I’ve
had a chat up line or two thrown in my direction in the past few years but none
as inventive, exotic and amusing as those dished out by the Turks!
Any
ladies feeling neglected in the fawning department should head straight to the
airport. Don’t bother to pack –
you can shop till you flop right there.
The
first point in the Turkish men’s favour is that 50% of them are gorgeous:
tan-skinned, black-haired, pistachio green-eyed, three-day stubbled, in short .
. . drool-worthy. And if you glance admiringly in their direction, you’ll get
it back in spades.
The
second point (perhaps not in their favour) is that they’re the biggest shmoozers in history. All I wanted to
do was browse the Grand Bazaar but I nearly ended up with a third husband!
Before
you’ve had a chance to take in the stock of jewels, handbags, leathers,
souvenirs, pashminas, spices and furs, they’ve lured you into their cave with
a:
“Vel-cum,
beautiful lady! Vel-cum! Today is my birthday! You help me celebrate or you
break my heart!”
Oh! OK then. . . if you put
it like that . . .
A
small boy appears through the labyrinth swinging a silver tray on which balance
various glasses of fruit tea: apple, sour cherry, pomegranate, melon – very tasty. Of course, you neither want nor need a
glass of tea, but it’s all part of the shopping experience.
As
the banter goes on, your head is turned, your blood starts to pump, a surge of
adrenaline fuels the fire as a thousand and one designer handbags dance before
your eyes. Try as you might, you find yourself unable to resist the vendor’s
leathery clutches.
“Your
body is perfect. . . like a Coca-Cola bottle!”
“You
look so delicious, I want to eat you in a sandwich. . .”
“Look
into my eyes, I will change your life . . .”
British
Men: LISTEN AND LEARN!
Now
I’ve never had myself down as naïve or impressionable – not with my great age
and experience – but by the end of the trip I’d fallen in love – not once, not
twice, but three times in as many days!
So much so that I actually began to empathise with those foolish English
women who set off somewhere hot, and within hours of arriving want to stay
forever because they fancy themselves enamoured with the first man who flatters
them.
And
you can understand why: there’s something utterly seductive about a place where
the air smells sweet, the nights are balmy and the moon hangs, laconic and
lemony, in the dark night sky.
Add
to this a sip of raki, the whisper of promise from those full and faithless lips, the brush
of a dark-skinned hand against your hair, the adoring gaze of a pair of
long-lashed eyes and what woman wouldn’t believe herself hooked?
OK. I know what they’re after: the same
thing men all over the world are after, no matter their colour, creed or
climate, but what a wondrous web they weave in their efforts to ensnare you!
No:
“Get yer coat, darlin’, you’ve pulled!” or “Brace yerself, Sheila!” for the
likes of them. It’s all about
‘your beautiful eyes, your wonderful smile, the scent of your skin, the shape
of your mouth’ – keep talking, baby, just Keep. On. Talking. . . even if it is
a load of old (Istan) bull!
My
first visit to the Grand Bazaar produced one fabulous handbag, a
chinchilla-trimmed leather jacket and a date with Josof. The second visit delivered an amethyst
necklace, presents for the family and an invitation from Ferro.
The
nightly trips to the Tea Garden to smoke shisha pipes and get leered at by
anything in trousers offered up Murat, Hasan and Ozäy all very keen to take our
relationship to a higher – or was it lower? – plane. In fact the one we nicknamed Ali Baba who started with the
usual: “Verr arr you from?” immediately followed this up with: “I have very
good feeling about us!” Us? What
was your name again?
He
did manage to sprat my mobile number though by dictating me his, asking me to
dial it to check I had it right and presto! he had mine. Duh!
So
now Josof and I are meeting in Rome in November and Ferro is coming to London
as soon as he gets a visa and we’re taking the Eurostar to Paris!
I’m
very hopeful these two events will come to pass. Why wouldn’t they? These are genuine guys after all, about
as genuine as all those Gucci, Fendi, Hermès and Vuitton handbags!
But
you know something? I don’t
care. You don’t have to go to the
party, but boy, it’s nice to be invited!
And my long weekend in Istanbul was the most ego-boosting,
life-affirming, femininity-flattering experience I’ve had in a very long time.
By Wendy Salisbury aka Poshbird author of The Toyboy Diaries
