Our house is located on an old narrow street furnished with intermittent pavements. The street traverses the old town and is part of the busy one way system. By day pedestrian passage is a testing experience. At particularly narrow sections, unsuspecting tourists find themselves pinned up against a wall clinging for dear life as overladen trucks thunder past at impatient speed. By night the street is transformed into a pale imitation of the Monaco Grand Prix circuit as suicidal biker boys race flashy fast cars and each other in reckless abandon. Death and permanent disability lurk at every tight twist of the ancient road.
Category: Turkish Men
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…
Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?
Our neighbours, Beril and Vadim row a lot in a very Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? kind of way. Evidently, she is highly strung and screams at him at full volume. He rarely responds in kind. I think he knows that she is the kind of girl who might wield a carving knife if provoked. She’s always very sweet and giggly with us though and pops across the courtyard with plates of delicious home made morsels from her kitchen.
Mobiles and Megaphones
A short and narrow lane runs along the side of our new house leading to a modest block of flats rented out to itinerant workers. Judging by the constant throng of virile young men who pass to and fro, the building is either the TARDIS in disguise or these poor boys are topping and tailing in sardine shifts. Understandably, such enforced intimacy presents privacy problems. My enjoyment of the latest edge of seat clinical dilemma in Casualty (or Doctors or Holby City) is regularly and loudly interrupted by a Kurd bellowing down his mobile phone outside our window. Anatolians use their mobiles like megaphones. When our new neighbour, bubbly Beril, talks to her friends she doesn’t really need to use her phone as they can hear her in Ankara without it.
Drums and Drugs
We now have neighbours. Our house is one of two on a single plot with a shared gated entrance and garden. We’d rather hoped the other house would stay vacant. It was not to be. We dreaded being saddled with a couple of old reactionaries; all head scarves, clashing florals and disapproving looks. We’re mightily relieved that Vadim and Beril are delightful arty types from Ankara. Vadim plays the bongos (or whatever the Turkish equivalent is) with talented gusto and Beril looks like she dropped too much acid in the Sixties. We engage in lots of pointing and demented waving of hands. They hardly speak a word of English and, of course, our grasp of Turkish remains lamentably poor. We’ve agreed to have a dictionary do over a bottle or three to exchange random words just for the hell of it. The ruder the better, I hope.
Water, Water Everywhere and Not a Drop to Drink
We popped out into town for an americano in Kahve Dünyası, a top notch place to sip coffee and people watch. It’s located at the end of the small arcade of up-market shops along the promenade close to Bodrum marina. The coffee arrives with a chocolate tea spoon – for eating not for stirring. Although it’s a chain, Kahve Dünyası provides a superior brew to the Starbucks close by.
We sauntered back along the promenade replenished by the caffeine and the warming spring sunshine. Our upbeat mood plummeted when we walked into our house. The newly refitted kitchen had been transformed into a shallow paddling pool. Fortunately, the room is set slightly below the rest of the house and a step dammed the flood. The qualified water technician recommended by our landlady had poorly fitted a dodgy T junction which had cracked. We spent the evening mopping up the deluge. The next day we hurried down to Koçtaş to buy a replacement fitting and a wrench. Hey presto, now I’m a qualified water technician.
Any Port in a Storm
Bodrum is getting busier by the day as the town warms up with the weather. Works continues apace to complete the classy new streetscape before the summer rush. Contrary to my initial cynicism, a spacious new civic square is being laid out along the bar street rat run revealing a spectacular view of the crusader castle. It will be a place of sanctuary from the relentless hassle to come from the imported hawkers with their spring-loaded libidos. Whole villages in the East are being drained of their young men as they start their annual migration in search of casual employment and easy lays. We have a bird’s eye view of the caravan of young totty as they scamper past the house dragging their humble belongings behind them. The testosterone is palpable.
Rogue Traders
We refreshed the kitchen by hiring our very own Handy Hassan who did a lovely job with his magnificent power tools. He came highly recommended. Regrettably, his armpits were also in dire need of some refreshment. Smelly Hassan aside, our experience of Turkish workmen has so far been mixed. It seems all Turkish workers can turn their amateur hands to any job. Everyone is a master electrician/plumber/builder/plasterer/tiler/painter/architect/lover (delete according to need). Alas a jack of all trades is usually a master of none and the maxim is no better proven than in Turkey.
If At First You Don’t Succeed
Moving day arrived. We watched in amusement as the large removal van valiantly struggled to reverse up the steep road that leads to Tepe Houses. If at first you don’t succeed try, try again. And try, try our brave boys did. An hour of fevered debate, frantic gesticulation and trial and ample error later, the van finally made it onto the flat. Guided by four rowdy lads competing for attention the van gingerly manoeuvred backwards along the narrow access lane. Alas, a sharp bend was a bridge too far and the van became stubbornly stuck 50 metres from the house. Undeterred, our sweaty removers professionally stripped our house in record time, re-flatpacking our IKEA furniture, hand wrapping our knick-knacks and covering our delicates in protective blankets. The sight of a slight built young man hauling our fridge-freezer strapped to his back left us speechless. He returned to collect the washing machine. He’ll probably be crippled by the time he’s 40.
We moved from room to room saying our goodbyes in time honoured fashion and closed the door on Tepe House for the last time. Tariq the Toothed caretaker turned up to say farewell. He delivered one of his now infamous rib crushing bear hugs, picked me up and twirled me around. I swear I spotted a small tear in the corner of his eye.
Love Seats and Leather Slings
We had a German in order to install lights and a put up a few pictures. I could have done it myself but we just don’t have the right equipment. My little girly cordless drill doesn’t leave even the smallest dent in the thick stone and concrete walls. The German is an interesting chap. Stocky and bald he wouldn’t look out of place in XXL (The huge London gay club for fat boys and chubby chasers). Even though he bats on the majority team he told us about his ménage à trois with his best (male) friend and the friend’s (female) partner. He didn’t elaborate on who did what to whom but there was no penetration involved, apparently. This information was volunteered with absolutely no prompting from me. As he screwed our pan rack to the kitchen ceiling he mentioned that he once constructed a love seat in his bedroom to spice up the sex life with the missus. I’ve seen a leather sling or two in my time, but I’m not too familiar with the love seat concept. Whatever it is it didn’t work. They’re now divorced.
Perking the Pansies 