Victorious return to Istanbul, sex education by the pool, running in airports

I awoke at the crack of dawn and jubilantly packed my bags as this was the morning we were at long last leaving Club Marmara and returning to the Four Seasons in Istanbul. We passed the hoards of Nescafé drinkers smoking their morning cigarettes as we ascended the road to reception where our escape vehicle was awaiting. We caught our flight and were met at baggage claim by our very handsome and slate grey suited Greeter from the hotel. I’d made it! Safely tucked into our private shuttle bus, a cold bottle of spring water in hand, I exhaled and smiled as I patted the clean fabric of the bus seat beneath me.

In no time, we were back in the exact same luxurious hotel rooms we had occupied the week prior, but this time with new baseball caps and Harry Potter bedding for Livvy, remarkably appropriate as the new Harry Potter film had just opened in cinemas that weekend. After the Club Marmara ordeal, this attention to detail made me weak in the knees. We lounged by the outdoor pool, where Justin and Livvy soon began cracking up and Livvy insisted I come look at the “old man and young girlfriend dry humping on the lounge chair by the deep end”. On the flight over the Atlantic they had watched the film "He's Just Not That Into You", and picked up the term "dry humping" which they now employed entirely appropriately, as in fact he was old, she was not, and they were dry humping in broad daylight. Justin rolled his eyes and said, “I mean come on, get a room.” Indeed.

Unable to resist the temptation to inspect the scene more closely, Justin swam ever nearer and soon returned to me aghast. “They speak English Mom, English, how can that be?!!” Apparently Justin believed that only non-English speakers could engage in such lewd behavior. We explained that poor taste in matters of a sexual nature was by no means limited to non-English speakers. To substantiate our claim, a short explanation of how English girls were reputed to be the “easiest” during David’s backpacking days ensued, as well as a brief discussion of the relatively more chaste nature of the girls from predominantly Catholic countries. The impact of religion on morality for young women seemed to make sense to Justin and he nodded in understanding.

We swam until our fingers were pruny and wrinkled and then headed out to House Café for a lovely dinner overlooking the water. (see pics)

The next morning we were treated to the sumptuous hotel breakfast, which included real brewed coffee, juice made from actual oranges, linen napkins and no smoking permitted. I thought I might cry. Then it was off to the Dolmabace Palace for a quick tour of the impressive former home of the latter day Sultans. The grand reception hall was quite literally as big as our home. Of course we did not agree with all the décor choices and felt the 24 tons of gold that had been used in the construction was a bit excessive. We did however spy numerous gold swan faucet handles which was a relief as we can now trace the provenance of the now dismantled and decapitated faucet handles the previous owner of our home had such a penchant for. Only Livvy retains two gold plated duck faucet handles at home, and after the palace visit, is insisting that as soon as we return stateside we replace hers as well. It would be a grand place for a party, although they do not rent it out, I asked.

Dinner that night was atop a tall building at Vogue Restaurant. We very nearly missed the breathtaking views as David had come in his Lululemon shorts and there is a strict (or as we learned not so strict) dress code for men. We sweet talked our way onto the elevator inadvertently fooling the hostess into believing that David had a change of clothes in his plastic bag. Once atop the building and in the restaurant, the hostess realized the bag contained nothing but our camera, and reluctantly allowed us to be seated in a table on the terrace but hidden in a corner away from the sophisticated patrons wearing full length trousers. The food was delicious and we all reminisced about our time in Istanbul, vowing to return. Chloe alone reminisced about Club Maramara, and we listened patiently as she spoke more or less incessantly about the Frenchies. We listened to her recounting of every nanosecond at that place whose very name I cannot bear to mention, and her repeating the names of the Frenchies over and over again. She had now friended the majority of them on Facebook and so we were treated to a description of their various wall photos and Babblefish translated exchanges. Knowing I would be sleeping in 800 threadcount Egyptian cotton that night made me a very very patient listener.
In the morning we enjoyed one last smoked salmon and housemade brioche-filled breakfast before the teary farewell. Oh Four Seasons Bosphorus Istanbul, how I will miss you.

We caught our flight to Athens and had only 45 minutes to catch our connecting flight to Mykonos. We were in trouble as we had to collect our baggage and then re-check it at the Check-in counter upstairs. I went ahead with Livvy while David, my mom and the other kids waited for the bags. I cozied up to the robust Check-in agent, who had bleached blond hair with plenty of charcoal black roots and a pronounced distaste for Turkey. I laughed at her every joke about the incompetence of the Turks and explained our predicament, taking care to blame it on the Turks. She assured me there was nothing to worry about. Some 20 minutes later, David arrived running wildly and wielding his overloaded baggage cart with Justin and my mother right behind him at a jogging pace, while Chloe sauntered not the least bit flustered by the threat of missing our connecting plane. Our Check-in agent placed a phone call and smiled at us, no problem. She tagged the bags and as she handed me the boarding passes, smiled and said, “Now you run, don’t tzop. Run tzrough tzecurity tzek to tze gate. Goo luck!”.

And so we ran, we ran like the wind. Sweat beads dripping down our brow, we ran and ran until we reached the tzecurity tzek. We threw our bags on the conveyer belts and dashed through the xray machines in one fail swoop. Only my mother was tzopped as she had forgotten to remove a bottle of water from her carry on. When the security guard asked her to discard the bottle, she merely smiled, twisted the cap open with one hand and chug-a-lugged its contents like a football player in a Gatorade commercial. Water dripped down her chin and onto her shirt but still she drank until the bottle was drained of all liquid. Satisfied, she smiled and tossed the empty bottle over her shoulder into the garbage, lifted her carry-on bag and continued her race to the gate.

We arrived at the gate with 10 minutes to take off, and nervously asked the gate agent if we had missed the flight. She smiled and told us that they had held the plane for us and that as soon as our bags were safely aboard, we would be taken to the aircraft. We’d made it!! High fives all around and a well deserved napkin for my mother to wipe her slightly soaked shirt. David sprinted to the kiosk to purchase some Gatorade like beverages for the electrolyte-depleted team. This would be one for the record books. The airline we were flying was aptly called Olympic Airlines, and that day my friends, that day we were all Olympians.

Club Marmara, the adventure continues...

The next morning word had spread throughout the Club Marmara that Californians were present. Like newly arrived exotic pets in a zoo, staff members sought us out eager to have a look at the American guests. Each staff member we saw smiled brightly as they passed and many called out “Hello California!” We had become the state.

Thanks to David’s early morning handy work, we had secured 4 stained foam loungers in a shady spot near the tattoo artist and the dilapidated ping pong table. Although this was a slightly out of the way area, it did not deter the jubilant staff members from approaching to bid us their most sincere wishes of, “Good Morning California,” or to invite us to “Come joue Volleyball California.” Fortunately my mother is slightly deaf in one ear and was spared the persistent onslaught of curious well wishers.

The tattoo artist whose sign advertised “Henna and Permanent Tattoos” and did not insist on any minimum age, was actively hustling for business and approached me no less than twice insisting a butterfly at the base of Livvy or Chloe’s bikini bottom backside would be a wise choice. It was only by sitting near the tattoo artist that I began to appreciate the amount of gold and silver teeth present in the mouths of the guests at Club Marmara. You see the tattoo artist was quite the joker and spoke French well, and so he would entreat the guests with his humor in exchange for which he was shown bright smiles exposing abundant gold and silver caps. I suppose French dental practice favors the capping of nicotine rotted teeth in these metals. Thankfully I have excellent lenses in my sunglasses so that the glare was not the least bit troublesome, although the sight itself is a different matter altogether.

Once again Chloe was basking in the glow of the Frenchies, doing flips, hanging in the hammock with her entourage, downing iced café and coca, giggling and having a marvelous time. It was only the sight of her joy that gave me the strength to carry on. (see sneaky pics i took from a safe distance of her in hammock and pool with Frenchies) Livvy and I stayed hung out with my mom and spent a fair amount of the day in the absolutely disgusting swimming pool, brimming with bikini bottomed boys and girls, and whose water was a pronounced puce color.

David and Justin went on a full day scuba diving excursion and a triumphant Justin returned beaming at having seen a Nudabranch in the wild. Neither David nor I had a clue as to what a Nudabranch was but were overjoyed as well. Apparently until this dive Justin believed they were only native to New Zealand. Folks, that is what Justin does on the web, surfs exotic sea animals. Clearly no need to check his computer cache.

After showering with my flip flops on, we left Chloe with her posse and escaped Club Marmara for dinner in town by the marina. Although I was not at all interested in acquiring a fake Prada wallet or imitation Gucci belt, the notion of returning to Club Marmara was so depressing, that I insisted on looking in every shop desperately trying to extend the time away. In the end I bought some wildly overpriced suntan lotion and finally David insisted we hail a cab and return. Reluctantly I acquiesced, thankful that we are headed back to Istanbul in the morning.

Bodrum Beaches, Sezen Aksu concert and the Place

We awoke early and caught our flight from Istabul to Bodrum, a beach town on the Asian coast of the Bosphorus. We were met by our minivan driver upon landing and 30 minutes later arrived at our hotel. The view of the sea from our cliff top hotel was stunning, the ancient castle of Bodrum surrounded by gullets on the water looked majestic. In the lobby we met the greeter (must be a Turkish thing) who was the spitting image of Robin Williams in the remake of “La Cage aux Folles/The Birdcage” with Nathan Lane. The greeter was Italian but spoke at least 7 languages fluently and had a penchant for Bono-style sunglasses and white linen. He implored us to come to the pool tomorrow evening from 9 to midnight as that is when he sings for the guests. We assured him we wouldn’t miss it.

We were shown to our rooms, unpacked, grabbed a bite of lunch on the outside terrace above the main pool, and spent the afternoon lounging by the pool as the pool DJ spun tunes on his turntables. This was the first daytime poolside DJ I had encountered and I must say he took his work as seriously as any nightclub DJ. At 8pm we were picked up by a driver who took us to downtown Bodrum where we had dinner on the water near the marina at a place called “The Place.” This gave Justin hours of fun as he kept asking “Where are we going for dinner?”, to which I replied, “The Place,” and he continued “Mom, where are we going for dinner?”, to which I replied, “The Place,” and he would then ask, “What place?”After 6 or 7 of these interchanges I finally had to sick him onto my mother who kept answering him earnestly, “The Place is the name of the restaurant Justin,” as he cackled wildly. After dinner we explored the market area which is teeming with knock off handbag and watch shops. David summed it up best, “It’s like a poor man’s St. Tropez.”

The next day we boarded the hotel shuttle and headed to the private beach. Beach in Bodrum means large floating dock area with loungers, umbrellas and restaurant with pleasant waiters but no actual sand. Beach apparently also means “place where Queen Latifah-sized women wear itsy bitsy bikinis and slather on tanning oil between their flabby folds.” I have taken a decided dislike to women who are deeply bronzed all over but miss the area where their legs meet their buttocks. This particular area, let us call it the “rear butt-thigh hollow”, is forced to form a fold when one with any amount of excess chub lies flat on their stomach and leg thus pushes against round buttocks burying that area of skin beneath the layers above. So many of these was I faced with that I felt compelled to devise a strategy to rid the beaches of Turkey of this problem. By simply propping a towel or small pillow under the pubis one could easily raise the buttocks outward away from the lounger, ever so slightly bending the knees, and thus expose this area for tanning. Of course this would present other unsightly but easily foreseeable problems and a smartly placed umbrella could shield innocent passersby from the view. Suffice it to say, I have seen more than my fair share of mahogany colored women with snowy white patches of exposed rear butt-thigh hollow. Quite disturbing really.

Anyhow, we swam, read and ate while Chloe made friends with a group of French teenagers staying at a nearby hotel. Given that Chloe speaks about 5 words of French and all five are from nursery rhymes I used singing to her as a baby, it was impressive to see how well she got on with the group.

That evening we had dinner at another restaurant near the marina (excellent fresh grouper) and then headed to the ancient amphitheatre to see a concert my mother had seen advertised. Sezen Aksu is described as the “biggest” pop star in Turkey and as we found out this referred as much to her physical largesse as to her popularity. We arrived at the amphitheatre around 9pm and waited patiently as we shuffled passed security along with throngs of Turks, and then made or way to our seats, which as in all ancient amphitheatres are carved marble slab steps. Fortunately TurkCell had the presence of mind to sponsor the event and provide a branded seat cushion for every derriere in the amphitheatre. The crowd began rhythmic clapping and whistling, so eager were they to see their beloved Sezen. I had told the kids that Sezen was like the Britney Spears or Madonna of Turkey and we were all excited. Suddenly the band appeared holding all sorts of flutes, lutes, odd shaped string instruments, and a few tambourines; not a positive omen. Then from behind the stage curtain appeared a diaphanous white bulbous figure, as it approached the front of the stage it became clear that it was human and likely female, and was being assisted by two large security guards to descend the steps to the stage with a rocking motion like a Weeble.

The spotlight then shone brightly on what can only be described as the human personification of Ursula the Sea Witch from Disney’s “The Little Mermaid.” Weighing in at no less than 250 lbs, she stood smiling, with short platinum bleach blond hair teased to the heavens and sprayed with industrial strength hair spray that rendered the hair immobile in spite of a mighty wind created by the numerous powerful fans at her feet intended to no doubt cool down her body temperature. Sezen resembled an obese Joan Rivers dressed in an enormous white wedding gown adorned with Swarovski crystals and constructed within from an obviously Kevlar reinforced corset. The folds of her back fat hung over the top of her sleeveless gown like thick frosting dripping down a wedding cake. She had clearly undergone numerous plastic surgeries, the last of which had left her large red-painted mouth affixed in an eerie Joker-like smile. She wore 4-inch white stilettos which presented a significant balance challenge and so rather than move about the stage, she chose (and I think wisely given the circumstances) to stand in one spot teetering on her heels and wave periodically to the adoring crowd like a parade queen.

She opened up with a folk song both dull and uninspiring, yet the crowd went wild. She invited the over 4,000 enraptured fans to sing along at every chorus; this was a clever though ill-fated attempt on her part to catch her breath from the exertion of singing and standing. Two more painful folk songs later she called for the security guard and was brought a large, high stool which she employed fully. When she broke into a most painful and not entirely on-key ballad we decided to make a run for it. For anyone who has yet to try and flee an ancient amphitheatre please be advised that if seated in the center of the bottom section the only way out is to descend the stairs and walk around the front of the stage past the headline act to the side stage exit. More than one irate fan shouted Turkish obscenities at us as we made our escape. I hoped they mistook us for English tourists.

We flagged down a taxi bus and returned to our hotel where our Italian Robin Williams lookalike greeter was still singing his little linen-wearing heart out. We stopped for a song or two, and though his career will never take him beyond the confines of the Hotel Marmara in Bodrum, we all agreed he was infinitely more talented than Sezen.