Isle Del Sol

The joy of life comes from our encounters with new experiences, and hence there is no greater joy than to have an endlessly changing horizon, for each day to have a new and different sun."

- Christopher McCandless

Getting into Bolivia is perhaps the most frustrating objective in travel outside of getting into China.  Whereas the latter requires extraordinary patience over days and nights, the former requires only tremendous patience over one day and one night.  They both require money.  A lot of money.  The Chinese charged me $180.00 and the Bolivians charged me $160.00.  But the Chinese advertise this sum and made me well aware of it before I entered their country.  The same cannot be said about the Bolivians and their country.  Their whole system is muddled and haphazard.  They would have you unaware of the sum until right before the gates.  I know this because that’s the way they had me until right before the gates, with two steps left in Peru

I should say this before I continue: these holdups and astronomical visa fees pertain only to the American traveler, as the European traveler and the Oceanic traveler have the good fortune of living under less influential governments.  As a rule, the more influence you have, the more people you upset, apparently.  I don’t know why the American government and the Bolivian government are upset with each other, I don’t particularly care, but I do know that I had nothing to do with it, and that I am paying the price now.  Very well, it was my goal to get to Copacabana, Bolivia, and so I must bear the appropriate burdens.

I was about to enter the border checkpoint in front of the gates.  I had had concerns as to what this process would be like before.  Getting onto the bus that brought me to the present checkpoint, it had been made clear to me that there would be trouble along the way.  Standing in line to enter the bus in Puno I was stopped and asked what my nationality was.  I believe it was a combination of my size and my backwards hat that gave me away, but it could have been my passport too, I suppose.  Certainly the bus driver was upset with the discovery that I was American; he rolled his eyes and tilted his head to the side before straightening himself out and saying to me:

“Another American!?  Do you have your papers?”

“What papers?”

“Ughhhhhhhh!!!… The Papers!?”

“I have my passport right here”

“No passport… Papers!!!”

“I don’t know what papers you are talking about.”

“Ughhh… Romero, Ven Aqui!”

Romero came hustling over and had a brief discussion with the bus driver before turning to me.  Romero was much nicer than the bus driver… and spoke better English too:

“He says you need your papers, sir”

“I know, but what papers is he referring to?”

“He is referring to your yellow fever papers, sir, and your proof of lodging papers, sir, and your visa papers sir, and your…”

“Wait, but I didn’t need proof of lodging papers for Peru?  And what are all these other things?”

“Sir, these are all the papers Americans need to present to Bolivian border patrol.”

“Well I don’t have any of them.”

“Ok, Ok sir.  One moment.”

Romero called someone while walking away from me.  Meanwhile, travelers from all over the world walked passed me, flashed the bus driver their passports, and only their passports, and continued onto the bus.  If I were the type of person to get embarrassed I should have turned red.  Romero came back:

“Sir, this man will take you into Bolivia, no problem” and put his arm around a short Peruvian man in his early fifties.

Alright, I thought

“What about the papers?  What about all the documentation?”

“Don’t worry sir, this man will take care of it, just stay close to him.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, yes, yes, I’m sure.”

So, with that I followed this most recent stranger onto the bus and hoped for the best.  When in South America, I thought.  About an hour later we arrived at the border patrol, and this is when I found out about the ludicrous visa fee of $160.00.  I considered turning around and bidding Bolivia a forever farewell, but the border crossing was full of strangers who weren't showing much promise and I had no desire to wait with them for six hours until the next bus came, so I coughed up the money and continued through.  The man I had been told to stay close to was frantically darting back and forth between buildings doing whatever he must have done in order to get me into Bolivia, and before I knew it I was waived through to the other side.  In Bolivia at last!

The bus took us to Cobacabana; a colorful little town on the shores of Lake Titicaca, full of restaurants and coffee shops.  The markets stretched up and down nearly every side street, and dogs played carefree on the grass and in the streets.  There were parades almost daily, and the people were some of the friendliest I had met in South America.  I spent my first night in an overpriced hotel called Perla del Lago (Pearl of the Lake) and the rest of the week in a room more fit for a budget traveler that overlooked one of the street markets.  The Residencial Imperio it was called.

I signed up for a trip to Isle del Sol as soon as I was able to.  It was one of the main reasons I put up with the hassle of entering Bolivia in the first place.  Apparently, Isle del Sol (The Sun Island), which lies out in Lake Titicaca, is where the Inca people rose from the water to populate the world.  I had heard there were religious ruins and monuments and even sacrificial alters that dotted the island.   This was something I couldn’t miss.

I joined a tour and took a boat to the northern shore of the island.  This is where I met up with my tour guide.  He was drenched in sun and wore a leather cowboy hat.  He looked very old, but must have been younger than he looked.  He showed mostly gums when he smiled as he had lost most of his teeth through the years; still, he had more teeth in his head than English words in his vocabulary; so much for learning anything meaningful about the island I thought.  I followed the tour guide, and by consequence the tour group, up a series of terraces that lead through a series of villages.  At last we got to the top of the hill and I was able to see 360 degree views of the lake and the shores beyond.  It was at this time that I decided to break off and hike from the northern shore to the southern shore by myself.  Well, with three other people I had recently met actually; two Brazilians and a French lady.  We hiked two miles along the spine of the island, with the dark blue water of Lake Titicaca to the right and left, beyond which were the towering white peaks of the Andes always checking that we were ok, or perhaps stalking us for later.  Eventually we reached the village of Yumani and boarded a boat back to Copacabana.  Thus ended my tour.

Lake Titicaca

“Kid, the next time I say, 'let's go someplace like Bolivia,' let's GO someplace like Bolivia.”

-Butch Cassidy (Paul Newman)

I was scheduled to go back to Cusco from Aguas Calientes via a long journey through the night by train and then by bus. The transfer from train to bus should have been an easy one. It was included in the guided package I had purchased a week prior. My directions were simple; I had been told that someone would be waiting for me with a sign that read “Scott-Boston” at the bus terminal in Ollantaytambo and that I should follow that person to his bus where he would take me the remaining distance to Cusco. Well that never happened. Someone had dropped the ball and it had landed on my foot. It was late, and it was dark, and confusion was heavy in the air. There was a lot of pushing, some shoving, and a good amount of yelling which couldn't be understood in any language. I waited. Some of the crowd dispersed. I waited some more. More of the crowd dispersed. I waited again. I was the last one there. Moves needed to be made, fast. I scrambled to locate a bus that looked as though it could accommodate me. I found one, opened the door, said “Cusco”, and two hours and 3 dollars later I was back to where I needed to be. The next morning I made sure to get my 3 dollars back from the guide service. They seemed rather unamused by my story, and so while they were getting the money from the back I stuck my gum underneath their desk.

During the day that followed I explored the city some more. Going to the different shops and restaurants and sitting outside the Plaza de Armas watching people pass by seemed to pass the time nicely. I observed quickly, though, that I could not stay long in Cusco without having to buy a painting from a local art salesman named Eric. A week prior to my current stay in Cusco I had “promised” him that when I returned to Cusco I would buy some of his art. I told him that I did not want to rip it during the coming days of travel and would be more than happy to purchase some when I returned. Of course this was said with the hope that I would never see him again in a city of 350,000 people plus tourists; but of course he found me:

“Scott!”

“Oh, ummm..Eric!”

“Machu Picchu is good?”

“It was, it was good; great even.”

“Good, Good, Good. You buy painting now?”

“Oh, yeah, here's the thing; I'm still traveling some more after this and don't want to rip it. You know with the buses treating the bags the way they do; you know, like I told you last time.”

“But you said...”

“I know, I know, but I meant I would buy some during my last stay in Cusco, which will be next week after I visit Puno and Copacabana.”

“Oh, Oh, I see.”

“Yeah, so next week. They are looking really good though Eric. I especially like the one of the two cows playing in the field.”

“These are dogs.”

“Ok Eric, I'll see you next week, adios.”

Thus I was gone again, and in a hurry this time. That night I boarded a bus to Puno; a town situated on the western shores of Lake Titicaca and known for being the launching point to the famed Uros Islands, or the “floating islands” as they have come to be known. When approaching by boat, you first pass through a series of marshes that are home to the ugliest ducks in the Americas. If you survive the sight of them, then you come upon your first floating island made of straw. It is true, they are made of straw; straw and mud that is, and they “float” on the lake as much as a lily pad floats on the pond. On top of the mud base and the layered straw floor lie thatched houses made of the same straw used for the floor. They are held together tightly by twine and seem capable of withstanding multitudes of you huffs and puffs. And there is not one of these islands, but many. I would estimate over a hundred of them, all placidly floating next to one another with no purpose but to bother the fish. Each island is no bigger than a basketball court, and contains one family only. This is important, because if one family gets tired of a neighbor family then they merely pull up their anchors and float their way to a new neighbor. How I envy them! Of course, if they lose themselves in the course of the maneuver and float too far to the west, they end up in Bolivia, and in prison for crossing an international border without documentation. Perhaps it's best for them to make peace with their neighbors after all. Bolivian prisons are cold this time of year.

I watched as the Uros family used figurines made of straw to demonstrate how the islands were constructed; it was all fascinating I must say, and I was most taken by the part where they needed to replace the straw every week or their island would disintegrate into the water. After the demonstration we were taken into their homes. The island had three homes; one for each branch of the family. The usual greetings and show and tell inside the homes led to the predictable soliciting of arts and crafts outside the homes. It is always my least favorite part of any day abroad in a less than fortunate country, but to misunderstand the process as begging would be a terrible mistake. In fact, even though I had no mind to buy anything, there were outstanding pieces of work on display. Some could be sold in the United States for hundreds of dollars I'm sure, while here they were being sold for five. No matter, when you don't want something, you won't pay hundreds of dollars for it and you won't pay five dollars for it. So it goes.

Another night in Puno would have been harmless, but useless too, so I bought a bus ticket for Copacbana, Bolivia, where I should spend the remainder of my time in South America unabashed and in total relaxation. Copacabana is also on the shores of Lake Titicaca and I heard through my many channels of travel that it was cheap and had the best grilled trout on the continent. Those made it sound like paradise. Also, I suppose, it would nice to see where the Incas claimed to be born out of the lake; their whole empire beginning at ground zero at an island off the same shores where these alleged grilled trout were to be sold. I went to the bus station.

Through the Andes

“Here they were shut off from that part of Peru which was under the sway of Pizarro and the conquistadors by mighty precipices, passes three miles high, granite canyons more than a mile in depth, glaciers and tropical jungles, as well as by dangerous rapids.”

-Hiram Bingham

In Cusco I joined a guided 5 day/4 night group hike to Machu Picchu. In the group of 16 were 4 Austrians, 4 Belgians, 4 Germans, 2 Swedish, 1 Peruvian, and of course myself. We were to spend - in order - 3 nights sleeping in tents under the crystal clear southern cross, and one night in a hotel in Aguas Calientes – the town known as the gateway to Machu Picchu. Our fifth day would be spent exploring Machu Picchu herself. It was somewhat of a pilgrimage, I suppose.

The hike began in the high valleys outside of Mollepata among the local Quechua farmers and quickly gained elevation until reaching a level section of trail that met the specifications for

“peruvian flat” as our guide had lately come to introduce us. looking at Humantay Mountain in the distance, I was struck by how magnificent it was; how majestic, and how intimidating. The damned thing even gave me vertigo for a moment. It was not hard to understand how the Incas recognized this mountain as a God, then. We hiked 13 miles and set up camp directly underneath it. I suppose I've never been scared by a mountain before, but presently I wanted to sleep with a nightlight. Had I not been so tired, perhaps I would have asked for one. We were at 13,287ft. It was the highest altitude I had ever camped at.

The next morning I awoke well rested only to find out that two members of my party had come down with altitude sickness and were up all night throwing up. Poor bastards I thought. If only they could have enjoyed the early morning stars like I did; juxtaposed by Humantay Mountain and now Salkantay Mountain, instead of worrying if they would be able to continue on, or get a word out of their mouths without having it joined by the previous days lunch. The two of them benefited from a breakfast of pancakes spread with nutella and bananas, along with coca tea, and like two stubborn Europeans undaunted by circumstance, pushed forward. That I was happy for them should not be misunderstood, then, because the second day was as hellish as days comes in guided packages. Right away we got to hiking uphill. It was not steep, but gradual; which made it worse I think. At least when the trail is steep you gain elevation quickly. Indeed, gradual uphill is hard, and gradual uphill at elevation is the hardest. Fortunately we took many breaks and didn't have much distance to cover until reaching the highest elevation of our hike at 15,118ft. After we crossed over this pass we began our long descent into the Andean pre-jungle. On day two we covered 12.6 miles and a staggering 7,566 feet of elevation change. Needless to say, on day 3 I was sore and tired. Good thing we got to sleep in to 6:00am then, and even better that we got to relax in a natural hot springs outside of Santa Teresa the same day, after hiking only 8.1 miles and covering 2,914 feet of elevation change. We bought beer that third night at camp, and with every beer got a complimentary tequila shot. We took these blessings of the trail to the campfire and celebrated our third night in style. On our fourth day we hiked along the railroad tracks

underneath the imposing profile of Machu Picchu Mountain and Huayna Picchu Mountain. Once we had done this for about 7 miles we were finally at Aguas Calientes; and finally at a hotel with hot showers and clean beds. Most of us took advantage of the showers and explored the town a little until we had to go to sleep in order to get up at 4:00am to begin our early morning hike up to Machu Pichu.

So on our last day – Day 5 – we woke up well before sunrise and got to climbing the steep staircase steps outside the entry gate to Machu Picchu. Presently we were joined by many other groups who were there to do the last day with us. And so, about a hundred headlamps were on the ascent in total darkness. It looked like an early morning attempt at Mount Everest were it not for the jungle vegetation and the clean cut granite steps. Perhaps the best part about hiking in total darkness is the ease in which you can sneak off and pee without anyone noticing. I did this several times, and rejoined the conveyer belt when I was ready. When the sun finally rose we were at Machu Picchu and I was smiling because I did not have to pay the 1 soles to use the bathroom; Machu Picchu was nice too. It is a wonder of the world and has been described in detail here and there, and in a thousand books, so I will not burden anyone with a half ass, slip shod description of my own. All I will say is that I thought it deserved its place among the wonders of the world.

Our group hike ended with an hour and a half tour of the ruins, at the end of which we said our goodbyes and went our separate ways to explore the ruins further. I went to the Inca Bridge and the Sun Gate on the Inca trail and made sure to avoid anything that could pass for strenuous. Of course I relaxed in the ruins themselves and even tried to find places where I could hide and eat my lunch. It is a wonder all in itself that one can find a place of solitude among the currents of tourists passing through Machu Picchu. I still don't know how I got away with it. My lunch was terrible.

Into the Andes

"Never let schooling interfere with your education"

- Mark Twain

Arriving in Lima, Peru my immediate thoughts were that it was very dirty and somewhat dangerous. Graffiti lined the walls of trash strewn streets and stray dogs were as common as crumbling buildings. Of course it was 1:30 in the morning, but I took the lack of human activity and the pothole ridden streets as signs to stay indoors at night. It was a wise thing too, as I heard some people come out later that night who were certainly not selling insurance. I believe they were salesman though. Good thing I was only staying the night, then. In the morning I went to the Cruz Del Sur bus terminal to high tail it out of Lima and make my way into the Andes mountains. As I was leaving on the second story of the luxury bus, comfortable as a clam in sand, I had a chance to see the entirety of the city by daylight and from a more relaxed position and among other foreigners; and consequently, my lasting thoughts of Lima, Peru were that it was very dirty and somewhat dangerous.

Following the welcome exile from Lima was a 23 hour bus trip; first through the Peruvian desert and then up into the winding roads of the Andes. Foolishly I assumed I would get sleep. I did not. Occasionally I took a nap of about twenty minutes before waking up in terror at the turns we were making, and the cliffs prone to landslides to our left making way for the 700 ft. drop-offs to our right. A railing would have been nice, but probably wouldn't have done a thing for anybody had our driver made even the slightest mistake. It was a good thing then that the stress only lasted for 15 hours until we reached Cusco.

In Cusco I allowed myself three days and three nights to acclimate to the elevation. Cusco, Peru is 11,200 ft. above sea level and it takes some time to get your breath when you first arrive, even if only walking around to visit the shops and restaurants. One should accept the fact that he will be light headed for the first day he is here, and maybe the second and third days too if he has sea level blood. It's a good place to acclimate in though; it is much friendlier and cleaner than Lima. In fact, it is even safe! One night I was startled by a local who caught me off-guard as I was walking back to my room. I thought for a second I was being robbed only to find out it was a kid trying to sell me a picture of a rainbow he had painted. He was nice enough, and once I had a chance to gather myself from the shock he put me through I told him where he could make improvements to his painting and finished walking back to my room.

Thus far Peru has been an exercise in traveling and acclimation. It has been an exercise in avoiding stray dogs and the smallest taxis known to man. It has even been an exercise in patience. In Europe, the service at a restaurant is poor, and they don't expect much of a tip for it. In America, the service at a restaurant is good, and they expect a big tip for it. In Peru, the service at a restaurant is horrifying, and they expect you to go into debt for it. There has been a terrible pattern of neglect here; neglect of good service and neglect of tourists to come forward and bear the bad news to them. As long as no one else will tell them, I will not either. Instead, I will thank them for their good manners outside the restaurants on the streets when soliciting anything at all. For these faithful sellers of trinkets and unnecessary courtesies it only takes one “no” and two “no thank you's” to send them on their way. This is good. This is wonderful. This is excellent even. In Asia the word “no” is valueless. You could say it a thousand times and on the one thousand and first time the solicitor will have as much energy as he did in the beginning. The rule there is to avoid eye contact and control your tunnel vision. While that rule is surely helpful in Peru, it is not necessary, and ultimately it is better to be polite and leave the encounter with a smile. I see nothing wrong with more smiles.

Istanbul

“If the Earth were a single state, Istanbul would be its capital.”

- Napoleon Bonaparte

       

   So it was that we ended back in Istanbul for the final couple days of our tour of Turkey.  There is so much to see in Istanbul that it’s overwhelming if you’re the kind of person to get overwhelmed.  Our party began by seeing Topkapi Palace, followed by the Hagia Sophia, followed by the Cistern, followed by the Blue Mosque, followed by the Grand Bizarre, followed by yet another family dinner, followed by what could pass for sleep if questioned by a Navy Seal commanding officer, followed by the Pierre Loti café, followed by the Spice Bizarre, followed by a visit to the top of the Sapphire building.  It was a furious pace for two days.  I was used to it by now. 

            Getting into Topkapi Palace proved to be a tricky thing; it teased us every step along the way.  First, with its unlimited supply of courtyards that we had to tramp through in order to get to the main grounds; second, with how everybody in Turkey and all of

Europe and Asia decided to see the palace the same day that we did.  Hacking through the people gathered in front of the main gate reminded me of doing the same thing when hiking through the jungles of Cambodia and Thailand; though this time there were no monkeys to dodge, only Europeans.  Once we got through, space opened up, but only briefly.  That is to say, we had about five minutes of room around us before we hit the lines that had formed outside of the museums.  Inside the museums were all sorts of odds and ends from Istanbul’s past glory days.  There were gifts from all manner of dignitaries around the world that had been given to various Sultans over the years; from diamonds the size of eagle eggs to turquoise bracelets and pearl necklaces.  The man that would wear such things in public must have been the highest breed of blowhard in the Middle East, and an unattractive blow hard at that.  The jewelry – though magnificent and worth more than 100 times what I could save in a lifetime – was as ugly as a sick elephant.  The tourists of course were gawking at all of the pieces.  They would comment here and there about how beautiful and delicate and charming and extravagant and precious and immaculate they were.  Tourists gawk at anything behind a display case.  I could put my bath towel behind one and claim it was used for washing a king, and they would gawk at it with their mouths dropped to the floor for hours.  Tourists remain as foolish as the day they were invented.

After Topkapi Palace, we visited the Hagia Sophia.  It was a church that was converted to a mosque that was converted to a museum.  It is the most interesting building in the world.  It is the only place I have been where Christian angels share the same roof as Muslim prophets; and where writings from the New Testament and the holy Quran are found together as easily as looking at the walls and ceilings.  It is said to have been the biggest cathedral in the world for hundreds of years, and I believe it, too.  The inside opens up and echoes every sound made a thousand times over; even more so after the mosque’s dome was added, I presume.  Greeks, Romans, Ottomans, Turks; I only wonder who will rent it out next; and whether they will keep it as a museum or change it again.  It took us an hour to see it and then we were out in the streets of Istanbul once more.

            By and by, we walked to a conspicuous place and were told to wait.  After some time, a line started to form and we realized, yet again, that we would be participants in its length.  I was told we were to see an ancient cistern.  I didn’t know what a cistern was, but it sounded uneventful, and if I had ever learned about it in grade school, it was evident now that I did not recall the lesson; chances are I had fallen asleep during it.  Apparently it is just a place that holds water for another place; usually a city.  Well then, no wonder I had fallen asleep.  We waited in the line for a half an hour and then saw what we had waited for.  It was underground, this cistern, and so we had to walk down some stairs to get there; and once we were there, we could not see much on account of the darkness.  The only lights came from the pillars which came straight up and out of the water.  There were boardwalks over the water zigzagging through the underground labyrinth.  We walked on these and took note of how intricate the cistern’s design was, and how much it was relied on during its peak importance.  Generations of Ottoman’s and Turk’s could flush their toilets as freely as they had need to.  They could drink and bathe as much as time would allow, too.  I was much impressed by these things.  The cistern turned out to be one of my favorite destinations on the whole tour of Istanbul.  Had I known what it was beforehand, perhaps I would have missed it altogether, but seeing it up close was a sure reward.

        

    The Blue Mosque was next for us.  Outside in front of the mosque we waited to enter by a particularly colorful arrangement of flowers.  It was one of the five times a day that was reserved for prayer; so, as they prayed, we got lost among the flowers.  That the Blue Mosque is a magnificent building to look at is no secret.  The minarets rise from the four corners like javelins, and the terraced domes roll over one another as if they were a part of the very earth.  It is true that the finest buildings in the world follow the maxim that less is more; and that being unique is better than being big – the Blue Mosque is no exception.  It is a sad thing, then, that the inside of the Blue Mosque is so ordinary and underwhelming.  Sure, walking on carpet in only socks is nice, and the detail of the hand painted blue wall tiles is quite something, but all in all it was an exercise in anti-climatic tourism.  We saw many people still praying and many who were still reading the Holy Quran, which lent to the ambience, but the sense of being lost in a foreign room went away as quickly as the line outside after the call to prayer.  I was left standing in the room not knowing what to do next, and the whole time wanting to go back outside to my flower patch and forget that I had ever entered.  Though I have been to Muslim countries before and seen many mosques, this was the first one I was allowed inside.  Perhaps had the outside architecture not been so beautiful the inside architecture might have done something for me.  I felt almost tricked, like when I found out that Santa Claus was not real, or that Eric Clapton was British.

            At length, we went around the rest of the city mostly shopping.  We shopped on Istiklal Street, at the Grand Bizarre, at the Spice Bizarre, and here and there wherever else interested us.  There is no shortage of shops in Istanbul.  Indeed, there are too many, even.  Every time you turn around there is another place where you can buy clothes, souvenirs, trinkets, odds and ends, and of course – Turkish delights.  Had I been alone, I would have walked by as if I hadn’t noticed their existence, but as I was not alone – and was with several women – we stopped frequently to engage in the mind drudging activity of shopping.  I elect to forget the details of those long hours spent inside the shops, and instead pretend as if I had gone fishing or taken a nap.  It is better this way.  The sooner I forget the sooner I can move on; this is the only way to get over tragedy, at least that’s what I’ve been told.

          Lastly, we went to the Sapphire Building.  We took an elevator to the top, looked around, saw some other buildings, some city streets, some moving cars, and left; thus ended our tour of Turkey.

The Old World

“There are two types of education… one should teach us how to make a living, and the other how to live.”

-         John Adams

Ephesus is said to have been one of the largest cities of the ancient Roman Empire.  Our guide told us this, in fact.  He told us it was the third largest among them.  Let’s assume, then, that it was the fifth or sixth largest among them.  No matter its former population – 250,000 according to our guide – its intricacies were fascinating, and its beauty was quite something.  We spent most of the morning walking through the ancient roads and looking at all the ancient sculptures and columns abound.  We saw the residential section full of houses, the library which could have been mistaken for a palace, the bath houses where aristocrats would take their baths together and socialize, the jail, the government buildings, the recreation halls, the market street, and of course the stadium.  It was not difficult to imagine what the city might have been like if it were around today.  The white marble has not faded much, but polished under the sun it would have been mesmerizingly bright and impressive.  A traveling diplomat would have surely been stunned upon arriving from the Aegean Sea and stepping off his ship at the port and making his way to the city center.  If he could keep his eyes off the hustle and bustle of the streets and look out to the mountain sides where the colors purple and yellow dominated every flower patch, he might even think he was in paradise.  Let’s forget how many slaves died building the city, and how many beggars must have been at its outskirts unable to get in.  If we do this, the city remains untouched by negativity.  After we had seen everything Ephesus had to offer, we had lunch and then left.

            The house of the Virgin Mary is located 5 miles from Ephesus on the top of a mountain; this is where we went next.  It cannot be verified, but it is assumed that the Virgin Mary was brought here by John the Apostle towards the end of her life.  The house itself was not discovered until the 1800’s following a vision by a Roman Catholic nun far away.  As we were on our way to the site, our guide managed to slip his voice into a crack in our conversation and widen it up so much that we were all presently paying attention to him as he began to throw out one questionable fact after the other; he was the kind of man who did this often, and so was a professional at it.  He saw himself as a stage performer while most of us saw him as a man blocking the windows.  There were several occasions where he would even keep us from taking a nap by mentioning the detailed steps to how pomegranate juice is squeezed.  As it was, we were on our way up the mountain and pretending to listen to him talk about the Virgin Mary, when suddenly the skies opened up and hail began to barrage our van with tremendous power and accuracy.  Not a single hailstone was wasted it seemed, for every last one of them made contact with our van and produced a deafening thunder of sound and vibration.  It got to the point where our guide had to stop his ramblings because we could not hear a word he was saying.  If there was a skeptic as to who lived in the house atop that mountain before, surely they were believers now.  And if ever mercy has been given, it was by her to us at this very moment.  We were all thankful.

            After Ephesus and Izmir, our group took a flight to Antalya.  It is one of the southern most cities in all of Western Turkey and known by many Europeans as a getaway vacation spot.  To most Americans it has never been heard of.  They may think of it as the Bahamas or Jamaica in the sense that is a place where a couple would have a wedding and perhaps even stay for the honeymoon.  The city is purely Mediterranean and couldn’t be mistaken as being anywhere else if seen on a picture or a post card; from the style of the buildings to their red tiled roofs, and from the brightly colored plants to the aqua colored water.  There are even snow capped peaks in the distance for good measure.  Our group took a boat tour under the sea side cliffs in order that we see all of this from the water.  It looked the same but with a cool sea breeze adding to it.  It would have looked like the coast of Italy or Greece if not for the mosques.  We took our time on the water and swam in the Mediterranean for some time before heading back to the docks.  I couldn’t help but think all the while that this was a city begging to be part of Europe.  It sure felt that it could be.

I should mention the food as well.  Now would be a good time for that considering how much we ate in Antalya, and also considering the beautiful places we did it in; but I ought to think it would take up too much space for now, and that I would not be able to do it justice, so it shall be saved for a later time.  It is back to Istanbul for us now.

Delightful Turkey

"Everything I missed so bitterly, my whole Turkish life ended forever: and the unique skyline was stamped inside my eyes in a way that can never be erased".

  -Pierre Loti

It had taken some time to get to Turkey, but as I was finally there I counted my luck among the luckiest.  After traveling so many times by myself and having the task of meeting others along the way, this time I had the good fortune of being part of a tour group from Boston.  And though this meant that I had to behave like a tourist, I did not mind it much.   If you look hard enough and scrape away the layers of obliviousness, some tourist’s can be tolerable. 

            We arrived in Istanbul after a nine hour flight, and immediately got to eating.  This would prove to be a major theme and a major occurrence on our trip. Never in my life have I eaten so many 4 course meals over the span of only 7 days.  Turkish people take as much pride in their food as any other nation I have visited; even China.  Both these countries would sacrifice a limb if only to defend the reputation and the honor of their food.  I ought to think Americans would do the same for hamburgers but know that, unfortunately, they would not.  As it was, we began by walking to the Bosphorus Straight and eating Kumpir by the water, followed by Turkish waffles and Turkish coffee; the latter of which I would indulge in frequently throughout the course of the trip.  We spent much of the night there – eating in Europe but looking at Asia - and only went to the hotel after we had satisfied our appetites as best as we could for the time being. 

            We did not stay in Istanbul the next day, but instead took a very early flight to Denizli where we were scheduled to see everything the city had to offer in a ferocious one day jaunt.  The city is mainly known for two things, and two things only: Pamukkale and their roosters.  It is said that the latter has the longest cock-a-doodle-do in the world, and after hearing some audio of them, I would have to agree.  We did not have the pleasure of seeing them first hand, but had to guess what they looked like based on all the monuments made in their honor.  This is the first and last time I think I shall ever see a monument of a rooster.  I hope it is anyway. 

            Next, we headed toward the famous travertine terraces of Pamukkale, and after a bath in a hot spring filled pool lined with ancient roman ruins, we were fresh on our way down the limestone hill.  There is no doubt that Pamukkale is a beautiful place, and that it has what is unique to only a handful of places on earth; but I simply cannot agree with the way Turkey chooses to disregard its fragility and allow tourists to molest it daily.  Everywhere one looks, he sees it being abused and taken advantage of.  In fact, the only thing stopping a tourist from falling off the edge and into the depths is a security guard with frail lungs blowing into a whistle that he most certainly fished out of a box of cereal that morning.  This same security guard has no objections to the tourist taking rocks from the natural wonder though, or stomping his feet all over un-solidified deposits of travertine, and keeps his plastic whistle holstered when he sees it.  I say let the tourist fall off the side and save your breath for the rocks; but that is only me.

            After Pamukkale, we went into Denizli to shop for textiles; of which Denizli is a huge exporter of.  I have never been much of a shopper, so Kelsey and I went for a walk outside among the mosques, minarets, and stray dogs of the city.  Nothing is more special than being in a foreign country and not knowing the language.  We talked to some book sellers and shop owners using hand signals mostly, listened to the call to prayer, and went back to meet the rest of the group.

We finished the day by eating dinner with a family of whom our guide knew from some previous employment or other.  The family was as gracious as hosts come, and as hospitable too.  They greeted us with the kindest words and then served us enough food to last a hungry man a month.  Finally, they let us go by adorning us with handmade towels and other thoughtful gifts.  My first impressions of Turkey are good ones, and if the rest of the country is anything like Istanbul and Denizli, then I anticipate only a wonderful time.