Ayvalik

‘Is this Ayvalik?’ I ask the driver as he gestures for me to leave the coach.
‘Evet, Ayvalik,’ he replies.
I call Hilal.
‘Alo?’ she asks with her soft voice.
‘Hi Hilal! I’m really sorry to bother you again at work,’ I say embarrassed.
‘That’s ok Marina, don’t worry. Everything alright?’ she asks.
‘Well, I need to get a Hotel room and don’t want to ask the taxi driver, might end up back in Istanbul!’ I explain. 'Could you please have a quick look in Google for me?’
‘Sure, give me twenty minutes. I’ll call you back,’ she says.
‘Please, can you make sure that it’s located near the ferry dock? That’ll save me time tomorrow,’ I explain.
‘Sure!’ she confirms.
‘And don’t worry about the cost, it’s just for one night. I want to be in comfort so, five star is ok,’ I say.
‘Ok, I’ll call you back,’ she says.

I spot a café by the entrance and sit outside. I get a çay. The tulip glass too hot to handle. The flies an intermittent pain.

The heat is beginning to subside and the sun paints Ayvalik’s coach station in golden hues.

The smell of peynir tost diverts my attention back to the café and I order one. A toastie arrives oozing cheese. I devour it before the flies do.

A man walks about the coach station dispensing orders to uniformed drivers. His stocky trunk precedes him solemnly. His hair is thick and has been given a flat top. So flat and thick it is that you could balance a book on it. His nose shoots down pointedly from the centre of his brow and his eyes are big and round. An owl comes to mind.

Hilal calls. ‘Ayvalik Palas Hotel say that they have applied for stars and are waiting for them,’ she explains. Being the most promising prospect near the ferry dock, I take it.

A white reception greets me. I walk through to the desk. Behind it, a round, balding man sits. I say hello and he replies curtly in Turkish. I try my best with the aid of my dictionary but we just cannot understand each other. I call Hilal, apologising again at abusing her hospitality, asking her to tell the man that I need a room for one night.

I offer my mobile to the receptionist – he looks at me confused. I extend my arm even further towards him; shaking the mobile and raising my eyebrows in unison. He takes it.

He warms up to me a bit on the way to the room. He shows me the room and I say, harika! – he smiles proudly and nods in agreement; he also thinks the room is wonderful.

Outside, the vanishing sun sets the Aegean on fire.

I check out after breakfast and manage to ask the receptionist if I can leave my suitcase until my ferry leaves. He assents, pointing at the wall. I decide to explore Ayvalik before calling Ugur, Hilal’s friend. Walking down the narrow cobblestone streets, I pass a bakery enticing me with a delicious smell and displaying a myriad of breads. Just baked, they sit tantalising – plump with spinach, peynir and sucuk sausage stuffing. Sesame covered simits line the bottom shelf, looking like edible buoys. Opposite, an unisex hairdressers displays a sign reading ‘Magic Hair kuaför’ and I wonder if owl-man is a customer.

I call Ugur. He’s coming to pick me up with his motorbike. We are going to Cunda beach.

Back in the Hotel, three words and some gesturing suffice, plaj, bikini, tuvalet. The receptionist takes my suitcase. I follow him. He offers me the use of a staff bedroom to change. I thank him profusely. Before leaving, he directs my attention to a square metal plaque attached to the door frame – he flips it towards him then moves it back. He points at the door. I understand that’s the locking device.

I change into my bikini. Ready to go, I pull the metal plaque towards me. It resists. It’s solidly fastened against the door. I try again much harder whilst levering the door handle and pulling towards me. There’s not an inch of movement. I get my fingers on the edge of the plaque, trying to ease them under it, pulling so hard that my eight fingertips turn white. It doesn’t move. I pace around the room. I need to think. I shoot back towards the plaque, determined to get out. Huffing and puffing I try again. ‘Come on you fucker!’ escapes through my clenched teeth. My fingertips become lily white. The door solid as a granite slab, my mouth as dry. I’m sweating. I look around inside my worst nightmare – no windows. A lonely lightbulb sheds a cavernous light. I pace circling the shrinking room. My heart is pumping fast. I need air. How long before I raise the alarm? I’ve got to call the receptionist. I picture him outside, unable to break the door in. He’s too short and fat. He’ll have to call the fire brigade. Is there a local one? My God! I lurch towards the plaque one more time. Nothing. I dial reception, the phone jumping out of my trembling hands. The receptionist answers leisurely talking too much. There’s no time. I interrupt him, 'I’m the Spanish woman, listen to me! I can’t get out, please help!’. He’s talking, I understand nothing. I need to let him know that I’m here, I haven’t gone for the day, I’m trapped. 'Ispanyol, bikini, still in the room!’. I don’t know what he’s saying. I hang up.

‘Hilal!’
‘Hi! how are you? Did you call my…?’ she begins cheerfully.
‘Listen to me! Please, listen to me! I’m claustrophobic, I’m trapped, in the Hotel!’ I pause, inhaling frantically the soon-to-run out precious oxygen. The door lock…it won’t open!’.
‘Ok, don’t panic, I’ll…’
‘Please listen! Oh my God! I don’t know…which number room, it’s not my room! The lock…it won’t open!
'I’m with you, I’m calling the Hotel now from the landline, I’m here, stay with me,’ she says.

I’m hyperventilating. Unable to stand still I walk to and fro, my arms twitching. I’m drenched. Salty threads run across my forehead finding their way into my eyes.

‘Marina, the receptionist is coming. In the meantime, he explained to me how to open it,’ she says.
Only, I know it’s a waste of time, it won’t open, it’s stuck!
‘You need to slide the plaque to the right and then pull towards you,’ she explains.
Before she’s finished the sentence, I’ve flicked the plaque open, away from the door, in a smooth, easy movement.

I open the door and a wide-eyed receptionist is waiting there with a woman holding a bottle of eau-de-cologne. I try to look normal. He looks worried and springs into action drying my forehead with his shirt sleeve. He takes my hands, turns them upwards, gets the bottle from the woman and sprinkles a copious amount on my wrists. He shakes the bottle over my head and lovingly spreads the scented water over my hair and forehead with his hand. I feel a tremor gurgling inside. I try to keep it there; to control the spasms travelling upwards, but my smile grows increasingly overstretched until, unable to contain it, I burst out.

Still laughing, I leave. Looking at the doctored photo on their marketing flyer, I notice three stars shooting downwards towards the Hotel. 'I hope he gets them,’ I say to myself, having experienced the best five star treatment ever.

©M.E.Romero