Time well spent, but time to be over.

15.08.08 2117

The next day, being our last in Fethiye, we wanted to make worth our while. O, it was. We started by taking a dolmuş (after breakfast, of course) to Kayaköy (lit. ‘rock village’) which Ryan had wanted to see since we first arrived. The town’s history dates to three-thousand BCE (I think that I might start using the founding of Rome as the date by which all are calculated once again), most of the buildings were constructed in the late eighteen-hundreds and early nineteen-hundreds. In the exchange of populations, though, the town was abandoned and remained so, with few inhabitants still remaining, until it was realised that there was potential to capitalise on tourism.

I HATE HATE HATE BOTTLED WATER.

Even though the dolmuş that we took seemed to run every ten minutes, we had to wait an hour for the bust after we were done walking. Luckily for us, the mayor’s house, the largest in the village, had been converted into a wonderfully beautiful restaurant, and we were able to have a personal wine tasting in the four-hundred-year-old wine cellar. Ryan had a glass of old sirah and I had a glass of something light that was strawberry-cherry flavoured, as it was a hot day, and I never get light drinks. It was still a red, though--don’t worry, Mommy. We ended up talking with some Brits on holiday who loved the place, and the woman and I ranted about how horrible Turkey would be if it changed from anything but what it is (read: either fell to the fundamentalists as it narrowly escaped by only one vote about a month ago or was forced to modernise and become even more western with things like health codes and liquor licenses and the like) and lost all of its charm and traditional rhythm. After paying and talking some more, we sprinted down the stairs and out of the restaurant to catch the dolmuş to Ölüdeniz.

The next few minutes of our journey were characterised by swindling Turks trying to make a few lira by telling us the wrong dolmuş, but then still charging us, chasing us down not once but twice on the beach after we didn’t pay, and stupid profiteers charging us to sit on the lounge chairs and use an umbrella on the beach, both of which were already there, and yelling at us and telling us that we couldn’t just sit on our own towels on the sand, which wasn’t sand, but smooth rocks.

We’re over that, though. Except for the comment that I understand, Turks, because you have centuries of mercantilism in your genealogy, and I would totally get hung up about some lira if I did, too. Luckily for you, I just have a flash temper in mine heritage, but some lira definitely isn’t enough to bring it out, so you can have it, and your profiteering, too. Harumph.

After nervously swimming in the beach with our few lira in our pocket because we didn’t trust anyone—wait.

This water, people, was amazing, really. It was crystal blue-turquoise, like looking into an aquamarine jewell (etymology, much?), and was fantastic in which to swim. O, my. We were continually in awe as we looked down and around. Huge mountains rose up out of the shoreline, and I think that this was the first soil that I’ve seen that’s rockier than that in New England. It is as if the sea vomited huge mounts of rock one day in a fit of disgust, and out of this rock barren coniferous trees grew with tall grasses in between them, begging for forest fires when combined with either careless nicotine addicts or Nature’s electricity.

The water was beautiful, and the sand was amusing because it was, as mentioned, ‘very small rocks,’ which wiped right off your feet and didn’t stick all over everything like the sand at home, or even the sand at Karadeniz.

We had dondurma--real dondurma, the gummy kind--and headed for the dolmuş back to Fethiye. On the dolmuş, we saw another one of those ubiquitous (even on sale at the bazaars, I swear) insignias of the empire of evil. If you can’t tell in the picture, then it’s because that horrid omen is obscured by the dolmuş pole, but it is, indeed, that accurséd overlying ‘N’ and ‘Y.’ Why this is everywhere, I’ll never know, but I kept being afraid that it would get me into some trouble, because, after being born and bred in Red Sox Nation, my first reaction upon catching sight of one of these symbols is to glower at the sign, and this may be misinterpreted as a glower at the wearer or seller, and I haven’t the language skills to explain how stupid it is to wear a symbol of that status when one doesn’t fully understand its implications.

After dinner at the same harbour local dive at which we had eaten second breakfast, we had a nice, relaxing evening full of me desperately trying to keep Ryan from procrastinating packing (I was all set already) and realising that our flight from Dalaman was two hours later than we thought--yay! When the time came, we walked down the hill to the hamam, where I was part of Ryan’s induction into that wonderful aspect of Turkish culture.

Squeaky clean and with glisteningly exfoliated skin, we walked back up the hill in the dark and reflected upon how wonderful our hostel and its owners are.

Times that I was enjoying too much to take pictures...

15.08.08 1957
The next day, as we had been informed by Tuna (who, as mentioned, let us on to the boat tour and organised our passage to it), was market day in Fethiye. We got up for breakfast and then had a nice long morning that eventually became an early afternoon walking around town. It was very different on this Tuesday than it had been on Sunday in town; everything was alive and vibrant with persistent energy. We ate and wandered, bought some nice things at a little ethnic gypsy-like store that I can say are from Turkey, and pretty much finished with market day, thank you very much.

2111
We had dinner again at Paşa Kabap, which was a wonderful, a bit off-the-beaten-touristy path restaurant that served delicious traditional Turkish food at extremely reasonable prices. The staff were also very friendly, and smirked with us (or a least me) at silly tourists. We took our time again and ordered starters and our meal, and this time we even had coffee after, but I think that it could have used a little sugar to keep it from being grainy. The best Turkish coffee that I’ve had is still that which Gözde made. I’m pretty sure that we just went back and went to bed again, maybe after some more backgammon. There was one night where Ryan totally started falling asleep on me as we were talking, which never ever ever happens, as I’m the one who always gets to the point where all of my responses are either ‘mm-hmm’ or ‘uh-huh’ (one or the other, though, as I never mix two in the same night) as I drift off to bed but still want to seem like I’m paying attention. I can’t help it! When Ryan’s sleepy, he starts talking about random things (or singing random song bits), so it’s not my fault.

Some reflections of Turkey, thus far.

Ryan's darling napping little head has afforded me enough time this afternoon to upload, organise, date, and locate all of my pictures; update my blog with all of that text from the other day; edit a little bit; and now add some reflections and commentary that have some intellectual significance that I've been meaning to do, even with a few minutes' worth of power outage (it happens here).

Turks, in general:

From the first night (and even before, just hearing my professor speak), some of the stereotypes that I'd had proved to be true. (I know that most of you probably don't have any Turkish stereotypes, but that's okay; at least you know where Turkey is.)

The Turks are a very proud people who are adamant about their Ottoman heritage and Atatürk. The first or second night in the dorms, Havva explained to me (in Turkish) that she, like all Turks, would die for Atatürk and the Turkish republic (pointing to the picture of the flag that was then my computer background).

Like what you see of the Greeks in My Big Fat Greek Wedding, they assert that all good things are Turkish, an assertion that they defend by stating that the Ottoman Empire stretched from the Indus River Valley to the Straits of Gibraltar, from modern-day Poland down through Egypt to beyond the Red Sea into the Indian Ocean. All of this is, to their credit, true, but of course we learn nothing of it in any primary or secondary school history classes. This assertion is at times, obviously, very amusing. The Turks are also a very kind, good-natured, hospitable people for the most part, which will throw some Americans off-guard. On occasion, though, those Turks with more in their history as swindling merchants will use this kindness to lure people into a false sense of security and then scam them.

The taxi drivers are utterly insane, and people here tend to drive with little regard for pedestrians. To cross the street sometimes, though, you have to walk out into traffic very slowly and keep moving at the same pace, nomatter what. Cars beep here for everything that you can image: get out of my way, I don't see anyone but I'm coming so get out of my way, get into my cab, thank you, what the hell are you doing, you look pretty... When they parallel park, they leave a ridiculously large amount of space between cars. Like Spain, and I'm assuming most of Europe, everyone drives stick, even the huge passenger buses that we rode. The cars here in İstanbul were not so small. The road signs were pictoral, id et, where we would have a 'NO PASSING ZONE' sign because 'everyone in America should speak American, I mean English,' there would be a picture of two cars next to each other with the one on  the left crossed out. The stop signs (same colour and shape) say 'DUR,' however, which I liked, because the ones in Spain said 'STOP,' and that was stupid.

From what I gather, the pervasiveness of clicking one's tongue as one looks up to indicate 'no' is not as widespread as I'd imagined it would be, and I think that I was understood when I accidentally did the Western head signal for 'no.' I did see Dilek one night, though, protest having her picture taken and signalling in this manner.

Yes, the men stare, but it's not like you'd think. The men in America stare, too. I showed Gözde some shirts that I had (spaghetti-strap and similar) and explained that this is acceptable wear in America. 'Don't the men stare?' 'Well, yes, but it's not really a big deal.' Burak's friend also commented at one point how men will call out car windows to women. In Ankara, no one looks. In İstanbul, some people will accidentally turn their head back. In America, the women will either solicit the men right back or scream obscenities.

This made me realise that it's not the men who are different here, but the women. Women do dress more modestly, and you notice it, but we were comfortable eventually wearing those spaghetti-strapped shirts. Women do cover their heads, although it's illegal in federal buildings (post offices, official spaces, universities) because Turkey is a secular nation (see Atatürk's reforms). And tourists will wear the burqa.

The first night in Turkey, Gözde asked if I would like the door open, even though there would be bugs. I learned the word for insect. When we were out at the mall another night with Dilek, Gözde commented how 'there are so many more Arabs here than Turks!' She then giggled and said, 'İnci! Böcek [insect]' as she pointed to a woman in a burqa (Burak also referenced them as ninjas). She found it just as odd, if not more so, than I did. All in all, I found that the Turkish women, because they are more modest, provided the stereotype for Turkish men, although those men in the leather district were pretty cat-call-y...

For some reason, everyone has two cell phones. Some people have a business and a family, some girls have a social and a family, and who knows what everyone else does. We decided that cell phones could be for: business, family, friends, significant others, one-night stands, men who asked for a number and you needed something with an automated message to give them, anything. Who knows? Far more people than should, however, have that cell phone ring that is stereotypically ridiculous: da-da-da-da, da-da-da-da, da-da-da-da-daa... like the sketch with the giant cell phone in Trigger Happy TV. It got really annoying.

There are stray cats and dogs absolutely everywhere, which hocam asserted was to control the rat population, and Boston wouldn't be known for its rat problem (?) if it would allow stray cats. She absolutely would not hear the spay/neuter argument from a few people who offered it. I'd rather not have mangy mutts trying to make friends, thank you.

As for religion, I had the unique opportunity to become pretty close friends with two Turks and to hear their perspectives. Gözde explained a few things about the east of Turkey, roughly Anatolia. As I compared it with the American south, she explained how they all speak differently and incorrectly there and it sounds funny, they're not as educated as the west, they're poor, and they're willing to be won over by horrible politicians for one reason or another (theirs promised the poor food and water, ours promised cultural hegemony and religious imposition...same difference). She said, speaking of their current president, whom no one likes, 'They are stupid. They haven't mind. Because they are so poor. And he, um, he given food and money for the people who lived in the east, and they are so poor people, and he give money and food for them, and so they vote for him. They didn't use their minds.' Don't worry, no one ever does... She said how conservative Muslims 'think that we are not religious because we pray like this (she opened both of her hands palms-up) and not like this (she made a bowing to the floor motion) and because we are Western, but I am still a Muslim.' Damn straight, Gözde. Don't let crazy conservatives tell you what to do, dear. Burak was raised Muslim a bit, I think, but he broke out of those shackles. As we walked by Sultanahmet Camii, he in a tee-shirt and jeans and I in my green dress (I couldn't help but stare defiantly at the women who stared at me, my sides and back bare, by low-cut halter dress swishing at the bottom around my knees, thinking, 'Welcome to your antithesis') he asked, 'Why would I want seventy-two virgins? That is foocking bullshit! What if I am lesbian? What if I am gay? What will I do? I think they live  in desert like this, they imagine what they do not have--water, gardens, flowers, trees--and say you get that.' He found silly stories made up by people who can't prove anything just as amusing as I do.

I told him that I'd still take seventy-two virgins.

Here in the coastal town of Fethiye, I don't know what I'll see as far as Turkey is concerned. I know that Ryan and I totally lucked out (okay, totally are appreciating my elaborate research into pensions) as far as our hostel is concerned. We spent some time reading the reference books on one of the tables in the garden/lobby, and it's filled with brochures and tours, warnings not to book anything without talking to Tuna (co-owner) because he can get you discounts, notes of thanks from other hostel-stayers about how great Monica and Tuna are and how never ever to stay at Ideal Pension or some other with an 'a,' all sorts of things as mentioned earlier. We could tell that we had definitely found a nice place, and were lucky to have it at our disposal. I can't wait...!

One funny thing, too, is that, for some reason, everyone assumes that I'm Russian. We were even greeted in Russian at dinner the other night, and then we received an apology with that explanation. Only little Emre could guess that I was from those Isles, but more often than now the square face, tall thinness, and wavy hair suggests that cold, expansive country. One better part, though, is that everyone thinks that Ryan is Turkish, and this, coupled with my speaking, had gotten into some pretty funny instances. One staff at the resort asked me, in Turkish, if Ryan was Turkish, because he looked a little confused with the conversation, and I laughed, 'Hayır!' I decided that Ryan can be the Turk and I can be the Russian bride that was kidnapped in the lucrative sex trade across the Black Sea to İstanbul...only, I think that we're too young.

The last of the airport updates...

Waking up exhausted mentally and physically from the day before, we didn’t understand why we had to be somewhere at nine, because it was just a lecture with our group only, and that’s just a silly time. We took cabs to the university, because when you fit five (or even four), it’s cheaper than the metro. Five of us who are always on time because we respect this class became exasperated and left down the street for the first cab. We got in, and I said, ‘Bahçesehir Universitesi,’ and the cabby repeated the first word, which Jessica confirmed and added the second again. We sat and enjoyed the ride, except I didn’t, because I’m not used to cabs, and I hate how they drive like everything is a race and they have no regard for anyone’s life. Also, I take it upon myself to watch things like the temperature and gas gauges (the second of which was on empty this entire time), the speed, and where we’re going. Sure enough, we start heading over the bridge to Asia, and this is not right. Knowing the most Turkish in the cab, I say something that amounted to, ‘No, Bahçeşehir Universitesi, not here, there,’ and I pointed back across the bridge. The cabby apologises and points to some random university that we’re passing and mentions something about two, to which I reply, ‘Okay, I understand, okay okay, there, Bahçeşehir’ and point again. He continues driving through Asia, and it’s when we get on a freeway that I stick half my body from the back up the front of the cab and say, ‘No! Bahçeşehir Universitesi, Nısantısı [a district near which it is] there, not here!’ And the cabby explains that, O, that’s Bahçeşehir Campus, and Bahçeşehir University is out here. He finally understands, and we head back into Istanbul in rush hour traffic. Yippee. We get across another bridge, racking up a fare, Meaghan freaking out for the gas gauge and feeling nauseous from worry and motion sickness. We get to Nısantısı with me having to point streets most of the way, and I want to poke this cabby in the eye. He pulls into some random lot and I repeat Nısantısı again, and then say ‘Bahçeşehir, Deniz Müzesi. Nısantısı’ exasperatedly, and the cabby asks a man out the window if there’s a Bahçeşehir near the Sea Museum.

Great, our cabby doesn’t even know Istanbul as well as I do. Awesome.

After he confirms that I’m not making this up, we drive down, and I have to keep pointing streets. I make him pull right up next to the big blue sign that says ‘Bahçeşehir Universitesi’ pointing to the big building that says ‘Bahçeşehir Universitesi’ on it, and nothing about a campus. We go to give him 10 YTL, because the original fare should have been 7, but Emre (hocam’s second cousin or something), who has less than I do between his legs, I’m sure, talks with him, explains to us that there are two Bahçeşehirs (no shit, Sherlock!) and pays the full 35 YTL fare. No money out of my budget, at least.

Our would-have-been-first group ends up last sitting outside for our lecture, where we are told that there are two Bahçeşehirs, and we had to ask for the Beşiktaş one. Thanks for mentioning this in any of the past two weeks that we’ve been going there, those in charge. Every other cab’s students said the same thing that we did and got there fine. We were also told, with a dig at the drama situation, that we should pay for our mistakes, and you pay for what you do, just like in America. Excuse me? I would NOT have paid that fare in America! I knew the city better than the cabby, and he nearly killed us SEVERAL times! I would that I had thrown up on him. Grrr… Also, yours truly had to speak broken Turkish to get us back from the abyss of the next continent, thank you very much, and you’re welcome for not losing five of your students, because you’re staying at a residence an hour from ours. Do not tell me that I’ve made a mistake. But o, we should have asked the residence to get us the cabs and tell them where we’re going, even though we have to walk from the side street down to the main street to get them, and everyone else did the same thing that we did. Over.

After the reflection sort of thing, we took the metro to some touristy shopping district, where I had more dondurma and received less change back than I should have, because apparently things are two difference prices: one before you give them the money, and the other before they give you your change back. I told her, in perfect broken Turkish, ‘This ice cream is four lira, that is a five. This is fifty kurus [the change that I was handed]. Fifty? 1 lira?’ and of course, their comprehension of me went from perfectly fine before to nothing now. O well, 50 kurus. We loitered a bit again, me under the false pretense that once we met in a group, we were having lunch, and then left for a bus and the hammam: the Turkish bath.

1229 O, my. The hammam was incredible. Upon entering (separate male and female baths), we used the incredibly beautiful bathroom, and then, back in the vestibule, we changed two by two in litte rooms with transparent glass doors. Someone called, ‘Are people taking off everything?’ and I answered, ‘Yeah! Naked party!’ We stripped down and wrapped the thin linen towels around us before entering into the bath on our odd little wooden platform sandals. Inside the bath, stone basins lined the walls of the square room, separated by low stone dividers, with just enough room for someone to recline on the divider on one side of the basin and one on the other. In other words, two people to a basin. We were instructed to sit or lie on the large stone block in the middle of the room, which was hot, so that we would sweat. Apparently, one of the bath attendants (very large women) took Meghan’s towel from her when she entered, but she grabbed it back and lay down bare-backed on the block with the towel over her. We all were lying in this fashion until the topless call came around. Our professor not yet in the room, topless went down for a bunch of us. When the professor entered, some people didn’t care, but we all giggled until our laughed echoed and bounced off the stained glass octagon windows atop the dome, the chandelier hanging from it motionless in the sound waves, half its lights on. Some people sat up, and all but two of us pulled our towels up across our chests (I, for one, did not, because why?). After several minutes, the attendants came in and instructed us to walk in those little wooden sandals over to a basin to begin to rinse. It was time to lose the towels completely, and yet still sit modestly. The whole experience, really, was a progression of nude bonding, if you will. I hung my towel over the divider next to me and took the small metal bowl from the basin and began to pour water down me, feeling lovely in the heat, and playing with hot and cold water alternately depending on how I felt. Jessica was in the corner next to me, and Theresa around the corer from her, and they were both covered still. I implored them to lose the towel, because everyone’s looking at everyone and no one cares, and it took them some time before they finally made a deal and flung their towels aside simultaneously.

By that point, the large women, who were wearing only panties, had begun to scrub down with a loofa mitt four girls on each side of the stone block in the middle. We all watched at waited, beginning to walk about and socialise. I was pretty much one hundred percent okay with everything, somehow in my adolescence missing the modesty train, and dripping self confidence. Hocam walked about in her towel still, and it took a while for Defne, her fifteen-year-old daughter, to take off her towel for her bath. Somehow, I ended up being the second to last to go to the middle, besides hocam and Defne, but when I did, it was wonderful.

I was hand-motioned to lie face-up on the stone while a two-hundred and fifty (ish?) pound woman scrubbed off all my dead and peeling, sunburnt skin from my body, wiping off all of Spain, all of Turkey, all the squat toilets, all the fag smoke from nights out, silly Turkish boys, everything... She then scrubbed me down with a washcloth and made bubbles everywhere, which made both me giggle uncontrollably and her smile and ask me if it was good. ‘Çok iyi!’ I replied, still laughing, bubbles getting in my mouth from the pure, Arabian soap. I flipped over on the block, sliding around in the foam, as she rubbed down my back, too, and then massaged me with soap. Her hands on my skin were so soft, and I wondered what it must be like to work here every day, especially for upwards of twenty years, as these women had. She sat me up and took my arms, scrubbing them, her hand on my wrist and my hand touching all sorts of things that I had to forget were awkward, American social custom as it were. She led me back to the basin to rinse me off, and they washed our hair after, getting the sea salt and the sand out.

For more questions about people’s reactions, especially the hilarious question that my professor asked me, and how I swear the lady who loofaed me did it with malice at one point, you will have to ask, and I mean no offense if some of you receive less-than-straightforward answers.

She smoked a fag afterwards (we were that good?). Seriously.

We went out to dinner last night at a really nice restaurant here that had a beautiful view of a few mosques, Haçik, and Galata Tower. We ate until we were stuffed; I had all of the vegetable appetisers with this one poofy bread that you had to pop to rip open, then another squishy bread that was naan-like that I used to soak up the last of the salad appetisers, and then pide (like pizza, but this was just melted cheese on bread), and then another bread that was flat with my salad and hot peppers (really hot!--made my tongue tingle, and that’s never happened before!), fruit and baklava for dessert, Turkish coffe, and the remains of my gin and tonic with lemon and also the mint that I threw in, because apparently there aren’t limes in Turkey. I’ve yet to have a decent gin and tonic on this trip, I tell you.

We didn’t really sleep last night. I came back, showered, tried to pack and procrastinated, talked with Gözde, and then finally packed. I slept for a little over an hour before waking up four minutes before we had to leave (read: I woke up at 0356), having Kristina knock on the bathroom door as I brushed my teeth, her telling me that everyone else was pretty much on the bus. She helped me cram my last few things into neat little bags and then throw them into my big backpack duffle bag as I tried to dress myself and wake Gözde to say goodbye. I ran downstairs and out the door barely dressed, accessories and makeup in accessible places for later. We saw everyone off, said goobyes and hugged. Sonja was taking a later flight, so she, little Emre, and I waited around. We wandered to Starbucks where I got a breakfast wheat popover thing with white cheese and tomato with a chai latte that was just a regular latte, which I didn’t even like because thy didn’t have soymilk, and it tasted really weird with regular milk. It tasted all fatty and salty and ew, and I wish that I had just gotten coffee or something, alas. After leaving at 0400, seeing everyone off finally at 0610, and then eating, we were pretty tired come that time. Around 0650 we lay down on the comfy chairs at Starbucks, our stuff tucked around us, and slept. I exercised my uncanny ability to nap for exactly and hour, give or take five minutes, and by the time that I looked at my computer clock again, it was 0750. We got up after a while, walked around, made sure that Sonja’s ticket that she had just bought was all set, checked her gate, waited, and saw her off before splitting up a few minutes ago.

So here I am now, having been typing this in a Pages document since 0621, it now being 1254. I have faulty internet access, and I have to plug the pictures into this now fourteen-page entry (probably entries) before finishing, but it feels good. Ryan is supposed to land at 1335, but his flight is delayed 25 minutes, so that means 1400. I figure that he’ll be about half an hour what with walking from the gate, buying his visa, going through passport control, getting his baggage, and coming out. I don’t know how far he’ll have to walk, or how long the passport control will take, but I’m sitting right now in front of the small screen of international arrivals, about eighty metres from the door. I’m a little nervous right now, I won’t lie, but I think that it’s mostly excitement. I’m also happy that I had only two-and-a-half collective hours of rest, because he’s bound to be tired after flying east, but I think that he’s right in saying that he’ll be too excited to be tired, because I don’t need a wink right now. I’m too excited to eat, even. I keep looking up at this small board, waiting for his flight, but it’s only at the 1305 flights right now.

I guess that I’ll go back and revise this a little bit, but I’m wondering when I’m going to finish this (these) entry (ies)--maybe back here to-morrow, waiting to fly down the coast to be picked up by our driver from the resort.

I miss everyone, and I hope that you’re all well! I’m thinking of all of you on this adventure, but that doesn’t mean that I’m in any rush to get home...

The best part, obviously, was feet in water.

06.08.08 1110 The next day we were up obscenely early (actually, we were up obscenely early pretty much every day; I would not have minded this that much had our days not been upwards of twelve hours most of the time; in fact, I would have preferred longer days that started later) to take a guided tour up the Karadeniz (Black Sea) coast. It was beautiful up there: windy roads around mountainous terrain that cascaded over cliffs into the sea all of a sudden. We drove to a small village where a bunch of men were gathered outside and playing instruments, presumably for us?

One played something that was definitely not a soprano sax, but it looked like a silver clarinet and sounded like one. Actually, maybe it is a soprano sax. Nevertheless, after this reception and our complete and utter avoidance of a very friendly dog who was obviously carrying both fleas and the mange, we walked down a windy road and crossed the Dry Stream, or some name like that, which, well, dries up in the summer. Most of our group stayed at what was to become our picnic area at the next river crossing, but a few of us wandered up on a small hike into the hills.

The hike was beautiful, and I really enjoyed rock climbing and being my gangly, tomboyish self for once.

Splish-splash!

Moo!

Respect for this tree, which tumbled its roots over rocks to reach ground.

Another stream...

This was not, in fact, a gate; it was a fence. I slipped through the first and second rung, because I couldn't be bothered to climb over it, and I'm skinny enough to slip placed like that.

Once we cleared out, the cows continued to graze. Moo!

Corn!

Okra?

Aw, Madison and Cristina, sitting on the bridge in the picnic spot (you can see people in the distance on the right, and the barbecue is on the left, but you can't see that).

This is a sycamore! Behold how it looks like a cedar or something at its bottom bark.

 

I did not enjoy, however, the overabundance of water bottles littering the everywhere.

I started picking them up, and soon had to solicit the help of another backpack because I didn’t have any more room in mine. Despite really neat rock enclaves and pools of water, I came back with a foul taste in my mouth and poison ranting on my lips. Littering makes me so angry, and as I mentioned before, I wish that each person who littered could have his house littered, too. If people invested in water bottles, then they would think twice about leaving something that cost 25 YTL in the wild. I just can’t comprehend this carelessness and conceit. What are people thinking when they do this? Are they thinking!? I had to scramble into rock caves to grab four of them at one point, including a 2L that was mostly full. Seriously, people, what the hell? Also, there were no recycling facilities when we got back, so I think that they were thrown away, alas. I had much more about which to rant, but I think that I’ll spare that. Humanity makes me a cynic.

Karadeniz, when we finally arrived, was crowded at the spot to which we went, but cleared out once we woke up from our naps in the sun. When we finally stopped walking for a spot, I asked, ‘Water?’ and only Alejandro joined me. I walked right in and dove under, but his Puerto Rican self was complaining a bit of the temperature (granted, he got under before I did). The water was at least five degrees centigrade warmer than the Atlantic to which I’m accustomed. It made me laugh to hear people talk of how cold it was... I went back in again later, loving the saltiness of the sea and how it makes my hair curl like that.

Our dinner on the drive back was delicious; I think that we ate at such a town restaurant that the whole family was cooking and lived in the back. Because we were so many, they had to run about asking help from the neighbours, also owning restaurants, to roll out dough to make our pastry things, which were the best that hocam had ever had, and us as well, but we are not exactly connoisseurs of the Turkish pastry thing with the stuff in it rolled up sort of flat. We had to scarf down the food, though, having only forty-five minutes, and I did quite a few shots of people's unwanted tea on the way back to keep from having to waste it.

The kitchen, yes, that's right, the kitchen:

 

Alejandro didn't have any silverware for his ravioli-type dish, so I gave him my tea spoon...

It's the last one down on the right, I think...or the second-to-last...

Driving back, I watched Karadeniz stalk us from behind hills and down ravines. It was always there in the distance, the setting sun darkening its waters as they reflected off the darker sky. I saw it, massive, ominous in the distance, waiting there like the formidable expanse that it has always been. This was strangely comforting, like having a large black dog appear out of nowhere as you wander the streets of Little Winging and the yards of Hogwarts.