A letter from Turkey

My Turkish never having got beyond intermediate, I always have the same conversation with taxi drivers. ‘Where are you from?’ ‘England, actually I’m a Scotsman,’ I say. Cue suppressed giggles about skirts and whisky from the driver, perhaps a mention of Braveheart. I ask: ‘Where are you from?’ Most taxi drivers in Istanbul are from the Black Sea and they repeat the clichés about Black Sea types: ‘Oh everyone likes you, you’re hard-working with sense of humour.’ True, but Trabzon, the main Black Sea port, is now a minor hellhole of hideous concrete, Islamic nationalist triumphalism, and black-clad women trotting behind hubby. And you cannot find a restaurant with a bottle of wine for five miles. ‘Yes,’ say the drivers, ‘but at least we have fewer Kurds.’ I say, ‘Look, you mustn’t talk like that, they are fellow citizens, I know many decent Kurds and so must you.’ The usual reply is, ‘Oh yes, my father-in-law.