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…
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….
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…
Let me start with an apology. Not a polite, British “sorry”—one of those real apologies where you acknowledge you’ve made choices, and those choices are now writing the blog for you. I am, at present, pickled. Not gently infused. Not delicately marinated. I am a full-blown raki preservation project. Somewhere between glass seven and “who’s…
Day 4 in Dalyan didn’t come in hot. No chaos. No grand plans. No heroic cultural ambitions. Just heat, a pool, and the slow, creeping realisation that doing absolutely nothing might be the most productive thing I’ve done all year. We parked ourselves by the pool like two overfed cats and committed to the art…
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…