Turks often give places names that translate directly into everyday meanings. For example, the busy resort of Marmaris literally translates as “hang the architect,” a reference to an Ottoman sultan, Suleyman the Magnificent, who in 1522 ordered a new fortress and was furious with the result. Altinkum, another coastal name, means “golden sands,” a nod to the long stretches of beach along that shoreline.
Along the Aegean coast, near Davutlar, there is a striking beach called Sevgi Plaji. Popular with locals from nearby Kusadasi and Soke, its name means “Love Beach,” and it does live up to its romantic image with a long, attractive shoreline ideal for strolls and quiet moments.
I visited Sevgi Plaji for the first time last year, and though it is beautiful, the memory it left me with was painful rather than idyllic. That visit was the moment I realized my seven-year marriage was over.
Visiting Sevgi Plaji
My then-husband suggested a day out. He had been working away for two years and when he returned something between us had changed. I couldn’t pinpoint it, but there was an invisible distance and a growing unease. Hoping a romantic day might revive our relationship, I was thrilled—until he told me his family would join us at the beach.
I had never been close to his family. When he left to work, they had suggested I move in with them in Soke to learn traditional domestic skills and, in their view, settle into the expected role for a married woman. I declined. Instead of staying near his family, I traveled the southwest coast, sailed on boats, watched horse races in Izmir and went hiking in the Kackar mountains. Those choices were frowned upon by his relatives.
Their disapproval was obvious at family gatherings: I was excluded from tasks like preparing salad and relegated to being treated, subtly and not so subtly, as the odd one out. Over time, I began to withdraw. I didn’t visit my mother-in-law during those two years, and the gap between us widened.
Despite knowing their feelings, I accepted the invitation and we arrived at Sevgi Plaji.
We unpacked what felt like an entire kitchen from the boot of the car, found a clearing among trees, spread a blanket and lit a barbecue. I worried about starting a fire on grass under trees and voiced my concern. It was met with raised eyebrows, sarcastic laughter and a clear refusal to let me help. Even when I offered to cut tomatoes, I was turned away.
Perhaps they feared putting a sharp knife in my hand.
While we ate—barbecue chicken wings, peppers, onions and tomatoes—my brother-in-law made a blunt comment about my weight and called me fat. Such blunt observations are common in Turkish culture, but it stung more because the speaker himself was not slender. In that moment, surrounded by people who treated me with thinly veiled contempt, tears rose to my eyes. I realized I was in the wrong place with the wrong people, exhausted from trying to fit into a role I never wanted.
I kept my tears to myself, but two days later I reached a breaking point. I threw my husband out and confronted him in a way I knew would wound him deeply: I attacked his pride, something that resonates strongly in this culture. I used language that ensured the neighbourhood would hear. The fury was partly revenge, partly the sudden recognition that I had been holding myself back for too long.
That day at Love Beach felt like a release and a new beginning, even if it arrived wrapped in pain.
Looking back, I think the trip was inevitable. It forced a truth I had been avoiding: my marriage had changed beyond repair. It is ironic that this turning point happened at a place called Sevgi Plaji, yet perhaps the name only highlighted how far my relationship had drifted from love. Will I return to Love Beach? Probably, someday, but not soon. The emotional wounds are still fresh and the memory too raw for a repeat visit in the near future.
Question for readers: Is there a place you associate with particularly good or bad memories?
