Let's talk about the Hotel.
It's very large with stunning views of the city and of the water. It's on it's own street, kind of a long private drive. There are perhaps ten guards posted along the street, and more are near the entrance. Before advancing to the hotel, all vehicles are checked for car bombs. They use a sweeping wand and detectors to look under and around the car and they check the interior and the trunk. Car bombs are a real issue here and detection is standard around the city. You walk into a revolving glass door that has a large vase of flowers in the middle and a chandelier lights the inside. Before you can enter further into the lobby, you must pass through metal detectors and bags are inspected with an x-ray machine, just like the airport. (This screening also occurs at malls and restaurants.) I'm getting used to it and I do feel safer with the checkpoints, but it's a little unnerving that they're even required. However, I'm still uneasy with the soldiers, police, and guards. They are armed with AK-47s and wear bullet proof vests. I'm glad they are equipped to handle any insurgents who may be similarly armed, but still..
There are three restaurants located within the hotel, a chocolate shop, an incredible jewelry store, Women's and Men's salons and a gift shop that carries Turkish souvenirs. There are indoor and outdoor pools, tennis courts, a fab gym where you can book sessions with personal trainers, a spa, saunas, and a jogging trail.
Due to the length of our stay and the number of rooms the team requires, we have some pretty sweet upgrades. We have member access to the top floor, which is the Executive Lounge. Sweet and savory snacks are served, there is open access to wines, beers, sodas, gourmet teas and coffees--all inclusive with the membership. The lounge has a marvelous balcony that is a wonderful place to go in the evenings and watch the boats pass. I'm currently inside the lounge; I come up for an hour or two each day and write or read with a cup of tea. I'm the youngest person I've seen here by far. Last week, a couple was politely asked to leave as they weren't members. They glared at me and asked if I was a member and the hostess just waved at me. You give your room number to the host before you're allowed entry and they check the list. They know me now and let me pass freely. It's a cool feeling.
Our room is spacious and has a lovely bed with down blankets and pillows. If you don't like the pillows, you can choose one of a dozen types they provide from the pillow menu. There are robes and slippers, heated towel racks.. The hotel handles our laundry and it comes back pressed, folded with tissue, and sealed inside plastic. Our socks have never been fluffier. I don't really use the mini bar, especially with the lounge access. We do use room service, which is directly from the menus from the restaurants.
I've been having some mail issues, and have spent quite a bit of time with the concierges. Everyone knows me here and I try to smile and acknowledge the staff. Some people I've witnessed completely ignore them, as if they don't exist. I think being friendly has helped, I'm certain that they provide excellent service, but they've really gone out of their way for me. The hotel has a fleet of taxis and a gentleman who wears a top hat and tails will tell them where to take you. He and I are a little more familiar than he is with other guests (he can be very formal). He smiles at me and says "Good morning Madame Katz, where are we off to today?" (The room reservation is under Brian's name and it's a Muslim country, so we just go with the name.)
It has been a mind boggling experience of opulence. I am thankful to be here, not just in these luxurious accommodations, but also to get goodnight kisses. I know the time will come where I won't be able to accompany Brian so I enjoy the time I'm here with him.
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
My Food was Lost in Translation
Judge all you'd like, but I'm in Turkey for ten weeks and sometimes local cuisine...I just miss some good old fashioned American junk food.
Ordering food at the small places is always a lottery for me. The larger restaurants usually have servers who speak some English and the menus are in English.We typically eat in lovely, fancy places as the team has a ridiculous daily food allowance. These are the type of places where a server wears a full suit, places your napkin in your lap for you, and heaven help you if you try to pour something into your own glass (the horror!) The wine and water (sparkling or still--never 'flat') I am getting used to, but occasionally I'll order a coke (glass bottle, a tiny cousin of the American or Mexican version) and even that I can't refill into my own glass. I was lucky enough to take years of etiquette classes and I consider myself versed in international manners, so I don't have too much trouble and can hold my own in the fanciest of places. I'm going to be so spoiled when I return to the states--I'll wait patiently in the cab for the valet to open my door, for a waiter to be assigned to our party only, and apparently, I will be the thirstiest at the table.
Sometimes, dinners with 'citrus foam' and 'saffron infused' and 'cheap' wine that's priced at $80 a bottle gets to be old. (I'm telling you, I feast like a queen here--thank you, Bank!) Maybe once per week, I'll sneak away and have a secret lunch that I eat in shame, hiding the take away bag inside a larger nylon one as I walk through the gilded hotel lobby. I rush up to my room and wonder what mystery the bag holds--as indeed, it's always a damn mystery. A couple of blocks away from the hotel, there's a complex with some American fast food. A Burger King, Pizza Hut, and the KFC from my dreams are nestled together, a Mecca for the obese and my secret lunches.
First, I'd like to point out that although the words are in English, no one speaks English here. Sure, it says Whopper on the board, but I cannot fathom why they don't understand when I say that! I've been reduced to holding up my fingers to correlate to the meal numbers and pointing out the door. They roll their eyes at me, walk back to the board and point to the picture. Yes, I'll vigorously nod, or we play the lean and point game. No, no, to the right! Over, over--wait, you passed it--go back! No, not back to the first one! Whopper! Whopper! Geeze, I'd settle for any of the cheeseburgers.
Second, it says Whopper, but it's all different. The patty looks irregular, hand shaped, perhaps? The ketchup tastes different, yellow mustard doesn't seem to exist here, it's all Dijon, even the bun is different. I've had some tasty fries abroad, but not the bastard children that you find at Burger King Turkey. Thin, pasty, and so pale. Did I mention they are served with mayonnaise? Bleh.
I was in for a shock last week, when I unwrapped my Whopper (it even said so on the wrapper-success!) and reached for my book. I took a bite without looking and spit it out so fast--the meat has gone bad! They tried to poison me! Upon further inspection, I realized they gave me chicken, because clearly 'take away' sounds like 'chicken' in Turkish. (It doesn't, I looked it up.)
Pizza Hut wasn't any better. I pointed at the picture on the menu and out the door, when three different waiters were frustrated because none spoke English. Finally, to my mortification, one started shouting in Turkish at the families eating! A young girl shyly spoke in halting English to me, and translated my request. Do you know how she translated? She pointed at the picture and out the door.
KFC...I had such high hopes. This one had all of the items listed in Turkish, so that was fun for me. I saved my potatoes and gravy last, wanting to savor the instant, gritty flavor that reminded me of so many dinners at the Lodge... Imagine my sadness when I discovered it was a cup of gravy, and not even the gravy from American KFCs. The biscuits were not their signature flaky biscuits, but a hard roll. If you've ever seen the South Park episode where KFC was banned in Colorado and Eric has to go to a Methadone clinic to break his addiction...well, that episode is starting to make more sense to me.
Ah, it's lunch time for me now, so I'm off to have some lentil soup and a panini. Oh the injustice of it all ;-)
Ordering food at the small places is always a lottery for me. The larger restaurants usually have servers who speak some English and the menus are in English.We typically eat in lovely, fancy places as the team has a ridiculous daily food allowance. These are the type of places where a server wears a full suit, places your napkin in your lap for you, and heaven help you if you try to pour something into your own glass (the horror!) The wine and water (sparkling or still--never 'flat') I am getting used to, but occasionally I'll order a coke (glass bottle, a tiny cousin of the American or Mexican version) and even that I can't refill into my own glass. I was lucky enough to take years of etiquette classes and I consider myself versed in international manners, so I don't have too much trouble and can hold my own in the fanciest of places. I'm going to be so spoiled when I return to the states--I'll wait patiently in the cab for the valet to open my door, for a waiter to be assigned to our party only, and apparently, I will be the thirstiest at the table.
Sometimes, dinners with 'citrus foam' and 'saffron infused' and 'cheap' wine that's priced at $80 a bottle gets to be old. (I'm telling you, I feast like a queen here--thank you, Bank!) Maybe once per week, I'll sneak away and have a secret lunch that I eat in shame, hiding the take away bag inside a larger nylon one as I walk through the gilded hotel lobby. I rush up to my room and wonder what mystery the bag holds--as indeed, it's always a damn mystery. A couple of blocks away from the hotel, there's a complex with some American fast food. A Burger King, Pizza Hut, and the KFC from my dreams are nestled together, a Mecca for the obese and my secret lunches.
First, I'd like to point out that although the words are in English, no one speaks English here. Sure, it says Whopper on the board, but I cannot fathom why they don't understand when I say that! I've been reduced to holding up my fingers to correlate to the meal numbers and pointing out the door. They roll their eyes at me, walk back to the board and point to the picture. Yes, I'll vigorously nod, or we play the lean and point game. No, no, to the right! Over, over--wait, you passed it--go back! No, not back to the first one! Whopper! Whopper! Geeze, I'd settle for any of the cheeseburgers.
Second, it says Whopper, but it's all different. The patty looks irregular, hand shaped, perhaps? The ketchup tastes different, yellow mustard doesn't seem to exist here, it's all Dijon, even the bun is different. I've had some tasty fries abroad, but not the bastard children that you find at Burger King Turkey. Thin, pasty, and so pale. Did I mention they are served with mayonnaise? Bleh.
I was in for a shock last week, when I unwrapped my Whopper (it even said so on the wrapper-success!) and reached for my book. I took a bite without looking and spit it out so fast--the meat has gone bad! They tried to poison me! Upon further inspection, I realized they gave me chicken, because clearly 'take away' sounds like 'chicken' in Turkish. (It doesn't, I looked it up.)
Pizza Hut wasn't any better. I pointed at the picture on the menu and out the door, when three different waiters were frustrated because none spoke English. Finally, to my mortification, one started shouting in Turkish at the families eating! A young girl shyly spoke in halting English to me, and translated my request. Do you know how she translated? She pointed at the picture and out the door.
KFC...I had such high hopes. This one had all of the items listed in Turkish, so that was fun for me. I saved my potatoes and gravy last, wanting to savor the instant, gritty flavor that reminded me of so many dinners at the Lodge... Imagine my sadness when I discovered it was a cup of gravy, and not even the gravy from American KFCs. The biscuits were not their signature flaky biscuits, but a hard roll. If you've ever seen the South Park episode where KFC was banned in Colorado and Eric has to go to a Methadone clinic to break his addiction...well, that episode is starting to make more sense to me.
Ah, it's lunch time for me now, so I'm off to have some lentil soup and a panini. Oh the injustice of it all ;-)
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