The Big Country

Turkish Prison Rehash

Midnight Express is one of those movies that springs to mind when I travel. If you've ever taken goods through customs that you shouldn’t have (Cuban cigars, delicious sausages or uncut heroin) a sinking feeling is sure to come as you pass by the agents. At that time, I think of what happened to Billy in the movie. After he's caught, he spends years in a Turkish prison, partakes in the love that dare not speak its name with Randy Quaid (no, not Dennis Quaid... that would be, uh, getting off easy) and has a furious masturbation session with his college girlfriend pressing her bosoms against the glass of the prison visitors booth. The moral was pretty clear: Don’t tape hashish to your body and try to smuggle it out of Turkey.

So it was with some surprise that I saw this item in Page Six today:

YOU'D think that after five scary years in a Turkish prison on a drug charge - the trauma that inspired the 1978 movie "Midnight Express" - Billy Hayes would know better than to go back, especially since he might be a wanted man there. But Hayes is appearing this weekend at the Istanbul Conference on Democracy and Global Security, at the invitation of the Turkish National Police.

Remember, Hayes escaped from prison. He didn’t serve the full term. And he was invited back? What, for spreading the good word about the Turkish prison system?

“Let us show you to your cell—I mean room, Mr. Hayes…”

The Watchmen

I spent a few days in Albania back in 2005. While I can’t vouch for everyone in the greater Tirana area, everyone I met was helpful, friendly, and hoped that I would give Albania some good ink. My watch stayed on my wrist the whole time (except in the shower), too.

Actually, it’s the potholes you need to lookout for. Those, and the worst drivers in Europe, an impressive distinction for the country. Albania is best summarized by a typical hairpin turn there. Imagine: a road carved into the side of a mountain with a sheer drop into the Ionian sea below with potholes that make only half the road passable; a clapped out Mercedes passing a bus as it goes around the bend; and a large memorial by the side of the road to a driver who died in a car accident there, complete with flowers, a photo and a hubcap from the car.

To be fair, the burek were far better in Albania than in either Serbia or Montenegro. So they do have that going for them. 

Listicles

and group written blogs: do we need more of them?

No, we do not.

Virgin's Sickening New Ad Campaign

Walking home in the East Village last week, I came upon this bit of viral marketing from the people at Virgin Atlantic: A gigantic barf bag affixed to the side of a building. Unlike Ryanair, which uses the barf bag space to sell much smaller advertisements, this barf bag--actual size, that of a human torso--is all about Virgin Atlantic.

I couldn't capture the whole thing in one go, but to summarize, it tells a tale of how flying used to be nice, and now it, uh, blows chunks, and if you fly in the front of the plane with Virgin, you will be happy. Oh, and their copywriters seem to be under the impression that Americans don't use the phrase "jazzed" and that airlines sell "mini meat logs" as part of their snack boxes.

I shall not comment further on the mini meat logs, but I noticed this morning that the bags had been refreshed from over the weekend, when, uh, they were gently used. At least there was a contingency plan. In the East Village, you takes your chances if you actively encourage people to vomit.

   

Kingsford and Jeeves

Working on a piece for a magazine (let’s call it Voyages + Relaxation) I procured a deal with a hotel that involved a butler specifically assigned to help guests barbecue during their stay. Have we, as a society, come to that? Is this an Americanized take on palm fronds and peeled grapes?

I question the BBQ Butler (or BBQB) as someone who, last month, melted the driveway of his family home during a first ever attempt at using a charcoal grill. And that was after I exploded the stone walkway leading to the house. Yes, when I cook, explosions, rubble and craters are all possibilities. Hence my nom de grill: Rolling Thunder. But clearly, if anyone needs help with their Weber, it’s me.

Even I was surprised about the idea of a BBQB, which evokes the image of a man in white tie attire sweating over a grill, possibly catching his tails on fire. Ultimately, isn’t part of the fun of grilling the fact that it often ends in disaster? Charred meats are eventually polished off if you’ve got friends who are classy drunks, and it’s an easy way to feel a sense of accomplishment.

Give me a sedan chair over a BBQB any day of the week.

Gravity's (Cheesy) Rainbow

At a rooftop barbecue the other weekend, I was introduced to a frightening new specimen in the hot dog kingdom. Writing about food, I’ve been spoiled by, oh, let’s call them “artisianal dogs”. You know the type: Fearless Franks from Niman Ranch or tube steaks made from the tails and snouts of pigs that graze on land owned by aristocratic families from Prussia. At this particular BBQ, I came into contact with something from the other end of the food spectrum: a cheesy hot dog.

It’s a hot dog filled with cheddar on the inside (presumably, it’s injected with cheddar by buxom women wearing tight lab coats, in a sparkling laboratory modeled on the set from CSI: Miami), which melted as the frank was cooked on the grill.  I hated them, mostly because they were impossible to avoid. There was no way to tell from looking what horrors lurked on the inside. I knew, just knew, that eating a cheesy dog would end in tragedy.

And of course it did. Eating one and talking to a friend, I bit into the dog and arced a stream of hot cheddar into the air and onto my friend’s face and hair. At least next time, I’ll be able to give bystanders fair warning.