Anyone who's lived thousands of miles from loved ones for long periods knows the depths of loneliness that sometimes arrive like the bora and blow you nearly to pieces. In these times, it's Wordsworth's "little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness" that keep the heart pumping.
If there's any connection between myself and those lovable mop-haired lads from Liverpool, it's pasty white skin resulting from an upbringing in cold, rainy northlands. Unfortunately, it's a biological influence that often turns tropical sun, surf and sand into a torturous experience, at least with an SPF less than 400.
Lying on a humidity-soaked bed near Galata Tower, hacking up the contents of my lungs grown by the ever-spreading ceiling mold and picking at a red line of bedbug bites on my ankles and wrists with a curved Uzbek knife, I finally resolved to change direction.