Antalya is yet another Mediterranean paradise, with sprawling beaches cut into cliff rock, palm-lined boulevards, and of course, many Turkish men trying to huck their goods. I arrived in the early evening at my hotel, the Sabah Pension in the Antalyan ‘Old City’. After passing a quiet evening with a plate of lamb kebab and a borrowed Lonely Planet guide, I went to bed early to wake up at sunrise and walk along the waterfront and take a picture or two:

I quickly took a standard “Turkish breakfast” (boiled egg x 2, feta cheese, tomato + cucumber salad, olives, bread, Nescafé) and walked out into the cool morning air while the sun slept, towards the Hadrian Gate at the entrance to the Old City.

A shoe-shine man stood next to the gate, and tried to lure me over to his stand.

“Hello my friend, where you from? Come here please.”

Pointing to my sandals, I offered him a glance that said “oh ho ho, good sir, but the un-shoelike nature of my footwear has thwarted you!” and continued on. But he persisted.

“Yes please, it’s no problem. Come here, I show you.”

With such a stern manner did he say this—as a command rather than a request—that in my early-morning stupor (Nescafé offers a meagre caffeine kick, after all) I did exactly what he said.

This proved to be a grave mistake. In Turkey, as anywhere else where tourists are regularly accosted by street merchants, it is usually the correct move to ignore anyone trying to strike up conversation using any of the following intro lines: “My friend…”, “Hello sir, where are you from?”, and that Turkish peculiarity, “Yes please…”. You’ll note that none of these lines can be responded to with “no”. Their aim is to get you talking, and where there is talking, so begins the selling. Just walk away.

But I didn’t. Instead I wandered over to his shoe-shine stand. It was little more than a metal foot rest with some creams and brushes scattered around it. He kept talking, and without looking down, scooped up some paste with his finger and tried to apply it to my sandal. I anticipated this, and moved my foot out of the way.

“No no no no, it’s OK sir. Just to test. A test.”

I told him I didn’t want any.

“Where from? France? Belgium? Ahh, Belgium! You from Belgium, yes?”

And with a bit of legerdemain he quickly thrust his finger out and smeared my sandal with the paste before I could move.

Now I was angry, and told him to wipe it off at once.

“OK sir,” he said, and reached for a cloth. But his hand veered away from the cloth and instead grabbed a wire brush, and he began scrubbing the paste into the leather. I was livid, but powerless to do anything, lest I walk away with a single paste-encrusted sandal. So as he scrubbed, I continued to scold and berate him for being so rude.

“Is this how you make your money? Ripping people off?” I said.

“No, it’s OK, no money, no money!” he replied, as if he expected not to be paid. Hospitality has its limits, even Turkish hospitality.

When he finished with my right foot, he lunged forward with both hands to try to grab my left foot. I shook him off, and simply walked away. He offered no protest, and I offered no money, for it would be wrong to reward such rudeness, would it not?

So what was a man with one polished shoe to do? With the bitter taste of the attempted con job still in my mouth, I went down to the beach and scuffed up the sandal real good. Take that, shoe-shine man.

This entry was posted on Saturday, October 20th, 2007 at 10:16 am and is filed under Touts, Turkey.