Monday January 23rd. Afternoon.

It's Paul Smith - the name of the bar that's named after the apparantly high-fashion clothing line. The one I've never heard of.

And the owner is, equally apparently, a Kurdish Turk, who isn't German after all but spent some formative years in Germany. And who thinks it's a jolly good idea to install an english language school as an additional side-attraction in his bar, to counterbalance the shisha-smoking section. And who's confident my teenager-friendly, video based method of teaching would fit right in. Which I think is bonkers, but, well, what the bleep do I know?

But. Buuuuuut...he isn't sure about planning permission to build partitions. Or rather, isn't sure the relavent local buraucrats can be persuaded. Or rather, isn't sure what their bribe level is.

He's Plan B - the fallback position of Plan A, which is to work with local charities to use a language school to raise money to maintain shelters for syrian refugees. Which is, IMHO, slightly less bonkers.

But...there's a Plan C! Which is the use the existing multi-purpose business to set up an additional charity which will raise some of its funds by running a language school, staffed by the same guy who does all the IT stuff, after he spends a few weeks back in england putting together all the materials for both. Which is...averagely bonkers for Turkey.

Oh yes, I've asked a fair few Syrians to explain the war to me. Like, how many factions are there, and who could form a provisional government, and how can people be so gullible as to kill members of their own close family over hairline differences created by a few weeks of propaganda broadcasts. And the answer is, everyone gave up guesssing a long time ago. So the situation could be described as...yes.
Tea...with all the trimmings.

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