i WANT to go to TURKEY!!!!
http://thestar.com.my/lifestyle/story.asp?file=/2008/3/1/lifefocus/20393657&sec=lifefocus
The Turks are known for their hospitality, and now, their hunks.
They don’t call Turkey magnificent for nothing. It’s a land where the eastern and western civilisations meet harmoniously. Aside from the stunning landscape, Turkey is also a cultural and artistic melting pot renowned for its rich heritage.
The people of Turkey are as diverse as their countryside. They range from having red to black hair, brown to blue eyes, and slender to a stocky build. And the men, ooh, they are a feast for the eyes.
Turkish men make Brad Pitt look like average Mat Rempits, with their chiselled face, olive skin and dark hair. And they are not at all shy, confidently approaching women with various pick-up lines.
As I discovered on a recent holiday, they line up to shower you with attention and compliments, making you starry-eyed and humming cheerily from sunrise to sunset. Not only is their charm devastating, they actually come across as genuine.
At the Istanbul Grand Bazaar, my dear 50-something aunt and I were browsing for souvenirs when suddenly someone hollered: “Oh my God, look! Halle Berry has arrived!”
Before I could spin my head around, three hunks appeared before me, holding a newspaper with a bikini-clad Berry in a compromising position.
“You look just like her,” said one charming Adrian Brody doppelganger, inviting us to view his carpet shop. Ever the adventurous soul, my aunt gamely agreed. The other men followed, gawking at us from head to toe.
Mr Brody sat us down, introduced himself and brought refreshments.
“You know us Turkish men . . . we are very strong. You know what I mean?” he murmured in halting English, gazing at me intently.
I blinked, unaffected by his stare.
“Girl, this conversation is getting steamy,” my aunt muttered under her breath, in Tamil.
Unfazed, he continued in all seriousness, “We only have one wife, and they are always satisfied because we can perform great tricks.”
Aunty spewed her coffee out, stifling her laughter. Ahem.
“I think we better head back. We have a flight to catch and . . .” aunt lied.
“You going back today! You can’t, I just met you,” he interrupted. Turning to my aunt, he remarked, “You go and leave her here.”
After rounds of haggling with aunt (I just sat there fluttering my lashes), he finally sighed in defeat. With that, he dashed off to bring us two beautiful bracelets and placed them around our wrists.
“This is for friendship. You make sure you come here again. I will wait my whole life for you, Halle! Remember, we can do marvellous tricks!” he shouted as we sprinted out of his store.
Another time, we were in Cappadocia, the mountainous region renowned for hot-air ballooning, the executive chef at our hotel took a fancy to my aunt. He insisted on preparing exquisite dishes and invited us to a discotheque. When we turned up, there was nobody there except chef and his buddy, with a table laden with food and booze.
We danced the night away, until our dear chef collapsed on the floor after performing a modified Turkish dervish.
Moments passed, and there was no sign of him getting up. Did he have a heart attack or was this part of the dance? I wondered. A few moans later, the 60-something stood up, staggered to the table and downed a stiff drink.
“I am empty,” he said to aunt. He emptied his trouser pockets to show a few coins.
“My wife ran away. She took everything and left me these clothes. So, now I am a free but very happy man.”
“He,” the chef pointed to the F&B manager, a Rupert Everett double, “is soon to be empty. He ran away because his wife expects him to be a devout Muslim but he wants to have fun. Now you must try this – it’s an expensive Turkish speciality – cucumber with vodka. Bottoms up!”
He took a swig and plonked himself next to my aunt.
This was all getting too much for my teetotaller aunt, and we hurriedly vamoosed to our rooms. The next morning, chef was smiling and greeted us like we were aristocrats. We had joked earlier about our favourite foods, and here he was actually serving them in the morning! Bless his heart.
In fact, during the entire vacation, there was nary a negative encounter – even when we were approached by gigolos for “free services”. We were offered complimentary massages, beverages and entrance into public restrooms (usually, a small service fee is imposed).
We even had two deejays at our disposal at a club, and one marriage proposal!
Their national dessert, the Turkish Delight, may as well be a metaphor for local hospitality, although you have to tread carefully with the men. Turkish men are infamous for being ham sap (horny), especially with foreign women.
This is perplexing because their women make Aishwarya Rai seem ordinary. And no, I did not get my derriere pinched.
What a wonderful vacation it was – gorgeous people, glorious food, loads of freebies, and you get your ego massaged everywhere you go. Just when we sighed at the thought that all good things had to come to an end, I was greeted by a young George Clooney look-alike at the airport’s baggage screening aisle.
Trying to sound suave, he asked, “Are you an athlete?”
“No, I’m a writer and occasional dancer.”
“Dancer!” his face lit up. “What kind? Belly?” he enquired, lowering his eyes to look at my stomach.
“No, just modern and disco.”
“Wow! Can you do a turn for me? Please! Really, I love watching dancers spin around,” he pleaded, hitting the stop button to halt the conveyer belt.
He didn’t care that the queue was getting longer or that passengers were giving me evil glares. Oh well, a turn I did indeed. And again. And again, until I had to tell him my flight was going to depart without me. To which, he coolly scribbled his cell number and handed me the paper.
So ladies, if you’re feeling in the dumps and are in dire need of compliments and affection, catch the next flight to Turkey. Because the men there will make you feel like a million bucks simply by gazing and crooning, “You are beautiful.”
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