There was something wickedly cool about dumping the self-confessed Play Boy Waiter a week before I was to fly out for a three-month ‘sabbatical’ to Turkey.
But hadn’t I decided to live with the Waiter I hear you gasp?! well yes indeed I had – but after seeing him via the webcam bloated and bare-chested a slither of kebab glistening unceremoniously on his little pot belly… Girls, I changed my mind.
So I dug out Mustafas number and called him. I breezily said ‘Hi, it’s me’ he was audibly shocked to hear my voice again. I glossed over the detection of hesitance that pulsed through the wire and blurted out ‘Would you like to see me again?’
‘Of course, why not’ he replied – astounded
Fast forward a week and I arrive excitedly at Mustafas shared apartment. The first couple of weeks were fraught with difficulty. Mustafa evidently was not actually that excited to see me. Oh dear god, I was back on the harbor again faced with his cold indifference – but this time I was sharing an apartment with him. God help me, this is going to be one hell of a ride, and it didn’t take me long to figure out it was going to be white knuckled all the way. For the first two weeks I would wake up every morning in an empty bed – only to find him curled up on the floor like a mangy dog. ‘I can’t sleep with anyone – I like to be on my own’ his absurd justification. The rhythm and tone of his repartee did smack a little to close to a ‘it’s not me, it’s you’ scenario. Upon deconstruction he was patently saying no wait, hang on it’s not, not me – it is you! – you’re in my (single) bed.
I dealt with this rejection the only way I knew how – I struck up a firm friendship with his flat-mate. A lovely chap called Bekir who hailed from Georgia, this guy was warmth personified. One night we found we shared an appreciation of red wine and decided to splurge on a couple fo bottles of ‘sharap’ – we had a wail of a time. We tuned in and out of random radio stations listening to Mydonos via Raydo Polis screening Turkish Metal via frenchy euro trash… it was a right laugh! All the while sour puss Mustafa sat there po faced with his ear phones firmly wedged in. With another exaggerated huff and puff he shot us with a trade mark glare and raised his two spade like hands over his ears. He wrongly imagined that this grotesque over acting would get the message through. In spite of myself I inquired as to what he was listening too. ‘Ecstasy music’ he spat back. Well he didn’t look like he was in the grips of ecstasy by the look on his impossibly long face. Mustafas child like attempt at thwarting mine and Bekirs fun had in a word failed. Instead Mustafa simply became the subject of our drunken giggles which soon turned into earth rattling hiccups. At one point Bekir and I danced hand in hand around the room to some ridiculous song. We stumbled and swirled and hiccupped stopping only when Mustafa thrashed into the room and screamed at us to turn the music down. Bekir and I collapsed in a heap of laughter and told him that he was behaving like our father! Bekir and I had truly bonded that night our light-hearted double act had been cemented at Mustafas expense. But had Bekir not been there it would have been me alone watching Mustafa listen to Ectasy music on his MP3 player.
One memorable day Bekir and his brother on one scooter, Mustafa and I on another raced up the windy roads which lead to the Castle armed with a rucksack full of Vodka and Efes and maybe a few packets of superfluous Doritos.
We arrived in a cloud of grit and dust; Engines off, our location was the ancient church and cemetery. Just below a stunning roof platform which would have to be carefully navigated via the ruined Hodge-potch of sand stone walls. Flip flops not the ideal footwear for the occasion, but alas it was worth a few shrieks here and there as I wobbled a bit too close to the edge for comfort. The old roof is a favorite with locals who enjoy a drink and a few stolen kisses whilst admiring the stunning vista of Alanya harbor and city far below. having jumped off the edge of the wall onto the roof we waltzed up and down searching for a suitable patch to lay down our alcohol picnic, when a rather tall German ‘silver fox’ came from nowhere. resplendent in obligatory white socks and hiking boots, his little dumpling white-haired wife a stride behind him. The hiking boots must have worked a treat on the wall where surely only young people and mountain goats dare tread. He must have felt a real sense of achievement. I got out my camera and started to snap the amazing backdrop – the man interjected ‘beautiful view nein?’
yes I said ‘isn’t it just’
I can take a photograph if you like?
So, we the four musketeers stood arms linked a quartet of backs reflecting the golden dew which bounced from the glistening mediterranean. Grinning from ear to drunkard ear. And of course by special request the silver fox threw his arm around me for another more intimate picture snapped by a some what irksome Mustafa.
That evening was actually one of the best with Mustafa thus far. He had loosened up and even seemed to enjoy my company for once! As it grew darker we decided to race back down the hill, splitting hairs as the boys recklessly navigated through tourists and stray alley cats alike. Back at the Apartment the partying spirit was once again evoked via blasting techno as the tunes doof, doofed through the speakers much to the delight of the neighbours no doubt.
The following Morning nursing a hazy head and a cup of strong turkish chai (when is that stuff ever not strong?!) I met Bekir and Mustafa fawning over the cute (for an American Staff) puppy named pasa in the living room.
‘Pasa is so sick’ Mustafa announced his eyes as wide as the puppy he held in his hands.
‘O, kay… what’s wrong with him?
‘He has some stomach problem, If I don’t take him to the vet he gonna die olum’ I look at the puppy now being tickled on said sick stomach by Bekir.
Before I could speak, Mustafa interjected ‘Off ya he is going to die, I don’t have money for vet bill, can you give me money and I will give back’
So what choice did I have dear readers – don’t give in to the request and be cast as Cruella de ville for the rest of my stay or give in against my better judgement and just hand over the damned money?
Three Hours later the dog comes back looking genuinely sick now both his ears bandaged and bloody. Fucking hell – I have handed over money so Mustafa could pay a butcher to carve a more fashionable set of ‘bad assed street dog’ ears for the poor bastard. This was banned years ago in the UK and I don’t buy for a second that the vet after operating on the dogs sick stomach thought oh yeah his long ears don’t do him any justice darling lets give him a hack here and hack there. My hard-earned cash, used for animal cruelty – great.
I really want to cook for you! – Bekir and Mustafa look at me as if I have just said I really want to poison you!
well like it or not dears, I’m going to cook and it ain’t gonna consist of eggs and fake sausage bits swilling in oil and frothing with salt. You know how a good Mojito is served in a V-shaped glass with a ring of sugar licking the edges. Well here in Turkey a so-called expertly executed turkish dish is not served in a dish but in a blackened frying pan – who needs seasoning with the residue of last nights food on top of that morning’s breakfast? And as for the salt well that usually rises to the edges, licking the edges, encircling the pan in all it’s artery clogging glory. Don’t it just scream – eat me?! (with Bread of course, no cutlery required) So I was going to show them the light wasn’t I. Yes English food, it might not be up there with Italian Pizzas and Ice-cream to die for, it might not stand up next to a good curry but it’s got to beat the Turks infatuation for Bread and eggs?!
ummmm, decisions, decisions… Shepard’s Pie now that’s a classic ain’t it. Nope no damned Cumberland sausages out here cross that option off. Bread and Butter pudding – fuck no. They’d get out the eggmeck and start double dipping. A bit of cauliflower cheese could be a winner but it’s not going to blow them away now is it? – OMG! I’m a genius – Roast Dinner. The cult hero of GB (gastro britain, baby!)
In a Nutshell it has been hard to continue the rest of the story since in a Nutshell or a bigger than usual Nutshell: I married (a Stoned) Mustafa in a thunder stormthat raged all day and all night. The day was horrendous and I should have known better (I call it my Britney Spears Shotgun Vegas experience) On our first day as husband and wife we had an almighty row where I threw my wedding ring into the distance (of a packed bar) We sort of made up. He went into the Army as scheduled. I stupidly waited for him for 15 Months. Fast forward 16 months and he is cheating on me with a Hungarian-Gypsy-Slut!
That was then (2010/2011) This is now – I’ve had a lucky escape and genuinely wish him and Gypsy-Slut all the best. I’ve dropped the Turkish bubble and regained my real life. I’m having more fun than I have done in yonks – I’m loving life girls! So much so that blogging on the past I just haven’t got time for. It’s all about the present my darlings!
I’ve just come back from a fabulous whirlwind mini Euro Tour where I sampled some Hombres, Maschi, and Hommes
I have had fun and most importantly I have learned the art of saying Thank you and Goodbye.
So a parting word of advice the world is literally your oyster don’t get tunnel vision and settle on one adventure with one man in one country!