I don’t have a deep passion for horse racing. I don’t bet, I don’t follow jockeys, I’ve never ridden a horse, nor do I regularly visit racetracks. Still, I try to keep an open mind and sample new experiences when I’m in Turkey. So when friends organized a trip to the İzmir racecourse, I decided to join them and see what it was like.
Before I describe the day, a little about the people I went with: for privacy’s sake I’ll call them “The Gang.” We enjoy exploring places that fall outside the usual tourist circuit and usually try to blend in with locals—though somehow that rarely works out for us.
On a previous outing to a camel-wrestling event, for example, we ended up joining the village band. People seemed more interested in watching us than the camels. The Gang, a mix of men and women, often becomes the centre of attention for several reasons:
1: We were often the only foreigners present, which naturally draws curiosity.
2: At some events we were the only women in attendance, making us stand out.
3: We tend to spend liberally on drinks, which earns vendor attention and a kind of VIP treatment.
4: Frequently it’s a combination of all the above.
The İzmir race day combined those elements, and our attempt to blend in failed from the start.
Izmir Horse Racing Track
We arrived at the track early and looked for somewhere to wait. The café we found was full of men studying the day’s races, and when we walked in they all turned to stare. My friend joked that her blonde hair drew attention from admirers, while others suggested it was because we ordered a full table of beer at 11 a.m. In a setting where locals sip tea, a group buying rounds of alcohol stands out—and vendors notice.
A language mix-up meant my friend received a bottle of raki instead of a glass, which only added to the amusement. We grew accustomed to the stares and to being asked where we were from. No matter how hard we tried to fit in, it wasn’t happening that day.
The Horse Races
I can’t claim any racing expertise. I’ve never been confident about placing bets even at home, and attempting it in another language felt daunting. I handed my money to a friend and let her handle the betting. As you might expect, we didn’t win.
Since I wasn’t emotionally invested in the outcomes, I spent much of the day taking photos from every angle. At the entrance security checked my camera and directed me to the media office for a pass. After wandering there and back, I was told I didn’t actually need one—so I never learned the official photography policy.
The routine at the track is straightforward: watch the horses parade in the paddock and try to look like you understand what constitutes “good form,” place a bet—often by guesswork—watch the race, and repeat until the card ends or your money runs out.
Women were outnumbered at the venue, and as foreigners who were happily buying drinks we drew plenty of attention. So if your goal is to blend in, take note: ordering a table of alcohol at breakfast and standing out as the only foreigners is a quick way to fail. The Gang will no doubt try to blend in again on future outings, but I suspect our attempts will continue to attract notice rather than anonymity.
