After a couple weeks of what was all too familiar back in New York, I flew into Istanbul ready to engage in a full-frontal assault on the rest of my trip.
It was good to see everyone, but it was time to move on and see some brown people in their natural habitat.
You know what I mean…
The first things you notice as you take a ride through Sultanhamed (pretty much the tourist center), are two of the biggest houses of worship fucking ever. The Blue Mosque and the Sophia Mosque are situated opposite one another like two prize heavyweights in opposing corners pre-bell. Holy Muhammed these things are enormous.
Until this point, I’d never before seen a Muslim-world mosque. Upon seeing these though, my first thought was “Jesus is gay.” Clearly, the Muslims in old-world Constantinople really love Muhammed. That guy gets serious love in the form of huge domes and tall, piercing and majestic minarets.
On the way inside, most Muslims wash their feet under small spigots outside. I still do not know the reason for this, considering the rest of their bodies are typically in dire need of this level of attention. Once inside, you realize the grand exterior is masking the fact that it’s more or less just a big cavity, with areas of worship and next to them, areas to watch, point, and stare.
After leaving the second mosque, I was approached by a man who claimed to want to show me “real Turkish hospitality.” I was up for that. I went with him to his family’s carpet shop, where I drank black tea (the kind with the most caffeine) and nodded approvingly at the many carpets he and his cronies insisted on showing me. I made sure to show a bit of added excitement when the double-knot numbers were higher, and when materials such as silk or cashmere were involved. But inasmuch as I had no intention of buying anything, I was really just trying to hide my utter amusement.
This gave me an idea. I decided to go on a carpet store tour. I walked around, and anytime anyone suggested I come into their shop (this happened with alarming frequency), I would emphatically agree. A typical exchange would be the following:
Antagonist (them): Yes, sir. Excuse me. We have wonderful carpets, sir. Please come.
Protagonist (me): Yes. Absolutely!
A: Would you like some tea? Black tea?
P: Of course!
(many dozens of carpets later)
A: Which one will you buy?
P: None.
A: Why none? This one here is beautiful.
P: That seems rather subjective.
A: Excuse me, would you like to see some more?
P: Absolutely not.
A: Why you not buy?
P: I like tea, but I don’t like carpets.
This occurred probably 10 times over the next two days. I was practically resonating with caffeine on a daily basis in Istanbul. Which is a good thing, because café americanos cost about $5US in Istanbul. And Turkish coffee, in my opinion, is trash. So, I was able to entertain myself endlessly while staying caffeinated and saving money. Big win for me. I liken it to being at a strip club, and engaging Bambi in enough conversation to get her to give you a dance for free under the assumption you’ll buy a bottle of champagne. Then after the dance, informing her that you don’t drink and don’t plan to watch her drink either. The looks of disappointment I’m sure are congruent. My satisfaction in this case though, lasted considerably more than 3 minutes, and didn’t leave me with blue balls.
While in Istanbul, I went to a Turkish hamam (bath). Real good stuff. First of all, the men have the common decency to cover their schlongs with a lightweight wrap, so the prevalence of cock is effectively marginalized. Which, I don’t need to tell you, really enhances the experience.
There is no steam room in a hamam, though. Instead, there is a heated marble stone in the center of a room on which everyone lays. Then, at the point at which you’re most comfortable, you are summoned for your actual bath, which consists of a large, hairy Turkish man with a scrubber mitt and a bowl of soapy water rubbing on you for 30 minutes.
This sounds worse than it is. In fact, it’s quite relaxing. What isn’t relaxing however, is when you see the astonishing mass of dead skin being ripped from your body. You feel no pain, but your eyes wince at the sight of the large worm of dead skin collecting underneath your bather’s mitt. It’s positively nasty.
At some point in Istanbul (which was crawling with tourists), I was sharing my Middle East itinerary with some others, all of whom had already decided to gravitate north to Romania. Later that night, one of the girls (a 27 year-old from Singapore) suggested she come along with me, since she’d spent some time in a kibbutz in Israel and thought it would be cool if she went back for the holidays.
I wasn’t thrilled with this, but I generally agree to any suggestions made by pretty much anyone, especially a mildly attractive girl, so before I know it we are traversing western and southern Turkey together. The first stop was Ephesus, which was incredible. The ruins were beautiful and generally well preserved (see pictures when I’m able to upload), and was striking in it’s grandeur and expanse. Interestingly, of all the sights in (the ancient) town, there are no signs. Except one. For the brothel. Nice.
Additionally, there was the ruins and tomb of St. John the Baptist, which were quite nice, but paled in comparison to Ephesus. Finally, we saw the resting place of Mary Magdalene, which pales in comparison to my Credit Suisse cubicle. It’s a building the size of an average restaurant bathroom, with one small tomb with a few candles and a picture of Mary hung overhead. Mary must be pretty pissed when she considers the dumpy quarters she’s laid to rest in. I’d certainly be upset, and I certainly haven’t sired any symbols of hope at this point in my life. Yet, bitches. I got time….
But who cares? This story is about a social experiment.
The girl and I split off for much of the day and explore the ruins on our own, which I’m completely in favor of. Later that night, we’re getting drunk on vodka and having some laughs and eventually decide to call it a day. Selcuk, after all, is hardly a nightlife epicenter. While quietly enjoying a cigarette and a peaceful walk back to where we’re staying, I suddenly find myself on the receiving end of a spastic punching fit that ordinarily I’d only expect from an angry retard. For one thing, she’s a tiny girl, so none of it hurt. Even for a pussy like me. But she was punching as hard as she could, and with absolutely no reason for it other than the vodka. And perhaps her latent psychosis. Which may have turned me on when I was around nine years old and was just excited when a girl would touch me. At 31 however, it was cause for alarm.
The following morning, after our 10th consecutive absolute-cheapest-meal-in-town (all at her behest), we went to Pamukkale for the day to see a mountain of calcium deposits formed from a natural hot spring, which is all positioned beneath the ruins of Heiropolis. Really an incredible place. The water is the temperature of a warm bath, despite the frigid air outside, and the misleading appearance of ski slope surroundings. Even the pictures hardly do it justice.
In any event, this day included more separated exploration, which was actually rather preferred. After all, I’m never anxious to hang out with someone the day after a beatdown. And as someone who has so far preferred to travel alone, this is right up my lonely alley. Although her “look at me go” attitude I’m beginning to find quite abrading.
We agree to meet for lunch, and I realize that as she’s discussing our next two weeks together, and aside from the fact that the idea of spending two more hours with her is up in the air in my mind, she has us moving no further than northern Syria. And considering my plan was to make it to Jerusalem for Christmas and Tel Aviv for New Years, this was quickly becoming a malignant situation, and I could feel my blood clotting as she spoke about how much fun it would be to cross the border to Syria together.
Later that afternoon, we head to Antalya as a jumping-off spot for Olympos. During that bus ride, I decided I needed to remove this girl before her cancerous impact on my Turkey experience spread to any surrounding countries. This was going to take some delicate and perhaps painful surgery.
I elect for a more invasive procedure. I decide to ditch the charm and affability that landed me in this situation, and instead opt for a passive-aggressive offensiveness, hopefully leading to an eventuation of her unmitigated withdrawal. Recognizing this as perhaps the least direct path, I accept it as being the most enjoyable.
As we are entering our second hour of waiting for a cross-town bus (in lieu of a $12 taxi) to the departure point for Olympos, after a combined four minutes of enjoyable discourse, I launch into a series of admittedly shocking questions:
Me: So, you’ve told me only about 47 times that you spent time in a kibbutz. You really think they want you back?
Her: [confused stare]
Me: I imagine your rampant frugality fits right in in Israel. Is that why you want to go back?
Her: [disgusted glare]
Me: You think we’ll have sex at any point in this adventure of ours, or am I going to have to remain intellectually and sexually frustrated?
Her: [horrified] Are you serious?
Me: Sorry, I must have mistook that violent fit of yours the other night as kinky foreplay.
Her: [understandably appalled] Yea. Must’ve.
Me: Does your idea of traveling the world consist primarily of loitering at street-side bus stations to save five dollars an hour, or do you at some point have any interest in focusing on more stimulating locales?
Her: [long pause…. it’s working!!!!] Uh, I just don’t have that much money.
Me: I’m going across the street to buy some booze. I need to get drunk to make this interesting. You want anything?
Her: You’re serious?
Me: Yes, I need to make this interesting somehow. You have a better idea?
Her: [long pause with prolonged head shake] You can take a taxi if you want and I can meet you in Olympos.
Me: [look of obviously feigned disappointment] Yea? Oh, ok. See you there (we hadn’t even discussed where we’d be staying).
Her: Yea, ok.
Me: [grabbing my bag with determined efficiency and wide grin] Cool. Good luck.
Who says passive-aggressiveness is a bad thing? The sense of accomplishment one feels when a plan comes together so neatly like this is something I haven’t felt since I rocked my first MS Excel pivot table. The sun shined brighter, the birds sang a sweeter tune, and the wind caressed my patchy hairline with the tenderness of an asian masseuse. Which, interestingly, is all a lot more value than this girl was ever able to afford me all along.
I arrived in Olympos in about three hours, after hitching a ride from a guy that just happened to own the “treehouse” community that Lonely Planet lauded the most. The “town” of Olympos is basically one big glorified campground, with some bigger hotels lining the areas beyond the beach. Now finally alone, I was bedding down into what amounts to an average-sized log cabin room with a fantastically comfortable bed. Things are continually looking up at this point.
I meet a less-than-attractive late-30s marine biologist from Syndey and we decide to hike the ruins the next day. Which are completely overgrown and requires quite a few hacks through the underbrush to see mosaic floors and ancient Roman baths. It’s cool to see some ruins that seem a lot less discovered than those at Ephesus or Heiropolis.
Next day we hiked up a small mountain to see Chimaera, where there are rocks on fire. I’m serious. As someone who has always loved fire, including experiments such as diving head-first through bonfires in college and compost heap arson in high school, this was going to be amazing. And it was.
At the near top of an 800 meter peak, there is a large mostly-horizontal rock face with pockets of fire blazing from underneath. Apparently, an undetermined gas is released from within the earth’s crust, and once it makes contact with air; ignites. The pictures will show you how the flames have eventually worn away rather impressive amounts of pure rock, which gives you some indication of the amount of time and heat these things have been burning. Fucking cool shit.
During the walk back from Chimaera, we pass a group of four people walking along the beach. Three are walking in front, laughing and having a good time. Four paces behind them trudges a pensive, somewhat depressing girl walking with a fair amount of dissatisfaction in every deliberate step. Closer inspection proves my first impulse: this was the girl I left back in Antalya. Her demeanor proves the validity of my earlier detachment, and my face broadens widely as I turn my gaze away from her towards an ancient fortress up on a cliff. It looks so good I want to fuck it. Or at least give it a good 9th grade dry-humping…
From Olimpos I went to Cappadocia, specifically the town of Göreme. Day one I meet a guy from the UK who has been hitchhiking for the past four months. We are nine hours from the nearest border exiting Turkey, he is carrying six Turkish Lira ($1.20), and he’s planning on making it last. I realized immediately that in the world of backpackers/travelers, I am a huge pussy.
I spend the first day getting lost in the Rose and Red Valleys among the fairy chimneys. These are ancient lava deposits carved out by massive floods and earthquakes to leave behind towering structures which all look like a soft-serve ice-cream cones with cherries on top. In the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, a civilization of people (I forget exactly who) came in and carved out multi-level houses from the inside to form ancient jungle gyms of complicated labyrinths within. There are also a large number of ornate churches and strange cave markings. The entire day, I was so lost that the only other human I saw all day was a local guy hunting wolf and fox (of which I saw several) with a shotgun that looked as though I’d be safe if he drew on me from across a dinner table. Hearing the Muslim prayers echoing off the canyons as I sat alone on the top of one of the many peaks is an experience I’ll never forget.
Nearby there are also a fair amount of underground cities, which are the kind of places where if I was 11 years old, I’d have the time of my life. As an adult however, and after seeing the 92nd room that looked exactly like the previous 91, and with temperatures plummeting the further underground I went, I was over the underground cities within 15 short minutes.
Anyway, the day of exploring the underground cities and some churches was spent with a Belgian girl I’d met that morning at breakfast. She was a laid back, tall yet average-looking language teacher who offered some intelligent conversation and her disclosure of her conversational knowledge of Turkish quickly rung loudly in my head as someone who could (for once) add me some value.
We hung out for the day, and the following day hiked the highest peak in the region as the sunset, and while I could tell she was somewhat insinuating that she wanted me to make a move to complete the romanticism of the moment, I take a pass so as not to complicate what can be an otherwise friction-free traverse across the remainder of Turkey on our way to Syria (where she was heading anyway). Turns out, I’d need her help at the border anyway, which is a story I’m half done with, and will post next, hopefully sometime later this week.
This was an especially long entry, and I give that credit to the fact that Turkey is incredible. Whereas in Eastern Europe, it’s easy to glance over the sights as being somewhat benign in contrast with the social landscape, it’s impossible to overlook the breathtaking sights and scenery of Turkey. I spent a little over two weeks there, and if you’ll notice, Istanbul isn’t even what I found to be close to the most impressive (though it certainly was). I need to go back there and explore some more. Really, it’s an amazing place.
Right now, my update is I’m in Sharm el-Sheikh, Egypt, and yesterday finished my scuba certification. I saw a moray eel on my final dive, and that shit is just fucking cool. I felt like I was watching Discovery Channel/BBC’s Planet Earth documentary series. I’ll be here for a few more days (and a few more dives) before I launch for Cairo and start digging into the pyramids a bit.
I’m starting to feel like I’m finally running out of time, so I’m trying to move forward, but with places like Sharm being the undisputed best scuba in the world, and the pyramids and Nile valley upcoming, I feel inclined to give Egypt it’s due. Plus, the partying in Sharm is quite impressive and the Egyptian people, of all the people I’ve met along the way, get perhaps the highest marks. I’ll get into that in my Egypt entry.
In the meantime, those of you who have been asking can expect me back in the States around mid/late May. I've been a bit absent on email lately what with running around Israel like a madman and spending my days in Sharm underwater the whole time, and my nights spent in thumping discotheques. I'm expecting my online presence to fade considerably until I reach South Africa, but I'll still be writing and trying to get stuff posted more regularly. Till then...
I understand completely that most people haven't bookmarked my blog, kept the original email, committed the URL to memory, or make use of the handy drop-down menu in their web browser. It's something I might do, in fact. Especially as I'm probably even more selfish, self-involved, and egocentric than most of you. So, no worries.
