Fairyland

We arrived to Ürgüp around 6 a.m. on the overnight bus. The sun rose during our approach to town, splashing pink hues over the stone alleys, while the morning’s blue hot air balloons ascended. When we stepped off the bus to find a place to stay, the sky was already lighting up the apparent ghost town in the yellow phase of early morning. We walked up the street and up the stairs toward a mini plaza raised above the streets around it. All the tables and chairs were out, left to sit alone throughout the night, though none of the cafes or shops were open. Nobody in the streets. We sat down at one of the tables wishing for tea and joked how in Chile we would never see so many tables and chairs, even fridges cooling iced teas and water left out in plain sight overnight. In most places the furniture would be stolen or vandalized. Of course there’s a lot of vandalism in Turkey as well, mostly of national treasures, like the landscape and buildings carved into the rock in Cappadocia. It’s the same lack of respect for natural and/or ancient wonders we see everywhere. There’s really no escaping it, an education lack, but it’s another story.

Cappadocia may very well be one of my favorite places. After writing that though, it’s impossible to make such sweeping statements. In any case, Cappadocia is magic, it is lunar. It’s bizarre. The landscape created by volcano eruptions around 30 million years ago, covering the area with ash that eventually hardened. The rock, known as tuff is extremely malleable by weather and by people. Over time the rock has disintegrated creating spiky valleys known as fairy chimneys. They say the early inhabitants of Cappadocia called myriad towers “fairy chimneys” because they believed them to be the chimneys of fairies, who lived underground. What’s more amazing than the shape of the land, though, is the fact that people carved homes into the rock. Not just homes, there are entire underground cities that go down seven or so levels. Old homes were connected to escape routes and tunnels below the Earth. Today you can stay in renovated cave hostels, with rooms etched out from the rock or chill out in underground bars. There is a definite Flinstone feel; even a few eponymous businesses to boot.

Dreams

I keep having the same dream: Everyone around me is speaking Turkish, and I don't understand. The feeling is distinct and has its own evolution, depending on the time of day, who we are with, etc. Sometimes I try really hard to follow the conversation, and I can, relying mostly on gestures or place names or other familiar sounding words I hear: kayak, Patagonia, California. Other times I check out completely, submarining into my own world, which can be small or colorful or huge or sleepy, depending on the time of day, who we are with, etc.

But the real question is: If I can't speak Turkish in real life, what language are they speaking in my dream? Does my subconscious know Turkish? Or is it just some nonsense filler to help me feel that slight disunderstanding discomfort while I sleep? Maybe all I have to do is relax and start speaking in tongues. More likely I need to study more.

Adventures in driving, etc.

A couple of Serkan's friends went to Nepal for a month or so, and they let us borrow their car while we are here. It's a good thing because we are staying in a little mountain hut sans electricity. However, it's been a long time since I've driven. And I don't think I've ever driven a diesel. It's a huge heavy mother of a car, a '79 Mercedes. 30 years old. It would be awesome to say that it's older than me... but alas, that is no longer true. My first attempts to drive it out of the driveway resulted in several stalls, mostly because I couldn't get the gears in reverse. Hoo boy. Now I'm a regular pro with the super hippie mobile, though. I only tried to go the wrong way down a one way street off of one of those damned roundabouts once... and that was on the first day of driving. Now I'm three days in and doing much much better. Just don't test me on my parallel parking skills... or my navigation... or my Turkçe for that matter.

It's almost too hot during the day to climb, but there are a few places in the shade, plus a cave, where we climbed this morning. I totally bit it though and fell in the worst amateur way possible: upside down. Hoo boy. This is starting to sound like my super blonde blog entry...

Gateway to Dawn

The moon has been following us from it's newness on into its waxing. As a witness to our love, Serkan will say, and we'll laugh, because it's true. It feels like our moon, even though every one across the Earth is seeing the same phase of the moon, at slightly differing hours, taking time zones into account. But not everybody is seeing the moon. Either they don't look or, in Patagonia for example, clouds cloak the moon or it's too damn cold to frollick around outside all day in a bikini. I can't remember the last time I was so aware of what shape the moon was in, every day, every night. We're outdoors all the time and the sky always near cloudless clear. In the afternoon I point it out: there she is. At night risen higher in the sky, it lights our night walks to the beach or to the Chimera natural fires always aflame in the mountains outside Olympus.

I am sitting crosslegged in the matins on a huge deck of a climber's bungalow in Geyibayiri, outside Antalya. (It sounds like Gateway to me... though that's not exactly right. The canyon is wide, but in some places you can see both sides of it simultaneously and view how, one day long ago, the cliffs fit together. There are hundreds of climbing routes only a stone's throw away and no other houses for acres. The bungalow sits among olive trees, citrus and green plums. Pomegranate trees blossom red blooms for springtime. In a few more months, during the climbing season, climbers will take pomegranate breaks.

The moon is already hidden in rotation, so that the stars actually pop. They all seem to be moving and sending their thousands-year old messages, which only the crickets can decode. But they decipher it all in cricket language, and I don't speak cricket. As the night softens into dawn, an owl scatters its coos across the valley. Somewhere a river rushes and the limestone cliffs blush with the coming sun. The crickets give way to noisy birdsong and flies like aeroplanes have already begun to jet around my head.

The Greek gods knew where to kick it.

We arrived to Olympus on my birthday. Home of Zeus. Ancient city ruins, rocky beaches with calm waters to swim in, climbing routes galore (even for beginners like me), pine forests, orange and pomegranate trees, all kinds of fruit trees, really. It's a beautiful place, all the buildings made of wood. The hostel-slash-restaurants-bars all call themselves treehouses. Before I arrived I imagined that they would be little abodes up in the pine trees, you know, like real treehouses. It's not exactly that, just some rustic rooms among the trees and limestone walls that jut up from the sea level land. Still lovely, blending in well with the landscape.

The bday was pretty low-key, mostly traveling to get here from Fetihye. Once we arrived, we showered and headed for the beach. It was already getting a bit chilly, so I didn't swim, but we walked the rocky shore and bought beers and watched the shadow of the sunset on the water. Dinner included at the hostel, another walk through town to buy some wine. Also I tried my first bubble pipe, apple flavored and relaxing.

Today we met up with a big group of Serkan's friends. Good listening to Turkish time for me. It always makes me nervous, though I wish upon wish it didn´t. But today, we drove to a nearby, less ship-crowded beach called Adrasan where we swam and sunned ourselves with breaks beneath the straw beach umbrellas. After lunch we drove back to Olympus and walked a quick five minutes into a narrow canyon to climb. At sundown we walked through the ruins of the ancient city to the Olympus beach and watched the stars come out. So nice to see the big dipper again. You don't get the big dipper in the southern hem, just the Southern Cross. Equally cool, but one feels closer to home than the other.