We arrived in Izmir, Turkey ready to go out.  We found most of Turkey in December to be void of any kind of club scene.  However, Izmir is a large city and we were sure we would find nightlife.  We asked our hotel desk clerk and she suggested "The Cordon", a boardwalk atmosphere of cafés and bars.  We caught a taxi excitedly, told the driver we wanted to go to the waterfront and ten minutes later arrived at a darkened boat terminal.  We politely explained that we were looking for "restaurant".  He nodded knowingly and five minutes later we arrived at a darkened boardwalk. 

   The stacked chairs, folded awnings and lack of people gave the sidewalk a deserted look that the restaurant owners were probably not trying to achieve.  Upon closer inspection we saw some neon lights in windows.  We got out and walked in the rain along a row of storefronts.  Every fifty meters or so loud Turkish music and cigarette smoke would spill out of a door held open by a man inviting us in to a bar.  After a dozen identical bars and fifteen minutes in the rain we went into one and sat down.  We ordered drinks and enjoyed watching and listening to a party of loud Turks.  We never did figure out what they were celebrating but they seemed to know every word to the Turkish songs a female lead singer was belting out.  Of course, to us it sounded like a bleating sheep dying a horrible death.  When the mood hit me I wailed along with them and, not surprisingly, didn't attract any attention.     

We left there intent on finding a more western experience and eventually stumbled upon a place that served munchies and played music that could best be described as 'not-too-Turkish'.  The wooden tables, chairs and décor reminded me of an Irish pub.

     Our server spoke only "waiter-English" which is a little more sophisticated than "taxi-English", but just as ineffective.  We assumed it was safer to simply point at the menu items.  So we pointed at a variety of starters and the waiter pointed with us.  We pronounced the items as we pointed.  The waiter repeated our words and pointed.  He wrote something down on a pad of paper and retreated to the kitchen.

     Several minutes later he returned with our beer and took out his pad of paper.  He repeated our food order with a questioning tone.  We repeated our request, which confirmed his list.  He opened a menu and pointed.  We pointed.  He said, "fried squid?"  We said, "fried squid."  Satisfied, he nodded and trotted off.  Ten minutes later he returned with a cheese platter.

     We ate the cheese thinking it was some kind of house appetizer like peanuts at Jack Astor's.  When he returned we asked about the squid.  Perplexed, he referred to the cheese platter.  Clearly, his idea of fried squid was less squid-like than ours.  We tried speaking slower and louder.  We pointed at the menu again.  We pantomimed the motions of a squid. Eventually, someone used the word "calamari".  Immediately, recognition spread across his face.  He left the table just a little embarrassed, but still good-natured.  He returned ten minutes later beaming proudly and with many apologies.  He placed a bowl of steamy, slimy tentacles in front of us, wished us bon appetite, and retreated with a click of his heels.

     Before we could brainstorm ways to act out the concept of "fried" we decided to just eat the squid and never speak of it again.  I was so inspired by the slimy seafood experience and several Efes beers, that I was compelled to buy a mussel from a boy selling them on the street outside the bar. Seriously, steamed mussels served cold by a nine-year old boy.  Sometimes the most adventurous meals are the ones NOT found on the menu.