When to leave home without it (Pt. I)

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You're off to work, to school, to workout, to hang out, to chill out, to shop, to travel, to go out, or simply leaving the house and, like clockwork, you never leave home without it. I don't have to tell you what "it" is; you already know. Like indispensable motherly advice -- look both ways before crossing -- common sense hygiene -- wash hands before eating -- and basic arithematic --100 / 2 = 50 -- you, no doubt, are hard pressed to ever leave the house sans a bank card or credit card (or cell phone). Most folks will likely forget to turn off the iron or lock themselves out of the house before exiting without the almighty plastic.

We have learned never to leave home without it but, y'know, that is one habit worth unlearning at times as a recent experience has reinforced for me. Being the budget traveller that I am my spending habits run the gamut from cheap to cheaper. I make use of my debit card about as freely as I'm called upon to perform CPR. My preference is for real tender and I carry as much as I can stand to spend at any one time. Better to be caught short and return the next day than to have regrettably bought a shitload of souvenir crap or designer jeans or six rounds of €80 drinks.
Eighty euro drinks, what what?!

For the what, where, who, and why do read on what, what. A common scam in these parts is to invite an unsuspecting foreigner to a disco, make a jolly sucker out of him, then drop all pretense and stick him with the bill which amounts in the ridiculous sum of hundreds of euros (odd they don't bill in Turkish liras; odder still I did not hear of this dirty Turkish trick until after the fact).

return my black ass to Nigeria and never come back

Whilst sitting one evening working to convince myself of the pleasure of the water pipe -- I ordered coconut -- a friendly English speaking local (red flag #1) plopped himself down (red flag #2) and initiated conversation. As he was well dressed I assumed he was a student, rich kid, businessman or fellow traveller and, admittedly, was glad to communicate with someone sans elaborate gestures that would make even a professional mime scream aloud. Turns out he was a businessman (red flag #3) and was so full of jam and compliments (red flag #4). It was his last night in Istanbul so was I up for some carousing and sexy, sexy sluts? Was I! My name ain't not Rufus Wainwright for nothing. Who knows, maybe that water pipe was kicking in! At any rate, with his business partner, a short and hairy chested man with a distinctly Roman haircut, in tow (red flag #5) we three jumped in a cab (red flag #6) and left Taksim (red flag #7) for the Hilton Hotel. But, first, we stopped at a club (red flag #8).

I immediately pegged the tacky neon haunt a training ground for gold-digging Russian mail-order brides (red flag #9) and a money drainer, but the short chap assured me it was on them. All right, if I don't have to pay then bring on the Alize! In no time the sexy, sexy sluts joined us at our table (red flag #10) and, as prejudice would have it, they were Russian, no less (red flag #11). Naturally drinks were ordered for them -- by the two "businessman". After chatting and laughing and dancing and toasting, the one fellow leans in to ask if I would be paying with cash or credit card (red flag #12).

"Me neither," I smiled. "This is your treat. I have no money."

It was at this point I smelled a rat and called over the cheap suit who appeared to be the manager and asked him point blank: Did you hire these two to bring me in here? Are you all working together? He, of course, denied it and we four proceeded to the back office to continue the farce; but in short order all masks were abandoned. No more cautionary flags were needed.

I saw clearly the scam into which I fell; but I was cool. They lied and screamed foul play, they said it was I who invited them, they threatened and swore; but I was cool. The manager demanded my credit card and said he would kill me; but I was cool. They hurled racist declarations and demanded again my credit card; but I was cool. I even pulled out my mobile and pretended to call my lawyer.

Bottom lines were one, I really had no credit card to fork over and just five liras in my pocket, and two, these men were despicable scam artists. The why? Because they're low-lives -- racist low-lives, at that. After the farcical shakedown around the Mulberry bush made it clear yours truly was a broke sucker I was told to return my black ass to Nigerian.

With pleasure.

coolness is something I never leave home without

And with that I hopped my black ass in a taxi and got as close to Taksim Square as five liras would take me. Now the bigger albeit misleading lesson to take from this is not to trust a nice Turkish man who speaks English and wants to buy you a drink. Or not to get in a car with strangers; But when one is a wanderlust stricken traveller like me, why, everyone is a stranger, including myself.

No, the take home from this is to leave the infinite and tempting credit card in the room with the rest of the valuables when on holiday. If I had had my debit card I would have been robbed of €400---and no sexy, sexy slut is worth that much whisky and cola. That and keep cool.
Now coolness, that is something I never leave home without.