Day 8 in Dalyan: Interviews, fighter jets, karaoke crimes, and the köfte of redemption

First things first—I’ve officially broken my own rule and I apologise.

All week I’ve been smugly tapping away at these posts like some sort of disciplined, well-adjusted human being with structure and routine. And then, like all good habits, it went straight out the window the moment raki got involved.

So yes—this is late. And yes—I’m blaming Sofra Bar.

And also raki.

Mostly raki.

The day started with something resembling responsibility, which already felt suspicious. Interview day. The kind of thing that, in a normal life, you prepare for properly…notes, focus, hydration, maybe even a vegetable at some point… which I did, kindof.

Instead, I went in carrying the faint echo of the previous night’s decisions and what I can only describe as misplaced confidence. And yet, somehow, it worked. I don’t know how. It felt… good… great in fact! Natural. Like I wasn’t trying to be anything other than exactly what I am—slightly chaotic, very human, and oddly convincing when I’m not overthinking it and of course passionate. I highly recommend doing job interviews on holiday.

So now we wait. Fingers crossed. Toes crossed. Possibly a few internal organs crossed just to be safe.

We headed into town mid-afternoon, the sun doing that lazy, golden thing that makes everything feel slightly cinematic. And then the loudspeakers kicked in.

Not gently. Not subtly.

Proper crackling, echoing, slightly ominous public announcement energy—the kind that immediately makes your brain jump to worst-case scenarios, especially when you don’t understand a word of what’s being said.

A deep, authoritative Turkish voice boomed across the streets like we’d just entered the opening sequence of some dystopian video game. My brain, already operating on fumes and paranoia, immediately went:

Right. This is it. Fallout 5: Dalyan Edition. Find bunker. Secure snacks. Make peace with loved ones.

Turns out it was a perfectly reasonable announcement about military F16s doing training exercises nearby and not to be alarmed.

Ah. Good. Casual. Love that for us.

Nothing says “relaxing seaside holiday” like the faint possibility of being buzzed by fighter jets while clutching a lukewarm water bottle and questioning your hydration choices.

Lunch took us to Çağrı, which is essentially two restaurants stitched together in the most brilliantly casual way. You can sit wherever you like and order from either menu, which feels slightly rebellious, like you’re getting away with something even though it’s entirely allowed.

Andy went for a meaty pide—one of those dishes that arrives looking deceptively simple and then quietly blows everything else out of the water. Perfectly spiced, rich without being heavy, the kind of food that doesn’t need to show off because it already knows it’s good.

I had the calamari. This was the best so far. Tender. Delicate. Not a hint of rubber. It practically whispered apologies for every bad calamari I’ve ever been served.

Although—and I will die on this hill—it would have been transcendent with the garlic sauce from WHY NOT RESTUARANT.

I am now emotionally invested in pairing foods across restaurants like some kind of unhinged culinary matchmaker.

Back to the hotel, and into what has become my favourite part of the day: the siesta.

There is something deeply civilised about accepting that the middle of the afternoon is not for productivity but for surrender. Curtains drawn, air still, the faint hum of outside life continuing without you while you disappear for an hour or two. It feels indulgent in the best possible way.

I am absolutely not ready to give this up when I go home.

We headed back out later with a very clear plan: a couple of drinks, maybe some food, an early-ish night.

Which is, of course, exactly how every questionable evening begins.

On the way, we were stopped by a local woman who recognised us from the blog. She thanked us for the things we’d written about Dalyan—about her town, her home. And there was nothing performative about it. No expectation. Just genuine warmth.

It caught me off guard.

There’s a difference between writing for people who pass through a place and being seen by the people who actually belong to it. It felt… grounding, I suppose. A quiet reminder that this isn’t just a backdrop for our little adventure—it’s someone else’s everyday life.

It meant a lot.

Then we went to Sofra.

And whatever intention we had of behaving like reasonable adults dissolved somewhere between the first drink and the decision to stay for “just one more” and “Let’s see how the game turns out.”

We left at 2am.

Somewhere in that six-hour blur, we collected a handful of our gentle readers and made several decisions that should probably never be reviewed in daylight.

At some point, a microphone appeared, which is never a good sign.

Karaoke happened.

Not gently. Not quietly.

At some point, in a moment of what I can only describe as misplaced confidence, I decided to serenade our lovely hotel barman—who had innocently joined us after his shift—with You’re So Vain.

Now. Let’s be clear. He is not vain.

He is, however, now permanently traumatised.

That poor man stood there, smiling politely, while I belted out lyrics like I was auditioning for a role no one asked for.

To the neighbours: I am so, so sorry.

To the barman: I will never speak of this again if you don’t.

Sometime around 2am, we finally left, fuelled by equal parts alcohol and bad decisions. And then came the hunger.

Not the polite kind you can ignore. The kind that demands immediate action.

There was a place still open, advertising stuffed mussels, which under normal circumstances would have been irresistible. But with a stomach already swimming in raki, it felt like a gamble I wasn’t willing to take. I’m reckless, not suicidal.

So I went for a köfte sandwich instead.

And it was exactly what I needed. Warm, spiced, messy in all the right ways, with a sauce that somehow managed to cut through everything and bring me back to life. It didn’t just taste good—it felt necessary.

How we got back to the hotel is… unclear.

There are fragments. A vague memory of being guided. Possibly by our long-suffering barman. Possibly by instinct.

It’s something I’ll need to investigate once I regain the ability to sit upright without regretting it.

For now, I’m horizontal, slightly broken, and very aware that despite everything—every questionable decision, every unnecessary drink—I wouldn’t change a single second of it.