Having a Turkish boyfriend in Turkey is mostly a blessing, in my opinion. There are so many situations, mostly bureaucratic, that I have not been forced to endure because I have had the benefit of a built-in negotiator. For the most part, having the wisdom of a native at ones disposal in a foreign land is a major plus. But I have to say mostly and not completely.

Every now and again, I wonder wistfully how different my experiences here would be if I were flying solo. I don’t mean to romanticize it entirely or imply that I wish I were single.

What I mean is that I sometimes envy my single girlfriends here who get to set their own agendas. If they want to take a bus to Bulgaria, they do it and no one tries to stop them. If they want to go to a sketchy neighborhood and take pictures, they go right on ahead. Ditto with going out dancing.

But in my case, I am under the protection of someone. I certainly do not mean to imply that the Boyfriend is an overlord. He doesn’t boss me around or attempt to control my life on some sort of sick power trip. Indeed, he simply looks out for me in a way that no man in my life ever has. I think the fact that I am a foreigner living here only magnifies his chivalrous intent towards me. He knows I am hardly a delicate flower. But he also knows I can be a little naive, and knowing his countrymen all too well, knows I can easily be taken advantage of.

As I say, however, mostly a blessing. I get frustrated when I think of the parts of Turkey that I would like to visit, but have not yet had the chance.
I dream about Mardin, an ancient city on the Syrian border that has a distict Middle Eastern flavor (not that I would know personally). I so want to go there, but the Boyfriend is lukewarm about the idea at best. He’s been there, of course, has been through the whole region and his feelings about it are less than romantic.

It’s not that I can’t relate. Years ago, when I took my Turkish room mate home with me to Ohio, I had a hard time understanding his excitement. He ran around the incredibly flat yard taking endless photos of a grain silo on the horizon, fields of weeds, that kind of thing. To him, it was exotic and to me, well, it was flat. So I try to get it because I do, and yet I still can’t help but feel like I am missing out by not seeing places like Mardin for myself.

But then are the times when I realize that I am really benefiting from the Boyfriend’s native knowledge. Admittedly, I don’t always trust him on it, which I know must frustrate him, but I try not to be stubborn for merely sport.

This past Saturday night, he offered to take me out for a nice dinner. I am on holiday from work, but seeing as we are still on the financial rebound from the Christmas blow-out visit back home, we are laying relatively low. To combat my cabin fever and scratch an itch, he suggested an excuse for me to get all dolled up and I took the bait.

We decided to dine at the restaurant of a major hotel. After all, that is usually at least a consistent dining experience; something not to be taken for granted in a country like Turkey. We randomly selected the “Major Hotel” after looking at the very promising menu on their website.

When we finally pulled up in front of the hotel, I was very confused. There was no signage indicating that this was the “Major Hotel”. Everywhere I looked the signs said, “*%+ Plaza”. Immediately, the Boyfriend seemed to sense our doom. He probably wanted to do an abrupt about-face and find another restaurant, but seeing as I was already on the verge of a hypoglycemic coma, we went inside.

The first disappointing sign was the fact that the restaurant was just off the lobby. That’s fine for a cafe, but not for a fine dining experience. The boyfriend made some amusing comment about hotel guests shuffling down in their pajamas and slippers and our waitress suppressed a giggle. She did so again when some hotel guests from the Middle East asked where the Arabic menus were.

The boyfriend asked why there was not a restaurant on the roof. This building probably commands one of the more spectacular views of the city, after all. The answer he received made him blanch. Somehow, the waiter told him everything he needed to know.
He had said that the hotel actually occupied only the first fourteen floors of the building and that the rest were offices and residences.

The boyfriend then gave me the low down. Most likely this *%+ family has gotten a serious amount of cash in some nefarious capacity, either mafia connections or scamming the government perhaps. And they bought not only the building, but the brand name of “Major Hotel”. I innocently assumed that if you were running a “Major Hotel” anywhere in the world, you should be subject to the systems and checks of that chain. That surely a regional manager of some sort who worked for the corporate office would occasionally drop in to see that everything was ship shape. How very naive of me.
It seems that if one offers enough money, they can buy themselves the “Major Hotel” brand name and then proceed to run it like a kebap shop.

He then broke it down for me further. The owner of the building obviously saw a much greater profit for himself by selling the top portions of the building, the ones with the commanding views, as luxury apartments, maybe even to the likes of Turkish pop stars.

All of a sudden, the tacky brick-a-brac on the tables made so much sense. The lackluster overcooked, over salted food that followed was an obvious conclusion. We had been scammed.

The Boyfriend is not one to gloat. He’s a humble sort. But I honestly can’t understand how he manages time and time again to not say to me, “I told you so!”