There are three supermarkets in either walking distance or a direct short bus journey away. They had their own brand of red grape which we called the laughing wine because apparently it had laughing ingredients in it (well to me it did).
Other Turkish wines were lush, concentrated with grapes new to me, some only reachable on special offers days, but when they were we would sip them in deep wine glasses feeling like sultans or kings.
It was off course a dying breed; the increasing cost (4 times higher than back home) had taken it away from the hands of most.
Builders came into the store once and left with nothing, an old man beamed with happiness when we chose the best cheapest white wine for him, it was his treat. One Christmas two old men, clearly old friends, bought a bottle of whisky between them, their eyes beamed. And then it was gone, the shops stopped and enjoyment was swept aside; intolerance cleared the shelves leaving only energy drinks and fizzy water. I hadn’t even had time to get the special beer from my town, which I always have with my Christmas dinner, “Brown Ale.” The last supermarket is far far away and I’m sure it too will fall away and the vines will rot and only old men will recount rakı nights or any nights at all.
I will miss them, the diligent student who weighed up each bottle like an exam. The old guy and his treat, the guys planning a rakı night like a military manoeuvre. The housewife grabbing something to relax into the weekends. But most of all I will miss me; holding looking talking down the aisles, and enjoying the night because I won’t be going back there EVER.
