One of the things I really liked about Istanbul but never took advantage of due to sheer terror of using my (self-perceived) inferior Turkish skills was the culture of delivery. You could get everything delivered to your door. Mc Donalds delivered; the kebab guys delivered; your corner shop delivered. If you lived on the fifth floor of a walk up, you could lower a basket down on a rope with the money inside and holler across to the bakkal and they’d take the money and load up your basket with bread and milk and yogurt and cheese.
I never did this, however, as I was painfully shy for much of my time there. It was only in my last year or two that I felt confident enough to order replacement gas cylinders for my stove or big bottles of drinking water or the occasional pizza.
In Shanghai, the delivery culture is even more vast. Not only can you order anything, you can order it in English. Want plane tickets? Book them online and they’ll bring them to your flat that evening. If you pay cash, there’s no surcharge. Sitting at home with friends and run out of food and drink? Call up your local supermarket or grocer or corner shop and place an order. Yesterday a friend came over and we ordered a bottle of Italian red wine from up the street to go with the salad and wraps we had got from another place. The boy on a bike was at our door soon after with a lovely bottle in a pretty cloth bag. At this rate, it is entirely possible to never have to leave the flat ever again.
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