This is your song, ungentlemen. I send this out from my aura in my footsteps daily. May you hear it ringing louder than ever before, and may you deflect your tongue with your eyes before attempting speech!!!!

Janet Jackson - Nasty
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Free Ride

Got offered, most deliberately, a ride yesterday. I was actually AT the bus stop when two men thought that I ought to get into their car instead. I was just about to throw my water bottle at them when the bus showed up, and I departed from their sight with a growl. Indeed, a growl. Grrr.

The One Who Kidnapped Me

Stalker Alert Level: Yellow cause he was actually harmless

Hilarity Level: Hilarious

*Note: All conversations in this story were conducted in Turkish.

"DO YOU GO TO OYAK SITESI?" I ask the minibus driver.

"Where?" he asks, unable to hear my voice over the engine of the minibus.

"Oyak Sitesi, between Ayazaga and Seyrantepe."

"Oh, yes I do," he says.

I climb into the minibus at 11:00pm. Crammed in with me is a full load of people, some coming home from a very late night at the office, others who appear on their way to or from a party perhaps. There are so many people that many must stand. We take off from the Metro station.

Right away, I'm amused with the interior. Black lights create a dark purple glow. Rap music is pounding through an expensive stereo. The seats are all purple velvet. And he even has a television hanging down for people to watch. A mini disco ball illuminates the small cabin of the minibus in speckled light. There are Turkish flags and 8-ball stickers all over the place. He has prayer beads dangling from the rearview mirror. This, for those of you who don't know, if totally abnormal in every way. This is public transit, for crying out loud. Weird.

The bus winds through an interesting road I've never been down before, pulling away from the lights of the city and into the darkness of suburban outskirts. I wonder if maybe he'll pass my apartment complex on the way back, or if maybe this is an alternate route that I don't know about.

He stops off in a village and many people get off. Then the minibus travels out into more desolate areas until the last person gets off along an isolated road against a hill.

There are only two people left on the minibus, and only one of us knows where we are or why.

I walk up from the back of the bus and sit in the passenger seat, then ask him again when we will pass Oyak Sitesi. He looks at me and smiles. Then he pulls off the road into a dirt area and parks. Yes, he parks. He reaches into the center console and takes out a pack of cigarettes.

"Want one?" he asks, extending one to me.

Oh. No. He. Did. Not.

No he didn't. I know this sounds so Beverly Hills homegirl, but oh heeeeeeeelll no he did NOT just lie to me and say he was going to my apartment complex just to get me into the vehicle. Oh no no no. I hope, for his safety, that he didn't. Because we are out in the middle of nowhere, and no one would hear him scream.

I look him over as I firmly decline his offer. This 21-year old kid has seen too many movies with old school Italian gangsters. He's slung into the driver's seat like he's manning a 360 Modena, only one arm flung over the steering wheel, the other sucking a drag on his cigarette in carefully rehearsed coolness. All his movements are intentionally supposed to say, "I'm chill and laid back, totally suave baby."

"I asked you if you went to Oyak Sitesi. You said yes. So when are you going there?" I ask him.

"Where are you from?" he asks, now revealing a 'friendly' smile.

"I want to go home. It is 11:30 at night now, and all I want is to go home. I don't want to talk. I gave you one and a half lira to take me home. That's it. Now, do you pass it or not? Did I miss the stop?"

"Are you sure you don't want a smoke?" he asks again, reaching the box over to me.

This idiot doesn't realize that I'm actually contemplating how to overtake him as he's talking. I'm analyzing his movements and personality, because truth be told, this fight is in the mind to begin with. He's ill-equipped. He'll be lucky if he lets me win with my mind alone, because I'll fight until someone is dead if it goes physical.

"So, you will go back to the Metro now, right?" These public transportation guys have fixed routes, back and forth kinda thing.

"Yeah," he says, "in a minute, when I finish my cigarette. So, where are you from?"

"America. But I live here. I have lived here for a long time. I'm not a tourist."

He puts on the flirtatious face big time. "Hey I love America. I want to go there. You're so pretty."

You're so about to get murdered if you don't start the engine, you little Scarface wannabe.

After ten minutes of me answering every question with, "When are we going back? This is a damn minibus. Why do you think I am on it? I want to go home," he actually does start the engine and begins heading back down his route to where we came from. We pick up people along the way.

Wait, wait. You're wondering why I didn't get off before. Because we were in the middle of nowhere. I knew I could handle this guy, but if I got off in the middle of nowhere at 11:30pm, there's a chance another guy may come along who was harder to deal with. I preferred to work with my current puny opponent rather than open the door to a potentially worse one. Getting back to civilization from that point would have been very difficult. Forget walking. Forget a taxi. It's pitch black and I don't even know where to ask them to find me.

But then he does something I didn't see coming. I am sitting in the passenger seat and tell him more than once to leave me exactly where I got on. Unfortunately, everyone unloads again before we reach that point, so again we are the only ones on the minibus. And he drives right past where I told him to drop me off.

At this point, I flip out on him. (You probably think I gave him too much slack already)

"Wait wait, I'll just turn around," he says, "don't worry."

"NO!" I demand. "Pull the bus over NOW! I am getting off."

"Don't get off here. We passed your stop. I will turn around," he says, though he keeps driving straight, not turning.

I shift my tone. It's military officer. It's dominatrix. It's vocal adrenaline. It's (here comes the homegirl again): You sooooo messed wit da wrooooong bitch today mofo!!!!!

At this, he abruptly yanks the vehicle to the side of the road.

"Give me back my money!" I shout at him.

"Take all the money," he says. And I'll be damned if he isn't still flirting with his tone. The little masochist is still getting off on this a little bit. He opens the money box, which contains easily a few hundred lira.

"I don't want all the money! I want my one and a half lira! I gave you 1.40 TL to take me home, and you didn't take me home!!!!!"

I holler at him as he shrinks into his seat, saying, "Take it all. Take as much as you want." He's cowering away from me as I dig into the money box, sorting through dimes, nickels, and dollar coins to get exactly 1.40 lira.

Astonished, he looks up at me with wide eyes, mostly in total shock and fear, but also in bewildered amusement.

"Now," I demand, "open the damn door!"

He does as he's told. As I step off the minibus, he still calls out to me, "I will take you back. Come on. Don't get off here. What will you do?"

"I'll walk!" I retort. "GoodBYE!"

I'll Save You!!! The Stalker who wanted to protect me from other stalkers....

Stalker Alert Level: Dark Orange

Hilarity Level: Dark Humor

IT WAS POURING DOWN RAIN and I thought it would still be nice to walk home from the metro rather than waiting a half an hour for the bus which would take me the distance of a twenty minute walk. I'm one of those strange breeds that runs out the door for rain. I love rain and prefer not using an umbrella, granted I have nowhere important to go.

It is dark.

As I walk, a few men slow their cars or flash their lights. Men who walk past me sometimes give a sideways glance or look at me as though they are about to say something, but can't bring themselves to.

Then the boldest of them all (for this day) shows up. For some reason, the short guys have absolutely no fear with me. This little bald guy comes trotting along and tells me that I shouldn't be walking alone at night.

I don't look at him or acknowledge him, only walk a bit faster.

"What is your name?" he asks right away.

I don't answer. I don't look at him. I'm trying to be obviously disinterested.

He asks again. "What is your name?"

"Dasha," I lie.

"Where are you from?"

"America. Are you walking with me? Why?" Why do I tell him this much information? Why did I just admit that I'm foreign which could thereby lead him to think naive in this land? Because I want him to know that he cannot predict my behavior or intentions. And Americans have a reputation, really. At least, I am prepared to create a reputation with this guy to help out the next American woman he thinks of harassing. I'm not really afraid of him, that's the thing. I want him to go away, but he already knows I'm not Turkish just by the way I walk and the fact that I'm walking in the rain alone at night without an umbrella, wearing bright red jeans and a black leather jacket. And, not to mention, answering one question doesn't mean I deserve or am inviting anyone to stalk me, which he is about to do full blown. I know in Turkey sometimes it does, but sometimes I don't care what it means. I want to exercise a level of human interaction that I was brought up on, at least until I've no choice but to fight back.

"You shouldn't be walking alone," he says.

"Why?"

"Because it's dangerous."

"Oh, you mean some guy might start to walk with me and talk to me?"

"Yes."

"Like you are doing?"

"I like America. Do you live here?"

I take a deep breath. I still haven't looked at him, and my answers are all kurt, firm, and have that ring as though each one is supposed to end the subject, close the door, or more like slam it in his face. That kind of pleasant tone, if you can imagine it.

I don't answer that question. Of course, he asks again. I still don't answer.

He walks alongside me for another 5 straight minutes with me completely ignoring him, still not looking at him. I even deliberately try to walk in the middle of the sidewalk to force him off. I know these are brutal tactics, but what would you do? I just want a nice walk home in the rain! And, to be honest, I am having a HORRIBLE day. It is one of those days when it takes every bit of willpower not to scream in someone's face, anyone's face. I am so angry and tormented by something which recently happened, and I need to be alone very far from all humans for a little while. This guy has the worst timing. So, I know semi-pushing him off the pavement is rude, but he is gnawing on my very last nerve.

Finally, I blurt out, "Yes, I'm going home. And I want to walk alone. Alone! Please, leave me alone!"

"Where do you live?" he asks.

"I'm not going tell you that! Are you joking? Go away. I want to walk alone."

"But it's really dangerous to walk alone at night. If I am walking with you, no men will disturb you."

"But YOU are disturbing me, so go away!"

"No, but I won't hurt you. Maybe other men will. I will just walk you to your house and then I will go home."

Oh, yeah, heard that one before. And let's just survey his personality type. I've ignored him, tried to push him off the sidewalk, and demanded that he leave me alone. And now he expects me to believe that he's going to just "go home" after he stalks me all the way home? I know you already picked up on the obviousness of it. I'm just venting.

"No!" I say firmly. "Go away!"

"I'm just protecting you."

"I can protect myself."

"But you need a man."

"I don't need anything."

I start to walk even faster and try ignoring him again. This is all while trying to tame the inner hurricane that has been plaguing my emotions since long before this guy came along. I feel that in another world somewhere, I could have lifted him up with my bare hands and hurled him into oncoming traffic. That's how upset I already was before he showed up. It is that kind of day, the kind that unfortunately happens to us maybe once per year, but hopefully less. I am honestly trembling, and now here's Mr. Bald Midget to save the day.

After about 5 more minutes of silence, I'm getting too close to my home, so it's time to lose him for real. There is no more time to waste. He has to go. I stop at a location far enough away from my neighborhood and get ready for the war.

"Go," I say bluntly. He doesn't know it, but this is my moment when I am saying it only so that I can later explain to the press, "Well, he had his chance."

You may judge me for this. So be it. If you live in Istanbul, likely you'll understand. If not, I will sound brutal. But to be safe here, you have to be really mean sometimes. There's no diplomatic way around a situation like this, even though you may think from afar that there must have been another way. You really cannot fully understand until it happens how serious it is, and you simply cannot negotiate your way out of some situations. It's a matter of the other person's will at some point, not your ability to word something or sound convincing. If the other person is culturally ingrained, raised, and socially constructed since birth to be the very thing in front of you in a moment like this, what are the chances that a few of your western mediation tactics are going to penetrate such an engraving within the few minutes you have? There's a choice. End it. Or don't. I've adapted to this culture, and I know how to end it. This is how.

When I turn to face him for the first and last time, I look him square in the face. Then, in a rage of pure English (because it's more genuine) psychosis, I let out like an irate banshee. My posture becomes animally aggressive, and with my body language, I intend to imply clearly that I am insane. Which, after a day like I was having, it feels real even to me. The trembling I'd been feeling before he came along boils to the surface, pops the lid, and I start to cry--I am that angry with him and frankly with myself and with my day and in some childish way the whole world.

At last, he gives in, tells me to fuck off, and then leaves.

I inhale.

In the end, he acts as though I have been following him. Well, I gladly thank him the moment he tells me to fuck off. Literally, I immediately say, "Thank you," as he storms away from the crazy chick.

That worked :)

Now I'm a bit on the not-so-healthy side....feeling exhausted and my tummy hurts. So post-poned until tomorrow......

I have this story about the stalker that was trying to protect me from other stalkers, haha. He's great. Coming soon.....

Sorrrryyyy

I haven't posted in a couple of days. I have been stalked, however. Sorry for not telling you about this, but I've been quite busy teaching and writing and just plain living.

Will post tonight.

Here's a pic to cool you down. The reason for this pic is to remind of something: Turkish men are often a very superior level of hot. They can also be a ghastly level of ugly, but let's not display such corruption of gene codes on here.

I'm pretty sure this is a pic of the infamous Tarkan, the Turk representative of the wuld, who spreads bom bom lyrics all over the uth. He's not really what I would go for, but most Western women fall over in "Oh my gawd, he is sooooo freaking hot" when they see this guy.

Imagine this guy stalking you. You MUST say no, cause he might also be equipping his basement with chains, locks, and S&M gear on the side.

So, here is that "Turkish level of super hot" that makes us foreign gurls retarded. If this is not Tarkan, well whatever. Tarkan looks like this. A whole bunch of the bastards look like this.

Hey, That's My Ride! Free Public Transportation in Istanbul for Women Only!!!! Yay!!!!

Stalker Alert Level: Yellow if you don't get in, Dark Orange if you do (PS Don't)

Hilarity Level: Depends on whether or not you can decode this cryptic post....Funny.

I haven't been stalked in a couple of days. I've been walled up in the school where I teach. So, tell of older stories?

Who's looking for a ride to work? Fear not, fair maidens! A man is on his way to get you, in case you forgot to call him. Just start walking. Then, as if tuned into your call for assistance on some psychic and maybe even primal wavelength, a man will stop, pull his car to the side of the road, and motion for you to get it. It's okay if you don't know him. It's okay, it's okay. He'll take you. It's no problem.

Now, you were probably thinking you'd have to walk all that way on your own! Ah, shucks, never worry about such an impossible outcome. Your journey out into the streets is, by its very nature, a plea for a man to rescue you, especially if he drives a BMW or some other big shot car--and believe me, trust me as your sister, he will hear this plea swell up in the center of his being and rise up like a mist of awareness, a truth and a duty to save you.

He'll come, like a noble steed rearing his head from the darkness in some historical adventure movie, to usher you off into the sunset that awaits on your challenge to get wherever you were going (like work or something, for example).

What's that you say? Oh, you were gonna take the bus? You were planning to walk? You don't know him? He looks creepy? You're being picked up by someone? You are taking the bus? You don't feel comfortable getting into a stranger's car? Hey, hey. Chill out, you high-strung panic prone maniac! HE came through the battles and fought off the demons to reach you and drive you wherever you are going. HE has sacrificed his daily plan for your benefit. HE did a u-turn in a heavy traffic area and drove over the center divider to be at your side. HE is here at last.

He does a "pat pat" on the passenger seat as he pulls up alongside the sidewalk and leans over to peer up in a super-bravado dramatic stare. This dear female creatures of the universe, is your chance. He's here, at last, on the side of the road, ready to pick you up, whoever you are, and take you wherever you were going, and he'll do it randomly right this very moment, cause he had nowhere to go that is worth more than you and your sweet cheeks. And I don't mean the ones on your face.

P.S. If you turn him down, another one will show up momentarily, so just keep this in mind. This happens more often than some may like to believe.

Losing My Stalkee Virginity

Stalker Alert Level: Dark Orange (Or even Red maybe)

Hilarity Level: If you think being scared is funny in retrospect....

I BURST INTO THE SMALL TAILOR SHOP, and a handful of startled and conservative women gaze up at me. I've got a vocabulary of about 50 words in Turkish on this occasion, most of them curses or sweet talk (yeah, go figure). But I'm not even going to try and explain this one. This is serious, and I must stay in here until he loses my scent and wanders off in the wrong direction.

The guy had actually chased me!

See, I've been in Istanbul for less than 24 hours at this exact moment, and within an hour of leaving my friend's apartment, out into the streets for the first time, I was peering through a window, hiding as though waiting for the Russians to drop another bomb on Berlin.

I made a grave mistake on my first visit to Turkey in 2006 at the ripe age of 22: I acted just as I would in America. The moment I hit the narrow cobblestone path outside the aged apartment building, I came face-to-face with a Turkish man about my age, average looking, with clean clothes, a friendly smile, and a smidgen of English. He saw me gazing up, over, around, beneath, and behind myself in utter bewilderment and decided to approach this blonde wanderer with the big black combat boots and screwed up hairdo.

"Hello," he introduced himself.

"Hi," I smiled back in that totally naive I'm-so-excited-to-be-here sort of way.

"Do you need directions?" he asked.

"Ah, no. I'm just wandering, checking things out," I gasped again, still swept away by the breath-taking beauty of the city and all the foreign-ness that I couldn't even process yet.

"Well, I can help show you around the city if you want," he offers.

Then I did what no foreign woman has ever lived to not regret, what every foreign woman has probably done at least once, then never did again. I said, "Sure."

Now, for those of you who have never been to a stalker laden country (just throw a net over the whole Middle East and the Mediterranean region), you are wondering what the heck is wrong here. The guy is nice, friendly, and offering help. No. No. If you are one of my readers who has been to a stalker hub, then you know I'm about 48 hours away from a marriage proposal right now.

We walk off randomly in whatever direction. I'm in Kadikoy, for those of you Istanbulians who know what that means. After some idle chit chat, the guy seems utterly harmless and kind. Then he asks if I want to try some Turkish coffee or hookah. Yay! I totally do.

I follow him through some more windy paths, glancing behind myself frequently to acknowledge semi-helplessly that I have no idea how to get back to where I came from now. Everything is curvy, crumbling, and weird looking. There are guys selling stinky fish in open air, other guys jumping in my face with fake designer jeans for 10 lira, and about a dozen sets of dark eyes on me at all times. Smoke rises around me in all directions, even from the cigarettes of nine year old boys.

We have coffee. We chat. I still have no idea how much trouble I am in. I spend most of the conversation trying to convince him that I have a husband, so No I would not like to date you. I still haven't caught on. I totally don't get it. He teaches me the word inanmiyorum, which means I don't believe you. He's talking about the husband. (I need a new excuse, right?)

Then I want to leave. Go away. To my own place. I collect his email, like I'll shoot him a hello once in awhile, nice to meet you kinda stuff.

Yeah, right. I was dreaming.

He follows me out the door. Follows me as I try to unlost myself. When I say goodbye, he follows some more and grabs my arm and interlaces it with his. I pull away in total shock. Now it is starting to sink in. I get a little more firm, tell him I want to go now and I will send him an email sometime, thanks for everything, take care.

He follows.

He follows.

I turn a sharp corner and start running while he is unable to see me, cause I've made a distance between us.

Then I turn another corner and speed walk. I look behind me. He's not there.

BAM! He had taken a f&*#$&*#($@#$@G SHORTCUT so that he could INTERCEPT me when I went around the next corner. I come face-to-face with him the instant I come around the building, and he's got this big accomplished smile on his face, like, "You didn't think you could get away that easily, did you? You coy little doe you!"

I nearly faint in shock. I feel like Jason Bourne. Shit. Yeah, cursing time. I turn about face and storm in the other direction swiftly. He follows.

He follows.

He follows.

So I pick up the pace and come around yet another corner. HE'S THERE!!!!!!!! He did it AGAIN!!!! He took a short-cut and wound up right in my path AGAIN!!!!!

I reverse back around the corner and fly like a panicked bird into the first door I see: it's a tailor shop with a handful of startled and conservative women gazing up at me.

By the way, this happened again the next day. He apparently followed me home without me knowing it and was there when I left the apartment the next morning. I was so terrified after that that I didn't leave the apartment for two days in a row after my second encounter with him--not even to get food, not for anything. I refused to go outside.

The One Who Compared Me to The Most Beautiful Whore in Istanbul

Stalker Alert Level: Dark Orange with Red Polka Dots

Hilarity Level: Very Effing Hilarious

SO, I'M SITTING NEXT TO HIM on my way to Taksim. We're almost there. He's leaning over, staring at me. I want to get off at the next stop, but I'm late for work. I cannot wait for the next bus.

Finally, he starts with (all dialogue in Turkish), "You're very beautiful."

I force myself not to smile. I know this is a disaster in the making, but it's nice to hear that, let's be honest. But I don't respond. He leans closer, trying to get in front of my eyes, which I am intentionally diverting away from him out the window, watching the street and the cars go by.

"Do you like discos? I like discos," he moves in for it now.

"No," I respond, deadpan. "I hate discos. I hate parties. I hate leaving my house. No."

"Do you want to go to a disco with me?" he asks. Obviously, what I said really sunk in.

"No," I snap. "No, I hate discos," I add for emphasis, like he must have missed it the first time.

"You're very beautiful," he says again.

Once more, I grit my teeth not to openly blush and further divert my eyes.

"Would you like to meet sometime?" he goes for the more mundane request.

"No."

"Do you have a boyfriend?"

"I'm married."

"I don't believe you. You don't have a ring. What, you don't think I'm sexy?" he says so candidly that I almost burst out laughing. I strain my eyes in his direction for a moment to get a good look at him. I know he won't accept my answer if he knows I haven't even looked at him. He's certainly not sexy, but I'm not that mean (though I should be). He looks a bit like a wannabe Tarkan three weeks without a shower and in his first hour of the worst hangover of his life. His hair is all spiked up in an intentional mess, his face set in stone with the perfect "I'm cool" expression, and he's at least a foot shorter than me.

"That's not the point," I tell him. "I am going to work. That's it. I'm not looking for a boyfriend. I don't care who you are, all I want is to go to work."

"We can just be friends," he counters.

"No," I counter counter. "My husband is jealous and I love him and I'm going to work and the answer is No."

"Please. Look at me. I'm going to cry," he begs.

This is unbelievable. What a moron. I look at him regardless because I just have to see this act in progress. I'm half annoyed, but cannot help examining the free entertainment I'm getting here. Yes, his face is distorted and twisted as though he's just been kicked in the balls.

"Are you an immature stupid little boy?" I ask him, thinking this will wound his pride and cause him to straighten up.

"Yes," he answers. Whoops. I never saw this angle coming, but I should have known. I know Turkish men well enough, and I should have known he'd take that one and run with it. "I'm a little baby boy and I'm crying for you," he pleads, pretending to cry.

"Allahım," I say under my breath. What the f%*k am I supposed to say now? Nothing. That is my plan. Silence. Ignore the retard.

"Look," he says, as if preparing his big guns, "I can get the most beautiful woman in Istanbul for only $20, so why won't you go out with me?" The exact phrase he uttered to me was indicative of a subversive sexual request, but I cannot translate this somehow. It was there, nonetheless, in full color. After all, he just compared me to a prostitute, the most beautiful prostitute in Istanbul.

But my jaw is metaphorically on the floor at this point, so I ask him, "$20 for what?!?!?! What can you get her for? What? Can you say that again please."

So he repeats the above line, then adds for emphasis, "And you are not even the most beautiful girl in Istanbul, so why are you acting so special? Who do you think you are?"

I point out bluntly, "I am not a prostitute."

He argues, "Exactly. I don't want a prostitute, which is why I want you. If I wanted a prostitute, I could get the most beautiful one in Istanbul for only $20. So there is no reason for you to deny me."

Aha! Great logic, but I'm sorry you uneducated dirt bag, I'm not that desperate. I don't even really need to say this. Anyone reading this probably spit out their milk at that line, or am I the only one who nearly fell over in shock?

I'm trying to amuse myself further, in some sadistic way, because I simply cannot get enough of this unbelievable thought process at work here trying to woe me, so I ask him again to tell me that part about the $20 for the most beautiful woman in Istanbul.

Again, he says it. And in his wording, again, there is this subversive yet intentionally obvious way of saying, "You are required to screw me for under $20 or even for free, because a) you're not the most beautiful woman in Istanbul and because b) I will call you afterwards, which means I care about you and therefore shouldn't have to pay for you at all."

At this point, thank Allah and Flying Pink Unicorns, we are almost to Taksim. Oh, please, hurry! Traffic open wide, let us through!

He spends the rest of the ride asking in every possible way if we can walk together in Taksim. The answer is No, No, and Hell No.

Soon as the doors open, I fly out of them and hit the pavement in a well-perfected speed walk that his little mushroom legs couldn't keep up with even if he were a dog after all. I never see him again, but hey, what a guy, right?

Welcome

So, I decided to start this blog because I live in Istanbul and I am stalked or have "near stalking experiences" almost daily. They are so comical and entertaining that a friend of mine said I ought to create a blog dedicated solely to stalking experiences.

Great idea. They happen so often. You be the judge of the comedy therein. I can never get over how funny the scenario always is. Maybe I just love the attention, but at the heart of it, it's truly hilarious either way. Once you read a few stories, you may see that this isn't just my amusement over being called pretty all the time. My ego would much prefer the same one man to tell me this daily than twenty strangers.

Alas, I must also put a HUGE DISCLAIMER. I have no desire to be politically correct. I give up the idea that I can speak my mind while also not pissing someone, somewhere off. Other disclaimers involve Turkish men. I'll come right out with the truth and confess that I'm madly in love with a Turkish man, so it goes without saying that not all Turkish guys are like the ones in my stories. Hmm, there must be another disclaimer. I knew on my way here on the metro and made a mental note. Now it's slipped my mind. What was the last disclaimer? (By the time you read it, you can be sure I was thinking for at least 10 minutes between the previous sentence and the one that comes after these parentheses). *thinking* Forgot.

Okay, so also I know I'm writing about Istanbul, which is not as fancy as Paris, London, New York, or even the Bahamas. Bear with me. Some pretty amusing things happen in other parts of the world, believe it or not, and if you really need to, just imagine all the characters are named Bob, John, Jessica, Elizabeth, or Chris in order for the stories to feel real to you. But likely there is going to be a lot of Murat, Emir, Alp, Emre, Deniz, and Savas right here, so get used to it. (By the way, Savas means "war" in Turkish, and yes a popular Turkish name is War. Imagine that, naming your child War. WTF? Seriously, right?)

Let the stalking begin.