Talking Turkey
My first and only visit to Turkey was in the summer of 1997. Here is my reaction to Turkey as recorded in my travel journal and in my book, Memoirs of a Middle-aged Hummingbird, published in 2006.
July 10, 1997
The Bosphorus is bluer than I had imagined. Here I sit in Istanbul overlooking the ruins of an old Turkish bath, and an active mosque and minaret located between me and the Sea of Marmara. I have spent most of the day inside because I have splurged just this one night on an expensive room with a wondrous view from which to watch the water and the large ships going by.
Within walking distance of my hotel, I have been to the Aya Sofia and the Blue Mosque several times. The inside and outside of both massive structures are endlessly fascinating. My camera and I have been very happy together snapping unusual angles and centuries of history.
What isn’t so great are the touts and the louts who follow me around everywhere. Some of these men are somewhat comical in the manner of their approaches, such as the one who walked beside me trying out English, then French, then German to attract my attention. Another came running out of his shop with his hand outstretched saying, “Friendship, friendship, I believe in friendship. Don’t you? Please come into my shop and sign my guestbook.” Or, “You look like a person who buys carpets,” said the carpet seller who walked a few blocks with me until he really believed I was a nomad with no floor on which to lay a carpet.
Scarier are the men who blatantly want sex, totally disregarding my age, my matronly body, and the wedding ring I bought for this occasion. I started to join tours just to give me a buffer zone. It’s quite a change from feeling so safe traveling as a woman alone in Asia.
July 16, 1997
I have come to the fairyland of Cappadocia. I am sitting at the end of a valley surrounded by cones of tufa, volcanic ash. Freud would have really been enthralled here with the shapes rising up from the ground. The green trees contrast with the white-bright sun. Earlier, I had threaded my way through hallways made in the soft rock. Before that, I had explored an ingeniously designed old underground city.
I spent too much money last night to stay in an elegantly restored 200-year-old Ottoman house with Turkish carpets and an elaborate bath. The rich, delicious food so beautifully served gave me diarrhea. Tonight I have the same spectacular view for $8. I still have Turkish carpets on the wall and on the floor. It’s simple, but has the most marvelous shared terrace overlooking the astounding valley.
July 21, 1997
Tonight I sit in a place more wonderful than I could imagine, but at 5 a.m. two nights ago, I wasn’t at all sure how it would end.
These all-night bus rides are as uncomfortable as they sound. They are non-smoking, except for the driver who is, of course, a typical chain smoker. The air conditioning works, but only if turned on, which it generally isn’t. And, since it is, in theory, an air-conditioned bus, the large windows are sealed shut.
I sat next to a French doctor-adventurer. He travels the world mostly by bike while his wife stays home. When he’s with his wife, they go only to luxury hotels and fancy restaurants.
Just as I’d fall asleep for a few precious moments in the endless night, we would stop at one of the all-night circuses built expressly as bus stops. There, the men would emerge and drag on their cigarettes with the intensity of a baby sucking on a pacifier. While that night’s road kill was washed off the windows, the other sleeping bus occupants would awaken for the toilets, and perhaps to eat. I had no appetite at 3 a.m.
Just as I sank into the bliss of sleep, the driver stopped and deposited a few of us in the 4 a.m. darkness where a garrulous man awaited with a dead van that he cajoled to life again to take us to the small town at the foot of Pamukkale. He dumped me at a dingy office when I said I wanted to go to the Palmiye Hotel where I had reservations and had already paid in advance. Another younger version of the slick businessman wanted me to rent a room in his pension, but agreed to take me to the Palmiye where a sleepy clerk had answered the phone.
The sleepy clerk at the Palmiye, when confronted with my sleepy face and expectant eyes, told me there was no reservation for me. There being no other choice, I curled into the lobby couch and slept as best I could to await the manager who would, I hoped, magically straighten it all out.
To be continued…
Tags: Travel, Traveling in Turkey; Istanbul; Cappadocia; Pamukkale
