Izmir, Intestines, and Illegal Wine
Summer Wedding Road Trip, Day 1
“We’ll leave at 10,” the poet announced, the night before.
We had guests staying over—one of the poet’s childhood friends and his wife—and the two guys stayed up late into the night, drinking beer. Which means the poet snored all night and I moved to the couch.
At 7 am, I have a dream that someone is poking me on the butt. I wake up to find a grasshopper under the blanket.
We leave at 1.
Our first stop is Izmir, where we’ll spend a couple of days with the poet’s brother and Zehra, whose nuptials are in just under two weeks. I’ve been no farther than 100 km from Grape Village and Fethiye since March, and as we drive into the city, my eyes bug out of my head at the rows of art deco apartments and the highway the sweeps along the sea. We get closer to our destination, and there are coffee shops with minimalist signs English names; Irish pubs; brightly lit boutiques. A group of people walk past us as we get out of the car, all speaking English. A woman passes with cropped hair; a long, flowing dress; and a badass shoulder tattoo.
By the time we get to the apartment front door, I want to move here.
We dump our stuff and head out for dinner. Exploring a new part of the world is my drug of choice, especially googling places to eat, but the poet suggests we put our phones away and follow our instincts.
“But,” I say, as Django sniffs around on the sidewalk. “What if… I don’t like it… what about ratings?”
What about travelling before smart phones? That’s something you used to do.
We wander along streets lined with fish restaurants and cafes, people spilling out onto sidewalks drinking raki. It’s the first day of a holiday week, and you can feel the relief in the air. We turn a corner and I spot some wooden tables and stools set up on a sidewalk.
“There,” I say. We sit down. The server takes our order. There is only one thing on the menu.
Here is what wikipedia has to say about kokoreç:
“Kokoreç is a dish of the Balkans and Anatolia, consisting of lamb or goat intestines wrapped around seasoned offal, including sweetbreads, hearts, lungs, or kidneys, and typically grilled; a variant consists of chopped innards cooked on a griddle. The intestines of suckling lambs are preferred.”
But the decision has been made. The result is served on a soft, fresh baguette-style bread with pickled peppers for spice. It’s so delicious I could eat another whole serving. But we’re on a roll now, so the poet chooses a pizza restaurant with an orange sign that I would have walked past on principle.
It’s the best pizza I’ve had in Turkiye.
I am definitely moving here.
The annoying thing about the whole “remote worker” thing is the working part, but we’ve been on the road all day. Gazing longingly at the bars and happy people, I announce that I should probably head back and put in some hours.
“Let’s get some wine and have a drink while we work,” the poet says. “Like we’re on vacation!”
This is excellent idea, except it’s past 10 and the shops have stopped selling alcohol.
The poet leads me to what appears to be a corner store with bottles lining the shelves. The store opens out into a busy street and has a massive lineup outside.
“It’s an illegal alcohol store,” he explains.
Obviously.
“You have to go in, choose quickly, pay, and get out.”
Choose quickly? Could this day be any more challenging? He shoves me inside and O I see that there are no prices, which makes me panic even more, but the shopkeeper sees me, beams, rushes over, and offers me a couple of options that are not Turkish (I’ll save my thoughts on Turkish wine for another time). I pay what I’d pay for an I-want-to-impress-someone bottle in Canada. But hey, we’re on sort-of-vacation.
We head home, passing more coffee shops and boutiques. I feel a tug at my heart. For what? Culture? Familiarity? A life more like what I left behind?
A more sanitized, less Turkish, more privileged existence?
The cupcake shop is still open. We buy a red velvet one. I enjoy it with a glass of illegal wine. The party continues in the streets into the late hours.