There’s always one day on a trip where the wheels come off. Not dramatically. Not in a blaze of glory. Just… quietly. Like your dignity slipping out the back door while you’re face down in a pillow, bargaining with your own liver. Yesterday was that day. I’d love to tell you I was out soaking…
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…
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…
There’s a very specific kind of arrogance that sets in when a flight is going well. You’ve boarded without incident. No one has argued about overhead luggage. No one has removed their shoes and committed crimes against humanity. You’ve got a drink in hand and, in a moment of wildly misplaced optimism, you start a…