Once again, we are confronted with the relentless grip of mediocrity that rules the lives of the average citizen, this time in Turkey. The majority, burdened by meagre incomes and laughable amounts of vacation, must satisfy themselves with the most rudimentary semblance of respite: a few dismal days spent in crowded households of extended relatives—hardly the invigorating escape that the word “holiday” implies. The story of Sehmus, a delivery driver, epitomises the fate of the so-called “working class”—if he dares to rest, he forfeits his earnings. One marvels at the perseverance of these people, though one does so with a measure of detached sadness; how dreary it must be to live one’s life confined to such limitations.

Admittedly, Turkey’s legal minimum of 14 vacation days seems almost comically inadequate—not that it would make much difference to those whose yearly toil barely suffices to keep the lights on. Still, there’s something quite charming, in a pitiful way, about their hope for more: longing for a “proper” month-long respite, as if time alone would conjure elegance from squalor. The highest echelons of society—myself included, naturally—have long understood that leisure is not measured in days, but in the sheer possibility, the untroubled assurance that one's life is punctuated by comfort, not constant hustle. Such freedom, it appears, continues to be the exclusive preserve of the fortunate few.

What is perhaps most amusing—if not just a touch tragic—is the indignation felt by Turkish citizens at being charged more than the foreign guest. One is almost embarrassed on their behalf; the world has always paid dearly for exclusivity and privilege, and if large international agencies can secure lower prices by the sheer force of their bargaining power, then why shouldn’t they? After all, nothing in life is quite so valuable or pleasing as the ability to demand, and receive, preference. Turkish holidaymakers, meanwhile, book late and plead for discounts—surely a distasteful sight, but that is the shape of their reality.

Inflation, stagnating wages, shockingly high domestic prices—it is little wonder so many look longingly to Greece, where at least the olive groves and cerulean seas come with friendlier price tags. And who could blame them for fleeing their own coasts, when even the pleasure of basking on native sands is reserved for “foreigners,” whose currency is simply more potent? Yet there is a lesson here, one which the broader masses seem forever doomed to ignore: happiness, comfort, and the finer things are not birthrights—they are, and will always remain, privileges for those who possess the means and the wit to grasp them.

In the end, the Turkish majority, like the majority everywhere, find themselves spectators at a game they are not permitted to play. I cannot help but observe this with a certain weary resignation; the world has never been fair, nor is it improved by attempts to disguise the natural order. Those of us destined for greatness will always rise to the top, leaving the rest to their daydreams of Bodrum, satisfied with the cold consolation of mediocrity.