#ThrowbackThursday with Norm Payne & Phillip Solomon

Peer pressure is not something Phillip Solomon of Tourcan Vacations yields to.

He is an erudite, conscientious, measured individual – not given to rash or impulsive behaviour.

Very amusing too! Our FAM to Turkey was exceptionally informative, very enjoyable; we experienced a lot, and even had a CWT guy in our group who looked exactly like Jerry Springer. He was a hoot.

Early on the sunny morning of Phillip’s birthday, our group gathered in anticipation at the ornate Sultan’s Gate of the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul.

Lo and behold, along comes the King and Queen of Denmark; they too wanted to visit the Grand Bazaar.

Their entourage was small and the security detail discreet, yet palpable. Smiling, they waved to us as we all entered and promptly parted company, our group splintering as we proceeded in search of Turkish treasures.

Phillip and myself presently found ourselves alone, wandering this Byzantine labyrinth, and every now and then we crossed paths with the Royal entourage. They say, some people go into the Grand Bazaar and are never seen again. There are alleys within alleys and alleys filled with every kind of rug, lamp, sword, garment, bijou, and footwear you could ever desire or imagine. And mint tea everywhere. 3,000 plus shops, over 90 million shoppers a year, would you know!

Suddenly Phillip said to me, “I really have to go to the loo, do you think we might find one in this maze!?”

“Of course,” I self-assuredly responded, eager to solve a minor travel emergency.

“Whaddya know Phillip?” I exclaimed a minute later. “Here’s one. Looks like you have to pay but its very clean!”

An unusually large intimidating coin operated turnstile blocked the entrance. Shopkeepers sat around languorously awaiting prospects, sipping mint tea; some were smoking, a few snoring.

Phillip fished into his pocket and promptly began feeding coins into the slot. But the ingrate turnstile spat them right back.

“Use the big coins,” I urged. No luck, and with a loud jangle the three armed bandit derisively spewed those right back too.

“Oh, just climb over the darn thing,” I remonstrated.

“No way!” countered Phillip. “I, am not going to do  t – h – a - t!”

So I dipped into my cargo pants. “Here, try this loonie and the toonie, maybe they’ll work.” No such luck – the good Elizabethan coin of the realm was unceremoniously rejected.

“But I really have to go,” he implored, eyes narrowing, knees crossing.  

“Just climb over the top Phillip, and let me take care of it,” I firmly instructed. With a quick apprehensive look around Phillip vaulted the turnstile, promptly made a beeline for a stall.

It all then happened in a flash, as if someone rubbed Aladdin’s lamp – the wrong way!

There was a co-ordinated screech of many chairs on concrete, grunts of outrage to the accompanying sound of mint teacups downed with firm purpose. Cigarettes were flicked aside as shopkeepers spontaneously surged for the washroom entrance, some rolling up their sleeves. They meant business!

From the depths of the washroom a figure sprang out, reprimanding in Turkish – she stopped Phillip in his tracks and brandishing a toilet brush she frog-marched him back to whence he came.

With each deft sweep and thrust of her toilet brush, water flew off. Phillip grimaced, bending further, backwards over the turnstile while I tried to reason with the riled-up shopkeepers on the other side.

A security guard costumed as a Janissary ran over; a coiled whip and a big, sharp, mendacious scimitar hanging from his belt. Then one of his pom-pom festooned booties came flying off. His bare foot landed on a still-lit cigarette. Halting midstride, he grabbed his singed foot and hopped around on the other - yowling.     

Phillip tumbled back over the turnstile, rather peeved.

“Now look what you’ve got me into Norm, this is Turkey – remember Midnight Express?”

I reasoned with the shopkeepers. We couldn’t understand a word of their invective, nor they our reasoning, in any language we tried. Voices were raised, there was much gesticulating – but little communication!

‘’Baksheesh! Baksheesh!’’ said Phillip, offering the attendant an outstretched hand full of coins.

‘’Evet, evet,!” She disapproved, whacking his hand and scattering the coins on the tiled floor.

I yanked Phillip through the melee of shopkeepers. “Let’s make a run for it,” I urged.

We bolted, as one shopkeeper hollered after us. “Thiis weemun’s toalet – no mans allowed!’’   Right!

The attendant, still yammering and waving her toilet brush about, aimed it at Phillip – he ducked.

Like a boomerang it bounced off an ornamental lamp – right over her head and straight back into the ladies’ washroom as water droplets flew off mid-flight, spritzing the offended shopkeepers who dove for cover.

‘’Do you think that is their way of getting us to buy a rug?’’ Phillip queried as we scurried off.

We rounded the alley and ran smack into the Royal entourage! Their security detail promptly ‘reached’ in a familiar manner, and spoke into their ‘watches’.

“Oh God, now you’re going to get me shot,’’ despaired Phillip.

Dashing away, we heard the Queen say to the King in her charming Danish accent, “Oh my! Two Peekpokkets!”