I started off my last day eating breakfast in the beautiful garden area of my cave motel. I was all set with my backpack, sunblock, water, and sunglasses.
The 27-year-old motel manager and I had discussed the pros and cons of me ditching the tour bus that day, but I decided to go with the original plan and hop on the bus. I waited for about half an hour, then asked the manager to call the tour company. No answer. He said something about running on Turkish time, so I waited some more. Another half hour came and went, and still no bus. He called again. Still no answer. Fifteen minutes later he called and they answered. They said they were not coming, and asked to speak to me. They said that my hotel manager canceled my tour the previous day, saying that I wanted to do my own thing.
WHAT???!!! I told them that I never told him to do that, and they should have verified the cancellation with me. I made it clear that I was not paying for the tour that never picked me up, either. They said they would talk to their boss about refunding me, then call me back.
I hung up the phone, then the manager’s father who owned the motel asked what happened. I explained the situation, the son denied telling them that I wouldn’t go on my tour, and I went out to the garden with their phone, waiting for the phone call.
The manager came over, asking for his phone. I asked if I could keep it a few minutes until the company had a chance to return the call. He retorted that they were not going to call back. I said that I would keep the phone until they did. He grumbled something, turned around and walked back into the lobby.
After about ten minutes, I got impatient. They had already wasted enough of my time, and the day would only get hotter. I wanted to get a move on my final day of site seeing, and I was angry enough at all the crap I had dealt with. I went to the lobby and handed the manager his phone. As I walked to the door he asked me what the company said. I replied that they never called back, put my hand on the door and opened it. I began to walk out when I heard him say, “I told you so.”
“What did you say?”
“I said that I told you they wouldn’t call back.”
Okay, that’s enough. I removed my hand from the doorknob, fixed my icy eyes on him and moved in on him, ready to go in for the kill.
“What’s your problem? Why have you been so rude?”
“I am not rude, you are rude.”
Seriously, one of the most frustrating parts about the Middle East is a steadfast denial of fault, regardless of how glaring it may be. Every time you point out someone’s unprofessionalism, their only weapon is to parrot the same fault back, even if it doesn’t make sense.
“You cancel my tour, let me sit here for over an hour waiting for it, then have the balls to make fun of me when I think that they will actually do what they say they will? That’s so rude!”
“No, you are rude!” The father walked in the room about this time, but the guy continued. “You are talking to me rude.”
“You really want to fight in front of your father, fine! Ever since you drank wine with me the other night, you have treated me like crap ever since. What’s wrong with you?”
I knew that would piss him off. His dad was as Muslim as mine is Mormon. Saying anything about breaking rules during Ramadan has the same affect as if someone would tell my dad something like that about me while he’s at church.
The guy stormed out of the room, and I followed right behind. Being married taught me a lot about how to not let someone get out of being yelled at, so I kept right on yelling as I followed him to his car. He turned around and I yelled for a couple more minutes about how much he sucked.
His reply, “Don’t talk to me. Fuck off!”
Done. “Okay, I’ll go talk to your father.”
“Nooooooo!!!!!!” But it was too late. I was already heading into the lobby.
Enough with the frustrating stupidity. I remembered my friend from work telling me that Middle Easterners hate it when you cry, plus the dad was an older gentleman so I knew a cry would do good things for me. I tossed my backpack onto the couch, plopped myself down and burst into tears. Admittedly, the tears were real. Enough was enough.
The father sweetly sat down near me and handed me tissues, looking very concerned. He asked me what happened, and I told him about how his son had been such a good friend to me when I first got there, and how I felt like we really bonded. He saw that I needed a friend and knew I was struggling in his exhausting country, so he was so nice to me and made me feel so welcome in Turkey. Then, once Ramadan started, he had been so nasty. I asked what kind of a man treats people well one day, then turns into a different person the next.
The dad gave me a cute little pep talk, told me that he was my father (I don’t know if my mom would agree), and that if I needed anything for the rest of the trip he would help me. I wadded up my tissues, cheered up and announced that I was going to go see the rest of their town. Then he excused himself so he could go spank his son.
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