O frabjous day!

Jack's birth story

2011-08-05T00:50:00.001-07:00

So. In slightly less than 36 hours, Jack will be two. This just kills me -- first that my itty bitty newborn is growing up so fast, second that we've kept him alive so long and third... that I'm still questioning the ways and means of his delivery.

So. Our birth story. I was pretty sure of his date of conception, which would have made his due date the 26th or so of July. On a 12 week ultrasound, the sonographer estimated August 1 or so his due date. It seemed pretty close, so I wasn't fussed.

I had a lovely pregnancy. Other than a fall off a community bus (yes, I fell off a short bus) at the beginning of my moderately hellish second trimester/working full time/taking full time classes at SFU which caused some serious back pain, and a few episodes of serious heartburn, I felt good. Pretty much no morning sickness, no spots, no waddling -- I was good. I only gained 26lbs, which made my midwives happy, and my main cravings were milk (I was buying and drinking 10+ litres a week) and a $50/week strawberry and mango habit. It could have been worse.

There were a few stressful things towards the end. I was in disagreement with my employer over the amount of holidays I was entitled to, and my auntie Joan was in hospice care having lost her battle with cancer. These things are related: I wanted a week to go visit her as I was too far along to fly and couldn't make the drive in a weekend in my state. I didn't get to see her, which still pretty much makes me want to cry. There were some good stresses too: we moved to a housing co-op in Mt. Pleasant out of our craptastic little apartment in the ugliest corner of New Westminster (a good move, but moving at 7 months pregnant with an incompetent and belligerent mover was not overall positive). My sister moved to the UK in the middle of June and I was both happy for her and sad that she wouldn't be meeting our little guy for at least a year or two.

The last two weeks of July were some of the hottest on record and the only thing that saved me is that I had gone off work a little early due to being HUGE and needing daily NST (non stress tests) in the first week of July to make sure the small fry was still going great (which he was). So, from July 6 onwards, I was off work and in the lake. Sasamat Lake in Port Moody saved my overheated bacon in a big way :)

July 26 came and went. My aunt passed away, surrounded by loved ones who weren't me. I was definitely big by my standards, and the only thing of any concern to my midwives was that I was apparently measuring 'big'. I wasn't really stressed by this: my weight gain was awesome, considering I started very overweight and sure I felt huge, but I didn't have anything to compare it to. I still wasn't waddling, which meant Jack hadn't started to descent into my pelvis, which again I wasn't super worried about. I had done a LOT of reading about natural birth and labour. I had midwives and an awesome doula, Sally, and had done the Birthing From Within course in order to learn techniques of getting out of my overly-clinical head during the birthing process. I knew that with the onset of labour, he could move into position very quickly, and I had faith that my body just wasn't ready to go into labour. I believed in the 'due month' and was willing to be patient and go past my due date if necessary.

We took long walks and short hikes, did lots of beluga-inspired swimming at Sasamat Lake and waited.

On a Tuesday, though, the 4th of August, my midwives checked in. I said I was still great, still not waddling, but I had noticed a very few less movements that day than the rambunctious tenant I was used to. They told me to go to St. Paul's for an NST, which was reassuringly fine. I was asked to come back the next day for an ultrasound, which I happily attended on the Wednesday afternoon.

Once I had my clothes all back on, June, who was one of my favourite midwives, came in for a chat. Apparently my fluid was measuring low (something I now know is pretty meaningless as a) fluid measurement is irrelevant to fetal outcome and b) it is pretty much impossible to measure properly by ultrasound or any other means). June didn't seem too concerned, though that may have been her unflappable demeanor, and I wasn't too worried until she said that Jack needed to be delivered. That meant an induction. And a go home, pack a bag, and drive to the hospital where she would be waiting kind of induction. Furthermore, a drive to Royal Columbian (in New Westminster!), since they wouldn't induce me at St. Paul's since they didn't have enough surgical staff on hand in case I needed a c-section. It was the first I had even considered a c-section as being something that could happen to me.

Back a few months earlier, when we were doing the hippie-dippy prenatal classes (which I loved, by the way, birth art and all), we were given the assignment of drawing our worst case birthing scenario. I drew the aftermath of a dead baby. Every single other couple drew a c-section. Funny, huh?

Gayle and John picked us up at home and drove us to Royal Columbian. We checked in and were given a tiny room off the nurse's station, where June fussed over us for a few minutes and left. At around 8pm, Cervadil (prostaglandin gel)was inserted by my cervix to try and get things started, but my cervix was still relatively closed (1cm) and high up. We were on our own for the night and told to rest while we could, and June was going home to do the same thing.

I felt strongly that laying there was not going to accomplish anything. If I was going to manage to have this baby, I needed to get him DOWN and I could only do that with gravity. I was up and walking for most of the night. I did feel contractions which I could walk and talk through to start with, but eventually had to pause and breathe through. Hours later, when I was found by a nurse to basically not have progressed, they started the Pitocin IV. The only complication of this was that I was told I had to lie in bed wearing the fetal heartrate monitor for 20 minutes. Those 20 minutes were unpleasant, but when I went to get up, I was told by the nurse not to. I had known about this possibility and demanded the 'telemetry' FHM which was wireless and which I could walk around while wearing. I was told the nursing staff weren't prepared to find it for me and if I wanted it, it would have to be my midwife who put it on. We called Commercial Drive Midwives, and Corrine was on call. This was a little disheartening. We had met all three midwives: Grace, June and Corrine, as is standard, and had decided that we hoped to get anyone but Corrine. She was nice enough, but a little blank/unresponsive/unengaged and she was the only one who had never had her own baby.

When Corrine arrived, sometime around 6am, she was MAD. Mad to be there early, mad the nurses wouldn't arrange the telemetry machine, just plain mad. We were a little taken aback, but frankly were more concerned with other things. Sally had also arrived (before our midwife) and was fantastic -- a calm and reasoned presence. We felt more confident standing up for ourselves while she was there, and in fact I eventually ignored the FHM nurse and just got out of bed to walk some more. Once the telemetry machine was in place (a stupid little webbing belt with several large plastic monitors attached to it), I went back to walking. I don't know how much I walked that night, but I still never waddled.

Eventually, the doctors on staff changed shift. Instead of the dark-haired female OB, it was a man. At 10am, he decided to check my progression and I was maybe at 3cm and still far back. He offered to break my water in order to get things going. Even knowing how one intervention can lead to another, I agreed. The thought of the past 14-16 hours resulting in a whole 2cm change was daunting. He actually offered to do a csection right then and I must have looked at him like he grew a second head. He backpedaled a little and basically said he was fine with me trying labour. He broke my waters which hurt like a motherfucker. I thought being checked for dilation was painful (I'm pretty sure I begged him to stop in the middle) -- I had no idea. I immediately asked if the fluid was clear and... no. No, they weren't. Now I was even more anxious. I knew that meconium in the water would limit the amount of time they would let me labour even more than the clock that started ticking when the induction started. I felt immense pressure to get this baby moving, so I was back on my feet, wearing horrible plastic mesh panties and a giant pad to hold the green liquid I was oozing. Ugh.

I stormed up and down the halls for what seemed like hours. Every so often a nurse or Sally or Corrine would mention that the nurse was getting a little frantic when I went to the bottom of the hallway as I would get out of range of the telemetry machine and it would go all crazy. I felt like I was slowly being corralled, my leash was being tightened closer and closer to that little room where I didn't want to be. Eventually some lucky mother had her baby and a bigger room opened up, one with a big tile tub, which they wouldn't let me into because of that IV in my hand. I think I asked at one point what would happen if I just went over to the bathtub and filled it and got in, and no-one answered me. Sally might have wished I would try, I suspect, but my midwife didn't encourage it.

Oh yes -- through this time, we also had a student midwife. I forget her name; I suspect I've blocked it from my mind. She was trained as a midwife overseas (the Phillipines? I forget) and was going through a program to become certified in Canada. She was horrible. She called me fat to the doctors at St. Pauls (telling them that my belly measurements, while large, were off because of the fat on my stomach). She was rude to Sally. She spent most of the time at the nurses station chatting them up. She was useless, or worse than useless. She was surprised when I said no to the c-section. I'm not sure she understood that mothers in Canada go to midwives to *avoid* scalpel-happy OB/surgeons and all those interventions.

In the middle of those interventions I had been so determined to escape, I remember asking the nurse in charge of the IV if I could have a break before she increased the dosage again. Every 15 minutes, they would turn up the drip, and the contractions were coming fast and furious, like I had no break at all between them. With infinite sympathy, she kept me at the same level for another fifteen before reluctantly stabbing the machine with a perfect fingernail. The nurses were wonderful.

I laboured on the toilet at lot. I leaked green stuff and the tiny corner of rational mind I had was completely grossed out by this. I wore a tank top and a pair of grey shorts that I thought would never come clean (but which I still have and wear). I tried the shower and hated it. I stood, I sat, I squatted, I swayed. I ignored the fussing of the nurses trying to adjust the telemetry machine. I was too hot, and too cold, and they brought me warm blankets to drape around my shoulders. Sally and Steve took turns applying pressure to my SI joints, which were on fire the entire time. Steve had brought my laptop and put on Jesse Cook, and I listened to flamenco music, every album, over and over again. *Early on Tuesday...* I got loud, and louder. I breathed, I may have swore a little, or a lot. No-one offered me any pain medication. I might have punched them if they had.

When I was checked again, sometime around 9:30pm, I was no more than 4 centimetres. Maybe five. Jack's head hadn't descended any further. In fact, his head was starting to swell from being slammed against my pelvic bone for 26 hours. A section was necessary. Corrine and the doctor agreed. Steve agreed. I agreed. I asked Sally if she could turn off the Pitocin, since being slammed by artificially charged contractions is one thing when you believe the pain will accomplish something and entirely another when you know it will not. I remember so clearly the compassion in her voice when she told me she could not, her throat choked with disappointment and concern.

Sally also did the unthinkable -- with the decision made, she asked the doctor and Corrine, who were chatting in the back of the room, to leave so she could talk to Steve and I alone to make sure we (ok, I) was truly on board with this. She was worried that I would be devasted by failure. Really, by that point, any regret I had was tempered by relief that the ordeal would soon be over. However, the doctor was offended at being 'ordered around by a doula', Corrine was shocked, and that useless student midwife told her off. Steve told Corrine that the student nurse had to go, full stop, and to her credit, Corrine sent her away. I took out my contacts, still wracked by contractions, and waited with Sally and Steve for the surgery.

In short order, I was wheeled to the operating room. The anesthesiologist was marvelous -- skilled, compassionate and funny. Now that I was back in my head, and almost out of my mind in pain, the rational side came back and I'm pretty sure I was making jokes in the OR as he did the spinal. I consoled myself that a spinal would not affect Jack in the same way as an epidural. I looked up, crucified on the operating table, and saw pretty eyes above a mask behind me. It wasn't until many minutes later when I heard her speak that I realized it was Corrine. Steve was let in as well, and squeezed my hand hard enough to take away the pain in my heart. Eventually I could no longer feel the pricks and the funny man also sat behind the curtain, watching little screens.

I felt pulling and tugging and the doctor, who may actually have been kind, was calm and deliberate. The anesthesiologist asked Steve if he was squeamish. When told no, he was invited to stand up and look over the curtain to see Jack be born. After short moments, I heard some little mewling and birdlike noises and the doctor exclaimed to my son that he wasn't to be talking before he was even born. My heart washed away, and they held up this little red blur over the curtain for me to see, before he was whisked to the little table to be suctioned due to the meconium. Corrine leaned down and said, "he's big. I think maybe 10 pounds or more." All I could think, laying where I most didn't want to be, was: "well, that explains everything."

It seemed about a million hours before I heard those first big cries, and Steve and a de-umbilical'd Jack were brought back to me for me to kiss and breath on and in and fall in love with. Jack, at time of birth of 10:20pm, Thursday August 6, 2009, was 10lb 8oz, and 22.5" long. The tape only goes to 24", so I guess he was sizey. Steve was escorted with his child up to the ward, and I was stitched up and sent off to recovery where I would only be reunited with my new family after I could move my legs. Sally had apparently been waiting in the hall where she met with Steve and was able to support him in the first minutes with his son, for which I am grateful.

I hadn't been in recovery very long when Sally appeared at the door, telling Corrine that the nurses had done a heel-stick test in concerns about his blood sugar as he was so large (even though with a 26lb weight gain, there was no way I was diabetic). His sugar was a hair low, so apparently a nurse was on her way to the room with formula for Jack, even though my intention was to breastfeed. Corrine, annoyed again, milked me of several drops of colostrum into a little container which she gave to Sally to run upstairs and finger-feed to my baby.

Again, a fantastic nurse came to my rescue. I could barely twitch a leg, but she declared me recovered and sent me up to the ward to join my family, where I put Jack to the breast and he latched like a pro. Sally and the drops of colostrum had saved the day and he hadn't been given any formula. He had lots of dark curly hair, pale eyebrows, ridiculously lush eyelashes, and a serious expression. His eyes were blue as the sky and he seemed a little tanned (normal newborn jaundice which cleared with milk and sunlight after a few months, and now his skin is as porcelain as mine own). After the furor of birth, we took the time to fall in love with our newly outside person. It might have been hours before I could sleep; Sally left and someone brought Steve a cot in our little private room. I eschewed the tiny plastic bucked and settled my son beside me to sleep and nurse and marvel over.

After a c-section, the nurses have you up the very next day. I insisted they remove the urine catheter ASAP but didn't manage a shower until Saturday when I also shaved my legs (pretty fancy, me!). I changed my first diaper in my life. Steve slept with Jack on his chest to give me a break. We had visitors and midwives, and the doctor came and really was kind after all. I can't blame him for being what he is -- a surgeon. We were released on Saturday and home at last. I was told not to lift anything over 10lbs for six weeks, but I had a 10.5lb baby, so I pretty much ignored all the advice they gave. I went to the mall on Wednesday to buy some nursing clothes (funny how I was so informed and well-read about labour, and knew nothing about nursing) and went to a meeting that night. We went to Bon's on Friday, Jack's first but not last trip to the best breakfast in Vancouver. Now he eats two pancakes on his own -- crazy, huh? His 14th through 17th day earthside were spent at the Princeton Heritage Music Festival, where Steve will play again in two weeks time. I was insane. Now I would know better, but I was drunk on love and milk and fresh baby. In time, we were fine. We are fine. Jack is better than fine: he is robust and hale and blonde and still nursing, at two.

There is still a part of me, and maybe there always will be, which will wonder if the c-section was necessary. I know so much more now, about the cascade of interventions and how one little dose of cervidil can lead inexorably to a surgery. What would have happened if I had told my midwifes that my body was obviously not ready for labour and I was a poor candidate for induction? What if I had said, fluid schmuid, my NST was fine and I would rather wait a few more days? What if I hadn't let them say "oh, but now you are TEN DAYS overdue", when the ten days was based on my estimation and, according to their infallible science, I was only four days over?

With waters artificially broken, and with the augmented contractions, and with the swelled head, it is plain he never would have delivered vaginally on that day, after all that. But but but -- what if I had never walked into that hospital, never put on that gown, never knocked over that domino? Maybe three days later, I would have woken feeling a watermelon between my legs and waddled to St. Pauls where I could have experienced normal birth, normal recovery, instead of a bulge and a scar where my abdomen used to be. Or maybe I would have had a NST without a heartbeat, or a baby with an infection from meconium, or maybe I would have experienced the fear I drew.

But I will never know. Next baby, should we be so blessed, next baby will be born at home.

It's a beautiful day in the neighbourhood

2011-07-25T00:19:00.000-07:00

Finally, just past midnight, it's starting to cool down. I'm reluctant to complain about this sudden heat given that we've been so deprived of sun this summer on the Wet Coast. So I won't.

Instead, I'll share some photos of the small fry having a deliciously wet time with a hose, a trug pool and assorted toys. We all got splashed and splattered and soaked and it was wonderful. Except, perhaps, for the odd passerby. Aaaaah nothing like standing in a pool of cold water to cool your core.

Jack had a lovely afternoon with his friend Orien in the lane in front of our home.

I'm so blessed to live in this beautiful co-op, with a freaking cute kid and a husband who passes me a perfectly cooked grilled cheese sammich out our kitchen window so I can keep watching our small fry. And now I can go to bed without the fan on.

I am INCENSED at the CBC

2011-07-06T18:43:00.000-07:00

Dear CBC,

As an ardent supporter of the CBC and public broadcasting, I have to let you know that I will no longer be a supporter.

The incredibly biased news brief which put such a poor light on the millenia-old practice of cosleeping was incorrect, inflammatory and did not even address the real issues.

Let me ask you -- if SIDS, identified as 'sudden infant death syndrome' and by its very definition is UNEXPLAINED, then how could 'maternal suffocation' be a cause of SIDS? Then the cause of death would be suffocation or accident, not SIDS. The logic is faulty. To force a mother to be up late at night, all night, trying to stay awake in order to put her sleeping baby back in a lonely crib is what leads to unsafe cosleeping situations, like sleeping in a couch or chair. Cosleeping deaths while the mother is intoxicated, under the influence of drugs or in a smoking household are not rightly cosleeping deaths, but cosleeping inevitably gets the bad reputation, something which the CBC had the opportunity to set straight and absolutely failed.

What no-one seems to talk about are the risks of crib-sleeping. What about the other deaths from SIDS that occur when the child is in a crib? Or those babies in Surrey burned in their crib when a lamp fell in? Or the infant whose fingers were consumed by a ferret... in a crib? Had those babies been safely sleeping in their parents' presence, those tragic accidents would not have occurred.

All over the world, cosleeping is the norm. It is biologically correct (cavemen did not force their children to sleep separately; had they done so we would have died out as a species). It promotes breastfeeding duration. It promotes maternal and infant rest and health. It has been shown to prevent SIDS (yes, PREVENT!). Safe cosleeping should be encouraged, and parents not be made to feel bad because they 'insist' on an unsafe practice.

Here is a recent article by the Sunday Times in the UK which talks about the changing reputation of cosleeping, something which the CBC just put back 10 years due to your incorrect reporting: http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/uk/article1083020.ece

You may want to pay special attention to this quotation from the article: “In the UK, 500 children a year die of Sids,” Sunderland writes. “In China, where it [co-sleeping] is taken for granted, Sids is so rare it does not have a name.”

Shame on you CBC. I expected better reporting from you, and now I feel that I must question the quality of your reporting on all subjects.

Sadly,
Lorien Quattrocchi

I suck so hard

2011-05-26T23:02:00.000-07:00

My little family took an almighty roadtrip this last week where one of the stops was my little hometown. I saw an old friend there who I hadn't actually saw in person in oh about a million years. We chatted about small fry, old houses and current projects. It came up in conversation that I'm not really making anything these days and it's true.

On the interminable drive from Kaslo to Whistler (11 hours, delayed by ferry shenanigans in Galena Bay), I contemplated that comment a lot. This is the first stretch of time in my life in which I haven't made stuff. Any stuff. I don't really even cook, certainly not in a creative fashion. Even my food is utilitarian, though every trip to the farmer's market causes creativity to bubble up inside me. Too bad that creativity gets thrown out ten days later, having rotted in the fridge.

I used to make a lot of things: I took art and shop and home ec. in highschool, and God knows the SCA kept my fingers busy for almost 15 years. Even when I went back to SFU and may not have had a lot of time for sewing or embroidering or pewter casting or painting or woodworking or armour making, at least I was an English major and could channel my creativity there. I spent a lot of time causing my professors late night marking angst with my obscure thesis statements and leaping metaphors. Even at my most scholarly, there was room for creativity.

So seriously. I have a child. One who loves to play trucks and trains, swing and climb and draw and pour water from one vessel to another, and is a 29lb quickly-moving lump of imaginative play, and I? I am at a loss. He hands me a pen while waiting for food at the restaurant, eager to see what my adult mind and coordinated fingers can create to pass the time before pasta and... I draw an apple. Ok, part of it is to hear his identification of my picture -- "appull!" But what else do I draw? Not a heck of a lot. I used to draw interesting things, pretty things. Now I draw a dinosaur. And another apple, this time green. I add a leaf. Ooooo so creative. I pretty much want to put a fork through my eye.

All this isn't helped by Steve's unending creativity. His paintings are admired daily at my office; he plays music every day. When I'm asked at musical gatherings what I play, musicality assumed, I respond "taxi driver." Haha. Too bad it's true.

I can hear the kind voices of my friends, "oh but you did create! You created a beautiful little person! Just look at Jack!" Whatever. It's not like he birthed out of my head. My uterus is awesome; my brilliant mind is what is flagging. My fingers have forgotten the feeling of fabric. My sense of aesthetic almost thought that sentence was ok. Obviously this is a problem.

So... I need to make. Stuff. Things. Words. Food on plates that didn't meet a jar at any time in its culinary journey. I need to draw things that aren't apples. Or fish. Or "brontosaurus! Look, Jack, a dinosaur! This dinosaur ate leaves and trees. Apple trees. See the APPULL?" I'd like to sew -- I have bins of fabric I couldn't bear to part with. I even have curtain fabric for our ~~fishbowl~~ kitchen windows. I still have a box of drawing stuff and beautiful blank white pages to start with. I have casting supplies and pewter in Kaslo, leather working items in a tote, a box of tools I could make a cedar deck box with. I have a more-and-more independent small fry who can be reliably entertained at the park for an hour at a time. I have the want to make things burning inside me. So.

I'm starting here. I managed to keep the blog ball in the air for quite a few months, even as a monthly update. I can surely spare some of the time I usually spend reading about other people's creativity and make something of my own. Ohdeedoh and Young House Love, I'm thinking of you here.

Who knows, maybe I'll even sew some curtains, much to the relief of my neighbours :)

Jack, considering the possibilities of a large puddle.

And with people food comes...

2010-04-28T19:07:00.000-07:00

People poops!

Jack loves his mama's milk, and I am delighted to provide it to him.

He was exclusively breastfed until just about six months and, for those that don't know, the poop that comes out of an exclusively breastfed baby is actually not too bad, as poop goes. Kind of yeasty smelling, yellow, runny, washes away, wipes off.

At six months, we started him on little bits of food -- some yoghurt, some banana, a little avacado. A cheerio or two. He still mostly drinks milk, but his range and volume of solids has increased. And things have changed.

Oh my, have they ever changed!

First, he stopped pooping as often. He was a once-a-day guy until about seven months. Then it was every few days. Then he started pooping every four-five, sometimes six days.

Poor Steve seemed to get the bad luck of the draw in the diaper changing regard (even though I almost never engineered it to be his turn when the poop finally came), and confess that I resented his shouts of horror and begging for help when he was diaper changing. I confess that I rarely helped him, and if I did it was with much resentment. "Drama queen" I would mutter to myself. "Princess." I was really very ungracious. It really didn't seem that bad, even though he has been telling me that for the past few weeks, the poop has been taking on a most unpleasant texture and odour.

"Whatever you say, Steve. It's only poop."

You may see where this is going.

Today my choice was diaper change (which I knew was poopy) or litter box (also a known poop entity). As I abhor changing the litter box, and my sense of social justice finally reared it's ugly head, I opted for the diaper.

What a terrible mistake. A terrible, terrible mistake.

The first indication something was wrong was the smell. My darling little baby boy smelled... funny. Bad, somehow. Actually kind of gross. He hadn't smelled so bad since his cord stump turned into a putrid swamp of zombie-ness before it fell off.

Then I took his pants off.

The green streak up his leg wasn't completely unexpected since he hadn't pooped in two days, even given our awesome cloth diapers, but the smell had intensified. Badly. In preparation, I got two wipes out of the container (I generally pride myself on using one wipe per change) and had them handy. Then I unvelcro'd the top of the diaper. Jack reached for his penis with both hands.

Within a nanosecond, I had re-velcroed the diaper.

"STEVE!!!!!!!!" I screamed into the baby monitor. "STEEEEEEEEVE!!! I neeeeed you! HELP!"

My husband ran up the stairs, laughing. "Hold his arms," I told him. "Stat." Steve grabbed Jack's arms, weak with laughter. "I told you they were bad." "Shut up and hold his arms."

I wiped the leg first. Then I opened the diaper.

Ladies and gentlemen, I have never seen anything like it. It was a greyish green putty, smeared in a layer about a centimetre thick all over his penis, testes, buttocks and diaper. It had *chunks* in it. I'm pretty sure I saw peas, watermelon and zucchini. The image is burned into my retina. And the smell. Oh my goodness, the SMELL.

Have you ever attended a country fair sadly undersupplied in the porta-potty department? Where large, large men with unhealthy colons have voided their bodies of too many corn dogs and Those Little Doughnuts? And it's hot? Very, very hot? And the overused porta-potties are in the middle of the sunniest part of a blacktop parking lot?

It was like that. Only all over my baby's bum. And it was cold and windy outside.

I looked at this abomination of diaper-ness, and I looked at my two puny wetwipes. I looked back at the abomination, and grabbed a prefold from the shelf. I started taking big swipes at the bum, and grabbed another prefold. Worse yet, I couldn't even put the used diapers anywhere, since I needed one hand to hold Jack's legs up and out of the detritus and other to wipe.

In all this, my husband was still laughing. Whenever he had breath to speak, he would gasp out something that sounded like "I told you so."

Gee, thanks.

Unfortunately, all the laughing got Jack right riled up -- he thought the situation was HI-larious -- so he squirmed and wriggled and twisted his little bum and thighs ALL OVER the dirty diaper. As fast as I wiped him clean, he rolled his bum, back and legs back through the mess.

Did I mention ~~the peanut gallery~~ Steve was still laughing? Yeah.

Finally I got the worst of it up (which is to say there was now just a film of disgusting smelly poop instead of a spackle of disgusting smelly poop), and, with two premium-sized prefolds AND my two sad little wet wipes now covered in that toxic waste, I told Steve to just hold Jack on the change table and I ran to run the bath.

One double-dose of bubble bath and two very wrinkled baby feet later, I was pretty confident he's clean. I do, however, still feel like scrubbing my hands with the barbeque brush and I may have to bleach the bath (to say nothing of my sinuses. And my eyes.). I haven't even considered what to do with the diaper (tongs and a bonfire comes to mind), and Steve (who mercifully stopped laughing) tells me this is the new normal.

Normal? This? And he potty learns WHEN? What did you say? WHEN?

The heck with starting solids at six months, I'm not giving him another solid until he's THREE YEARS.

So, to all lovely mothers just champing at the bit to feed your little angel his or her first mouthful of sweet potato at six months and two minutes old -- don't. Just don't. For the love of little apples, wait as LONG AS YOU CAN before introducing solids. I recommend middle school at the earliest.

Trust me.

In our eighth month together...

2010-04-25T22:55:00.003-07:00

In dark hours, I feel you breathe beside me, deep in sleep.

Pale morning light cools your skin to porcelain, so much like mine. The blue line of your eyelid flicks with a pulse matched by your throat as you nurse. Your cheek flutters -- a hummingbird wing -- you suckle for comfort, and I am comforted at our connection. Soon you will wake and you will exercise your will, assert your independence, and I will celebrate your confidence. But not now. Right now, we are one.

Afternoons bring staccato feet drumming my thighs and belly as your body's drive to move is slowly stilled by your mind's desire for rest. And milk. And my presence. And you sigh, and still, and sleep.

This is our respite from a day of activity, your "ah!" and flashing smiles for strangers, your determination and my laughter. This is a time just for us, where you are still my baby, and not the little boy we have dubbed 'our gift to the world'. Jack, I miss you when you belong to everyone.

When you nurse, though, you are an extension of me, attached to me. I slow my breath to slow yours, calming both of us.

We slide into sleep together, your hand tracing mine. Your inquisitive finger presses the ball of my thumb, touches my wedding ring, my wrist my breast my face. Your ear.

You hold my hand with yours, your tiny, perfect hand. You nurse, and sleep, and your hand falls away.

Your gossamer hair against my arm smells metallic, bright, golden. It stirs and moves with a life of its own, lifted by the cherry-blossom breeze from the open window. It tickles my nose when I bend to kiss your head, damp with sleep. I breathe in how we smell together; milk and honey.

Hunger sated and with a full measure of comfort, you roll to your back, cheeks flushed and mouth pursed in the memory of nursing. I watch over you, a lioness with loving arms.

Your mouth reaches for me, blind and needing, as you sleep. A rising panic makes your languid motions urgent! frantic! until you latch -- aaah -- and slip back into the bliss. This is bliss.

This is more than I could ever have imagined.

That something so simple -- feed your baby -- could be such a profound expression of intimacy and love is something I could never have expected.

I would do anything to protect you, and us, and the nursing that helps make us an 'us'. I am fierce with passion for this. I am sabre-toothed in my defense of our need to nurse and be nursed, for us both to be nurtured at my breast.

You have made me thus: a mother. By nursing you, I am provider and provided for. I am blessed, anointed, baptized in milk. In this bed, I participate in an everyday miracle. I believe.

And still you sleep beside me, drinking in love.

Thank you.

In my defence, you are keeping me busy!

2010-04-03T13:00:00.001-07:00

In fact, as I write, you are wriggling your way over to the dvds on the shelf and look very much like you are going to pull one down for a taste. Or all of them for a taste. Oh, first you are going to taste Daddy's birthday card. Again.

Which is all my roundabout way of explaining, dear Jackie, why your seven-month letter is coming at ~~almost exactly at seven-and-one-half months~~ a few days before you turn eight months old. Bad mama!

The past ~~six weeks~~ two months have been a rollicking adventure of milestones and development, and the ride is not slowing down one whit. As you have now pushed yourself backwards under your swing and will be clamouring shortly for rescue, I will be brief. [Ok, this is not entirely accurate, two weeks later. The swing went on Craigslist and you required rescuing before I could finish this post. Right now you are sleeping on your sleeping daddy on the couch. Seriously, seriously cute.]

You can push yourself around backwards. This is cute, and not nearly as scary as the next trick -- crawling. You can already get to hands and knees pretty much at will and you rock back and forth in preparation for the next stage, as if you are a little toy car getting revved up to be let go, zooming across the floor. We MUST get a baby gate. Seriously.

You have two teeth. The first popped above the gum line at Mt. Baker a few weeks ago and the second followed a few days later. They are now readily visible when you smile. I call you 'Sharky' because of your terribly sharp chomping which you do on our fingers at every opportunity.

You taste EVERYTHING. Every object you come across is lifted (if possible), turned, examined intently (with your little duck lip sticking out in concentration) and tasted. These include and are not limited to: the buttons on my sweater, the cat's tail, daddy's steel guitar (with teeth clicking on the metal), any carpet you are placed on, your coat, the granite countertops at Ikea, my toes, my wallet, my debit card (handily lifted from my wallet), your seat belts and whatever else you grab/we give you in desperation to keep you occupied for another 20 seconds.

Food has been interesting. I am a ~~lazy~~ ardent breastfeeder, so your diet is virtually 100% breastmilk, on tap. This is normal at your age, and since I'm ~~lazy~~ prescribing to baby-led weaning, food is for fun and texture at this point, not for nutrition (that's what the boobs are for). No purees for you! And no preparing/spoon feeding/cleaning up puree-covered walls for me! Since we are going for fun foods, you have been eating a range of delicious things. You like raspberry pancakes, scrambled eggs and toast, any kind of cheese is a BIG hit, and you sucked back two slices of spicy Genoese salami at Costco. We actually had to go back to the sample guy for another slice. Awww our little blond, blue-eyed Italian shows his true colours! Sometimes you hide food in your cheeks for later. That's always fun come nursing time.

"Why is this piece of half-mascerated steamed carrot on my boob?"

You are talking up a storm. You are speaking fluent 'Babyese', and we don't understand a word of it, but you obviously believe that you are speaking a complete and many-nuanced language and your descriptive powers are amazing. We are actually surprisingly good at translating your Ahs! and Ers! into the mother tongue, or at least you appreciate our efforts.

For the past few days, your naps have been all over the place. Mostly far, far away. You are working on so many skills -- walking, crawling, communication -- that it wires your brain and you can't sleep even when you are so. very. tired.

You have also begun to 'request' to be nursed upstairs in bed no matter where we are. It doesn't help to explain to you that London Drugs just doesn't have a bed we can nurse in -- you are insistent! Arching! Take me to bed to nurse! Only nursing in bed + shortage of beds at major retailers = eating less during the day (though that ipod ~~Touch~~ Addiction is mighty handy for surfin' and nursin'). In compensation, you are eating about ~~five~~ fifty times over the nighttime hours. Thank all the little gods we co-sleep, though your Daddy has on at least one occasion been pushed right out of bed.

*thump*

I'm ordering a nursing necklace to try and keep your attention long enough to get some milk in you during the day. Cheerios are fascinating and tasty ~~and look fine on my boob~~, but I'm getting a little tired of the afternoon pump because you can't be bothered to slow down enough to nurse -- or we don't have a bed handy.

Diapering has also become something of an ~~ordeal~~ adventure as you've mastered the whole rolling uphill thing. Daddy and I miss the days when we could leave you on the change table to run and grab something and not worry about a *thump*. Frankly, I miss the days when I could grab a wipe without having to simultaneously pin you with a fancy wrestling hold while trying to keep your hand off your poop-covered privates while keeping your diaper in place with a fourth hand and trying to free the music mobile from your other hand so that it can make the music it needs to TO DISTRACT YOU. Ahh let it go. We do love the All In One Monkey Doodlez (I should buy stock) as it is only one layer of diaper to put on and therefore only requires two extra hands instead of four. Made in Canada with super velcro for the win! Go Canada!

I've been attending a 'Mamas Unfolding' group put on by the same people as we did our pre-natal classes (Dancing Star Birth) where one of the mamas did the prenatal class with us. Her little guy, James, is working on walking (so ~~scary~~ cute!). You watched him and that night showed us that your mad standing skillz have translated into mad walking skillz! Of course your balance is non-existent, but the leap to one-foot-in-front-of-the-other has been made. Dear god.

Since I need to start working on eight months ASAP, I will close this one off with a bunch of random photos. Quick, before you wake up.

You love hiking. When the MEC baby backpack comes out, you jump with joy. Which makes hiking even more fun -- nothing like a wiggling 20lb backpack to make daddy grateful for a hiking pole. Here we are at Lynn Creek. Truth be told, you find the label on the Jackpack just as interesting as the scenery. Mmmm... tasty label!

We checked out some Olympic venues. Stroller = snowplow if people = snow. Way to get us to the head of the line, baby! The energy downtown was pretty darn cool and you loved it and the people loved you. Beth and I stood in line for over an hour in the Bay Olympic Superstore lineup, where you decided a snack would be nice right about now... so we nursed in the lineup, Beth pushing the stroller and me walking and nursing. Too bad breastfeeding isn't an Olympic sport. Go Canada!

Hiking at Cypress Falls in West Vancouver. The closest we could get to Cypress Mountain during the Olympics. You loved the rushing falls.

You do love your daddy's music. Three... two... one... turn and EAT GUITAR!

You also love your pasta. This was your first (but not your last) trip to Anton's Pasta Bar. You like chorizo sauce on your pasta. Someday you will be able to eat a whole plate, I know it. Go Quattrocchi metabolism!

Grandpa Rod and Nana Tracy were in town for a few days over Spring Break, which was awesome. I was so relieved that you took to them like you had seen them every day (instead of not since Thanksgiving). We went to a Sledge Hockey Game and you were RAPT. You watched the replay, you cheered at the goals, you ate Greek food afterwards and barely stayed awake on the bus on the way home -- just like the rest of us.

Go Canada!

Go Canada!

Go raspberry pancakes!

In a few minutes, we're going to pack up and go to Grandma Gayle and Grandpa John's house for dinner, which will be followed by Easter brunch tomorrow and maybe some birthday cake for mummy and Auntie Lisa. Mmmm... cake. Maybe we'll let you have a little taste... or maybe I'll pick up a little salami for my little Sharky. Go ~~Italy~~ Canada!

I love you, Jackeroo. You are the awesome-est.

Mama

Almost six months...

2010-02-05T12:29:00.001-08:00

Hi Jackeroo!

Tomorrow you will be six months old. You are currently napping in your swing, so I'm going to make the most of this respite to write your letter.

You are generally napping more, so you'd think I'd have more time to write, but no -- you prefer to nap in our bed, with me lying beside you, so you can take a sip whenever your sleepy self decides to have a snack. This is lovely (and man am I well rested some days!) but not so conducive to writing.

Last night Steve had Simon over for music, and you stood in your exersaucer for over two and a half hours listening to the music. You crowed and sang and played with your sippy cup, and on at least one occasion, you licked your dad's steel guitar. Mmmmm... tasty, tasty guitar! When the evening was winding down, you started shouting at me (also a new development) and when I picked you up, you were soaked. Even your socks were wet! Who knows how long your diaper had been saturated, but Mr. Picky, who usually complains at the first sign of dampness, didn't care a whit so long as the music was playing.

We've known for a long time (since before you were born) how much you love music. A few weeks ago, I went to move Steve's guitar from the couch and as soon as you saw me pick up the instrument, you started jumping and crowing -- play mummy! play! I had to apologize... sorry, baby -- wait for your daddy to come home. When we arrived at the Vancouver Folk Song Society event last Wednesday, you actually shook with excitement when you realized where we were. I guess time will tell if you decide to play an instrument (as opposed to tasting them), but chances appear good.

You are now 18lb, 10oz, and are about 29" long. I have started buying 12 month clothes for you. They are a little big, but better that than too-small 6-12 month shirts. Interestingly, you are still in 3-6 month pants, and size small Bummis diaper covers, which you should have grown out of at 15lbs, but you have your dad's slim hips (certainly not mine!) and long body (mine).

You have your dad's hands: strong and gentle. I hope this is a sign of the man you will become. You like to stroke my hands while you nurse, or run your hands over my shirt, or reach up your hands for me to kiss. The purpose behind your tiny hands is impressively large: you reach, grab, turn, grapple, lift and constantly explore. Anything small enough to lift is brought to your mouth for a taste and a gum, which is why I was wiping tiny pieces of cardboard from your face, hands and shirt the other day. Mmmm... tasty, tasty cardboard!

You have also experimented with more... conventional solids. You have had yogurt (your favourite), apples (mostly stolen from me and gnawed during co-op meetings), avocado (which you had in your ears by the time you were done), banana (not such a fan) and raspberry with yogurt (big hit). Oh, and chicken which you mostly shredded and congee which you mostly hated. You would like best to be eating whatever we are eating, whether it be Thai Red ~~Crack~~ Curry, Chinese hot pot, Miniwheats or any other thing that approaches our mouths. In time, Jackeroo, in time! For now, my milk is your primary food and All That Other Stuff is just for fun.

We recently introduced you to the swings in the little park by our house. The first few swings were a little eyebrow-raising for you, but you got the hang of it in about 2.2 seconds, and now you LOVE the swings. Woohoo! you say! Only you don't say "woohoo" but more "aaaaieeeeeeee!!!!!" in tones that could bend metal.

As much fun as swinging on your own is, you like swinging with your daddy the best:

"Aaaaieeeeeeee!!!!!"

You are becoming more communicative by the second. You tell me you want to lie down for a nap by refusing to nurse on the couch or in your chair, and yet you are all smiles and turning over to root when I place you on the bed. You have gone beyond arching your back to be picked up to now stretching out your arms to us. You "mmmumamamummmmmumumumbabamamumummum!" which I usually find excruciatingly cute, and other times excruciatingly exasperating (when I'm standing right there), but I know it is all about you learning to communicate, so that's ok. Also ok is the new shouting, which you do to get my attention, and then you put on whatever signal you use to get whatever it is that you need: if you want to play, you smile and flap; if you're wet, you complain; if you're tired/bored/lonely, you cry out to me. You have started to babble, which is awesome! You talk to your toys, the dog, and us, especially when you are at eye level.

You love going grocery shopping (and will maybe tolerate Ikea -- note to self to take you to Ikea) now that you can sit up in the baby seat in the buggy, which is great timing, since we had to replace your infant car seat with a convertible seat.

Oh, and that new carseat? In our new car! My paternal grandmother amazingly and unexpectedly sent us some money -- enough to pay off my student loan. Since your education is already being saved for, this has freed us up to buy the very necessary family car. Even though I've loved my Toyota Echo, the new Honda Fit is freaking amazing! We are on track to being completely debt-free inside of two years, if we I keep my shopping nose clean. No credit card debt, no student debt, and a new car paid off. Crazy, huh? Someday this will be relevant to you, baby boy, and I hope we are able to teach you the lessons of fiscal responsibility at a cheaper price than I paid for them.

In short, you are an amazing baby, and I'm loving all the changes even though they are coming so fast it makes my head spin. It's a great ride, this 'mummmummmmaamamamum', and I never want to get off.

And speaking of a great ride, the sun has appeared, so let's go down to the swings. Hopefully it will be just like this:

I love you little man. Don't grow up too fast, 'k?

Lots of love always from your mummmammmamamumum

Five months and counting

2010-01-16T00:51:00.000-08:00

Dear Jackie,

A week and a bit ago, you turned five months old. I would have written sooner, but you have been keeping me busy! For starters, I had to order a new car seat last week. You are huge -- 18lb, 2oz as of two days ago. You are 28.5" long, which is great except that the car seat limit is 29". Hmmm... hopefully you don't grow the next 1/2" before Sunday, when your Grandpa John will hopefully help me install the new carseat...

Good lord, little man -- where do I start? You have pulled out all kinds of new tricks since I last wrote. Let's see if I can remember a few of them.

1. You roll. Seriously, we know you can do it -- rolling was your special gift to us on Christmas morning. Sure you had rolled before (such as off the couch), but those rolls could always be explained away by gravity assist, or by a helping hand to get your arms organized. Christmas rolling was all you -- yay Jack! Incidentally, you have only rolled back to front and show no interest in rolling front to back. AND you haven't rolled a heck of a lot since Christmas... but that's ok. We know you'll get there in good time -- probably sooner than we're banking on. Which reminds me -- time to shop for a baby gate, 'cause I would hate to time that wrong.

2. You kiss! For the first little while, I thought this was just random baby slimings, but no -- you give open-mouthed cheek-kisses and they are awesome (if sticky). With all the kisses you receive, it should come as no surprise that you have picked up on this trick early. You are a happy, loving little guy and it is a privilege to hang out with you every day.

3. You jump. You like to stand on our laps and you jump with joy. I felt both feet leave the ~~ground~~ lap yesterday! We have an exersaucer from our neighbours and you LOVE it. I'm pretty sure it's not supposed to be a Jolly Jumper, but you don't let that detail stop you from bouncing away in it. You're a very physical boy: you love to be pulled to a stand and thank goodness you don't have the strength to do this on your own. You can just about sit up on your own though only for a few or ten seconds before you slowly topple onto your face. Fortunately you like this, or any other motion that involves diving forward, preferably onto pointy and/or impossibly hard and/or insecure surfaces.

4. Speaking of diving, you have started to lunge at things you like. Just like those first few days of breastfeeding, when you would dive onto the boob like a petite animal, grunting and snorting with hunger, you dive onto things you want. You have dove onto your dad's lap, Sophie la Giraffe, my boob, the couch, a book, Sarah, and anything you think we are eating.

5. Ah, yes -- the eating. I had determined to be a good little kellymom.com devotee and make you wait until six months before starting solids. I know they have good reasons for this, and I respect their knowledge. However, I read Dr. Jack Newman's opinion that some babies are developmentally ready for solids before six months, and watch the baby, not the calendar. Since I also have huge respect for Dr. Newman, and Jack was watching me eat yoghurt with a look of wonder like I was performing magic, I offered him a little bit on the spoon - jackpot! You were SO HAPPY and made 'put a worm in HERE' birdie faces frantically, I fed you some more little bits, which you continued to be SO HAPPY with.

Since then, you have tried plain yoghurt (you liked this a lot), banana (not so happy with) and egg yolk at Bon's Off Broadway (more enthralled with the eggy spoon than actual eggs). I want to do Baby Led Weaning and will be trying to offer more of the finger-style foods than spoon-foods, but I guess I'm just not that organized... well, that and you were wildly uninterested in picking up banana than picking up a spoon.

This list does not include all the items which you would like to have eaten which I didn't let you, including but not limited to ham, Thai red curry, miniwheats, Steve's homemade bread with honey, tea, lemonade, cow's milk, and chocolate milk.

Ah yes, the chocolate milk. Every so often (ok pretty often), I buy chocolate milk in those little one litre jugs. I know Jack has seen me drink from one, but not recently (as in, not in the past week or two). I had one last night for a co-op meeting which Jack and I were attending (where I go, my breastfed baby goeth also), and I put it down on the table while I was taking Jack's coat off. As soon as his little arms were free, he launched himself at the table, grabbing the jug handle while making enormous birdie faces. If I hadn't snatched it away, I swear he would have ripped off the lid and started chugging. I felt badly drinking it in front of him, so I didn't get to have any until he fell asleep and I was able to lay him on the couch. In the meantime, however, he had figured out that people were drinking from cans (we don't have many cans in our house) and practically mugged my neighbour for her lemonade. Silly baby! Fortunately you are adorable and nobody minded.

Speaking of meetings -- thank you! You were so good last night, I suspect people think I drugged you. You played with Sophie, then your moose, then the keys. You stood on my lap and talked happily to my neighbour (trying to convince her to let you have some lemonade), you fussed a tiny bit but then you had a snack and a nap, you woke up happy and then hung out and ate Sophie some more. Amazing! You show more patience in a co-op meeting than many of the Board members do :- )

You are talking up a storm, by the way. You tell us stories with perfect sincerity and obvious belief that we understand every word. You crow, and laugh, and turn your head when you hear your name. You are amazingly responsive and you love just about everyone. We're still waiting to see you 'make strange' but other than occasionally needing your mama, you seem to be just a happy little person.

Except for the teeth. While no pearly whites have appeared above the gumline, baby Tylenol and homeopathic teething drops are your friends. It is a testament to your good temper that we are completely surprised when you suddenly burst out crying; on the upside, when this happens we know exactly what the problem is.

After five months, we finally have the hang of nursing lying down. My back hates it a little, but I love -- seriously, I LOVE -- waking up with you all snuggled up to me. Maybe we are more tired, maybe you are less noisy and flail-y than you were when you were new, but now we all sleep pretty well when I bring you to our bed in the wee hours and nurse us back to sleep in the soft dark of our bedroom.

Small fry, you are the best baby ever and you are turning into a little boy right before our eyes. You are growing so fast it is crazy! I need to go through your clothes and pack up the six-month sleepers and wash all the nine-month ones, and I need to remember every step of this amazing journey we are traveling as a family.

Right this minute though, it is late, and I need to go upstairs and check on you as you sleep. In a few hours, I will collect you from the crib and bring you to sleep safely between your father and I, surrounded by love. And the cat.

With love always,
Mum

The latest stats

2009-12-12T23:32:00.000-08:00

Jack is enormous.

He was weighed on Wednesday (at four months and three days) and he is 16lbs, 11oz, which is an increase from 15lb 14oz two weeks previous. He is 27.5" long, which is half an inch larger than two weeks ago. Insane! That makes him in the 97th percentile for height and the 75th or so for weight (he was 95th and 95th at birth).

I buy nine-month sleepers for him now as all the six-month ones are getting tight around the shoulders. We bought him a snowsuit... 18 months size! Admittedly, it is big on him, but we wanted to make sure it would last to the end of the winter :-)

He's not even a chubby baby -- just tall and strong and full of beans! I'm working on the 'more to love' principle with him (as I nurse my aching back).

It's hard to believe he went from this tiny little thing:

To this, in four short months...

Four months ago today...

2009-12-06T20:56:00.001-08:00

Dear Jack,

Today you turned four months old. You have become such an integral part of our lives that I cannot remember how Steve and I were an us before we were three of us. I cannot even imagine what it was like to be a me before I was your mother. You are such an awesome little human being and I feel so privileged to be a part of your life.

I can't quite believe how quickly the past four months have gone. It seems like only a few short weeks ago that you were this tiny (ok, tiny-er) little being, with such big intent eyes and little animal noises. I am desperately afraid that I will forget what it was like to hold you as a newborn, to smell your fuzzy baby head, to feel your weight as you fell asleep against my shoulder -- perfectly content and secure.

In order to aid myself in this, I am compiling a list of those things I want -- need -- to remember. I feel as if forgetting any moment of you would just break my heart.

1. Your smile. You smiled early, we think. Perhaps you had a lot of gas, but by three weeks, your smiles were aimed at us and clearly seemed to be in response to times when you were happy. I loved your early smiles, but your smiles now are just amazing You grin, you dimple, you give big smiles and then you give these full-face smiles that just light up the room! You give them freely and without reservation, and I can tell when you smile because your eyes crinkle up, so even if I can't see your mouth, I know you're happy. You smile in your sleep, these flickering grins that pass your mouth in an instant. You also smile on the boob sometimes, looking up at me with those big blue eyes, not willing to let go, but too blissed to not respond. Your face is full of love and trust and you are deliriously happy and want to show the world. I love your smiles.

2. Your tears. Your cries just break my heart, especially when your little lower lip pouts out. When you were new, your whole lower jaw would shake with the passion of your crying; combined with the outstretched fist, we (lovingly) compared you to the overacting of William Shatner (Khan!!). When they did the heel sticks to test your blood sugar levels in the hospital, I cried with you. I can't understand how any parent could ever just listen. to. their. baby. cry. I resolved the moment I met you to try and limit your crying with whatever means available to me, because I love you too much to let you cry. Not that it has always helped, but I have always tried. Over time, the strength of your cries have increased, but their frequency has decreased. We had one midnight visit from the midwife in your first week when we just couldn't figure out why you were still losing your nut at 10pm, when you weren't hungry or dirty -- turns out that's the normal fussy evenings of a newborn. Huh! It makes me wish that I had read more books on parenting, instead of being so focused on the birth.

3. Your hunger. When you were tiny, your hunger cues were easy: you were breathing, therefor you were hungry! Well, not quite so simple, but that first night I lay with you beside me in the hospital bed, I found your "ah ah ah ah" compelling me to open my shirt and offer you nourishment and comfort.   Your breathing would quicken and your mouth would open like a little bird's, and I would feed you. You also came with a cue which is only now starting to diminish: you would bonk your head against the shoulder of whomever was holding you, presumably tenderizing the flesh below for easy suckling. The bird faces were lost within your first few months, sadly, but the "ah ah ah" still makes the occasional appearance, as does the bonking. Lip-licking as a cue came and went, though I still sometimes find you licking my stomach in anticipation. When you're hungry, your breathing still quickens as I come close, and sometimes that is all you need to ask me to bring you to the breast. You now show the proper 'rooting' reflex, where you turn your head to a stroke on your cheek and open your mouth to a hoped-for breast. Even on nights like tonight, when you snacked for two minutes out of every twenty, I am still intensely satisfied with my choice to breastfeed (I say that as if it was a choice rather than surrendering to your right and need for breastmilk). Your cues have changed, but your need and my ability are still dominant factors in our lives.

4. Your hands. Your tiny little fists when you were first born have unfolded slowly into open palms, creeping starfish which cup my breast as you nurse, wander slowing up my shirt front and flow up to cover your face so you can focus more intently on the task at hand. We were so overcome with pride for you that we remarked to the midwives how you were so focused on having your hands in front of your face, as if this were a mark of some infant genius. No, we were informed, all babies do that. It's how they were in the womb and they're not yet used to having all this space. Ah, we said. Ok. I remember when you held onto our fingers with your deathgrip, and how you learned to guide our finger to your mouth for drooling and chewing (instead of guiding it carefully into your cheek!). Now you can get a toy right into your mouth, along with a washcloth, your shirt, many fingers, sometimes your thumb, your seatbelt or any other thing that is placed remotely near your mouth. You are very dexterous. Your fingernails are your fathers, as are your long fingers and elegant wrist. Perhaps you will play the guitar. Or the drums, if your father is lucky :-)

5. Your ears. Your ears were one of the first things I noticed when the doctor held you up to my view, flat on the operating table: they are perfectly formed and pinned close to your head. They are lovely ears, Jack, ears you can be proud of. The other amazing thing about those ears is how much music they have listened to, for all your life. Besides all the music you danced to in my womb, when you were just two weeks old we took you to the Heritage Music Festival in Princeton. You heard sea shanties at top volume not two feet from your head, tuba on the front porch, and banjo all over the place. When you were not quite a month, you realized at the Duttons show on Gibsons pier that the people you saw and the sounds you heard were related: you watched the show from my lap, rapt. You crow with joy and make your bouncy chair rock hard when your daddy plays music to you in your shared early mornings. You were transfixed by the native drumming at Daryl's birthday party (though the dancers scared you a little). Sometimes your unhappiness in the car seat can be put off a little by Steve and I singing along to loud, upbeat music. Or "Ain't No More Cane", which concerns your father a little.   You are already an aficionado, and we can't wait to see and hear how your musical taste develops.

6. Your hair. You have the craziest baby hair I have ever seen! You were born with a full head of fine, dark hair, with a little curl and blond tips. It was surfer hair, or little 'duck feathers' as Pixie put it. Everyone said it would fall out and you would be bald, but they were only half right: you have worn the hair off the edges of your head, and that part has grown in silver-blond. However, the top part is still dark, and long, and curly, and has ended up as a little baby faux hawk. It is adorable, and many people comment on it. I have to declare that we did not do anything to your hair to make it look like this, and I'm not sure everyone believes me.

7. Your nose. You were born with a little strawberry nose: pink with little white dots from where the pores were not developed. It disappeared slowly, so slow that I didn't mark the loss of the little dots. Your eye also cleared up: the goopy eye from an undeveloped or blocked tear duct that they told us would resolve on its own did so, sometime last week. Your eyes, by the way, are still blue. They may yet change, but the clarity and intensity of the blueness make us hopefully that you will be our blue eyed boy for the rest of your life. Your eyelashes are crazy long and dark, though your eyebrows have always been light (I guess to match the blondness of your new hair).

8. Your noises. Right now, living with you is like living with a strange and exotic bird. Most of the time, your laugh is an inhalation that results in a boisterous "eeeeeee". Sometimes, more recently, your dad can get you laughing so hard that you make all these proper chuckles, but they are less often. You also chat, and tell all kind of stories with perfect sincerity, so much that we wonder what you think you are telling us. It's quite fantastic, really. Did you know you were born talking? The doctor had only your head out of the incision and you were already chatting away. He told you: "Stop it! You aren't supposed to be talking yet!"

9. Your demeanor. You were always an engaged baby, with lots of eye contact and a serious expression. You could hold your head up from when you were born, which made life a lot easier for me as I was less worried about breaking you. Your favourite position has always been up looking over the shoulder, preferably the left. Your dad used to burp you folded in half over his shoulder, and you seemed to like it just fine. You hardly ever spit up (yay!) and you hit your nose when you are stuffed up. You have always loved to stand, even from being weeks old, you have stood with all your weight on your legs, relying on us only for balance.   You love your shiatsu chair now, though it seemed like a waste of real estate for the first few weeks. You give so much to us, and I'm not just talking drool: you laugh, you smile, you fuss generally only when there is a very good reason, and you are so very present in our lives. You seem so much more person-like than we expected such a new baby to be.

10. Your father. I would be totally remiss if I didn't mention that your father has blossomed in a way that I didn't know he would. I always knew Steve would be an amazing father -- he is caring, dedicated, compassionate, patient, fun and he has some amazing talents to teach you. However, he is so perfectly in love with you, it just breaks my heart. The first days in hospital, he roomed in on a narrow cot, and he slept with you on his chest while I napped. From the beginning, your bond was apparent; you knew his voice and trusted him completely. It kills me that Steve never expected to be a father, because he is the best of fathers. His confidence and humour have increased exponentially from the first days, even though he was never as scared of hurting you as I was. He changes your diapers, rocks you to sleep, entertains you in the morning, and loves you beyond all imagining. His love for you makes me love you both all the more, if that were possible.

I know how fleeting some of your phases and characteristics are, and I am trying to document them as much as possible. To that end, I am going to enjoy the last of your crazy baby hair until you move on to some new 'do. I love you, Jack.

It's always the planes that get me

2009-11-11T23:34:00.000-08:00

We left the house late, of course. We have a baby. Walking through weak sun to the bus stop, it felt like a gift -- sun in November in Vancouver.

The crowd was enormous, spilling up the streets and sidewalks. We could just hear the choir sing, high and sweet and pure, anonymous of words. The mutter from the sky grew louder, more insistent, and a moment later, a bomber flew low overhead. So low I thought I could reach up and touch it, feel the rivets under my fingertips. Then the tears started.

I don't often think about my grandfather. I don't need to, I suppose. He was a good man, large and larger than life -- growing peas (oh such sweet peas) in his tiny backyard in a brick suburb in middle-class England. He played the pipes in a band. He marched onscreen for a nanosecond of a movie with his pipe band, and his friends made him an Oscar. He was an airplane mechanic in the RAF in World War II, stationed in India. It took some forty years before he could set foot in a plane again, before he could come to Canada to visit his only child, my father. I know his name.

That is pretty much all I know -- I met him a half-dozen times, on trips to England, his visits here when I was a teenager, unaware of the importance of family connections. His life did not affect mine, nor mine his, I imagine. His death after a slow mental decline four years ago did not seem to affect me much either, and I understood that was the normal feelings of no real personal relationship. It was fine.
Until I heard the planes. Three years ago, I attended Remembrance Day services in Gibsons. It was another fine fall day, another gift of no rain and rustling leaves scuffed underfoot. There, the planes came from the south, low over Keats Island and the harbour, and the noise of them preceded the formation by a minute or more. When I heard them in the distance, and caught sight of them over the glinting water, I was choked by loss. The loss of a grandfather I never knew, the loss of a grandfather I would have known, had he not been so damaged by that goddamn war that his fear was more intense than his desire to be a part of our lives. Of my life. The loss of lives, of a generation, of quiet despair and 'keep strong and carry on'.

When I heard the planes -- those four lone bombers, flying in a tight formation -- I imagined what it would have been like to huddle in the darkness of London, hearing hundreds of bombers streaming through the skies with their impossibly inhumane payload.

Every year, I hear that rumble, and I remember my grandfather, and what wasn't to be, and I cry.

This year, I nursed my infant son on the curb of a street next to the cenotaph, and my tears landed on the blanket that kept him warm and safe. I cannot imagine a world which would send their precious little boys to war, to be killed, or damaged, or suffer wounds that their granddaughters bleed generations later.

What do we tell Jack about war? That it is cruel and horrible, but there are times when you have to take a stand against great evil? That he should never be a soldier? That he should be a soldier if he thinks the cause is right? Certainly, we will tell him that he should always use worlds instead of fists, or guns.

And I will tell him about his great-grandfather, who would have loved him. I know it.

His father's son

2009-11-09T17:18:00.000-08:00

Jack is his father's son.

On reflection, what a stupid, stupid phrase: of course he's his father's son! By definition of the word... never mind. Jack is obviously Steve's son. My case in point: shopping. Instead of our usual 'pajama Monday', I decided today to spend the day out. We drove Steve to work (ok, I drove), pooped (Jack, I swear), ate (Jack again) and went to Ikea (Jack and I). Jack was fine at the co-op, fine in the car, and began to complain as soon as I sat down in the cafe with my $1 breakfast. He complained the entire shopping trip, at least until I sat down with him on the as-is white leather couch (boy I bet those as-is staff were nervous until we got up and left their couch unstained!) after which it was close enough to home, only with a better, cleaner unstained couch.

We enjoyed as-is couch snacks (Jack, again) and some flailing time (mostly Jack) and, in the middle of breastfeeding, were asked by a woman if "we would be long" -- I gathered my righteous indignation for an anti-breastfeeding conflict -- only to be asked if she could leave her shopping cart under my watchful (and immobile) eye while she ran to the bathroom. I was almost disappointed -- more on my unsuspected lactivism later. The boobysnacks and couch time mollified Jack for a minute or two, and he was fine in the return car trip... right up until we entered Costco. Suffice it to say, I ended up carrying an unhappy Jack through to the checkouts while simultaneously steering a Costco-sized shopping cart through a wave of oncoming people who were apparently incapable of veering from their immediate trajectory. Hmmm. Note to self: do not attempt Costco alone again.

Speaking of couches, Jack destroyed ours last week. Well not DESTROYED, but definitely de-couch-I-want-to-sit-on-ified. The sad reality is that sometimes 'diaper' would be better replaced by 'bucket', except that 'bucket' would not fit in the car seat. Jack hadn't pooped in almost 20 hours. I should have known. Honestly, watching the creeping stain up Jack's back seemed alarming enough, only surpassed by the alarmingness of the wetness on my leg I noticed when I stood to take him upstairs to change him. With everyone changed and a load of laundry on, I was just about to sit back down on the couch when I saw the acid-yellow smear on the side of the couch and the puddle on the floor. Yuck. I washed the crap out of that couch, literally and figuratively, and at least the smell was gone after it dried.

We're shopping for another couch on craigslist.

Preferably free.

Why pay perfectly good money for another couch that will be *ahem* in the line of fire?

That said, we're going to keep the old, poopified couch as well. Does that make us unhygenic or just new parents? Both, perhaps? The reality is that with a family of three, our lone two-seater just isn't cutting it any more, which reflects another reality: a 15lb baby takes up more room than a 200lb adult. SERIOUSLY. Especially on a couch. Therefore, we get a new couch so there is somewhere cushy for someone else to surf the internet on her laptop (we're not mentioning names here) and keep the old couch so that someone else (Jack and Steve) always has a place to nap. I'm not telling which is which, just in case you visit and refuse to sit on the old one. Hint: one of them will definitely smell faintly of vinegar.

Jack is just over three months old -- his 1/4 birthday was November 6, 2009 -- and as of two days pre-1/4 day, he weighed in at a solid 15lb 7oz and measured 26" long. In other words, he's huge. Enormous. Only not in a huge way -- he's a long, tall drink of water (ok, milk, obviously of the boob variety) -- just like his father. Which is why I was at Costco: buying size NINE MONTH sleepers for the little man. And just like his father, he hated every minute of the shopping trip.

At least we got some spare Stoatys at Ikea.

The next chapter in my frabjous life

2009-10-31T20:18:00.002-07:00

So. We met, fell in love, got married and went on a honeymoon. It's been a hell of a lot of fun, but nothing compares to what happened next: we had a baby.

Our Jack was born on August 6, 2009 at 10:22pm, weighing in a ginormous 10lb 8oz, which translates to 10.5 pounds or 4770 grams. Insane! He was 22.5" long.

John Ryan Quattrocchi, to be known henceforth as 'Jack'. I still look at him sometimes and can't believe he's mine to keep, even though he'll be three months in less than a week. Un-freaking-believable. I can't believe he's only been here less than 90 days; it feels like I have had him forever and can't imagine life before Jack. It also, simultaneously and contradictorily, feels as though he must still only be days old, with years left to smell his tiny head and look at his tiny fingernails and gaze in awe at his tiny, perfect sleeping face.

Who the hell am I kidding? There is nothing 'tiny' about this baby.

When I was pregnant, I read every book, blog and article I could find on pregnancy and delivery. I lined up a midwife and a doula. I chose a pre-natal class run out of a midwife office that was the most holistic, all-natural, fuzzy, birth-art making class I could find. I wrote a birth plan. I took vitamins and D supplements. I gained the ideal 26 pounds, and I knew exactly how my labour and delivery could (should?) go. Too bad Jack never engaged, too bad I was induced at 11 days late due to low fluid, and too bad I ended up on the operating table after 28 hours failed induction, still at 4 cm dilation with Jack's head swelling from being beaten against my pelvis for ten hours. When the midwife looked over at where Jack was being suctioned as Steve prepared to cut the cord, and said: "He's big, ten pounds at least. Maybe more!" all I could think was "that explains everything." That, I suppose is a different story.

I seem to have a lot of untold stories from the past few years: the story of how we decided to move back to the Raincity of Vancouver, how we finally hiked the West Coast Trail last summer, how we applied for almost every co-op in East Vancouver and decided to start trying for a baby a little early since it might take six months to conceive (yeah, not so much six months!), how I thought it would be a good idea to go through my second trimester while taking full-time classes and working 40 hours a week, how I fell off a short bus... lots of stories. I gave notice at a job in a Sharpie written note. Steve started running the art co-op he was a part of setting up over ten years ago. We moved into a fabulous two-bedroom co-op with a view of the world when I was seven months pregnant. I got my first A+ in post-secondary education, and walked across the stage to get my BA in English during convocation, only to leave my row three minutes later to go nurse my infant son.

I had a son.

The aftermath

2008-09-23T22:47:00.005-07:00

It's so strange that dinner out and a few idle hours of blogging can be so overwhelming.

And... welcome to my not-so-subtle segue about how eleven months wasn't actually eleven months and tonight was very strange.

So... you may have noticed that I finished the Turkey portion of the blog back in November, just after we got back from our trip. Only, it wasn't actually November -- what with our move back to the Vancouver area on January 1, 2008, my new job, my next new job and all the other chaos that came with our subsequent lives, I only finished the Turkey parts in June. Or so.

Then we went on the West Coast Trail, which was much, MUCH harder than I expected, and Steve sprained his ankle, which wasn't in retrospect as traumatic as Kathy breaking her wrist, but they both finished the trail anyway. I suppose that's a story for another night. I guess that's the problem -- life has been full of stories to tell but no time to write them down.

I don't even know exactly what to write about the weirdness of today. Suffice it to say that I accidentally found reference to a Turkish restaurant while looking for information on another restaurant that might have been vaguely Turkish, and was so excited I called up Steve and demanded he stop whatever dinner he might have been making as we Had To Go to this place. Dinner was ok -- like food in Istanbul, which is to say that it was adequate and Turkish, but not amazing and Turkish like the food in the smaller towns we went to. It did, however, put the official stamp on my overwhelming desire to go back... see how I almost wrote 'home'? I am madly in love with That Place, and as much as other people who ought to know, having actually traveled to multiple places in the world, that other places will be as wonderful and profound as That Place, all I can think is that I want to go back to Turkey.

I would never leave my husband for another man. I hate to think of what would happen if he didn't want to go back to Turkey with me.

So. Already feeling a little strange, though happily full of lamb and eggplant salad, I decided to do a little blog surfing while Steve was teaching a lesson and then out at a show. For me, I follow a certain number of blogs which I catch up on every few days. There are others which I have noted as potentially interesting, bookmarked, and then have largely forgotten about. Since I'm pretty caught up on the regulars, I decided to take a quick look at my giant messy pile of bloggy bookmarks and see what links I followed and where they led me. They led me to a site, and then another site, and then I saw what happens when a lovely, happy family has an unbelievable tragedy: Nie Nie.

In a nutshell, this Stephanie and Christian Nielson, parents of four kids, were in a small plane crash in August, 2008 and are still in hospital recovering (we hope, and I include me in that 'we') from very severe burns. Tonight, I've read Stephanie's (Nie Nie) blog, her sister's blog ( c jane), the bloggers who have made etsy garage sales to raise money and all kinds of online support for these lovely people and their million-dollar medical bills.

Even though idealogically, geographically, constitutionally, we're very different -- I've read their words. Words are powerful things, and I've felt very strongly for them tonight. I think that I'd have liked them --the whole family -- if we'd had the opportunity to meet. I've never wanted so much to reach through a computer screen and two time zones to pat a stranger on the back. I look at my own life through the lens of contingency and I know (perhaps more than most, but that, too, is another story) that sometimes that viciously impartial contingency can rear up and smack you in the face just as well as it can stroke your hair gently in the night.

Good people can get in car crashes; bad, bad people can be the President of the USA.

When my beloved husband came home tonight, I almost didn't know what to do with myself. Do I pragmatically finish my entry, so long coming? Do I fall on him with kisses? Do I fall to my knees with gratitude that he made it home safely?

Maybe all of the above. Just give me a minute.

Honestly, I was hoping my first post back in such a long time would be decisive, witty -- maybe even succinct. Instead, I am rambly and maybe a little maudlin. I miss Turkey. I missed Steve. I hope to everything that everyone comes home safe to their loved ones.

I'm overwhelmed with love for my husband, and fear of not having a long, happy and unscarred life with him, and if he doesn't want to go with me to Turkey, I won't go either.

Besides, I'm in no big hurry to get on an airplane right now...

Turkey -- Day Twenty-nine -- Istanbul to Vancouver

2007-11-02T13:20:00.007-07:00

Monday, November 5, 2008

Our day started way too early. WAY too early. We were up and had our suitcases at the front door in the darky-dark-dark, waiting for the shuttle bus to pick us up. Sabo was asleep behind the counter in a chair, his legs laid over another chair and a blanket spread over all. It was very sweet, and we didn't wake him.

It had rained in the night, and the cobbles were shiny and black, hypnotizing for two very tired people.

The shuttle came on time and our giant suitcase and two duffle bags were thrown into the back with great haste, and we were bundled in. The first passengers of the day, I guess, which didn't bode well. No -- it didn't. We made a quick and disorienting tour of the major hotels of Sultanahmet, picking up people and piles and piles of luggage.

It seemed like we might have been late for our airplane, since we were still collecting passengers as of six am, and we needed to be at the airport for six-thirty to give us time to check in for an international flight at eight-thirty. I was forgetting the first rule of driving in Istanbul, though: go as fast as you can all the time. We sped along the waterfront road, Kennedy Caddesi, all the way to the airport and got in just in time. Of course we had to wait until every other passenger and their crap was lifted off of our squashed suitcases before we got to join the lineup at the entrance door -- can you tell I was cranky?

The lineup at the entrance door seemed a little strange, until we realized that the customs -- complete with x-rays and suspicious looking uniformed people -- were right at the entrance. You didn't get to go anywhere in the Ataturk Airport without being fully x-rayed. I put my bags on the conveyer belt and walked to the other side, where the lady with the wand gave me a once over, not even pausing at my ankle, not even tsk-ing at my flipflops. The guy on the other side of the x-ray machine was a little excited, though, and not in a happy-fun-birthday-party kind of way.

Taking several steps back, and keeping her hand on her hip, the lady customs official told me to open my backpack in a very serious tone. Eeek! The Turkish jail seemed suddenly, uncomfortably close. Finally, my personal lightbulb lit up, and I knew exactly what the problem was: I opened my pack and unwrapped... my tap! My beloved solid-brass hamam tap, which I wasn't about to trust to the vagrancies of luggage-sorters, was carefully wrapped and stowed in an inner pocket of my carry-on luggage. I pulled it out and showed it to the lady, who took it over to the nervous guy beside the x-ray machine. I was very afraid they would confiscate it, if not for my stupidity of bringing a gun-shaped object onto a plane, then because it was a cultural treasure. The Turks are very close about such things, I've heard.

The x-ray man spent several minutes with my tap, consulting with someone on the phone, before bringing it back to the lady who wrote something on a list (the stupid tourist list?) and gave me back my tap, telling me with a few eyerolls to stow it in my checked luggage. Ok!

Steve came though without incident.

Getting on the plane was a usual cacophony of lines and more lines, checking luggage and finding a duty-free. We tried to buy some raki to bring back to Canada, but we weren't allowed to buy alcohol because we weren't on a trans-Atlantic flight! It didn't matter that we were spending all of 20 minutes in Frankfurt, we couldn't buy. We consoled ourselves with about a million boxes of the previously-elusive lokum and some jam. We even bought a bunch of little chocolate-covered Turkish delights to make sure we used up every last kuruş.

Breakfast on the plane, which was running late, was passable. We remembered how good the food had seemed on our previous experience with Turkish Air -- little had we known at the time! Not that it wasn't still good, by airplane standards, but we already missed the food.

WARNING: rant ahead!

We got off the airplane in Frankfurt and were met by a woman from Lufthansa, who looked at our tickets and told us to make haste downstairs to the gate. At the gate, we joined the very long line. Finally at the front, watch-checking all the while, the lady at the gate looked at our tickets, rolled her eyes and sneered, and told us we needed a boarding pass -- from two flights upstairs. We tried to tell her the lady had told us to come straight here, and we'd already been in line ten minutes, and we really wanted to get seats together. She basically told us "run, then". We ran.

Upstairs, out of breath and irritated, we told a man at the Lufthansa information kiosk that we needed boarding passes. He also looked at our tickets and told us, very excitedly, that our plane was leaving very shortly, and we should have just been boarded. We told him that we were told in No Uncertain Terms to come up here for boarding passes. He looked at us incredulously and got on the phone, yelling at the other end in German, while waving us back downstairs. We ran again. The ~~bitch~~ woman at the counter, now looking both snotty and like she'd just had a strip taken off her, looked at our tickets, looked at our luggage stickers (complete with barcodes) and typed some information into the computer, and waved us through to the waiting room.

At the counter, most of the travelers were being herded onto a bus to go out on the tarmac to board. I explained to the nice young woman what had happened, that we were Very Irritated and we wanted seats together... and that it was our honeymoon. She looked completely crestfallen and advised that the flight was actually oversold and she wasn't sure we'd even make it on the airplane, let alone with seats together.

I cried. I was so frustrated, so anxious, and in mourning for leaving the most amazing city I had ever seen. I was bereft, and it showed. That poor girl! She told us to just wait, and she'd see what she could do. After waiting more than half an hour, she waved us onto the bus, the last people on the plane. To her credit, and I don't know how she did it, she arranged for us to have three seats together so we could have some room.

On the plane, tired and stressed beyond reason, we waited. And waited and waited and waited. Finally the captain came on and announced there was a delay because there was a problem with some luggage that was being offloaded from the airplane. Steve and I looked at each other, thinking the same thing: that woman at the gate was so horrible, could she have screwed up our luggage on purpose? No, we thought -- we were being paranoid.

/rant

The flight was long and uneventful, the flight crew gracious and kind, the food passable and the Simpsons movie a sad disappointment. Deplaned in Vancouver, aching and tired, we waited at the luggage carousel. And waited. And waited. Notice a pattern? Eventually we were paged to the Lufthansa counter, where we were told that in fact the ~~bitch~~ woman HAD typed one number wrong on BOTH our checked pieces (one I could see as accidental, but two? yeah). Our luggage was still in Frankfurt. It wouldn't be arriving in Canada until the next day, and would be put on the bus to the Coast after that. At least Lufthansa was going to pay for the bus. Still. Crap!

We left the luggage area, still shaking our heads. What crap! We had wanted to show John and Gayle our carpets, and my tap! My precious tap! That bitch! I knew we should have stayed in Turkey.

Of course, there was still the matter of customs. Steve had his oud and backpack in hand, and I had my backpack and purse. Even estimating low on our YTL conversions (and who doesn't do that?), we were still a few hundred over our duty-free limit. We dutifully showed the customs guy our slips. When asked about the rest of our luggage, out poured our tale of woe and Lufthansa. He gave each of us a close look, shook his head, and carefully changed an '8' into a '5' on our form and waved us through. Finally, something good happened!

We were met by John and Gayle and taken back to Tsawwassen for a very sweet reunion with Angel, who was so overcome with emotion that she leapt into my arms for cuddles and couldn't stop yipping and whimpering. Poor doggie!

After a brief rest, we piled our rather sparse luggage and overjoyed dog into the little blue car (she jumped in as soon as the door opened and refused to get out) and took off for the Coast and bed. Ah, sweet bed.

The next day, I received an apologetic phone call from Lufthansa advising the luggage was in and on the bus, which unfortunately got in after the depot was closed. Unwilling to go another day without my tap, I met the bus. The driver said there wasn't anything for me and I'm afraid I lost it a little bit on him, falling just short of grabbing his lapels and demanding my RSFH at once! Not surprisingly, he found the suitcase and duffle bags, and they were in my possession once again. Thank goodness!

At home, I noticed a round burnt hole in the bottom of the duffle bag that held our big carpet. I was angry all over again, though I couldn't quite imagine the Lufthansa woman finding our luggage and putting out a cigarette on it... well, maybe I could. Fortunately the carpet was undamaged, or there would have been hell to pay. That said, the RSFH was damaged beyond repair: missing one handle, most of one wheel, and a plastic thing that previously covered up a pointy piece of metal. There was also a broken glass or two, which I guess could even have been squashed in the dolmuş on the way to the airport. Still -- not impressed.

It was a sad way to end what was in every other way an ideal first backpacking trip. I cannot say enough good things about Turkey: the food, the people, the easy transportation, the food... go to Turkey, at least once in your life, go. It is a wondrous, wondrous place. Steve says I had such a good time because the Turks liked me, that I fit in well with them. I think I was open to the experience, the language, the humour... I could live in Turkey. Not that I'm not grateful to be Canadian, because that sure opens a lot of doors (ah, Kanada!), but I love Turkey.

I love Turkey.

"Come, come again, whoever you are, come!
Heathen, fire worshipper or idolatrous, come!
Come even if you broke your penitence a hundred times,
Ours is the portal of hope, come as you are."

Mevlana Celaleddin Rumi

Turkey -- Day Twenty-eight -- Istanbul

2007-11-02T13:19:00.005-07:00

Sunday, November 4, 2007

Our last day in Istanbul. Steve woke before dawn.

Our first evening at the Med Cezir, Steve had scouted around and had found a rooftop terrace just at the end of the hallway and up some stairs: it was closed for the winter, or at least all the tables and chairs were stacked up, but it still gave an astonishingly good view. The Hagia Sophia glowed to the right, the Baths Of Lady Hürrem and the Mavi Ev Hotel at immediately in front, and the elegant minarets of the Blue Mosque reached for the sky on his left. Having been on the go from morning until night, I hadn’t even tried to look at it, taking his word that the view would be spectacular. Given the weather, he hadn’t lingered up there either.

On this day, though, our last, much-cherished last day in Turkey, we woke to clear blue sky and glorious sunrise, unexpected given the previous clouds and impending winterness. For once I couldn’t resist getting up early myself, and I joined Steve before seven for sunlight on the golden spires of the Blue Mosque and the Hagia Sophia. It was amazing. It was indescribable. It was a washed clean sky backdropping the faded red arch of the Hagia Sophia, set like a fire-hearted ruby against tuquoise, lit by the golden sun. We stood in the long morning rays, both feeling as if you could see the warmth in the air, could reach out into the sunshine and your hand would come back with a powder of gold clinging to the surface. A half turn left brought the eye to the spires of the Blue Mosque, each crescent moon on the tip of each minaret a glittering treasure and the white gleaming so perfectly…

After an hour or more, we tore ourselves away from the spectacle and, after a nice warm shower, went down for breakfast with Sabo, who was very chatty and entertaining. He teased Steve unmercifully and Steve gave as good as he got. We liked Sabo very much.

The Ottowonians hadn’t called, so we decided to head off into Kumkapi ourselves. We stopped by the Arasta Bazaar to see if we could find Jedi’s owner and get an address to send the photos Steve had taken our first meeting, but he wasn’t there.

Wandering through the streets, south and east and down the hill to the Sea of Marmara, we followed our map to the ‘Küçük Aya Sofia’, or ‘little Hagia Sophia’ – a beautiful little church in the Kumkapi neighbourhood. While we could have found it quite handily ourselves, a young boy walking by decided to escort us to the gate… and then held out his hand for coins for the privilege of having guided us. Not wanting to cause a scene, and chagrined that we hadn’t told him no thanks at the outset, we gave him a few kuruş, even though we were sure it wasn’t what we were supposed to do.

It had only taken some twenty minutes or so of gentle strolling through cobbled streets to reach the Küçük – little – Hagia Sophia from our hotel in the heart of Sultanahmet. We were surprised to see very few tourists at this lovely and spiritual church which was begun five years before the Büyük (?) Hagia Sophia. Just as old, and almost as uplifting, as its larger step-sister (Justinian was father to them both), the little one was a wonderful thing to see. The very kind Imam (as the little ‘un is now a mosque) led us up the circular stairs to what was once perhaps a pulpit – it gave a splendid view of the whitewashed domes and cobalt blue medallions. It was lovely. He mentioned on our way out not to ~~feed the animals~~ pay the children for guiding us there. Oops!

On our way back up the street, we stopped to admire some cats. Ah, Istanbul! Full of kedi!

We decided our next stop would be the St. Saviour of Chora – once church, then mosque, and now the Kariye Müzesi. The frescos and mosaics were reputed as being truly incredible and we were keen to go. From my eBay-purchased Istanbul street map, it looked like we should be able to walk there in an hour or so…

The rest of Kumkapi that we saw was lovely, in a run down sort of way, which is actually how we found most of Istanbul that we saw. There were these great old wooden buildings with wooden-framed bay windows on the upper floors. Some had been carefully restored, and the wood gleamed against the subtle white of the stucco. Others looked like they had had a bomb go off inside them some hundred years ago, and their windows drooped and hung and clung to the walls. Sometimes these were right beside each other. In that moment, I would have given almost anything to buy and repair that old house, and live the rest of my days in Istanbul.

The streets were bright with Turkish banners – a leftover from National Day or general pride?

After a while, we turned right and headed straight uphill, aiming for the Divan Yolu where we could walk down to the old walls of the city and turn up to the St. Saviour Museum. Passing numerous stalls on the streets that gave me the secret hope that perhaps the reported closing of the Grand Bazaar was not so – unfounded, as it turned out – we came up onto the Divan Yolu almost right at the entrance of the Grand Bazaar. Turning left, we followed the tram line down to just past the university, stopped to admire a mosque under restoration, and turned right a street before Ataturk Boulevard, thinking the Museum was just down there.

We got just down there to the Fevzi Paşa Caddesi and I, in a fit of brilliance, realized I had missed an entire fold of the map. The St. Saviour was further away than all the distance we had already walked that morning, and it was rising noon. We sat in a little park attached to a mosque and considered our options: sit and watch the kedi gambol on the grass all day (very appealing, as it didn’t involve walking any more that day), take a taxi to the Museum (which would break our perfect record of taxi-avoidance) or walk a little further down to where we might be able to catch a bus (of limited appeal, as it involved applying feet to pavement).

After a little whining, and a little resting, and a little watching kedi play, I mustered my blistered toes to walk over to the bus stop where the bus was blessedly not too far behind. The Lonely Bastard had given clear directions as to which bus to catch and the driver obligingly confirmed his destination. Standing in the crush, we barely had a chance to register the sights we sped by: a kedi on a stone wall, a knot of black-clad young women with brightly coloured handbags, a football stadium with a tank parked in front.

Disgorged from the dolmuş, we popped out onto some very working class streets. The bus ride was surprisingly short: no more than fifteen minutes for what would have taken more than an hour to walk. We picked a random twisty street that looked as if it would lead in the general direction of the Museum.

The twisty street was picturesque and teeming with kedi. Feral cats sat in lumps on every wall, curled their tails around their delicate feet on every doorstep and one – just one – shot across the road on three legs, the other curled underneath, its front leg a shattered mess of blood and shocking white bone. Tired and overwhelmed with the last day of Istanbul, I nearly burst into tears on the spot. The broken cat was gone in a flash, and if I could have caught it, if in a million years, what could I have done? Rushed it to the veterinarian? Given it a shot of Phenobarbital? Swung its head into a wall or broken its neck, quickly, giving it an easy death? I was devastated.

With me not exactly in the best mental space to admire a bunch of dead rocks, we decided to stop for a quick lunch before we ventured into the museum proper. First we checked out Asitane, a recommended restaurant, which is a few short metres from the museum and its accompanying souvenier stalls. Asitane looked lovely, being in the basement of a graceful old house, but there was literally no-one in there for lunch and the wait staff looked quite disgruntled at our arrival. The menu looked appetizing but expensive by our standards, and I felt a little dusty for crisp white napkins and uniformed staff, so we headed back out and got a quick tavuk döner and urfa şiş at the café right across from the museum. It was certainly adequate, and it was a bit of a relief to be able to throw bits of chicken at the waiting kedi. This was definitely a tourist place, though, like almost everywhere we had been in Istanbul.

Slightly more heartened, we walked around the gate and bought our ticket. The approach to St. Saviour is really neat: instead of walking straight in, they wind you around the back of the building across a lawn, give you time to admire the architecture and striped brick exterior and in through the side… to come straight at a hall of the most splendid frescos.

After the Ottoman invasion, this little church in the country (Chora: country, from it being a ways out of the city proper, right up against the city walls) was repurposed into a mosque. Instead of destroying the mosaics and frescoes, the clerics plastered over them, unwittingly preserving them for the next 500 years. Now the plaster has been removed and the paints and tesserae glow almost as brightly as they did when first made in the 11th century.

We were overwhelmed. We were awestruck. We were… lying on the marble floor taking pictures of the glorious ceiling. Well, Steve was. Good for Steve. The other patrons looked at him like he was crazy, but we caught several of them flat on their backs in the same spot.

A large Spanish tour group crowed the place when we arrived, but they left after not too long and we had the place – well, not to ourselves, but relatively sparse. The tourists who were in attendance were rapt and respectful, which you cannot help but be in such a place.

It’s so hard to know what to say about the St. Saviour at Chora except “go there” – at once, or as soon as you can, or at some point in your lifetime – it is not to be missed. It’s not just the frescoes and mosaics, as amazing as those are. It’s the carved angels above the door, the green marble flagstones, the little Byzantine heads carved of stone peeking out from corners (all but one with the faces gouged out; I almost killed myself trying to get a clear photo of the one that remained), the vaulted domes (oh! the domes!) and every single surface is decorated with some lovely thing. What an amazing, amazing thing to see.

I almost cried all over again the beauty and the sadness of so much lost, including one poor little kitty with a shattered leg. I did look out the door into the garden one time to see a young man scooping kibble out of a backpack onto the grass in front of a few cats – he told me that he came around to feed the strays and look for any injuries. I told him about the broken one and he had seen her too; he hadn’t been able to get a hand on her, but he said he’d look out for her. I couldn’t have been more relieved and I almost cried some more.

In better spirits, we left the St. Saviour and thought we’d head back to Eminönü to check out the Kahve Dunyasi and get some cups and chocolates and chocolate spoons. Mmm… spoons! Fortunately the bus going back down the road dropped us off at the bus loop across the street from the spice market in Eminönü. We moved like eels in the crowd in the underpass, walked briskly across the Eminönü Square in front of Hamdi and practically ran the rest of the way to the coffee shop… which was closed. Yes, closed. On Sunday. The prime-est coffee drinking day of the week in Vancouver, and it was closed. I was very sad. Very, very sad. Steve was sad too – sad that he hadn’t let me buy the ~~crack~~ coffee yesterday, though he couldn’t have known.

Desolate, we walked back across the square to the underpass and through to the Galata Bridge. Well, maybe only I was desolate. Fortunately, it’s impossible to stay desolate on the Galata Bridge: the fishermen are so happy when they pull up a shiny wriggling ~~fish~~ comma-quote-comma, and so happy when they don’t. I guess it’s true that a bad day fishing is still better than a good day working, and the men we saw were living proof. Some had buckets full of living proof that they were having a good days fishing as well. The pale sun and weak blue sky were a gift on a Sunday afternoon in November and they knew it as well as we.

We thought we’d experience the Tünel, which is the 19th century funicular that carries passengers up the hill to the end of Istiklal Caddesi. It is a phenomenally short train ride, lasting something in the area of a single minute. We weren’t to find out in person, as the signs at the entrance advised it was closed for repairs. Standing around trying to figure out an alternative to walking up the hill, a dolmuş pulled up and the driver advised he was there to take people up the hill. For free. Yay! We climbed aboard and got the first seats. We thought we had been the only confused tourists stymied by the lack of Tünel, but apparently not. People of all shapes and sizes squished onto the bus. It was the most dolmuş-ed dolmuş we had been in in Turkey. The Tire bus was palatial in comparison.

After a very quick (I think I’ve mentioned Istanbullus drivers) and scary ride up the hill, we were disgorged in the same square we had bought the prints and cards in – just up from the street of musical instruments.

Feeling peckish, we stopped for a panini in a coffee shop called ‘Gloria Jean’s Coffee’ which loomed over the eastern side of the square. Wow, what a disappointment. It was easily the worst panini either of us had ever had, which was even more shocking given that the food in Turkey was so superlative. All I can say is ‘yuck’ – overpriced, overrated, and the coffee was crap too. It was rising 4pm and there might have been a sunset, so we walked a few blocks down Galip Dede Caddesi to the Galata Tower, paid our 10YTL each at the entrance and joined the queue at the elevator.

Let me point something out to the uninitiated, as there were many uninitiated on the Galata Tower that day: the signs indicate that you should turn to your right upon exiting onto the rather narrow deck that rings the tower top. You should then continue to your right, in a clockwise fashion, until you return to your starting point and exit. Turn to your RIGHT, people! Since we were not the only people having thought to enjoy the sunset from the vantage of the lovely Genoese tower that peered right out over Beyoglu, the Galata Bridge and Sultanahmet to the Sea of Marmara lost to the haze beyond… not really a surprise, I suppose – the deck was crowded with eager faces and a silver fortress of digital cameras and cell phones all raised to the view and taking pictures as fast as ever they could. The few individuals who had, inexplicably, decided to turn LEFT made life very much difficult for the rest of the people on the deck. Clockwise! Come on!

Fortunately Steve could tell that the sunset wasn’t going to be very much of anything, and we hastily (and irritated-ly, in my case) made our retreat to the stairs that led back down to the very cool bathroom and the elevator landing and emerged, flushed and triumphant, back onto the cobbles surrounding the tower.

Back up Galip Dede to the square, we found ourselves next to a little cd store. Having a few hundred YTL burning holes in our pockets, we thought we’d load up on some Turkish music to bring home. We picked out a half-dozen cds and asked the total less than 65YTL! Most of the cds were 11 lira or less – incredibly cheap by Canadian standards. Steve and I took one look at each other and picked out another six cds.

Our feet not feeling quite battered enough, we decided to walk up the Istiklal Caddesi to find the orginal lokum shop of ‘Ali Muhiddin Hacı Bekir’ who, according to the Time Out Istanbul, invented the now-ubiquitous Turkish delight in the 18th century.

What a bad idea. We knew we wouldn’t have considered walking along Robson Street on a warm Sunday night. It just isn't our kind of place. Istiklal Caddesi was not our kind of place. It was very crowded, and the people were rather terminally hip. In some ways it was very interesting: certainly a side of Turkey we hadn’t seen. Most of the people we saw in Sultanahmet were dressed quite conservatively, as were most of the people in the countryside. This was our first look at that modern Turkey that sits with one foot in the Ottoman past and the other firmly stepping into cutting-edge Europe. The girls and boys were fashionable and fine, and very, very conscious of that fact. Like I said, not our kind of place, in our grubby pants and fake shoes!

All was not lost – I picked up an ‘Istanbul’ cup from Starbucks and we found a neat little bookstore where we bought some cookbooks of Turkish cooking – in English, even! We never found the lokum store… we found where it was supposed to be, at 129 Istaklal Caddesi, and scouted around a bit, but never found it.

It was full dark when we gave up on the lokum hunt and turned around. We were tired, a little hungry and exceedingly footsore, and we wanted off the Istaklal Caddesi train so badly it hurt. We took a random street to the left, back down to the Bosphorus and walked down to Kemeraltı Caddesi, which is the street the streetcars run on; the street which spills onto the Galata Bridge and home. The walk downhill was reasonably pleasant, except that it involved being upright.

We were pleased to arrive almost exactly at Tophane tram station, bought our tokens and settled with great relief onto the benches of the tram. It was about quarter to seven when we crossed the Galata Bridge to Eminönü, and we took a quick look at each other and decided to subject our poor feet to another indignity: we exited at Sirkeci station, walked across the street to the Sirkeci Istasyonu, and joined the lineup for the Dervish sema - the sufi ritual that puts the 'whirling' in 'whirling dervish' - that is held Sunday nights in the former waiting room for the Orient Express. We thought the performance – I hesitate to call it a ‘show’ – began at seven, but apparently it was seven-thirty. Had we known it would involve that much standing, we might have skipped it. We didn’t know, and we couldn’t quite bear to have our last night in Turkey whining away in our hotel room. So we stood. And stood. And shuffled, and whined a little bit, and made friends with the other tourists in line, and stood some more.

When we finally reached the front of the line, I found myself frantically learning some new Turkish words: flipping through my phrasebook, I explained, while pointing at Steve, göz (eye) and ön (front). The young man who was acting as usher figured it out, and told us in limited English that there were reserved seats in front for us.

Other than telling the car rental people that I would be the only driver and a few curious stares, this was the only mention we had to make of Steve’s eyesight on the entire trip.

We were so very happy to sink onto our chairs in the front row: there were chairs arranged in rows on three sides around a roped-off area in the centre of the room. We were dead in front, in the centre of the row, facing the chairs where the musicians were to sit against the windows of the old train station. Amazing! It seemed quite remarkable that we would just be able to show up for a performance which we hadn’t booked for, hadn’t planned on, hadn’t bought tickets – just show up, and get the best seats in the house.

Precisely on time (not Turkish time!), the musicians filed in and began to play. It was exquisite – we were unprepared for how lovely it was. Steve noted that they didn’t seem to be as tight as a band that played together often would be, but they still did an excellent job. The room collectively held its breath as the… dancers? whirlers? derviş? dervi? entered the room, carrying rolled up sheepskins. They entered reverently, with grace, and their long white skirts swept the floor. They unrolled their sheepskins, made their obeisance, were gathered into a little knot by the head derviş, and, as the music grew, each took – in their own time and manner – to spinning.

They sema unfolded with a billow of white skirts; they spun around open space; we watched, each caught out of our mortal coil. It was heart-breakingly beautiful. It was a poem, a painting on air, a prayer so deep and moving that I almost cried. As we watched, we got a sense of each of the derviş: the head man, whose face bore an expression of profound serenity, and whose feet made barely a whisper on the stone floor; the older man who whirled with a strong and focused energy – we wondered if he had come late to the Sufi, and what he had done before; two youngsters whose long limbs floated like spiders on the wind and a third young man, burning with desire to do it all so perfectly as he whirled, and thought, and strove for communion. “He’ll get it someday,” I thought. “He’s so young still.”

Within the sema, the dancer, holding up one hand to gather blessings and dispersing them to the crowd with the downturned hand, with a thousand shades of meaning and faith in every movement, the audience is to feel more blessed, closer to God. We felt closer.

When the derviş rolled up their sheepskins and left, followed by the musicians, there was a pause before the applause. For something that was put on for tourists, it had a sense of authenticity which I think was felt by virtually everyone in the ~~audience~~ privileged company of watchers.

Feeling replete with the day, we bought more tokens (our last tokens) and got back aboard the tram up the hill to Sultanahmet (our last tram!) and walked past the glorious Hagia Sophia, all lit up for the night (our last night!). Ah, we were going to miss Istanbul.

At the Med Cezir, we ordered a plate of mixed mezes and chatted with Sabo and Erol. Before dinner was served, I ran down to the little corner store for cookies and Nescafe sticks and a few little souvenirs. Steve got a little antsy when I was gone for too long; back at the hotel and with food in front of us, Steve regained his good humour enough to give Sabo advise on married life; Erol commented on the spending habits of wives. I was wise enough to not make a fuss. We shared some of our snacks and chocolate with the hotel staff before creeping back up the stairs to pack.

Packing was a painful and traumatic experience, even more so than our poor toes (recalling that before Istanbul, we hadn’t worn proper shoes in almost a month). Exhausted and sad, we rolled into bed later than we should, knowing we had to be up at oh-dark-thirty for our pickup at five in the morning.

Turkey -- Day Twenty-seven -- Istanbul

2007-11-02T13:18:00.004-07:00

Saturday, November 3, 2007.

Saturday morning we were up fairly early, and had a lovely breakfast – Istanbul style Turkish breakfast was a bit of a surprise, which is itself a surprise given the consistency of the ubiquitous Turkish breakfast. Breakfast in Istanbul usually has a boiled egg, rather than the scramble we’d gotten used to. It also has that piece of salami and the cheese was in a container – not bad, certainly, but not quite as good as the pots of apricot jam and fresh fruit and cheese we were getting in the south.

First thing, we headed over to the little PTT (post office) kiosk outside the Baths Of Lady Hürrum to get some stamps to send out our sadly-overdue postcards. At least we were sending them from Turkey, and not Vancouver, which had seemed more and more likely.

After obtaining stampage, we wandered back to the southern side of the Aya Sofia and up the very short road that leads to Topkapi Palace. We weren’t quite early enough to beat the crowds, but the place is big enough so that it didn’t matter much.

We walked through the first huge gate and into a beautiful, lushly grassed park, dotted with enormous trees and peppered with kitties! We watched some cats carefully eyeing a little girl who was eager to pet them, and then running away when she got too close.

There was also an armed guard who good-naturedly allowed us to take pictures of him, AK47 and all.

You would think you’d buy your tickets at the next gate, or at the lovely gift shop set into the wall, and many tourists (including us) were confused. However, the tickets are purchased at a few openings in the wall right beside the Dosim, or government gift shop, in the next gate down. There were also tons of tour guides, complete with authorized guide cards, offering their services. We opted not to take the tour, but instead bought ourselves the Topkapi Palace book at the museum bookstore just inside the main gate. We were once again confronted with having our bags and ourselves x-rayed before entry, which makes sense given the value of the objects contained in the museum.

Upon entry, we made a beeline for the Harem, as we wanted to see it before the real hordes arrived. It really was an amazing structure, with halls and courts and dormitories for both the concubines and their eunuch guards. The tile work, mother-of-pearl inlaid doors and the marble floors were amazing, as was the strong sense of history: this is where emperors were born, where palace intrigues and so many closely cloistered lives were drawn out. We liked the Harem very much and were pleasantly surprised at how many rooms were on display, as we were under the impression that only a few rooms were visible.

After the Harem, we found ourselves in the First Court, where there were lots of lovely Ottoman salons and a small café. The views over the Bosphorus and the Sea of Marmara were spectacular. Many of the buildings in this area were closed for restoration, which is actually reassuring: we liked it that laurels are not being rested on. One of our favourite buildings had ornate tiles from the 15th century on the exterior. Amazing!

We wandered back up to the Third Court, which is where the treasury is located. We were able to walk right into one of the galleries and joined the queue shuffling around the room, looking at all the sparkly things. The sheer quantity of diamonds sent Steve into small-glittery-object-overload, but we I managed to join the line of people stringing around the walls to look at the Spoonmaker’s Diamond and the Topkapi Dagger (which would be much more impressive if not for the cheesy enamelled basket of flowers on the hilt, which looks like a some kid stuck a crappy sticker on an otherwise stunning object). Some of the items were on loan to a display in Japan but the quantity did not seem diminished.

Even though there are signs EVERYWHERE stating that photographs or video of any kind are NOT allowed in the Treasury, there was a woman who kept taking photos. You’d think when the Man With The Really Big Gun told her to stop it, repeatedly, she might have opted to follow the rules. When we saw her surreptitiously taking photos with her camera phone, we decided to leave rather than be present for the (seemingly) inevitable takedown of her and her phone.

By this time, our feet were getting sore, and we were way overwhelmed by the sheer size of the complex. It is some 700,000 square meters, about half the size of the country of Monaco. We were ready to go, and drifted back towards the entrance with the Hagia Sophia looming redly overhead.

We popped briefly into the armoury to take some photos of weapons and armour: lots of chain mail and nasty-looking axes. The reception room was a little underwhelming as it is mostly a display of textiles, but the council chambers were overwhelming in their opulence. It was interesting, because we usually think of ornateness as being somehow tacky or decadent. Topkapi was certainly ornate, but because everything seemed themed with repeating motifs and colours: grey marble, blue tiles, stars and arabesques of stone and shell made the whole quite cohesive… except for the council chambers. They were pretty tricked out. Someone should have lost their gold leaf license for that room.

I took a photo of a Turkish family and found myself counting them down in Turkish: üç, iki, bir, *snap*.

We wandered… ok, limped back through the park and back to our hotel, for a little lay-down before joining the fray of Istanbul. This was my second day in ‘real’ shoes, given that I had abandoned my faithful Tevas in Selçuk and we were doing way too much walking for flipflops. I was in the 20YTL Puma-esque runners I had bought back in Fethiye and was developing some blisters. One of the security guards in Topkapi had ‘tsk-tsked’ Steve for wearing sandals, so he was thinking it was time to bow to the fact that it was, in fact, November – especially as it was starting to look like rain.

It was funny, actually. We had arrived in Istanbul a month earlier for 20C weather, and were unbearably hot. Now, back in Istanbul for 12C weather (which would be balmy for November in Canada), we were bundled in every sweater we’d brought – I guess we acclimatized!

After our nap, we were raring to hit the road and lit out for the tram station yet again. We had one umbrella between us, which we had purchased for just a few lira at the Tire market. In the Sultanahmet Park, we were approached by a tout carrying umbrellas for sale. When I asked “kaça?” he replied “on-beş” – fifteen lira. I offered beş lira, and his eyes nearly fell out of his head – maybe at my lowball offer? or that I was making it in Turkish? His surprise must have thrown him off his bargaining game, because I bought it for seven lira… though he recovered his composure enough to tell me he only had two lira change for my ten-note. Ah, touts!

Just after the umbrella purchasing, we were delighted to randomly run into our Canadian friends – they had had some splendid adventures: Sharon (or Barb?) was exploring her Armenian heritage and they had met some people in Kumpkapi who might be able to give her more information about her family, so they were off to meet with those people again. We discussed meeting on Sunday for a hamam, which none of us had tried – having given them the Med Cezir’s phone number, we parted company.

We popped into the Tur-ista office to see Davut and thank him for his excellent advice and let him know the travel was seamless and the tours of Cappadocia enjoyable. He was surprised and happy to see us, and we were brought more cups of tea. During our conversation, we mentioned that we were leaving Istanbul dark and early Monday morning: turns out Davut was able to arrange our shuttle bus to get us to the airport in time to make our flight – yet another potential taxi ride avoided! The shuttle was cheap: less than 10YTL each, and it would pick us up right from the hotel. Yay! With that part of our journey arranged, we walked out onto the street and up the twenty or so steps to the Sultanahmet tram stop. Tur-ista: helpful and convenient!

After tramming down to Eminönü again, we joined the crush in the underpass heading towards the Spice Market. So this was Saturday in Istanbul! Good lord. We recognized that we were getting a little snappy at each other and decided that lunch was in order. We were right in front of the restaurant we had eaten at the on our second day in Istanbul: Hamdi. At our previous visit, it had been the best food we’d eaten in Istanbul and we wondered if it would stand the test of time.

Actually, Steve wasn’t super happy about eating at Hamdi again – he would rather have tried somewhere else. On the one hand, I could understand that. On the other, I knew that we really only got snappy when we were hungry or tired, and I wanted us to have food in our faces before we started spatting. I guess I ‘won’ that one, but it wasn’t a victory… at least from the panoramic balcony at Hamdi, we could see the roof of our next destination, the Rüstem Paşa Camii, as well as the river of Istanbullus walking across the square to the Spice Bazaar. It was a little chilly for the balcony, but the wait staff brought out blankets to wrap around us. The food was adequate. Well, that’s a little harsh: it was nice, and it was tasty, but we’d certainly had better outside Istanbul… at Dibek, at the Canada Hotel, at the Park Café, at the Hotel Bella… this wasn’t anything special, and I regretted for both Steve and I. It was also expensive: almost 50YTL for an un-extravagant lunch without any alcohol. Note to self: bring snacks so you can hold out for a new experience.

Turning left out of main entrance of Hamdi, we walked down the street towards the Rüstem Paşa Camii – the Rüstem Paşa is a little, notoriously hard-to-find mosque that dated from the 16th century. Steve had heard that the tiles were just about as spectacular as those in the Blue Mosque, but with way less tourists.

About halfway down the block, we passed on the left a little coffee shop called ~~Café~~ Kahve Dunyasi that looked just like the kind of modern Vancouver-style coffee-shop I know and love, perfect down to the jumble of crowded patio tables sprawled all over the sidewalk. I veered into the doorway, as if pulled by caffeinated magnets. Inside, I realized how much I had missed the smells and sounds of coffee: after a month of (albeit delicious) tea and the occasional watery Nescafé (the general term for instant coffee), I was jonesing for some java in the worst possible way. Steve is familiar with my affliction… addiction, and patiently joined me at the counter. The Kahve Dunyasi beat the pants of any Starbucks I’ve ever been to, with stacks of boxes and jars of chocolates on the counter and shelves full of coffees and beautiful coffee cups all bearing the Dunyasi logo, to say nothing of the smell of rich coffee and chocolate which actually made me drool. When asked our order by the barista, Steve went the safe route and opted for hot chocolate. While my usual tipple is a latte, I decided to resist the urge for normal and ordered a Türk kahvesi. Two nice ladies at the bar in the corner got up and let us have their spot. We perched ourselves on two tall stools and watched the coffee parade.

Again, Starbucks this was not. The cacophony of tables outside had actual waiters heading out to service a cheerful clientele, rather than the snakey line of snarky customers waiting to be served their early-morning hit at the counter of every Starbucks I’ve been in. We were delighted to see every cup heading out the door with a little chocolate on the saucer: some had chocolate spoons, some a little bonbon, and others had a little dish of chocolate covered espresso beans. We were fascinated to see what kind of chocolate came with our orders and soon enough it was revealed. Steve had a chocolate spoon – not chocolate-covered, mind you, but an actual spoon made of chocolate. I received an exquisite little chocolate-covered lokum which was unbelievably delicious. By looking pitiful, batting my sparse eyelashes and looking up (and repeating about twenty times) the Turkish word for spoon (kaşık), I got one of the baristas to hand me over a chocolate spoon as well. I was very pleased, and wanted to buy a bunch of cups and boxes of chocolates to take home. Steve was anxious to get going and convinced me to come back the next day to buy all that stuff; otherwise we’d have to haul it around the rest of the afternoon.

Empty-handed but full-bellied, we exited to our left and walked straight into the maze of streets that circle and spiral around the Rüstem Paşa Camii. Unlike the last time we were here, when we visited accidentally while looking for the aforementioned Hamdi restaurant, we had a purpose, and this time purpose bred achievement. Achievement and a half-dozen stone and fragrant wood prayer beads bought from an old, old man who spoke exactly zero English, but we were able to communicate enough to exchange a handful of lira for a handful of beads and a meaningful glance as I thanked him. It was a lovely crystal moment and every time the wood of the prayer beads warms and breathes in my hands, I am taken back to that alley, facing that old man with those ancient eyes gazing into my own.

A left at the next alley and a duck down into a passageway and up some stairs, we arrived on the terrace of the Rüstem Paşa Camii. At the far end of the terrace was the turist entrance: I flipped my headscarf over my head and slipped off my sneakers. When we entered, I knew immediately that this was completely unlike the Blue Mosque. Here there was a reverence and a serenity that other structure simply couldn’t know. Perhaps it’s the constant string of tourists stomping through the Blue Mosque, or that the few competitive drops fouled the gallons of sanctity (the maker wanted it to rival the Hagia Sophia in grandeur), or just that the blessed intimacy of the Rüstem Paşa could not be recreated by acres of mosque and the huge, clumsy domes.

As we stood and gazed at the dome full of light (where did that sunlight come from?), Turks from the street came in to pray, unselfconsciously. The fluidity of the movements brought tears to my eyes. Even the tourists were reverent: I suspect that if a tourist went to all the trouble to get to this particular, secretive mosque, then they knew the drill. That may sound a little snarky, and I don’t mean it to, but it was nice to see people with their shoes off and headscarves on, making donations at the exit.

Needing to use the washroom, I headed down the ‘near’ set of stairs: the ones meant for tourists (I couldn’t have found that entrance if my life depended on it; we came up the believer’s stairs). Knowing that every mosque I’d been to had a reasonably clean tuvalet available for a few kuruş, I found the room where the ablutions would occur and walked up to a man in a little booth by the entrance to the tuvalet… he looked a little surprised to see me, which I understood when I, surprised, found myself looking at a line of Turkish male bums using a 16th century urinal. Huh. I backed quickly out of the line of sight and waited what I hoped was a decent amount of time before ducking back to the booth. When I asked the man for the bayanlar (lady’s), he gave me an UTS and indicated one of the stalls with a door, located right beside the (exquisite marble) urinal. Huh. As the need was pressing, I handed over my coins and dashed into the stall, where I found the floor wet and I suspected NOT with recent mopping. It was altogether a disgusting little incident and I determined not to let the terrible tuvalet ruin my fond memories of the Rüstem Paşa.

Steve and I headed uphill and slightly to the left, hoping we’d run into one of the many entrances to the Grand Bazaar. The streets were a little twistier here, which is saying quite a bit as they weren’t exactly die-straight up from the Spice Bazaar. Keeping the approximate location of our destination in mind, we found it with surprisingly little trouble. The Istanbul map we had was detailed but frankly unhelpful as the street names did not seem to correspond to what was actually on the signs – when there were signs. We had been warned of this and were unfazed. Walking through the back streets of Istanbul was just as interesting as any destination we could find, which was good; without a useful map, it was either sheer luck or the will of Allah that led us to the alley of knockoff t-shirts that led to the Grand Bazaar.

Ah, Grand Bazaar, how I love you. The riotous colours, the chaos and cacophony and chorus of touts offering everything under the sun, or under the glowing jewelled lamps, as the case may be. Still on the lookout for şiş çatal, I asked a man with a stall full of fancy-schmancy pottery and cooking utensils if he had any. Without looking away from my face, he pointed at a crock on the floor full of skewers with decorative tops. I spent a happy few minutes making sets (oh, too many fish in that one) and bought a number for what seemed like a very reasonable price. One mission done, and we hadn’t even walked 100 feet!

We drifted around the corner, and perhaps another corner or two, when we saw a shop full of shoes. I went to take a look at their stock of ~~almost certainly fake~~ Pumas, and pointed out a few pairs of sneakers to Steve, who was still in sandals. The shopkeeper leapt on us like a hyena on a three-legged gazelle: “ah, the gentleman has picked up our Pradas – these are genuine antelope leather! These are 300 lira shoes, but you – I give YOU brother-price!” He then proceeded to whip out his lighter and wave it in the general direction of the shoes in order to prove they weren’t made of nylon and therefore going to melt. It continued much in this vein for some twenty minutes and two glasses of apple tea each, until Steve bargained him down to 60YTL and got him to throw in the ‘Puma’ brand socks he was trying the shoes on with.

The shoes were nice, and they were (genuine cow) leather, but they sure weren’t Prada. In fact, they lost one of their labels before we left the Grand Bazaar, and the other was gone within two weeks of being back in Canada.

We encountered some interesting people as we wended through the streets and squares of the Grand Bazaar – the touts that called to us in every language, starting with German; the old men walking through the bazaar that would grab me by the arm and ask me where I was from: “Canada” “Ah, Kanada!” all big smiles; the greasy young man who hit on every pretty girl who stopped to fondle a cheap pashmina and told Steve while looking at me out of the corner of his eye that he had ‘millions’ of American women in his bed, and had a date with one that night. Huh.

We attended a few shops mentioned in the Lonely Bastard as must-see places and, frankly, they were making hay out of the exposure afforded by the L.B. In some cases the items were interesting but in every case, they were shockingly overpriced. We declined to spend our money there… it’s not like there weren’t plenty of other shops to browse in, and a million wonders for sale.

The Grand Bazaar is a wonderful blur and remembering all the things we saw is like trying to recall everything you see on the PNE midway when you’re drunk on cotton candy, flashing lights and rollercoasters. I know there were acres of knockoff clothes and the softest, plushiest robes you ever felt; glittering lamps and belly-dance outfits for little girls; forests of nargilehs and deep blue pools of ceramic bowls; walls of diamonds and gold, and, wonderfully, a whole area dedicated to antiques.

Most of the antiques I saw were either obviously ~~passed through a goat~~ not antique, were so antique they wouldn’t make it out of the country, or were shockingly overpriced – often at least two of the three. One ring I liked very much was over twelve hundred lira. Eep! By this time Steve was getting a little cranky – his vision tends to get overwhelmed by ‘small object overload’ and lunch was some time ago. I saw the last store before we would be leaving the antique area, heading south, and thought I’d make my last-ditch effort for my last, most improbable mission…

Since my first day in Istanbul, I’d been coveting a tap – a brass tap like the kind that turn on the water for the prayerful to wash before they enter the mosque.

I had had Erol write down for me the word for ‘faucet’ (musluk) since my phrasebook wasn’t prepared for a leaky tap (among many other things) and I had asked every likely antique seller if they had such a thing. Most of them looked at me like I had two heads or worse, so I had pretty much given up hope. I was kicking myself for not purchasing the one I saw at the Citadel in Ankara; schlepping a pound of brass for 27 days would have been worth it, I told myself. Worse yet, I resented Steve a little for talking me out of buying the one in Ankara, a fact which was not helped by his irritability at my asking countless incredulous shopkeepers if they had a faucet.

This last shopkeeper – I wasn’t holding out much hope. After I asked him, and answered his quizzical look with another butchered Turkish request for a faucet, he led me around the corner to a basket on the floor that was… full of taps! Oh my! I couldn’t have been more excited! I pawed through, found one that was ornate but not too ornate and, dreading the response, asked how much it was? He looked me up and down and requested 45YTL – about $35. I offered 40YTL and, not surprisingly, he took it. I was probably overcharged by about 10YTL but for the eight dollars and Steve’s priceless patience, it was worth it.

At this point Steve and I had a miscommunication: he wanted to eat something and stop looking at little objects; I thought he meant he wanted to leave the Bazaar and eat a proper meal, when really he would have been happy to sit for a few minutes and have a snack at one of the little cafés in the Bazaar. Instead, we left the Bazaar and walked up the road towards Divan Yolu thinking we’d find a place for dinner. The sound of music stopped us in our tracks and we looked over at a bustling tourist spot called… well, it might be called ‘Safran’ since that is the sign on the wall in my pictures, but really I was so tired that I didn’t pay a heck of a lot of attention. I might have wanted to walk around the Grand Bazaar until my feet were bloody stumps, but it’s not to say that would have been good for me. Sitting on divans on the floor around a low table, listening to what was no doubt cheesy tourist music was very, very good for me. The food was tasty, if not fancy, and reasonably priced – I guess we were just far enough from Sultanahmet to avoid the really exorbitant prices.

The band came around and played very entertainingly for each table, collecting tips along the way. During the intermission, Steve went and chatted with the musicians a bit and ended up playing on one of their instruments, a kind of banjo-oud called (Steve thinks) a dhadak.

Dinner over and nerves soothed, we walked hand-in-hand down the Divan Yolu towards Sultanahmet and home. Everything seemed right in our world with the possible exception of having to leave Turkey in some 36 hours. As we were humming over our good fortune at being together, in that marvellous place, I saw something I hadn’t seen before in Turkey: an older man, dressed like any other in a dark sports coat and pants, squatted on the sidewalk with his cap in his hand laid upon the sidewalk, begging for coins. His face was turned away from the stream of people, hidden by his other hand. Every line of his body indicated defeat and an almost-unbearable shame. I walked on a few paces, contemplating that this was the first beggar I’d seen in almost a month in Turkey.

I was reminded of the drunk in Selçuk, and Marco’s brother explaining that no-one in Turkey would be homeless or hungry because they would have a family to take care of them. Did this man not have a family? Or was this his way of taking care of them? Or was the curl of despair in his fingers an act, shaped just so to draw in the sympathetic tourist? I couldn’t bear it. I stopped and walked back, dropped a few lira in his cap, and moved on. He didn’t move a muscle: didn’t show his face, didn’t lift the veil.

Saddened and suddenly dissatisfied, we walked back down to Sultanahmet, where the crowds added to the midway feel, and our spirits lightened again. Back at the Med Cezir, we found Erol sitting in the dining room with Sabo, a friend and a guitar: they wanted Steve to get his oud so that they could play together. Steve obliged and they had an interesting thing going on with Erol on the guitar, Steve picking away on the oud and the friend singing a folk song. I ran up to get the computer to record the spontaneous amazingness, but by the time I got back down, Steve didn’t want to be recorded, so I only was able to capture Erol and his friend. It was still pretty cool, though. We had a great time chatting and hanging out, drinking endless complimentary cups of tea until our eyelids drooped. Steve and I staggered up the stairs to bed, replete with all the wonders of Istanbul.

Turkey -- Day Twenty-six -- Istanbul (oud shopping)

2007-11-02T13:16:00.004-07:00

Friday, November 2, 2007

We woke early to the endless suburbs of Istanbul rolling by. Breakfast was decent enough, though not quite as good as on the Ankara run – ah, back in the land of salami slice on the breakfast plate! We were back in our cabin in time to pack up and watch the blue Marmara sea disappear behind football stadiums and industrial parks.

We pulled into the train station and discovered the bad thing about first class: the sleepers had been at the ass end of the train the whole time, keeping away from the noisy engine, but now they were the furthest from the exit, and we felt every inch of the marble-covered platform as we pulled the RSFH the length of the train. Knowing that this was the easy stretch didn’t exactly help.

We exited onto the street and went to the same ferry dock that we had arrived at, some twenty-four days earlier. Breakfast was not so decent that we didn’t pick up two simit on the ferry dock. Fifty kuruş each: we must be in Istanbul.

Manoeuvring the RSFH through the turnstile along with about one hundred irritable Istanbullus commuters sucked.

Launching it and us onto the ferry sucked a little more. We had repacked it to be a little lighter, but that meant we had the RSFH and an equally heavy duffle bag full of carpet. With our packs, that meant that we had two pieces of luggage each, which wouldn’t have been so bad except that the considerable weight of the carpet bag (ha ha) slowly cut off the fingers of the wielder, and the RSFH often required one person at one end and the other person at the other end to lift it over, say, the gap between the dock and the ferry. It was challenging. Did I mention one hundred irritable commuters? Yeah.

I’m being overly dramatic – while getting ON the ferry was a challenge, once we were on, people very nicely made room for us and our irritating luggage.

Even though I was a little trepidatious about being back in Istanbul, armed with teşekkür ederim and lütfen, even with our RSFH, things seemed easier. Well, except for the lifting part.

Rinse and repeat for offloading, with the addition of the gap we had to leap over as it took so long to get the luggage to the door that the ferry was just about pulling away… very exciting!

When we got to Karakoy on the European side, we at least knew approximately where we were heading: back to the Galata Bridge, through the underpass (scary), right at the fish market (smelly… ok, not really), right into the gun bazaar (scary… really!) and up the stairs (hernia!) to the Beyoglu tram station, where we purchased two tokens and joined a whole new set of irritated commuters trying to get onto the trams.

We just managed to get all the bags off the tram at the Sultanahmet stop and stopped to regroup on the sidewalk. I’m still not sure how we managed it (certainly parts of it have been blocked from my memory), but we lugged all that crap to the hotel over endless miles of cobbled sidewalks. Actually it wasn’t miles – the hotel was just as close as advertised. The Med Cezir is basically opposite the Four Seasons, just down the street from the Baths Of Lady Hürrem and around the corner from one of the ‘Ev’ hotels. It’s in good company!

From the outside, the cheerfully-painted Med Cezir looked like it belonged – a pale lemon-yellow building with a cute little café-style restaurant on the left and the hotel entrance on the right.

We staggered into the hallway that led to the admissions desks where we were kindly, and amusedly, greeted by Erol, the owner. The kindness seemed very typical of him, the amusement mostly generated by the fact that we now had to carry the luggage up three narrow, spiralling sets of stairs to the third floor where our room was. Yay! The first flight was fairly normal, the second, a little tighter and steeper. The third flight of stairs was just as steep and incredibly narrow at the top, and the light in the hallway was controlled by a motion detector that unexpectedly turned off after there had been no movement for, say, twenty seconds. Pretty much the amount of time required to find one’s key, for instance, or to take a breather after hauling a large and unwieldy suitcase up three flights of stairs.

After waving our way down the hallway to get the light on, we made our way into the room, and were pleasantly surprised. There was a double bed, a reading lamp (our first in Turkey), a wardrobe, and a pile of clean towels on the bed. After doing a recon in the hallway, we found two bathrooms to serve three bedrooms: one was possessed of a half-sized bath with shower and the other was a powder room. There were actual little hotel soaps (which we ignored, preferring our Tire olive oil soap during our quick showers) and plenty of spare tp. Everything was spotlessly clean, if not glamorous.

This was so worth the 60YTL per night we were paying: the room was good, the stairs were… healthy, and the location was un-freaking-believable, as we realized when we abandoned our luggage, walked back down the stairs and twenty short steps into the park I only know as Sultanahmet Park between the breathtaking Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque.

Steve wanted to be sure we got to Beyoglu today to check out the street of music shops. We had asked Erol if he knew of anywhere to go and he had told us, being an oud and guitar player himself, which streets to visit.

We first headed over to the Divan Yolu where we veered off onto a sidestreet and walked a block to a small music shop. The shopkeeper was nice, but not very interested in us, which was fair, as his ouds were nice but not very interesting.

The tram station was close and we had the hang of getting our tokens, so it took no time at all before we were whisking across the Galata Bridge. Just for the sake of entertainment, we decided to deliberately miss the Beyoglu stop and got off at the next one down the line, where we walked back along the street to the bottom of the hill we were to walk up the street of music. We passed storefronts full of Vespas (Alex would have just died) and sidewalks full of astonished Istanbullus (we weren’t in a tourist area) before we found ourselves at the bottom of a fan of streets spreading up the hill above us.

We knew we had to walk up Yüksek Kaldırım Caddesi which would turn into Galip Dede Caddesi, which is the street of the musical instruments. Yüksek Kaldırım was easy enough to find, now that I had the hang of finding the street signs high up on the building on the left corner of the street. From my up-since-six-am perspective, however, it didn’t look all that easy to walk up. From sea-level, the streets of Beyoglu head straight up the hill – there is the Tünel that can take you up from near the tram station to the top of the hill at the end of Istiklal Caddesi, but that would have bypassed the entire street of the musical instruments. We needed to walk up.

Daunted, we stopped to take a look at the street signs to make sure this was actually the right street and were promptly accosted by a döner seller. We weren’t a hard sell, as the tavuk on the pole looked fantastic and the price was just a few lira. We sat under some trees at little tables with little umbrellas and a very aggressive, skinny little cat. He ended up with quite a bit of my tavuk, but his kitty desperation when the food was gone was heartbreaking. It was hard to reconcile the thousands of starving strays creeping around Istanbul: you just wouldn’t see that in Canada. Instead, they would be rounded up and sent to the SPCA where some of them would be adopted into loving homes, and others would be put to sleep. Which is best? In Istanbul they have a chance, I guess, especially with soft-hearted turists possessed of a liberal hand with the tavuk.

Full and fortified, we headed up the caddesi, stopping in what seemed like every musical instrument shop along the way. Now I know how Steve feels when he’s tagging along with my shopping! Only when I’m shopping, we’re not brought constant cups of tea and invitations to sit and visit. Well, not everywhere was that friendly, but most shopkeepers were very pleasant and they all seemed pleasantly surprised that Steve could illicit vaguely appropriate noises from the ouds he tried. Every so often he would also pick up a guitar and blow them away.

We finally found a shop where the ouds were better than good and the salespeople were very nice. Since a lot of this trip was paid for by an inheritance from Steve’s grandmother, and she would have wanted him to have a musical keepsake from it and her, we had kept money aside specifically for an oud. The one that Steve liked the best was a little higher than his budget, but I kindly offered to put his Christmas present money towards it! Suitably revenged for his offers regarding the kilim we bought in Selçuk, Steve decided to bite the bullet and get the one he wanted. Purporting to need some time to think on it, we left the shop and decided to head uphill a bit to see what we could see.

After what was actually a very short time and an easy hike, we came to an open square which marked the start of the Istiklal Caddesi, a long pedestrian-only street which lead eventually to Taksim Square and which seemed to be Istanbul’s answer to Vancouver’s Robson Street. This was also where the Tünel ended up, so I think the neighbourhood is also known as Tünel.

There was a little tram that appeared every so often, carrying the lazy or footsore down Istiklal Caddesi. We didn’t really feel like doing the full-on stroll as dark was coming on and the tram never seemed to be leaving when we weren’t busy looking at something interesting. Not to put too fine a point on it, but the street looked like it was mostly occupied by the young, hip and terminally fashionable. Besides, right in the little square we could see a few little art galleries and went to look for post-cards or other interesting things.

We sure did find interesting things – copies of old lithographs of the city, decorated words in Arabic script, sketches of dervishes and a bunch of delicate watercolour Istanbul skylines with pen & ink boats and seagulls in the foreground. Lovely things! We were delighted to find out that the prices were very reasonable for original works: even though they were made very much to a formula, the execution was still quite wonderful. When we told the shopkeeper that the frames (brown) and matts (not white) weren’t to our taste, he offered to have his wife come to the shop and do some custom frames for us. Even with the custom framing, the price were still very reasonable, so we assessed our Christmas gift needs and picked out a half-dozen paintings.

By the time our order was framed, wrapped and bagged, it was almost full dark, and we had quite a distance to get back to our pension. On the upside, the walk down Galip Dede Caddesi was much easier than going up, and we passed amazing sights including the Galata Tower and cars attempting to drive down a street full of people. We stopped in at the music shop and purchased the oud, which Steve cradled like a babe for the rest of the night.

I couldn’t resist the sight of an open shop manually squeezing fresh orange juice where you could buy a glass for a lira, so we stopped for juice. Steve declined, as his hands were full of oud, but I found it delicious and worth every penny.

Back down the hill, back on the tram, back to Sultanahmet – we felt like old hats at this and my enjoyment of Istanbul increased with every step on a marble paving stone I took. I was no longer overwhelmed by touts and trams and every little thing; more comfortable with Turkish and the Turks, I finally felt able to handle and truly enjoy this amazing city.

We strolled into the Med Cezir with our purchases in hand. Erol and his assistant, Sabo (which means ‘loyalty’ in… Kurdish? we were proudly advised by the young man in question) were delighted to see us. They fixed us some very passable mezes at a fairly reasonable price (by Sultanahmet standards) and watched Steve explore his oud.

It had been a long, long day and we weren’t really up to going out or even visiting that much. We hauled our very sorry rear ends up the stairs, waved at the motion light, got out our keys, waved at the light again and were in our room, soon to bed. It only took a second or two before we realized that the ‘double’ bed was actually two twins pushed together. The foam topper helped a little, but it still wasn’t as perfectly comfortable as it might have been, with a bit of a raised seam where the beds joined. That said, we had no regrets and we felt that we were very lucky to have come across this particular pension; we snuggled across the seam and slept very well.

Turkey -- Day Twenty-five -- Pamukkale & Night Train

2007-11-02T13:15:00.003-07:00

Thursday November 1, 2007

The morning was a scurry of activity at the hotel: we had more on our plate than just eating yet another delicious breakfast and showering in abundant hot water. We wanted to leave Pamukkale in the evening on the night train – the Pamukkale Expresi – from Denizli to Istanbul that was to leave at 5pm. Since we wanted a sleeper, we asked Karyn if she knew if there was somewhere in town we could reserve our ticket. There wasn’t a travel agent handy, so she had Ibrahim check availability online and there was only one sleeper unit left! Eek!

Karyn suggested we buy the ticket online, but of course we didn’t have a credit card. We were intensely grateful when Karyn offered to buy the ticket for us, so long as we also paid her the few extra lira to cover her bank charges for her Australian credit card. Since this beat hollow the prospect of a panicky dolmuş ride into Denizli to buy a ticket that may or may not have still been available when we got there, we gladly accepted. Even with the small charge (which Karyn showed us on her statement – she didn’t take a fee on top of it, even though we would have happily paid one), it was still less than $50 each – I think 49YTL each for the ticket and two or three lira for the service fee.

The next order was the hotel we would stay in the next night. As exciting as it was to have arrived in Istanbul that first night and look for our hotel room, we wanted to see if we could get in with the Canadians who would be arriving there that night. We tried to call on Skype, taking advantage of the free wireless, but the connection was a little spotty. Karyn – again, such an awesome hostess – lent us the phone for no charge, even though we were calling long distance. Unfortunately that hotel was full. Karyn then looked online and advised of a few hotels that had space and were reasonable, including one called the ‘Med Cezir’ (pronounced Med Jezeer) which was right in the heart of Sultanahmet. We called, heart in our mouth, and were told by the nice man on the other end of the phone that he was full up for doubles with their own bathroom. We were just about to hang up when he told us he did have a double with a shared bathroom. The price was great, and we wanted this to be done, so we accepted – no deposit, just our names and the advice that we’d be there in the morning. Yay! Now we had somewhere to stay and a way to get there: we could enjoy our day in Pamukkale.

It didn’t seem like it would be difficult to get to the famous travertines since we could even catch a glimpse of them from our bedroom window. Indeed, it was a short walk up through the winding streets, past the little lokanta we were in last night, to the pond at the bottom of the road that led to the travertines. The sun intermittently broke through the high cloud and made the upper hillside sparkle. It was interesting from far off; fascinating from up close. We paid our 5YTL and walked (shoes on) up the gravel path until we reached the white… how do you describe the travertines?

Technically, they are the result of a natural hot spring which carries a large quantity of calcium dissolved in the water. When the water reaches the surface and spills out over the top of the hill, the calcium precipitates out of the water and is deposited on the natural rock as a new kind of rock called ‘travertine’. Over many thousands of years, layers and layers of calcium have created terraced rock pools that shine white in the sun. Perhaps because of the ability of the white pools to reflect the sky, they are coloured the same bright turquoise that we have seen many times in alpine lakes. From a distance, the white structure on the top of the hill looks like a shining fortress, which gives Pamukkale (pamuk: cotton, kale: castle) its name.

We had waffled, as I think many travellers do, if it was worth it to even go to Pamukkale. We had read the reports that the hotels in the area had diverted the mineral water for their own little pools and the reduction in calcium-rich water spilling over the travertines had made them dingy at best, completely ruined at worst. We pro’d and con’d for several days: Denizli was out of the way, but it was on the way to an easy route back to Istanbul. The travertines might not be as spectacular as they were, but it might be our last chance to see even the faded glory of an incredible natural sight. As we took off our sandals and took our first step into the cool white lower pond, we were so glad we came. Up close, you could see that some of the pathways were a little gritty and not all the pools were full. There were some workers digging a ditch of some sort along the edge of the travertines and I was glad to see they are still working on repairing it.

The silt in the bottom of the pool was pleasantly squishy between our toes, and it created fun little swirls as we walked through. The water didn’t get past mid-thigh and we hung out in the pond, watching the clouds roll through and hoping for more sunshine. After not too long, a crowd came down the trail and took over our pond, and it was time to move on. It is a requirement that you walk up the trail without shoes on as the dirt from shoes makes the rock grubbier. Most people adhered to it and I glared daggers at those who didn’t. Really, there was no reason not to take off your shoes: the rocks were surprisingly smooth to walk on, even where the surface was patterned into tiny rock ripples. Frankly, if you don’t want to take your shoes off, don’t walk on the travertine! Not that I was irritated or anything.

At the top, we were impressed at the quantity of the ruins that cover the plateau: we had read that Heiropolis was darn cool, but this was really neat. We decided to first take a look at the ‘Sacred Pool’ which was located in a very strip-mall looking building. The sacred pool itself looked interesting in that there were indeed mineral waters and actual Roman ruins in the water – broken columns you could swim by and over. The whole thing seemed a little dingy, though, and the prices were obscene, plus there was that whole strip-mall atmosphere. I think that if the ruins in Turkey were more hands-off or somehow less accessible to be touched and leaned on and generally mauled, swimming with ruins would be more attractive. As it was, we felt as though we had had enough of an intimate ruin experience that we didn’t need to get naked with them.

Instead of a swim, we bought two wildly overpriced Magnums and went outside to sit on a tomb and eat our icecream. See what I mean? intimate ruins.

We walked along the cliff edge over to the left and admired a few tombs that were being very sloooooooowly drowned in a rising sea of travertine, or at least until a tourist policeman (well, maybe a park caretaker, but he looked mighty official) told us to keep back from the edge.

Keeping away from the edge wasn’t much of a hardship given the interesting group of ruins, including a colonnaded street, a couple of well-preserved arches, and a hillside just covered in ruined tombs. I think I read on ‘Turkey Travel Planner’ where Tom Brosnahan said that lots of Romans came to Heiropolis to take cures in the spa but many of them died instead. Perhaps it was best we didn’t swim in the sacred pool!

We walked through the triple arches towards the necropolis where we admired the jumble of tombs and tried to decipher the interpretive signs. The tombs were very interesting and some were even open to visitors! The magnitude of the excavation was overwhelming.

Tiring of ghosts, we wandered back to the arches and walked up the marble-paved streets, lined with rows of columns and poplars. It was lovely and graceful and we went twenty minutes without seeing another soul.

We found stone paths to follow up along the hillside that were paved in huge marble slabs. It took a while to realize that these were city streets that would have served all the now-razed neighbourhoods we were walking through. The streets were laid out in a grid pattern and sometimes we thought we saw the remains of drainage troughs underneath the streets where a slab was broken. I would have liked to follow the street up the hill to more tombs, but we wanted to take a look at the theatre before heading back to the hotel to get packed up for the dolmuş to Denizli. Walking those paths made me feel closer to history than any other place we had been, even Ephesus, and I felt if I could just walk a little further, I could walk right into the past.

Instead we slogged up the normal modern road up to the theatre, where you enter from the top. The theatre was apparently restored by Italian craftsmen in the 1970s and it was the first theatre we’d been to where you didn’t have the run of the place. To prevent people from going down onto the stage, there was a wooden barricade set up on the walkway above the first rows of seats. Frankly, we felt a little gypped. Those Italians did a nice job and all, but as I’ve mentioned, we were spoiled by our access to and intimacy with other ruins.

By this time it was well into the afternoon and we wanted to be on a 3:30pm dolmuş at the latest. Even though it was only a half hour into Denizli, and the dolmuş went every fifteen minutes or so, we wanted enough time to comfortably wrangle our RSFH to the train station and make our 5pm train. We decided to head down the hill where I would take a quick fifteen minutes in the museum and Steve would go back down to the pool with water in it to take some more photos now that it was a bit sunnier.

Fortunately the ticket to the museum was inexpensive, since I certainly didn’t waste any time there: I basically ran through taking photos that I figured I could admire at my leisure. The rooms weren’t well-lit and it’s probably best that Steve didn’t attend, as the detail on the friezes might have eluded him.

The guards looked quite entertained as I left with a quick teşekkür ederim: I’m not sure they’d ever seen someone go through so quickly.

I found Steve in the lower pool as expected. It felt a little sad to walk off the travertines, put our sandals back on, and turn our backs on Pamukkale. We were very glad we came.

Back in town, we found our landmark lokanta and set off in what seemed like the right direction to get back to the Venus Hotel. I’m sure you can see where this is going, though we were unsuspecting… that we were most certainly NOT headed in the right direction. On the upside, we saw back streets of Pamukkale that most tourists do not see. On the downside, we were tired and hungry and anxious about the time, and spatted pretty much the entire 20 minutes we wandered around lost. We did ask a little girl the way to go, but she pointed us in the entirely wrong direction, which really didn’t help the situation. Finally coming back to the travertine entrance from around the far left side of town, we saw Karyn and Ibrahim parked in front of a shop. They offered us a ride back to the hotel and then a ride back to the dolmuş stop with the RSFH, which we gratefully accepted.

At the Venus, we hurriedly packed our things and found that we had had a casualty on the trip: my loyal Teva sandals, which had carried me faithfully throughout Turkey, to say nothing of the other adventures, were now officially dead. The sole was separating, they smelled atrocious and they were too heavy to justify carrying back to Canada for interment. I sadly left them on the top of the garbage can in our beautiful room in the Hotel Venus. Farewell, old friends.

Downstairs, we said our goodbyes to the dogs, the mum and dad, and were carted back up into town by Ibrahim. What a nice place! We had just enough time to grab snacks: simit, suyu and a few cookies before hopping on the dolmuş. I hadn’t realized how much time had gone by while we were lost, and even though the dolmuş was going relatively quickly by dolmuş standards, we arrived in the Denizli otogar at about 20 minutes to five.

Wrestling the RSFH and our packs out of the dolmuş, we were assured by the driver and various passerby that the train station (tren istasyonu in Turkish) was just down and across the road. They didn’t say that the sidewalks were GRAVEL or that our wheelie RSFH wouldn’t wheel very well (ok, at all) on gravel. They also didn’t mention that it was rush hour in Denizli, and that crossing six lanes of road would take our lives into our overly full hands.

We were hot and tired and overly-adrenaline’d when we finally ran down the metal mesh stairs (also not very good for the RSFH wheels) onto the platform. Fortunately, we changed our printed confirmation for tickets without incident and got on the train with five minutes to go before five. Needless to say, we were very, very relieved and actually quite pleased with ourselves. It had taken a lot of co-operation, cheerleading and finely choreographed suitcase-lifting to get ourselves to the train on time, and our satisfaction wiped the spat from our minds.

One last push of the suitcase onto the train and into our little room, and we were free from suitcase lifting for at least another twelve hours. What a relief! We ate the contents of our little fridge as we watched... the station. Had we known the train would leave some twenty minutes late, we might not have panicked so badly. Insert UTS (ubiquitous Turkish shrug) here.

Finally, the train started off, leaving the city of Denizli. After about twenty minutes, it screeched to a halt. We thought it might have stopped abruptly for a station, but official-looking people were running up and down the track outside the train, shouting at each other. We wondered what all the fuss was about -- did someone get left behind? The conductor eventually told Steve that a passenger's child had pulled the e-brake. Hee hee!

After not too long, the train started again and we watched the darkening countryside roll by, before repairing to the dining (cough smoking) car for a well-deserved dinner.

There was a little menu card on the table from which we tried to order, but the waiter was either not familiar with English or (bastardised) Turkish, because he kept indicating things were not available or giving us blank stares. We were pretty sure we had ordered some mezes and perhaps a şiş of indeterminate animal by the time he left.

When he arrived, proudly bearing plates of food, I realized that this was what menu roulette must really be like. Steve just smiled; he's played this game before. Everything was good, but it was also a surprise: we had two eggplant salads, one of which might have been Imam Bayıldı, a haydari-like dish, a cucumber-yoghurt soup that must have been cacik, and liver. Yes, liver. Now I’m SURE I didn’t point at that item on the menu, but we got it anyway. I have to say the taste was ok, but the texture was… well, it was liver. So it was liver-y. Fortunately Steve likes liver. It was all quite reasonable in both taste and price, though not quite as good as the food on the Istanbul-Ankara train. Finally satisfied, we hung out in the dining car until we were smoked out. There isn’t any smoking allowed in the train carriages themselves, so the smokers hung out either in the gap between cars or in the smoking car, which was fine. Turkish cigarettes are somehow less irritating to my allergies than North American ones.

We found ourselves tired out when we got back to our room and sat talking and watching the lights of the countryside go by. I was a bit anxious about going back in Istanbul as I wasn’t sure I had liked it much the first time through. Istanbul is chaotic, noisy and crammed to the gills with people, and I’d felt out of my element. I also wasn’t keen on introducing the RSFH to the cobbled streets of Sultanahmet – or to the ferry gangplanks, either... but Steve reassured me and I reassured him, since he had similar fears, and we cuddled and felt like successful newlyweds after our trying day. Whatever Istanbul was like, we’d manage it together.

Turkey -- Day Twenty-four -- Pamukkale (Aphrodesias)

2007-11-02T13:11:00.006-07:00

Wednesday, October 31, 2007

We had a good sleep at the Venus Hotel. Waking up refreshed and a little more aware of our surroundings, we were even more pleased at the bright and fresh nature of our room (yet again a triple for the price of a double, and the extra bed held all our extra crap). Karyn confirmed that they are slowly fixing up all the rooms and common area. Over a delicious breakfast, we had a great chat about the vagrancies of the Lonely Planet.

Karyn explained that when the LP guy had come to their hotel a few years previous (to write for the 2007 edition), he didn't even stay in the hotel, just took a look around and left. Fortunately, he gave them a good write-up, but telling potential travelers that the hotel is pink and romantic doesn't actually give any idea as to the quality of the rooms or food. In addition, because the information is collected literally years before the edition is printed, prices are way out of date, which can give travelers a nasty shock upon arriving at the hotel or attraction.

There doesn't seem to be any avoidable way of the L.P. being out of date that isn't prohibitively expensive for them and the consumer (and guide books are expensive enough as it is), and we did get a lot of assistance at least in knowing what to see. Our frustrations regarding its inaccuracies were echoed by Karyn, and we promptly adopted her nomiker of 'Lonely Bastard'. We had a love-hate relationship with our guide book, that's for sure.

This is one of the reasons I haven't provided a lot of information about the prices we paid: the information won't be relevant for long, and we were traveling in the off season. What seemed like a good deal to us might not be possible to get in the high season. To say we were there in the 'shoulder season' would be an extreme understatement. In fact, Karyn and Ibrahim were off to Southeast Asia on their 'summer vacation' in just a few days.

Karyn also told us our options for getting to Aphrodesias: hire a car and driver for 100YTL or take the bus for 25YTL each. Obviously the bus was the better route, but it would only go if there were a minimum of four people, so we had to cross our fingers that more intrepid people wanted to go see the ruins.

We were just finishing up breakfast at 9:30 when the bus came by for us, happily with two other people in it! We gulped our tea and climbed on board, where we met Sharon and Barb, two lovely Ottowa-onians (?) who had spent the bulk of their month’s holiday in the East, near Van, which sounded really spectacular. We all bonded right away and chatted as the bus went and picked up another man, Tatsi from Japan, who hadn’t much English but had a very good attitude.

We stopped on the way out of town for some very cheap and delicious simit to take with us. I think the simit were about 10 kuruş each, which was the cheapest we had seen anywhere. Fortunately the taste did not reflect the price, and I bought simit for everyone on board, including a surprised Tatsi. Yum!

The bus ride was quite long, but we filled it with hearing and regaling stories about our various adventures in Turkey: Sharon and Barb had met a man by chance who became their driver, guide and fast friend. Their stories cemented our desire to return to Turkey and see ‘the East’ as they did. They, in fact, are currently planning their next trip at which time they will go up into all the little villages Noori, their driver, said he would take them to, plus the Black Sea and all kinds of other adventures which are in store for them.

They’ve been doing very well travelling without any real Turkish language at all. Turkey is pretty easy to travel in in that regard, though I still like my Turkish words!

We finally arrived at Aphrodesias, or the parking lot for Aphrodesias, and were told to meet our driver at 2pm. Then we all piled into the shuttle… wagon, pulled by a… tractor, which (for free) took us all the way to the gate.

After paying our whopping 4L (less than the L.B. said it charges) admission charge, we entered the ruin by way of a cobbled path that passed a field full of amazingly carved sarcophagi. As it was by now about 11, we decided to take pictures on the way back.

Aphrodesias was the site of a prehistoric community since 5000 BC or so, and had the shrine to Aphrodite since 600 BC, but only became a real town in the 1st or 2nd century AD. The town reached its peak at about the 3rd century AD and was abandoned in the 12th century AD. The little village of Geyre grew up in its place, which moved after an earthquake in the 1950’s, after which time the excavations began in the 1960s to very recently.

The central part of Aphrodesias is actually the village square, and contains a gift shop, rather nice washrooms, a few scruffy cats and the Museum. There are also several options for where to start your explorations. I got left behind a little (taking pictures of the kitties), when I heard shrieks and laughter coming from up the trail. I found my people had discovered that a shrub with very ‘Day of the Triffids’ pods on them. When disturbed by a foot or stick, the little pods shot up into the air and landed sometimes metres away from the original plant. Bizarre!

Hearing the high-pitched squealings of a multitude of primary-schoolchildren on the theatre, we decided to approach the ruins from a more circuitous route. We headed on a goat track up to the left, joined by a shaggy dog whom Barb referred to as ‘Monsieur Woof Woof’ to his great delight.

The little path led us to some interesting places: we saw a chunk of stone carved like a leaf just stuck in the dirt; we saw a lone section of city wall; we saw a marble wall in the middle of nowhere with beautiful panels of carving, with an old wooden chair propped up against it; we saw huge snails and seed pods that looked like snail shells. We finally ended up following a very dubious-looking trail that led to the rear part of a very complete colonnaded walkway: we weren’t sure if Tatsi thought we were really cool for leaving the beaten path or absolutely crazy Canadians bushwhacking through the back forty of Aphrodesias. From there we looked at the well-preserved baths and the enormously grand theatre, which we had all to ourselves for about ten minutes. Steve and I had really good luck all through with getting spectacular ruins to ourselves.

At this point, Tatsi abandoned us to go on ahead, so I guess the verdict must have been ‘crazy’.

We went around the back of the theatre to more baths and more ruins, and a particularly charming kitty that followed up for quite a while, pausing to sit picturesque-ly on bits of broken ruin. I pulled a few ticks off his ears, which gave me the bug-induced willies, but it was for a good cause.

After more ruin-wandering, at which time Mr. Woof Woof returned and the cat sensibly left, we headed over to the stadium which was incredible: it had seated some 30,000 people to watch sporting events (athletic and gladiatorial) in relative comfort. There were designated seats, and guilds would have areas designated for them to sit as well. Barb and Sharon were politely chatted up by a tour guide who was taking a little break from giving a private tour to some Americans, proving correct their statements about being hit on by Turks of all walks. They had had some interesting experiences to say the least!

As we were getting close to time, we took a very quick look at Aphrodesias’ most famous ruin, that of the monumental gateway -- the Tetrapylon of Trajan -- that led pilgrims to the Temple of Aphrodite. It was beautifully restored, though somehow a little small after the Library of Celcus.

Passing yet more kitties and friezes, we found ourselves with a whole fifteen minutes in the Museum. Fortunately, that was all you really needed for a quick look at the Statues With Heads, if you passed over the majority of Statues Without Heads. We were able to get the tractor back to the parking lot only a few minutes late. Frankly, after the wonders we had seen, taking pictures of the sarcophagi didn’t seem so interesting.

In the parking lot, there were (surprise!) handicraft stalls selling trinkets, among which were some very sweet little whistles shaped like birds, much after the fashion of the whistles in the book ‘Birds Without Wings’ which I received for Christmas last year. We bought two, as they were very cheap and very cute.

Back on the bus, we had a little discussion about lunch, which is to say Barb and Sharon tried to explain to our driver (who had very little English) that they wanted to go to a cheap, village restaurant rather than a tourist place. As they had no Turkish, this involved a lot of them speaking clearly and loudly, and a lot of me looking up words in the phrasebook, like ‘inexpensive’ (which is ucuz, pronounced ‘oojooz’) and saying things like ‘lokanta’ which I already knew (restaurant).

He seemed to understand, and we drove off in the opposite direction from which we came. After a while, we came to a small town, where we pulled off the main road in front of a greasy spoon. Barb seemed a little dubious, but Sharon explained that the more quaint places were just for tourists, so we went in.

We were the only women in there, and definitely the only tourists, but it was full of locals which seemed like a good sign. The menu was a large piece of paper under the glass on the tables, which conveniently had pictures of each dish along with the Turkish name. We all had the special casserole except Tatsi, who had pide.

We taught Barb and Sharon the Turkish name for cherry juice, as they had also developed an addiction to vişne suyu. The vişne suyu was an unfamiliar brand (did you know the ubiquitous Cappy is made by Coke?) and came in glass bottles for the first time. It was divine.

We were brought fresh, warm bread and the typical salad with lemon juice just before our casseroles arrived, boiling and sizzling in red-hot ceramic pots. After they had cooled enough to touch, we ate them with huge enjoyment – çok nefis indeed!

The casserole was followed by a sweet pastry covered in honey and halva – it was delicious too, but way too sweet for me. The driver explained in broken English and charades that the tea was free, from him. How nice! The total bill, each, for drinks, bread, salad, roasted green peppers, casserole, dessert and chai was a whole 10YTL each. We were very impressed with our driver’s lokanta selection, and told him so, as best each of us could.

We all paid the driver 30L each instead of the 25L fare, in order to give him a good tip. Back in Pamukkale by just after 4pm, we made arrangements with our newfound Ottowa-onians to meet at 7:30 for a light dinner or drinks, or something of that social sort.

Once back in the room, Steve and I settled down for a quick cuddle and chat before seeing the town (which we still hadn’t managed). Unfortunately, we both drifted off, and woke at 7:15, completely groggy and exhausted. We weren’t really in any mood for drinks, or dinner given the size of our lunch, but felt that our current course of action was more fitting for a pair of octenegarians than newlywed thirty-somethings.

We dragged ourselves down into the lounge, where Barb and Sharon turned up a few minutes later, and directed us to a small restaurant called ‘Mehmet’s Heaven’ which was certainly nice enough. We had some adequate (and not too filling) mezes, and Steve and I uncharacteristically got a bottle of local red to share between us. It was very drinkable to my palate, but quite dull to Steve’s, which is typical of our shared wine experience.

Conversation was very interesting: Barb works for Statscan and Sharon is a museum curator, and both are quite up on Canadian politics. Steve held his own in the discussion, but I was a little at sea, except when complaining about the high cost of real estate. Since our new friends were heading to Istanbul the next day, early, and were also flying out Monday, we tentatively arranged for the girls to go to a hammam (Turkish bath) in Istanbul, as I had been too chicken to go on my own. We also got the name and number of their hotel, as their rates seemed good and we had been waffling over what hotel to try and book at for several days.

More than a tiny bit tipsy, we left the restaurant after 11pm, said goodbye, and staggered gracefully down the road and into bed.

Turkey -- Day Twenty-three -- Selçuk & Tire to Pamukkale

2007-11-02T13:09:00.006-07:00

Tuesday, October 30, 2007.

First chore of the day: stuffing every last purchase into an unsuspecting rolly suitcase. That's two, no THREE carpets, twelve or more pillow cases, a multitude of glass eyes, three little drums, a number of books including a hardback Koran, two red flag tshirts, a little jar of honey and god knows what else.

The suitcase weighed quite a bit.

As we wrestled sixty pounds of creaking, wheeled nylon box down one flight of stairs, we got our first glimpse of how incredibly stupid we were to attempt to haul all this sh*t home ourselves. If it hadn't been for that very prideful streak combined with an rancid teaspoon of Scots thriftiness we might have pleaded our case to Urdal or Nazmi and made arrangements to ship at least the big carpet home. Needless to say, we didn't, much to our intense dismay over the next five days.

Breathing hard and a little flushed after the suitcase match (a draw, on points), we left the suitcase in the lobby of the Bella and hauled our sorry rumps back up the stairs for a last exquisite breakfast. We were honestly not worried about leaving the behometh down in the lobby: not only did we have perfect faith in the Bella staff, but any poor thief would have had a paralyzing hernia before he got it out the door.

It was a sad thought that we were leaving Selçuk, but we were also looking forward to the Tire market (Tee-ray, not what you drive on) that the Cliftons had raved about.

Thankful that we were leaving our red suitcase of death behind, we walked down the hill from the hotel, turned right and then crossed the street to the left just past where the market had been -- ah, the otogar! Just where we were hoping it would be!

It was easy enough to find the Tire dolmuş; it was very conveniently labeled. For just a few lira, we climbed aboard the empty dolmuş and had our pick of window seats. It seemed like a few seconds later that we saw familiar faces climbing on the bus -- the Cliftons! They seemed happy enough to see us, though I suspect that they may have come to the conclusion that we were stalking them...

The dolmuş crept out of Selçuk, taking every possible opportunity to dart across three lanes of traffic to pull over on the side of the highway to fit one more person in. It left the main road and wandered around villages so tiny they didn't have a name, picking up all kinds of people as it went. It seemed that tourists got on in Selçuk and locals got on everywhere else.

We were glad enough to be popped out of the crush at the market in Tire. With a small break for the little, clean bathroom by the mosque, we set off up the hill into the market proper. Now this was an ethnic market! Having read that Tire was known for its felt-makers, and having had such a lovely experience in Konya, we wandered around the lower part of the hill, looking for them.

There were blacksmiths and saddlers and finally! felt makers. Unlike the art creations made by Ikonium, these were practical items: saddle pads and slippers. Not unlovely indeed, but not nearly as decorative as Ikonium. We did find one decorative felt-maker but the items were just not up to Mehmet's standard and we declined to buy. I was actually very tempted by all the practical items I saw. If I had but owned a horse (or even a larger dog), I would have gladly bought a bridle or two, or some of the blue-dyed leather collars. Perhaps a giant copper pot, lined with tin?

The livestock area was a little sadder, though just as practical: droopy chickens in cages, panting goats leaning against a stone wall, and one resigned sheep. The smell was of droppings and despair, but I couldn't complain -- not given the quantity of tavuk and kuzu I had consumed over the past three weeks. All things considered, I am much more comfortable with creatures that live a free-range life, spend an unhappy (but pain-free) day at the market, and then are killed and used in an atmosphere not redolent of the abattoir.

We decided to climb the hill to see the older part of the market and to see what was around the corner. This market was incredibly interesting! I stopped at a few places to attempt to ask for the decorative metal skewers which had served our kuzu şiş at some restaurant or another. Not only did I covet them myself, but they seemed like a good masculine gifts (Turkish girly gifts being readily available). The only problem with this was that my trusty guidebook failed me on the matter of 'skewer'. The closest I could get was 'fork' or çatal, which I requested in several shops and stands. I was met alternately with the UTS, a quizzical look, apologies (at not having the skewers or not being able to understand me, I'm not quite sure) and, in one case, a man who abruptly left his shop to return five minutes later with plain but serviceable skewers which I respectfully declined.

On a more positive note, I found some delightful chunks of olive oil soap which the man indicated to me was from local olives for something like a lira each, which seemed incredibly cheap. Since we had run out of Olay, we needed some soap (especially given the non-deodorizing properties of the Turkish deodorant).

The wonderful thing about the Tire market was that it was mostly there for the Turks, unlike the other markets we had seen, which were mostly for the tourists. The upside was also its downside, however: if we lived in the area, we would have been buying food and soap and clothes and bridles and chickens and every other thing we saw. Not living in the area meant there wasn't too much that was practical for us to purchase and take home -- the tourist's dilemma, for sure. Just walking around and up and down the streets was a magical experience, even if we left with surprisingly empty hands.

Empty hands, maybe -- empty stomachs, no way! We found a little hole-in-the-wall which was selling what the L.P. reported to be Tire's specialty. It was a little awkward being the only non-Turks (and only non-man) in the shop, but everyone was friendly and a nice farmer got up and moved to a shared table so that Steve and I could sit alone at a table. We stuffed ourselves on delish kebap and were pleased to see a Turkish couple come in and the woman sat beside me. I wondered if my presence made it easier or harder for her to come in and eat?

Emerging back onto the street, we watched the fish sellers for a while. While most of the other merchants sat back on their haunches, quietly waiting for customers, the fish guys were LOUD. They yelled at each other, threw fish at each other and every so often broke into song, the lyrics of which I would have given a pocketful of lira to understand. Their stalls all had electric lightbulbs dangling above the piles of piscine... probably to make them look shinier and fresher, not that they looked (or smelled) bad in the slightest.

We eventually tired of the fish show and decided to wander slowly down to the dolmuş station and catch our ride back to Selçuk as we knew our train left at five in the evening and it was almost two. Ok, Steve wanted to get back to Selçuk asap; I wanted to look around and covet things some more. We managed not to spat and found ourselves at the dolmuş station intact. After lazily inquiring where the Selçuk dolmuş was leaving from, we were surprised to be hustled down the hill and across the street where our intrepid guide threw himself in front of a white minivan to stop the bus. It agreeably screeched to a halt and we clambered aboard, short of breath and temper, passed our money to the front and... stood.

The dolmuş was so dolmuş-ed that I ended up sitting in the stairwell while Steve's bum clung to half a seat at the back. The reverse trip gradually sloughed passengers by ones and twos and we were both able to sit after not too long. By the time we reached Selçuk we were even able to sit together, and we were all made up and happy again. We stopped by the Van to say goodbye to Marco and his brother (who was pining for the German girl) and had a satisfactory short visit. Our happiness continued right up until the point where we walked back up to the Bella and reacquainted ourselves with our luggage -- from this point forward to be known as the Red Suitcase From Hell (RSFH).

Pulling only a few vital back muscles, we loaded our RSFH into the hotel's minibus and then out again at the train station. If it weren't for the unforgiving burden, it would have been an easy ten-minute walk. As it was, we were grateful all over again for the Bella's free ride policy.

Purchasing our train tickets to Denizli was completely straightforward. We just walked up to the ticket window, asked for tickets and paid our what, 15 lira each? It was very inexpensive and we were there only a half hour in advance. It appeared that most tourists took the bus instead: the bus shaved an hour off the trip but cost a little more. It wasn't the price that was a factor: our last bus trip hadn't been the most pleasant ever, especially compared to our last (and first) train trip. We wanted to stay a little off the tourist trail and see a different slice of countryside. Plus we like the pace of the trains in Turkey. Very civilized!

This trip was not to change our mind -- other than the disc-rupturing lift of the RSFH onto the train, the stowing it in the aisle (and hanging onto it the entire trip in order to have it not crush the person across the aisle on every slight corner), and the resigned (but not unfriendly) looks of the people who had to squeeze past it in the aisle, it was all very civilized!

We were able to buy snacks and drinks for cheap and we chatted a bit with a pair of Korean girls who hadn't made any arrangements for somewhere to sleep or how to get from Denizli, where the train ended, to Pamukkale, where they wanted to stay. We had been thinking of following in Bill & Nancy's footsteps once again, but the people at the Bella had recommended the Venus Hotel in Pamukkale and in fact had called ahead to make us reservations for two nights and arranged for the Venus people to pick us up in Denizli. Since the L.P. concurred that it was a nice, pink, and apparently romantic place to stay, we were game.

The train pulled in just after ten at night and we were greeted right away when we hauled our RSFH off the train (off is easier than on!) by an older Turkish couple who identified themselves as being from the Venus. They helped us schlep our crap out to the parking lot, followed nervously by the two Korean girls. They were suspicious that the kind offer of the Venus people to give them a lift to Pamukkale came with strings, and Steve and I acted as translators as we were most fluent in the only common language.

Satisfied at last, the Koreans followed the four of us out to a tiny sedan with a tiny trunk. Apparently the only strings were to be the straps from my backpack straps which I used to tie my precariously-lodged pack to the hinges of the open, stuffed trunk, which the Turkish mum thought was very ingenious. The mum sat in the front, with at least two backpacks and a suitcase in her lap, and the four tourists crammed into the back, with one Korean on the other's lap. It was insane. Seatbelts were a joke. The Turks looked very entertained, and indeed it was nothing short of hilarious, at least until the top Korean started looking a little green around the edges.

Fortunately, it only took some fifteen minutes to get to Pamukkale, and nothing drastic or messy happened. We popped out of the little car in front of a very sweet looking hotel with an arbor-ed terrace and an empty pool. It was right across the street from the Melrose Allgau Hotel, which had been our other choice. The Koreans were invited to go find the hotel of their choice but they sensibly opted to check in at the Venus.

We were greeted by several large golden retrievers (it seemed like dozens) and the owners, Ibrahim and Karen, a young couple -- she's Australian -- who were about our age and incredibly nice. The hotel was lovely, with fresh tiles, paint and an open airy room with a spotless bathroom and distant view of the travertines, lit up in the night. We asked for a restaurant recommendation as the snacks on the train were no substitute for a real dinner. Ibrahim's mum, who was part of the collection party, made it clear that she was ready, willing and able to make us some dinner instead. It was late and we agreed eagerly, which was a very good thing -- the casserole was delicious.

We were absolutely beat and so were only enticed to chat with the other guests (Germans), Ibrahim, Karen and Ibrahim's brother (?) for an hour or so before we hauled ourselves into our comfy bed and fell fast asleep.

Turkey - Day Twenty-two - Selçuk (Isa Bey Camii)

2007-11-02T13:03:00.004-07:00

Oct 29, Monday. Selçuk. Still.

We woke up in a leisurely fashion, with no firm plans. Well, we had one firm plan -- to stay in Selçuk. When we were up and dressed, our first mission was to find either Erdal or Nazmi and make arrangements to stay another night.

We had decided to stay in Selçuk and visit the market in Tire (pronounced Tee-ray) on Tuesday, rather than rush back to Istanbul Wednesday night in order to make it to a Thursday market in one of the neighbourhoods outside Sultanahmet. That meant we could push our departure to Pamukkale to Tuesday afternoon after Tire and then leave Pamukkale via the night train (Pamukkale Expresi) on Thursday night and then arrive in Istanbul Friday morning. This also gave us an extra day in Selçuk, which made us very happy.

It was no surprise that the Hotel Bella were able to accommodate us another night; we didn't even have to change rooms. Actually, when Erdal had found out that we were there on our honeymoon, he had offered to have us change to a 'nicer' room on the third night, when the 'nice' room freed up. We were blissfully happy in our slightly-less-nice room and all moved in, so we declined to be moved (though the thought was very nice). It was also going to be okay for us to leave our bags behind the desk while we marketed, and then we'd be given a ride to the train station.

Up at breakfast, relieved, we were sorry to see most of our new hotel friends, including Linda, getting ready to leave... breakfast was delicious, as usual.

Steve was feeling a bit headachy and the hotel was doing our laundry, so I volunteered to go get Steve a shirt from the town while he rested, which would also ensure that every scrap of clothing could be washed. I walked down through the fresh morning streets to the little store owned by the Tat Cafe guy and looked at tshirts. I had liked the idea of the bright red one with the Turkey flag on it, especially as today was 'National Day' (a patriotic holiday mostly marked by school children marching and singing). I found two tshirts in a reasonable size and was charged some ten lira each for them. That's much cheaper than a touristy tshirt in Canada. I was ok with the price and didn't bother haggling... especially as the owner had bitched at me the other day about tourists trying to haggle over every little thing when the markup was actually tiny.

On my way back to the hotel, I was hailed by a young man sitting outside a carpet store. I greeted him in return and he asked me a question, which I answered, and before I knew it, I was having a very interesting conversation with Marco (whose real name is Yıldız), owner of the Van Carpet Store in Selçuk. We ended up having a really interesting conversation about tourism and the effects of all-in-one resorts and hotels on small towns. He had asked if we had bought a carpet and I said yes, and he asked if it was at the hotel. When I confirmed yes, again, he told me in a very straightforward manner -- not accusatory, whining or trying to get me to buy a carpet -- that the hotels that are all-in-one don't really do tourists very well in the long run.

Basically, Marco's argument was that when a hotel puts you up, feeds you and sells you a carpet, you have dumped all your tourist wealth in one place. Sure, the owners of that hotel do really well, but what about the cafe down the street? Or the carpet shop around the corner? If they can't make it because all the tourists spend their money in the hotels, then they close up shop, and the town has a different flavour -- not prosperous and happy, but poor and desperate -- and then the tourists just won't come because there isn't anything to see. Then both the original hotel owners plus everyone else is out of business. Marco said that of all the thousands of cruise ship tourists that come into Kuşadası and come through to Ephesus and sometimes Şirince, not one stops in Selçuk.

If every tourist who got off a boat in Kuşadası stopped in Selçuk for a glass of water, everyone in town would be just fine, but they don't -- they go to the hotel, they eat there, they buy their tours there, they buy their carpets there, and all they do is look at the picturesque little towns and little shops and they don't buy anything in them. What could I do but agree? I can't even recall where the conversation went from there -- I remember saying I had to get back to my husband, waiting at the aforementioned hotel -- but then we'd find something else interesting to talk about. We talked about Turkey, and Canada, and carpets, and Lake Van where he was from (v is pronounced w). We talked about the Kurds (as he is Kurdish), and Iraq, Bush and American tourists. It was all very interesting and I was genuinely sorry that we had already bought our carpet.

After an hour or more, I tore myself away, promising to come and bring my husband, whom Marco was keen to meet.

I ran back to the hotel, which was only a half block away, and found Steve not quite fuming at my lateness. Nazmi had been keeping him entertained and Steve had made the payment for our carpet and hotel stay, emptying his pockets in doing so. Steve felt a little conspicuous wearing a bright red Turkey-flag, but decided to cope rather than go out naked. Good choice, Steve!

By this time, it was just about lunchtime, and in the spirit of spreading the tourist wealth, we decided to head into the centre of town and try and find the sandwich place the Cliftons had raved about. They had said it was near an area with stairs, on the side closest to the hill with the castle on it. We found the area with stairs -- a little plaza lined with restaurants and a few stairs at each end. We were casting around for the correct restaurant, dodging restauranteurs trying to thrust menus into our hands, when we heard our names being called out over the din.

There is nothing more startling than having your name called out in a foreign country where you have no expectation of knowing anyone or being known. It's a wonder we even answered to our names at that point, but we obligingly turned around and saw the Cliftons madly waving at us from tables set along the edge of the plaza. We walked on over and Mrs. Clifton was so pleased that we were looking for the restaurant she had recommended. We were so pleased she was there to point out the correct restaurant! They and their guests were just about to leave, so we ordered the sandwiches and snagged their table and their little kedi entourage that was busy begging for scraps. They were also going to the Tire market on the Tuesday, so said we might see them again there. We'd be glad to see them anytime, they were so friendly and helpful, even to the point of offering us a place to stay in Oxford, or the loan of their Greek house the next time we were in Selçuk. So nice!

The sandwiches, when they arrived, were quite startling unto themselves, but, like the Cliftons, in a very good way indeed! I had ordered the special: salami, onions, cheese and an egg (I declined the ubiquitous hot pepper); Steve had got the special without egg and with hot pepper. We hadn't seen Turkish panini before now, and too bad we hadn't. It was easily the best panini I'd ever had, which isn't much of a stretch as I haven't had many. It was also the best panini Steve's ever had and that man knows a panini! It was hard but I managed to eat most of it myself: only a few bits of egg and salami were offered to and wolfed down by the kitties.

During lunch, we had chatted a bit about Marco and other pressing things, like Tracy's souvenir. Back in September, I bought this very laptop, and gave my parents a few post-dated cheques to pay off the last of it. Tracy had opted to tear up the October cheque in exchange for us getting her something of the same value that was inherently Turkish -- she didn't care what, exactly, but it had to be Turkish and over and above the birthday and Christmas presents she would already be getting. In order to carefully choose the best souvenir for her, we had considered and rejected most of what we'd seen: a vase or pottery was too fragile and not practical enough; jewellery (even Turquoise, her birthstone comes from... guess where -- Turkoise) was too personal; a leather coat too subjective and impractical; a nargileh too addictive -- you get the picture. We had been thinking textiles, as there were beautiful embroidered bedspreads and pillows and all manner of things, but we had shied away from a carpet, thinking it was too subjective a taste to buy for someone else.

After the conversation with Marco, I felt a a desire to support additional businesses in the town, and ultimately we decided that as everything was 'too subjective', our best bet was to buy something beautiful and practical, and use our best judgement in getting something that would appeal to Tracy. As a carpet is both beautiful and practical, it was actually a good bet.

We walked back to the carpet shop and were about to tell Marco what the plan was, when we saw what was spread out on the floor... silk carpets! Like kilim, flat woven, but made of SILK. They were simply amazingly stunningly beautiful. Marco explained that his family went and bought carpets around the Van area of southeastern Turkey, and then they shipped them to him. He would pick out the best quality ones and then sell the rest on to other carpet stores (yeah, no doubt everyone says this, but he seemed genuine). Steve was totally taken with one of the silk carpets, but it was easily a grand over our initial carpet budget. Fortunately, drool washes quite easily out of carpets... next time we get one of those!

Hanging out with Marco, his brother and his younger cousin was a hoot. We chatted and drank stupid amounts of tea, and admired carpet after carpet. For both practicality and beauty and value for our lira, we decided a kilim was the way to go. We looked at about thirty as I tried to picture each and every one in the front room of the Kaslo house. Finally we found the perfect one, and I took that as a sign to take a break and go to the tuvalet, which was located in the very back of the shop.

On my way back from the bathroom, I glanced up on the wall and saw the most wonderful kilim I'd seen in our entire time in Turkey -- on a black background, it was covered in little woven animals of every description! Goats and swans and camels and kedi (some even had stripes!) and bugs and all kinds of lovely things. When I admired it, Marco said that it was one of the ones his dad had brought him and he liked it so much he stapled it to the wrong side of a pillar where tourists would be unlikely to see it... apparently it had been up there, unmolested, for three years. I kept going back to it, but there was no way we could afford it as Marco wasn't really into haggling for it, since he didn't mind keeping it. Still, other than the fantastically expensive silk carpets, it was my most favourite-est thing in the store. This kilim was from the Van area, which is near Mount Ararat, where the hulk of Noah's ark is said to lie. The pattern with pairs of every animal, is traditional to the Van area, and is called a Noah's Ark pattern. It was a marvelous thing, and I wanted it very, very badly.

Finally, Marco said that he was ready to let it go, and reduced his price to where we could only just barely afford it within the confines of our carpet budget. Steve even offered to put my Christmas-present-budget towards it, but I hoped that wouldn't be necessary... it pretty much ate up the money we had been keeping back to buy a piece of ceramic with, but we both decided that this was a) more beautiful, b) more unique and c) more practical than pottery, especially in the 'getting it home' aspect. As Marco was picking staples out of the kilim, his brother walked in and was genuinely surprised that Marco had agreed to sell the carpet and confirmed his story that he'd deliberately hidden it for the better part of three years. We hadn't really doubted Marco, but one does wonder in a carpet store if one is being fed a line to make the item more desirable.

When given the shipping options, we again said that we'd take the carpets with us rather than having them shipped... which was again a stupid, stupid mistake.

In any case, replete with carpet, we decided to head out for some more sightseeing in town, but we promised Marco we would come back that evening to have some more tea and play backgammon.

After dropping off our carpet in our room at the Bella, where we felt only a tiny bit guilty telling Urdal that we had purchased a carpet somewhere else (though he seemed mollified that it was only a kilim), we walked up and over the hill to the Isa Bey Camii, which we had peered into from the heights of St. John's Basilica only a few days before.

The exterior of the mosque was very lovely and peaceful and the inside of the courtyard even more so. Apparently it's quite unusual for a mosque to have a courtyard, which is a shame, as this was so wonderful and serene. The little pool with spigots and wooden sandals was almost more magnificent than the marble and gilt fountains of the Blue Mosque, and more venerable in its simplicity. We walked the inside of the walls, seeing the occasional carved block of stone that must have been pilfered from the ruins of the Basilica. There were several plane trees, which I can only imagine are called that because they look just like the woodworking tool, even to the graceful sweep where one's palm would rest.

Eventually, a troop of French tourists came in with a guide, and they all gathered around the entrance. We thought we'd take the opportunity to go in with them, as we knew the mosque must be open for visitors at this time. As the tourists (funny how we didn't think of ourselves as tourists!) put on scarves over their shorts and tank tops, I slipped my red scarf up over my head and we took our shoes off outside the door and came in. We felt quite proper and rather like old hats of the mosque-visiting variety... right up until the moment I walked up to the man wearing a black suit and asked for "iki billeti, lutfen." The imam gently explained in halting English that you didn't buy tickets to see a mosque, at which I just about died of acute embarrassment.

I apologized over and over, but the imam very graciously waved off my apology and added that I didn't have to wear a headscarf or take off my shoes outside the door; in fact we only had to take off our shoes if we wanted to walk on the carpets. However, we very much did want to walk on the carpets, and stepped off the marble foyer onto the most amazing assortment of carpets. As we walked reverently around, the Imam explained that when they restored the mosque in the 1970's, they put a call out to the townspeople of Selçuk to donate carpets for the floor. The townspeople sure pulled through, as there was a most interesting and motley assortment of carpets all over the floor: no acres of broadloom here, instead there were carpets of lurid greens beside a cream with the lustre of silk, shiny nylon next to glossy wool, fresh dyes next to carpets with perfect wear marks (here knees, there a lesser imprint of devoted forehead).

After the French left in a flurry of removed headscarves and "au revoirs" we walked around again, enjoying the tranquility and chatting with Mustapha, the imam, who showed us pictures from a photo album of the mosque in disrepair and dis-roof. He had been imam since it was opened and was now past fifty (though he looked not much older than us). When we asked if we could give a donation, Mustapha advised that we could buy a book from his little display, and the proceeds would go to the upkeep of the Isa Bey. We picked out a Qu'uran, as we had wanted to buy one in Turkey anyway. He also picked out a card, and wrote our names on it in beautiful arabic script, with the date, the location (Selçuk), and a blessing. He gave it to us to tuck into our Qu'uran, making it clear that this was a gift (even though we suspected he usually charged for such things). An even better gift was his invitation to return in the evening, before evening prayers, as the the lights would be turned on and we would be able to see the interior more clearly than in the slight gloom.

Since we now had somewhere to be at 6:25pm, as evening prayers would be about 6:40pm, we thought we'd make the most of the last of the afternoon by taking a quick look at what was once one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. Getting to the leftovers of the Temple of Artemis took us straight out of the Isa Bey and down the street away from the Hotel Bella. We walked down the back street, past gates that were once painted bright colours, and a whole pack of kedi eating fish skeletons that were being thrown onto the cobblestones from a busy looking restaurant. When we reached the busy road that would have led to Ephesus, we turned right and walked down a beautiful avenue, under broad-branched trees. It was a little less serene when we walked past an army outpost with guards armed with machine guns... still not used to that!

We also passed some funny metal scuplture-y looking things that turned out to be public exercise machines. Weird!

A short walk later, we passed the entrance to the Temple of Artemis, and didn't even notice. In our defense, it's not very spectacular. At all. When we realized our error and backtracked the few metres to the entrance, we simply walked down the grassy road which was littered with broken glass and garbage, to the very uninspiring Post of Artemis. All that was left was a green space that showed a vaguely rectangular, sunken form, with one lone pillar that was more than half concrete. Obviously the Temple's stone had been looted in order to make other spectacular structures: the Basilica of St. John, the Citadel overlooking the town, and even our most beloved Isa Bey Camii. In some ways it was a shame, and in other ways understandable. The only regret I had was walking all that way to look at the Big Boring Post of Artemis.

We walked back into the town centre for dinner, which we found at the (L.P.) recommended 'Old House' restaurant. We ate in a beautiful little courtyard filled with orange trees which were full of crows. It being the gloaming-time, the crows were flocking, and apparently they were flocking in town, rather than up at the Basilica. In any case, the food was excellent, tasty and filling, and we had a floor show in the form of the restauranteur madly shaking the crows out of his trees.

Since we had an hour to kill before our date with the imam, we stopped by a random store and bought a bright red, not-too-flimsy suitcase to carry our treasures to Pammukale the next day. We also stopped by and saw Marco again. He was sitting on pillows out front of the carpet store with his brother, who was making big kuzu eyes at a very pretty blonde German girl called Marlena and playing backgammon.

We hung out for a bit before dropping our suitcase at the hotel and walking back up over the hill to the Isa Bey, where we were greeted warmly by Mustapha, and shown into the lovely, lovely mosque. Mustapha Bey was right: it was even nicer with the lights on and we were able to take lots of photos of the vivid carpets and the timber-arched ceiling. I realized a few minutes into our visit that I hadn't pulled my headscarf up; I immediately did so, apologizing and embarrassed again, and Mustpaha reached over to touch my chest over my heart and said "it's ok. Allah knows." Allah knew what? that I was contrite? That I'm not Muslim? That my intention was to be respectful but my memory prevented me? It didn't matter; I felt comforted and honoured at the same time.

As the amplified sounds of the muzzein drifted in from a distant minaret, Steve and I started walking to the door. Mustapha stopped us with a raised hand and told us that Isa Bey wasn't a major mosque and only three men had come to pray that night, and further, he had spoken to the men and they had agreed that we could stay. Pardon me? We had never spoken to a tourist who was invited to listen to prayers inside a mosque before. We weren't quite sure if Mustapaha said we could take photos or not, so we sat and leaned against a pillar, cameras at our side, and listened to the singing of the sura. The prayers were sung by an older man in a white coat, and it was beautiful: heart-breakingly, jaw droppingly, indescribably, life-changingly beautiful. The singing and the refrain, the practiced grace of the men as they bent and knelt to pray, the echoes ringing from high on the venerable stone walls: magical.

We felt incredibly privileged to be present in that place at that time.

After the prayers were done, Mustapha introduced us to the man who sang the sura: he was a retired imam, the most famous in those parts, and he had sung a specific sura about Mary and Joseph because we, newlyweds, were present. Mustapha marked in our Qu'uran the passage that was sung for us. If we could have felt more honoured in that moment, we would have been, but we were full to the brim with acknowledgement of our good fortune.

Walking back over the little hill to town, we couldn't stop talking about our experience at the Isa Bey. Why us? What did we do to deserve such a special experience? I recalled Mustapha reaching out a finger to Steve's Turkey shirt and saying he liked it... but surely a tshirt wouldn't have been the reason? I asked for tickets, which was pretty gauche, but I apologized, which might have redeemed us? We took off our shoes, we brought our own headscarf... maybe it was simply that he knew that Allah knew that we'd be receptive and reverent in that moment. Whatever the reason, we felt very blessed.

The night was yet early, and we were wired after our experience, so we headed back to the carpet shop where we sat on the carpets at the front of the store and watched Marco's brother let Marlena win at backgammon. We were joined by a pack of American tourists -- missionaries, actually -- who were VERY low key and respectful. We half-jokingly offered them some of our Canadian flag pins to attach to their lapels, but they declined. Most Turks recognize that an American who is traveling in Turkey, especially independent travel, didn't vote for Bush, and are respectful in turn.

Mind you, I couldn't tell you the Turkish words for "where are you from" but by the second week I knew exactly when they were being spoken to me: sometimes in a friendly fashion, sometimes curious, sometimes a little hostile. Whenever I replied "Kanada", the expressions (no matter what they had started as) turned happy and I would be patted on the shoulder, smiled at, and treated to a flood of incomprehensible Turkish. I'm not sure how happy I would have been having to say "USA" in response to that question.

The conversation over tea and sweets was a fascinating mix of polite small-talk and very intellectual discourse on the nature of travel, the benefits of independent 'culture' travel, terrorism and sovereignty. With the US having decreed that Turkey should not go into northern Iraq to go after the PKK, and Turkey (understandably) ignoring them, sitting with a few Kurdish men, a German, and some Americans made for a lively and well-considered conversation.

We felt very much at home with this group of people, and honestly felt as though we made some fast friends at the Van carpet shop. Marco told us that the next time we came to Turkey, we must go to Lake Van and stay with his family. He even offered us one of his mother's Van cats, the white ones with one blue eye and one green eye. I actually think they're considered a cultural artifact and not eligible for export, but it was kind of him to offer!

At one point, a drunk man stood in the square yelling something in Turkish, and Marco's brother stood up and yelled back at him: I didn't understand the words but the message was clear: f*ck off! We realized it was the first time we had seen a drunk person in Turkey. Marco's brother explained that in Turkey, if someone has a 'problem' like that, their family would take care of them and you wouldn't really see it in public. Someone who has no family, or doesn't have the support of their family, is considered more abhorrent than just a drunk. Interesting!

In order to give his brother a chance with the pretty Marlena, Marco did a slightly spooky trick on her which he called the 'magic carpet'. She was a good sport, but the brother didn't really have a chance, even after they fumbled through a Kurdish folk dance to some rather awful Kurdish pop on the radio, and even though he was cute. It was late when we said our goodbyes, promised to visit again, and walked back to the hotel.

Back at the Bella, I went to our room to get the computer before joining Steve on the terrace, where I found him with a sleepy-eyed Nazmi, smoking a large and rather wonderful nargileh (hookah). The smell of the smoke was divine, and when pressed for the second time to take a puff, I relented and, for the first time in my life, put lips to smoking-device. Yes, that's right -- the first time. I thought Steve was going to fall right off the divan in shock, but when in Turkey... it was surprisingly nice and I didn't even cough up a lung. Actually, it was VERY nice and I immediately suggested to Steve that we should buy a nargileh to take home. He took one look at me and absolutely refused, which is probably for the best as apparently I was promptly addicted. Maybe it was the chocolate-apricot flavoured tobacco, or the romantic Orient-Express-ness of it all, or having had a sura sung to us in the Isa Bey, but sitting on a rooftop terrace in front of a fireplace smoking a nargileh felt like the perfect end to a superlative day.

Turkey -- Day Twenty-one -- Selçuk & Ephesus

2007-11-02T13:02:00.006-07:00

Sunday, October 28, Ephesus

We were up way too early in order to catch the hotel shuttle to Ephesus. Fortunately, breakfast was served from seven in the morning... blech! Not breakfast -- breakfast was excellent -- but seven am sucked a little.

We were showered, dressed breakfasted, and ready to go by just after 8. Erdal, not so much. He was still flitting around in his usual convivial but harried fashion and we began to think we wouldn't make it to Ephesus before the 8:30 opening. At about 25 after, we were piled into the van with another guest and Erdal drove us (quickly) to the upper gate at Ephesus. It wasn't very far away. We landed in front of the ticket booth at about 8:31, paid our 10L each and walked in.

The top part of the Ionian ruin of Ephesus is a big flat area with the occasional pile of rubble and it was already, at one minute after opening, populated by a half-dozen scattered tour groups, each with a rapidly speaking guide. Steve and I took one look at each other, and actually jogged past the groups down the Curetes Way. Once we were out of earshot, we slowed to a brisk walk and admired a few of the wondrous things we saw on the way down, starting with the monumental marble slabs we were walking on. Amazing! The Temple of Hadrian and the gate of Hercules were covered in beautiful carved friezes with distinct and lovely figures. Over to the left were some exquisite mosaic floors, with an agreeable kedi sprawled artistically all over them. Beyond the mosaics was the covered area which we knew housed the Roman houses which you had to pay extra to enter.

We were joined by yet another dog, which seemed to be par for the course for our touristic wanderings à la köpek.

As fascinating as the sights were, we were intent on one thing and one thing only -- the Library of Celsus. We had read that this library, with its astonishing carved facade, had once rivaled the Library of Alexandria in Egypt. We had further read, though I can't recall where, that out of jealousy (and the economic necessity of maintaining it's position of largest library and therefore the attractor of the largest number of scholarly tourists), the Egyptians stopped providing papyrus to Ephesus. Not to be stymied by a lack of paper, the Ephesians looked around, thinking 'well, we've got to have something to write on that we don't have to import' and saw nothing but sheep and lambs and kids. In a fit of enterprise, they made vellum out of the hides of that walking paper, and invented a new kind of writing surface. Yay Ephesians!

The library was astonishing. It was magnificent. It was superlative-failing.

It stood at the end of a little courtyard at the corner of the Curetes Way and the Marble Street, flanked by the Gates of Augustus (spectacular in any other company, but not so amazing here). The steps to the library seemed so much smaller from the street, but when you walked down the little ramp and approached from below, the grandeur loomed, literally, overhead. After admiring from the bug's perspective, we walked up the stairs to the area behind the columns, and marveled at the statues of the Sophia (wisdom), Arete (virtue), Episteme (knowledge) and Ennoia (insight). These aren't the real statues, of course -- those are long lost to the museum -- but they were still lovely... though only Sophia retained her face... ok, most of her face.

We had the Library to ourselves for over ten minutes. Marvel if you like -- apparently this is unheard of. Everyone we spoke to who had visited Ephesus had the common complaint of it having been crawling with people and detracting their enjoyment (not to mention their photos). We shared it only with one little köpek and a family of photogenic and shy kedi. It was amazing, and we felt ourselves hushed and reverent with our good fortune.

When the silence began to rumble with the distant tourists, we decided to make tracks. Walking briskly down the Marble Street towards the theatre, we entered silence again. Our dog had left for greener... marble slabs, I guess, and we entered the theatre truly alone. The theatre was as astonishing as the library in its scope: Wikipedia tells me it is thought to be the largest ancient. open-air theatre in the world, holding some 44,000 people, but what does Wikipedia know? It made the theatre at Miletus look like the one at Priene. The upper reaches weren't even restored and it was still humongous. The giant blue crane to the side of the theatre was even dwarfed. It was nice to see the Turks haven't rested on their laurels at Ephesus (which one would think is magnificent enough) and are continuing to restore and preserve.

We walked as far as we could up into the nosebleeds and sat and admired and amazed and astonished. Well, that's not quite right grammar, but we were too overcome by the enormity of where we were and what we were so casually sitting on to be terribly fussed by language. From where we sat, we could see right down the Harbour Street which unsurprisingly used to lead to a harbour on the Mediterranean. As at Miletus, the sea was nowhere in sight, having been silted up by that Büyük Menderes river. The very fact that so much time had passed since the building of this theatre that the sea had been pushed back so far you couldn't even see it in the distance... amazing.

After another ten minutes or so, some tourists dribbled in -- first a pair of nice, older Australians who took our picture and didn't complain too much about our garbled Macbeth which we whispered from the stage ("ah, life is but a walking candle... no, life is a tale, full of sound and fury, told by an idiot... no, that's not right either."). They even took our picture, and we took theirs.

By this time, the crowds had spilled into the theatre and we no longer had Ephesus to ourselves. It was time to start over. We walked slowly back up to the top to the ticket booth, and then meandered, in a river-like unhurry, drifting through shoals of tour groups and eddying against the banks of marble.

Occasionally we would listen in to the tour guides, speaking a hundred different languages, herding their charges along the marble steps to the next big thing. "This, this is the statue of Hermes, you can tell by the wings on his sandals. This, this is the..." and they and their crowd would be gone in a cloud of sunscreen and multilingual Ephesus guidebooks. Some guides held up professional-looking sticks with numbers on them, some held up fancy canes, and one was holding up a bright pink umbrella as a beacon for his group of tourists.

Sometimes we gleaned interesting tidbits from the tour guides, though we stayed away from the ones that glared at us moochers (though we had the advantage of being able to follow the French guides tolerably well, and Steve could get by in Spanish too).

We saw the room of public toilets: a large room with marble seats with convenient cutouts so that the... contents... could fall down into the sewer below. According to one tour guide, the Roman nobles would send their slaves to the toilets early in the morning for the express purpose of warming up the cold marble before the delicate Roman bottoms had to sit on them for their morning ablutions. Italians!

We found the footprint carved into a flagstone on the Marble Street which pointed the way to the brothel; we saw kedi all over the flagstones, we wandered up the streets up the hill and, in the end, declined to join the throngs in the Roman Houses you had to pay extra for. We decided to head to the exit, and the bathroom, which was a short walk on a path that met the Harbour Street.

Since Steve wanted to go explore Harbour Street a little more, we agreed to meet outside the 'bookstore' -- one of the shops in the souvenir gauntlet outside the exit -- where we had been assured they would call the Hotel Bella to come pick us up. As this would give me a little Steve-less quality time in a shopping area, I was ok with this arrangement.

The bookstore was easy to find, and they called the hotel with no problem, though it would take them some 30 minutes to come get us. I looked at the trinkets on offer, and was quite taken with some leather-bound books, every one different from the other. I had chatted a little with one of the store-minders who was quite impressed that I had learned my Turkish from a book. Actually, he had done what everyone seemed to do: speak to me in Turkish, to which I would respond with one of my few dozen words, and they would grin hugely and unleash a torrent of words, none of which I knew. Fortunately, I could say "hayır, küçük Turkish" (no, little Turkish) while making the international 'little' symbol with my thumb and forefinger. They would smile and laugh and usually play charades with me at that point.

The store minder chatted with me in English a bit as I wandered around, but when I asked kaça? about the books, he told me "too much". Pardon me? He told me he knew a wholesaler who supplied the shop and I should go there and buy the books. Part of me was thinking "yeah, right. A wholesaler." We had figured out by then that every Turk has a brother who is one or more of a) a carpet salesman, b) a hotel owner or c) a wholesaler. The other, more avaricious, part of me was thinking "really -- a wholesaler?" When I asked how much cheaper the wholesaler would sell for, the storekeeper said "maybe half. Maybe less." and gave me the Ubiquitous Turkish Shrug. Since nothing is more curiosity-making than the UTS, especially in combination with 'half price', I accepted the business card the shopkeeper handed me that did, in fact, say "wholesaler" right on it.

I looked through a jewellery store where several American tourists were trying to explain to the shopkeeper that they wanted something thinner, but what they really wanted was something cheaper... I waded into the fray with my Rough Guide phrasebook in hand, which was almost useful. I say almost because the Americans didn't really want to be helped and, for all their bringing out racks of bracelets, the Turks didn't really want to help them. After not too long of being caught in the middle, I slunk out of the shop and back to the bookstore.

About that time, Steve showed up from his marbly wanderings and we braved the rest of the tourist-trapping tout tunnel and escaped into the parking lot. If Erdal hadn't been coming to pick us up in some ten minutes, I would have been deeply tempted to take a ride on a horse-drawn phaeton to the Seven Sleepers (or around the garbage dump, if it had been in a horse-drawn phaeton!). But Erdal was coming, and there was no garbage dump in sight, and in any case it was a pile of money. I took lots of pictures instead.

After not too long, Erdal showed up, looking slightly harried, and told us in no uncertain terms that he was going to take us to the Seven Sleepers where we didn't have to climb the hill to look at the grotto, but we did have to have lunch at the most famous gözleme place in Selçuk. The L.P. agreed that the gözleme place was indeed famous, but we would have taken Erdal's recommendation anyway. Plus, we weren't inclined to do any stupid tourist moves that would add to his harried-ness, and we got the impression that turning down these most famous gözleme would had been a stupid tourist move.

Boy, were we glad we weren't stupid tourists. Well, we might have been more or less stupid tourists, we couldn't quite tell. We were led into a dim, warm room where there were three women sitting, making gözleme. One rolled out the dough on a round table, one filled the flattened dough with bits & pieces from buckets sitting on the divan beside her, and then rolled ou the dough again with a little dowel... which she then used to pass the dough to the woman sitting in front of the open fire, which contained a convex metal griddle on which the gözleme were spread to cook, liberally rubbed in butter. YUM!

We picked from a grimy menu as Erdal gave the young boy on the 'till' (box of lira) strict instructions. I would like to think the instructions were to make us particularly delicious gözleme, but really he was probably arranging his commission for bringing us there. We picked a spiced meat (etli), a cheese and spinich (peynir and something I don't know) and, best of all, a banana and chocolate gözleme that we were very excited about.

Instead of joining the other tourists under the arbour-shaded terrace, we (stupidly? it was pretty warm in there) decided to remain and sit on little divans in the dining room, and watch the gözleme-making. It was fascinating and we took some not-very-surreptitious photos of the process.

The etli was prepared first, and it was very, very good. Çok nefis! The cheese and spinach, even better. The banana and chocolate (Nutella, really) was absolutely out of this world. Unbelievable. Justly famous, my ass -- this stuff was manna from heaven. It was sublime.

It was also less than 20L for three gözleme and two vişne suyu. Sublimer!

Eventually we were able to tear ourselves away from the table. Crammed with gözleme and suyu, we staggered out of the dining room and down to the end of the road, where Erdal had promised to collect us. Going up to the Seven Sleepers was not a high priority, I'm afraid. Not only had we seen plenty of necropi (?) but we would have had to hire guides to roll us up the hill.

After an uneventful trip back to the Hotel Bella, we decided to explore the lower town some more and maybe find this "wholesaler". With a slightly cynical air, we went through the 'pedestrian only' area to the train tracks and turned right at the bridge, which took us through a poorer-looking residential area. We wondered how many tourists made it into this area, which was really only a few blocks of the touristic area -- given the way the little kids stopped in the street to watch us walk past, I'm guessing not many!

We found the building indicated on the business card, but it looked just like a house, with a little orange tree on the cement patio in front. Giving each other a Ubiquitous Canadian Shrug, we walked up the stairs and knocked on the door. There was a greeting in Turkish (we guessed "come in") so we went in with a cheerful "merhaba". Inside, it was definitely NOT a house: metal shelves ran in rows, high as the ceiling, leaving narrow aisles. As our eyes adjusted to the relative dimness, we saw the shelves were covered in piles of the books, beads, and various crap... um, souvenirs, that we had seen in every tourist-gauntlet at every exit of every historical sight we had seen. Let me be clear though -- the general quality of Turkish trinkets is quite high; you don't see the same kind of kitsch-y plastic throwaway stuff that you do in North American tourist places. This is a good thing, as we went to Turkey with the intention of doing all our Christmas shopping there.

We turned to look at the man behind the wooden desk in the corner who had been chatting with a standing man. They both looked surprised to see us. The desk-man asked quite calmly if he could help us; we told him we had been told he was a wholesaler and did he sell to the public? With a wide smile, he replied simply "what do you want to buy?" Everything!

After some tea, some candy, some polite chit-chat and a great big cookie, we were ready to get shopping and Zubir -- the wholesaler -- was happy to satisfy our every shopping whim. After loading up on a bag of 50 evil eye charms, plus some bigger ones, plus some of those cunning leather books, plus some bracelets, plus a bunch of other cra... souvenirs, Steve and Zubir were chatting about the other things we wanted to buy on our trip, one of which was to be an oud (or ud) or Turkish lute. Zubir, the consummate salesman, told us he had one, but it was at his other warehouse, which he would take us to in the van, if we would only come this way?

Steve and I climbed into the van, fortified with oranges which Zubir had picked from his front-garden tree, thinking that we were craaaaazy to be getting into a van with a strange man in a strange town, in a strange country... you get the picture. The thing is that in Turkey, this felt normal. Even being driven at ridiculous speeds through the industrial part of Selçuk (who knew there was an industrial area of Selçuk?) seemed entirely normal, as did arriving at a rather more warehouse-y looking warehouse and being led inside to box chaos and climbing up and over some box chaos to get to the railing-less stairs and climbing up... where Steve tried an oud that was, regrettably, only good for the wall. We did find, however, three tiny metal doumbeks that would be perfect presents for the boys (though perhaps Mike and Laura would kill us in our sleep on Christmas night).

Zubir was genuinely sorry that the oud wasn't for Steve, not because he missed the sale, but because I think it would have given him great pleasure to be of assistance. In any case, we were able to do the bulk of our trinket-shopping in Selçuk for about half the price as it would have been had we attempted to buy those things at a proper tourist store. We were well pleased, though also completely laden down by our purchases and we knew that the next purchase would have to be a stupidly large suitcase to haul our loot in. We felt a tiny bit like we were cheating by purchasing all our eyes in one fell swoop rather than haggling over each and every one, but really it was better to get all of our shopping for 'basic' presents over at the once, rather than waste Steve's limited shopping attention on the less interesting items.

We walked back towards the hotel with our huge bags of stuff, stuffed ourselves with candy of every description and about ten glasses of tea. All that walking and eating and shopping had worn us out so we decided to have a little nap before dinner.

Emerging from the hotel an hour later, we decided we needed to replenish our funds that had been seriously and unexpectedly depleted at Zubir's place. The first bank machine we tried (the red one) didn't work. Even though we had selected English as the prompt language, when the error came up, it was in Turkish. We had no idea what the problem was, though we knew that Selçuk in particular and Turkey in general were having internet problems due to a strike. Maybe that was it? Or maybe it didn't like our Vancity Credit Union card?

We tried a few more times and were about to give up and try another machine when a young Turkish woman got up from her cafe table a few yards away and approached us, offering to help read from the screen. She was very respectful and stood back with her back to us while we entered our code, then came and read the screen. Fortunately, it indicated it was a connection problem, rather than a card problem. We were thinking we'd either try Steve's Royal Bank card, or the Vancity card on another machine (or both) when the woman did a very unexpected thing: she offered, if we were short, to loan us money until morning when maybe we could get our card to work. I swear it's a wonder all four of our eyes didn't fall out of our heads to land on the cobbles underfoot! To say we were surprised would be a profound understatement.

After taking a moment to get our wits about us (we were that surprised), we told her not to worry as we would be fine: we still had some lira, and we had another card, and we could use another machine -- but teşekkür ederim very much anyway! She made us promise that we would come find her if we couldn't get any money out, and we did so.

A word here: I'm sure all readers are wondering what her agenda was and what she hoped to get out of offering us some money. Well, she didn't work at a carpet store, she didn't run a restaurant, and she didn't set off our spidey-senses in any way whatsoever. Steve has travelled a lot, and I'm naturally suspicious, and neither of us felt at all as if she was looking to dupe, scam or otherwise take advantage of our situation. Just like jumping into a battered van with Zubir earlier that day, the strange seemed perfectly natural everywhere in Turkey and neverso more than in the wonderful little town of Selçuk.

At the next machine, we were fine, and both cards worked perfectly. We took out our combined maximum (some 1,000L) as we needed to pay up for the hotel, car and carpets the next day. In fact, since the limit on my account (where most of our money was deposited) was some 400L per day, we needed to contact the bank to get the limit raised for a day. We walked back up to the hill to the Bella (only a few hundred feet), used the laptop and someone's purloined wireless signal to look up the phone number for Vancity, and then use Skype to call them. They sounded a little surprised that we would be calling from Turkey... on a computer... but made the arrangements that we could take out another 1,000L during a four-hour window. We scampered back to the working bank machine and took out our cash, put it in our pockets with its friends, and went for dinner.

Yes, in our pockets. After the first two days of being slowly strangled by my passport money-belt-on-a-string, and feeling perfectly safe and ridiculous to even think of being robbed, I gave up on the money-belt altogether. I put our passports, extra id and plane tickets in the under-flap pocket of my MEC purse, which had nice secure wide webbing straps, and simply carried my money in my pockets. Steve would sometimes wear his money belt and, if we were on the bus or in a strange place, we'd put the plane tickets and bulk of the cash in there. Most of the time, we just didn't worry.

Unlike other places Steve had travelled, where poverty and therefore personal crime are rampant, Turkey is a safe, safe country. We saw poor people for sure, but no-one was starving. With the abundance of fresh produce, no one seemed to go hungry in Turkey. Maybe that's why the incidence of personal crime is among the lowest in the European-ish countries. In any case, we were lighthearted and worry-free as we walked down the street to the Tat Cafe, which had a mention in the LP and a prominent outdoor area on the main drag of the pedestrian area to recommend it.

It was rather amusing to be greeted at the Tat by a man who obviously thought he knew me -- I was puzzled, until he revealed that he also owned a store across the street from the cafe where I had poked around the previous day after the market. We had chatted briefly in the now-typical "where did you learn your Turkish / where are you from / how do you like Turkey?" kind of way. Now he greeted us warmly and told Steve how lucky a man he was to have a polite and well-spoken wife and other harmless flattery. I was mostly flattered that he had recalled my face among the thousands of tourists he must see in a season.

We sat down for dinner at an table on the edge of the street and finally ordered the dish called Imam Baldiri or 'the imam fainted', an Ottoman dish made of stuffed, roasted eggplant that was apparently so good that the first taster (an imam, obviously) fainted dead away from the pleasure of it. We may not have felt all swoony, but we were suddenly disappointed that we had only one more week in Turkey in which to eat this amazing dish. Why oh why didn't we order it sooner? We had missed so many opportunities to eat Imam Baldiri... so sad! Along with some nice haydari and an excellent Iskender Kebap (sliced, roasted beef served in a tomato sauce on top of bread cubes), we made a nice light meal of it. I couldn't believe how much we had eaten that day. Whew!

After dinner and chatting with our host, we peeled ourselves off the chairs and staggered, replete, up to brightly-lit stone street. There were still cafes open, and shops of every kind, and even at ten in the evening on a Sunday, Selçuk felt warm and welcoming.

Bed was a comfortable and welcome relief after our busy day, and all we could think was that we didn't want to leave Selçuk the next day.

Turkey -- Day Twenty -- Selçuk (Market Day)

2007-11-02T13:00:00.000-07:00

October 27, Saturday -- Market day!!!

We weren't in any big hurry to go anywhere on Saturday morning, so we had a leisurely breakfast on the terrance and chatted to Urdal and Nazmi and the guests. We met Linda again, and saw the Australians briefly. There were also some older British ladies, one a recent widow. We were (are? writing three months later) newlywed enough to hold hands a little tighter when hearing about the loss of a spouse. That thought is too impossible and horrible to contemplate!

The Bella seemed to be a mix of more upscale travellers than we had seen before. Everywhere we'd stayed thus far was a bit more backpacker (except the Canada Hotel, but there we were the only guests and probably were the roughest of their clientele!). The funny thing was that the rates at the Bella were phenomenal, as far as we were concerned: 40L per night including a superlative UTB. If you paid more, keep in mind this was late October and we were staying five nights. Okay?

Today was Saturday -- market day in Selçuk! I was very excited. Steve declared himself terrified. I hoped that this market would be different than the Fethiye market and, struggling with hope and fear, we set off walking down the road. Once again, the LP map indicated the walk would be quite a bit further than it actually ended up being and we were actually at the market in less than ten minutes.

We started off with on a side street where some older men had laid out blankets on the sidewalk with an assortment of interesting junk. There was a beautiful brass samovar, what looked like a beat-up Whisperlite camp stove (probably the Russian prototype), some spoons, jewellery, medals, coins and some little cast iron lamps. Plus a million other interesting and desirable things, much to Steve's dismay. Steve dragged me past the junque, and past the sellers of cheap kitchen ware (even though I wanted a teapot), and then we were in the heart of the veggie sellers. We thought the veggies were vibrant in Fethiye -- they had nothing on Selçuk. We saw stacks of peppers, onions, eggplants... every veggie you can imagine. Barrels of olives shone glossy in the sun. Cheese sat fragrant in bags and hairy skins. Honey sellers had golden combs and samovars dripping with honey. I asked a honey seller for just a küçük jar, and he handed over a tiny perfect jar of dark honey for only a few lira. I really wanted to buy some of everything but given the thoroughness of the cleaning staff, my produce wouldn't last. Besides, it's not like snacks or meals were expensive, bad, or in short supply. Really, what I wanted to do was live in Selçuk so I could buy groceries here every week.

I can't get over how much fun we had at the market. Even Steve enjoyed himself: the produce was photogenic, the people friendly and the touts hilarious. One man was asking people to come look at his "genuine fake watches" -- of course I couldn't resist, and bought a genuine genuine watch (it wasn't trying to be anything it wasn't) for 10L so that I would know what time Steve wanted me to come back from shopping. I bought three long-sleeve cotton t-shirts for 10L and we looked at luggage, since we knew we'd have to get another suitcase to carry our burgeoning purchases back with us.

We decided to take a lunch break and found a döner kebap hole-in-the-wall with a spit of delicious chicken. We asked how much and were told "bir lira" -- sold! How bad could it be for one lira -- some eighty cents!? Not bad at all, in fact: each of us were given a fresh crusty loaf stuffed with tavuk, lettuce, onions and sauce. With a büyük suyu, our total bill would be some 4L. Amazing! Too bad we almost didn't pay... we were so enthralled with our people watching at the little table on the sidewalk in front of the cafe, that when we were done, we just got up and left. We weren't far away when the girl ran up to us and gestured wildly -- we apologized profusely, returned to the cafe and left a good tip.

I picked up a few little things along the way, including a glass of çay which I got from a tea-seller... or a tea-deliverer, I guess. I asked him how much it was as he was flying by, and he handed me one and wouldn't accept money. I assume the novelty of a strange Canadian woman asking for çay was too much for him and he forgot to accept money. I found myself a little puzzled afterwards by what to do with the glass, and eventually abandoned it with a little pile of its friends against a wall. Hopefully the tea-guy found it!

We ran into the Cliftons and their guests again, and had some more pleasant banter. It reminded me of hiking the West Coast Trail when you would hike all day alone and then run into the same people either at rest stops or at camp. It gave us a nice sense of continuity and belonging, which we already had in spades in this little town.

In Selçuk I realized something important about Turkish towns: even with a population of some 25,000, Selçuk felt like a town of 5,000 -- like Gibsons. I think it has to do with population density and multi-use buildings. In Turkey, people with a business usually live in the same building as the business: we noticed this in restaurants with a couch and tv in the corner, or a store with living area in back, or a common room that is also the family's living room. In North America, it's a big waste of land space and resources to have twice the buildings tied up in an individual: one building for business and another for living. Also, in Turkey, a house would look similar in size to one in North America, but some 10 or more people might live there: parents, kids, kids' spouses and kids, maybe a grandparent or other extended family members. Maybe the reason I felt so at home in Turkey is because I like the way they do things better.

On the edge of the market, heading back to the Bella, we were gently accosted by a strangely dressed man with a basket full of boxes. After getting his picture taken, and then getting his picture taken with his friend, he gave us samples of a deeply strange candy: it was spicy and peppery and hot and sweet and very, very chewy. We bought two boxes to take home -- no-one would believe this stuff existed if we didn't bring back proof! All the attention brought out other locals who wanted their picture taken, including a bunch of kids who wanted their picture taken by Steve and then asked for money, which he didn't provide (mostly because I was spending it all on trinkets).

Back at the Hotel Bella, we decided to bite the bullet and look at carpets. The Hotel Bella conveniently has a carpet shop on the lower floors and we thought that was as good a place as any to start.

Urdal, looking harried as usual (though the nicest harried man I ever saw), asked us to wait upstairs as Nazmi was busy downstairs with some guests. Waiting in the upper shop was not what I'd call a hardship; I went through a stack of kilim pillow covers almost as tall as myself (that's a lot of pillow covers) and picked out a dozen to bring back to Canada for Christmas presents. We planned to do all our Christmas shopping in Turkey, which satisfied both our gift-giving and my urge to shop, and the carpet shop was a great place to start. We also looked at all the photos on the wall of happy customers with their carpets back at their homes.

After not too long, Nazmi came upstairs and brought us downstairs, which was a wondrously lit cave of rolls and rolls of carpets. We were brought çay, which is part of the ritual. Nazmi told us that he would bring out a few carpets to show us what the symbols and colours meant to give us a bit of a carpet education, as it were. He picked up a tube and said it was from his village, and he liked using the ones from his village as examples.

He unrolled the carpet with a practiced flick in that indescribably elegant way carpet-sellers have and let it settle on the floor. Steve and I gasped in unison -- this was the most lovely carpet we had seen so far. We told Nazmi we liked that carpet and he just smiled, and pointed out the evil eyes, scorpions (a symbol of pride, because the scorpion will sting himself rather than perish by fire) and Cybele or fertility goddess figures. It was in muted reds and blues and was very, very lovely. He pulled a few more from his village out, showing us different things, and they were all very nice.

He told us about the parts of the sheep which have the best wool because they have the most lanolin (the back is best), what kind of carpet is the best (the 'dowry' carpet, called thus because a young woman, who had been making 'practice' carpets since she was a girl would make the best one she could to show to her mum to prove she was a woman and ready to marry. She would then sell that carpet to raise money for her dowry when she was married.), and told us lots of interesting things about carpets.

For instance, all carpets made by the same family will always be the same size, and that's because they string their loom between posts in the family's living room, and those posts are always the same distance apart. Huh! His village is in the mountains above Antalya, and all the carpets are similar in style and colour because everyone is related.

He showed us carpet after carpet, some larger and some smaller, showing us the features and differences in styles, all without applying even the tiniest iota of pressure to purchase.

All in all, he must have laid 30 or more carpets onto the floor but, when he asked which ones we liked the best, we kept coming back to the first ones he had laid down. The first two, which were the ones from Nazmi's village, were the first carpets that both Steve and I had seen during our entire trip that we both loved at first sight. We eventually settled between the two on the very first carpet Nazmi had laid down -- apparently his aunt made it!

The scariest part, of course, was talking about price. We had been given wedding presents of money by several people with the caveat that we get something nice in Turkey, and with our savings, had decided on a budget of $1,000CA that we were comfortable paying for a carpet, and that budget had almost been laughed at by the carpet "co-op" near Tlos, so we weren't optimistic. It's all very well for carpet sellers to say "price is no object" but price IS an object, at least if you're not willing to pay on installments or credit (both of which Nazmi was fine with).

Imagine our delight when the quoted price was some 800L! We knew, however, that there was some more bargaining expected, and we were determined not to disappoint. We were able to negotiate more on the pillow covers, a real leather & carpet saddlebag (that smelled faintly of horse), a 'virgin belt' (heehee), and some little cute things for about 1100L. If you considered the value of the other things we purchased, which we would have done anyway, the carpet cost went down to about 600L, which is comfortably under $500 at $.80CA to the lira. Mind you, we also paid a little less because we (stupidly, it turns out) decided to haul the carpet with us personally, rather than having it shipped.

Much to our pleasant surprise, carpet buying ended up being much easier than we anticipated. We had been worried that we wouldn't find a carpet that both of us loved, though we knew we'd find one that we both liked. It had been a tiny bit concerning that one of us would have to compromise, or that we would have felt pressured into buying, or that the experience would leave a bad taste in our mouth, but none of those things happened.

We watched Urdal and Nazmi do the impossible: squish all those things into our complimentary black duffle bag. It too them quite a while, but they succeeded in the end. We had to go to the ATM and get a bunch of money out but Urdal and Nazmi said they weren't in any hurry... so long as we paid by the time we left... or we could send money when we got back to Canada. Crazy!

One of the things I found so funny was that in a country where electricity is expensive and Not Wasted (some of the hallways in the hotels had motion detector lights that wouldn't turn on unless the hall was occupied, hardly any hotel rooms had a bedside light, and even the Bella had light switches that wouldn't stay on unless the room key fob was stuffed into the holder), the carpet rooms were filled with luscious, warm halogen light. Their power bills must have been brutal.

It was now later in the evening but we weren't quite ready for dinner. Steve decided to walk across the street (across the street!) to the St. John's basilica, which, if it hadn't been a ruin, would have been the seventh largest cathedral in the world. I contemplated letting him go on his own and having a nap, but dammit! we came too far to lame out for a nap. Again, I mean, since I napped quite a bit in Çirali.

On the other side of the road and across a little parking lot were two huge wooden doors set into a high stone wall. We went in, paid our five lira each and walked up the marble road to the ruins of the Basilica, escorted by several köpekler. The Basilica was built in the 6th century by the Emporer Justinian -- the same guy who built the Hagia Sofya. It was built over the supposed site of John the Evangelist's burial site, and over a little shrine that had been built to him.

One of the surprising things about this part of Turkey is how Biblical everything is. We were walking on the place where St. John is alleged to have written his gospel and later died and was buried, only a few kilometres from Maryemana Evi, the last house of the Virgin Mary. Ephesus, the big attraction, is in fact the Ephesus which contained the Ephesians who Paul wrote his letter to! How strange to walk in antiquity...

As we walked around the graceful and huge footprint of the ruins, much of which were still standing (at least partially), a man discreetly approached Steve and offered to sell him some Roman coins. Having read about this particular scam, he knew that they would have been new coins, probably passed through a goat to make them look a little... aged, and refused. Not only that, but of course you cannot take antiquities out of Turkey so it would have been pointless.

The setting sun made large shadows over the ruins, and we wandered between the standing arches and columns, looked at the (murky) water of the baptistry, and walked up as close to the Fortress as we could (which wasn't very close at all). The Fortress itself was closed when we were there due to the collapse of part of the walls and a subsequent lack of funds to repair it. The plan was eventually to do the repairs and reopen it, but it hadn't happened yet. At the upper end of the Basilica area was a little model of how it would have looked when it was complete and it would have been incredible.

We walked back down to the edge of the cliff to watch the sun set. The view was absolutely beautiful: immediately below us, the walled courtyard of the Isa Bey Camii looked mysterious and serene; further along, the lone standing pillar from the Temple of Artemis stood up in a brave and lonely fashion; in the distance, ribbons of hills purpled in the twilight. Flocks of wheeling crows gathered in one big, sky-darkening murder: it was probably all the crows in Selçuk having their evening crow-moot, much like the Greater Vancouver crows all gather in Burnaby.

It was hard to immediately tell (given the bird song and crow shouts) that the man at the front gate was nicely but impatiently calling us to come away as the place was now closed. We took a last look at the darkening hills and walked down and out the large wooden doors, which immediately crashed shut behind us.

Fortunately the hotel was very close, and we decided to take advantage of the prix fixe menu, since it had looked so darn good the day before. We availed ourselves of another spread of mezes, served with amazing bread. Steve had an adana kebap, which was a spicy meatball dish and a new favourite. I had (not surprisingly) my usual kuzu şiş. Mmmm... lamb on a stick! By the time we had wolfed all that good stuff down, we could barely eat the fresh fruit they provided for dessert.

Chatting with Urdal, we asked if it would be possible to be taken to Ephesus early in the morning -- early as in could we get there just as it opened in the morning? He assured us that would be no problem, and we were struck by how amazing it was to have a guesthouse that made a point of taking you wherever you wanted to go, when you wanted to go there, for FREE. What a wonderful place.

We had a great evening of visiting with the owners and other guests on the terrace but headed to bed relatively early in order to make an early start the next day.

Turkey -- Day Nineteen -- Selçuk and Priene, Miletus & Didyma

2007-11-02T12:58:00.000-07:00

October 26 (Friday)

Steve woke up earlier than me, which should come as no surprise to anyone. He went up to the breakfast room, which (no surprise again) was on the rooftop terrace and had a chat with Nazmi, one of the owners of the Hotel Bella while I slept the sleep of the just. He came down to get me just as I was getting up.

Looking around with refreshed eyes, I was impressed all over again: the room was nice and bright owing to the window that looked out at an old aquaduct across the street. There were charming wrought-iron bars on the windows, and charming lace curtains, and charming -- ok, beautiful and clean -- fixtures in the bathroom. I showered with plenty of hot water and was ready to face our first day in Selçuk.

We went back up to the terrace, which was amazing, the nicest terrace we saw in Turkey. Half was open and half was glassed in, and the glassed-in area had comfy divans, low tables, beautiful carpets and a FIREPLACE. Amazing! We were asked how we wanted our eggs, and we both selected scrambled with peynir (cheese). Good choice! The scramble came out in a little metal dish, steaming and bubbling. The bread was fantastic, the olives [allegedly] were delish, the fruit super and the jam in pots on the table was superb. The U.T.B. on a whole new level. Did I mention amazing? We like the Hotel Bella, which we had heard about from Travels with Bill & Nancy. We had sent them an email that wasn't responded to and then called by Skype from Fethiye. We were delighted that they had been able to accommodate us on relatively short notice and had given us a nice room to boot.

While we were eating, Steve explained that Nazmi had suggested NOT going to Ephesus that day as two cruise ships at Kuşadası had vomited some 5,000 tourists onto poor unsuspecting Ephesus. When Steve had mentioned to Nazmi that one of the things we wanted to do was rent a car and drive ourselves to Priene, Miletus and Didyma, Nazmi had said he could help with that as he knew someone with Avis. It was an easy decision to not join the throngs of tourists, but we weren't sure we'd be able to rent with Avis as we didn't have a credit card. Nazmi assured us this would not be a problem as he could vouch for us (though we weren't entirely sure how, given that we'd been in the hotel for less than 12 hours).

Not only was renting the car not a problem, but the Avis guy was there with the car before we had finished our excellent breakfast. We signed the papers (and this time I checked the insurance, which would cover us if we were at fault for a loss, but not if we were drunk or speeding) and realized in a moment of horror that we didn't have enough cash on us to pay for the rental! We asked for a minute to run out to an ATM and Nazmi told us not to worry, he'd add the 60L to the bill. Crazy!

After being shown around the car (a pretty basic Ford Festiva), we popped down the end of the block and across the street to the (semi, because Turks drive everywhere) 'pedestrian only' area of Selçuk where most of the shops, restaurants and ATMs were to get some money out for today's adventures.

The little bit of Selçuk we saw in those few minutes were just wonderful. I felt immediately that I could live in this place. The area was clean and bright, and the shops looked prosperous and well kept. We headed back to the car and our helpful map, hand drawn by Nazmi, with all the rights and lefts marked down on the back of a napkin.

Our grand loop was to consist of the clifftop ancient Greek city of Priene, then to the ancient Greek city of Miletus, then further down the coast to ancient Didyma. We'd be getting our fill of ruins today! All three were members of the Ionian League and Priene and Miletus were at one time seaside prior to the silting of the Meander River -- yes, the river that gave all curly rivers their name.

Cruising down the road, we turned right at Söke and followed the signs to Priene. The only challenge to driving in this area was figuring out the speed limit. On the way in, I recall that the bus consistently wanted to go 90kph, only because the stupid bus beeped every time it went over 89km and it beeped a LOT. I figured 80 was a good safe bet and I didn't even get honked at all that often.

We pulled up to the parking lot at Priene and it was full of tour buses. We couldn't complain too hard, given our general luck with having ruins to ourselves, so we headed up the walk with a good will towards the Temple of Athena. As we were climbing up huge marble stairs, a group of Japanese tourists came down, smiling and bowing. We smiled and bowed back and, around the next corner, smiled and nodded at a group of German tourists. When we made it to the Temple of Athena, there wasn't another tourist in sight.

The standing columns stood in a line against the tree line, and an expanse of smooth marble pavers littered with broken columns stretched to the edge of a cliff that perched high above the Meander valley. It was an astonishingly beautiful spot and Steve especially was completely taken by its charms. I liked it very much, but Steve found it positively religious. He walked out to the prow of the outcrop where the ruins were most tumbled and the trees were twisted by the wind and soaked it all in.

I found myself fascinated in the rough carvings I found in the rock: crosses and what looked like game boards and other interesting graffiti.

After twenty minutes or more, we heard voices in the distance, and decided to have our last memories of the Temple of Athena be quiet and serene with just us in it. We left before the people came, and went over to the perfect little theatre, passing an interesting ruined basilica with beautiful tiles. The theatre was fun and in super condition, with great carved seats. We walked a little further down and saw a ruined agora but didn't walk any further into the lower town. Priene was particularly interesting because you could see the grid lines of the townsite; walking streets through distinct neighbourhoods made me feel as though I would pass a toga-clad Greek at any time.

We walked back down the marble way to the exit and passed a few busloads of tourists heading up the trail. We were very pleased with ourselves -- our anti-tourist shield was working!

Back in the car, we headed back out onto the main road that headed across the Meander valley. Driving through several small towns, I was eager to stop and look at some of the little shops and markets but Steve was anxious to get to Miletus (and not go shopping). If only we could have had days to spend exploring this area!

Miletus was easy to find, and the parking lot was full of tour buses -- again. We decided to wait and see if the crowds would thin by eating lunch at one of the many cafes that lined the road in direct view of the amazing theatre at Miletus. We had some adequate gozleme and some delicious juice.. ok, I had delicious, fresh squeezed, portakal (orange) suyu and Steve had grenade (pomegranate) suyu which was slightly less delicious due to the pressing of the rind as well as the seeds. It was a little bitter, but still good. We cruised around the tourist area for a minute. The shops were adequate with some meershaum and nice G-rated as well as slightly rude onyx carvings.

After a while, we walked up to the amazing theatre. It was built right into this hill, and it dominated the scene. Walking across a field strewn with rubble up to the theatre, you could see that it was remarkably intact. The stairs up to the entry were complete, and you could see the 'vomitorium' was also still completely in place. No -- the vomitorium has nothing to do with throwing up. Rather, it is the access tunnels behind the seats, like where you would get beer and foam fingers during the intermission at BC Stadium. We were excited about getting in there and running around like idiots, but first we were distracted by scrambling up the scaena (front of the stage) to look at some relief carvings among the fallen stones.

We were met up there by an older British couple who introduced themselves as 'The Cliftons from Oxford'. In short order, we found out they were retired (he had been a barrister, and we exchanged a few lawyer/insurance broker jokes), they owned half a share in a restored Greek house in Selçuk and they had guests visiting. They told us to look for little yellow crocuses that were only out this time of year and recommended a sandwich restaurant in Selçuk. They said they might see us around and we hoped so as they were a lot of fun.

After the Cliftons left, and with them all the tour buses, we clambered all over the magnificent and ginormous theatre. We climbed to the top, down to the tunnel entrances, through the tunnels, and climbed back up to the top and we had it all to ourselves. We looked over the back of the theatre from the top of the hill and it was nothing but a wide expanse of fields, a meandering river, and the dusty hills where Priene perched in the distance. We knew from reading that the sea had once lapped at the bottom of this hill, which seemed ludicrous given that the sea was a mere shimmer at least ten kilometres distant.

From the top of the hill, we walked down to the rest of the ruins. Miletus is a huge area that most tour-bus tourists never see, and we explored like mad. We found a pool with the remains of a statue (again, it used to be on the waterfront), the agora dedicated to Apollo which everyone thinks is a temple. Really, just a blessed shopping mall! The area is a little marshy, and we were a little lazy, and the mud not too deep, so we scampered through a little pool over to get a closer look at the agora. The hillside was covered in bits of brick and pottery and all kinds of interesting stuff, but I restrained myself from picking anything up. Over by the baths, a young Turkish man in gumboots approached us and gave us sprigs of lavender. He seemed at first glance to be a little simple, with his shirt untucked and a rather disheveled air, but when we talked about the ruins, he spoke articulately and knowledgeably about the area. We got the impression he wanted us to ask him to show us around but, after our experience in Konya, we didn't really want a guide.

We made our polite escape, and a few feet along found a tortoise in the path. We tried to get some pictures, but he decided we were obviously hungry for tortoise kebap and booked it for the bushes. When I say booked it, I mean he went FAST! So much for the tortoise and hare trope... this guy would have left any rabbit in the dust of Miletus.

Back at the parking lot, we gave that amazing theatre a long last look and drove down the little road that ran in front of the shopping and food stalls (where I couldn't resist jumping out for a quick purchase). A short distance -- 200 metres short -- we saw a sign for a turnoff to the Ilyas Bey mosque which was currently under restoration and 'decommissioned' from its usual mosque duties. We were there, and the mosque was there, and we like mosques, so we turned left and headed down the road. Another few hundred metres along an avenue lined with olive trees, we found the road ended with a little flock of parked workmen's vehicles. We were the only tourists there.

The man minding the white booth where one usually paid an entrance fee waved us in without taking our lira, and, dodging wheelbarrow-pushing workmen, we approached the courtyard of the Ilyas Bey Camii.

The Ilyas Bey was magnificent. Even without a standing minaret, the walls, the arches, the stork-nests pom-pomming the spires on the roofs, and the atmosphere of grace and humility was exquisite. The entire scene seemed shot in soft focus; the sunlight was more gentle, the scents more refreshing, and the sounds more musical than in Miletus; the very air sparkled with something I can only describe as sanctity. We took off our shoes at the door, even though we didn't have to, because we felt compelled to grant this place as much respect as we would had there been a bowing Imam at the door. Before we could even enter, we stood silently and marveled at the carved stone fretwork that surrounded the entrance.

Inside the mosque, it was hard to know what to look at more. The ceiling was arched and the mihrab (the niche) was surrounded by a deeply subtle and most beautiful foliate carving in the stone. The floor was mostly covered in smooth marble flags that felt heavy and cool and timeless under our feet. All in all, it was one of the most reverent places we'd been and we were hard pressed to tear ourselves away. To think we could have missed it was just heartbreaking.

In a fit of happiness and largess, I picked a black olive off a tree next to the car and gave it to Steve to eat... I didn't know, and he didn't remember, that olives have to be cured in brine before they are edible. Oops! At least we had bottles of suyu in the car for him to rinse out his mouth with.

We pointed the car on the southern sea road and drove down to Didim, where the huge complex that was both the Temple to, and the Oracle of, Apollo. Next to Delphi, the oracle at Didyma was the most important of the Hellenistic world.

We nearly drove right by it.

Having turned around, and found a parking spot next to a little restaurant, we paid our entrance fee and walked down the stairs. At first glance (at least when not in a car), Didyma is impressive. It has a few incredibly tall reconstructed pillars and a veritable forest of shorter pillars. It took walking down the stairs to the excavated area, and then walking up the steps of the temple itself, and being right among the stumps, to comprehend the true magnitude of the partial columns. Even the broken stumps were well over my head high. When I looked straight ahead, I got a sense of what it must have looked like when everything was intact and a visitor would have felt completely dwarfed and insignificant in such a place. Ok, I felt dwarfed and insignificant. It was pretty incredible.

I found a lot more carvings scratched into the enormous marble pavers: more crosses, more gameboards, and a carving that might have been a Viking ship... or might have been a cervix with a sail. I kept expecting to find "Herodotus was here" or suchlike.

After a bit of exploring, we found a downward-slanting tunnel that we followed into a high-walled courtyard that had pieces of relief carvings leaning against the walls. Some were extraordinary, like the griffins. We realized that we were disturbing a giggling Turkish couple: she quite conservatively dressed and both of them madly in love. We wondered how many spooning Turkish teens these ruins had sheltered. We giggled and held hands a bit too, which was fine as we were alone except for the couple, and they were staying out of sight. After a while, the sun was getting low in the sky, and we were getting hungry, so we found our way to the exit, passing and taking many photos of the ubiquitous Medusa head (which isn't a Medusa at all; I examined her hair very closely and saw nary a snake).

Up on the street, we dodged a carpet seller and walked a few feet up to the Apollon Cafe that was named in the LP as being good and prices reasonable. The terrace was lovely, though its view of the temple was from across a busy road and through trees. We didn't think the prices all that reasonable either, though we did find the LP to be generally out of date on that front, too. We decided to order a few mezes, which the waiter provided with barely disguised ennui. The mezes were definitely good -- better than we expected. The service... meh. The kedi sitting on the rail next to the arbour was the best part of the meal.

When we walked back down the road to the car, we stopped to admire another kedi on a cafe stoop, and the owner of the cafe called out to us to look at the menu (a common occurrence). We regretfully advised that we had already eaten and it was true -- we did regret. Not that we ate, or that the food was bad, or the terrace not lovely, but we regretted that we didn't break away from the strictures of the LP and go out on our own. The LP is often a safe bet, but not always the best one.

Pointed north, we passed a bizarre kind of amusement park that looked like Disney met a Pueblo indian and they got drunk on raki and decided to build an adobe amusement park sponsored by Crayola. Weird! And not open, or we might have gone in.

We pulled into a little dirt road beside the ocean and walked down to the shore where we watched the sun set over the Agean Sea. Steve took a few photos and then we just stood there and cuddled. You could practically hear the sun set, it was so magical.

We thought we might have a chance to see Lake Bafa before the light was entirely gone, so we drove like very cautious demons back towards the main road past Söke, passing (cautiously) a police roadblock that (cautiously) waved us through. Whew! We found the road which we thought would lead to the lake, and drove along it, past a gated compound that was either military or industrial. We drove past a suspicious-looking guard in a guardhouse and realized not too further along that we were only just reaching the marshy part of the lake... and it was dark. We turned around and drove again past an even-more suspicious guard back towards the main road.

We were almost at the main road, and getting eager to get back to Selçuk where a more substantial dinner might be found, when we found ourselves stuck behind a flock of sheet. I mean, sheep. Even though we joked a lot and complained a little, we were happy enough to be in the middle of nowhere in Turkey stuck behind a flock of sheep herded by actual Turkish shepherds, rather than tucked into a comfy resort where we would never get to smell... well, sheep.

After further adventures with autogaz, which cost us about 50L for the day, we were back at the Hotel Bella, dropped the car keys off at the front desk, picked up our beady yellow key fob, and dragged our sorry selves all the way up the stairs to the terrace restaurant. There were a TON of people up there -- more than I thought the hotel would hold -- and the food they were eating looked divine. We plunked ourselves down on a divan in the corner near the fireplace, and chatted a little with a harried-looking Urdal (Nazmi's partner) about our day. The menu looked reasonable but we weren't too into the prix fixe that looked great but was too much food given our late lunch. Urdal cheerfully allowed us to order some mezes but going to the display cabinet was too much for me -- they all looked so darn good -- and I think I ordered five. Or six. Maybe more. They were all delicious, though, and we stuffed ourselves stupid.

We spent a very enjoyable evening eating and chatting with other guests and eating some more and looking at the very lovely view of the lit-up walls of St. John's Basilica and the aquaduct. The other guests we chatted with were very nice: we met an Australian doctor who had a winery and we had interesting conversations about the wine industry. Keep in mind that my expertise was pretty much limited to having done a few winery tours in the Okanagen; fortunately Steve was better read than I. Linda, a Chinese Canadian from Vancouver, was there to visit religious sites including Mary's House. The evening was very convivial and we ate and talked and ate some more.

When we finally rolled ourselves into our room, we were struck all over at how nice it was. The maids had changed our towels and emptied the garbage (which was important, as there was a helpful sign in the washroom that declared the hotel to be in the old part of town and requested we not flush anything paper down the toilet).

The maids had also, slightly less helpfully, thrown out the plastic bag we had placed on the floor that contained our pomegranates that we had been hauling around since our first day in Çirali. On the upside, they also threw out the knife we had gotten in Fethiye to cut up said pomegranates... why that's the upside, I'm not sure, but we were remarkably cheerful about the loss, and we went to bed content.

Turkey -- Day Eighteen -- Kayakoy and Selcuk

2007-11-02T12:56:00.000-07:00

October 25, Kayakoy to Selcuk

Thursday morning we woke to an intensely blue Mediterranean sky, and there was heat in the air even at 8am. We were up on the terrace for an early breakfast -- early enough that the woman had to head out to the store to get the bread. After she returned, and we ate, she offered 1/2 in English and 1/2 in charades to go down to the town with me and look for a carpet bag like the one leaving today for Antalya with the English girls.

The girl and I, whose name I wasn't able to figure out, walked briskly down the pier into the little pedestrian-only shopping area which was a maze of touristy shops peddling real and fake designer duds and shoes. Some advertised their realness but that wasn't, frankly, all that reassuring. Much to my surprise, I was led to a purse shop full of what may well have been real Tod's, Chanel and Prada... nice, but not quite what I was looking for. I was then taken to a shop that had the carpet bags, but the littlest purse was the 150L I was looking at spending on a luggage-sized piece. The man was very convincing, and the bags were lovely, but it was too much for me. She took me then to a succession of bag shops with cheaper and faker bags -- to give her credit, she did try to find me a bag, but there just wasn't the bag I wanted at the price I wanted. Mind you, I was Very Tempted by one of those Tod's bags. I felt badly, as no doubt there would have been a commission in it for her had I purchased, but at least I gave her a justified excuse to hang out and smoke cigarettes and eat pastries on the clock.

Despite my lingering, I was back at the pension in time to get packed up before checkout at 11. We made arrangements to leave our packs at the pension while we tried to get a trip to the ruined Greek town of Kayakoy in before we had to meet our bus to Selcuk at 4:30pm.

We knew there was a dolmus leaving from the dolmus station near the market area in downtown Fethiye, but my lingering did, unfortunately, prevent us from making that bus. In a fit of not disappointing Steve from seeing Kaya, I suggested we quick march up the high road over the theatre and meet the bus on it's way up the Kayakoy road. We set off in the already hot sun up the upper road. Did you catch the use of the word 'up'? Yeah -- uphill, at a brisk walk. Did you see that it was a hot day? Yeah.

We passed the Horizon Hotel, which had been our choice for hotel. It would have had an amazing view, but we had heard from somewhere (completely unsubstantiated) that the reason the tourism office didn't recommend it is because some of the rooms come with girls.

Anyway, we went up the hill past the slightly lame Ottoman castle, and found the Kaya road, and we should have been in time to meet the bus. It didn't come during the space of time that we stopped to catch our breath, and it didn't come in the time it took to start breathing deep of the hot pine-and-honey scented air, and it didn't come in the time that we gave up waiting for it and started walking up the hill. It's only seven kilometres, we thought. Did I mention we started walking? Up the hill? Yeah.

After not too long, a slightly decrepit older sedan came by, and I guess we must have looked mighty hopeful, because the driver stopped for us. We told him we were going to Kayakoy, and he looked briefly concerned before uttering a torrent of Turkish that we didn't understand. We would have agreed to almost anything that involved wheels at that point, and he gave us a bit of a look and beckoned us into the car. We were in in a flash and were astonished at the sheer number and steepness of the switchbacks that old car swooped us up. Just over the crest of the hill, he pulled to the side of the road and guestured us to get out. We thanked him very much as he turned off into a driveway.

We walked a few minutes down the hill towards the valley and were so pleased to see a little cobblestone road heading off the paved road to the right. We looked at each other and thought what the heck? and left the main road.

The cobble road wound down the hill through a wooded area for almost a kilometre -- one of the nicest kilometres we spent in Turkey. The pine scent along with honey and dust and heat hung heavy in the air. The greens of the forest were deep and intensely Mediterranean. We could see little glimpses of the verdant valley floor and, in the distance, a crest of hills dotted with the white houses: what could only be the ruins of Kayakoy.

Once down in the valley floor, we walked in what seemed ought to be the right direction, past a few lovely little pensions, orchards and farms. We got a bit of a glare from one elderly person in a field, but it wasn't enough to ruin our enjoyment of the beautiful day. The back roads and fields were exquisite and we wandered and looked and frequently consulted our LP map, which was not incredibly helpful in this situation. After an hour and some, we found ourselves in a little village area, and turning left here, we approached Kaya itself.

Kayakoy was a predominantly Greek town and when the Greek-Turkish population exchange occurred in the 1920s, the Turks that came decided not to settle in Kayakoy, which ended up completely deserted. Over time, the wood from the roofs and floors were taken by the valley dwellers for their purposes, and then there was an earthquake in the 50s that partially destroyed the town. A lot of it is still standing and there is an air of quiet contemplation among the whitewashed ruins with their hints of blue paint.

After purchasing our tickets for 5L each as well as a little explanatory booklet for a few more lira, we wandered through some little roads to the Lower Church, which was in very good shape (it had been used as a mosque until the 1960s). It was really lovely and full of light that spilled onto the arches and domes, and onto the faded icons and cracked mosaic floors. We were tempted to linger in this spot, but we knew we had limited time -- the walk through the valley had taken longer than we thought, and we did have to be back in Fethiye to catch a bus in the afternoon.

We decided to climb up the hill to the observatory and then through the town to the other side, then perhaps to get some lunch in one of the charming cafes we had seen on our walk, before going back to town. As we left the church, a friendly kopek joined us on our walk in a very nonchalant fashion so typical of Turkish dogs. You're going on a walk? Excellent. I'll join you. Tesekkur ederim.

We walked up the steep and stoney paths towards the top of the hill. I was finding myself a little out of breath and coughing, so decided to forgo the no-doubt fabulous view of the ocean that would be on the other side of the hill. Steve and the kopek walked the rest of the way while I hung out on a flat stone in the sun, watching the birds and lizards and resting my lungs. It only took 20 minutes for Steve and the dog to return to where I was sitting and we continued along across the top of the hillside, through lovely, sad ruins of broken houses.

Every so often, we would see a hint of the relative immediacy of the former inhabitants: a painted design, a worn tread on a stair, the overgrown remains of a herb garden. You could see where Louis De Bernieres got his inspiration for the gorgeous "Birds Without Wings" which tells the story of a fictionalized village with both Turkish and Greek inhabitants, right up until the population exchange. I could just imagine a priest and an imam passing each other on these narrow tracks, exchanging a friendly "hello, infidel."

We learned that it was actually very difficult after the Greeks left as the Greeks generally were the professionals -- doctors, lawyers, engineers -- and when they left, Turkey was left with a bit of a knowledge vacuum for a while.

We made our way over to the Upper Church, was was large and impressive with a beautiful mosaic floor with designs made in black and white pebbles. It was still very nice, but lacked some of the charm of the smaller Lower Church, but that may have to do with the Upper Church crawling with tourists. We emerged into the courtyard and saw an older, rather quaintly dressed woman. It seemed charming until she demanded, in very broken English, money for the privilege of looking at her. We didn't pay, which might seem harsh as she was adding to the general atmosphere... but she was rude, and I don't pay for rude.

Walking back down into the occupied lower part of the village, we passed a restaurant. Since it was getting on, and Steve was anxious to reach town with enough time to get our bus, we asked when the next bus left. Most surprised were we to find out that it was going in less than ten minutes and the next one wouldn't be for an hour or more! We hoofed it down the road and ran up to the bus stop just as the dolmus was pulling up. We climbed on, paid our few lira, and settled back for the magical mystery tour.

The dolmus didn't take the direct, steep route to Fethiye that we tried to walk up... instead it went through the VERY BRITISH town of Hisaronu. For example, looking out the smudgy dolmus window, I saw the Red Lion pub, more fish & chip shops than I could count, and a vast number of very disturbing stores which promised to wax everything. Every sign was in English and every price tag was in pounds. We rather wished that we had made the Kaya valley our base while in this area rather than staying in Fethiye proper. Even Oludeniz would have been ok -- even though it's apparently very touristy, at least it would have had the beach. We still thanked our lucky stars that we did NOT opt to stay in Hisaronu. What a nightmare!

Back in Fethiye, we walked from the dolmus station to the Ideal Pension, picked up our bags and walked back down to the quay. As we were tired and hungry, laden with heavy packs, and a little stressed about making our bus, we (ok, I) opted to have lunch in the Park Cafe, since it was very close to the travel agency where we'd be catching the shuttle bus that would take us to the big bus station.

After a quick lunch and a quick argument (one of the only ones we had on this trip, and entirely the result of being overhungry from not eating in Kaya as originally planned), we walked over to the travel agency with plenty of time to spare.

The slim blonde girl who had originally helped us buy our bus and tour tickets was in the office. When the shuttle bus to the otogar seemed a little late, she told us not to worry. When it was quite late, she told us not to worry. When it finally showed up and we showed some alarm at perhaps not making our bus, she told us not to worry. Worried, we got on the shuttle. Only thing was, it wasn't really a shuttle -- it was a dolmus. We knew this, because it stopped at every dolmus stop to pick up people. It was more than a little frustrating to be on the milk run when we were late, but about halfway into the trip, the dolmus driver was flagged down by another dolmus driver on the side of the road and appeared to be given royal heck for not getting us to the otogar on time. The flagger-downer waved and smiled at us, and our driver put his foot to the floor.

We pulled into the otogar and were met at the sidewalk in front by a bus guy who ran with us to the bus, where everyone was waiting for us. I managed to gasp a tuvalet request and the driver took pity on me, and waved me off to the WC for a pre-trip pit stop.

Really, we should have known the trip wasn't going to go well based on how it started, but somehow we were surprised when the bus left late (later than our late arrival warranted) and dawdled at every stop. Even though the day was baking, the heat was on full blast and the driver wouldn't turn it off, even when I asked directly in Turkish using my guidebook. By now I knew my accent was good enough that it wasn't a matter of him not understanding me. Mind you, we didn't get stung by anything, but it was a hot, cramped, long and uncomfortable trip. It was our second branch out from Nevsehir bus lines, which we'd taken for every trip but Cirali to Fethiye and this one, and we weren't impressed.

We rolled into Selcuk at just after 10pm, an hour later than we expected to be there. When we emerged from the bus, tired and grumpy, we were greeted by a man who invited us to stay at his hotel. Fortunately, we had the excuse that we were already booked, and we thought he'd go away. Instead, he asked which hotel and, when we told him 'Hotel Bella', he disappeared for a minute. When he reappeared, moments later, he told us that he had had the bus man call the hotel and they would send a car to pick us up in five minutes.

It actually seemed more like two and a half minutes later that a van whipped up and loaded our bags in about a second, and deposited the bedraggled us at the door of the hotel about a minute later. We were handed our key by a sympathetic looking Australian woman, and hauled our sorry selves into our room at the front of the hotel. We weren't so tired that we didn't notice that the dark wood furniture was lovely, the lace curtains floating in the breeze charming and the tiled bathroom impeccably clean. Even though we had booked a double, there was an extra single bed in the room, which was great for throwing down our bags on so that we could immediately slide between the crisp white sheets and fall into a dreamless sleep.

Turkey -- Day Seventeen -- Fethiye

2007-11-02T12:55:00.000-07:00

October 24, Saklikent Gorge & Tlos tour

Wednesday morning dawned sunny enough. Not perfect, but sunny and cloudy and beginning with a delicious breakfast of muselix and yoghurt and honey from the mountains behind Fethiye. Amazing! The view from the terrace over Fethiye Bay with the light and shadow from the clouds was just astonishing. No wonder our host seemed to spend all his days sitting up there, smoking and looking.

After our second entertaining attempt at showering in the little bathroom, we got ready to head out for our Tlos/Saklikent Gorge tour. I was wearing my now-standard Turkish attire: my black capris and the 3/4 sleeve cotton shirt I had bought in Goreme. I never felt judged by what I wore, but I found myself a little comfier being mostly covered on at least one hemisphere, and, since I wore capris the most, I felt better being a little covered up on top.

We walked down the hill and were at the travel agency (whose name has escaped me for now) before 9am, when we were supposed to be met by our bus. We waited and waited and finally, some 20 minutes late, a large dolmus showed up to take us to the big bus. There was a lovely British couple in their 60s on board already and we all reassured each other that if we were all supposed to be going to the same place it was quite likely that the bus was going in the right direction. We found many times that you just had to take things on faith in Turkey -- faith that the bus would show up, faith that it was the right bus, faith that it wasn't going to lead you astray. We were almost never disappointed.

In this case, we were driven out to the main highway going out of town, where we pulled into a gas station. A few minutes later, a big bus pulled up -- like a BIG bus, like a big Mercedes highway-going bus, not the little dolmus we were expecting. We clambered onto the bus, which was almost full of octegenarians. Steve and I looked at each other and wondered if we signed up for the wrong tour! Hmmm...

After a short time, and another dolmus shuttle bringing people from the resort town of Oludeniz just down from Fethiye (and a quick trip to the very clean gas station bathroom), our tour guide (who had been outside smoking a cigarette) arrived at the front of the bus. He introduced himself as Atilla but advised us to call him 'Ati'. He explained that when he called out 'Ati' that we were all to gather around him. This sounds a little strange, but actually he was hilarious and completely made the tour. On our way to the Saklikent Gorge, he explained that some people called it the 'second longest gorge in Europe' but they were wrong -- it is in Asia! After a while on the road, wandering narrow roads through rural villages, he explained to us that we would stop at a viewpoint overlooking a river for a 'Turkish minute' which would be the unit of time it took him to smoke another cigarette. We all poured out of the bus, even the tottery tourguests, looked at the view and took photos and nearly got run over by a truck carrying bales of cotton. What fun!

Ati was done his cigarette in about five non-Turkish minutes and herded us back on the bus. Winding along the river road, we started to catch glimpses of a tall gorge heading into the mountains that soared about 1500m into the now-blue sky. It just looked like a narrow crack in the green hills and we were very excited to visit it. When we got to the entry area, we were given a big spiel about wearing water sandals or borrowing some cheap rubber shoes from the tourist people. Fortunately Steve and I were all prepared in shorts and Teva sandals. We were virtually the only people there who were so prepared. There was enough time for a quick pit stop before we started off on a narrow footbridge across the milky river, where we were joined by a very nice kopek. On the other side, we walked up to the entry turnstiles below the bus-bridge. This was the most controlled entry we'd seen; I guess they don't want to lose people in the gorge!

Past the turnstile, we walked a wooden pathway suspended over the rushing water. It was very cool and felt very safe, as there were guardrails all over the place. The pathway ended at a little island thing that had a little cafe (closed for the season) and benches by the water. On the far end of the island was a white, rushing creek about 20' across that met the pale trickle coming out of the narrow part of the gorge. The water was churned up to a glacial blue and it looked very, very cold. Ati gave everyone the option of going carefully across the torrent and then hiking up the gorge OR sitting on the benches on the side of the river. Almost everyone sat down... Steve and I were already in the water. Ati started giving 'how to cross the torrent' instructions as we began to wade across. It was actually much less cold than we expected, but of course we've been bitten by truly glacial streams. The half-dozen people who followed us seemed to think it very chilly.

The water in the gorge itself wasn't much over ankle deep and looked much like coffee when cream has just been added. When I bent down to take a closer look, you could even see the little curls and spirals of the sediment in the water, just like cream.

We wandered up the creek, walking on sandbars and wading through the water. In some places it got a little deeper and we were wading to above our knees. The walls of the canyon steadily narrowed until, in places, you could touch both walls at the same time. Being at the front, we had it almost to ourselves, especially given that not many people from our group were making the trip. Among them were a younger couple, the British couple we were first on the dolmus with, Ati and a few other intrepid souls. We seemed to be the only tour group going through, so the mud wasn't too churned up. In places, trees clung to walls above the high-silt line. We were told it had been a relatively dry summer and given the evidence of how deep this place could be, we considered ourselves lucky to be coming through at low tide, as it were.

We reached a particularly deep section with a tiny waterfall at one end where Ati stopped us. We hung out there for a little while until another group came along. Ati conferred with the other guide and decided this would be our turn-around point. Left to our own devices, Steve and I would have continued on, but Ati gave us a stern eye and we reluctantly turned around. The landscape of the gorge was remarkable. When the other tourists passed out of sight around a corner, it was just magical -- serene and cool and palely coloured. We were a little reluctant to leave, and might have dawdled a little... but we still made it out faster than one of the couples from our group. I think the husband might have gotten lost, which is hard, given there are only two directions to go. We got a little muddy on the way back, where some of the sandbars had been churned up as Ati chivvied us along. Fortunately we were all cleaned off passing back through the rushing water, where we went across one at a time I gave pointers (face upstream, that'll help) and I took a little video of Steve.

After the obligatory time waiting around the entryway, buying and drinking overpriced visne suyu, we were back on the bus, heading towards a 'carpet factory' to watch a demonstration. Yeah, whatever. We were told all about how the women form a co-operative and work from home and have a very nice life. Steve and I were quite interesting in the brief demonstrations we saw, though they were much shorter than I hoped for. As we were being herded away (note a trend? we were herded a lot) from the carpet-weaving demonstration, I thanked the woman in Turkish and she turned and flashed me a huge smile. It made me wonder how many people from groups like this actually thank the 'props' on the tour.

After less than 10 minutes in the big, dusty 'factory', we were... guided into an even larger, slick wing of the building that had lots of lovely carpets hanging on the walls. Once in one of the many, many large rooms with benches around the outside, we were provided with a drink (cay for us), the REAL demonstration began! A team of young men got busy throwing out carpets onto the floor in a very flashy manner while the factory guide told us about the types and styles of carpets. It was interesting, but we were pretty sure prices where would be more expensive than elsewhere, plus we weren't into being led around by the nose anymore. Baaaa-aaaa! I don't think so.

At the end of the big demonstration, everyone was invited to walk around and look at the carpets on the walls. We noticed a pattern: if you stopped to look at one, a young man would appear at your elbow and ask you if you liked it. If you said yes, he would guide your unit (couple or single) into a private room and pull out a number like it. We saw a few we liked, but were quoted 1200L or more for what didn't seem like an incredibly special carpet. We hauled out our favourite excuse, that we were going to shop for a carpet later in our trip, and were confronted with all kinds of offers for shipping. Since we had been guided into a fairly small and sparsely carpeted room, we figured they weren't holding out a lot of hope on our purchasing power, especially when confronted with a bus load of well-heeled retirees. We used our next most successful diversionary tactic, and asked for the bathroom. After ablutions, and a few grumpy looks, we found ourselves back on the bus. After a few minutes, everyone was back on the bus, looking a little rumpled, but without any obvious carpets to their names. Then we waited. And waited. And waited. Finally after some 20 minutes, one older gentleman was guided back onto the bus. He looked downright shaken, and I wondered if he found himself pressured into buying a carpet he couldn't afford.

Off to lunch! Given our previous experience, we were fully expecting a cheesy tourist place, and we weren't disappointed. We wound up into the mountains to Yakapark, which sounds worse than it was. It was a 'trout farm' which is to say that we didn't see much of the farm, but it did have a cool bar with a trough in it that had live trout swimming in it. We felt a little bad for the trout as they were immediately harassed by the lone kids on the tour, but, well, they're fish. They'll cope. Steve got points for being able to keep his hands in the frigid water for minutes at a time, trying to tickle the trout. I'm not sure the trout were laughing, but he was told that if he could stand in the icy trout pond for five minutes, his lunch would be free! He was game to try, but frankly our lunch was already practically free given that it was included in the tour. We lined up for a buffet with fresh fried trout that was reasonably good, given its mass-produced nature, and it was very nice to settle on stone benches at stone tables under the cool trees and eat our fish. It even got a little chilly with all that stone and shade. We paid for our drinks, thanked the waiter, enjoyed the view from the bathroom terraces and went back to the bus.

The bus swooped down the mountain road until it stopped on the side of the road. We stumbled off the bus at the amphitheatre at Tlos.

Tlos was one of the six principal towns of the Lycian region and was a very prosperous and large city in Roman times. We learned that the port city at the end of the Xanthos valley was not a safe place to leave goods that came in though the ship trade; to keep them safe, they were immediately brought up to fortified towns on the cliffs, like Tlos. Tlos was also the reported town where the hero Bellerophon lived with his winged horse, Pegasus. Of course the horse aspect was immediately interesting to me!

The theatre was lovely, though quite tumbled. Further down the road, the baths were being reconstructed and were quite amazing, perched on the side of the cliff. We were some of the last to leave the site (given the overall age of our tour-mates, we were pretty sure we could catch them up). The older man who had been last out of the carpet factory lingered behind us. We didn't want to be forward, but for a moment, we were concerned that he might have been so over-carpeted that he'd fling himself off the edge. We were relieved to see him tottering up shortly behind us.

Along the side of the road, we saw lovely arches and fields of pomegranate trees, a broad flat expanse that would have been the stadium, with a ruined Ottoman castle behind. We came across a few cafes meant to service the tourist trade, and about half the group decided to stop there and rest while the other half went and hiked up to the castle. I lagged behind a little while I looked at a stall with little slate carvings of bais reliefs of Bellerophon. My initial reaction was that they seemed a bit cheesy and mass-produced, until I realized that the woman behind the stall was actually carving them right there! I bought one and a little carved pendant shaped like a Lycian kitty. Well, a kitty, anyway -- I don't know if it's Lycian.

Having taken a bit of time over my choices, I turned and realized all the group were halfway up the hill. I jogged up the hill to meet them, and arrived just as Ati was giving the spiel about the Lycian rock-cut tombs. They are shaped the way they are to mimic Lycian houses, which had large wooden beams holding up the roof. Interesting! I was suddenly glad of all those stupid hills we'd been walking up in Fethiye that let me catch everyone up so fast.

We walked the rest of the way up to the castle, and then up the worn and cracked stairs carved right into the outcropping of stone to the top of the 'castle'. One side of the stairs was cut off by a sheer drop onto the little plateau below. No handrails, no ropes, no chains, no nothing. I can just imagine that if a hapless tourist had fallen off, it would have been met with the ubiquitous Turkish shrug (UTS) of the 'should've been more careful' nature.

Steve and I were the last on the top of the keep, and I felt a little vertigo-y standing up unsupported to take his photo. That said, the view was phenomenal and I'm glad we climbed up. Back to the cafe, where Ati was taking a 'Turkish minute' and that gave me some time to buy two Magnums and jump back on the bus! We were tired and a little gritty, but we had a great day. Ati kept up his entertaining patter until we arrived back at the gas station, where we and the Brits transferred to the little dolmus and were whisked back to Fethiye.

We felt like we arrived back just in time as the heavens opened up and the thunderstorms began again. After cleaning up at the pension, we decided to head out for dinner. We saw our host, who, upon hearing where we went for the day, pouted a little and said we should have booked the tour through him. We refrained from mentioning that we had tried, and he said there weren't any available...

The young English girls had purchased a rather lovely carpet bag made of a kilim and trimmed with leather. It was very lovely and I admired it, though I thought the price tag of 260L was a little steep. After the girls left, the young woman who was the cook and housekeeper kind of rolled her eyes. I was able to ask her if the girls overpaid, and she thought so. She suggested a more appropriate price of 150L and I was quite excited about the prospect of getting a nice bag. She said she'd take me out to look at bags tomorrow morning. Ok!

We couldn't put off venturing into the downpour any longer as we needed to get to the eczane for more cough syrup before dinner. Cowering under the little umbrella we had purchased yesterday at the market, we scampered back down the hill to get the syrup and then eat again at the Park Cafe, so conveniently situated and -- most importantly -- with a fireplace! We sat right next to the fireplace and splurged on rack of lamb for some 16L. Cok nefis!

Finally we could no longer tarry any longer, and left the comfort of the fire for the cold rain and went back up the hill (!) to the pension where, once again, we fell asleep to the sound of thunder.

Turkey -- Day Sixteen -- Fethiye

2007-11-02T12:53:00.000-07:00

Tuesday October 23, Market Day in Fethiye

We woke up to find the town brilliant in the sunshine, washed clean by wind and rain all night. Over the bay, the clouds looked like there might be storms again later, but we headed up to breakfast feeling very optimistic about the day ahead. Steve wanted to take pictures of the market; I wanted to shop for things! We had decided to not buy much for the first part of the trip in order to travel light, but the shopping portion of the trip was now upon us! Notice the exclamation points? Yes! Very happy about the shopping!

First, though, we were happy about breakfast -- for the first time in the trip, we had a breakfast menu, with options and everything. Not that there is anything wrong with the ubiquitous Turkish breakfast (UTB), but it was nice to see some variety. Steve had a bowl of muselix and yogurt and I had something eggy and delicious. Some young British girls were also looking forward to a day of shopping :-)

Fortified, we walked down the hill, past the carpet seller where we saw that the carpet we had admired last night was soaked, draped over the back of a car. Note to self: not buying carpet from that guy. The bay was beautiful with gullet yachts sparkling in the sea. The cats looked slinky and dogs lay in the sun, catching some rays after the rain on the previous night.

We stopped by a travel agent next to the tourism office where we inquired about our options for seeing Tlos and Saklikent Gorg. We could rent a car for 60L per day plus otogaz at 2.50L per litre or take a tour for 35L each that would include our entry fees and lunch. Hmmm... we decided to decide later. No problem!

We headed across the pier, dodging kitties and dogs, and passed a promising looking restaurant. Walking along the pier some more, we were struck by how... British everything was. We saw menus-boards where the prices were in pounds and advertised 'full British breakfasts' of fried eggs, bread and... bacon. Yes, bacon. Even though we had enjoyed a respite from UTB, we couldn't imagine going to a place with food as good as Turkey and eating what you ate at home! Each to their own, I suppose.

We headed off on the main drag, where the grocery store was, following as best we could the map in the L.P.

After few blocks, we realized we were in a throng of people coming from all streets and converging on a canal that went down and met the pier, or, going away from the water, towards the market! I was practically skipping in excitement at this point and Steve was laughing at me the entire way. As we approached the market, I was a little surprised to see stalls filled with clothes and shoes and cheap, glittery handbags. The entire place was full of Lacoste and Puma knockoffs, some of which were more knocked-off than others. The air was filled with the calls of hawkers and the accents of Coronation Street -- the place was full of British tourists, and the knockoffs were obviously there for their benefit. I was sorely disappointed, much as I do love my Puma sneakers. Steve was disappointed too, until we wandered a little further up the market and found the vegetable seller area, which was amazing. It was like Granville Island on speed to a magnitude of 100, in size and scope, variety and sheer intense colour of the produce. Amazing! I bought a few uzum (grapes), some erik (plums) and an elma (apple) and would have bought a kilo or ten of other produce had Steve not reminded me that we just had breakfast.

Oh, if I only had more words to describe that part of the market! Piles of red peppers glossy and bright, the intensely purple stacks of eggplants (Steve's favourite), the pasta maker stretching out his dough, the skins (some with hair) of fresh cheese, the shouts of the tea-sellers and the fish flashing in the sun on heaps of white ice. If I could have fallen harder for Turkey, I would have at this moment.

After crossing over the bridge again, we found a food seller under an awning and ordered some donair in ekmek and a few Cappy visne suyu. The man's eyes nearly fell off his face when he saw us ordering in Turkish. I'm guessing that doesn't happen very often in a tourist trap like Fethiye. The prices were touristy too, much to our sadness. I think that's the thing about Fethiye: it is stunningly beautiful and the veggie market was darn cool, but overall it made us sad. The Turkish culture was almost entirely subsumed by the culture of the tourists that the town depends on, and it was sad. For cultural travelers like ourselves, it felt like a waste of time.

That said, it was a lovely warm day in autumn, and we wandered away from the market mid-afternoon reasonably full and reasonably content and reasonably happy with a pair of tan-coloured fake Pumas purchased for 25L. We headed back to the travel agency and decided to take the tour after all. Given my level of sickness, the thought of driving around felt a bit exhausting, plus we'd had good experiences with the tours in Cappadocia. We also paid for bus tickets to Selcuk leaving on Thursday afternoon.

The rest of the afternoon we hung around the pension, where Steve did some laundry and I stole internet signals from the vantage point of the rooftop terrace, ate my uzum and drank cough syrup like water. Following the advice of 'Travels with Bill & Nancy', we stopped at the Park Cafe (which didn't seem to be called that from one end of the restaurant; you had to turn around and look at it from the other direction -- weird). To find the Park Cafe, stop at the restaurant that is right across the road from the slightly-excavated Roman theatre that just is THERE in the middle of town, but go to the pier right there, and that cafe is the Park Cafe. It has a fireplace inside, but the night was nice enough to warrant sitting under the awnings right on the pier-side where we enjoyed some really excellent mezes and sis, tavuk for Steve and kuzu for me. Yum!

At the end of the meal, we convinced the waiter to throw the leftovers to the dogs who had waited patiently alongside the table. The little black poodle-y dog basically ran the place, and all the other dogs deferred to it.

Walking back up to the pension (man, those hills were good for my calves!), we felt the air become closer and we knew there were more storms on the way. We were hopeful they'd clear out before our tour the next day since that seemed to be the weather pattern. We fell asleep under blowing muslin curtains, with the crash of thunder drowning out the muzzein.

Turkey -- Day Fifteen -- Cirali to Fethiye (Travel Day)

2007-11-02T12:52:00.000-07:00

Monday, October 22.

The morning dawned... thundery. Steve was still back down at the beach for sunrise, such as it was. I was in bed, coughing.

We had been thinking of leaving a little later in the day in the hopes that it would clear up and we'd get one last swim in, but the bus ride was reported as being a little on the long side (five hours or so to Fethiye) and the weather didn't appear to be co-operative, so we decided to head out of Cirali on the early side, and asked Saban to get us on the dolmus going up the hill at just after 10 am.

Next thing we knew, we were lock stock & barrel (including my bag of wet laundry which hadn't dried due to the thunderstorms) loaded onto a dolmus (for which we paid our 5L each without quibble) and were whisked up to the highway.. in the sun. Yes, the sun came out and we could have maybe managed a last swim, but it was better to be on the way. We had been anticipating a long and warm wait on the side of the road waiting for the bus to Fethiye to arrive, but there it was, parked on the side of the road, waiting for us. Apparently the dolmus driver had called the Fethiye bus to let them know that us and the other couple in the bus were wanting a ride. Awwww!

The bus stopped first in Kumluca, then in the little town of Finike, just past Kumluca, where we had driven through on the way to Myra on Friday. We had pretty much written Finike off as condo hell. If the Beatles had written that the boxes made of ticky-tacky were all the same but painted pretty colours, it would be Finike. I stepped off the bus and found a little shop where I got two ice-creams, two simits, some juice and fruit. We still had the pomegranates in our packs from when the young man had given them to us on the road down to Cirali. We just hadn't had the chance to eat them!

We were back on our way after a short stop, but it didn't stick. We were on the milk run, which is why the trip was going to take so long. By my estimate, if you drove, it would be more like three-four hours. We managed (ok, I managed) the windy bit between Finkike and Demre by virtue of a 1/4 Gravol. People were let off all over the place: bus stations, gas stations, side of the road.

It was quite exciting to pass Demre and into uncharted territory. Inland, we were faced with endless rolling hills, greenhouses, partially built-houses, fully-built houses with solar panels, and mosques and minarets soaring above every little village. It was a lovely drive, and we found ourselves sorry we hadn't stopped for a night or two in Patara, where a few people were dropped off. It was a beautiful area, and, having driven through a thunderstorm, it was also sunny. Next time! We gently envied the couple who got off there.

By the end of the ride, we were envious of pretty much anyone who got to get off the bus.

Pulling into Fethiye at 3:30 in the afternoon, we jumped off the bus in the lovely sun where we stood for a minute, and blinked a bit, and were immediately accosted by a... let's call him a gentleman... who really, really wanted us to stay at his hotel. He was very, very pushy, though Steve bore the brunt of it as I raced for the washroom. Part of the problem was that, truth be told, we didn't actually have reservations in Fethiye. We had gone there without a place to stay, thinking we could easily enough find ourselves a place to stay. Our first planned stop was the tourist information booth, but first we made the unplanned stop of lunch: running the gauntlet of aggressive hotel guys and insistent taxi people, we went across the street to a little greasy spoon. We were the only tourists there and the waiters seemed more than a little puzzled by us, though they agreeably took us over to the kitchen and pointed at food stuff.

To play it safe, we got a set of pide and a salad, all of which were delicious. The best of restaurants: ocooz & nefis (cheap & delicious)! We also got directions to the street where we could catch the dolmus into town. It was one block to the gas station and then we were on the right road... but where to catch the bus? This was our first experience with a wild dolmus, as opposed to the captive ones that run only on one road. We captured our bus by standing in front of a blue sign with a white "D" on it, and waving it down. We were most surprised to see a huge dog on board, but we paid our few kurush, patted the dog, and took a seat. Most of the other passengers who found the dog were less happy about the situation: most passed their money up to the driver, avoiding any contant with the kopek; others refused to get on the bus at all. We ascertained that it was most unusual to see a dog on a bus.

The dolmush only took maybe ten minutes to get into town proper, and it let us off at the tourist office which was right on the main drag. Incidentally, the maps in the Lonely Planet seem to cover much more ground than they actually do. Just as Turkish kilometres seem longer than Canadian ones, the blocks seem shorter. Or something. In any case, it took much less time to walk anywhere in Turkey than the map indicated it ought to, and no time at all to get to the tourist office.

In the tourist office, we met a lovely woman who was surprised as heck that we had any Turkish words at all. We picked up a map, and some interesting pamphlets on Turkish food, and chatted about hotels. We had been thinking to stay at the Horizon Hotel, which seemed to have decent reviews from the LP for the hotels that seemed central to the main part of town (though the reality is that everywhere would have been central). The woman in the tourist office seemed a little reluctant to recommend it, though we weren't sure why. She suggested walking up onto the narrow road that went above the tourist office (accessed by stairs beside the Roman theatre) and see if we liked any of the hostels in that area.

We took the stairs and found ourselves on a little alley absolutely full of cats. The kitties were charming... the little Tan Pansiyon not so much. We walked up the stairs and knocked on things, and yelled 'hello' in English and Turkish, and waited. And waited. And a man came out into the stairway to advise that he was a guest, and the older owners were either asleep or away, but it was a nice place and cheap. We were personally getting a bit of a squiffy feeling from it that was not alleved by the 25L per night charge, and decided to walk on a little to see if we liked anywhere else better.

Half a block down the street, we found ourselves at a crossroads, and just up the hill we saw the Ideal Pension, which had also been noted in the LP as having a retired schoolteacher owner who was very eager to please and provided lots of extras for longer stays. Sure! we thought -- we'll take a look. We walked up the hill and up the stairs, and I was some short of breath by the time we reached the top floor terrace where our host was sitting, smoking. He showed us a room on the second floor, at the front western corner of the building with a double bed crowned by arched window and muslin curtain, and a tiny little patio all to ourselves. I suspect it was the nicest room in the house, based on the glimpse I got of the room next door, which was much darker and had no view.

The room was nice, the terrace had an amazing view, and the price was only 30L per night. plus I was coughing and wanted to get a room so we could go out find some cough syrup. Sold!

I took the wet laundry from my backpack -- that was a long, hard slog up the hill with the weight of wet laundry -- and spread it all over the chair and table on the nice breezy balcony. I also took the coat rack from the room out to act as my impromptu line.

The bathroom in this room was really quite bizarre: the step up into the bathroom was easily two feet tall, which was too tall for comfort even for Steve. In the bathroom, which was all tiles and about 3' by 3' total, the showerhead sprayed right down onto the toilet, which you would have to huddle over in order to wash in the spray. Excellent!

We went and chatted to our host, who may have been newly-retired and eager to please when that entry was first made in the LP... now he was still very nice, but older, and tired, and was not able to arrange any tour to the Saklikent Gorge or Tlos for us, as it was too late in the season. We were pretty sure we'd be able to get a tour through one of the travel agencies down by the tourist information place, or rent a car there if we chose. Besides, we weren't in any hurry as Tuesday was earmarked for the Fethiye Market, which Lisa (whom we had met in Goreme) had said was great: really ethnic and tribal. Cool!

In the face of an impending thunderstorm, we headed out on a mission for dinner and cough syrup. Just down the hill and down the street, after passing a carpet shop with a rather nice selection on the front steps, we found the wharf. We walked down the wharf, passing stray dogs, beautiful wooden gullets and fishermen mending nets while sitting on wooden boxes. It was charming. A little further down, we found a grocery store where we bought some extra t.p. (what was on offer in the bathroom was not particularly heartening), some tissues, a knife to cut our pomegranates, some visne suyu in glass bottles and some Magnums. They did not have a pharmacy, as I found out while frantically flipping through the phrasebook, but there was an eczane across the street and down a bit.

Over at the pharmacy, we were delighted to find out that the pharmacists knew the words for 'wet' and 'dry' coughs, and immediately pulled out a box containing a rather formidible-looking cough syrup for only 6L. We were told later on that pharmacists in Turkey have much more power of perscribing medications without a doctor's script than Canadian pharmacists. The couch syrup wasn't thick or overly sweet, and tasted nicely of vanilla. Mmmm! Thus fortified, we went to find dinner.

By this time we were much more tired than we should have been, given our level of activity. We found a random restaurant on the pier (I think it had orange chairs) and sat down for a very adequate meze and shish. It was all very ok, but we were hungry. We saw on the news on the tv that the US was in trouble over something: we'd caught wind of the situation in Goreme but hadn't had much contact in Cirali, given that my wireless internet didn't work there.

After dinner, we ambled back to the hostel in the rising breeze and were delighted to find that all my clothes were dry. Mind you, my polarfleece jacket smelled a little funny, but oh well. I brought the plastic table from the balcony into the room so that we'd have somewhere to stash our stuff, opened the window above the bed (which made the curtains float in the breeze like some romantic novel), and went to bed.

Turkey -- Day Fourteen -- Cirali

2007-11-02T12:49:00.000-07:00

Sunday, October 21

Steve was up and gone for sunrise Sunday morning early. Again, hypothetical for me. Apparently the sky was threatening, and that I believe because he returned just before the heavens opened and buckets and buckets of rain descended on Cirali.

Fortunately, Cirali is just as beautiful in the rain, if not more so... the hill behind the hotel became a darker, deeper green, shrouded in mist and shadowed by the greyness of the sky. We splashed out onto the rivers running down the tile pathways, which were slippery in flipflops. Fortunately it was still warm, or at least not too cold, and breakfast was delicious... again!

We spent the morning stuffed like sausages, watching the weather and reading trashy novels. It was great, though our laundrey was obviously not going to dry.

As if I could actually be any more relaxed, I set off into the light drizzle for my 11am massage. The rain was light enough to be refreshing and not wet enough to be actual rain for a West Coaster. Steve and I had agreed to meet at the little glass shop at noon after the massage so that we could find somewhere for lunch.

I was greeted at the entry to the garden by the bridge by a handsome young man in a white teeshirt and red thai pants. He was very striking in the vivid greens of the garden. The room I was led to was warm and airy, with pale walls and curtains on the windows. It smelled lovely and I was releived to see a normal massage table with sheets and blankets. I was directed to hooks on the walls to hang my clothes on and managed to get under the sheet just before he came in. I kept my undies on, though frankly, everything was very professional.

There was even Loreena McKennit playing on the stereo -- how Canadian! And relaxing!

I had selected a full body massage for some 40L which was supposed to take an hour. It was lovely. The oils were warm and scented and the masseuse had a nice touch. I wasn't entirely surprised when I was asked to turn over... now I don't want to be alarming -- he was very professional -- but I certainly wasn't covered when he massaged my stomach and ribcage. It was a little disconcerting at first, but I was relaxed and warm and in no danger of any impropriety.

Just be warned, if you're not by nature a comfortable person -- when they say full body massage, they mean FULL body massage.

When I emerged from the little room, it was raining harder, so I hurried over to the glass shop. After waiting for a few minutes, watching the rain bucket down, I popped next door to the grocery store to see if I could use the washroom. I wasn't making much headway until a little contingent from the Canada Hotel showed up: our kindly but silent waiter and several of the woemn who worked there. They made my request more clear and I was shown to a tiny, spotless bathroom at the back of the store. There were bunkbeds in a back storeroom: another example of public vs. private space in every business we saw in Turkey.

I bought a few toiletries and whipped back over to the glass shop where -- the power went out. I stood waiting for Steve, watching the road turn into a river and people leapt from car to shop and back to car, soaking to the skin within seconds. The man in the glass shop courteously brought me a chair, but I couldn't quite sit in it as I was too busy looking for Steve and trembling to the thunder and lightening that shook the little town of Cirali.

According to Steve, he set out at 10 minutes to noon to meet me just as the sky opened up to thunder and biblical rain. He checked by the massage place but was told I had left, then went to the glass shop where... I wasn't.

He must have come by just as I was in the washroom and, not finding me, returned soaked and miserable back to the hotel. When Saban saw his bedraggled state and heard his pitiful "I've lost my wife", our kindly host offered to come find me. The staff had returned to the hotel by this time and told Saban the whereabouts of my last sighting.

All I knew was that through the curtain of rain, I saw Saban leap from his car to the shop next door, getting slightly soaked in the process. I didn't know he was there for me; I just saw a saviour in a sedan who could drive me back to the hotel. I leapt myself, the few steps to next door, getting soaked myself. I quickly asked if I could get a ride back, and when Saban told me he was there for me, I was just delighted. The Canada Hotel is a wonderful place to stay!

Dashing from the car to the hotel common room, I became wetter, but Steve was the wettest. I gave him a huge hug, soaked as he was, as he told me his pathetic tale. Awww, poor wet husband!

We cuddled under covers and read books, listening to the rain and thunder. The hotel had a generator, so the power wasn't a problem. It cleared a little in the afternoon and Steve took a walk down the beach on the other end from the ruins of Olympos, but he couldn't get around the cliffs. I opted to stay in bed, warm and sleepy, and more than a little cough-y.

After another delicious, huge dinner, we decided it was now or never to see the famous Chimera. There are flaming gas jets on the slopes of Olympos which led to the legends of the Chimera, a creature reported as part goat, part lion and part serpent, which the Greek hero Bellerophon killed from the back of the winged horse, Pegasus. The Chimaera breathed fire, and it is this fire which burns on the slopes of Olympos.

Saban offered us our waiter to drive us in a large rattling van. At the bottom of the path that led up the hill, we shouldn't have been surprised to see a ticket booth. We were surprised, though, and even more surprised to realize we hadn't brought any money! After frantically searching our pockets, our kindly driver took pity on us and hauled a 5L note out of his wallet. We thanked him profusely, and taking our hotel-supplied flashlights and our brought-from-home-headlamp, we walked up the stone-lined pathway to the Chimera.

It took less time than suspected to get up, though it wasn't unsteep, and our first glimpes of flames through the trees were very exciting. There were a few other people at the site when we arrived at the top, but they spoke German at each other, looked at some ruins, and left pretty much right away.

We investigated the gas jets, which were really cool. There was a slight smell of methane and you could hear a hissing sound, much like that of a gas stove or fireplace. Some flames were large, like bonfires, and others were no more than a thin blue stream. On some the mix was bad, with orange smokey flames, and others were pure blue.

Apparently they used to be so extensive that they were clearly visible from the sea, and actually formed the picture of the creature of the myths. Even reduced, they were very impressive.

The fires created shadows on the trees and broken ruins around the Chimera and small sounds emerged from the trees. It wa a little spooky. Ok, I found it spooky, and was in a hurry to leave by the time Steve was done taking photographs. At the top of the path, as we were leaving, we had to pass under a tunnel of dense forest where the branches met over our heads. It was exceptionally dark walking into that tunnel and I practically bolted through it. Steve was intensely entertained, and I was distinctly not. More people came up while we were heading down, which made things a little less eerie.

Back at the bottom, we collected our driver, who had been having a nice chat and smoke with the gatekeeper. It was so interesting to drive back through Cirali. As a tourist, we would never have guessed the full extent of the town that stretched much further past the bridge and little built-up area. There were groves, and a mosque, and lots of houses that stretched over the flat area between the mountain and the sea. It would have been a fascinating place to explore -- too bad we were leaving tomorrow!

Back at the hotel, in the warm and scented night, we considered staying more time in Cirali, but we had been four days already and four nights, and we wanted to see the Tuesday market in Fethiye. I also, by this time, wanted to find a place that sold cough syrup.

Hoping for dry laundry by morning, we went to bed sad to leave Cirali.

Turkey -- Day Thirteen -- Cirali & Olympos

2007-11-02T12:48:00.001-07:00

October 20, 2007. Saturday.

I woke up feeling more than a little draggy and congested, so Steve left all on his ownsome to walk down to the beach for sunrise. Apparently it was beautiful, but he woke up every dog in town and his dawn-y ramblings were accompanied by his own personal tragic chorus. He walked all the way down the beach to the ruins of the Roman harbour city of Olympos and poked around briefly before returning to the hotel for breakfast.

This is all heresay, as I wasn't up or awake.

Breakfast was another amazing meal, with the traditional delish breakfast accompanied by more fresh jam and bread. Amazing! We commented to each other that Turkish breakfasts hold us all day, unlike even our healthiest breakfasts at home. Not even 10 grain cereal with fruit, milk, honey & hemp hearts aren't as filling or lasting.

The Canada Hotel had a whole shelf of book exchange and we swapped our Dan Brown and other incomprehensible novel for an A.S. Byatt (less incomprehensible) and a vintage Harlequin (less trashy than D.B., I'm afraid). We spent -- ok, I spent -- the morning lazing around on a poolside lounger. Steve lazed but also splashed around in the slightly chilly pool. Brave man!

Saban returned from Antalya and we were sad to hear that Carrie was staying in town as their daughter had a swim meet. We would have liked to have met her after chatting on Turkey Travel Planner forums... next time! We casually mentioned to Saban that the food, while incredible, was overly plentiful and we were feeling badly for wasting so much of it. Less food woiuld be perfectly acceptable.

We walked down the village again, and I decided to go into the little house with the sign for massages out front. The girl booking didn't speak much English at all, but between my phrasebook and her appointment book, we figured out the masseuse was back tomorrow and I could have a massage at eleven. Paradise!

In the village, we looked around a little grocery store and a shop which contained all kinds of blown glass things -- plates, bowls, tiles, and a whole menagerie of little glass animals. I wanted one -- ok, a zoo of them -- but couldn't quite decide. That and Steve was getting restless in that 'hungry Steve' kind of way. We walked a little further down the road and found a little cafe that advertised gozleme (our new favourite) as well as having divan platforms under trees glossy with ripe oranges and pomegranites. We walked in and sat down (more lounging) on the cushions and an older woman came up to us. After ascertaining that we were foreigners and were there for lunch, she went over to a blanket-covered lump on the divan next door, and woke up the lump... I mean the waitress. Oops! We were sorry to spoil her nap, but she was in pretty good spirits all the same.

We ordered gozleme and our usual visne suyus and settled back on the cushions to unsuccessfully try to convince a kadi to come say hello and take surrepticious pictures of the older woman cooking the gozleme. When they arrived, the gozleme were hot and good, but not superlative like the previous ones... maybe they needed a side of Nevsehir tomatoes!

Replete and un-restless, we walked back through the village to the bridge and turned right towards the beach, where we found a large brown dog who wanted a walk. How did we know he wanted a walk? Because he followed us down the road, around the corner, back to the road when we made a wrong turn, through a restaurant (I know!) and down the beach towards Olympos.

The beach was pebbly and a little challenging to walk on in flip flops since I had to stop every few steps and empty my sandles. I was pretty grouchy by the time we reached the pathway that led away from the tiny lagoon and into the forest wherein lay Olympos. That may have been why the dog abandoned us in favour of a group of people heading in the opposite direction down the beach.

There was no-one at the ticket booth, so we walked right in as noncholantly as possible.

First thing we saw a tomb/ossuary that had belonged to a shipbuilder? Or someone associated with boats, since there was a beautiful carved boat in bias-relief, so detailed it even had a figurehead with flowing hair carved into the prow of the boat.

We walked along stone paths that lead through arches and murky forests sheltering spooky tombs, and over to more ruins including a house with broken pieces of mosaic that were made with black and white pebbles. There was a piece of a temple which was perfectly standing. It seems that when the structures are made of dressed stone blocks they survive, but when it is stone and brick material mortared together, it just crumbles in time. We walked around the back of the temple all the way around some quite intact walls... we would have liked to explore inside but couldn't find a way in.

We found Olympos to be quite extensive though very patchily restored, which actually adds to the charm. It has a magical feel and seeing a series of arches descending into a reflective, reed-fringed pond is positively awestriking.

After making our way up out of the National Park of Olympos, we reached the bottom of the community of Olympos, famed in backpacker circles for cheap lodging and treehouses.

At the bottom end of Olympos, we found a few cafes, another unattended ticket booth and a very well kept washroom (again unattended). I left my 50 kurush on a ledge and walked back down to where Steve was talking to another tourist. Even though I was a little wheezy, we decided to walk a bit on the other side of the river where the ruins continued.

The path was a little rougher, but we saw some beautiful tombs, arches and walls. We left the main path to slither over a bunch of rubble (I was regretting my choice of footwear, though in my defence, this was supposed to be a gentle walk down the beach) to find a theatre and baths. The theatre was nothing much, though the way the jungle was claiming back the arches and walls was quite amazing. The baths were lovely and peaceful and very extensive. We eventually turned back and, upon reaching the main path, decided to try and walk back towards the sea rather than turning and going back up and across the river and back down to the beach. Much to our chagrin, after squishing around in a muddy area, we were back in the baths, but from the other side! Since the thought of navigating the rubble AGAIN was not very appealing, we decided to bushwhack back down to the other side of the lagoon. Fortunately, that was easier than we thought it would be, and we arrived back on the beach only a little wet and muddy.

Back up the beach, through the restaurant, up the road and back to the hotel, where there was more lounging, reading and coughing before dinner.

Saban ignored us. Completely. Dinner was another five mezes, plus salad, bread, soup and another main course. Everything was cooked to perfection and delicious, and again we ate maybe half of it. Oh well -- we tried.

Another early night and we hoped the next day would bring some swimming in the ocean and less coughing for me.

Turkey -- Day Twelve -- Cirali & Myra

2007-11-02T12:46:00.000-07:00

Friday, October 19

We woke up to a beautiful sunny day, excited over the prospect of jeep day! Actually, I was a little nervous about driving... Turkey is right-hand drive, so at least that is the same as Canada, but Turkish drivers are... well, our observations of Turkish drivers showed a whole lot of not paying attention to signs/lights/speed limits/pedestrians. I was actually worried about being too polite and being honked off the road due to my cautiousness. Knowing that drivers of all kinds do, in fact, honk at people going too slow in front, I figured I'd be pulling off a LOT.

Breakfast, our first at the Canada Hotel, was delicious, and we ate a whole loaf of bread that was served with a bowl of cherry jam and some dry grated cheese, like Parmesan cheese. We didn't get the point of the cheese, but the jam was superb.

Getting into the Samauri, we were delighted to be in familiar ground. Well, familiar except for the functioning soft top and doors, that is -- it was strange to be in a Samauri and not have bungee cords brushing the tops of our heads, or reaching for the screwdriver to open the driver's side door.

The plan was to drive the coastal road over to the ruins of Myra in the modern city of Demre, and then catch the Friday fruit & veggie market in the town of Kumluca on our way back to Cirali.

It was with great anticipation that we turned left on the highway from the road down to Cirali. We noted a gas station about ten minutes out of town as a good place to fill up on the way back in. The vehicle was given to us with a half tank of gas and we were to bring it back with the same amount in it... this seemed a bit of a crapshoot as it would be difficult to know exactly how much to put in. Oh well, worries for later!

Coming down the hill towards Kumluca presented a very strange sight... it looked like the entire delta was awash in grey sand dunes. It wasn't until we were much closer that we realized we were seeing the grey tops of glass & plastic greenhouses covering (it seemed) every square inch of the fertile soil. The thrill of seeing the blue Mediterranean glinting past the greenhouses was still present -- that's the MED!!!

Driving was fine until I reached Kumluca. Turkish streetlights are arranged horizontally, and the yellow lights appear to warn you of both impending red lights AND impending green lights. That means that if you aren't actually in motion when the green comes on, you are obviously a lazy, inattentive tourist and deserve to be honked at promptly. Which we were. Being honked at (or rather 'trumpeted' at) by a large white bus that dwarfed the little jeep made me miss the turn which would have taken me to the highway along the water. Instead, I went straight and ended up driving through the rural districts slightly inland from the highway. We were looked at very strangely as we bombed along the little roads, dodging brightly-painted trucks carrying produce. I guss most lazy, inattentive tourists still figure out where to turn left!

Fortunately, the road coincided with the highway again at Finike, which is where the windy part started. When Saban had told the drive to Demre would be over an hour from Kumluca (which is 1/2 hour from Cirali), we thought he must be kidding... it wasn't that far in terms of kilometres. We weren't considering how very, very, very windy the road was. It was 50 kilometres per hour, the whole way... much to the dismay of the giant bus behind me. I managed to occasionally put on a big spurt of speed on a straightish stretch and get out of its way, but it was pretty relieved to put the pedal down and pass me, just as we were emerging from the crinkled road onto the straight stretch beside a big bay full of fishing boats.

Did I mention that Turkish people don't just pass on the straight stretches? Yeah.

Demre is just past Kale, named for the fortress high on the cliff overlooking Demre. We took a bit of a wrong turn off the highway in Demre and ended up on a stretch of road that seemed to lead to the St. Nicholas church. Demre is the birth place of Santa and they've made some serious hay out of that particular fact, though not as much as a North American city would have. All in all, we were very impressed at how non-touristy most of the tourist attractions were.

Getting on the right road was as easy as asking passerby "nerede Myra?" and we were pointed in the right direction to the cliffs behind the town, carved into which were some beautiful Lycian rock tombs, and the very well preserved Roman theatre of Myra.

You can learn more about the Lycian culture here: http://www.lycianturkey.com/lycian_tombs.htm

We parked in a little parking lot beside a cafe where we were told by the cafe keepers that there was free parking. We thought there might be a catch and there was: the visne suyu was 3L per can! Craziness! Oh well. The bathroom was clean.

We walked up a gauntlet of tourist shops which was festooned with trinkets and shaded by trees. The greenhouses crowded close on both sides. There were little dried gourds which rattled when you shook them and were painted to look like a very folksy Santa Clause. I really wanted one but Steve was dubious.

We poked around the theatre for a bit amongst the crowds, then hiked up the theatre, around the back, down to the tombs, past some chunks of carved rock and then back to the theatre where, like magic, the tour buses had sucked their inhabitents back into place and driven off, leaving us to enjoy the theatre on our own for a few minutes before the next group came in. Even when full of people, Myra is a magical place. To ourselves, it was superb.

Walking out, I inquired as to the price of the shaker-Santas, but decided 8L was too much for a dried squash. Oh well. The ice-creams in the cafe by the parking lot were even more overpriced than the juice, so we declined them too.

The fortress on the hill beckoned, but we were advised that the hike was rather steep. That in itself wasn't a bad thing, but it was getting rather warm. Way back in the hills, though, a road made a scar across the mountainside and we thought it might be worth it to take a look.

Up and over a bridge across a perfectly dry riverbed (they were mining it for gravel), we turned a sharp left to see if we could see the start to the Lycian Way, a new hiking trail that goes some 500 kilometres between Fethiye and Tekirova. We eventually found the start of the trail, which began at the riverbank and looked to climb straight up the mountainside to meet with the road.

I am truly my father's daughter: there is something about being behind the wheel of a 4x4 that makes me want to drive it UP. We hemmed and hawed a bit, but eventually decided that even if it were a dirt road going up the mountain, we had to take the chance and do a "little look-see." Back to the bridge we went, and took a left along a little road that looked like it would lead up the hill. Much to our surprise and delight, the road was smooth and paved, and at least 1.5 jeeps wide. It was only from below that it looked like a glorified goat-track. No guard-rails though, and it would have been a long drop if we'd missed a corner. We eventually saw where the Lycian Way crossed the road, and, at a hairpin bend, we stopped and got out to look at the wide, wide expanse of greenhouses and the blue sea beyond. Standing on a newly built cement cistern, looking at the view, we heard the gentle thonking of goat bells approaching until a river of black goats flowed over the road and dropped out of sight in the scrub below, leaving only distant thonking in their wake.

A little further up the road, we came to the tiny (TINY) village of Beloren, which had wonderful timber-frame barns that looked about 800 years old. The road split here: the paved road went straight, or a rocky dirt road went right, through the village and into the hills. Really, it was no contest. We eased into 4-high and turned right. We had the intention of just seeing what we saw, and also -- if it were possible -- to find the Church of the Archangel Gabriel, which is a ruined church on the Lycian Way which is in utter ruins but still quite beautiful, according to the Lonely Planet. What the heck! We'd go as far as we made it, and hope not to wreck the rental. The few locals we saw looked incredibly shocked to see us up there.

The road was very rough, covered in large, orange, sharp-looking rocks, but at least the dry climate meant that wash-outs would presumably be not much of a problem. We took it slowly and gently, and I was glad to have the four wheel drive. We passed all kinds of dry streambeds, pine trees and others that look just like Arbutus trees only with greyer stems, a tiny little village (three houses and a barn), some tumbledown stone walls and sometimes the flashes of red and white paint that indicated the crossings of the Lycian Way.

Steve read from the L.P that we were following the 'Unbelievers Road' which was a path early Christians would take to come up to the glorious Church of the Archangel Gabriel on pilgrimage. Given the steepness of the terrain, I could see how walking up here would smack of penance.

We basically kept right, or west, and after just-not-quite-too-far (just to the next corner, ok? Ok. So... just to the NEXT corner, ok? Ok.), we found ourselves looking over a little valley just full of rubble on the ground, and we could see a few standing arches. We had found the Church of the Archangel Gabriel, just where it should be.

We parked on the side of the road below some beehives, and set off on the gentle walk down the hill towards the church.

This area had once been an important Christian centre (given that St. Nicholas was Bishop of Myra), and even from the road, we could tell the church had once been impressive. We walked down a dry and barren field of rocks and poop -- yes, poop, which was not surprising given the dozens and dozens of goats wandering around the little valley. Both in sandals, we joked that at least it was a dry poop.

We picked our way down the valley from the road to the ruin, which wasn't that far, but seemed farther since we had to pick our way through the rocks. We gave up on avoiding the poop. We passed a barking dog, and several wild-looking cows, one of which was chewing on a piece of plastic. Mmmm... tasty!

When we reached the ruin proper, it was just amazing. One main wall was still standing, which contained several arches. The size of what remained hinted at the grandeur this building would have had when complete, and to have such a structure this far back in the hills was inspiring. You could imagine pilgrims walking all the way up and catching their first sight of a fully-formed church in the middle of what is otherwise a dry and howling wilderness -- wow.

There were a few other partial walls, and some carved panels, and a well. Just lying on the ground beside the well was a carved piece of stone the size of my palm, in the shape of a leaf. I really, really wanted that piece of stone. Bearing in mind Turkey's protective (understandably) view of its antiquities, and the lack of amenities in its jails, I abstained from actually taking it and just took photos instead. I hope someone else goes up to that church and gets to stand amongst the remains of a profound structure and hold that stone leaf in their hand and have the same frisson of wonder that washed over me.

As we were poking around, a woman and her son came down to the other side of the ruins and appeared very surprised to see us. We greeted her with a friendly "merhaba" and she merhaba-ed back, and left again after a few minutes. We walked back around that direction on our way out, and found another well set up as a trough for animals, and a sick goat sitting in the shade of a wall. The locals had piled up some of the stones from the ruins to make themselves fences for their stock and we thought why not? On one hand, it's nice to have everything stay where it fell and create a monument... on the other, why shouldn't the locals use the stones for a living purpose? It's not as if they can eat monuments.

Walking back up the hill, we got barked at some more by a dog who never came quite close enough to be a threat -- silly kopek! The cows looked all goggle-eyed at us again, and the bees buzzed around again, and every midge, mosquito and blackfly in the valley had collected around us. The temptation was huge to keep going past the Church, and try to make it all the way back to Kumluca by the back road, but we had no idea how long it would take and wanted to get back to Cirali in time for another delicious dinner. We jumped into the car and zoomed back down the hill.

At the unnamed little village, a small, white moppy-looking dog appeared by the side of the jeep. We told him we couldn't take him home, and he seemed to disappear. A few hundred metres down the road, though, there was a man on a motorcycle talking to some kids on the roadside. He guestured wildly, and the little dog tore past the jeep and towards the man. He picked up the dog, and held it out to us as we stopped beside him. We couldn't tell what he was saying, and since we had been offered several cats for purchase, we declined whatever he was offering, just in case he was selling us the dog. He kept guesturing and talking in rapid Turkish, and the village kids were smiling and laughing, but we kept saying no, and eventually drove on. I suspect, after all, that he was asking us to give the dog a ride back down to Beloren, since it followed us along the road the entire way. It seemed impossible, especially as I really sped up in the straightaways trying to lose it, but it always managed to follow along behind, and would appear in the rear view mirror as soon as I slowed down again. It was some four or so kilometres to Beloren and it made it the entire way at a run. We were a little afraid it would try to follow us further, but a group of village boys in Beloren came out and ran behind the jeep themselves for a little distance, and presumably they picked up the dog. It was very cute, and very tenacious, and probably had a grand afternoon out, first following the motorcycle and then the jeep.

Back down the paved road we flew, stopping at the cistern again for a look at the amazing view, and then back into town. As we were driving along, we passed a little store with a Magnum cooler out front, and stopped for icecream. While we were getting into the car, and old man came up to us and asked a bunch of questions in Turkish, which (as usual) we didn't understand. He kept repeating 'Demre, Demre' and Steve figured out that he just wanted a ride all the way into town. He clambered into the back while I looked up the words for 'stop' and 'let me out' so that we would know where get wanted to get out. Fortunately, he tapped me on the shoulder a few kilometres down the road; we stopped and let him out, and he was very pleased and thanked us many times.

We then drove over to the Church of St. Nicholas, but realized that we were tired and dirty and midge-eaten, and didn't really want to go inside after all. Plus we thought we could still make the veggie market in Kumluca if we hurried.

This time I kept right/seaward through Finike and we followed the highway along the coast all the way to Kumluca. I had a small moment of panic when I realized that I was driving beside a police car and I didn't know the speed limit! Except when entering town, where there is a 70kph sign immediately followed by a 50kph sign, there are no speed limit signs. Certainly not one that tells when to speed up or how fast to go when you get there. I decided to drive the same speed as a truck with a man sitting in the back, though I fully expected him to get pulled over too. I should have known better -- Turkey seems pretty relaxed about safety considerations like seatbelts.

When we got to Kumluca, and drove along the main road where the market was supposed to be, traffic was quite busy and there didn't appear to be any parking. We decided we had done enough for the day without looking at some vegetables, and would just travel on back to Cirali.

The gas tank was just about empty, so we stopped at a gas station where I made a lucky guess as to the correct location of the gas tank. The attendent came right over, took the keys, knew what gas to pump (stations still carry leaded gas, as well as diesel), and I was even able to explain that I wanted 15 (on-besh) LITRES not 15 LIRA, which would have been like five litres of gas. I figured that would give us half a tank and we could put another litre or two in a little closer to Cirali.

We stopped briefly at an overlook coming out of Myra to catch the sunset colours over the Med. Lovely!

To our surprise and dismay, the gas station closer to Cirali was closed, and we figured we would be assessed a penalty for not bringing it back right at a half tank. Oh well, not much to do about it at that point.

Back at the Canada Hotel, Saban had gone into Antalya to hang out with Carrie and the kids, so his assistant and waiter served us up another huge meal of homemade lentil soup (which was divine, and I don't like lentils), fives mezes AGAIN plus salad, and then a delicious fried fish each. I thought I was going to pop, I ate so much AGAIN. Good thing we walked a bunch.

We just about had the energy to wash the poop-dust off our legs and crawl into our comfy bed. Bliss!

Turkey -- Day Eleven -- Cirali

2007-11-02T12:44:00.000-07:00

Oct 18, Thursday

Waking up on the bus was... not the most pleasant experience. We knew by the time we got to Cirali at mid-morning, we'd be very pleased we didn't waste a day on that long stretch of bus travel, but waking up stiff and, in Steve's case, bitten, was a tiny bit sucky. Getting off the bus to be greeted by a guy yelling 'Olympos Cirali Dolmus' was actually pretty great, since it meant we didn't have to wander around looking for the right bus.

The first thing we noticed was that the air was blissfully, balmily WARM. Probably 20 celcius, even at eight in the morning, and it smelled like honey and deisel.

We paid our -- what, six lira each? -- and walked to the other side of the terminal where we sat in an empty dolmus. It didn't stay empty for long, and when it was truly dolmushed, we left at about 9 am. It tootled along a four-lane highway towards the ocean, when, unexplicably, it turned off onto the dirt on the side of the road and stopped with a bunch of other dolmi (?) where everyone got out to buy simit at a little simit cart parked on the side of the highway. It was quite startling to see cars just... stopping on the side of the freeway to buy simit. Ah, I love Turkey!

After a brief stop, we went back on the highway heading to Cirali. The road was wind after wind, and after about an hour, I was ready to haul out the Gravol but lo! with a two minute stop on the side of the road, we were punted out and left in the now-hot sun at the top of a road that seemed quite a bit more than seven kilometres from the sea.

There were two vehicles parked at a little lookout at the top of the road, and we thought they might be dolmusler (my understanding of Turkish plurals is limited) and they even had little 'Cirali' signs. However, we had previous warning from a different travelogue that there was a proper, cheap dolmus and a more expensive quasi-dolmus, and we were determined not to be taken in.

When pressed, the dolmus driver admitted it was 20L to take us to the village of Cirali but we were welcome to wait until a few more people to show up. Maybe we were overtired and grumpy, but that seemed a little ridiculous -- we only paid 12 to come from Antalya!

We decided to walk. Yes, walk. Seven kilometres to Cirali.

It wasn't as ridiculous as it sounds, now: it was only mid-morning, our packs were still light, we had comfy sandals to put on, and heck -- it was only seven klicks, downhill.

We set off and were amazed all over again at the scent of the air. The pine forest combined with fruit trees, the heat on the road, passing orchards of oranges and red pomegranates, barking dogs, crowing chickens: it seemed like paradise, and it smelled of milk and honey.

After a few kilometres, we came to a small cafe on the side of the road. Since our simit breakfast seemed a long time ago, we decided to stop for 'gozleme', a kind of stuffed crepe we had heard was good.

The proprieters were a little surprised to see people coming by, on foot, at eleven am, but set to with a will. They had a cunning little samovar with a fire underneath to heat the hot water, with the teapot on top, kept from overbrewing by distance from the heat. We drank tea, and much to our surprise, were brought a huge fresh tomato, sliced on a plate. We were told it was a tomato from the wife's mother in Nevsehir and we were told it was the best tomato we'd ever have, and they were right. It was the penultimate tomato, and we ate it sliced with a dusting of cilantro under a grape arbour in a land where the very dirt smelled of spice. The gozleme were good too, but the tomato... ah, the tomato!

The entertainment for the meal consisted of a darling little girl, maybe four years old, who kept appearing at my elbow, staring up with long-lashed eyes and sniffling gently from a cold. Her parents eventually plunked her down on a chair a few feet away where she could look to her heart's content without actually being attached to me, but it didn't stick. It got to the point where she was clutching at my arm with her head leaning against my shoulder, spreading adorable little germs all over my sleeve... she was too cute to push away, so I wiped her nose as best I could and drank my tea.

Best of all, Murat, our host, who was driving his little girl down to town to attend mother-school, offered to pile us into his minivan and take us down to Cirali. Good things happen to those who stop and eat domates. On the way down, Murat talked to us about Mevlana and the holy nature of Sufis in his very limited English. Much to my annoyance, my Rough Guide Phrasebook didn't have ANY words to describe religious feelings like sacred or holy -- not that we're terribly religious ourselves, but we wanted to describe to Murat the amazing things we had seen. Stupid phrasebook!

Did I mention the tomato?

We were dropped right at the door to the Canada Hotel, which seemed a heck of a lot farther than seven kilometres from the road. We were greeted by Saban who, with his Canadian-born wife, Carrie, owns the Canada Hotel. The hotel appeared, at first glance, to be a little slice of paradise itself. The bluest pool, backdrop by the nearby mountainside, alongside a covered cabana, which was next to a lovely green space separated from the road by the pink hotel itself. There were chickens and bunnies, and trees growing oranges and bananas, and hammocks dotted in the shade. Hamukkale! we cheered when we saw the hammocks.

We were shown to our room, which was cool and peaceful, with a little balcony looking over the green garden and a spotless bathroom with a nice shower stall. We appeared to be the only guests. After a little nap, we changed into swimming clothes and set out to find the Mediterranean.

The Canada Hotel is a short walk from the village proper, and it took us just a few minutes to reach the bridge, while dogs and cats came out to greet us, and chickens crossed the road over and over again. At the bridge was a sign advertising a massage place and I resolved to avail myself of those services while in Cirali.

After the bridge began the main village, which comprised a little grocery store, a glass-blowing place, a few car-rental places (including one renting a white Suzuki Samurai), and about a million little restaurants and cafes. We walked down a little road and then cut down another road to the right, towards the beach, which was everything you can imagine in a beach: long, long expanse of white sand, actual turquoise waters (Turkey = turquoise), beautiful wooden gullet yachts moored offshore, and a whole bank of white beach loungers.

We set ourselves up on a lounger and eventually abandoned our beach towels (handily provided by the Canada Hotel) and headed for the water. The beach was a little pebbly, and I minced across the stones towards the water, where Steve had already thrown himself in. I took a little longer, though the water was very warm. Once I was in, it was glorious. The water was clear, clear, clear and the sky was blue, blue, blue, and the salt was heavy on our lips. We splashed around and goofed around and had a wonderfully honeymoon sappy time, floating together in the bouyant sea.

The sea seemed endless and the sun sparkled on the water. We eventually tore ourselves out of the surf and staggered back up to the lounger, where we baked in the sun for a little while. It was very comfy, though we kept wondering when the boy asking for money for the privilege of lounging was going to come along. He never did, and we decided to head back to the main part of town and look for icecream! Yay, dondurma!

After looking in too many empty coolers (I guess only crazy tourists get icecream in October), we finally found Magnums, which are kind of like a Sensation bar, but better. Mmmm... icecream on a stick! We wandered slowly back to the hotel, eating icecream and dodging chickens, looking forward to many more dips in the deep blue Med.

We asked the Samarai-renter how much for a day, and he said 70L, which was cheaper than we expected. When he asked where we were staying, and we told him, he told us Saban was his cousin. Now, we'd been in Turkey long enough to know that everyone has a brother/uncle/cousin, and all those relatives want to sell you something, so we took that with a grain of salt. When we talked to Saban, though, it turns out to be true! Saban had grown up in the tiny town of Cirali, so, when he met Carrie (originally from Calgary), it made sense for them to come back and have a hotel in his hometown. Carrie was staying in Antalya with the kids, who go to school there.

After discussion, we decided to rent the little Samurai. No credit card, no deposit... the guy just came to the hotel with the jeep and the keys, I turned it on to make sure it went, and we did an entirely irrelevent walk around it (in the dark) to see about damage. None that we could see! It was a 1992, and white, and had a working top, but other than that it was pretty much identical to our little jeep at home. This was going to be fun!

Having jeep-acquired, we sat down for our first dinner. We were first brought steaming bowls of homemade cream of tomato soup, which was divine. Then no less then five mezes were brought out, each more delicious than the last, in addition to fresh salad and exquisite bread. We stuffed ourselves stupid. The main course was a blur of tastyness, and then dessert! Craziness!

We rolled ourselves up to our room and collapsed in a pair of overstuffed lumps, where we slept soundly on comfy beds. The only thing that disturbed us was my occasional cough...

Turkey – Day Ten -- Konya (Wednesday)

2007-11-02T12:42:00.000-07:00

October 17, Konya

Another chilly morning in Goreme: clear and cold. We woke up early to make sure we'd be at the bus station for our 8am bus and packed up. Our laundry was done, but smelling slightly of Russian tobacco. Still, the 10L seemed well spent, and went directly to the Russian's wife, who also offered us a US dollar if we'd take Pakize, the kitten, with us. Tempting! but customs might not approve... Andor and his wife were to be leaving in November for Japan for a few months, and I hoped the kitten would keep her home (though considering how much the kids loved her, I think she'll be fine).

We watched the balloon parade again... and watched the purple balloon go down in Goreme village... again. We were pretty glad we opted not to take a balloon ride... again!

We made our goodbyes to Kevin, the kitty, Andor and the sleepy Canadians. After a yummy, and early, breakfast, we were a bit surprised that Andor didn't offer us a ride to the bus, considering he had driven the Korean girls down the hill, but oh well. He did tell us that the bus was unlikely to come before 8:15, so we had lots of time to walk. Um, thanks!

We walked into town, faintly disbelieving that we were actually leaving Goreme: we had a lovely time and could easily have stayed another day, so we weren't even worried if we missed our bus. The bus was, however, almost an hour late, so we couldn't have missed it if we tried. We were put on a minibus to Nevsehir and then took the big bus to Konya. Steve was a little alarmed at a tuvalet stop: I had gone to the bathroom, and was met at the door to the washroom by the bus attendent, who hurried me back to the bus. I jumped onto the bus at the back as it started pulling away, only to see Steve standing up saying WAIT my wife! It's ok, I'm here! Once again, we were impressed by the bus service in Turkey: our 4.5 hour bus ride cost 20L each and we were again treated to tea and drinks, cookies and kolonya. What service!

The trip was otherwise uneventful, and arriving in Konya, we headed straight to the Nevsehir counter to buy our tickets to Antalya. The departure time was *shudder* 1:30am! Yuck! Fortunately, there was a rather nifty luggage-leaving place where they stored our bags in a watched room for some 3L per bag.

Light-shouldered and light-hearted, we walked a few hundred metres out of the otogar to the tram station, where we purchased two cards that said '2' on them for two lire each. We weren't quite sure what the ticket-seller meant by them, as we could tell from the transit map in the tram that we got on at the border of one zone to where we wanted to go. Hmmm...

We got off at the last stop, which was Aladdin's Hill, and stepped out into our first big city since Istanbul. Konya has some 600,000 and is noted for being Turkey's "Bible Belt" (um... Koran Belt?) where people are notoriously conservative. The first thing we noticed was that drivers were actually paying attention to traffic lights. Facinating! This must be a conservative city!

Knowing Konya was fairly conservative, I had worn a long-sleeved shirt. I was pleased to see lots of women in tshirts, even some in skirts that came to the knee (though with heavy black tights). The university crowd comes to Alladin's Hill to hang out and picnic, so perhaps that was the prevailing influence.

After a brief stop at a pharmacy (eczane) to get some deoderant and contact lens solution (for 15L!), we decided to get lunch at a 1L tavuk doner stand. Along with some seftali suyu (peach juice) and a small bag of freshly-roasted pistachios, we headed back onto Aladdin's Hill for a picnic ourselves. Aladdin's Hill is a small conical park right in the middle of Konya. The tram comes from the university, past the otogar, and rings the hill before heading back out to the otogar etc. There were paths, and grass, and benches, and some mighty plump-looking pigeons. A young entrepreneur tried to sell us a wilted rose which he had obviously just picked from the flowerbed. We declined.

We had a delicious lunch and felt refreshed after our longish bus ride, and set out on foot to find the market area, the Mevlana Museum and a little felt store called Ikonium.

From where we had gotton on the Hill, I figured we were fairly near the road that we needed to take, so we started walking around the hill. We walked quite a while, but didn't really realize why we weren't finding the road to take until we saw the same mosque... again! We asked a passerby and found out we had actually ringed the hill and were now on the exact opposite side of where we needed to be. *sigh* Fortunately it was a pleasant walk!

The bazaar area was nice, all kinds of winding streets, but I was determined to find the Ikonium store, which the L.P. says is having a new take on the tradition of felt-making. After some getting lost, some asking directions, and some escaping the clutches of the carpet salesman who provided the directions, we found the store. We were greeted by Rahbia, the Argentinian wife of Mehmet, the felt-maker, who showed us the process, the workers, the merchandise and a BIG plate of sekker treats. It was deeply, deeply cool, and we were so pleased we found the place (even Steve, who was a little dubious). Since they were going to be working into the night trying to finish up an order of traditional sufi dervish hats, we decided to leave our purchases (and the snacks) behind, and go to the Mevlana Museum while we could, and then return in the evening to pick up our stuff and hang out some more.

The Museum was only a five-minute walk away, and was flanked by a beautiful mosque. We paid our entrance fee, and were immediately overcome by the loveliness of the courtyard with its ablution fountain, green grass, and slinky kitties. Some of you may recall that we had Helen Tripp, our officient, read a few poems from a medieval Turkish poet, Rumi: Mevlana Celaleddin Rumi was a 13th Century mystic who founded the Sufi (Whirling Dervish) order, as well as being a lovely poet. He lived and died on Konya, which houses his remains and those of his disciples in a complex which contains a shrine, a dervish dance-hall, living quarters, mosque and, since 1927, a museum.

Besides the whole poetry thing, which we found inspiring at our ceremony, Rumi was also an incredibly wise and profound religious leader. You can learn more about Rumi at: http://www.mevlana.net/.

""Come, come again, whoever you are, come!
Heathen, fire worshipper or idolatrous, come!
Come even if you broke your penitence a hundred times,
Ours is the portal of hope, come as you are." Rumi

After taking a number of pictures of the exterior of the 13th C Mevlana Mausoleum with its turquoise-topped minaret, we spurned the blue plastic shoe covers, and opted to take off our sandals before entering the mausoleum. You're not allowed to take pictures inside the museum, which is a shame, as there were many wonderful things to look at. We saw silk-and-silver carpets, silk clothes that actually belonged to Rumi (700 years old!) that were still bright and lusterous, korans of every variety, the tombs of Rumi and his followers... oh, and our guide. No, we didn't enter the museum with a guide, but we ended with one. As we were oohing and aahing over the goodies in the glass cases, a man told us what we were seeing, and then directed us to look at another case, and another... it dawned on Steve and I at the same time that he wasn't a nice guy educating some awestruck tourists: he was just wearing his guide-id badge tucked into his shirt.

We didn't mind too much, though. He was knowledgeable and didn't rush us (except a little at the end).

One of the things that was nice is that he explained the meaning of a little fountain in the front yard: the first ledge symbolizes the person who enters the world alone, then the two ledges are meeting ones' spouse, then three ledges for a spouse and children, then the children leave (two ledges), then your pass out of the world alone. Without him, we thought it was a pretty fountain.

We offered him 10L because it was all that we had! He accepted with good grace and offered to wait for us so he could show us his 'brother's store' where we could buy some postcards (since I had advised that was all we were buying in Konya).

After the tour, we hung around taking some more pictures, and walking around the back of the building, until we were kindly informed by a security guard that the museum closed at 5. We thought it was 5:30 (or at least the L.P. said it was!) so apologized profusely. No wonder the guide was rushing at the end -- the place was closing!

We were led to the brother's store, which principally sold china, like the kind for sale in Avanos. We declined, which forced the owner to dig in a dusty old box, from which he produced a handful of postcards. We bought three or four, and escaped without any pottery.

After a quick stop by an ATM, we headed back to Ikonium, where we were treated to tea, more candy, and as many pictures as our cameras could hold. The girls making the scarves were a little leery of having their pictures taken, but were good-natured all the same. We chatted a bit with Mehmet and Rahdia, who showed us the partially completed sufi hats -- very cool! I desperately wanted to make a scarf, and if we had been spending the night in Konya, I would probably have begged my way into the shop to do just that! Oh well -- when we win the lottery, I'll go back and make a scarf!

We asked the Ikonium people for a good and cheap lokanta (ucuz (ojoos) and nefis (nef-ees)), and they recommended the Damla Restaurant -- I don't know exactly where it is, except for just around the corner from Ikonium, and it has a green and yellow sign. The food was amazing! I had a kuzu something that was very good, but Steve had a local specialty (finir something or other) that was the most tender and tasty mutton. Damn! it was good.

We headed back to the main street and walked back up to Aladdin's Hill. The streets were quiet and a bit eerie. We didn't feel unsafe, exactly, but just a little more aware. The tram came along promptly, and we were pleased to find out that the transit cards we had been given were actually good for two trips! So we got to ride back to the otogar on the same ticket. Yay!

Our bus left at 1:30am and we wanted to make sure we'd be back in plenty of time, so we arrived back at the otogar at about 9:30pm, thinking four hours wasn't too long to wait. We weren't counting on the most rock-hard and horrible of seats, or the slightly creepy guy who stared at me while Steve slept, or the constant smoking by other waiitng people. Well, it wasn't that bad, but the seats were Really Very Uncomftable.

We were entertained by a young man who had done the tour guide training but ended up as a sales person for a company that made... farming equipment? We were tired. He was very happy to practice his English skills and we had a nice chat for a half-hour or so. He told us that when he was in university, sometimes if he was short on money, he'd come and sleep in the otogar as it was warm and safe. He must have a bum of steel! He was waiting for a Sekker Bayrami package to come on the bus from his family; he hoped it was food :-)

At about 1pm, we moved over to the berth the bus was due to come in on. At quarter after, we were approached by a young man in a suit (which means nothing, as even the guy with the dustpan is wearing a suit), who asked us if we were taking the Nevsehir bus to Antalya. We replied yes, and he told us to follow him, which we did. To the other side of the building, then out the building, across the parking lot, across the street... we were getting a little nervous, and he was on his cellphone the whole time, and I occasionally caught the word 'turista', which didn't help my suspicion level.

Fortunately, the bus pulled up on the side of the road a few minutes later: I guess it didn't want to go all the way into the otogar when we were the only passengers. We climbed aboard and into our seats, where we happily fell asleep. We were awakened in the night a few times -- me by feeling something crawling on my shoulder; Steve by something biting his hand three times. We came to the conclusion it must have been either a spider, a wasp or, most likely, a scorpion, but since he crushed it and threw it away, we didn't know. The bites were uncomfortable but not life-threatening (as I'm sure you guessed).

All in all, it was a slightly sucky evening, followed by a more-than-slightly sucky night on the bus, but it was still better than wasting precious waking hours being on a bus. We knew we'd be happy in the morning when we would reach Cirali in time to take a dip in the Mediterranean.