There's a song about them (with rough translation):
Izmir's girls, with tweezers in their hand
Females, predators, rogues, sweet and ill-tempered
Go
outside in silk stockings
In war and in love they act like true women
No other heels click so invitingly
With on look they level you to the ground, oh, it's
impossible
In a moonlight of the bay, stars, in the strong taste of salt
The wind of their jasmine parfumes comes from their balconies
Izmir girls, they have no fear
Come on, fella, play, let's dance
Izmir girls
I'm somewhat shy to say this, let it be between us
They die,
making love
Sometimes they die fighting, if necessary
Dad, what's your problem with my short skirt
Under the staircase I'd pull it up from my knees to my waist
I'd go to the balcony, read a novel, the bridge would've moaned
You looked at me so roughly, ai! I barely came in time
Dad, you were going to look at a mother, not to take a daughter
You weren't going to giggle at how grandma curses
You weren't going to get lost
in the green eyes
Of lady Shehriban, at the moment you saw here enjoying her smoke
Izmir girls are setting men on fire
