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.