My wife and I are working people. So when it comes to a holiday, our needs are small: An idyllic setting on the Mediterranean usually does the trick.

Usually we go to Anamur, a cape town on the south coast, where my wife’s family lives, to enjoy a few days of her mother’s lovely cooking, and the assurance of a five-minute walk to the sea. Wake, swim, eat, drink. Repeat. That is the Mediterranean Way.

This year, since we’d already paid Anamur a visit in May, we decided to go to Dalyan, a small town on the southwest coast, where the Aegean and Mediterranean seas meet.

We’d been to Dalyan (pronounced “Dahl-yan”) before, about three years ago, before we were married, so we thought, why not?

A return to Dalyan then.

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We flew from Istanbul to the city of Dalaman. From there, you can take the bus or taxi to Dalyan, a thirty-minute trip.

The town sits on a river delta that winds through tall reed grass to the sea.

When you arrive, you feel as though you were in the bayou country of Louisiana (minus the gators and snakes). The air is sultry, humid, and filled with the silver symphony of crickets. Down near the river, tall reeds and rubber trees flourish along the banks. The streets of the town are narrow and filled with cafes, shops and restaurants, and further back lay pensions, hotels and villas, surrounded by groves of olive, lemon and pomegranate trees. Dogs, cats and chickens putter about indifferently in the gardens and yards.

We booked a room at the same place we’d stayed before, a two-story pension five minutes from the town center. The owner, Ilknur, is an overworked, but nevertheless cheerful Turkish woman who operates the pension with her mother, Zuhra. Ilknur does most of the work, while her mother can usually be found lounging in the shade of the grape vines and chatting with guests, listening to the crickets’ screech. To Zuhra’s credit, I do believe that it is she that gets up early and prepares the sparse, but fresh Mediterranean-style breakfast (fresh bread, cheese, boiled eggs, olives, fruit, tea and coffee), served for free on the terrace every morning.

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There were changes – we expected that.

As we walked through the center, re-acquainting ourselves with the town, we noticed immediately how quiet it was, especially for July, the height of the tourist season. Three years ago, we’d watched the World Cup Final between Germany and Argentina at the Captain’s Bar, and the place was standing room only, and I had a memory of discussing tactics with a group of German tourists.

Like other resorts on the Turquoise Coast, Dalyan is popular with Russians, English and Dutch, although in far fewer numbers than Bodrum, et al.

This year the town seemed deserted. Waiters, wearing white shirts and vests despite the heat, stood desperately, purposelessly, in the street holding menus, greeting the few passersby in both Turkish and English.

“It’s mostly Turkish people now,” my wife observed, after we passed through several streets.

Of course, the reasons for the absence of foreigners are clear. Turkey’s tourism industry has been hit hard the past few years, with the ongoing war in Syria, the fallout of last year’s failed military coup attempt, and fears of terrorism. Foreigners in large numbers have gone elsewhere, most notably to nearby Greece and the Balkans, where they can find similarly pleasant seas, good food and a Med vibe minus the risks.

You’d think that the locals – Turks – would stand to benefit. Yes – for a price.

After all, my wife and I had virtually our pick of the best seats in all the best places. That first evening, Ozge and I settled on a restaurant on the waterfront. The waiter ushered us to a fantastic table overlooking the harbor, and across the river up in the dark hillsides, you could see the ghostly tombs of the ancient Lycian kings.

“Not bad, eh?” I said, as we sat down and surveyed the moonlight glowing in the water, the boats rocking to and fro, the sounds of a Miles Davis trumpet solo blending with the cricket sounds.

We felt rich, sort of.

“Tonight we are anyway,” my wife agreed. She generally keeps an eye on our limited budget.

There was nothing on the menu listed for less than 50 lira, not including drinks. My wife had grilled chicken and, at the hostess’s recommendation, I tried something called Dream of the Aegean, which turned out to be something like chicken cordon bleu.

The only other people in the restaurant were a middle-aged British woman and her husband. In a bright, clipped accent, the woman was discoursing with one of the waiters on the wonders of Turkey. Ozge and I couldn’t help feeling a certain amount of resentment, envy. How could you not, when the pound-to-lira exchange stands at nearly 5 to 1?

We finished our dinner. Including drinks, the bill was well over 200 lira.

As I said, my wife and I are working Istanbullus. True, our salaries are above average – we’re comfortable – but if we had 50-lira plates for dinner every night, we wouldn’t be comfortable for very long. On the other hand, a visiting Brit can only rave about how “mah-ve-lously cheap!” everything is. “Why, a full-course dinner for a pittance!” you’ll hear them say.

“A lot of these places are struggling,” my wife added. “With so many foreign tourists staying away, the places here have to compensate by raising all the prices. And they don’t like Turkish people.”

“Why not?” I asked. “Because Turkish people complain too much?”

“Exactly. They know they’re being ripped off, overcharged. The foreigners, especially the British, the visitors from Western Europe, don’t ask questions. For them, everything is cheap, so they just pay. And they tip well, too.”

“Except now there aren’t that many foreigners,” I said. “The Turks are all they have left, and even then they want to take them for all they’ve got.”

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The next day, we went to Iztuzu Beach, famous for the sea turtles. Wooden sticks in the sand mark off the places where the turtles lay their eggs, places that are off-limits to beachgoers. The sea here is magnificent – clear, warm and sandy-bottomed. In the afternoons, the winds come in strong, and because the waters are shallow, great white-capped waves crash all up and down the beach.

In the evening, we returned to the pension, showered, dressed and headed out. Our pension hostess, Ilknur, had commiserated with us about the prices in town. She suggested we head out of the center, and towards the outskirts. There were several local places, offering homemade Turkish food, very cheap.

We ended up more than satisfied with our meal. It was more to Ozge’s liking – Turkish meatballs, stuffed eggplant, a range of vegetable dishes, ayran (Turkish buttermilk), yogurt and fresh fruits. We ate to our heart’s content at a fraction of the cost of the previous evening’s meal.

The following day, we took a boat trip down the river. Ozge handled the negotiations with the Turkish tour guy, whose name was Murat.

“Which part of England are you from?” he asked, sizing me up.

“I’m American. She’s Turkish.”

“American? Oh! And your wife is Turkish?” He nodded, adjusted his stance a little, and thenceforth addressed me as “enişte ,” the Turkish word for brother-in-law.

The boat tour was twice as expensive as last time we were there, but we expected that. Lunch was included, at least, which turned out to be fresh fish and a full Turkish buffet. We spent the day cruising up and down the river, went swimming again at Iztuzu Beach, had mud baths after lunch, and went swimming at a volcanic lake. Most of the passengers were Turkish.

That evening we ventured again to the locals’ only section of town, and found another wonderfully simple and cheap restaurant. As we enjoyed the dinner, feeling very sensible and local, we reasoned together that, after all, one is always better off avoiding touristy town centers.

“It was the same in Prague,” I said. “You pay two or three times more for the same food, the same beer, in Old Town Square as you would just fifteen minutes away by tram in Zizkov or Vrsovice.”

“It’s the same anywhere, I suppose,” Ozge said. “Listen, we can be poor and sensible like this, and then the last night we can treat ourselves to something nice again.”

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The following day we took another boat trip, a twelve-island tour. We boarded the vessel at a town called Gocek, which is surrounded by the Taurus Mountains and sits on a chlorine-colored sea. Again, most of the passengers were Turkish, but we noticed a few British families as well (not to mention a big family from Argentina). The meal on the boat was chicken and fish, with the usual Turkish buffet-style assortment of salads, potatoes and mixed greens.

That evening we decided to be rich one last time. Our favorite restaurant in Dalyan is Ali’s, an outdoor place at the confluence of two streets, and in the shade of trees and a nearby mosque. Ali’s serves an excellent range of locally caught fish, including levrek, or sea bass.

We had the levrek, and split a bottle of white wine, and enjoyed our meal, while a couple of local cats fought over some of the bits of fish my wife tossed to the street. The bill was reasonable – pricey but reasonable, and we left a nice tip. If you’re ever in Dalyan, we highly recommend Ali’s.

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On the last day, we spent the afternoon again at Iztuzu Beach, then returned to the pension. We had Turkish coffee in the garden with Ilknur. My wife wanted to settle the bill since we were leaving very early in the morning. When we’d booked the room online, it had been priced at 120 lira per night. Ilknur ended up charging us only 90.

“You’re old friends,” she said, cheerfully dismissing our effusive thank-yous. “Come back again,” she said, addressing me as “enişte .”

As we headed out that evening, we totted up our savings, as well as our blessings. They weren’t too bad at all.

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James Tressler, a former Lost Coast resident, is a writer and teacher living in Istanbul.