Just getting to Datça counts as a decision on its own — if you made it down that narrow road, you're clearly not in a rush. The sea sits on both sides of you, the air smells like almond blossom, and the old stone streets are basically slowness headquarters. Nobody tells you to hurry up; whatever plan you have bends to the wind instead. If your indecision insists on having a say anyway, tell it to be quiet and roll the dice — out at the tip of this peninsula, whoever rushes loses.