Las Vegas-on-Sea

Vinnie in the Foliage

After a hearty brunch, Nick decided to initiate us into the ancient Ionian ritual of bush bashing to bring down the olive crop, a technique that has remained unaltered for countless millennia. Liam took to thrashing  a cane with great gusto donning a fetching floral headscarf for the occasion. I withdrew to the foliage to keep Vinnie company. Vinnie was distinctly nonplussed by all the fuss and took refuge in a sunny spot.

Next on the packed agenda was a whistle-stop tour of the dubious daytime delights of Kuşadası, the Aegean gateway to the splendours of some of Asia Minor’s best preserved historical sites. Having read the ‘Rough Guide’ which uncompromisingly describes the resort as “a brash, mercenary and unpleasant Las Vegas-on-Sea…” my expectations were rock bottom. In fact, I thought the epitaph more than a little harsh. The town is a touch rough around some of its sprawling edges and not as classically attractive as Bodrum, but it does convey a vital urban buzz which I found appealing. I was unpredictably impressed by the busy throng of real people, the boulevards of real shops and the sprinkling of smart bistros. And Kuşadası does provide one important facility that sets it above the rest – a proper, bone fide gay bar that entices an eclectic mix of trannies, dancing queens, sugar daddies, gays for pay, hairy marys and the odd bemused bi-curious northerner in search of furtive titillation.

Sunset Behind the Marina

We stopped off for coffee at a trendy café along the neat promenade and watched the sun set over the marina. We contemplated the stark contrast to our cute but comatosed little town of Yalıkavak where nights are spent holding hands and contacting the living. Where’s Doris Stokes when you need her?

Karyn dished up a gastronomic triumph for the evening’s victuals, serving duck terrine which she fretted over all week according to ‘The Competitive World of Expat Cooking‘. She needn’t have worried. The reclaimed brick had done the trick, and the terrine was superb. Karyn invited a few old fairy friends along for the slicing ceremony. We were particularly amused by senior citizen, Peter, a dedicated Friend of Dorothy and philanderer extraordinaire who is an accomplished, competitive cook and keeps a Turk in the basement for afters.

The next day we took homespun kahvaltı in the local soba-warmed lokanta, escaping the crisp mountain air. Popular with both the Chelsea tractor brigade and villagers alike, the rustic eatery served up a plentiful plate of traditional fare. We hit the road after breakfast, waving farewell to our generous comperes and their tender menagerie. I had utterly enjoyed sparring with an intellectual thoroughbred. We shall return.

Boutique Living in the Heart of Ionia

The Artist's House

Charismatic Vetpat and ex-biker babe, Kirazli Karyn, has fashioned a unique Anatolian Arcadia at the beating heart of old Ionia. Authentic thick stone walls embrace chic but unpretentious modern living within a neo-biblical eco-setting. The enchanting private courtyard garden comes with a pretty plunge pool and a handy vaulted roof extension for flexible hire. Karyn began her bold and ambitious build with her late husband, Phil. Tragically, Phil died before the dream was realised though his signature is inscribed on every stone. Karyn’s heartbreak adds to the poignant poetry of their beguiling labour of love.

Karyn and instantly likeable, soulful Nick were warm and liberal hosts. I sensed wise young owls of depth and sincerity. Unlike the Bodrum ‘Come Dine with Me‘ set, Karyn’s scrumptious spreads require no fuss or fanfare to big them up. We effortlessly nattered for endless hours as if we were rediscovered old friends lamenting lost years. I completely forgot about my cunning stunt to sabotage my superior rival. I was far too busy gassing and guzzling.

Poisoned by the Pansies

I was casually surfing around Perking the Pansies. I often review older posts and add a word here, change a word there. I do it purely out of personal pickiness as once a post is read it’s dead. I clicked on the ‘Go! Overseas’ badge and, to my horror, found ‘Being Koy’ top of the blogs in their Turkey chart. ‘Perking’ is inexplicably second. Enraged by irrational envy, I hatched a dastardly plot to knock ‘Being Koy’ off the top spot by fair means or foul. Veteran author Kirazli Köy Karyn and I correspond regularly and have made a guest appearance on each other’s blog. Keep your friends close but keep your rivals closer, I say.

Lulling Karyn into a false sense of security with phoney flattery, she was cleverly duped into inviting us to stay for the weekend. This was to be my one chance to dis the idyll, spike Karyn’s cocoa and ‘accidently’ spill my wine into her laptop. Just a dribble though; I am not one to waste even a poor vintage.

Saddled with yet another underperforming hire car, we set out at first light taking the usual Izmir route past dreary Milas, sweeping along the shores of the perpetually pretty Lake Bafa and descending into the Meander basin towards Söke. After a naughty McDonald’s burger break, we pushed on to agro-town, Ortaklar, where we took the Selçuk road. Leaving the impressively dull agrarian plain behind, we climbed into verdant Tuscanesque hills replenished by the recent rains. As we snaked through the forested slopes my resolve to nobble began to wither. Perhaps this is the Eden that Karyn exalts.

Kirazli Eco-Koy

We rendezvoused with our host on the wrong side of the railway tracks in Çamlık. Karyn shepherded us into the hills along an uncharted way towards her high hamlet where I expected the men to be men and the goats to be nervous. Nestling in a natural caldron, Kirazli is a visual treat of higgledy-piggledy dwellings with pitched terracotta roofs and gently billowing chimney stacks that warm the cool air with aromatic wood smoke. I’m afraid to admit that this particular working köy does exactly what it says on the tin.

Nick Nack Paddy Wack

Ingrid in a Funny Hat

We had a late lunch, curled up on the sofa and watched ‘Inn of the Sixth Happiness’ starring the legendary Ingrid Bergman. Casting a tall, ravishing actress with a Swedish accent in the role of a short, Cockney, puritanical protestant missionary inflicting her version of God on the Chinese masses was a bit of a stretch. The film was shot in Snowdonia with the children drawn from the Chinese community in Liverpool. Nonetheless it’s a ripping yarn. Why ruin a good story with the truth?

Come Dine with Me

Come Dine with MeFor better or for worse we have become part-time curios on the crème de la crème dinner party circuit adding exotic seasoning to various pretentious repasts. It’s all very Come Dine with Me and the competition is frightfully fierce. We attended a meal at Chrissy and Bernard’s imposing pile in Torba.

Around the fussily arranged table, we met vetpat Viv from Dereköy. Impeccably turned out, fifty something Viv is elegantly statuesque but struggles to raise her slender forearms due to the weight of clanging bangles. In bygone days she owned a Battersea bistro with her ex-husband until the day she found him in flagrante with the pastry delivery boy. She never suspected that her ex batted on both sides of the net though his treasured collection of classic Judy Garland vinyls was a bit of a clue.

Viv has since carved out a prolific career as a serial VOMIT hopping on top of one Anatolian after another. The boys get younger as she gets older. Despite the predictable pattern of broken heart and emptied purse, she remains irrepressibly upbeat about her lot. We make attentive listeners to assorted emigrey tales. The complement is rarely reciprocated. Do I have agony aunt tattooed across my forehead?

At the close of play Viv gave us a lift home taking the back road to evade the Jandarma. Naturally, we small-talked about the evening along the way. I commented how appetising the food had been. ‘The rice was cold’ came Viv’s withering verdict. We are not confident cooks and have no intention of being subjected to microscopic scrutiny from the affected. The most anyone can expect from us is a bottomless cellar and a few savoury nibbles.

Pansy Pioneers

We semi-addressed the great heating debate with the procurement of an ugly infrared monster heater on a tripod,  colour-matched to the drawing room décor. There is much discussion about the effectiveness and cost of running such a unit. I don’t care. My feet are warm for the first time in weeks. Besides, they were flying off the shelves. As they say, when in Rome…

It’s a lazy day of pottering and laundering in brilliant, blinding sunshine. I’m cautioned that exposing our damp pants to passing locals is considered very poor taste. I’ve no wish to unwittingly offend but nor do I desire to display dripping knickers about the place like an exhibit from Tate Modern. In any case, passing traffic is rare and effective interior drying is all but impossible in a stubbornly nippy, nipple hardening abode. Daintily scented linens with real feel appeal turn to a stale musk and contribute to the inevitable condensation crisis we all endure during the mould season. In a determined effort to show uncharacteristic cultural sensitivity and to avoid inflaming Tariq the Toothless Caretaker’s bubbling ardour, I stealthily hung out our genuine designer pants in a neat row sandwiched between a t-shirt and a pillow case. Sorted.

While the undies were happily flapping away in the wind, the main fusebox switch tripped and resolutely refused to be reset. Clearly, the underpowered circuit designed only to run a couple of light bulbs struggles to cope with all our decadent fancy electricals. It was a relief that after a few anxious attempts power was restored. Such is the leisurely life of a pansy pioneer in the Wild East.

Jac the Fucing Felon

I’m having a bit of bother with my full size eyboard. One of the characters, the ey between J and L, only works when it can be arsed. It serves me right I suppose. I purloined the delinquent eyboard when I was helping young offenders and petty theft shouldn’t pay after all. I could buy a Turish eyboard but all those unfamiliar extra characters in strange positions would mean unlearning decades of appalling typing. This old dog can’t learn new trics.

I’ll buy a substitute on the next trip to Blighty for my Mother’s 80th birthday grand gala in March. Meanwhile, I am left to compose my latest masterpost by hunching uncomfortably over the undersized laptop keypad designed for infant digits, unnaturally contort my sagging upper torso and aggravate the repetitive strain injury that I painfully acquired during many arduous years of unsung but heroic public service.

Say What You See

To some, my words may sometimes appear harsh and uncharitable. This is not my intention. My fervent belief is that I raise a satirical mirror to the myriad of expats we’ve encountered. Sometimes the reflection is funny, sometimes it’s sad, and sometimes it’s plain ugly. To coin Roy Walker’s words from Catchphrase, that dreadful but compulsive Sunday night game show from the last millennium, ‘Say what you see’ and that’s what I do. What I don’t do is betray a confidence or invent for effect. What is written is either already in the public domain or has been said publicly. People damn themselves with their own words. I do express opinions. I have lots of them, but I do not set myself up as the perfect paragon of virtue. Far from it. I am as flawed as the rest.

I’m not at all sure why anyone is remotely interested in the waspish ramblings of an ex-pretty boy whose function in life used to be purely decorative, but it seems that my blog has struck a melodious chord with many. I am truly heartened by the numerous messages of support I have received and amazed that Perking the Pansies has received well over 25,000 hits since it was launched less than four months ago. I don’t know how long it will continue. I don’t want to flog the blog it to death like a sad sitcom well passed its sell-by date. Maybe I will just tire of it or maybe my ratings will drop to point where I am simply talking to myself. Inşallah.

The Seduction of Young Jack

We decided on a short overnighter to Marmaris as a break from our Hollywood nights. The drive was most enjoyable as the shrubby scrub and Cadbury’s crunchie-coloured rock typical of the Bodrum Peninsula gave way to dense, fragrant pine-forested hills. We stopped off for sustenance in Akyaka, a pleasant little resort purpose built in pretty, low-rise, faux Ottoman style situated at the far end of the Gulf of Gökova.

Cleopatra’s Island

Over lunch, I romantically reminisced about my first visit to the town on my first visit to Turkey, lodging in a modest whitewashed villa adjacent to the tiny hamlet of Taşbükü on the Datça Peninsula about a 30 minute drive from Marmaris.  We wallowed in rapture for two weeks, bathed in the gulf of shimmering turquoise, breakfasted in the tumble-down amphitheatre on Cleopatra’s Island (Sedir Island) and star gazed on cheap plonk.  I was gently seduced and thus started an unlikely chain of events leading me to the here and now.

Chock-a-Block Beach

Back on the road, we dropped into Marmaris by mid-afternoon. Despite ruinous, rampant overdevelopment, Marmaris retains some charm due to the splendid position of the castled old town at the foot of a steep-walled, almost fully enclosing wooded bay. The town must have once been magical before the advent of mass tourism and the single-minded pursuit of hard currency. We sank a few Efes by the water’s edge, slept in a modest inn with lokanta attached and returned home early the next morning. The journey was more satisfying than the destination, and we were glad of the validation that we had chosen our home in Bodrum well.

Shall We Dance?

I was minding my own business supping my morning brew when Tariq the Toothless Caretaker appeared with mail in hand. He hurdled enthusiastically onto the patio, delivered a masterful, rib-crushing bear hug, raised me up with indecent ease with his huge, rough shovel hands and twirled me around like a floppy rag doll. I had not the strength to resist. Methinks he likes me. A much amused Liam gave Tariq a round of applause and a fag for his commanding performance. How they laughed as I withdrew to my boudoir to check for bruises.