Epi-Blog

A place can live in our minds, long before we ever step foot on its soil.  If I say “China”, images might begin to come to mind: the Great Wall forming a dragon’s spine roller-coastering over thousands of miles of mountains, the vast courtyards of the Forbidden City with its blood-red lacquered doors that speak to its foreboding, or perhaps the strangely stunning hills or karsts that punctuate the Guilin landscape as immortalized in ancient paintings or gleaming new skyscrapers standing like sentries in its bursting metropoli. 

If I say “Turkey”, your mind may conjure up more references than you may have thought probable: a song by They Might Be Giants (which is actually a remake), the domes and minarets of Istanbul’s skyline, Turkish coffee, Turkish baths, whirling dervishes.  Some may think of the Turkish Delight that sways an easily corruptible young Edmund Pevensie in The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe, and wonder how such an unappealing rose-flavored jelly confection could accomplish such a thing.   As it turns out, some form of Turkish Delight exists in much of the Balkans, Eastern Europe, Central Asia and Arab world, with different ingredients accounting for different textures and countless flavors.  Unfortunately though, some references aren’t quite as innocuous as these. 

For some decades now, Turkey has had to live down its reputation abroad, especially in places like the US, as the land of Midnight Express.  And that probably speaks as much to how Turkey has changed, as to not knowing a place until you step on its soil. To say that Turkey is a place of contradictions is simplistic, and implies that we have presupposed ideas of the place, that Turkey’s identity in our minds at least, is conditional: the most modern Islamic country, its great, historical megalopolis Istanbul sited in both Europe and Asia, possible entry into the European Union.  However, to say that Turkey is misunderstood would be more accurate.   In many ways, it is very much like the United States in its struggle for a cohesive political and cultural identity, progressive and liberal versus traditional and conservative, and points in between.

Asia Minor and Anatolia are different names for the land that modern Turkey occupies, and it has been settled for a least eight millennia by a litany of different peoples, and has seen the rise and fall of many civilizations, religions, and empires. It is the birthplace of St. Nicholas, site of Mt. Ararat where Noah’s Ark is said to have landed, where the Virgin Mary and St. John both supposedly lived and died, homes to oracles of Apollo and two of the seven wonders of the ancient world, and the Trojan War.  Though the landmarks and history of this land are the main attractions for visitors, as it was for me, modern Turkey is most notable in my opinion for its people.  Industrious, hospitable, proud and curious, they animated this place that could easily be stuck in its past glories, but instead continues to change and add to its history. 

So whatever ideas you may have about Turkey, I say go see for yourself.  You might be surprised.

And to everyone, tesekkür ederim for reading and letting me share my experiences with you. 

A Mad Dash to the End... Up, Up in the Air

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.  

Kapadokya

My first day is somewhat lost as I sleep until mid-afternoon.  I amble down to the village to scope it out, get my bearings.  It is a much less eerie and foreboding place in daylight.  I follow a fellow traveler’s recommendation for a börek place, and there find more travelers.  One group is Australian and headed by bus into Syria on their rather lengthy trip.  Another, from Maryland via Buffalo is a tech guy who is heading further inland to Ankara and then onto other places on his journey.   

Amongst others I meet in various places, there are: the NYC area couple dressed almost entirely in monochromatic black (they're lovely, but she's a bit over the top), the Torontoan who quit his job and is traveling through Turkey and the Middle East, the Indian couple from Mumbai on their honeymoon, Korean tourists EVERYWHERE, the barman at a fancy Manhattan hotel who has weeks left on his trek through Turkey and points beyond – honestly, I’ve forgotten everyone’s itinerary and am lucky if I remember my own. 

My most memorable socializing comes at Fat Boys, perhaps the only bar in town.  I am content to enjoy my Efes Dark beer when I am beckoned to play doubles pool by a young British lass who won’t take no for an answer.   Turns out she and I are at the same hotel.  Her pool partner is a local/bar worker, while mine is a young Colombian student whose friend did not want to embarrass himself by playing.  That, however, did not stop me.  One of the students is studying industrial engineering, the other philosophy.  They are quite different, but have been lifelong friends. 

The students had just eaten at the same restaurant as I, and when I left, the two employees were showing the last patrons, two young Asian women, local hospitality.  They wind up at Fat Boys as well, and serve as a good floorshow for the rest of us while Turkish pop emanates from the speakers, peppered with Usher, James Brown and The Weather Girls.  Over the course of the evening, our British lass serves as temptress and ringleader as we play pool, drink local wine with Sprite, and break out the water pipe, known in Turkey as nargille.  It is convivial, educational, relaxed, and freezing cold when we have to nargille outdoors.  The lass and I discuss life and travel on our way back to and at the hotel, where we’ve been joined by three local dogs that trailed us, one of which whimpers and scratches at my door until 6 a.m.

In Kapadokya (The Land of Beautiful Horses), the otherworldly rock formations dominate the physical landscape, but also beget the camaraderie and communality of the human landscape that begins to take shape in its nooks and crannies, especially in the cold of winter.  This region has a mystique that draws certain travelers, even dogs and cats, who seek one another out and trade stories and experiences; and that’s probably been as memorable as anything I’ve seen in this ancient land.  

Long Night’s Journey Into Day

On my last morning in Fethiye, I look up from my breakfast on the hotel roof to see Dr. Can heading towards me.  He has had a change of plans, and apparently my hotel did not get his message to me.  I am pre-coffee groggy, but finish up as we head off to visit Kayakoy, the Ghost Village some few kms inland.

Sitting high in the mountains, Kayakoy is an eerie sight, as the numerous stone houses that dot the landscape look as if they’ve been bombed out, most of them missing roofs and are only partial structures now.  After the repatriation of the village’s Greek population, the village, whose buildings date back to as far as the 16^thcentury, was abandoned as the Turks who moved into the area settled in the flatter, arable land.  As in the other Greek village I visited, Sirinçe, the town was on the mountainside rather than on more easily navigable terrain.  We think it’s because they wanted to maintain the available land as farmland.    It must have been a very hard life, trekking up and down these treacherous inclines with or without donkeys. 

During our tour, Dr. Can and I discuss some universal issues: politics, religion, mothers-in-law :)… And then I thank him for his hospitality and bid him farewell, in hopes that one day should I find myself in Fethiye, to see him again.  He even offered up the hospitality of his son who lives in San Fran, should I ever find myself that way. 

Now, the last leg of my journey begins – a 13-hour bus ride to central Turkey and the famed landscape of Kapadokya.  As I board the bus, I can already tell this may not be the best ride.  There is a slight musty smell, sort of like old man, and there of course is an old married couple sitting right across from me – he has a traditional knit hat, wiry beard and some unruly eyebrows.  I wonder if it’s him, but who am I to complain, I haven’t done laundry since I’ve been here.    I don’t think it was him ultimately, as this bus isn’t as nice as the last one I had.  No tv per seat, just two screens playing bad Turkish programming, no snacks and one porter.  I am grateful that the agent booked me next to an empty seat because the many stops dropped off but picked up quite a few passengers. 

I was thinking I was being clever in combining travel and lodging together with this bus ride, but sleep was not to be.   There were the many stops.  There was a small group of young men traveling together and one insistent on getting my attention, which he does.  He motions me to sit next to him and with the limited vocabulary in my guidebook, we do not accomplish much in terms of conversation.  I almost wanted to say “I’m pregnant” as a joke, but don’t know how well that would go over.  But as I said he is insistent and proceeds to talk to me in Turkish, repeating himself and speaking more loudly, as if that would somehow break the language, if not sound, barrier.  No dice.  I eventually move back to my seat, and try not to engage much as I am in need of sleep badly.

The further inland we go, the thermometer keeps dropping.  Outside is quite dark, and as we drive through the city of Konya, the home of Sufism, the urban landscape is surreal.  It is completely modern and industrial, miles and miles of highways and buildings and lights, but completely deserted and ironically, soul-less.  It all looks abandoned and on the edge of nowhere. 

Which makes my own arrival one hour earlier than expected in the village of Göreme under cover of night at 4 a.m., no less surreal.  The best way I can describe it is that the landscape is sort of sci-fi and western, while the buildings and storefronts are sort of frontier/western.  It brings to mind the Yul Brunner cult sci-fi western, Outland.  Everything is closed and completely deserted save for the stray dog growling at me.   Nothing is well–lit except for some of the chimney formations on the hills and I have no idea where my hotel is.  It is also freezing, I am guessing in the 20’s.  There are no maps at the bus stop.  I head towards the chimney formations and make a turn to avoid the growling dog, which turns out to be a blessing as I see some signs that point to my hotel.  Mind you, these are not your typical streets, through your typical town.  They are mostly brick-like, and all you hear is the roll of my luggage echo through the air, streets split at houses, and thankfully, now there is enough of a sign trail to lead me to the hotel, most of which is carved out of caves, which is situated at the top of a steep incline.  Pant, pant, pant.  The very top is the reception area that also serves as the hotel’s eating area.  The door is open and the lights are on.  Access to all the guestrooms and ancillary areas is external.  I need a WC desperately and am grateful to find one in the maze of stairs and rooms.   Back at reception, I make myself at home with my head resting on a table until a hotel worker finds me at 5 a.m. and shows me to my room.  I promptly bask in its cozy warmth and fall asleep… until the 5:30 prayer call through the village shatters my peaceful slumber.   Day will be breaking soon, and I eventually fall asleep.  

Take it Easy

This stop in Fethiye is exactly what the doctor ordered, a couple of days of relaxation to recuperate from travel-itis.  My first morning, I take off for the ancient Lycian cliff tombs behind the city.  I take the long scenic walk along the road just up the hill (known as Lovers' Hill) from my hotel that wends itself along the city.  The vistas are çuk guzel, beautiful. 

A Turkish flag flies high over the city, and the tombs are pretty neat, but access is closed in winter.  I wander the city and stumble upon the little archaeological museum, all two rooms of it filled with relics from and information about this very ancient region where Hittites, Lycians, Carians, and a slew of other peoples dating back till at least 3,000 B.C., populated the area before the Greeks, Romans, or Turks.

Back at the hotel, I ring up Dr. Can, with whom I have been trading friendly emails.  I hate to impose, but he seems eager to show me hospitality and this city he loves so much.  He picks me up in the late afternoon (with some fresh baked good from his wife) and drive to the other side of the harbor for a spectacular view of the city I wouldn’t have had otherwise.  We then drive a few kms toward Çalis Beach that is very popular in warmer months, especially with the Brits.  Along the way, we drive past his home, his old home, and then stop at the apart-hotel he owns – it has a lemon tree!  I don’t think I’ve ever seen a lemon tree.  So deprived. 

Dr. Can is a retired biochemist for whom since realizing his dream of moving to Fethiye 25 years ago, has turned his love of the place and interest in people, into a second career/hobby.   As he drops me off for the evening, he offers to show me Oludeniz (the Blue Lagoon) and Kayakoy (the Ghost Town) the next day.  It’s hard to say no.  Mind you, between my hearing, and language gap, I maybe only understand about 70% of what Dr. Can says, and I suspect I talk too fast for him to understand me too much at all.

It is now early evening, but this town of about 80,000 is spread out and a little sleepy, and the eateries seem to be mostly empty.  For some time, I wander along the harbour looking for a restaurant with signs of life for dinner.  I stop at a popular place that turns out to be a pastane (patisserie).  Oops. I have dessert first then, a delicious slice of chocolate and chestnut cake.  I head back out later and stop at a harbour-side café/restaurant that has a boisterous group inside. The place occupies two structures adjacent to one another, the café is more like a ski chalet with big windows, low deck chairs, a standing pit fireplace with a marble counter for guests to kick back and enjoy the warmth.  Seems as good a place to alight as any.  The party of about 20, seated at tables in the back are vocal, occasionally standing to clink glasses.  One of them, a robust young man wearing a striped sweater with little butterfly wings on his back and matching antennae, seems to be the nexus of this group as he makes a prepared speech that he mostly shouts, punctuated by porcine oinks.  I surmise they are not Turkish, given the bemused look of the Turkish staff.  Turns out they were Russian.  They sure know how to party.  

I order a meze platter, my first on this trip, and it is so good.  A spicy tomato dip, a garlicky yogurt, cucumber dip – caçik, and some delicious roasted eggplant – all eaten with bread.  The plate is huge, and I wonder how I will finish the meatballs I have ordered, which come with rice, mashed potatoes and salad.  Well, I had a little dining companion as a cat wandered in and came straight to me, spoke to me with its one eye larger than the other, “are you going to eat that?”.  I don’t want to encourage the strays around here, but assume it’s really a way of life for them too, so I relent, and start feeding it bits of my meatballs under my table.  I also throw down a piece of bread, and the kitty will have nothing to do with that.  So much for beggars can’t be choosers. 

I head off to the small, t-shaped nightlife district that encompasses two small streets.  I avoid the modern, bright neon lettering of Mango and Club Rain and head to the small, hand-lettered divey looking bi-level fish-shack inspired Deep Blue Bar.  The place is homey, not very crowded, and I hear a male version of “Time After Time” but can’t seem to locate the jukebox, then follow its sound upstairs.  I think, oh no, karaoke?   I enter a room large enough to seat 30, but it is mostly empty except for now 3 patrons and the lone musician singer on a small stage at the front of the room.  He moves onto a very, very long rendition of Elton John’s “Sorry Seems to be the Hardest Word”, then Cat Stevens before I recognize the long, thrumming, opening guitar chords as he breaks into The Eagles’ “Take it Easy”.  His set includes Sting, Four Non-Blondes, Chris Isaak, among others.  It is obvious English is not his first language by some of the inflections in his singing, and some of his singing and guitar playing are mechanical, but he’s not bad and his earnestness makes up for it.  He is at his best with the more rock-inflected songs. 

I then head over to the hopping Car Cemetery Bar where a largely younger crowd is hanging out, and almost as soon as I get there, a live band takes the stage.  Their lead singer and guitarist struck an Anthony Kiedis vibe with his long hair, wiry body and high energy, and they are REALLY GOOD.  I would consider paying to see them good. 

Their first song is in English, and the rest of their set were Turkish pop standards that were crowd favorites as people hopped and bopped around in rhythm.  Even one of the local flower sellers, whom I had seen the night before at the fish market going around to tables selling bunches of flowers, was totally getting into the act.  She probably came in to sell flowers, and before long, was dancing more passionately than anyone, to the point where a man approached her and playfully started tossing her bunches of flowers all around the bar and the stage.

All the while, the television was playing the WCL – that’s the World Combat League to those of you not in the know :)  It’s a form of fighting where kicking, punching and knees to the head and body are the standard, and this particular match was between the New York City Clash and the Philadelphia Fire.  New York’s Jennifer Santiago gave NY an early lead as she pummeled her larger opponent, but NY’s men were no match for the fury of Philly’s men. 

As I considered this lively corner of otherwise, idyllic and sleepy Fethiye, it is obvious that this whole town, however it chose to spend its time, knows how to take it easy, and not to let the sounds of their own wheels drive them crazy.  Not a bad philosophy, really. 

A Mediterranean Dream

After being in the scrappy town of Selçuk for three nights, I head south in hopes of sun and a change of pace.   I took a minibus to the town of Aydin and switched to a larger, fancy bus to Fethiye, on the Mediterranean.  Turkey has an extensive network of busses large and small shuttling people short-haul, like Selçuk to Sirinçe, or long-haul, like Aydin to Fethiye (about 4 hours).  The long-haul busses are fancy.  Each one seems to come with two porters, many in bow ties and vests who check passengers in, serve beverages and snacks a la flight attendants, and retrieve baggage. Each seat has its own mini tv and pull-down snack tray.  So civilized.  Greyhound could learn a thing or two. 

Originally, I had tried to book myself into an apart-hotel that was well-rated on tripadvisor, but the owner, Dr. Can (pronounced John), said they were closed during the winter.  He offered to ready a room for me if I needed, but there was no staff there.  I thank him, but decline.  Instead, I booked a hotel through booking.com (I have had pretty good success with them since I started using the site last year in Asia).  I arrive and the place is an oasis for me after the sweet, but shabby environs of Selçuk.  The hotel is somewhat secluded, right off the marina, it was a bargain and I got upgraded to a seaview that also overlooks the pool.  I’m almost giddy.  The bathroom alone is about the combined size of my room and bathroom in Istanbul.   The sky is perfectly blue from my balcony.  Aahhh.  A guy likes his creature comforts too.

By now, it is late afternoon and the sun will set shortly, so I set off to explore the town.  I don’t know how to describe it, especially in terms of other Mediterranean cities since I have never been to one, but it is just very nice and sweet, clean and relaxed.   Views along the harbor, with the boats and their masts, are a sight for sore eyes that didn’t know what they had been missing.  I wander away from the waterfront and into the town and discover an outdoor fish market, which is ringed by restaurants that will cook whatever seafood you buy from the fishmongers.  Only one restaurant seems to do any business, so that’s where I go. It is chilly, but with heat lamps, there are many diners outside.  I pick out some cold mezes to go with my small bottle of raki (phew, it turned out to be about 4 glasses) and order a sea bass.  It is a place without menus and prices (which I knew would later lead to a bit of sticker shock). The little rounds of bread come piping hot out of the oven (you can see the baker rolling out the dough in the window), flecked with poppy seeds and OMG, they are so good.  Pillowy and hot, with a hint of salt.  

I watch small Turkish Mediterranean city life unfold before me – a sophisticated young mother in a pashmina dangling her cigarette just so, a pair of distinguished older gentlemen eating plate after plate of food, while indulging the few cats that roam about with scraps of fish, a pair of diners being serenaded by a trio of Turkish musicians.

It’s probably the raki, but I have an undeniable warm and fuzzy feeling that floats me back to my hotel like a Mediterranean dream.   

My brain must also have...

lost two days in transit, as I had been unable to formulate a set itinerary for myself.  Was indecisive and woke up too late to do the tour of Pamukkale, a famous natural wonder of travertine (whatever that means) white cliffs left by mineral deposits from the hot springs.  But I am a little touristed out, and if I really wanted to see it, I would have gone. 

Instead, I opt to stick around this town that has grown on me.  While getting directions and advice from JuJu, one of the brothers who run the hotel, he takes me out on the balcony to show me the pimped out camel that has just arrived in town for the camel wrestling taking place in several days.  Darned, I have the worst timing.  Alas, I settle for a side trip to the small village of Sirinçe, which means pretty.  The story goes that the village’s name used to be another word that meant ugly to ward off unwanted visitors, but in the recent past has adopted this more inviting name.  It is set high in the mountains where the temperature dropped 5 degrees Celsius on the 15 minute minibus ride up.  An orthodox village that used to be Greek until the great population swap (Turks and Greeks expelling the other) of the 1920s, the village is known for its sweet fruit wines and olive oil. 

Well, it’s the most rural place I’ve ever visited – that’s for certain.  Pretty?  Well, that's in the eye of the beholder.  It was different.  Well-used, stuck in a rural past with muddy inclined paths and little shack houses fallen into deep disrepair, pressing against the future of strewn plastic garbage, satellite dishes everywhere, and what I presume to be a sewer drain being gouged out of the stone streets.  However, most of the white and brown houses dotting the mountainside were pretty.

Back in Selçuk,  I thought I’d try something different for dinner.  Some of the hotel staff just had Turkish pizza delivered from the place next door, which I’d been wanting to try.  I order a traditional pide - long, thin baguette-shaped, but flat and topped with minced meat and egg which came with a small salad, as well as some meatballs with cheese which came with two gigantic pitas (don’t know what the Turkish word for it is),  It was a lot of food, the pide alone would have sufficed.   A pair of Italian or Spanish tourists come in after eyeing the lone tourist diner through the window and order the same thing.  Between the two of them, they ate as much as I did.  It was really good, and I felt bad leaving the few slices of orphaned pide. 

As I ate, the staff was riveted by a tv program that I found quite compelling too, even if I had no idea what was going on.  It was completely over the top and started with a man clutching a small blanketed body in a dugout grave, unwilling to step out, even piling dirt upon himself.  Eventually, he emerges from the grave only for a Godfather/Tarantino-inspired gunfight to break out at the cemetery!  Guy can’t seem to catch a break, though he later successfully smothers an enemy to death while they both recover at the hospital.  Good stuff!

I wander the cold, mostly empty streets and stop into a candy and nuts shop and have my first Turkish delight and chocolate covered hazelnuts (Turkey is the leading producer of hazelnuts, fyi) of the trip.  For the uninformed, like myself, Turkish delight comes in a wide range of flavors, not just rose water.  I buy a small assortment and it is delightful – it’s like the original jelly candy/gummy bear, really. 

I take in my last night in Selçuk, only just having begun to know its rhythms.