DAY 6: The hangover that should have ended my career (but somehow didn’t)

There is a particular flavour of regret reserved for the morning after a night involving far too much Rakı. It’s not just a headache—it’s a full-body, existential audit. Your mouth tastes like you’ve been licking aniseed-scented regret off a nightclub floor, your brain feels like it’s been gently sautéed, and your memory… well, your memory becomes less a reliable narrator and more a crime scene with missing evidence.

Somewhere in that fog—somewhere between the fifth drink and what I can only assume was a deeply confident but entirely undeserved sense of charm—I answered a phone call. Not just any phone call. A job interview call.

Now, I don’t remember the details. I remember the ringing. I remember thinking, you are in absolutely no state to speak to another human being, let alone one assessing your professional worth. And then, like a complete idiot with Wi-Fi access and misplaced confidence, I answered it anyway.

What followed, I can only describe as a masterclass in accidental performance. Because this morning—when I woke up feeling like I’d been embalmed rather than rested—I discovered a calendar invite sitting politely in my inbox. Which means that either I managed to string together coherent, intelligent sentences while chemically compromised… or they’re running a very different kind of recruitment process than I’m used to.

Either way, I’m through to the next round. God help them.

We slept in, which is putting it mildly. This wasn’t a gentle drift into late morning—this was a full-scale collapse. The kind where your body simply refuses to participate in the day until it’s negotiated a peace treaty with your poor life choices. By the time we surfaced, Dalyan had already been up for hours. Bread had been baked, coffee had been poured, cats had completed their morning patrols, and we were still horizontal, blinking at the ceiling like two people who had absolutely lost control of their narrative.

The day unfolded slowly, as all proper hangover days should. We took refuge by the pool with books we only half absorbed, drifting in and out of sleep in that hazy, slightly surreal state where you’re never entirely sure if you’re awake or just having a very boring dream. Every now and then one of us would sigh heavily, shift position, and re-evaluate life decisions without actually learning from them.

Eventually, hunger forced us into motion.

Now, I have always maintained a firm, almost moral stance on one thing: I did not travel thousands of miles to eat a full English breakfast in Turkey. It’s culinary cowardice. It’s what happens when people are too afraid to engage with the world beyond baked beans and familiarity. I have judged those restaurants. I have judged the people in them. I have, if I’m honest, judged quite harshly.

And yet, there we were. Hungover. Tired. Unwilling to walk more than a few metres without filing a formal complaint.

We stopped at the first place we saw: WHY NOT RESTUARANT.

The name alone should have been a warning. It’s not exactly a bold culinary statement—it’s more of a shrug. A kind of edible indifference. And out front, like a betrayal in laminated form, the words Full English Breakfast stared back at me.

Under normal circumstances, I would have walked straight past. Possibly muttering something self-righteous under my breath. But hunger, especially the kind brought on by poor alcohol management, has a way of dismantling your principles piece by piece.

So we sat down.

And then—because the universe enjoys humbling people—we were served one of the better meals we’ve had here.

The calamari arrived first, golden and crisp, not a trace of that rubbery disappointment that so often accompanies it. But it was the garlic sauce that stole the show. This wasn’t a gentle, polite hint of garlic. This was aggressive. Weaponised. The kind of sauce that announces your presence in a room before you even enter it. I’m fairly certain I’ve eliminated the possibility of romance with a sexy vampire within a two-mile radius, but it was worth it.

Andy ordered the Adana kebabı, and watching him eat it was like witnessing a man reassess his entire belief system. Bite after bite, a slow nod of approval forming, until eventually he declared it the best he’d had so far in Dalyan. This is not a statement he makes lightly. This is a man who has approached kebabs on this trip with the seriousness of a critic and the appetite of a small army.

Half the price of the more “refined” places. Twice the satisfaction.

And just like that, my smug little rule about avoiding full-English-breakfast establishments quietly died at the table. Maybe…

The rest of the afternoon drifted by in that gentle, slightly surreal haze that only a hangover can produce. It was during this time—somewhere between sips of water and silent reflection—that I noticed something deeply peculiar about Dalyan’s restaurant culture.

They are either cat restaurants… or dog restaurants.

There is no overlap. No coexistence. No neutral territory.

Cats stretch out across chairs and tabletops like they own the establishment—which, in fairness, they probably do. Dogs, on the other hand, sit patiently beside their humans, occasionally glancing around as if quietly judging the entire operation. It feels less like a coincidence and more like a deeply entrenched, unspoken divide. A kind of furry Cold War playing out across dining spaces.

By evening, we had regained enough composure to venture out properly, and dinner took us to Limon Garden Restaurant The LEMON BBQ Garden Restaurant—a place that leans unapologetically into atmosphere. Soft lighting, a garden setting, the kind of environment that encourages you to sit up straighter and pretend you’ve had a far more productive day than you actually have.

I ordered the Beyti kebabı—lamb, grilled and wrapped in lavash, then drenched in tomato sauce and yogurt. It’s the kind of dish that feels indulgent without being showy. Rich, comforting, deeply satisfying.

Andy, meanwhile, went for the Çökertme kebabı, which arrived looking like something between a masterpiece and an act of excess. Marinated strips of meat layered over crisp matchstick potatoes, all tied together with garlic yogurt and tomato sauce. It was, quite frankly, ridiculous. In the best possible way.

We ate slowly, quietly, the kind of content silence that comes from knowing you’ve made a very good decision.

And for the first time since arriving in Dalyan, there was no Rakı in sight.

Instead, I sat there with an iced tea and sprite, sipping it like someone who has seen things—terrible, boozy things—and has decided, at least for one evening, to make better choices.

An early night followed. No drama. No debauchery. Just the quiet, fragile dignity of two people attempting to recover from themselves.

Because tomorrow, apparently, I have to be employable.