Selcuk and Ephesus

Living in a foreign country for an extended period of time, you sometimes feel like you're fitting right in with the locals in terms of your daily life. Playing football with fellow university students, going for a drink in Kizilay on a Friday night...these elements of routine make you occasionally forget your foreignness and help you pretend that you're just like any other Turk. But when you tell your students, "Hey, guys, this weekend I'm going to Selcuk and Efes, and we're going to see the ruins, and the camel-wrestling championships! Doesn't that sound cool?" and they just roll their eyes, you can just tell they're thinking one thing: Yabanci. Foreigner. Sure, they've been to Efes (Ephesus, in English) themselves, and maybe even seen the camel-wrestling. But you've got that gleam in your eye, the little bit of Orientalism creeping in. Camels...wrestling! Won't that be exotic?

You learn not to care, though, and enjoy yourself regardless. So with that in mind, a group of us (Kevin, Suparna, Tania and I, followed on the bus by Hannah) headed off on Friday for Izmir, a city on Turkey's North Aegean coast. Formerly Smyrna, Izmir has a lot of history, or so I'm told, but what it is nowadays is basically a huge modern city, third only to Istanbul and Ankara in terms of population, and home to many of my (mostly rich and secular) students. We didn't get to explore it much, though, because it was just a stopover point, a place to crash after getting a late-night flight. Our hotel room was cold, reeked of cigarettes, and cost 25TL ($16...ridiculous, I know!), a far cry from the hospitality we were to see in Selcuk. There, just an hour and a half's minibus ride away, we found the ANZ (short for Australia New Zealand) Guesthouse. The name confused us until we met Harry, a Turk who apparently grew up in Australia and has the accent to prove it. Friendly and welcoming, not to mention only 16TL ($10), the ANZ is the place to stay if you're in Selcuk.

Selcuk's a small place, its main draw being its proximity to Ephesus, as well as a few historical sites in the town itself. Ephesus is literally just 3km away, so we borrowed bikes from the hostel (free! thanks, Harry!) and pedaled our way over there on Saturday morning. The bikes had seen better days—most were dual suspension mountain bikes that once must have been pretty expensive, but now were rusting and losing pedals and the ability to change gear. Nevertheless we persevered, arriving around noon on a beautifully sunny day. Ephesus is quite something. I've seen a bunch of a Roman cities after spending a summer in Jordan and five months in Turkey, so nothing completely blew me away, but Ephesus was probably the most complete, best-preserved city I've seen, beating out Perge in Southern Turkey and Jerash in Jordan. I certainly don't know much about Roman architecture, but I was very impressed by the library at Ephesus, which a quick Google search informs me is known as the Library of Celsus and which apparently employed sophisticated architectural techniques to preserve manuscripts. Anyway, it's pretty.

From Selcuk and Ephesus Highlights

Of course, every Roman city worth its salt has a theatre as well, and Ephesus didn't disappoint in this regard:

From Selcuk and Ephesus Highlights

Of course, I'm just wasting your time before getting to the thing you really want to hear about: Camel wrestling! Again, that's camels, wrestling with each other! This is apparently a tradition across the Middle East, including Iran and Afghanistan, but I'd never seen it before I came to Turkey. Selcuk is home to the championship event for Aegean camel wrestling, and so over a hundred battle-tested camel veterans arrived to grapple for the title. The spectators included, by my count, about four thousand Turkish men, approximately fifty Turkish women, and nearly a hundred bewildered tourists. It's a riot. Here, the arena from a distance:

From Selcuk and Ephesus Highlights

We shared the walk over to the arena with some hopefuls:

From Selcuk and Ephesus Highlights

...and then got to the main event itself.

From Selcuk and Ephesus Highlights

It's hard to explain what the camels do, exactly, and the picture above doesn't do the sport justice. Basically, two camels are led into the main arena, and then a comely young female is paraded before them. This makes them foam at the mouth, like below:

From Selcuk and Ephesus Highlights

And then they chaaaaaaaaarge. The camels spend the next few minutes with their heads dangerously close to each others' naughty bids, using their necks almost like arms, trying to flip the other one over. The match is ended when one of them runs away like a little girl, or when one is on the ground and in danger of serious injury, at which point the referees standing by call the match. Here's a typical sparring match in video format:

The event itself is a spectacle. It's mostly men, but some bring their families, and there were dozens of little charcoal grills where they were cooking chicken, beef sausages that they claimed were camel, and kofte. Everyone's drinking raki and having a great time.

And so were we...

From Selcuk and Ephesus Highlights

We left after a few hours, when the sight of two camels necking had become somewhat old hat, in order to check out the rest of the town. Selcuk actually has a lot of stuff to see for such a small town. After a filling (second?) lunch, we checked out the St. John's Basilica, the aqueduct, the citadel, and finally the Temple of Artemis. This last one was rather surprising: the Temple of Artemis is one of the seven wonders of the ancient world, even described by the classical writers as the most wondrous of them all. And yet it sits in a field outside Selcuk, abandoned in its ruination, playing a distant second fiddle to the nearby Ephesus. Of course, the fact that it's been completely destroyed, and had its reconstructions destroyed, and their reconstructions as well, probably contributes. Still, it was an odd thing to come upon.

From Selcuk and Ephesus Highlights

 We wrapped up our tour of Selcuk on Sunday and took a late afternoon bus to Izmir. Even with more time to explore, Izmir didn't yield any fascinating discoveries, only a very good pastry shop and a mall where I found a fun-looking John LeCarre book. But I'm not here for modern comforts and uninspiring 21st-century cities. You can have them. I'll take my old rocks and grappling camels anyday. I'm a tourist, you see.

 

Back in the USSR

At nine o’clock, the taxi arrives in Vanadzor’s central square, and we spill out, bags in hand, into the frigid night. We give our driver the 100 Georgian lari we’d agreed upon before crossing the border, and he pulls the standard routine. “No…dollars! Dollars!” he says, looking for his hundred in US dollars rather than the equivalent of sixty that we’ve just paid him. And though we got the agreement in writing at the beginning of the ride, and he eventually relents, we hurry into the nearest hotel. It’s a Soviet monstrosity, one I can imagine the Kremlin’s dignitaries staying in around 1960, but which has deteriorated since then. The woman at reception speaks no English, and we speak no Armenian or Russian—not even enough to determine which language she’s jabbering at us in. More to the point, we’re hoping to take a tour around the Debed Canyon monasteries tomorrow, and we’ll need an English speaker to arrange this. So we troop out once more into the industrial wasteland that is Vanadzor. Wandering down the streets, past darkened storefronts and rusty signs with an inscrutable script, Kevin and I reflect that this is probably the most we’ve ever roughed it. We find a cab.

Twenty minutes later we’re standing inside a courtyard, surrounded by three houses, none of which have signs. Is one of these a homestay listed in Lonely Planet? Our knock goes unanswered, and eventually Kevin pulls out his BlackBerry--the three dollars per minute which his phone call will cost are more than worth escaping the cold. His side of the conversation is priceless. “Do you have room for two people? ...Tonight...Where are we? Well, I think we’re standing outside your door.” By some miracle, we’re right. We’re quickly ushered into the house by a teenage girl with surprisingly good English, and shown to what appears to be her old room--the stuffed animals and the posters of Daniel Radcliffe torn out of a Russian magazine are a pretty good indicator, I think. Noticing our hunger and our complete lack of Armenian language skills, our hosts save us a trip to a restaurant by cooking dinner for us. The mother prepares a traditional feast known in Armenia, I think, as “whatever’s in the fridge”: pasta, hot dogs, bread, boiled cauliflower, leftover stuffed pepper. We call it “heaven.”

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Episodes like this define trips for me. I travel because I want to reach that point of utter originality--the point where I can step back, consider the situation, and honestly reflect: I have never done this before. And on this nine-day trip spanning Turkey, Georgia, and Armenia--three fascinating countries with histories and cultures that collide and intertwine--we had an awful lot of them. I haven’t posted anything on this blog for a while, due to a combination of business and laziness. But I couldn’t resist writing about this trip. Be aware: this post will be an ungodly amalgam of reflection, advertisement, and, as above, pretentious literary exploration. You have been warned.

One question I was asked in the weeks leading up to our departure: “Why Georgia? Why Armenia? What’s there?” And to be honest, I didn’t have a great answer. “A bunch of cool monasteries, I guess?” I’d say, hoping we hadn’t made a mistake. We didn’t. Georgia and Armenia have incredible natural beauty, warm and welcoming cultures, fantastic food...and a bunch of cool monasteries. There were certainly a lot of them. The bottom line: if you’re interested in a fascinating, out-of-the-way travel experience, and you can tolerate linguistic disconnection (or you speak passable Russian)...go! There’s a lot to see and do, and you’ll pay next to nothing for the privilege.

So what happened on this trip? I’ve got more to say than you probably want to read, but I’ve broken the trip down chronologically: two nights in Turkey, two nights in Georgia, two and a half nights in Armenia, and two and a half nights in Georgia again. Let’s go:

Day One:
Off to Trabzon! Our first stop on this whirlwind tour is a relatively drab Turkish Black Sea port, known for its spot on the ancient Silk Road and, nowadays, for pockets of virulent nationalism (the killer of Armenian journalist Hrant Dink came from these parts). We arrive in the early morning, tumbling off a bus we’ve attempted to sleep on for the last eleven hours. Our goal is Sumela Monastery, high in the mountains around Maçka, just a half-hour minibus ride from the city. This little town is deserted, with tourist season just a distant memory, and we find ourselves outnumbered by the sheep being herded by on their way to the butcher’s. (We’re here on Kurban Bayram, a Muslim holiday that celebrates Abraham’s attempt to sacrifice his son. It’s told in the Hebrew Bible with Isaac as the son; in Islam, Ishmael is the son, and it’s celebrated every year as the Festival of the Sacrifice: Eid al-Adha). So we taxi to the carpark and then walk up for a mile or so in the picturesque morning. Sumela is gradually revealed to us, its impossibly situated magnificence bathed in the early morning sunlight. Kevin and I are almost alone here, it being only 9 am on a November morning, and we appreciate the solitude. The monastery feels right, unspoiled in its emptiness--just a pair of Americans wandering through a centuries-old place of worship. It's a glorious sight.

From Kurban Bayram Highlights

Later, exiting the complex, we notice a small path winding its way through the woods above the monastery. We follow it, eventually reaching an overlook where the entire valley is laid out before us. I take stock of my domain:

From Kurban Bayram Highlights

Returning to Trabzon, we have an afternoon of exploring the city and discovering its (none too impressive) sightseeing destinations. Our friends Jimin, Karen, and Ting Ya arrive late in the evening from Ankara, and we sip our fifth cup of çay while planning our upcoming trip. We'll cross the border tomorrow around noon, have five hours or so in Batumi, and take the overnight train to Tbilisi. The border can't take more than thirty minutes or so, right?

Day 2

Wrong. The border takes five hours--five excruciating, dear-lord-take-me-now hours of standing in a 50-foot queue with 500 angry Georgians. They're angry because the Turks are taking simply forever to process their exit from the country, angry because they're missing Sunday dinner with the family, angry because the American asshole in front of them is wearing a big-ass backpack and won't move any faster than the line. They poke him. For some reason it doesn't instantly solve the congestion problem, but it seems to sooth them, because they do it several more. They decided to shout at him in Georgian for a bit--no doubt, helpful suggestions for where he can shove his bag. Amazingly, he doesn't respond.

Near 6 PM, miserable, we finally straggle across the border into Georgia. We've missed the "walking around beautiful Batumi" part of the day, and it turns out the train is full, so "getting to Tbilisi tomorrow morning" is right out as well. Even "finding a hostel" proves difficult--the first address I've scribbled down in my notebook leads us to a street so rocky that the taxi can barely navigate it. When I indicate a second choice to our taxi driver, he nods his head, points out the window at the chaos outside, and says "Africa!" We're inclined to agree. Eventually we find a hotel in an area not resembling an active war zone. Now: food. As we wander uncertainly down the streets looking for an open restaurant, we're greeted by a friendly blonde woman with decent English who offers to help us out. (No, not in that way, perverts). Batumi's a resort town out of season, and it's really dead right now, but she manages to find a place that's open, bustling with business, and jaw-droppingly cheap. We feast on Georgian staples: khachapuri, or cheese pie, khinkali, meat dumplings, and decent Georgian wine. Three bucks a person. Ah, the Third World.

Day 3

I'm beginning to love Georgia. It starts with the food--a hearty breakfast with coffee, bread, ham (oh, pork products, how I've missed you!), and a variety of cheeses--served in a restaurant on Batumi's main drag. For a while afterwards, we wander along the seaside of this bizarre town, taking in the sights. Batumi's an oddity: it was the favorite spot of playboys in the 19th century, and masterpieces of colonial architecture popped up every where. Then it languished for the entire Soviet period, and only now is it being revitalized as an entertainment mecca and a tourist hotspot. We decide that right now, it's equal parts Paris and Africa--a perplexing combination.

Then it's off to Tbilisi! Our logistic difficulties are mitigated when we meet a group of fellow expats--three Americans on a Fulbright scholarship to teach English in Eastern Turkey. One can read Georgian, and another speaks fluent Russian, which is a great help when finding the bus station and negotiating a fare. Our bus picks it way through breathtaking scenery on the six-hour ride: sometimes I feel I'm back in New England, with the rolling hills, the fall colors, and the quaint villages. We arrive in the evening, navigating the surprisingly efficient Tbilisi metro system to get to Marjanashvili street, where our homestay is supposedly located. Locating "Dodo's" place turns out to be an adventure of its own: after ten minutes of wandering around on dusty streets, we eventually find a rusty metal gate with "Dodo" and the correct street number scrawled on it, and our traveler's karma pays off once again. The one-story house has a warren of guest rooms attached to the family's living quarters, and in summer they tend to be full of backpackers. They're empty now, and Dodo's family is surprised to see anyone at all. Her niece Neli, who speaks English, sets us up in several comfortable, if unheated rooms. She tells us how the homestay business just manages to keep the family going--the whole extended family seems to live with them, and most of the older members are on the pitiful state pension, the equivalent of US$35 per month.

It's nice to have someone who can key us in on the culture and the history of the country, since so many of our encounters will be with non-English speakers. Things have been getting better in the past few years, she says, and economic growth is bringing new opportunities. But there's still a lot of uncertainty--the wealth is highly concentrated, for the most part, and prices are shooting up. The older generation, used to having everything provided by the state, is finding it difficult to cope with the various costs of living in a capitalist society.

Neli sends us out on the town with some recommendations for restaurants and bars. We find our staple khinkali in a nearby establishment, along with a mouthwatering mtsvadi, or pork barbecue, great Czech beer, and very good Georgian wine. We pay maybe ten dollars for the experience. Later we stroll through the town, which on a Monday night is quiet but picturesque. The city straddles the Mtkvari River, spanning it with bridges alternatively modernist and historic. We settle, somewhat ironically, at a bar called Marrakesh (for the Moroccan city), which is doing its damndest to look Middle Eastern and mostly failing. But the alcohol is cheap, and chacha, the homebrew vodka usually sold in Fanta bottles, goes down easier than anticipated.

Day 4

Why are we leaving this place? That's not a rhetorical question--Kevin and I are committed to an itinerary that takes us into Armenia, and due to a passport mishap the girls can't join us after all. But we're entreated to stay, and I have to say, we're tempted.

Our first morning in Tbilisi is a whirlwind of sightseeing. After a street breakfast--gotta love piping-hot khachapuri!--we tackle the city head on. Tbilisi is a fascinating mixture of Soviet and classical architecture, and our walking tour takes us through both. It's also interesting to see how much development has happened in the last few years--there are Radissons and McDonalds and the like sprouting up everywhere, although by no means do they dominate.

Around noon, we feel peckish, so we wander into a restaurant enthusiastically recommended by the Lonely Planet--and promptly have the best meal of my life. Or something close. Now, I probably sound like a broken record here, since I've raved about every meal here. But this--this was special. I had what I think was called "chashushili," but it may have been "chakapuli" since I can't find the former term anywhere. Anyway: veal stew, achingly tender meat, incredible seasoning. I can barely describe it, but boy, can I remember it.

Afterwards, we climb the hill overlooking Tbilisi, scrambling around on the centuries-old fortress whose walls are still standing proudly. The view is spectacular, and here, despite my dedication to seeing what Armenia has to offer, I am sorely tempted to stay.

But the road beckons nonetheless. Here I refer the reader to the overly verbose monologue with which I opened this already too-long post. In short, we had hoped to take a marshrutka (minibus) across the border to Vanadzor, but by the time we were ready to leave, the marshrutkas had stopped running. So we find a taxi driver to take us into Armenia, and the rest is (literary) history...

Day 5

It's monastery time! On the docket for the day are three monasteries and a church, all nestled in the jumbled narrows of northern Armenia's Debed Canyon. We've hired a taxi, buses being unavailable out of season, and indeed the monasteries we're visiting seem properly deserted. It's odd to recount our sightseeing from the day, since unlike my travels in Turkey and the rest of the Middle East, I am totally out of my depth with respect to the history and culture of this country. I know that Armenia was the first country to become Christian, and Georgia the second, and I understand the monastic culture that led to the construction of these enchanting buildings in far-flung locales. But I have only a vague notion at best of the political and ecclesiastical context of this region; I do not know what sort of settlements surrounded the monasteries, what drove the economy of this mountainous land, what political turmoil swirled through this valley. Somewhat geekily, I enjoy knowing this stuff--it transforms my experience from an alien sensory immersion into the exploration of a landscape richly textured with history. So I must content myself with enjoying the beautiful scenery. Here, this is Odzun Church, Sanahin Monastery, and Haghpat Monastery. Have some pictures of pretty buildings:

And views:

Satisfied? We are. We return to dreary Vanadzor once more and--not sorry to leave so soon--make our way to the bus station. Our marshrutka rolls into Yerevan in the early evening, and we quickly discover the incredible cheapness of taxis as we head to our hostel: it seems we can't spend more than two dollars to go anywhere in the city. We're staying in a traditional backpacker's hostel this time--Envoy--and it's spotless and efficient, if a bit lacking in atmosphere. This is a bit true of Yerevan as well, we discover as we head out for dinner: it's truly a city built on the Soviet model, and while there are some impressive buildings, there's nothing as thoroughly romantic or grandiose as we found in Tbilisi. Nevertheless, we're still eating well: in an attempt to rediscover the type of Armenian cuisine I had two summers ago in Aleppo, we find a nice Syrian-Armenian place and are immediately glad of our choice. Perfect hummus and tabouleh--I haven't had either in ages!--and a nice lamb and rice dish. To top it off, I enjoy a lovely Ararat cognac from the Yerevan Brandy Company--aged five years, if that tells you anything--and it's literally $2.50. Why do all of my day's logs end with me eating food and saying how awesome and cheap it is? Go to the Caucasus. Go now. You won't regret it.

Day 6

On Thursday we are somewhat dismayed to learn that our Armenia trip will be cut short. The overnight train we're planning to take back to Tbilisi leaves every other day--tonight, or Saturday night, and the latter will be too late. So we have to squeeze all of our Armenia viewing into one day because tonight we'll be taking...wait for it...the midnight train to Georgia! (That pun alone is worth taking this trip. Call your travel agent today).

Our day starts with a short trip to, you guessed it, a monastery. But Khor Virap has a special place in the heart of Armenians. In the religious sense, it means "deep pit," and marks the spot where the Armenian king Trdat III imprisoned Saint Gregory the Illuminator in a well for thirteen years for being Christian. According to legend, the king then contracted a disease that turned him into a boar, and it was only Saint Gregory who could heal him. The king freed Gregory and converted to Christianity; Gregory became the patron saint of what is still a fervently religious Armenian nation.

For tourists, Khor Virap is also special because it provides a breathtaking view of Mount Ararat, the landmark dearest to the Armenian national conscience. Armenia has been a nation adrift throughout its history, its borders shifting. At one point, it seems, the nation simply picked up and moved east to escape political turmoil. But Ararat has always been the anchor: mighty Ararat, fabled landing place of Noah's ark. Ararat today evokes joy and sadness: joy, because of its stature and its everpresence, but sadness because, for almost one hundred years, Armenians have not been able to visit. Ararat is on the Turkish side of the border, which you can see just a few miles away, and which has been closed for these long decades. Too much history separates these two countries for an open border to be on the agenda, let alone a normalization of relations. For now, Ararat will remain a thing of heartbreaking beauty.

From Kurban Bayram Highlights

Heartbreaking as well is the Armenian genocide museum, on the outskirts of Yerevan. The facts of this matter should be known to anyone with an interest in history, and for this reason, as well as a cautious regard for the limits of freedom of speech in my country of residence, I shall simply remark that my visit to the museum was a sobering experience that I'll remember long after this.

The rest of our time in Yerevan is spent in less serious fashion. We happen upon a perplexing landmark in the north of the city: the Cascade. It's beautiful, but what is it? Does it represent anything? The building "flows" down a steep hill, and endless stairs are interspersed with benches, sculptures, fountains. As Kevin remarks, "This is why the Soviet economy crashed."

And then we're off! Not before another cheap and tasty dinner, of course, although the over-the-top traditional decor in this "genuine" Armenian restaurant put us off a bit. We're not sure what era they're trying to evoke, either: the decorations scream 19th-century kitsch, but why the old-fashioned radio and TV, then? In any case, we are soon on our way, aboard a fifteen-hour train that takes us out of Yerevan, across the border and through customs, and deposits us once again in Tbilisi. We sleep soundly.

Day 7

Let's review: so far we've seen ancient monasteries, hiked through beautiful valleys, eaten amazing food, and explored beautiful old cities. What are we missing? What's that you say? Ironic nostalgia for Soviet mass-murderers? Why, you've come to the right place. Yes, Georgia is famous (infamous?) as the birthplace of one Ioseb Besarionis dze Jughashvil, better known to the world as Josef Stalin, and no trip here is complete without a visit to his hometown of Gori. This little town, just an hour and a half outside of Tbilisi, is known for Stalin and only Stalin. They love 'im here!

The museum they've erected to honor their beloved ethnic cleanser is all kinds of wrong, and we are constantly at pains to figure out the right reaction to the whole business. On our tour, for example, we are told about little Josef's childhood precocity, his fantastic singing voice, and his love of poetry. We see room after room of the gifts given to Stalin by world leaders, and displays of his uniforms. I want to ask, "And where's the exhibit on the gulag? What about the deportations? Are those rooms closed for renovation?" I am especially curious about our guide, a vivacious young lady with excellent English but an unfortunate tendency to barrel through her rehearsed speech like a freight train. What does she think of Stalin? Later I will learn that most Georgians feel properly embarrassed by the former worship of this man, and in fact the current government--vehemently anti-Russian--has taken down his statue from Gori's main square. But does this disavowal extend to Gori itself? The only hint of self-awareness the guide gives comes in her conclusion, the greatest understatement of all time. "In the 21st century, people have many different opinions about Stalin. Some people think he was a dictator and a tyrant. But everyone agrees he was an important historical figure, and we are still studying him today." Wow.

(The last picture comes from atop Gori Fortress, which looks out over the city. We were blessed with beautiful weather throughout this trip).

It's almost our last night in the city, and we meet up again with Frank, one of the Fulbright teachers in eastern Turkey. Not having had enough of a good thing, we return to our restaurant from the first lunch in Tbilisi, and score a fabulous meal again (this time--a chicken fried in a creamy garlic sauce. Oh the calories. Oh the flavor). Next door, the city's famed sulphur baths prove irresistible. We spend an hour of quality time with a bunch of naked, hairy Turkish men, hot-tubbing, being massaged, sweating in a sauna, freezing in a pool, and showering. I feel like I've shed my skin!

Day 8

On our last full day in the Caucasus, we go to a monastery. "What?" you say. Hadn't had enough? In fact, this was my view as well, and I nearly stayed behind. But Kevin, to his eternal credit, urges me to consider the fantastic views I'll be missing out on, and for his persuasion I'm very grateful. Kazbegi Monastery, after all, is no ordinary church on a hill. It's in the mountains of northern Georgia, a bumpy 3-hour marshrutka ride away from Tbilisi, and it's worth every minute of your time. With apologies to Sarah Palin, I could in fact see Russia from where I stood, just over the lip of Mount Kazbek. After a hearty lunch of khinkali and mtsvadi at what seems like the only restaurant in this little village, we set off up the hill. We have an hour and a half of walking ahead of us, but the view is nothing short of spectacular. I'll let the pictures do the talking:

The monastery itself is what we'd come to expect from Caucasian monasteries in terms of architecture and interior, but the jaw-dropping setting makes the experience worthwhile a hundred times over. It seems our surroundings are just pleading to be photographed, and then, simply admired.

Kurban Bayram is drawing to a close. We return to Tbilisi, settle our dues with Dodo, and prepare to depart at an ungodly hour of the morning. I will miss this place.

Day 8

And there you have it! The last twelve hours of our journey are eminently forgettable--a monotonous whirlwind, if that is possible, of taxis, planes, airports and buses. And waiting. But our heads are brimming with stories, and we're already planning the summaries: in thirty seconds, to the fellow teacher in the lunch line, can we describe our trip? Can I recount our experiences in a short blog post? Apparently not. If this post were any longer, you might as well travel to the Caucasus yourself. And I highly suggest that you do. Bon voyage!

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Note: I've posted the photo "highlights," 116 photos from this trip, in a Picasa album here. Also, if you click on any of the photos in this blog post, you'll be taken to its Picasa page, where you can see an enlarged version. If you want to see even more pictures of Trabzon & Sumela, Tbilisi, Yerevan, Khor Virap, the Debed Canyon Monasteries, Gori, or Kazbegi, click on these links.

Finally, if you're interested in seeing where I traveled, I've embedded the following Google map with my destinations highlighted. You can zoom in and browse at will:

View Owen's Caucasian Travels in a larger map

Antalyan Adventures

Halfway up the ancient Mount Chimaera on Wednesday evening, I composed an imaginary letter in my head to friends working office jobs in the US. It was about ten thirty at night, so your typical junior analyst in a New York City investment bank would just now be taking his mid-afternoon coffee break, agreeing to his boss's request that he stay at least until seven, and looking longingly at a Friday that seemed ages away. "Dear so-and-so," I wrote, "hope you're enjoying the salary! Do they even let you out of the office to spend it? I just wanted to let you know that I spent today lying on the beach, playing frisbee, and exploring underwater caves. Oh, and right now I'm hiking up a mountain that's on fire. Anyway, have fun with the spreadsheets!"

I am not a cruel person, and that fact, combined with an inexplicable outbreak of good taste, prevented me from copying said letter onto postcards saying "OLYMPOS: WISH YOU WERE HERE" and sending them off to actual friends working desk jobs in New York. But the sentiment remained: I felt incredibly lucky that in early September, while others were settling into full-time jobs and graduate studies, I was lounging on the beaches of Olympos and Antalya with seven other CSIs from Bilkent. Classes start in earnest on Wednesday, and so this moment of postgraduate irresponsibility is bound to be fleeting--but it was oh-so-good while it lasted.

The end of Ramadan in Turkey brings the "Şeker Bayram," or "Sugar Festival," known as "Eid ul-Fitr" or just Eid, in many Arabic-speaking countries. This is a three-day holiday where schools and government offices close, giving Turks a chance to travel and to visit family members. The sugar referred to in the name of the holiday is ever-present: when we reached the tram in Antalya, we were told that it was free for the next three days, and then given candy. In other words, this past week was a great time to travel. Eight of us boarded a bus from Ankara to Antalya, leaving at one in the morning and arriving just before nine, full of bleary-eyed passengers. Hannah, Kevin and I then opted to immediately hop on a dolmuş (a cheap bus) to Olympos, an hour away. This was not without accident: Hannah had left her phone on the first bus, and went off to find it. Kevin had to track her down five minutes later because the bus was about to leave, and when neither of them returned, I was unable to find their bags, since they'd already been packed onto the dolmuş. I ended up riding to Olympos with both of their bags, and they followed on a second bus, bagless and phoneless (although thankfully Hannah found her phone on the way back).

Olympos has two main draws: first, its funky backpacker's "treehouses," and second, the amazing Chimera. As for the first, the "main drag" of Olympos is essentially a dirt and gravel road leading to the beach, and on all sides there are "pansiyons" (pensions), basically hostels where you can spend between $20-$80 on a bed for the night. These are pretty down-to-earth places, popular among foreigners and Turks alike; I'd guess a more-or-less even split among the visitors during our stay. Each hostel was basically an open-air campground, with a bar, a little cafe, and dozens of tables and cushions where you could lie about, eat, drink and read. Their sleeping options range from proper rooms with private bathrooms and basic amenities to "treehouses," which tend to not be in actual trees but instead are little huts on stilts. They had mattresses and sheets, though, and it was cool enough that we didn't mind the lack of A/C. Besides, we spent most of our day in Olympos on the beach. This was just a twenty-minute walk from the hostel, past a little archaelogical park with the ruins of ancient Olympos, one of the cities of ancient Lycia (though not the home of Mount Olympus, which is in Greece). The beach itself was a pretty pebbly affair, and in the heat of the day we couldn't walk on the sand, so we parked our towels in the shade by the mountains that crept right up to the shoreline. Our view was none too shabby, however:

We spent a good five hours here, swimming in the beautiful (if rather salty) water, basking in the sun, escaping into the shade. On the right of the beach the rocks crowded into the water, and we swam over to investigate, finding a fantastic cave where the mountain's shade created cool pockets of water that would unexpectedly envelop you. Along this stretch of coastlines the rock is porous and jagged--it makes for very painful, laborious climbing if you're the type who likes to climb out of the water and jump off the rocks. But I did it anyway, and thankfully avoided any nasty cuts.

After staggering back to camp, sunburnt and exhausted, we indulged in a few rousing rounds of “spoons” with fellow Americans from Bilkent who were in Olympos for the whole trip—although technically our game was “plastic tea stirrers,” spoons being unavailable. Breakfast and dinner was included in our $20 nightly fee, and so we enjoyed a hearty Turkish buffet—fresh fish and eggplant salad being among the highlights. But the main attraction was yet to come. High on a mountain hillside above Olympos one finds the Chimera, or Yanartaş as it is called in Turkey. This phenomenon, which is thought to have inspired the mythological creature of the same name, is best seen at night, and so local entrepreneurs ran a tour every evening at nine, driving for a half hour up steep, impossibly winding roads. Twenty minutes from the trailhead, sweaty and dubious, we finally saw it: the mountain was on fire! From at least twenty different spots on the rocky mountainside, flames spurted. Some were small, resembling the output of a gas rangetop, while others look more appropriate for a full-scale barbecue. The flames came from little vents in the ground, and I found more than one vent which smelled like gas and was warm to the touch, but was not ignited. Thankfully, there were drunk Australians on hand, who used their lighters to burn these unlit vents. This is truly the eternal flame—it was noted even by the ancients, and ships used it as a landmark while sailing by this coast. While watching the flames, I asked aloud if anyone knew the geological explanation for what I was seeing. A young Turkish woman declared that she did and, suddenly assuming a serious, mystical voice, told me the story. Once upon a time, she said, there was a great fire-breathing monster who terrified the inhabitants of the Lycian coast. Their king called upon a hero, Bellerophon, to defend them from this chimera. Bellerophon mounted the flying horse, Pegasus, and from the air shot the chimera, wounding her. She was forced to retreat inside this mountain, but her anger at being defeated has not abated to this day, and the puffs of flame we see are the very evidence of her rage. Our storyteller finished this tale by telling me in a stern voice that if I went looking for a more scientific account, the chimera might be offended. I took her advice to heart.

From Olympos & Antalya

The next morning we had an uneventful ride back to Antalya, where we had booked a pension for the next two nights, the same place where our CSI friends were staying. It must have been full, however, for when the front desk manager led us to our room, he walked down the street and into another hotel, where we had been transferred to! Thankfully we paid the same price, and the room was comfortable. Our first day in Antalya was relaxing—we walked around the old city, passing through Hadrian’s Gate, which was built when the Emperor Hadrian visited the city in 130 AD (this must have been part of a grand tour, since that year Hadrian got at least as far south as Jerash in modern-day Jordan). We then spent a couple of blissful hours swimming just below our hostel: there was no beach, exactly, but carpets laid out over rocks by the sea. We climbed down ladders and jumped off high rocks and thanked God we weren’t in the US since such unsupervised, unlitigated pleasure would never have passed muster in the land of the free. Later we had dinner at a lovely restaurant in the old city, where I had kavurma (stir-fried lamb and onions) and mezzes that made me reconsider my lukewarm appreciation for Turkish cuisine. It was fabulous. That evening we relaxed by the pool in the hostel we’d originally booked at, chatting and studying Turkish.

On our only full day in Antalya we went for the grand tour of Antalya-region archeology: Perge, Aspendos and Side in one day. My camera had given out the day before, so I’ll have to steal photos from others once they post them, but we saw some spectacular sights. Aspendos, for example, has perhaps the world’s best-preserved Roman theatre, an absolute marvel isolated in what is otherwise a dusty town just inland from the sea-coast. Perge was more sprawling, and while it didn’t have a singular landmark like Aspendos, we were able to spend several hours strolling along the once-colonnaded streets, seeing the ruins of the baths, checking out the Nymphaeum, and more. It was a long trip, and by the time we got to Side we were dead-tired, content to glance at the temples of Artemis and Athena that abutted the beach, and then to get dondurma (ice cream) from a street vendor.

(By the way, prospective travelers to Turkey: Buying dondurma in Turkey is liable to be more of a performance than a transaction. Especially in touristy areas, the vendors like to put on a show. “Ice cream!” they gleefully shout, scooping some of the gooey treat into a cone and then thrusting it in front of your nose with a large stick which has adhered to the ice cream. You move to grab it, but they flip it upside down, move the stick lower, and jab the ice cream, cone first, into your crotch. “Oops!” they cry. Then it’s in your face, snatched away at the last second, offered to your friend, bounced off your head, and finally given you, even though you’re not sure if you want it any more. And, as if this hasn’t lost its novelty, they’ll do it again three more times with your friends. The trick lies in the extremely sticky nature of the ice cream, which is called “maraş” and is best made in a town called “Kahraman.” You can hold the cone upside down, swing it about, without it ever dripping or dropping).

So that was Friday. The ruins were very worth it, although we had to suffer a guide who insisted on talking at us in almost incomprehensible English for ten and fifteen minutes at every turn. We couldn’t help laughing at his hair-dye job, which was just a splatter of platinum blonde in the back, combined with an unfortunate application of hair gel. On Saturday we went to yet another beach for a few hours in the morning, savoring the warm water for just a bit longer before heading back to Ankara and the real world.

Meanwhile, today is an extremely important day for Turks—for two reasons. As we speak, Turks are going to the ballot boxes to vote on a crucial referendum that, if passed, would amend the constitution in significant ways. The referendum is being pushed by the AK Parti, the conservative Islamically-oriented government that has been in power the last ten years. They’ve been leading the push to join the EU—by most accounts, having done a good job of passing reforms—and they’re selling the referendum as another step in this process. But they having troubling authoritarian tendencies, and their secular opponents are painting this referendum as a step towards dictatorship and Islamization. Signs have been around Ankara for months touting “EVET” and “HAYIR”—YES and NO, respectively. Most experts expect the referendum to pass, but barely.

The second reason why today is important is, you might think, a bit frivolous, but don’t tell that to the Turks. It’s the final of the FIBA international basketball championships, and facing off are Turkey and—you guessed it—the USA. Turks love their basketball—it’s their second-favorite sport, next to football—and the whole country has been tuning in all month to cheer on the “12 Giant Men,” as the national team is called. Hopefully, whatever the outcome of the referendum, all Turks can come together and watch their team—lose. That’s right…I’ll be in a Turkish bar, being the obnoxious American nationalist, probably being carted out on a stretcher at the end of the game. And I don’t even like basketball.

I'm just mad about Safran...bolu

One thing I've come to appreciate about Turkey in my brief time here is that no one location or perspective really represents the complexity of the nation. Driving through the plains and the rugged highlands of northern Turkey, this point was reinforced physically and later, upon our arrival in the quaint Ottoman town of Safranbolu, I appreciated the cultural aspect of modern Turkey's diversity. Safranbolu is an old town perched amongst rolling hills near the Black Sea coast, just four hours north of Ankara. It was once a major trading center on the Silk Road, specializing in saffron, which gives Safranbolu its name and therefore somewhat excuses my Mellow Yellow pun in the title. My whole cohort--14 of us--visited the town as a retreat after a week of work at Bilkent, spending Friday and Saturday nights in a boutique hotel in the historical city center, and returning Sunday evening. There was some work involved--we were in meetings on Sunday morning--but overall it was a fantastic excuse to relax and see some sights.

Safranbolu is preserved as a UNESCO World Heritage Site, not for any particular landmark but for the entirety of the town, which retains many of its Ottoman-era buildings and has a decidedly antique feeling to it. We wandered throughout the shops in the old town, which is known for its woodworking, textiles, shoes, Turkish delight, and, of course, saffron. I was able to pick up a beautiful blue cloth for five lira (around $3) that's designed as a tablecloth but is now hanging on my wall as decoration. I also have a spoon-shaped thermometer that doubles as an evil-eye detector--talk about multi-function! On Saturday we ate lunch in a beautiful caravanserai, an old inn which might have housed Ibn Battuta, the famous Arab traveler, in the fourteenth century.

On Saturday we took a day trip to Amasra, about an hour and half north still of Safranbolu, right on the Black Sea coast. The mercury flirted with one hundred Fahrenheit all afternoon, and we were very glad for the cooling dip in the sea, despite the menace of dozens of jellyfish. Amasra is pretty much just a beach town, and so we didn't stay too long, but we did have a great fish dinner on our way out. Note: that's Hannah and I near the top of the third picture, playing frisbee with two young Turkish boys.

After a few hours of meetings on Sunday and a bit more shopping and eating, we headed back to Ankara. With an off day today, most people opted to sleep in this morning. But I and four intrepid colleagues, mindful that we owed the holiday to the national observance of Victory Day, which celebrates the 1923 victory for the Turkish nationalist forces in their independence struggle, decided to look for the celebrations in downtown Ankara. We were only partially successful--we found a column of soldiers haphazardly marching out of Ataturk's mausoleum, presumably on their way to a parade elsewhere. But we did get to check out the mausoleum itself, which is imposing and, I thought, a fitting tribute to a man who did such service to his nation. The museum underneath the monument is especially impressive--it's obviously a hagiography of Ataturk and the republican struggle, rather than a critical study, but the artwork and the memorabilia were fascinating. We were also able to have some adventures with the city bus system, which left us all a bit more educated.

So that's that. We have a week and a half more of training, followed by a five-day national holiday to mark the end of Ramadan, and a bunch of us will be heading south to Antalya and Olympos on the southern Mediterranean coast. Out of respect for my employers, I won't be blogging much about the actual work I do at school, but suffice it to say that everyone here is wonderfully kind and accommodating. Our CSI group is a really fun bunch as well, and we're all eagerly looking forward to an amazing year in Turkey!

Istanbul: Photos & Maps

If you'd like to see more about my Istanbul trip, I've created a web album on Picasa where you can view my photos, and a custom Google Map where you can see where I went. Click here for the album, or use the viewer below to see the photos. Be warned: I haven't done much quality control, so there are 200 photos in the batch. If you want to browse through them more easily, click the link above. (The viewer also requires Flash, so it may not work on some computers. In that case, just click on the link above).

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Click here for a link to the map, or use this viewer below. You can zoom in with the "+" symbol and out with the "-" symbol, and click-drag on the map to move it around (for example, the Prince's Islands are south of the viewing window). The little pinpoints mark places where I went or stayed, and most have Wikipedia links if you want to find out more. Please email me if something doesn't work or you're confused!

View Owen's Istanbul Trip in a larger map

Istanbul (Not Constantinople!)

Greetings from Turkey! I write to you from the reliable wi-fi in my comfortable, relatively furnished apartment in Ankara. Most of this post, however, will deal with the week I've just spent in Istanbul, where I went immediately after entering the country.

And what can I say? Istanbul is vast, chaotic, advanced, primitive, exhilarating and overwhelming. More than anything, it felt like the modern Western city which most Istabullus so desperately want it to be. I will spend much of my time in this post detailing my travels through what is largely "historical Istanbul"--mosques and palaces that, while not irrelevant to the modern inhabitant of this city, certainly stand out much more to the tourist. But I could not penetrate in a true sense the living reality of Istanbul as the home of some twenty million people, if only because I was just passing through. I could not shake the sense of...I'll call it "self-confidence"...that this city seems to exude. Istanbul has a modern, if somewhat congested, transportation system. You can purchase every kind of good imaginable there, whether in the crowded bazaar or in designer outlets on streets that wouldn't look out of place in the capitals of Western Europe. And Istanbul's youth, clad largely in jeans and knockoffs of Western name-brands, parade through the streets much like they do anywhere else, flirting, texting, showing off a little skin, making their moves over a cup of coffee, a puff of nargileh, a glass of Efes pilsner.

There is a bit of desperation in this Westernization, to be sure, and a bit of defensiveness as to the progress Istanbul has made on this front. When some of my fellow travelers commented on the many cafes in Istanbul that seem to be male-only (by social contract, not law), our hostel-owner, a man in his late twenties, protested against our apparent stereotypes. "You come here expecting to see men treating women badly, women wearing headscarves, men and women separate, and that's what you see because to want to see it!" he said, basically. "We are a normal city--just like any other!" he claimed. This wasn't really true--Istanbul's Islamic identity was very much on display, in part because it's Ramadan. About three quarters of the city was fasting, I would guess, and there were plenty of folks trooping off for the mosque at prayer-time. Plenty of restaurants don't offer alcohol, and there was undeniable evidence, despite what our hostel-owner claimed, that gender segregation occurs to a greater extent than in the West. But he was right, as well: Istanbul is a city unto itself, and while perhaps it's not yet interchangeable with Vienna or Munich, it can't simply be lumped in with Jerusalem, Damascus and Beirut as great cities of the Near East. It is a Western city.

The outcome of this is that whereas places like Jerusalem's Old City, which I visited in 2008, seem to be oriented towards the outside, towards tourists and pilgrims, and are quiet places of their own accord, Istanbul (and, in way, much of Turkey) is inward-facing. They're happy to have tourists, willing to try to communicate, but (as I discovered, somewhat to my surprise) they're not falling over themselves to learn English, even though it's certainly the lingua franca for non-Turkish speakers. They're happy to chat with an young American stranger on their busy streets, and they'll even invite him to a local cafe for a beer. But otherwise, you can stand on Istiklal Caddesi, "the heart of modern Turkey," and watch as a culture dying to join the West careens by you at breakneck speed.

So what did I did amongst this milieu? Become a tourist, naturally. Istanbul is not merely home to a burgeoning population of cosmopolitan, would-be Westerners. It also is home to not one but two great empires, and their remains all but scream at you as you pass through the city streets. I arrived in the early evening off a train from Ankara, and as I rode the ferry from the station on the Asian side of the Bosphorus, the city's landmarks came at me fast and furious. There's the Topkapi Palace! And there, the Blue Mosque! Galata Tower! I had studied Ottoman architecture under Gulru Necipoglu at Harvard, and I'd read my guidebook thoroughly, so I knew what to look for. The below image, featuring the Turkish flag obscuring the Sultan Ahmed Mosque (also known as the Blue Mosque) just about sums up Turkey for me in many ways:

From Turkey

I arrived at my first hostel, Rapunzel, after about an hour's search around the Galata Tower in Beyoglu--they're a new place, and hadn't yet put up a prominent sign. I spent much of that evening, after depositing my bags and grabbing a quick dinner, wandering around Beyoglu, the district most associated with cosmopolitan, modern Istanbul. After a somewhat sweaty night--no AC, just a fan in the room--I woke up to discover that I had no place to stay the next night, as Rapunzel had been booked solid for Friday night. No problem--I ended up finding a room at Hostelon, which was a few streets away, even cheaper, just as comfortable, and--this is crucial--had free AC in every room! Brilliant.

I won't try to do a day-by-day recapitulation of the week's travels, since even now I can't quite remember what I did each day. But here are the highlights:

Topkapi Palace: The imperial home of Ottoman sultanate for centuries, the Topkapi is a massive palace at the point where the Golden Horn spills north out of the Bosphorus (and yes, it's featured in a 1964 heist film, also called Topkapi). Professor Necipoglu taught us that the three-court design of Topkapi was intended to provide seclusion for the sultan and his family, and to enhance his imperial majesty. You begin in the outer court, which was almost public, open to a wide variety of Imperial servants and minor functionaries. For the middle court, which housed the Imperial Council and the kitchens, and served as a parade ground for the janissaries, access was more restricted. And nobody except the Sultan's family, his bodyguards, and his most exalted guests, was allowed into the inner sanctum, or into the Harem, which straddled the second and third courts. Nowadays, with tourists buzzing around every corner, the sense of majesty, not to mention seclusion, is understandably diminished. Still, it was great to see my Ottoman history studies come to life--here is Suleyman's European-style helmet! Here's his chair, inlaid not with gold or emeralds, but with a simple mother-of-pearl pattern, from his more restrained, pious days!

From Turkey

Sultan Ahmed Mosque (the "Blue Mosque"): This is a highlight of all trips to Istanbul, on account of the mosque's magnitude. From Professor Necipoglu, I know that the mosque's building was frowned upon for its audacity (six minarets!). Sultans were only supposed to build themselves mosques after a major military victory, booty from which would finance the mosque's construction. But not only had Sultan Ahmed not won anything significant, he was losing ground in both Europe and Iran! Finally, the building of the Blue Mosque, a massive complex on prime real estate in Istanbul, necessitated the destruction of older, smaller mosques in its way. Regardless, this is a breathtaking work of architecture, and while one might sneer as an art historian, it's impossible but to stare as a tourist or casual observer.

From Turkey

Suleymaniye Mosque: The true pinnacle of Ottoman architecture...and I couldn't even get in! The mosque has been closed for three and a half years for renovations, apparently, although it will open in the fall. I saw the inside of Suleyman's tomb, though, which was pretty spectacular:

From Turkey

Chora Church: This was a hike...that is, I decided to make it a hike. Most people take buses or taxis out to the northern edge of Istanbul to see this Byzantine church. I, being mistrustful of buses and too cheap to take a taxi, walked. About an hour and a half later, I found this hidden gem, covered in beautiful mosaics. Pro tip: If you eavesdrop on a tour, you get all the benefits of the information they're giving without having to pay for the guide or walk as slowly as the octogenarians who did pay.

From Turkey

Istanbul Modern: As the boys from Monty Python would say, "And now for something completely different." This is, a friend told me, basically Istanbul's attempt at London's Tate Modern...a modern art museum along the Bosphorus. I actually enjoyed it greatly, although naturally some of the art went way over my head (proof that I'm not sufficiently enlightened, I suppose). The exhibit of Hussein Chalayan's fashion designs was, despite my contempt for the modern fashion industry, mindblowing. His infusion of technology into high fashion is something I'm sure we'll see in the next 10-15 years in clothing that people actually wear. Do I like it? Hard to say, but I think there's little doubt that he'll be influential. Right next to the museum was an installation of the famous BodyWorks exhibit, but at 30TL I decided to pass.

Dolmabahce Palace: Apparently not satisfied with the cultural clashes inherent in an Turkish fashion exhibit, I headed next door to the Dolmabahce Palace, truly a multicultural clusterfuck. Built in the mid-19th century using European money (the Ottoman empire was in great debt by then) and a wholly European aesthetic, it would have looked more appropriate as a Louis XIV pleasure palace. This was the imperial capital for decades leading up to the fall of the empire and the relocation of the capital to Ankara. Inside: so hot. So very, very hot. Our guide's English was terrible, and he clearly had memorized just a few factoids about the place, and just a few phrases with which to express them. We were led through a sequence of lavishly decorated rooms (cameras were unfortunately forbidden) that began to blend together in my head as the tour went on and my claustrophobia intensified. Luckily, there were peacocks outdoors, so that was cool.

From Turkey

Prince's Islands: Just southeast of Istanbul in the Sea of Marmara lie four little Islands that make a great day trip from the city. The ferry stopped at two of them, but I only got off at the second, since nothing in particular was recommended at Kinaliada. Buyukada, where I stayed for several hours, is the biggest of the Islands, and is home to a giant hill. I climbed it. Sweating, thirsty, I arrived after half an hour to an empty glade at the top of the island, overlooking Istanbul. There, for a few blissful hours, I read my Stieg Larsson book, somewhat shamefully purchased at an English-language bookstore the day before. (The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo is, despite its book-jacket claims, not nearly as thrilling as it claims to be. Certainly a page-turner, but half of that is your anxious desire to find the thrilling parts. I feel like the book was basically Stieg Larsson, editor of a left-wing magazine, writing himself optimistically into the main character, a financial reporter who uncovers a massive business-mafia conspiracy, unearths a serial killer and screws a hot anorexic punk hacker). In any case, it was an afternoon peacefully spent. I had climbed the hill looking for the Greek Monastery of St. George which my guidebook had mentioned, but the directions weren't precise and I found myself wandering off the path. Five minutes walk from my reading spot, I did find a monastery, but my research today confirmed that it was a different one. I managed to get in and view the church after buzzing several times at the gate and waiting for a few minutes, after which a hunchbacked old man somewhat reluctantly let me in. The church is gaudy but fascinating, a little Greek Orthodox monstrosity hidden on a quaint Turkish island. Nearby there was a big old orphanage built at the turn of the century and now frightfully close to collapse. A few hundred yards down the road was a mostly abandoned soccer field, watched over by an old statue of what must have been an Ottoman dignitary. I think the Islands, especially Buyukada, were much wealthier and more cosmopolitan, home to a diverse group of ethnic minorities, a century ago. Now they are almost entirely Turkish, and poverty is creeping up along with a sense of abandonment. Before heading back to Istanbul, I had a delicious meal of fried mussels and lentil soup (mercimek).

Food: Now that I mention it, I should say that Istanbul's food was...pretty good. I was actually somewhat surprised to find that I didn't absolutely love Turkish food at first blush, seeing as I'd heard so much about it. A couple explanations come to mind: First, I had mainly street food, which nobody raves about too much. Still, I find that I prefer the Arabic shawarma to its Turkish cousin doner, and I miss the ubiquity of falafel. Second, and relatedly, I've been to the Arab world, which has a similar cuisine, so the concept of eating shaved lamb and lentil soup isn't totally foreign to me. I certainly didn't dislike the food, and certain meals, like the one on the docks of Buyukada which I mentioned above, definitely stand out. One thing I'm sure I disliked: raki, which just tastes too much like licorice for my tastes (no surprise, as they're both anise-based). Turks love their beer, too, and while I found the standy, Efes, a bit too Budweiser-like, I was pleasantly surprised by Gusta, an amber ale with a fruity, sweet finish.

And...that's about it! I returned on Wednesday evening to Ankara, and after about three hours of searching for the elusive Bilkent city shuttle, which never came, I taxied to the apartment. I have a stellar one-bedroom apartment on the first floor of Lojman 106, and as of yesterday, it is furnished. Or mostly so. I still need spice jars to store the saffron and cumin and whatnot I bought in a killer deal at the Spice Bazaar in Istanbul. And I still lack things like dishtowels and scrubbies, but I have food and soap and kitchen implements and all the really crucial things. This shopping was accomplished in one backbreaking trip, in which I walked the half-mile downhill to a Walmart-like complex, shopped 'til I dropped, and loaded up my hiker's backpack. Why my masochistic tendencies decided to act up then I'll never know, but instead of sensibly taking a bus or taxi up the hill, I decided to cart about 70 pounds up the hill at about 2:00 in the afternoon on a 90 degree day in Ankara. Suffice it to say I earned my salami-and-cheese sandwich yesterday. People are gradually trickling into the dorm, and I'll soon be greeting them, not to mention filling out forms, looking for MA classes to take, and all sorts of fun stuff. Training begins Monday morning. My first post-college job: here I come!

From Turkey