Nothing Happened. Everything was round.

Booked the trip on a whim. Nine days in Side, Turkey. All-inclusive. I wanted sun, silence. A break.

Hoped it would do me good.

The flight over was too warm, and there was no water on board. They offered me tomato juice.

In the row ahead, a man lit a cigarette. No one stopped him. He puffed away on something cheap. Smelled like burnt cloves and floor cleaner.

As we descended, the air steward announced the airline’s CEO was on board. Asked us to join a round of applause.

The hotel was lovely. Big pool, marble floors, mirrored pillars. In the middle of a building site.

A solitary white plastic sunbed sits on a rubble-strewn patch of ground, surrounded by broken concrete and debris. The sun is harsh overhead, casting stark shadows. In the distance, a hazy blue sea is barely visible. The scene is empty, quiet, and slightly off.

Half-finished hotels on either side, cranes frozen in the heat, stray dogs picking through piles of plasterboard.

Meals were on a strict schedule. Breakfast at seven. Lunch at noon. Dinner at five.

Everything was round. Discs of meat, flat bread, little pastries doused in syrup.

Large tables were set for twelve but occupied by one or two. We ate in silence, avoiding eye contact.

The all-you-can-drink bar had four options. Local beer in a can or one of three premixed cocktails: green, blue, and pink.

Pink was the best. You could pour it yourself.

Every evening from eight, local men swarmed into the hotel’s late bar. They danced in a circle with their arms around each other, linked hands, swaying.

I joined in once. No one said a word. No one smiled.

After a few nights, I went for a wander. The streets were dark and empty. It felt dangerous. Found a dingy bar blasting rock and roll into the abyss.

It exclusively played Led Zeppelin videos projected onto a massive screen. No menu, no conversation. Just Page, Plant, Jones, and Bonham.

They served kebabs cooked in earthenware jars, then smashed into a bowl. I’ve never eaten so much crockery.

Kept going back. Midweek, a lost-looking German couple walked in. The bartender looked surprised, too.

I joked it was nice for them to hear real music after all the David Hasselhoff at home.

The man rolled his eyes: “You all think we love him. We don’t. I have, like, one album by the Hoff.”

On the last day, I treated myself to an à la carte dinner in the hotel restaurant. It was the same food I’d had all holiday, only the waiter fetched it for me and put it on a fancy plate.

At nine-thirty, they turned off the music and switched on the lights. The staff wanted to go home. So did I.

Had a great time.

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