Cut Glass

Umm?

The mercury has risen. Summer is suddenly slapping us about the face like a sweaty flannel and the pansies are wilting.  We took a stroll in the blazing sunshine along the refurbished promenade for a spot of lunch by the breezy harbourside. The Town is looking splendid, dressed in brand new quality livery. A new avenue of elegant adolescent saplings has been planted rising above a riot of red bedding flowers. The municipal gardeners should be proud of their speed and skill.

We took a seat at a waterside café near Castle Square to quench our thirsts. We sniggered like spotty school boys when the waiter placed the glasses on the table. They reminded us of something but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

Separating the Wheat from the Chavs

Released from the bonds of vacuous acquaintance we’ve separated the wheat from the chavs, emigrey-wise. Pretentiousness and reinvention is something of a lifestyle choice for many. I’m surprised our hosts indulge it with such good humour. I guess it helps to keep the economy turning, particularly during the lean months. Dyed-in-the-wool conservatism (both with a large and a small C) is unsurprising since the majority of emigreys tend to be a generation above us. Even so, the moral absolutism from the binge whingers is hard to stomach and the irony of widespread, thinly disguised racism and xenophobia is lost on most.

American Idol

A pansy flasher from Los Angeles prompted me to do a bit of digging about and I think I’ve just exceeded my 15,000th American hit. I can’t be completely certain as WordPress doesn’t  do geographical stats so I cobbled the figures together from other sources. However, what is clear is that around a fifth of pansy fans now come from across the pond. I’m at a complete loss as to why this is. Perking the Pansies is about expat life in a faraway land written in a peculiarly British camp Carry On style with a side of extra bite. I never imagined my irreverent drivel would appeal to our Yankee cousins who’ve developed a different brand of humour since independence. I hoped I might capture a few punters in New York and San Francisco but it seems that the pansies have penetrated every single state in the Union. I feel like a minor American Idol.

Talking of the City of Angels, I have many fun memories of my whirlwind tour of southern California way back in 1991. I was rendered speechless by the sheer scale of the larger than life city, fell head over heels for the charm of Laguna Beach, got gloriously drenched at SeaWorld*, screamed like a girl at Disneyland, leered lasciviously at the muscle marys  pumping iron on Venice Beach and laughed out loud at the absurdity of Palm Springs. The final part of my all too brief break saw me tripping the light fantastic in seedy West Hollywood, epicentre of gay life in LA LA Land. I lodged at the San Vincente Inn, a delightful gay hotel back in the day. Alas it now appears the place has degenerated into a cesspit of shameless debauchery.  None of that happened to me, more’s the pity.

*I don’t really approve of performing animals these days even when it’s done which such care as is the case with SeaWorld.

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Fancy a Ride?

Cappuccinos and Rent Boys

My Delinquent Toenail

Ouch

My delinquent toe nail finally snapped off after a few days flapping about in the wind and snagging on the mozzie net. I’ve always been careless with stairs. I think it’s my stumpy size five feet. If I were a drag queen I would have no problem finding a high heel to slip into. Statistically, stairs are the most dangerous part of any house. In fact they are one of the most hazardous environments anywhere and second only to Libya and Afghanistan.

Fancy a Ride?

We invited Bodrum Belle Jessica over for supper. Jessica is a fine and elegant lady of a certain age and happy disposition. We had a thoroughly enjoyable evening of fun and fare after which Liam offered to escort our graceful guest home, a distance of only a few hundred metres. As he returned to the house Liam noticed a blacked out Range Rover slowly cruise past and stop just ahead of him. Liam walked past the mysterious car. The car drove off slowly and stopped again. This game of cat and mouse continued three or four times. Liam passed by a final time. The driver’s window descended and a middle aged Turkish man with grey hair and a bushy tash asked ‘Would you like to drive somewhere?’ A startled Liam declined his kind but misguided offer. The car drove off at speed leaving a cloud of dust in its wake, presumably towards the windswept promontory between Bodrum and Gümbet where curious men go at night. When Liam got home he relayed his stalker tale with a boastful flourish thinking he’d still got it whatever it is. Next time Jessica comes to dinner I’ll escort her home.

Road Runner Writing

Although I get a buzz from it, this blogging lark is a cumbersome business that requires dedication, stamina and forethought. In order to preserve an independent life away from the keyboard, I write fast and frequently.  After all, we migrated to rest our weary bones not to develop a repetitive strain injury (actually I’ve got that already which is why I use a full size keyboard and an odd looking roller mouse thingy).

The trouble with the Road Runner approach to my minor art is the inevitability of typos, grammar errors and daft gaffes when I speed write or replace a word and don’t recheck the sentence. Changing a positive to a negative can have a devastating effect on the meaning and get me into hot water. Added to this I become word blind and simply don’t see the clangers staring me in the face. Spell checkers help a bit though WordPress employs American spellings that just get in the way. Liam does his best to proof read my posts but he isn’t always on hand to slap my injured wrist.

I beg your indulgence for my slipshod style. God help me for the book.

To Comment or Not to Comment, That is the Question

I recently followed a heated debate on the Turkish Living Forum in response to an article in the Guardian called Turkey is not a free country. The predicable salvos from unbending minds ensued – I think this, you think that and never the twain shall meet. It’s a futile exercise in grand standing and the usual stuff of forums. I rarely comment on the rhetoric. I moved to Turkey to keep control of my blood pressure, not to see it go into orbit. However, one particularly rigid point of view really got me thinking. One of the combatants declared with absolute righteousness that foreigners who live in Turkey do not have the right to criticise their foster land. Is this right, I wondered? The more I thought about it the less clear-cut my own view became.

To some extent, I found myself in agreement with his statement. Whinging is a peculiarly British national pastime. It must be frustrating and irritating for Turks to endure the endless whining of the bar room bores. After all, if you choose to live in a different country you need to accept that it’s different. We Brits are the first to complain when immigrants to the UK refuse to learn the language or make no attempt to integrate. Sound familiar? It should do. This is the everyday practice of many expats in Turkey (or Spain or Portugal or any other destination of choice for north Europeans wishing to live out their dotage in the sun). Too few venture out of their whitewashed ghettos to sample the real Turkish delight. Frankly, I’m surprised that our hosts are as tolerant as they are.

There is another side to the argument of course. Turkey has actively encouraged foreigners to invest and settle here. With this comes a responsibility to give non-nationals a voice about the issues that matter most to them. It won’t wash to say ‘thanks awfully for the cash but put up and shut up.’ We are supposed to be living in a democracy.  All the money Liam and I spend goes into the local economy. As consumers of goods and services we have the right to complain when they’re not up to scratch. Who pays the piper calls the tune, I say. At least that’s the way it’s supposed to work. We do the right thing and pay our dues to the Government to be bone fide residents We have tax numbers and the income from our capital is taxed at source, all adding to State coffers. Given the size of the black economy this can’t always be said of all Turks. We cannot vote, of course, but does this mean that we can’t hold a view on the political process? After all, wherever we live, what the Government does affects us too.

I think we need a more balanced approach. It’s immature and insecure to suggest that foreigners cannot express a contrary opinion, even a mildly critical one, but we foreigners have a responsibility to ensure that what we say is reasonable and culturally sensitive. After all, we can always get out of the kitchen if we can’t stand the heat. There are taboo subjects best avoided by everyone of course, Turks and foreign residents alike. Now that’s another story.

On Your Marks…

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.

Jack the Hobbling Goblin

I had a little accident. I was running up the stairs and my flip-flop caught on the underside of one of the steps. My toenail lifted up like a flip top bin. My ashen face gave the pain away and Liam Nightingale tendered my wound attentively. This was proof if proof were needed that I must stop running around the place like a teenager and show a little more respect for my age. My hobbling demeanour has driven home the point. The timing was lousy as we were due to lunch with friends at La Passion, a delightful little Spanish restaurant providing a delicious three course set lunch menu for a fiver. We are regulars. At that price, it would be churlish to deny them our custom. After a decent period of recovery and with my toe bandaged, we made lunch, albeit late.

Bodrum, A Town of Two Halves

We fancied a few bevvies in the sunshine to talk the afternoon away. Bodrum is a town of two halves divided by the castle. Like London the east end is the rougher, dominated by Bar Street, a procession of cheap and cheerful bars and hassle shops patronised by the foreign tourists who either board in that part of the town or have ventured in from Gümbet. The west end is swanky and obscenely expensive. The exemplar bar is Fink a lavish watering hole dominated by an enormous overhanging sparkly red chandelier suspended from a graceful arched crane. The elegantly carved gate is guarded by a platoon of huge, brooding bouncers. Only the moneyed sort gain entrance. The bar is set above the street enabling the seriously loaded to look down on the plebeians passing by below.

I Fink It’s Fantastic

We prefer the east end by day where totty watching is more fruitful and the drink prices more palatable. We generally frequent Café S Bar, an unrefined little watering hole opposite the town beach. A rainbow flag hangs proudly alongside the ubiquitous Cross of St George, Cross of St Andrew, Irish tricolour and Welsh Dragon. Everyone’s welcome regardless. You may be lucky to watch the owner, Ozzie, strip down to his tight trunks and dive into the shallow waters, weapon in hand, looking to spear the catch of the day. I’m not sure if this is a serious expedition or just done to impress the girls and some of the boys. It certainly impresses me. Unlike the bar, the toilets can be dry so a number two is not recommended.