Everything Turkey had to offer, and more.

So, we have just returned from three weeks, yes whole three weeks, family vacation in Turkey.

I know. You are probably jealous, and is okay, under the Covid induced circumstances, a certain degree of unhealthy jealousy is perfectly acceptable. We were very fortunate to have been able to go, and most importantly, return in one piece. 

I have not been in Turkey for many years. Even when my mother and I were trying to find somewhere to meet up firs time after Covid lockdowns, and ended up in Georgia; she had at first suggested Turkey, as she fancied to go there for a while. But for me, somehow, it was not on the priority destination list. The reason is, I guess, is that I don’t find Turkey different enough from Azerbaijan. To me, there are too many cultural and culinary similarities, and going there was not sort of exotic enough, that’s probably how I would explain my reluctance to spend my precious annual leave days on Turkey.

But, since every country nowadays has a Covid color list, and, “coincidentally on purpose”, they don’t coincide, i.e. even if some nice holiday destination is green on Qatar list, it does not mean Qatar is green on theirs. So, you are welcome to go there, but you are not really welcome there. In the end, with not that many options, and most importantly, with a very generous offer from my cousin to stay at their fabulous duplex apartment in the middle of this cutest ever seaside town, I thought, fine. Let’s do Turkey. And then my mother could join us too, and finally spend some time with the grandkids.

It was an interesting vacation. 

First, never, ever, in over (sounds scary to even type this) twenty years of marriage, did Husband have to spend his holiday with my family. In a way, as I was thinking about this, he is quite fortunate. I come from a small family, without any real family commitments; and the only person I have in my life who I want to see all the time and take care of is my mother. Other than that, I have two cousins with whom I am close but don’t see much of, and that’s about it. So as he threw funny glances at me when my cousin, who has arrived from Canada to see us all and spend some time with us (after six years of not seeing each other!), would start blabbing away in Russian to my mom in the middle of the dinner, I thought how lucky he was. Look, I said, imagine if you had married someone else, someone with a huge, loud family. Say, for example, Italian. Like they show in movies, sitting all at a long table shouting and talking over each other, and on top of that, I would be expected to attend every Christmas and Easter and all other traditional gatherings. Which, in our case, I am always available to attend for his side of the family. That would be painful, I am sure. Or Japanese, with some intricate, complicated culture, where he could  gravely offend my great uncle by simply holding a teacup in the wrong way. Just count your blessings, I told him. This is once in twenty years and you can put up with endless chatting in Russian, mixed with Turkish (my cousin’s husband is Turkish) and enjoy your amazing holiday other people are jealous of.

My cousin’s Turkish husband is extremely hospitable. Every dinner out was a fight over who would pick up the bill. Every morning we came down to a full Turkish breakfast, with eggs, spicy sausage (sujuk) and olives, and about at least five different cheeses. One particular dish Husband was most excited about, which he only discovered in Turkey, was a combination of cold sweet watermelon and a stinky cheese. Surprised and impressed at how well that works, he indulged in that dish almost daily. 

The apartment we stayed in was right in the middle of this town, called Datça. 

To be honest, based on the google photos and my cousin’s stories, my imagination painted a completely different place. 

I imagined that, two hours way on a ferry from Bodrum, this place would be peaceful and idyllic. 

Now I know that Datça is anything but peaceful. Cute, definitely. Beautiful. But not peaceful. 

I deliberately didn’t plan even one single day in Bodrum, as in my imagination, Bodrum would be packed with Russian girls of a hmmm...certain profession, and annoying tourists I didn’t particularly want to be surrounded by. 

And I was kind of right, as in Bodrum was of course, busier than Datcha. 

Yet, Dacha was also a party central. It was so busy that I felt I was somewhere like Ibiza. In the evenings, on the beautiful view terrace of my cousin’s flat, we could hear music coming from every direction. Some nights there would be a live concert in an open-air amphitheater you could see on the opposite side of the bay. See AND hear pretty well, too. 

Other nights there would be a party in some nearby bar rooftop,or one early evening-much, much worse-a karaoke of drunken ladies on a huge boat which docked right in front of our building. Those girls could not sing.

Don’t take me wrong, it was fun people-watching from the balcony, whilst sipping this amazing cherry wine I discovered in Shirinje village we also visited. 

But, it was also a little too touristy for me. Tourists in Datça were not of the same type as in Bodrum- only two hours away, yet not discovered by everyone else, that place seemed to be a popular spot for middle class Turks coming on their summer break.

I have never been on a beach where other people’s children would play right at my feet, and street dogs- huge!- would casually throw themselves under my sun lounger for some shade. 

I am not against either children or dogs, but when they are not mine I kind of prefer them to keep some degree of social distance. Nope. 

One morning, our host mentioned to me, quite causally. “Oh! he said, “btw. I forgot to mention. Should there be an earthquake, don’t run downstairs. Upstairs is much safer. Just stay there and don’t try, as much as instinct may tell you, to go outside.”

A…. what? 

He said, that in that area, earthquakes were quite common.

And surely enough, one morning, as I was hmmm….on the toilet, if you excuse me for details, I felt the whole seat shift under me- ever so slightly, but quite unmistakably earthquakey. 

My cousin later explained to me, which I chose to believe, that small-ish earthquakes which happen often are better as it provides, ( my favourite word from 50 Shades of Gray) some release and it isn’t going to erupt properly one day. 

Thank god for that, I thought.

And then came the forest fires. 

Friends kept texting me asking if I was safe where we stayed. The ironic reality was where we stayed was, theoretically, right in the middle of the fires. 

We were in Mugla district, which, according to my Twitter feed was on fire, big time, everywhere. We were also near Bodrum, which also, if you followed the news and my twitter, was burning. According to the official Turkish news channels, everything was  under control. But, according to the opposition in Turkey, who of course, jumped at the opportunity, the government failed to contain the fires and were not doing their job properly. In the end, I didn’t have a clue where the fires were, just how big they were and which direction the hot scary wind was blowing. Which I could hear howling angrily at night as I lay in the upstairs (safer in earthquakes) bedroom. 

I learned, once again, just like in the last Karabakh war, that you cannot rely on the media to know the real situation. Every piece of news gets politicized and reported in a way that suits that particular side. 

In the end, even as you are sitting in Turkey itself, surrounded by some regions and areas that might be on fire, you have no real clue just how serious the situation really is. In the meantime, Datça people kept partying every night and chilling on the beach in the morning. On top of Turkish internal politics focusing on whose fault it was while people suffered, it was also frustrating to see some enthusiastic Azeri and Armenian nationalists on social media using Turkish tragedy to further fuel their endless hatred, hurling abuse at each other, making it all about them. 

As my Thai friend in Doha loves to say, in her fabulous Thai accent…What IS the AC-tual fuck?

So there you go, my report on three weeks in Turkey. 

I forgot to mention the sea was beautiful. Just lovely. 

And, sitting on a large old Gulet we hired for the day, eating fresh fish cooked by the captain of the boat, watching my mother fishing with my little girl, I felt blessed to be there, lucky to be able to travel and see my family; and yes, very very grateful. Despite the fires, despite the earthquakes, and the very cheeky (effin’ humongous!!) street dogs, I enjoyed my vacation a lot. 

Oh, and we almost didn’t get allowed on the plane on the way back, as, at the very last minute, Qatar Airways staff in Bodrum announced that our PCRs were not from the approved hospital. Turns out, QA has a list- not published anywhere, or mentioned on their website, which they’d received from their MOPH, which our hospital, the state Datça one, with QR code and stamps and all kosher….was not on. 

Needless to say, that miniature bottle of Moët I bought at the duty-free shop, and guzzled right there at the departure gate, was fully justified. And I have never ever been so happy to be back in Doha. The best airport in the world greeted us with a cool calmness. The recently introduced pre-registration on an app meant fast tracked walk through, no questions, no extra paperwork. The taxis patiently waited outside, and I didn’t have to lift my suitcase, even once. As I walked into my clean tidy house (thanks to the fantastic helper), cracked opened my favorite bottle of white and ordered sushi on Talabat, I thought to myself there is, indeed, no better place than home. 

 

 Goodbye, Turkey. Till we meet again. Kolay Gelsin!