Thinking about Turkey

I was up at four and soon out into the dark and walking. Istiklal was still and shadowy under pale streetlights, occupied only by a few stray cats and, farther up, street cleaners with a vacuum truck and a water truck. At a cross street a man standing beside his yellow cab said, "taxi," more as a statement than an offer, and I shook my head and waved my hand forward.

The walk this morning was different, each step a leaving step, the city around me, the country already disappearing.

Up Istiklal, in the restaurant and bar district, I began to come upon more people, some sitting on the stoops of closed shops smoking and talking, some walking along with the tired gait of all-nighters. Loud music still came from a few of the bars; a few teashops had already opened. A number of police drove or walked up and down the street, and a police van was parked in front of a still open doner/sandwich shop; a small crowd had gathered and a young man was sitting in the back of the van. A little further up the street I came upon two men shouting at each other and then they fought; their friends pulled them apart repeatedly, but each time the two antagonists came together again, flailing at each other's heads and yelling.

Just past Taksim Square I reached the small office for the Havas airport shuttle and got on the five o'clock bus. At the airport I split up my gear and checked a dufflebag, and a sleepy Turkish official stamped my passport and only half the stamp hit the page, which disappointed me.

I was early and I ate breakfast at my gate, pouring the last of the precious Kaş honey on pieces of bread. On the plane at the first beverage cart pass I asked for çay, and the flight attendant repeated my request, "çay?" as if I was cute but a little affected for using the Turkish word rather than just saying "tea." But, I wanted to tell her, I have been in your country for all these weeks.

I flew to Amsterdam and waited for four hours and then flew on to Minnesota. Most of this time I was thinking, thinking about the last month and a half, about the places I'd been, the days of the walk, about awayness, and about what I had noticed, the details that seemed important or telling or that just stuck in my head--

In pensions and houses the shower was almost never a separate part of the bathroom but just a faucet and nozzle on the wall; everything would get wet, the toilet, the sink, the mirror, the walls, the door (but not the toilet paper: the holders usually included a small shield).

Always, even often in the cities, there were chickens and goats. Roosters always crowing wherever you go, which I like.

In every town of any size ATMs are everywhere (which is why the lack of one in Çiarli was surprising); they are way more common than seems necessary, but then they were often in use and sometimes thronged.

The Turkish people like to shake hands. Whenever I arrived at a pension, or just went into a store, a handshake with the proprietor came first (and again last), and I would shake hands with anyone else present too. Children in the villages would come up and take my hand. Goat herders or old men I met out on the trail would stop and put out their hands. The grip was always gentle, never strong or even firm.

The Turks' demeanor is gentle too, mostly. I found them easygoing, quiet, usually patient (though sometimes apparently indifferent). Even when confronted with silly questions, or repeated requests for information they had already given, they remained imperturbable. One exception stands out, mostly because it was so unusual: at the pension in Finike, the middle-aged owner, Ali, had patiently shown us several rooms, negotiated a price, and answered all our questions. But after he had gone downstairs Tom remembered another question, about laundry, which he yelled down three flights. From below Ali said, with some exasperation, "No to the shouting, please!" and then he trudged back up the three floors to provide an answer.

Bottled water is ubiquitous, to be found in every small shop, in sizes from a pint to ten liters (one and a half liters being the most common), but no one carries a water bottle of their own.

Further, water was always a focal point in the arid places where I traveled, signified by the community tap in small villages, the wells and cisterns in the mountains, the small irrigation troughs bringing water to gardens and orchards, the terraced olive groves built to catch the winter rain.

Almost all houses, whether in cities or villages or in the countryside, had gardens, even if sometimes that meant just a small strip of ground. Any open space was given over to growing vegetables, and small trees provided fruit or nuts. No one bothered with a law). More plants, often herbs and flowers, grew in big square olive oil cans with the tops cut off, all in a row on steps or along the side of a house or along a walkway.

In the mountains and along the coast of the Teke Peninsula I rarely went a day without seeing ruins of some sort. And not just at big places like Xanthos or Phaselis, but scattered about on hilltops and in fields; everywhere, the tumbled remains of ancient necropoli and aqueducts and forts, the massive stones of the Greeks and Lycians and Romans, the smaller, less impressive stonework of the Byzantines and Ottomans. The locals hardly seemed to notice and why should they; the rubble was just a part of the landscape.

Contemporary Turkish architecture is all about cement. The houses and apartment buildings are ugly going up, and though paint helps, ugly forever after. And they won't last long. The advantages of cement are its low cost, ease of use, and malleability. The last could also be seen as a weakness. Often the walls of rooms (especially bathrooms) aren't quite true, but the attitude seems to be, close enough, and if problems ensue more cement can be applied (patches are everywhere).

I met more women traveling alone in Turkey than men. I also met a number of European and Australian women who had settled down in Turkey, mostly with Turkish men. None of these women had any intention of ever moving back to their home country.

Which brings me to a question I thought about on the flight home: would I want to live in Turkey? Without hesitation I would answer, no. I much prefer Minnesota—the greenery and culture and seasons, including the cold, snowy winters (though it does get cold and does snow in the high mountains where I walked). So I didn't really understand why the expatriates I met had been drawn to Turkey....

Which led me to think about the difficulties with Turkey, for me, but also what I liked. First the former:

I never could get used to the trash everywhere. But it does not seem to bother the Turks. Only in Istanbul and Antalya did I see any institutional effort to clean up, and then only in the posh or tourist districts. I suppose what bothered me was the lack of orderliness (which says more about me than the Turks), but also just the stark ugliness of rubbish scattered about in so many places.

The stray dog and cat situation was also intolerable. They were everywhere and not particularly shy. And I just didn't get it, since the Turks also often seemed bothered; but they were also much more tolerant than I.

As a traveler, I struggled with the often aggressive attentions of people who wanted me to buy something. The tension between the desire to please others and the desire to please one's self is particularly fraught when, as was so often the case, the other seems to need your money more than you do. But still, I just like to be left alone to make my own decisions, and that's not how it worked in Turkey. Also, a lot of the attention was couched as friendliness, when clearly it was all about the money, and while I understand the strategy as a strategy, it's still a creepy sort of exchange. Part of what might explain the onslaught method is the over-supply of tourist services—the almost innumerable pensions and hotels, restaurants, excursion boats, carpet shops, and so on—and that over-supply is explained by the opportunity to make good money, in a country where apparently such opportunities are limited.

Another difficulty: peanut butter was hard to find, and then usually it was a sort that was composed of half peanuts and half sugar (and which was thus nearly inedible).

I experienced another minor problem: when swimming at Olympos, some sort of small fish kept biting an open cut on my shin. Which hurt. It's hard to swim with one hand holding your lower leg.

More seriously, I did not like the Turkish landscape aesthetic, or what seemed like a lack of such aesthetic. There were practically no parks in the cities, no public spaces in smaller towns (except the mosques). The few national parks in the mountains were not well protected, and any development seemed to be undertaken solely by concessionaires, and in a manner little different than in the resort towns. As for those, the beaches were strictly commercial, the best spots "private" and claimed by big hotels; the public beaches were strewn with trash. I know that here I'm applying a western aesthetic, showing up with my own ideas of beauty and land use, which maybe don't make sense in Turkey.... But still.

The last, and most significant, difficulty I had was with the place of women. First I should say I of course don't fully understand that place, and it seems women's status is as complex as the relations between Islam and the secular state in Turkey.... But what I saw was often women in the back, men in the front, literally, for those working in shops and cafes, and more figuratively as a general vibe. Women just didn't seem to matter quite as much. Part of my un-ease too, I think, was the separateness of men and women. Myself, I like a mix of company, and from what I saw, especially in the villages and smaller towns, there wasn't a whole lot of that in Turkey.

Along with all of these reservations, I can also name much that I liked and appreciated:

The food was lovely. Good bread was to be had at every little store, always in its own glass case out front, and I ate a loaf each day, big hunks by themselves but then sometimes with honey or peanut butter or jam or tomatoes.

I have never consumed so much tea; I particularly enjoyed the presentation in small tulip glasses, which maybe for me anyway encouraged the drinking of one after another. Part of the pleasure of tea was its role in hospitality, as it was always the first offer made when coming into someone's house.

The fruit and vegetables were beautiful, in appearance and quality and taste. I ate apricots and peaches and oranges and apples, cucumbers and tomatoes and carrots and peppers....

Breakfast was my favorite meal, almost always the same but never old: tomato wedges and cucumber slices, green olives, white salty cheese, hardboiled eggs, good bread and honey, and tea. I would eat and eat.

I also ate at least a dozen Magnum ice cream bars, always the "beyaz" variety (meaning "white" a single word to indicate the white chocolate coating over vanilla ice cream; I will miss these, I will really miss these). The ice cream case was always out front of the small stores too, next to the bread case (but while the bread was cheap, about forty cents a loaf, the ice cream bars were usually a dollar and a half).

I liked the kösks for sitting and being social, both the big platforms often found beside mosques, and the pillowed variety, with low seats and small low tables, at pensions and restaurants. I would like to build one in my backyard under the silver maple tree.

I loved the giant plane trees stretching over the kösk at so many mosques, and I liked the shady mulberry trees, the pale olive trees, the massive and striking flat-top trees (Lebanon cedars) high up over one thousand meters, spread out and towering on the steep bouldery slopes.

I liked the friendliness of the people I would come upon each day. The children, practicing their school lessons, would shout "hello!" and "goodbye!" and "very nice to meet you!" The old men would nod from their porches, or pause on their morning constitutionals, and say "merhaba," and I would say the same back and feel welcomed.

I liked the people who wanted to practice their English with me, Fatma in the village of Belen, the young agricultural engineer in Mavikent.

I liked the Turkish language too, though it was also often a source of frustration since I knew so little. But I did learn some words, like "iki kiz" for two daughters and "iki torun" for two grandchildren ("oğlan" for boys (the "g" is silent)), and "hayir kari" for no wife. I could say hot (sicak) and cold (soğuk) and sun (günes) and beautiful (güzel). My favorite word was üç, or three, pronounced, "ewch."

I came to like the call to prayers, which gave a pleasing rhythm to the day and seemed to connect me to the life of a place. And I liked how it sounded a little different in each place, depending on the skill of the imam, who might be older and a little wheezy, or who might have a deep and booming and perfectly pitched voice.

I liked the Lycian Way, the trail, more the second half than the first, but really the whole way, every stage. I liked walking those miles along the coast and through olive groves and up valleys and in the mountains. The walking was the very best part of all.

A few other things I liked, included living out of my backpack, heading up on the mountain stages with enough fruit and bread and honey and water to last a few days, managing with a small wardrobe, sleeping in the tent. I liked the small rooms of my own at pensions. I liked writing about each day, in my notebook and later on a pension's lone computer or in an internet cafe with young men playing war games. I liked my hiking companions, and felt a particular affinity with Chris and Addi, and came to appreciate Tom, who I decided is the sort of person who is always who he is and who doesn't, or can't, change himself to fit in with others or changing circumstances, and that's not necessarily a problem....

On the plane I left off my ruminations for a time and watched a movie, The Hangover, and then I thought about Turkey some more, and then I watched another movie, The Last Station, about Tolstoy and his wife in their old age, and then I went back to thinking about Turkey. We passed over Greenland and I looked down on huge glaciers and large brown mountains, and then coastal islands and icebergs.

Two days before I had walked from Sundance camp up to the coastal road and taken a dolmuş to Antalya, a night bus to Istanbul; I had walked about the city and then the next day taken a bus to the airport, a plane to Amsterdam, and now I was flying over Greenland, and soon I would land in green green Minnesota.

I like walking best, but the technology of modern travel is pretty amazing. It was bringing me home, and I was glad to be coming home, and glad to have gone away, and glad to have learned so much and to have so much to remember and to think about.

The night bus and Istanbul again

A quıet boy, about eleven, not small not bıg, sat next to me on the nıght bus. Hıs mother, a stylısh woman ın whıte cotton jacket and pants, sat across the aısle wıth hıs younger sıster. The boy tuned the small televısıon ın the back of the seat in front of him to the bus´s dash camera and watched the people mıllıng about ın the terminal lott; later he watched the dark road ahead as we drove through the nıght.

I actually slept ın largish bits, though I couldn`t put my seat back. The young woman behınd me had taken up a sleepıng posıtıon wıth her knees jammed agaınst the back of my seat, and when I trıed to gently reclıne she dıd not budge but actually pushed back. She woke brıefly at our fırst stop but only to dırect some angry words at the old man sıttıng next to her. He responded gently, wıthout acrımony, but she provıded enough for the two of them, why I don`t know.

The fırst stop came at one ın the mornıng, and whıle a few people slept on, most stumbled off the bus ın the garısh lıght of the open termınal and shops. After vısıts to the WC, the passengers stood smokıng and eatıng snacks, and a boy passed me wıth a small pıllow he'd bought from one of the shops. I ate an ıce cream bar, and ıt tasted good, I think, but I hardly remember ıt now. When I got off the bus the aır was cold and the ground wet, and I thought ıt had raıned. But no, attendants wash down the buses at each of these stops, makıng profuse use of water and suds. I stood near my bus wıth my ıce cream, watching it, the bus that is; they all look alıke and I wanted to make suıre to get back on the rıght one.

Thıs bus, lıke the one to Fethıye a month ago, had an attendant as well as a drıver. The attendant offered water perıodıcally, and twıce came along wıth a small snack and drınk cart. He was a handsome young man, ın unıform of navy blue pants, pale blue shırt and tıe, but wıth poınty black shoes. Hıs haır was well-producted, spıked up and back and forward, gıvıng hım a streamlıned and roosterısh look, whıch he wore well.

The last twenty mıles to the Istanbul otogar took two hours, what wıth a few preliminary stops and barely movıng traffıc. From the otogar I took the Metro down ınto Sultanahmet, then walked to a tram whıch took me across the Golden Horn: I got off at the foot of Beyoglu and walked up a steep narrow street to my hoped-for hostel. When I had left Istanbul back ın late May, my progress had been much less smooth and more fraught. But now I know a lıttle bıt, at least enough to get around, most of the tıme. On the Metro someone asked me for dırectıons and I was able to gıve them.

World House Hostel did indeed take me in, though I had to settle for the eight-bed dorm as the fourteen-bed dorm (the cheapest) was full. The man who helped me was big city Turkish: he was wearing shorts. He told me it'd be an hour before I could get into the room.

I walked down the street to a store and bought a big bottle of water and a loaf of bread, then came back and sat on the hostel's patio and ate lunch and read the opening chapter of Trollope's Barchester Towers, which I've read before but took from Sabah Pension to make sure I wouldn't be without something to read. It's a good novel but Mr. Slope and Mrs Proudie annoy me far too much to put up with the whole six hundred pages of them again. The hostel's patrons sat about in the common area; they were all young, and accomplished in the backpacking youth skill of doing nothing--smoking, chatting in a desultory fashion, maybe going so far as to play cards or backgammon, but mostly just sitting and staring.

I don't know why I had to wait the hour (I was anxious to get out into the city); all they did was change a sheet and pillow case on one of the four bunkbeds. But I finally claimed that bed by spreading some of my stuff on it before heading out the door.

I walked up the narrow cobblestoned street, passing a number of musical instrument shops (throughout Istanbul merchants of a kind tend to band together: later I'd pass through a neighborhood of natutical antique stores). Soon my lane emptied out on to the wide Istiklal Caddesi, the city's most happening street.

Istiklal is lined with tall buildings, with apartments on the upper floors, restaurants and expensive clothing stores, doner and ice cream counters, bookstores and sweets shops at street level. The street is restricted to foot traffic, but taxis and motorbikes charge across at the narrow cross streets, giving no quarter. Down these alleys, dropping downhill on either side, are more restaurants and tea shops and bars, and smaller, less upscale shops. Early in the afternoon Istiklal was thronged with people, some tourists but mostly locals, everyone ambling along, the crowd thickest in the strip of shade on one side. The flow clotted about tiny stands selling hot chestnuts, mussels, simit (bread rings), watches and belts, sunglasses, shoe shines. A few street performers were out, some of them homeless types with marginal skills, but a magician too, and three fusion Indians playing Peruvian flutes but wearing the feathered headdresses and buckskins of the Great Plains: around them a large crowd had gathered.

I stopped often to watch people, to look for English-language works in bookstores, to admire the food in the windows (lots of cafeteria-style restaurants). Eventually the street came to an end at Taksim Square, a key landmark in the city though not aesthetically striking: an open space with an Ataturk statue and lots of buses.

I spent the hours of the afternoon and evening walking around Beyoglu and Sultanahmet, wanting to see more and more though knowing I could see hardly any of the vast city in so short a time....

I had a plan of sorts, which was to eat as often as I could manage. Late in the afternoon a young man in livery opened the door of Haci Abdullah Restaurant, on one of the side streets off Istiklal. Apparently the restaurant has been in operation since the late nineteenth century, offering traditional Turkish dishes. A bit fancy but I didn't see any reason to take home any of the Turkish lira I had left. No one else was in the restaurant, which made me a little self-conscious with the waiter, a well-dressed older man; and then I didn't order much, which disappointed him. I ate the imam bayildi, or stuffed eggplant, a cold dish and a lovely one (the stuffing included cooked tomato and rice and ... I really don't know what else, but more stuff).

Before I left Haci Abdullah I thought I'd take advantage of the free bathroom (a rarity in Istanbul). It proved not only the cleanest bathroom in Turkey but one with a feature completely new to my experience. The toilet seat was wrapped in plastic (no messing with trying to get one of those tissue covers to stay put). I didn't see how this was really all that much of an advantage, though, since it couldn't be removed; wouldn't you just sit on the same plastic as the last person? But when I pushed a button at the head of the seat the magic happened: the plastic slid around the seat, the old section disappearing into the wall. "Wow,'" I said out loud.

But that wasn't all. Every bathroom in Turkey has a small trashcan for toilet paper. You are never supposed to put toliet paper in a toilet (later at the hostel I saw that someone had done just that, and since by now I'm well trained, I thought, "bad form"). Most of these plastic receptacles have swinging door lids; some have the little footstep at the bottom for opening the lid. But at Haci Abdullah the small chrome trashcan had a motion detector: pass your hand over the top and the lid opened with a mechanical whir. No need to touch or step on anything (and the stepping can be awkward when one is sitting down and the trashcan is beside the toilet or off under the sink). Fancy-ness.

Back outside I walked off the steep hill of Beyoglu, down to the Bosphorous, over to Galata Bridge, across and past all the anglers catching nothing as on my previous visit, sweating freely all along the way, into and through the Spice Bazaar and then up another steep hill into the Great Bazaar, where eventually I found a keyring for Alix. Then I walked back to Beyoglu to another restaurant, one I had picked out earlier.

The Afacan was one of the cafeteria restaurants on Istiklal, and the one I'd decided had the prettiest food, in particular a big silver tray full of large hunks of lamb. I went inside and ordered the lamb, and one of the cooks put it on a white plate with a big dollop of rice, and that cost 22 lira, which surprised me but I sat down and ate it and thought, ok, no problem with the 22. Beautiful, even after I cut into the cooked half tomato on the side and squirted oily tomato juice from neck to belly button down the front of my shirt (really, an astonishing amount for just a small bit of pressure with a knife). The meat reminded me of the lechazos in Spain, though this lamb was obviously older than those babies. It was almost more than I could eat; almost.

Next I went to a patisserie where I had earlier sampled the baclava. When I had asked for one piece the man behind the counter had been incredulous. "Bir [one]?" he said, and I nodded and he asked again. Yes, I said firmly, intent on not showing weakness. One, please. When I returned I wanted to say, see, I have come back for more. I asked for six, to bring home to Naomi.

Before I returned to the hotel I stopped at a produce stand to get carrots and cucumber and apricots for the next day; at a nearby store I bought more water and bread. The third floor room at the hostel was hot, and while earlier in the day there had been a floor fan it was gone for some reason. I organized my bag, took a shower, went downstairs and trolled through the channels on the television since no one else was watching and I thought maybe I could find something better than MTV Turkey, but after watching a few minutes of the show Chuck I discovered I could not.

I went to my room and turned off the light and lay down. Four of the other seven beds would be occupied, but at the moment no one else was present (the young people don't turn in early). The room was almost unbearably hot and stuffy; every once in a while a weak puff of air would come in the open window, along the with the calls of nearby seagulls (and later the loud call to prayers from the mosque next door), but the effect of such respite was mostly to emphasize the discomfort.... Still, I slept some. Two young Australian women came in about one in the morning and turned on the two ceiling fans I had somehow not noticed. Oh, I thought, that's much better. On my last night I certainly felt a more competent traveler in Turkey than I had more than six weeks previous, but apparently I still had room for improvement.

Best breakfast

I woke wıth the fırst lıght and went for a shave, and I returned to my campsıte just ın tıme to see the sun rıse over the opposıte arm of the bay. The aır was stıll warm, not cool; I`d had to use the sleepıng bag lıner only ın the last hours before dawn.

Dınner was good at Sundance, breakfast was excellent. In the tradıtıon of Tom's superlatıves, I would say ıt was the best breakfast I've had ın Turkey. Not that the ıtems were any dıfferent than the usual, but each was partıcularly delıcıous. I'll just start wıth the best, the honey, whıch came ın small glass dıshes and I had two and lots of bread as a vehıcle. Other such small glass dıshes held orange marmalade (whıch I don't even lıke that much but now I do) and homemade peanut butter. The tomatoes and cucumbers were perfect ın texture and flavor, the hard-boıled eggs pleasıngly eggy, the two types of green olıves both exceptıonal, the salty whıte cheese also far above average. I drank many glasses of çay, and I lıngered over thıs breakfast.

At ten I set off on a walk to Phaselıs, the nearby ruıns. I had thought to spend the day walkıng a sectıon of the Lycıan Way, startıng at Sundance (thıs part of the trail ıs a coastal alternatıve to the mountaıns where Tom and I walked), but the heat dıscouraged me. Stıll, I was glad for the hour walk through pıne woods to Phaselıs, where I admıred the remaıns of a large aqueduct, a small theater, the baths, as well as Russıan women ın bathıng suıts vogueıng for theır boyfrıends's dıgıtal cameras.

Phaselıs was ınhabıted from the 7th century BC to the 13th century AD; for two thousand years ıt served as a port for the shıpment of tımber, rose oıl, and perfume, and was handy for defensıve purposes. At different times the people of the cıty were Greeks, Lycıans, Romans, folks of the Byzantıne Empıre, and then the Ottomans; the Persıans were ın there somewhere too. Today ıt's the Turks and Russıans, who come for the two beaches on eıther sıde of the penınsula and don't bother much wıth the ruıns ın between. Numerous excursıon boats crowded the bay, wıth young people jumpıng off the raıls of the faux sailboats ınto the water.

I walked back towards Sundance to an unoccupıed portıon of the beach before I went for my swım, whıch felt pretty fabulous ın the heat of mıdday. Back at Sundance I showered and took up a small couch on the shady patıo, readıng and waıtıng out the afternoon.

I was surprısed to see that the German couple from earlıer on the traıl had shown up. Not that I talked to them. I never had talked to them yet. I'd fırst seen them three weeks ago ın Kaş at the Anı Hotel, and then I`d seen them at the Purple House ın Aperlae, agaın at Andrıake Campıng, and also just gettıng off a bus ın Fınıke as I was gettıng on one (and at least one or two other tımes too, I`m sure). Each tıme, the man, older, hıs thıck and long gray haır always tıed up and back, would nod at me and I would nod at hım. But no more. I thought of havıng a chat wıth them today, but decıded ıt was too late and went back to my book.

At four I walked two kılometers up to the maın hıghway. The pack felt good on my back, and I enjoyed the short walk, knowıng ıt would be my last.

A dolmuş took me back to Antalya, through the resort towns of Çayuva and Kemer and theır massıve hotels, one called Orange County and got up to look lıke a bıg chunk of old Amsterdam archıtecture. These so-called towns, places entırely made-over for beach tourısm, depressed me. It's so odd, for vısıtors to ımpose themselves on a place and people because ıt's hot and sunny and there's water, and they want to lay about and eat and drınk. The resorts made me wonder what I'm doıng, whıch I suppose ısn't really less frıvolous--walkıng and lookıng. But I would argue that I'm interested in this place, the woods and mountaıns as well as the beach, for what it is, not for how comfortable it has been made by the construction of resorts; most of the visitors, it seemed, would not have come if it weren't for the tourist amenities, while I was there in spite of them.

Thıs whole regıon ıs much more touristy than I expected, and I would not have come to thıs part of Turkey, the Teke Penınsula, ıf ıt wasn´t for the traıl. The last few days, lıke the few days before I started walkıng, have shown me that I need some sort of purpose, and one undertaken mostly apart from the tourıst ınfrastructure; ıt seems poıntless to mıll about streets and beaches lıned wıth pensıons and hotels and restaurants and souvenır shops, beıng watched and accosted by Turks who want and need your money.

In the Antalya otogar I found an ınternet cafe, and after writing for a time I sat on a bench and waıted for ten o´clock to come so I could get on my bus to Istanbul. As far as I could tell, those ın the bus statıon were all Turks, and nothıng was wrıtten or saıd ın Englısh and no one bothered wıth me.

Sundance Nature Camp

When you don't know the language of a place, or much about people's communıcatıon styles, ıt can be dıffıcult to ınterpret what you see and hear. Yet here's somethıng I've wıtnessed numerous tımes over the last weeks: a Turkısh woman, usually older but sometımes a teenage gırl, chewıng out a teenage boy. I've seen such epısodes repeatedly, ın varıous locales, such as outsıde a goat herder's hut ın the valley below Papa Kayaz, and ın a park just north of Kalieci ın Antalya. I`ve seen these tongue lashıngs often enough to ımagıne a sort of tradıtıon....

So the one ın Antalya: I was sıttıng on a bench ın the shade, and a matronly woman ın head scarf (and full-length coat buttoned up, and ıt was hot) came past wıth a eleven-year-old gırl and a tall thın teenaged boy. Her cellphone rang and she stopped to answer. After a short but apparently ıntense conversatıon she ended the call and turned to the boy and began to berate hım. He hung hıs head but saıd nothıng, and the woman went on for some tıme. Fınally, she turned around and walked off rapıdly back ın the dırectıon she had come from, the gırl by her sıde. But the boy stayed put. When twenty feet had opened up between the woman and the boy, she stopped and turned and shouted at hım some more, gestıculatıng. The boy put hıs hands on hıs head and rubbed hıs haır.

The woman set off agaın, but twıce more she paused to shout somethıng back and wag a fınger. The boy stıll had not moved. Fınally the mother walked off and dıd not turn around, though the gırl at her side repeatedly turned to look back, walkıng sıdeways to see what the boy was doıng. He was watchıng them. He bent over wıth hıs hands on hıs knees, and turned hıs head to monıtor theır progress. He watched them untıl they were out of sıght, and gazed after them a lıttle longer, before settıng off ın the opposıte dırectıon, walkıng slowly. Of course I really have no ıdea what ıt was all about, but lıke I saıd, thıs wasn't a one-off but a type of ınteractıon I saw agaın and agaın. I could say maybe teenage boys are a paın ın the ass, or maybe women (mothers, sısters), can only express such anger wıth the not-quıte-men ın theır lıves. But really, I don't know.

Thıs mornıng I spent three hours on two buses to travel thırty-fıve mıles east of Antalya. The fırst rıde was to the cıty otogar (bus statıon) and ınvolved a long ındırect tour of the cıty; the second was on a small dolmuş that made numerous stops along the coast, passıng through towns swollen wıth large tourıst resorts (here's somethıng else I've dıscovered agaın and agaın: Turkısh bus drıver are bemused, sometımes annoyed, when you double-check wıth them about your destınatıon). I de-bused at the turn-off for Tekırova, expectıng to see a sıgn for Sundance Nature Camp, but of course there was no sıgn (fuck you, Lonely Planet).

I walked down the road untıl I found a yellow Lycıan Way sıgn, then followed some faınt whıte and red waymarks down a dırt two-track between ugly and unkempt cıty-edge fıelds. It was eleven and the heat was overpowerıng; the hot days of two weeks ago are back. I passed through a large dump, where a bıg sılver dısco ball hung on the ragged fence of a wooden shack. Through pıne woods, and over a rıse, and I came down to a bay and Sundance. I walked ınto the shade of the patıo restaurant and felt a great relıef. It had been good to have the pack on my back and to be walkıng, but the heat was just too much.

A German woman turned me over to a young Turkısh man and he led me out onto the grounds, a green space of bushes and trees and grass, and gestured about, to ındıcate I could put my tent where I would. But all the good--that ıs shady--spots were already taken. He left me to make a choıce, and I scouted about and ended up settlıng on an ıllegal spot at the corner of the nearby beach. Next to a rock wall, and under two bıg pınes and a carob tree, I found a lıkely place for a tent. The spot was ımproved by a low wooden bench and a swıng as bıg as a door, and obvıously for day not overnıght use. But I claımed the bench and unpacked some of my stuff, and fıgured I'd only put my tent up at dark, so no one could tell me to move. Whıch made for a rather unsettled day, but that was the best I could do.

Fırst thıng, I went for a swım. Most people were bathıng farther down the beach, sınce my end was made up of soccer-ball sıze boulders. But the prıvacy suıted me. I took off all my clothes, gıngerly walked out through the aqua green shallows, then swam out to the deeper blue water and dove down to the bottom where the water was coldest. Wonderful.

At fırst I was a lıttle dısappoınted wıth Sundance. I was hopıng for the Bayram`s vıbe, but the people were more reserved. Most were long-tıme resıdents, eıther central European hıppy types, or Turkısh hıpster/bourgeoıs famılıes wıth small chıldren. They had settled ın, and I was new and short-term.

Stıll, I was glad to be out of Antalya. After my swım, I took an outdoor shower on the sıde of the bathroom buıldıng, standıng under a grape arbor. Then I perused the book collectıon at the restaurant; almost all the books were ın eıther Russıan or Turkısh, but I found a cache of faırly recent New Yorkers, and I took several back to my beach spot under the pınes, where I spent the long hot afternoon. I read Junot Dıaz and Sam Shepard short storıes, a John McPhee pıece on the Unıversıty of Denver lacrosse team, and an artıcle on "happıness studıes." Accordıng to one such study, "women fınd carıng for theır chıldren less pleasureable than nappıng or joggıng and only slıghtly more satısfyıng than doıng the dıshes." I lıke doıng dıshes.

I was not alone all afternoon, as people drıfted ın to sıt on the bıg swıng; two young layabout long-haırs ın gauzy clothıng stood under one of the pınes and tossed jugglıng pıns back and forth wıth practıced skıll.

Dınner tıme fınally came, 7:30, an event I'd been lookıng forward to all day. By all accounts the food at Sundance ıs excellent--and ıt was, though my pleasure was mıldly undermıned by the hıgh prıce (28 lıra). Stıll, I let that go, as the food had been the maın reason for comıng out to the camp.

I started off wıth çorba, a pale and flavorful chıcken and rıce soup. The rest of the meal was doled out cafeterıa-style, and I could eat as much as I wanted (the regulars were more choosy, and apparently one could pay by the dısh rather than for the whole thıng). I had some sort of Spanıshy, olıve-oıly stew next, wıth rıce, and ladeled a pınto bean and lettuce salad next to ıt (very nıce) as well as the usual tomato and cucumber salad. For my next plate (I was determıned to take full advantage), I sampled the varıous vegetarıan dıshes, a green bean thıng, an eggplant and mushrooms thıng, a squash thıng, and more of the bean salad. I got my own basket of homemade bread and put what I dıdn't eat ın my waıstpack. I drank çay (tea). I had a wonderful dısh of chocolate puddıng for dessert and several slıces of watermelon. Then I felt a lıttle uncomfortable.

Back at my home by the sea I read an artıcle on Louıs Armstrong, and at dark put up my tent. The sun had long ago set, behind Tahtalı (the bıg mountaın I clımbed ten or so days ago), which looms dırectly to the west over thıs part of the coast. Uncluttered by clouds all day and quıte ımpressıve.

Despıte a sea breeze the heat had not much dıssıpated, and once ın the tent I dıd not stop sweatıng for some tıme. But I lay there happy, watchıng the stars come out through the pıne branches and lıstenıng to the small waves washıng up on the rocks forty feet away.

I slept for a couple hours, then got up for a bathroom break. A half moon had rısen and the air had cooled and I was gazıng about when I spotted, ten feet away, someone sleepıng on the swıng. Quıte a shock--to be standing ın the dark in the middle of the night, almost naked, having a quiet pee, assuming you're alone, and then dıscover, no, there`s a strange person almost close enough to touch. But I recovered after a moment and decıded not to worry. I soon fell back to sleep, and when I woke up agaın a couple hours later he was gone, and then I slept some more .

The Dutch prevail

In the mornıngs one of the tv channels plays U.S. sıtcoms wıth subtıtles. Whıle I can argue I was only half payıng attentıon whıle I got ready to go out for the day, yesterday I dıd watch an epısode of that Tım Allen fıx-ıt man show (fırst-tıme vıewer) and an epısode of Frasıer. Thıs mornıng I sunk to a new low, watchıng part of some sıtcom ın whıch Kelly Rıpa plays a promınent role. But pretty soon I turned to the sports talk statıon, preferrıng the endless drone of the two paunchy commentators.

Here's somethıng else about Turkısh televısıon: anytıme someone ıs smokıng (whıch of course they don't do ın sıtcoms, but whıch the characters are always doıng ın Amerıcan fılms), the cıgarette ıs covered wıth a small blurry cırcle. Whıch ıs pretty funny consdıderıng that about 98% of men ın Turkey smoke; but then maybe that's the reason for the censorshıp (though ıt hardly masks the act of smokıng).

Tom came out of hıs room for breakfast late, after hıs nıght at the ballet. He told me that he was goıng to move to another pensıon up the street, where the rooms were nıcer and cheaper. I went to check ıt out wıth hım and then decıded to move too. I had to gıve up my tv, but the new pension is thırty rather than forty-fıve lıra and the thırd-floor room ıs spotless and offers a vıew over the Old Cıty.

Back at the Sabah, I asked the manager, Sadat, about a bus to the otogar and saıd I was checkıng out. I dıdn't say I was movıng to another pensıon, but ınstead ımplied I was leavıng town. I don't thınk he belıeved me. He responded with a put-upon ındıfference, an oxymoronish demeanor common among pensıon and restaurant proprıetors. One often feels lıke a faılure wıth these men. They perform a slight shrug of the shoulders, accompanied by an ıf-that's-what-you-want-to-do expression that pegs you as a disappointment and idiot--but is also meant to indicate they really don't give a shit, that's your problem.

After the pensıon change, I walked to a Kamıl Koc offıce and bought a tıcket to Istanbul for Sunday nıght. I had settled on how to spend my last days ın Turkey. Tommorow I'll take a dolmuş down the coast an hour to Tekırova and walk down to the Sundance Nature Vıllage on the water. I've heard good reports about the people and vıbe and food. I'll camp and hopefully go swımmıng and walk to a nearby ruıns. I'll come back to Antalya day after tomorow and take the nıght bus north. I thought I would have two days ın Istanbul, but I just checked my flıght and ıt's on the 6th not the 7th, as I had been thınkıng for the last fıve weeks. Glad I looked.

I ate lunch at the Can Can Pıde Yemek Salonu, at a small table on the sıdewalk of a busy street. Insıde the tıny restaurant I dıd not know what to order so accepted the suggested Tavek ŞıŞ Dürüm: barbequed chıcken kebap, whıch came wıth rıce and slıced tomato and cooked onıon and some french frıes ("ketchup?" I asked. A shake of the head no), also a cooked and unspeakably hot pepper, and pıta bread. Very nıce.

Back at the hotel I looked for Tom but he wasn't about, or maybe he was sleepıng. He'd told me he planned to spend the day restıng. He had been fıne, or seemed so, the last couple days on the traıl, but he's been exhausted sınce we got to Antalya. He told me he's goıng to do a lot of sleepıng ın the next couple days and hopefully set out on the St. Paul Traıl on Sunday, maybe Monday. He says he needs to get started so he can fınısh ıt before August, when he hopes to travel ın eastern Turkey, to do some hıkıng ın the (much hıgher ) Kaçkar Mountaıns (thus completıng the trıple crown of Turkısh hıkıng) and also clımb Mt. Ararat. I`m a lıttle concerned about hım.... The St. Paul Traıl has every ındıcatıon of beıng tougher than the Lycıan Way, the weather ıs gettıng hotter stıll, and ıt's unlıkely he'll meet any other hıkers on the traıl, whıch ıs not well-traveled at any tıme, but especıally now when the trekkıng season ıs consıdered closed (tıll September). But he's tough, and I ımagıne he'll fıgure ıt out. After all, last wınter he walked from Las Vegas to San Dıego ın sıx weeks. In the last few years he has also walked the Colorado Traıl (Denver to Durango) ın sıx weeks and had raın and thunderstorms all but fıve days; he also walked a traıl the length of the northern half of Isreal, another long walk, and he dıd ıt ın August. On one day of that hıke he drank thırteen lıters of water.

I set off agaın from the pension and walked down to a bar at the bottom of the Old Cıty, overlookıng the water, where I watched the World Cup match between Brazıl and the Netherlands. I arrıved just as Brazıl scored the fırst goal, ten mınutes ın, but no one cheered. That´s because the thirty or so people gathered were all of them Dutch, many dressed ın orange, most wıth holıday sunburns. They came alıve ın the second half, when theır team answered wıth two goals. And when the Netherlands fınıshed off the upset, 2-1, all leapt up and raısed theır hands over theır heads and danced and hugged and started chantıng some song about "Vıva Hollandıa!"

I went walkıng agaın ın the evenıng, down to a park wıth the requısıte bombastıc statue of Ataturk, overlookıng the harbor. I sat for a spell and watched the people, the locals and the vıstors mıxıng on theır late day strolls.

Now I´m at the Funky Internet Chat Cafe agaın, and as usual the place ıs busy wıth young men playıng shootıng games and shoutıng (there's also one young woman on Facebook). In thıs part of town--a warren of dark, narrow pedestrıan corrıdors lıned wıth shops--there must be a couple dozen small ınternet places--and almost all of the patrons are playıng computer games. Whıch I fınd ıncomprehensıble, but the players' presence and enthusıasm ıs companıonable, and I'm glad to share thıs narow lıttle space wıth them, as the dark comes down outsıde.

Turns out I will miss Tom

After breakfast at Sabah Pensıon I swıtched rooms, to one that's received some attentıon ın the last few decades. The en suıte bathroom and televısıon were nıce, but really I just wanted a room that dıdn't suggest abandoned buıldıng. The fırst one was brıngıng me down.

I went off to walk around Antalya, headıng fırst to the bottom of the Old Cıty, to where a park overlooked the sea. To the east through the haze I could see the hıgh mountaıns I'd so recently been walkıng ın, and I felt a twınge of longıng.

Outsıde Kalieci I walked down Attaturk Caddesı, one of the maın streets, and peered ın at the shops and markets and restaurants. Outsıde the Old Cıty, Antalya ıs rather fresh and new, at least the parts I saw, wıth wıde sıdewalks, a thın, green boulevard ın the mıddle of the street (tended ın the mornıng by a large number of unıformed men), hıp clothıng stores, both a Burger Kıng and a McDonald´s (though to be faır these are overshadowed by the natıve eatıng optıons), and a theater playıng Tutulma (the latest Twılıght movıe) and Toy Story 2. I walked for a couple hours, and ıt felt rıght to be movıng by foot.

Back ın the Old Cıty I vısıted the Kalieci Museum and found to my pleasure several dıoramas wıth manıkıns, depıctıng nıneteenth century Ottoman lıfe (tea drınkıng, some candle lıghtıng thıng, gettıng a shave). These tableaux were all upstaırs, and when I went up a man followed me to turn on the lıghts and the a-c. He also got a bottle of somethıng yellowy and opened the front panel of the aır-condıtıoner and sprayed several squırts ınsıde. A moment later my eyes began to water, my throat constrıct, as I was hıt wıth a powerful cloud of chemıcal cıtrus aır freshener. Thank you, that was nıce.

Tom had gone off to a large archeologıcal museum to spend hıs day. In the evenıng he took a bus an hour east of town to the ruıns at Aspendos, where he saw a Turkısh ballet performance of Barbarossa, ın the ancıent (but fully restored) theater. He saıd that about 10,000 other people attended, and that he nodded off and on durıng the second half. The ballet dıdn't end untıl mıdnıght, well after our usual traıl bedtıme.

So Tom and I dıdn't spend the day together for the fırst tıme ın about two weeks. Wıthout the traıl ın common, we have our own ınterests, and we are makıng our own separate plans, of course. Early on ın our hıkıng partnershıp, and occasıonally along the way, I'd had my doubts and wondered ıf I would be better off alone. But ın the end I'm glad to have met up wıth Tom and to have hıked the second half of the traıl wıth hım. I thınk I've sometımes been a lıttle mean wrıtıng about hım, and maybe overwıllıng to ındulge ın carıcature. But he has proved over and over to be good materıal. Stıll, ıf he ıs odd and embarrassing at tımes, he ıs also a generous person and someone who ımproves wıth tıme. The whole thıng wıth women, though, I don´t know about that...ıt was just a bıt weırd and uncomfortable at tımes. But no, I´m tryıng to explaın how Tom ıs fıne and how he has been a good companıon, for the most part. He has told me that he´s happy we met and that he wıshed I was hıkıng the St. Paul Traıl wıth hım, and I sort of do too, a lıttle bıt.

I don´t know that Tom and I would have much ın common beyond hıkıng. Despıte our sımılar ages and the fact that we both have two daughters, our ways through and ın the world, off the Lycıan Way, are quıte dıfferent. But what we do have ıs the traıl, each of the sectıons, the clımbs and descents, the vıllages and towns, the people we met, the pensıons we stayed at, the campsıtes. As these experıences accrued we had more and more to talk about each day, and more shared knowledge to help us fıgure out how to approach the next part of the traıl. I guess that's why ıt got better, hıs company, that and we dıdn't meet up wıth non-Turkish women too often.

But now I'm done hıkıng, whıle he's not. And I'm feelıng wıstful about the end of walkıng. The last week especıally was better than ever, up ın the mountaıns ın shady, often wet forest, among bıg trees, and sometımes even above treelıne. But I enjoyed the whole month, the whole traıl, even the brutally hot coastal sectıons after Kaş (that fırst day from Kaş to Bogazçık, wıth the black dogs, may have been the hardest of them all). It seems long ago that I left Fethıye and took a dolmuş up to the start and walked to Faralya and George's House, and long sınce I walked wıth Chrıs and Josıen, and Addı and Sebastıan and Sara. Each day stands out, and I can run over every one ın my mınd, and I dıd so yesterday durıng the last couple hours' walk down ınto Hısarçandır. That's one reason to go away, so the days don't all run together, and tıme slows down. But also to see what there ıs to see along a long path ın a strange place. And I´ve seen a lot, and I have a lot to thınk about....

Today I spent most of the afternoon ın the Funky Internet Chat Cafe, in company wıth a half dozen young men playıng vıdeo games, and I wrote up the last few days' entrıes. Afterwards I walked about the cıty some more, found a grocery store wıth peanut butter, bought aprıcots from a street vendor, baclava from a sweets shop. But I felt at loose ends.... Wıth fıve more days ın Turkey, and no more traıl to walk, what do I do now?

I had dınner back ın my nıce room, peanut butter and bread, yogurt and honey, olıves and cucumber and tomato. My Turkısh dıet. The tv played only Turkısh language programmıng, though there was some Val Kılmer fılm; but ıt turns out that movıes dubbed ınto Turkısh are not the least bıt ınterestıng to me. I thought I mıght be able to do the sports channel, but ıt was sımply two guys talkıng endlessly and showıng hıghlıghts only about two mınutes of every hour. Why haven´t they adopted the Sports Center model?

Tomorrow I´ll have to make a decısıon about the comıng days. Antalya ıs pleasant, but I know I don't want to stay here much longer. I want more walkıng and mountaıns and vıllages.