Category: Guest Posts

No Tea and No Sympathy

My Blighty life friend Philip is a treasured old soul and the Imelda Marcos of scarves (the wrap-around-the-turtleneck kind, not the bad hair day kind). He never travels by open top car for fear of being strangled like Isadora Duncan. He and I worked together for donkey’s years. I managed him for a while, though I was always left wondering who really worked for whom. His innate intelligence is beautifully blended with creativity, wit and style – and the ability to drink me under the table. He’s one of two guest bloggers that I actually know in person (Karyn is the other). How sad is that.

You can catch more of Philip’s excellent foody tales on his marvelous blog, What’s for Tea Tonight, Dear

Philip

Whenever I think of Jack and Liam’s great adventure, and once my envy of their chosen life subsides, I often think of what I’d miss if I were to similarly uproot myself and transplant to pastures new. And being the glutton that I am these thoughts most often turn to food. Don’t get me wrong, I love to travel and a large slice of that affection belongs to the opportunity to try new foods and even whole cuisines. A trip to Cambodia last year for instance was quite an eye opener – from the fragrant markets all the way to the fried tarantulas! But these are usually just holidays, and knowing that my familiar comforts will all be waiting at home makes it all the easier to go native, culinary wise, with gay abandon. I’d be lying if I said I’d never eaten a “full English” on some hot, hung-over morning somewhere round the Med, but if that’s all you can think of when travelling abroad then stay at home with a tin of baked beans, a packet of sausages and a sun ray lamp, I say. Eating what those around you eat, sharing that most basic daily form of what defines a people or an area (i.e. their food!) is the quickest, most accessible and often most enjoyable way of beginning to understand your local culture, however temporary the arrangement.

But for the long-term emigrey (to borrow Jack’s term), however much you immerse yourself in the cauldron of your local cuisine, there must always be tastes of home for which you hanker. For years now It’s been something of a running joke with the Shopkeeper and I that as soon as we buckle our belts on an outbound flight we’ll turn to each other and say “Ooh, I can’t wait to get home and have a decent cup of tea!”. I’m a bit of a fussy tea drinker at the best of times and, after countless (and why always glass?) cups of lukewarm water in which a helpless bestringed bag of Liptons struggles in vain to radiate even the smallest tentacles of its brown beauty, I have entirely given up on drinking tea whilst abroad.

Cheese on toast is my other immediate must have just as soon as I’ve paid the taxi driver from Gatwick or Heathrow enough to replicate the holiday from which I’ve just returned. Having a cheese shop takes care of one principal ingredient, I’ll usually call ahead to make sure we have supplies of the other. And within a week, whatever exciting recipes, ingredients and ideas have come home with me, I will always be found making a roast dinner with all the trimmings.

So I wonder, for those who have taken the plunge, what foods do you miss the most? And how do you manage to fill the voids? Trips to the mother land with an empty suitcase just for food? Insistence that any visitors bring necessary supplies in exchange for board? Or maybe even local supper clubs where you can huddle over the latest import? I’m dying to hear you stories.

It’s All Greek to Me!

My fourth guest blogger is Bodrum vetpat and dedicated pansy fan, Carole Meads. Carole offers keenly priced, top-notch holiday properties in the pretty and peaceful resort of Torba, just 4kms from Bodrum. Take a look here if you’re thinking of visiting this part of the world (no, I don’t get a cut!). Here’s Carole writing about her attempts to learn Turkish. We’ve all been there.

Carole

Six and a half years ago I decided to make this idyllic coastal part of Turkey my home, along with a good friend who reassured me that learning the language wouldn’t be a problem. The Turkish language has its roots in Central Asia and the written form dates back to the 8th Century BC. in Mongolia.  As part of Ataturk’s reforms in 1928 he changed the written form of the language from the Arabic alphabet to the phonetic form of the Latin alphabet. He hoped this would aid communications and simplify things for non-Arab speakers…

Sadly, for a first time new language student, grappling with a different word order is hard enough and then it gets complicated. The Turkish language is based on vowel harmony and agglutination. It has to sound right and words are built up into sometimes incomprehensible length in order to make a point! So armed with a library of grammar, phrase books and CDs we set about teaching ourselves but somehow it never came to anything. ‘Speak to the locals’ knowledgeable ex-pats advised. These attempts at communication were met with confused expressions, grunts or replies in perfect English!

We soon decided that living in Bodrum, learning the lingo was going to be no mean feat. To be fair we quickly picked up basic chat and essential phrases – we got by but as soon as the conversation went ‘off-piste’ we were flummoxed. Then eighteen months ago a minor miracle happened. We heard about a new Turkish course starting up locally and at a price which matched our “non working” status! By this time I had become convinced that I would never learn Turkish, my friend already having mastered a couple of other languages was not so easily put off and immediately signed up. Her enthusiasm spread, several of our friends joined up and eventually even I gave in and decided to give it a go.

Erhan our teacher can only be described as ‘saintly’. He painstakingly prepares idiot proof lessons, listens to our horrendous annihilation of his native tongue, laughs with us not at us, all the while trying to understand the idiosyncrasies of the English language and ex-pats.

These days I lurch between declaring that I will never be able to speak this damn language and catching the jist of overheard conversation as I sit crammed in amongst the locals on the Dolmus. They say you have lost about 90% of your ability to learn a new language by the time you reach nine years old. Having reached an age considerably past nine, perhaps I shouldn’t be giving myself such a hard time?

Summer Redefined

Today’s guest post is from Linda at Adventures in Expatland. Linda writes prolifically and brilliantly about her life in the Netherlands and the expat experience. I’m certain she was a spook for the CIA in her former life, though she denies it. ‘If  I told you,’ she said, ‘I’d have to kill you.’ Here she writes about the glories of summer. When I read her post, my own childhood memories came flooding back. Remember the days when summers lasted forever? These days, the years just fly by. At this rate, it won’t be long before I’m six foot under.

Linda

Growing up as a child in upstate New York back in the US, summer was a gloriously sunny season that seemed to go on and on. That is, when it wasn’t raining. Which wasn’t all that often, but still. After morning chores were completed, my days were generally my own, filled with swimming, riding bikes, the annual family vacation. More than anything else, summer meant just hanging out with friends.

We finished the school year in mid-June, and didn’t have to report back until the day after Labor Day. Since this national holiday must fall on the first Monday in September, that usually meant we headed back to school sometime during the first week of the month. The entire months of July and August were summer, pure and simple.

A few times I recall the thrill of September 1st arriving on a Tuesday. That meant that in those special years Labor Day Monday would fall on the 7th, and we didn’t have to go to school until the 8th. The 8th! I still recall that magical feeling that we’d somehow wrangled a few extra precious days of summer.

As I got older and moved around the country a bit, I learned that school districts in other cities and towns had sizable leeway in setting their school calendars. When we lived in Arlington, Virginia (outside of Washington DC), the local school district chose to cut back on a few vacation days during the year to allow children to finish earlier in June, yet they still adhered to the day after Labor Day as the start of the new school year.

Imagine Son and Daughter’s dismay the year we moved further south to North Carolina: school started and ended two weeks earlier. Their summer freedom that year was shortened by two full weeks. They were livid. I recall unpacking boxes in our new home to the sweltering chorus of Two full weeks! We’ve been robbed. Cheated!

Let me tell you: Handel’s Messiah it wasn’t.

We settled in, and for five years it was fine. Then we moved to The Netherlands. And you’ll never guess what we learned. (Yeah, right, like you couldn’t see this coming a mile away.) Their international school started one week – all together now – earlier than their schools back in North Carolina.

Go figure.

I’d like to say that they handled it better this time because they were older, more mature, and guided by my stellar parenting skills. Actually, it was because Son and Daughter were so bored not knowing anyone and so overwhelmed with culture shock that they were happy to get back into the school day grind just to meet others who could help them make sense of their new world. Oh, and we didn’t have cable television at home yet.

With school starting August 17th this year, I’m going to be at home by myself during the final days of August. And what will I be doing? Working, of course. Except for those extra special days of fabulous weather when I reclaim summer and steal away for a few hours, riding my bike on beautiful trails to the beach.

Shhhhh…don’t tell the kids.

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Turks and Tampons

My third Guest blogger is Alexandra from Death by Dolmuş. Alexandra is a Yankee lass who teaches in Istanbul. She writes about the quirky side of life in the ancient city and has a mild obsession with public transport. Alexandra also publishes an amazing photoblog. If you don’t like discussions about women’s itty bitty parts, don’t read the following (oh, go on).

Alexandra

There are strange things that occur in Turkey. I am pretty on top of most of it, but from time to time things do catch me off guard. I’m unfazed when a man brings a 12 foot (4 meter) ladder into an over-packed dolmuş (roughly 5 meters long itself.) I’m unfazed when my bank calls to ask permission of my employer when I wish to close my account (obviously a mere mortal like me can’t be trusted with such a serious decision.)

I was caught off guard when my colleague, a punk, riot-grrrl feminist with red hair (not Irish red, but like, the color red) and combat boots, moans to me, doubled over in pain, ‘Gahh, I wish I hadn’t left the window open last night.’ It had been a sweltering 80 degrees (25 C) and I couldn’t understand what that had to do with her abdominal pain. ‘The wind, the night air, you know, it gives me cramps.’ Efendim?

Now, I’m fairly certain that cramps are caused by your uterine walls contracting to expel the lining. But, you know, who can say for certain…

I was constantly appalled by the lack of knowledge these university educated women displayed about their own bodies and the science contained in them. I know Freud thought that hysteria (that vague, female-ish complaint) was caused by a ‘disturbance’ to the uterus, but I’m pretty sure somewhere in my 6th grade sex-ed class, I remember learning something different…

As I was moving out, I had an enormous amount of tampons that my roommate and I had hoarded like we were preparing for the apocalypse. God knows when we would be able to find tampons again, so every time we ventured out of the Islamic Republic of Turkey, we bought up the store like they were going out of style.

Not having space in my luggage for 47 boxes of Tampax Pearls, and with the confidence that I could pick some up any time nature called at my nearest pharmacy (that’s a chemist’s for you Brits), when back in the US, I decided to give them away. Because honestly, who doesn’t like free tampons? Apparently, Turkish women.

So that’s how I found myself, on my last day of work, sitting in a locked office with my colleague, demonstrating how to use a tampon. I unwrapped it, showed how the applicator worked, as she dissected the tampon I had handed her, checking that the string was in fact well secured at the center. I extolled the tampon’s virtues: you can go swimming! (Her face lit up, what do you mean? She asked in disbelief.) You can wear white pants with no fear! Thinking back to all those tampon commercials of my youth, you can go shopping with your fresh-faced friends and laugh to your heart’s desire while spinning around in circles to demonstrate your new-found freedom!

Penis Points

My second guest blogger is Alan from Archers of Okçular. Alan lives in the small farming village of Okçular. We live in the same province of Muğla but might as well be on different planets. His Turkey is the real deal and he’s been living it for 14 years.

Alan

Before you crack up, ‘Penis Points’ are no laughing matter; ‘Penis Points’ are, quite literally, a matter of life and death! At least here in Turkey they are. ‘Penis Points’ are a growth industry; ‘Penis Points’ figure in the GDP of the country, they are an essential component in keeping the economy ticking over. Above all, ‘Penis Points’ are a man thing and although I have observed the odd lady collecting her ‘puans’, they are, as a rule, far too sensible to join in these childish antics.

Before I go on, I’d like to relate a story from a time before J and I had considered coming to Turkey to live. We were visiting Istanbul on one of those ‘Weekend Breaks’ and whilst there had met up with Turkish friends. Mehri, the male half of the duo, was a gentle, quietly spoken university lecturer who emanated an aura of peace and love. He and his wife had collected us by car from our hotel and we had just merged into the stream of traffic when an amazing transformation took place; Mehri hunched over the wheel and began snarling and shouting. He hammered the car horn and drove aggressively at those around him; there was much honking back and screeching of tyres. At first it was mildly disturbing, funny even; but as the lunacy grew and the remonstrations from his wife went unheard, we began to fear for our safety.

Suddenly, he swerved violently into a narrow and very steeply descending side road and proceeded downhill at speed totally ignoring several crossroads before screeching to a stop outside his apartment. As he switched off the ignition another switch clicked in his demented, schizophrenic brain and the persona of Mr Hyde dissolved and there, once again, calm and smiling, was our friend Dr Mehri Jekyll!

This was our first introduction to the ‘Trafik Canavar’ or ‘Traffic Monster’, an incubus lurking inside so many, ever seeking opportunities for a quick ‘flash’ and the accumulation of those ego boosting ‘Penis Points’. The reality of the motor vehicle as an extension of the driver’s maleness was no longer some psychologist’s quaint theory; we had just witnessed it in reality.

So, what are these ‘Penis Points’ then? Well, they relate mainly to driving; are, as I said, almost exclusively a male thing and they are measured on a graduated scale from ‘Downright Stupid’ (1) to ‘Causing Death By Dangerous Driving’ (10).

Here are some examples:

  1. You overtake in a perfectly safe way but the guy you passed experienced a strange physiological happening – his penis shrivelled! His only remedy is to glue his car to your back bumper and then, when the moment is least suitable, over/undertake you. Oh! Joy, this prick is back to normal! Plus 6 points.
  2. You are at a junction, you check carefully and the nearest vehicle is 500 yards away so you pull out. The guy is so affronted that he accelerates up to your rear bumper blasting his horn before passing you on the pavement. Plus 8 points.
  3. You pass/pull out on a truck driver who suffers an immediate flaccid moment and then jacks up by hounding your bumper for the next 20 miles (or to the next incline, whichever comes first). He’ll usually catch you up later, when you least expect it and continuing to try sticking his manhood up your tail pipe! Plus 7 points.
  4. You are driving along peacefully when you are confronted by the flashing lights of the black Merc/BMW with Istanbul plates that is hurtling towards you at 180kms in YOUR lane, and you are required to drive off into the forest or compete directly with his superior crumple-zone protection. Plus 3 or 9 points depending on how soon you react!
  5. Some loony driving his tractor/car/ truck pulls out of the side road without stopping/pausing and turns directly towards you in your lane expecting that whoever is there will take the necessary evasive action. ‘Allah Korusun!’ Plus 4 points.
  6. This guy has been crowding your rear bumper for miles on straight, clear roads; suddenly, as you approach a blind bend, he sees his opportunity for an enlargement job and pulls out to confront the huge TIR truck that has just appeared with much flashing of lights and bellowing of horns! Judged well, this is a 10 pointer!

There are many other examples and variations on the theme which include the shooting up of road signs with pistol or shotgun from the moving vehicle. Penis Points are awarded based on speed and accuracy!

I am of the opinion that a significant percentage of male drivers in this country, whether Turk or foreigner, have been sexually repressed by their overprotective, overbearing mothers to some degree or other; and that the only possible relief is to be found in the soft porn pages of most daily newspapers or by traffic manoeuvres that have the chance to bring about the ultimate orgasm of killing yourself or, better still, some poor, bloody innocent third party!

Aaaaaahhhh! How was it for you, darling? Absolutely smashing!!!

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Glorious Gumusluk

My first guest blogger is Linda from Ayak’s Turkish Delight. Linda and I share a public sector past in the social work field, a much-maligned profession, fraught with risk – damned if you do, damned if you don’t. Linda writes about her first tentative steps of her glorious Turkish journey. 

Linda

I am delighted to have been asked by Jack to do a guest post on his blog whilst he is away.  Jack’s blog is one I look forward to every day. It’s amusing, informative and just so different from many blogs out there.

Let me tell you a bit about me.  I’m a retired Social Work Manager (in the mental health field) and I moved to Turkey from England in 1998 and married my Turkish husband in 1999. We have lived in different areas of Turkey. In fact we have moved 15 times to date.

Glorious Gumusluk

My very first home 13 years ago was in Gümüslük. The peaceful village of Gümüsluk is one of the oldest settlements on the Bodrum peninsula. It stands on the site of the ancient city of Myndos whose seafront sections slid into the sea in some long-forgotten earthquake. We rented the top floor of a two-storey house, which was really a holiday-let and because each room led out to an open terrace, was only really suitable for the summer months. We rented it during the winter because it was cheap and we didn’t have a lot of money.

There was no hot water or heating and I had one saucepan and one gas bottle to cook with. It rained a great deal and poured in through the metal-framed windows, to the extent that one morning we got out of bed and were up to our ankles in water.  We had no mod cons. In the absence of a washing-machine, I washed our clothes in a huge plastic bowl.  No TV, telephone or internet.  Just one very old rusty fridge.

Gumusluk Bay

The setting was wonderful…right in the middle of orange and olive groves, with no neighbours, and was very peaceful.  It’s hard to adapt to such a basic, primitive way of life from the one I had in England but looking back at that time, I realise I learned a lot about myself and how I am capable of far more than I give myself credit for.

We stayed in Gümüslük for 5 months then moved on to Turgutreis and so began my Turkey journey, to places as diverse as Side, Antalya and Cappadocia.  You can read more here.

Ladies and Gents, Please Welcome…

By the time you read this Liam and I will be in Blighty enjoying a welcome respite from the soul sapping humidity. We’re having a two centre summer tour of the Motherland followed by a few days in Bordeaux to celebrate an old friend’s half century. Barbara from Turkish Muse contacted me and a number of other bloggers a while back. She and her husband were off on a romantic visit to Paris to celebrate their anniversary. She asked if we could guest post on her blog while she was being swept off her feet. What a fantastic idea, I thought. So I’m stealing Barbara’s concept.  I’ve invited a select group of jobbing bloggers and loyal pansy fans to write a piece for your delectation. I wrote:

Although my blog is mostly about my life in Turkey with Liam, I often stray onto other topics when the mood takes me. So, I really don’t mind what you write about. It can be about your life as an expat, a social comment or hot topic, your favourite recipe, what you like or dislike about expat life, what you miss/don’t miss about your former life, your favourite photo, your best/worst holiday, where you’d like to visit, even your grandmother’s secrets if you’re in the mood to be racy. Write whatever takes your fancy. It might be a good excuse to write about something new, away from your normal theme. I don’t even mind if it’s long or short. See how easy I am to please?

I’ve got a bumper crop lined up, interrupted by brief despatches of my own from Blighty. Enjoy.

PS. Those of you who know where we live, don’t even think about relieving us of our flatscreen TV and secret stash of mucky DVDs. Our neighbours are back and you know how nosey Turks can be.

Hot and Steamy in Old Bodrum Town

Yankee vetpat Barbara Isenberg dishes out a delicious mix of daily essays, photos and advice on living and travelling in Turkey in her colourful blog Turkish Muse. Barbara is currently celebrating her wedding anniversary with hubby Jeff in gay Paree. To avoid any distractions from their romantic indulgence in the city of lovers she asked me and a number of others to guest post while she’s being swept off her feet. I was delighted to be asked and happy to oblige. It’s an inspired idea and one I might try on our next sojourn to Blighty in August.

My piece describes a naughty night out on the tiles before we migrated to the sun. Picture it – a hot and steamy summer night in old Bodrum Town…

Doldrums in Bodrum

We bloggers are like rats. We get everywhere and Japan is no exception. Charles Ayres writes a deliciously over the top blog called Impossibly Fabulous from the Land of the Rising Sun offering camp agony uncle advice to the bewildered. It helps to keep him sane as an alien in the most homogenised nation on our diverse planet. I am concerned about Liam’s slow but certain slide towards the veil and sought Charles’ insight. These were his thoughts:

Doldrums in Bodrum

January 2015 Update: Unfortunately, Impossibly Fabulous is off the air these days so this link no longer works. 

Incidentally, the word Anatolia derives from the Greek Anatolē which means ‘sunrise’ so Charles and I are both bloggers from the land where the sun rises. A bit silly really as the sun rises everywhere eventually, even in Grey Britain.

Shaken, Not Stirred

In the fine old tradition of ‘you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours’ I’d like to introduce my first guest blogger – clever, courageous Karyn from Kirazli. Vetpat Karyn lives in a traditional Turkish village about 10 kms from Kuşadası. She describes her arcadian idyll as ‘surrounded by flowering fields of cherry trees, figs, vines and olives. The village is a traditional Turkish Koy of narrow twisting streets, stone and whitewashed houses and terracotta roofs. Cooled by fragrant pine scented breezes Kirazli is a world away from the hot and bustling tourist centres of the coastal strip’. Sounds like a lot of old fragrant flannel to me so Liam and I will just have to check it out and dish the dirt. Take a look at Karyn’s own blog Being Koy. It a class act. In the meantime, here’s her provocatively unkoy take on the plight of a woman alone in Turkey. Enjoy.

Karyn

I am immune to the charms of Mediterranean men, I grew up on the Costa Del Sol and after a brief bout at thirteen with the virus that is the Spanish Waiter I developed a life long immunity to all those sons of the southern lands who flash dark eyes and mutter unlikely compliments in clichéd accents.

Of course this doesn’t stop them hitting on me, any time, any place, anywhere; because Turkish men in the tourist resorts are the Martini boys of love.

Hyped up on exaggerated tales told in tea houses across the hinterland through the dark days of winter the men who flock to the resorts for work in the season are brainwashed into believing that western women are not only very rich and bang like barn doors but are blind and have no sense of smell, so even blokes who look like the back end of a goat and smell similar are in with a chance.

Of course there is a grain of hope in their dreaming, and every summer season will throw up a friend of a friend who swept a British woman off her feet in nanoseconds and landed a life of luxury and indolence in return for climbing on top and thinking of Turkey.

This all makes life difficult for me and those of my expat sisters who really aren’t interested; nobody minds a mild flirtation, sexual attraction makes the world go round, but there is a time and a place for everything and the Turkish Lothario has boundary issues.

Top marks for inappropriate timing likely to get you at the very least a broken jaw go to Salatin, a taxi driver with broken English and a manic gleam in his eye. He propositioned me on the drive to the airport when I was flying my husband’s remains home for the funeral. He really wanted a British wife; I really wanted his gonads crushed beneath my boots.

Top marks for seizing the moment go to the Manager of Burger King in Kusadasi who managed to fit a sleazy come on into the two seconds it took me to order a meal. “You want to go large?” he leered at me whilst stroking his groin suggestively. I picked up a limp French fry and peered at it; it drooped pathetically between my fingers. I looked at him; I maintained deadpan eye contact until he withered noticeably and slithered off.

Top marks for trying to cop a feel at any opportunity go to the noxious and extremely short market trader who, when my friend agreed to buy a pair of jeans, showed his delight by grabbing me and rapidly groping all he could reach. A heavy stamp with a finely engineered Kurt Geiger heel onto his bare toes sent him limping away.

It seems the only place to avoid unwelcome advances is my village. Here the older men nod respectfully at me and the young men politely step out of my way with murmured greetings. It couldn’t be any other way in the village, disrespect me and my male neighbours will be compelled to hurt you and my female neighbours, who are infinitely more imaginative, will find ways to make your life a living hell for the next fifty years!

Obviously the only thing they talk about in the tea shops here are how ripe the grapes are, not how ripe are the yabanci women. I am very grateful for that.