We have arrived in Adrasan, Turkey. It is a place of slow-moving rivers, cicadas and ducks everywhere, in short Nirvana. I have a perfect view of the idyll from our little balcony. There could be no better time to finish the first draft of Baller, my script chronicling tree-planters finding their way in the northern wilds of British Columbia.
Our ’boutique hotel’ charges 5 euros extra for air conditioning; on principle, we don’t pay. A cold shower followed by a good read, and we are almost asleep, in spite of the toilet running on and on and the Germans chattering outside our window about their World Cup win. I flush the toilet to get it to stop, which doesn’t work, and then just close the bathroom door. I dream that I am by a dirty old river.
And then the music starts – pumping, endlessly repetitive – from a row of nearby clubs. But we can’t close the windows – it’s just too hot and must listen to the bass go on and on. By the time we finally get used to the pounding drops, the call for prayer comes from the mosque. The club music continues on after that, the same, until finally it is no longer.
It is late now – early in the morning – and the birds are suddenly awake, the worst the pigeons whose call sounds like an annoying person who keeps saying the same thing again and again. I dream about my brother doing that.