Why wasn't this as hilarious 20 years ago?
...apparently nobody bothered to tell me that Turkey is a Muslim country and I’m neither supposed to smile at unfamiliar men nor flash inappropriate décolletage.
Bah.
What’s the point of going to a foreign country if I can’t belt around the Mediterranean in my nekkids?
My family calls me Globet.
It’s a shortened version of ‘Globetrotter’, which emerged when I went to Japan for a year after high school. At that point, I firmly believed I was destined for a life of international travel, translation and espionage. When I was 16 I unwrapped my 5 year passport with a frenzied envisage of the battered document it would become over the next few years, stamped and manipulated by exotic border inspectors all over the globe.
Now it’s 11 years later and I haven’t left the country since. The closest I’ve come to an overseas trip was a weekend trip to Tasmania. International travel has as much appeal to me as female circumcision. The language is different, the people are different, the currency is different, my Melways is fricken useless and do you have ANY idea how long you have to sit in a plane to get from Australia to any country that isn’t Australia?! Bloody hell. I get cranky when it takes me longer than 15 minutes to get to work.
Globet may still redeem herself however. It turns out I’m going to Turkey in September. A very lovely girlfriend of mine is organising an “I’m-Secretly-Pissed-Off-That-I’m-Almost-Thirty-But-I’m-Pretending-I’m-Thrilled” trip. To Turkey. Because apparently Turkey is the place to have a quasi-midlife crisis. I’m going because it seems silly not to, and it might be fun to get drunk in a country where they won’t even notice I’m slurring my speech. And the blokes might prove to be a tad more useful than these titsonabull Aussie goons.
To be completely honest, I don’t even know where Turkey is. I do know my best mate in high school had a turkey called Neil, whom we ate for Christmas – a disappointingly unhelpful anecdote, but he tasted damn good.
