I’d resigned myself to being mistaken for a German. I’ve nothing against them, of course, far from it. It’s just that I’m not one. But it does have its advantages when you’re trying to get things done. Quite a few Turkish people have worked in Germany, often for decades, and so speak the language. Fluently. And, despite my protestations that I speak only a little bit of German, it always comes thick and fast, the odd word discernable. But enough to get by.
I’d reached the town of Turkeli, unusually whilst still light, a day’s ride short of Sinop and the onward journey to meet up with my father. Choice to two hotels – the familiar workers establishment, or the ’Turistic’ one. I plumped for the latter – out of season little difference in cost – hoping, in this instance somewhat optimistically, you will eat in their restaurant – and usually with a few of life’s luxuries. Like hot water when you want it, rather than just at some obscure time of the day.
I was warmly greeted by an old man, perhaps another guest, possibly the owner, it was hard to say. But very helpful, and a German speaker. Twenty years with Volkswagen. He helped with the bags, and understood the bike would be in the room with me. Even found me a German satellite news channel.
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