Day 7 in Dalyan: Turtle trauma, marshmallow piña coladas, and whatever was dying next door
You ever get woken up by a sound so aggressive, so wildly committed to being heard, that your brain just… gives up trying to label it?
That was us.
Next door. Something between a donkey in emotional crisis and a human being having the kind of morning that requires electrolytes and a long sit-down afterwards. No build-up. No mercy. Just—full volume, straight through the wall like we were part of it.
I lay there, eyes open, staring at the ceiling like: this is how people end up in documentaries. 
Cold, too. Not “oh it’s a bit brisk.” No. That damp, creeping cold that gets into your bones and makes you question your life choices. Naturally, we decided to go to the beach. Because logic had clearly left the building sometime around the donkey incident.
We took the bus to Iztuzu. A vehicle that rattled like it owed someone money. Windows slightly fogged, seats with that weird shiny fabric that sticks to your skin like regret.
And of course—we got on the wrong bus.
Because why wouldn’t we.
There was a lady with a baby—very convincing, very confident—who assured us, with the authority of someone who has absolutely no reason to lie, that yes, this was the bus to the beach.
It even had a turtle sticker on it.
A turtle sticker.
At that point, what are you supposed to do? Launch an investigation? Interview witnesses? No. You see a turtle, you commit.
So we climb on, sit down, settle in like two people who have absolutely no business travelling unsupervised.
The bus hasn’t even left yet and the driver shows up. Looks at us. Looks at our money. Looks back at us again like we’ve just tried to pay for a haircut in Monopoly cash.
We hand over the fare, confident. Ready. Prepared to be legitimate participants in Turkish public transport.
He just waves us off.
Not aggressively. Not rudely. Just this calm, almost philosophical dismissal—like, no… this isn’t your journey.
Tells us to get on the next bus.
That’s it.
No explanation. No apology. Just a quiet rejection of our entire plan.
So now we’re standing there, holding our money like idiots, while the lady with the baby—who I still believe knew exactly what she was doing—sits there, completely unbothered, probably thinking, another successful operation.
At this point it stops being frustrating and starts being impressive.
Because there’s a particular kind of travel humiliation that sneaks up on you slowly. You’re not lost yet—but you’re clearly not where you’re supposed to be either.
We shuffle off. Pride slightly dented. Faith in turtle-based navigation systems severely shaken.
And get on the next bus like people who have learned absolutely nothing. But we eventually get there.
We arrive and head to DEKAMER. The turtle hospital.
Now, here’s the thing. You walk in expecting something quaint. Maybe a few sleepy turtles, a nice sign, a bit of conservation guilt.
No.
This is a trauma ward.
Real damage. Shells cracked open like dropped plates. Deep gouges from propellers—clean, surgical, horrifying. One turtle just hovering weirdly in the water, like it’s forgotten the basic mechanics of being a turtle.
And yet… calm. No panic. No drama. Just these people—quietly, methodically putting broken things back together.
It’s the kind of place that makes you feel small in a very specific way. Like… oh right. This is what actual good looks like. Not your emails. Not your meetings. This.
I lasted about 30 minutes before my brain went: this is too much reality, we need carbs. But not before Andy and I emptied our pockets and wallets and begged everyone to save these poor creatures!
The cafeteria saved us. Gozleme. Meat and cheese. Fresh off the griddle, slightly blistered, folded over like it’s hiding something good.
You bite in—steam hits your face, cheese stretches, meat salty and perfect—and suddenly you’re not thinking about fractured shells or the general incompetence of humanity. You’re just… eating. Alive. Grateful in a very basic, animal way.
Which is probably the most honest feeling there is.
Afternoon?
Chaos, but with marshmallows.
Piña coladas. Several. Cold enough to make your teeth hurt, sweet enough to convince you you’re doing fine in life. Coconut, rum, denial. And Sofra Bar roasted the marshmallow! Yay!
I had my notebook out. Properly. Like a serious person.
“Interview prep.”
There were bullet points. Big words. Strategy. Leadership. Vision.
At some point I wrote down “be authentic” and immediately took a sip of a drink that tasted like melted ice cream and poor decisions.
I don’t know what I was researching by the end. I remember opening my phone to look up something impressive and ending up deep in a hole about why octopuses hate each other.
That feels like it might come up in the interview. You never know.
Dinner.
Walk in and it’s like someone designed a restaurant based on a very specific philosophy: what if we just… didn’t rush anything. Ever.
Garden vibes. Low lights. People moving at half speed. Not lazy—no, that’s the wrong word. Intentional slowness. Like time is a suggestion, not a rule.
It had that Cheech and Chong energy—but not in a gimmicky way. More like… everyone here has already figured out that stress is optional and has opted out.
You feel it immediately. Your shoulders drop. Your breathing changes. You stop checking your phone. You stop caring.
Dangerous, honestly.
Menu hits you like a good idea you can’t afford.
Everything sounds right. Everything sounds excessive. You want it all, and you know you’ll regret nothing.
Chips and salsa first. Fresh. Bright. Tomatoes that actually taste like tomatoes. Lime cutting through everything. A little heat that sneaks up on you instead of announcing itself like an idiot.
Then a Caesar salad, because apparently I like to pretend I have boundaries.
It was aggressive. In a good way. Dressing unapologetic. Anchovy doing its job properly. No restraint. I respect that.
Then the Cusco chicken.
And this is where things got serious.
Lime. Cumin. Paprika. Beer. It hits every part of your mouth at once—sharp, smoky, slightly bitter, deeply savoury. Skin crisp, meat juicy, the kind of dish that makes you pause mid-bite and just stare at it like it owes you an explanation.
This isn’t food trying to impress you. It’s food that already knows it’s better than you.
Then the oxtail tacos.
With roasted apple.
Which sounds like someone lost a bet.
But no. It works. Of course it works. Rich, sticky meat collapsing under its own weight, and then this soft, sweet apple cutting through it like a knife through bad decisions.
I stopped talking at some point.
Just sat there. Eating. Drinking. Slightly drunk, slightly overwhelmed, fully aware that this—this exact moment—is about as good as it gets without winning the lottery or committing a crime.
No rush. No pressure. Just flavour, alcohol, and the quiet understanding that nothing outside this table matters right now.
We left eventually. Had to.
And as we walked back—
There it was again.
That sound.
Louder this time.
More… committed.
I didn’t ask questions. Some things in life are better left unexplored.
Like how many piña coladas with marshmallows is “too many.”
Or what, exactly, is happening next door.
