I signed up for a tour that included a hike, pottery and wine visits, and the famed underground city, Kaymakli. The tour is mostly boring, and run of the mill, but I suspected as much when I signed up. By now, I am pretty fried and just want to be spoon-fed. The excitement of the day, well, according to our guide, was that Nicolas Cage and crew were in the vicinity shooting Ghost Rider 2. Yes folks, the end of civilization meets one of its cradles.
I walk into a small eatery for dinner where I’ve had lunch before, and the owner and his young helper are playing a guitar and mandolin-like instrument. Did I mention how casual this place is? We are joined by the Canadian who had recommended the place to begin with, and then a pair of Aussies who are dining with some new French friends, two of whom have been lodging in their car. That’s roughing it. After we’ve all been served, and the owner’s elderly parents waltz in to say hello, we are treated to a small impromptu concert of guitar and drum. Dinner and a show, excellent! Considering how dead this town is, this is an oasis.
The next morning, it’s an early call as I get picked up for my hot air balloon ride. It is pre-dawn, and the van I am in has ten passengers picked up from various hotels – me, and 9 Asian women. Have I mentioned how big this place is with the Asians? They include several Koreans, one Chinese and two Japanese, one of whom was curious about relocating to the U.S. She said she did therapy, and I thought, cool, physical, psycho-…? No, beauty therapy. Well, I guess the world needs that too. We are joined in the balloon by a nice Aussie guy and two Brazilian men who are so not used to this wicked cold. It’s probably 15 degrees F and even colder up in the air. They squeeze 13 in a basket for 12 really, but we manage.
It is pretty neat being up in the air, and the truth is the landscape took a backseat to the amazing sight of all the other balloons. But I wonder if there’s something wrong with me (no snide remarks please) because after a while, it’s somewhat anticlimactic, whereas the women are thrilled and squealing. To each their own.
Afterwards, I walk to the Open Air Museum that is a series of churches carved out of caves that the early Christians used for worship. And they are mostly tiny, crude if you can imagine carved rock pews – but the frescoes and ornamentation are interesting, though again, after one church, you’d more or less seen them all. There’s another town of interest I should see now, but I am cooked. I arrange my transport, pay my bill and am ready to go. But before I settle in a for short night’s nap, I meet a really neat Aussie family who has traveled the world. The father is an imposing figure, whose nasally tinged rich, baritone voice sounds like one you may have heard on a PBS documentary. His son, early 20s, is a talkative chap, but he has a lot of interesting things to say – his interest in China, his passion for Chopin, the hypocrisy of old powers and their attempted policing of emerging powers. His curiosity, enthusiasm et al is infectious, an instance of youth not being wasted on the young.
I search a while for dinner, but pretty much anywhere I’d go, I’d be the only diner. It is an eerie and frustrating endeavor made more so by the worst thing I’ve eaten in Turkey or anywhere for a really long time. This motley assortment of restaurant workers could barely accommodate one lone diner. When they dropped my spoon on the floor before serving me, they didn’t even bother to give me a different one. I’m not that fussy, but what I order and what they specialize in, is done for the evening. So my second choice is an inedible crock of manti (small, Turkish dumplings) smothered under a mountain of sour cream. I took three bites and I was done. Me! Done! Hard to imagine.
My airport transfer is at 4 a.m., exactly 72 hours since my arrival in this strange place. It is an odd bookend to the hustle, bustle and alive-ness of Istanbul – but only goes to show the range and diversity of this complex and interesting country.
No comments:
Post a Comment