Sometimes, it’s the smallest things from which I derive the greatest pleasure, ‘Like, your small penis?’, I hear you snigger. No, like having a pastry store below my guesthouse, serving, well… pastry. I like, no… I live for pastry. And they serve nice black coffee too. No messing about with milk or cream, just pure coffee. Oh yeah, that feels good. Little bit of sugar, oh YEAH! *Face grimacing within pleasure*. I sit at my little table overlooking the street, taking it all in. This is what it’s all about, not the ancient sites, not the balloon rides, this. Now I’m ready to explore Urfa. I didn’t feel right where I was staying in Istanbul and Cappadocia, largely due to the absence of these 2 things, good coffee and pastry. In Istanbul, they were there, but because I stupidly stayed in the heart of the tourist district, it was massively overpriced. And, it involved being just another of the masses of tourists huddled together, I may as well be at home (wherever the hell that is). I’m not comfortable unless I get strange looks that suggest, ‘Who the fuck is this little white guy, and what’s he doing here?’. When I get that look, I think, ‘Ah, I’m now at ease. I’m somewhere else’. It means each day is a new adventure. And all you need to do is wave, and say ‘Hello’ in the local language, and the weird look turns to a smile, and a return wave is granted. I think this all says more about my battles with addiction and the peculiar habits from which I derive pleasure, than any great travel insight.

That’s all, carry on.