Of Expat Despair and Turkish Delight

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“Do you have a comb on you?” a frenzied British voice asks me.

Huh?

I’ve just entered the ladies room of a restaurant on the Turkish coast. I’ve never been here before; we’re just playing tourists. I do not know the agitated woman examining herself in front of the mirror. She’s skinny, sportishly attired, and past the bloom of youth. (Sadly, so am I.)

Her hair is out-of-a-box red, straight and short, and fits like a copper helmet on her head, as if sprayed into submission by a motherlode of hairspray.

Expat paradise

I noticed other foreigners in this restaurant, which apparently is an expat hangout. They all seem to know each other. A good number of Brits and Germans have made their home here on this beautiful coast of Turkey. You can see why. Nature here is spectacular, the food is delicious, and the local people are friendly.

 

Who wouldn’t want to lounge away an afternoon in a restaurant like this one below?

 

“You have a comb on you?” the woman asks again. She’s not looking at me, but is peering frenetically at her reflection and nervously arranging a small lock of hair by her ear. I am mystified by her desperation.

“No, I don’t,” I say, which is actually the truth. I would have lied if I’d had one as it’s not my hobby to lend my comb to strangers in public restrooms. I know you may find it uncharitable of me not to come to the aid of a sister in need, but so be it.

Expat despair

I see her reflection in the mirror, see the manic look in her dark eyes.

One of the fun things about travel and expat life is that, apart from meeting interesting locals, you come across flaky foreigners — refugees from the Western rat race, adventurous retirees, misfits and oddballs who are out of place in their own country. I’m not sure which category this panicky woman fits into. Maybe she’s just a visiting granny high on Turkish Delight.

I rake my fingers through my own hair and do a bit of fluffing. “I just go like this,” I tell her, to give her another option, which may actually not work on her helmet hair. “You look fine,” I add to comfort her and calm her distress. (Let it not be said I don’t try to be nice.)

A light bulb moment!

She turns around and faces me. Her eyes are very dark. There’s a moment of silence. “Who cares, anyway, really?” she says then, as if struck by revelation and enlightenment.

“That’s my motto,” I say cheerily, reaching for the door to the toilet stall.

She takes a deep breath as if this profound insight has taken a load off her shoulders. “Really, who cares?” She turns and sashays off to the dining room, expat despair dispelled for the moment.

Other expats I’ve met here, British and Dutch, love living here in Turkey. They appear not to be troubled by hair despair and seem relaxed rather than stressed. Possibly because they do not partake excessively of sugar or mind altering substances, but instead get high on watching the spectacular sunsets on this coast.

 

Does this photo remind you of the ones published on the site Turkeysforlife? Well, British expat Julia and I were sitting at the same table (with our spouses), watching the same sunset. Her posts about her life in Turkey lured us here, and so we met. This was great fun and the first time I ever met someone I knew in the blogosphere.

It’s easy to see why expats love it here. Here’s the garden of the house of Dutch expats, hammock and all. No expat despair here.

 

They traveled around, were in India and Morocco and Portugal. They fell in love with Turkey and settled here. They speak Turkish, which is no small feat.

But I digress

I love funky people

Back at the restaurant table with my prince, I sip my wine and we order food. I see the hair-crisis sister standing at the bar with three men, talking and laughing and having a drink. Later on I see her alone at a table typing away on a laptop.

Maybe she’s a famous novelist and I don’t recognize her. Maybe she’s sending an email to her grandchildren. Or maybe she has a blog and is writing about her hair epiphany in a Turkish bathroom: Nobody Cares What My Hair Looks Like!

Let me finish by saying that I love meeting funky people and to offer you the story of an Italian oddball I met in Ghana, West Africa: Expat Life: You Meet All Kinds.

PS: This story took place some time ago, while we were living the expat life in Moldova. We have since moved to France, where we also enjoy the expat life, as you can read here: 7 Reasons Why I Love My French Village

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No doubt you’ve come across a few oddballs in your traveling life. Do tell and entertain me!