So we’re sitting at this lovely couch surfing dinner in Berlin, listening to a charming Irishman (how are they all charming?) tell a hilarious tale of missing his flight to Paris by twelve hours because he didn’t realize the time on his ticket was in the 24 hr clock format, showing up at the airport 10 hours after his flight has left, and as a result ending up going to Amsterdam–although from there the story took a different, but no less charming, turn. La di da. The point is, we all got a good guffaw out of the fact that this silly Irish bastard can’t read time.
Fast forward one week. Jess and I check and double-check our little flight print out. We know exactly when we’re leaving Berlin, and as a result , show up at the ghetto airport for our ghetto flight a very responsible 2.5 hours early. What good little American tourists! Oddly enough though, our flight number isn’t on the little board. Huh, we said. Remember that charming Irishman? And his charming little story? Balls. And that’s how we ended up seeing Heath Ledgers very strange last film. And possibly how I ended up drinking a Long Island Iced Tea at a bar in a mall , which is pretty much the classiest thing it is possible to do on a Wednesday.
So we arrived in Turkey, slightly late, and still slightly confused by Heath Ledger’s movie. Since then we’ve proceeded to eat way too many kebabs (me) and way too much baklava (Jess), stay up past my bedtime on numerous occasions, been asked where we’re from 23958367 times, gotten lost in a bazar one time (although Jess claims she ‘always knew exactly where we were’), and went to a night club where I began to realize the full extent of my residual Cameroonian rage when I starting throwing elbows at the rather insistent Turkish man dancing behind me. Although I maintain that that is the appropriate response.
Oh, and lest I forget the highlight of the trip thus far…Jess really wanted to see belly dancing so, in spite of being informed that we could see better dancing by watching ‘Turkish college girls who’ve had a few dance on their own bar stools’, we paid way too much to be shuttled to an ‘authentic’ show–pleasantly located in what appeared to be a turkish strip mall–and watched women who are clearly experienced in several ‘kinds’ of dance perform. And we got to eat mediocre chicken! The evening was capped off when we were invited on stage to ‘wash the chosen harem slave’ before she could be presented to the awkwardly endearing ‘Sultan of the Night’–otherwise known as the Japanese guy from table 4. It was the best $50 I’ve ever spent. And we got a ride home! The bus left just as they were turning off the lights on the sign that read ‘Authentic Turkish Belly Dancing Nights!’ and turning on the lights that said ‘Regina Review Crazy Horse Night Club’.
Tonight, it’s the bus to Bodrum, which–like the rest of Europe–is apparently just lovely in the summer time.