Category: Shopping

Cheaper than Primark

Aromatic Heaven

We sought provisions in the Thursday pazar. Split into two, edibles and non-edibles, the market is a splendid melting pot of punters, peasants, spivs, hawkers and pick pockets. Bazaars are big business and the whole enterprise is a travelling circus with stall holders moving from town to town each day. The edible section is a pot pourri for the senses – great quality fresh fruit and veg, aromatic herbs and spices, exotic dairy produce, the odd chicken in a cage and the usual selection of Turkish delight. Prices are cheap.

The non-edible bit is less agreeable: stall after stall of tatty household and electrical goods without a kite mark between them, poor quality fake designer wear, overpriced linens and the hard sell carpet traders. We are pestered with ‘Hello Jimmy’ and ‘Cheaper than Primark.’ Of course, the answer to the latter proclamation is that nothing is cheaper than Primark.

Nick It!

Casual shopping in Turkey can be a bruising experience and should only be tried by the determined or the thick skinned. The cheaper outlets employ aggressive teenagers in tight, bright, white shirts to drag gullible punters in from the street. A firm refusal can often elicit a bellicose response. The posher shops seem to employ mostly female staff whose sales technique is softer but no less annoying. Speculative browsing is unbearable when tailed by the KGB and made to feel like a serial shoplifter.

I know customer service is all part of the culture but pushy people bring out the worst in me. Besides, recession ravaged Blighty has seen prices plummet with bargains galore and meaningful guarantees attached. We’ll be returning to London  with an empty suitcase.

Cappuccinos and Rent Boys

IzmirOur hotel is equidistant between the city centre proper and a trendy, Sohoesque district called Alsancak. No one would describe Izmir as beautiful. Much of it was burned to the ground in 1922 during the Greco-Turkish War, and the city was unsympathically rebuilt with block upon block of mediocre concrete box architecture that surely wouldn’t withstand even the slightest tremor. However, the place does have a certain appeal and Alsancak, in particular, has a real buzz, all trendy shops and pavement cafés.
We decided on a trip to the Roman agora, the largest market place ever excavated from the period. We strolled through the modern pazar and delighted in confounding the catcalling hawkers by responding in German, French, Spanish, and a little Turkish, anything but English. We found the agora remains on the wrong side of the tracks and gazed through the railings. Having been spoilt by the glory of Ephesus, I’m afraid an enormous hole on the ground with a few old stones randomly scattered about looking like London after the Blitz really didn’t impress. We didn’t bother going in.

Alsancak is where the few gay bars are to be found. We had done our internet research and went in pursuit of the twilight world of Turkish deviants. It was hopeless. We found only one dismal little bar down some dark alley. It was a tawdry, dirty dive, virtually empty and pounded by deafening techno. The drinks were absurdly expensive and even the ‘free’ bar snacks came at a price with a specially prepared bill. The bar staff were so bored they poured alcohol on the bar and set it alight for a laugh. Taking a leak was a surreal experience as the entrance to the toilet was guarded by a head-scarfed granny in pantaloons demanding a lira to spend a penny. The few punters were rough rent boys in cheap shell suits looking for punters of their own. As they began to circle us like a pack of hyenas, we knew it was time to leave. We sprinted to the entrance fully expecting it to be locked. Thankfully, it wasn’t. That was Izmir.

Climb Every Mountain

Our IKEA delivery arrived. Incredibly, the van managed to scale the north face of Mount Tepe, the crumbling, virtually vertical, concrete access road that leads to our new home. Ascension requires an ultra-low gear, decent tyres and nerves of steel. Out of the van leapt half a dozen men who swung into action, unloading, unpacking and assembling. Five or so hours on, our IKEA room sets are ready to be dressed and accessorised. We will move in tomorrow. Fabulous!

Are You Being Served?

Despite our genuine fear of death or permanent disability, we left for Izmir at first light, driving by hire car due east to Milas, the next sizeable town from Bodrum. From the outskirts, Milas seems to have little to commend it; a nondescript minor provincial town of concrete awfulness. We swung north inland. Ascending into the hills (well, mountains by British standards) we passed alongside Lake Bafa, a stunning expanse of water that reminded Liam of the Italian lakes. Reaching a high plateau, we stopped off near Soke at a long row of giant discount outlet stores built in the middle of nowhere. We breakfasted in McDonald’s: a fondness for egg mcmuffins is a guilty secret of ours. Replete with 50% of our daily allowance of saturated fat, we continued onwards towards Izmir. We hit the toll motorway near Aydin which came as something of a relief. Neat, newly constructed and four lanes wide, it wouldn’t look out of place in Germany. As we descended from the plain back towards the coast, Izmir stretched out impressively before us.

Izmir’s IKEA is located in suburban Bornova, adjacent to a smart shopping centre. We had already pre-selected our major items by thumbing through the catalogue and ambling around the Edmonton branch in London, so I asked a nice young man if there was anyone available to help us. He duly obliged and presented us with our very own personal shopper to guide us around the store. We simply pointed at items indicating “one of those, two of these” and she did the rest, checking stock levels and suggesting alternatives as needed. I felt like a Harvey Nicks celeb and loved it. Liam, on the other hand, found the whole exercise rather unsettling. I’m very much a smash and grab shopper, whereas he’s more of a grazer and likes to take his time, lots of it. We had a bit of a row; our first in Asia. He eventually tolerated the experience with sullen resignation.

After we concluded our business, we took tea in the restaurant and went to accessorise in the market place. The genius of IKEA is the canny strategy of pricing so much so low as to seduce shoppers into buying things they don’t know they want and probably don’t need. Naturally, we complied like proverbial sheep. Two trolley loads later, we sauntered towards the tills. There waiting was a trolley train assembled on our behalf by half a dozen co-workers (as IKEA likes to call its shop assistants), all arranged by our efficient personal shopper. The same brigade of eager workers then packed our market place goodies and wheeled the whole lot to the home delivery desk. I was staggered. What an experience: inconceivable back home where IKEA has taken self-service to an entirely new level of indifference.

Darkness had fallen by the time we left the store, and we were in urgent need of somewhere to bed down for the night. The thought of driving through the bustling city centre during the rush hour terrified us, and so we headed out towards the airport. I thought it reasonable to assume that the international airport of Turkey’s third city would be ringed by hotels. Not a bit of it. The entire vicinity is devoid of inns. As time had marched on and we had grown weary, I suggested a diversion to nearby Selçuk, a small town south of the airport. I had a vague recollection of a decent hotel from a previous visit. We were decidedly relieved to learn that my powers of recall were still in reasonable working order and that the hotel was open for business so late in the season. The Kalehan Hotel is found on the main road into town nestling beneath the citadel. It is a bit of a treasure crammed with gorgeous Ottoman-style antiques and bric-a-brac. Though a little tatty around the edges, it was, nevertheless, a clean, reasonably priced and comfortable place to stay. The breakfast, though, was inedible.

DFS on LSD


We’ve acquired a ludicrously large house with little to fill it with. Local stores are either indescribably awful (think DFS on LSD) or outrageously expensive (or both), so we settled on IKEA, the store of choice for the middle class poor everywhere. It is comforting to know that the IKEA formula, like McDonald’s, is so dependably familiar whether in Bournemouth or Beijing. However, the idea of an eight hour round trip to the nearest store in Izmir fills us with dread, but loins girded, we have stoically resolved to go forth in search of flat pack paradise.