the moment, even if I should have.

He got up again. One more chance! He circled the room, heading in the direction where Serena Williams allegedly was sitting. I followed again, looking like I belonged. (Yeah, right. A folder with a few papers in my hand, and a pen in the other.) Eyes followed him, not me, which may explain why I was never stopped or questioned or asked to show an invitation. When certain people are in a room, the rest of us are invisible.

I worked around another table, and there was Beckham leaning in for a kiss with Serena Williams. World’s greatest female tennis player. She was dressed in something tight and black. Almost like a cat suit. She smiled. So did Beckham. They are best friends, I’m sure.

I sized up my situation. If I stayed where I was, pushed up against the dais, when Beckham came back he would have to pass me through a narrow channel.

And here he came.

I had planned my question from the moment I saw Sheikh Mansour, chairman of Al Jazira, and as Becks went past me I fell in just behind him, and over his left shoulder I asked: “Will you be joining us here, at Jazira?”

He turned slightly. He had heard me. He was not angry. If anything, he was being polite by acknowledging the questioner. Because he had an answer, a quick one, albeit terse.

Said Becks: “We’ll see.”

I began to ask a followup, but he already was pulling away. And I had enough for a story. Beckham, a man without a team, in the UAE, in the same room with the owner of Man City and Al Jazira.

I was not going to dive into his table and try for more. Just the fact that he was there and had answered me (shortest interview of my career) … and not with an “excuse me?” or an “I have no idea what you’re talking about” .. or a flat “No”… that was a story.

(And, truth be told, when he said “We’ll see” there was something in his tone that I read to mean, “Yes, I am coming, but I’m not going to confirm it to some strange guy who throws a question at me after I’ve been kissing Serena.”)

It was 9. Time to go and write. On the way back, it struck me that I felt like I was inside a James Bond movie production. A handsome Brit in a suit. Large men in strange “Dr. No” type livery. A mysterious social event. In the exotic Middle East. Elegant women. At the rich end of Abu Dhabi, and just across the water from the Taj Mahal-inspired Emirates Palace. I laughed aloud.

I asked how to catch a cab. I knew none were anywhere near me. To walk out would take a half hour. Easy. A woman heard my questions and pointed at a golf cart, and off we went. A couple of miles later we were driving up the glittering entrance to the Palace, which I have been inside only once, and I tumbled out, climbed into the next cab and started calling. I told the desk I would have 500 words and the Plan B for page 5 was to go into motion. I called the apartment and said I would be there shortly, and that I would write.

That story is here. We had a new cover photo for our tab-sized section. A boring paper wasn’t nearly as boring, all of a sudden. And it got better. When I talked to the night editor, I rued that I do not have a smart phone because “500 people took pictures of Beckham tonight.” I recommended “something of a pensive Becks” for the cover.

It got better. A half-hour later the night editor e-mailed me. “We have a photo. You are going to love it.” Through ingenious methods, my colleague had found someone willing to send through the photo — which is at the top of this entry, shot by someone who asked not to be identified.

It is perfect. Becks, turning to see who is taking his picture. A man in a kandura holding an Abu Dhabi Sports microphone. Visual proof he was here, and somewhere exotic and expensive — the sort of place David Beckham seems at home in.

Since then, I wondered which of the massive Emirates Palace suites Becks stayed in. The $10,000-a-night one? One of the “Rulers” rooms? Did he get some gold out of the gold-dispensing ATM in the lobby?

Could he see himself staying at the hotel  for the second half of the UAE Pro League season?  Maybe wife Victoria and the kids would come over from Los Angeles once to visit. And then he would be back in L.A. no later than June, with another nice check and having created exciting havoc in the UAE and the region.

Journalism is like that. Nothing is happening … then too much is happening. In Search of … David Beckham. And it turned out.

It was a kick in the pants, and some pretty good journalism by a lot more people than me.