It feels like a video game. The instructions are: Find the little lady who rows a boat across the Dalyan. She will take you to a cafe and they will try to make you have gozleme. You must buy something, or she’ll make you wait longer for the rowboat back later on. Get water, for the walk up is long and hot. Turn left and start to climb. Buy the fresh pomegranate juice from the second lady. In about forty minutes you will reach the ancient city.
All of this to explain how I come to make a snap decision — a bad one — on the ferry between Rhodes and Marmaris.
Rhodes, sunshine and the (brief) return of Paris
And don’t forget it’s three cheek kisses in Europe.
It’s beautifully, flamboyantly cliché. Ricky Martin has a house on one of the wide, green-canopied avenues. His music plays here more than is merited.
He scrawls his number on a card. “You have trouble, you call me, Alexandra.” (The Greeks love my name.) “Just call,” he urges, eyes crinkling around the edges.
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…
Long overdue tales of whisky and water from the Inner Hebrides.
“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?
A train to Tuscany, Neapolitan mermaid donuts, some mild self reflection.