20 hours in Istanbul: go.
Have I said this before? How wonderfully disorientating I find it to land in a foreign place after dark, not knowing what to expect when you wake the next day…
Apart from that, we shall eat and drink and shop. What’s French for ‘like, obviously’?
“D’you speak English?”
I turn around. Before me is a stereotypical American guy, about the same age as my dad, in a baseball cap and an Italian soccer shirt. I’m really very tempted to retort with a gallic shrug and a, “Non, je ne parle pas l’angalais,” but I don’t. I’m very clearly reading an English book and what if we’re stuck in this line for the gallery for ages and I need to ask someone something and have to do it in French?
This post is essentially my confession: confessions of a fortnight misspent in Melbourne’s dens of iniquity and raw fish.
Two vulpine greeters dressed in sleek black take in my outfit from top to toe….