Turkey — Day Twenty-nine — Istanbul to Vancouver

Monday, November 5, 2008

Our day started way too early. WAY too early. We were up and had our suitcases at the front door in the darky-dark-dark, waiting for the shuttle bus to pick us up. Sabo was asleep behind the counter in a chair, his legs laid over another chair and a blanket spread over all. It was very sweet, and we didn’t wake him.

It had rained in the night, and the cobbles were shiny and black, hypnotizing for two very tired people.

The shuttle came on time and our giant suitcase and two duffle bags were thrown into the back with great haste, and we were bundled in. The first passengers of the day, I guess, which didn’t bode well. No — it didn’t. We made a quick and disorienting tour of the major hotels of Sultanahmet, picking up people and piles and piles of luggage.

It seemed like we might have been late for our airplane, since we were still collecting passengers as of six am, and we needed to be at the airport for six-thirty to give us time to check in for an international flight at eight-thirty. I was forgetting the first rule of driving in Istanbul, though: go as fast as you can all the time. We sped along the waterfront road, Kennedy Caddesi, all the way to the airport and got in just in time. Of course we had to wait until every other passenger and their crap was lifted off of our squashed suitcases before we got to join the lineup at the entrance door — can you tell I was cranky?

The lineup at the entrance door seemed a little strange, until we realized that the customs — complete with x-rays and suspicious looking uniformed people — were right at the entrance. You didn’t get to go anywhere in the Ataturk Airport without being fully x-rayed. I put my bags on the conveyer belt and walked to the other side, where the lady with the wand gave me a once over, not even pausing at my ankle, not even tsk-ing at my flipflops. The guy on the other side of the x-ray machine was a little excited, though, and not in a happy-fun-birthday-party kind of way.

Taking several steps back, and keeping her hand on her hip, the lady customs official told me to open my backpack in a very serious tone. Eeek! The Turkish jail seemed suddenly, uncomfortably close. Finally, my personal lightbulb lit up, and I knew exactly what the problem was: I opened my pack and unwrapped… my tap! My beloved solid-brass hamam tap, which I wasn’t about to trust to the vagrancies of luggage-sorters, was carefully wrapped and stowed in an inner pocket of my carry-on luggage. I pulled it out and showed it to the lady, who took it over to the nervous guy beside the x-ray machine. I was very afraid they would confiscate it, if not for my stupidity of bringing a gun-shaped object onto a plane, then because it was a cultural treasure. The Turks are very close about such things, I’ve heard.

The x-ray man spent several minutes with my tap, consulting with someone on the phone, before bringing it back to the lady who wrote something on a list (the stupid tourist list?) and gave me back my tap, telling me with a few eyerolls to stow it in my checked luggage. Ok!

Steve came though without incident.

Getting on the plane was a usual cacophony of lines and more lines, checking luggage and finding a duty-free. We tried to buy some raki to bring back to Canada, but we weren’t allowed to buy alcohol because we weren’t on a trans-Atlantic flight! It didn’t matter that we were spending all of 20 minutes in Frankfurt, we couldn’t buy. We consoled ourselves with about a million boxes of the previously-elusive lokum and some jam. We even bought a bunch of little chocolate-covered Turkish delights to make sure we used up every last kuruş.

Breakfast on the plane, which was running late, was passable. We remembered how good the food had seemed on our previous experience with Turkish Air — little had we known at the time! Not that it wasn’t still good, by airplane standards, but we already missed the food.

WARNING: rant ahead!

We got off the airplane in Frankfurt and were met by a woman from Lufthansa, who looked at our tickets and told us to make haste downstairs to the gate. At the gate, we joined the very long line. Finally at the front, watch-checking all the while, the lady at the gate looked at our tickets, rolled her eyes and sneered, and told us we needed a boarding pass — from two flights upstairs. We tried to tell her the lady had told us to come straight here, and we’d already been in line ten minutes, and we really wanted to get seats together. She basically told us “run, then”. We ran.

Upstairs, out of breath and irritated, we told a man at the Lufthansa information kiosk that we needed boarding passes. He also looked at our tickets and told us, very excitedly, that our plane was leaving very shortly, and we should have just been boarded. We told him that we were told in No Uncertain Terms to come up here for boarding passes. He looked at us incredulously and got on the phone, yelling at the other end in German, while waving us back downstairs. We ran again. The bitch woman at the counter, now looking both snotty and like she’d just had a strip taken off her, looked at our tickets, looked at our luggage stickers (complete with barcodes) and typed some information into the computer, and waved us through to the waiting room.

At the counter, most of the travelers were being herded onto a bus to go out on the tarmac to board. I explained to the nice young woman what had happened, that we were Very Irritated and we wanted seats together… and that it was our honeymoon. She looked completely crestfallen and advised that the flight was actually oversold and she wasn’t sure we’d even make it on the airplane, let alone with seats together.

I cried. I was so frustrated, so anxious, and in mourning for leaving the most amazing city I had ever seen. I was bereft, and it showed. That poor girl! She told us to just wait, and she’d see what she could do. After waiting more than half an hour, she waved us onto the bus, the last people on the plane. To her credit, and I don’t know how she did it, she arranged for us to have three seats together so we could have some room.

On the plane, tired and stressed beyond reason, we waited. And waited and waited and waited. Finally the captain came on and announced there was a delay because there was a problem with some luggage that was being offloaded from the airplane. Steve and I looked at each other, thinking the same thing: that woman at the gate was so horrible, could she have screwed up our luggage on purpose? No, we thought — we were being paranoid.

/rant

The flight was long and uneventful, the flight crew gracious and kind, the food passable and the Simpsons movie a sad disappointment. Deplaned in Vancouver, aching and tired, we waited at the luggage carousel. And waited. And waited. Notice a pattern? Eventually we were paged to the Lufthansa counter, where we were told that in fact the bitch woman HAD typed one number wrong on BOTH our checked pieces (one I could see as accidental, but two? yeah). Our luggage was still in Frankfurt. It wouldn’t be arriving in Canada until the next day, and would be put on the bus to the Coast after that. At least Lufthansa was going to pay for the bus. Still. Crap!

We left the luggage area, still shaking our heads. What crap! We had wanted to show John and Gayle our carpets, and my tap! My precious tap! That bitch! I knew we should have stayed in Turkey.

Of course, there was still the matter of customs. Steve had his oud and backpack in hand, and I had my backpack and purse. Even estimating low on our YTL conversions (and who doesn’t do that?), we were still a few hundred over our duty-free limit. We dutifully showed the customs guy our slips. When asked about the rest of our luggage, out poured our tale of woe and Lufthansa. He gave each of us a close look, shook his head, and carefully changed an ‘8’ into a ‘5’ on our form and waved us through. Finally, something good happened!

We were met by John and Gayle and taken back to Tsawwassen for a very sweet reunion with Angel, who was so overcome with emotion that she leapt into my arms for cuddles and couldn’t stop yipping and whimpering. Poor doggie!

After a brief rest, we piled our rather sparse luggage and overjoyed dog into the little blue car (she jumped in as soon as the door opened and refused to get out) and took off for the Coast and bed. Ah, sweet bed.

The next day, I received an apologetic phone call from Lufthansa advising the luggage was in and on the bus, which unfortunately got in after the depot was closed. Unwilling to go another day without my tap, I met the bus. The driver said there wasn’t anything for me and I’m afraid I lost it a little bit on him, falling just short of grabbing his lapels and demanding my RSFH at once! Not surprisingly, he found the suitcase and duffle bags, and they were in my possession once again. Thank goodness!

At home, I noticed a round burnt hole in the bottom of the duffle bag that held our big carpet. I was angry all over again, though I couldn’t quite imagine the Lufthansa woman finding our luggage and putting out a cigarette on it… well, maybe I could. Fortunately the carpet was undamaged, or there would have been hell to pay. That said, the RSFH was damaged beyond repair: missing one handle, most of one wheel, and a plastic thing that previously covered up a pointy piece of metal. There was also a broken glass or two, which I guess could even have been squashed in the dolmuş on the way to the airport. Still — not impressed.

It was a sad way to end what was in every other way an ideal first backpacking trip. I cannot say enough good things about Turkey: the food, the people, the easy transportation, the food… go to Turkey, at least once in your life, go. It is a wondrous, wondrous place. Steve says I had such a good time because the Turks liked me, that I fit in well with them. I think I was open to the experience, the language, the humour… I could live in Turkey. Not that I’m not grateful to be Canadian, because that sure opens a lot of doors (ah, Kanada!), but I love Turkey.

I love Turkey.

“Come, come again, whoever you are, come!
Heathen, fire worshipper or idolatrous, come!
Come even if you broke your penitence a hundred times,
Ours is the portal of hope, come as you are.”

Mevlana Celaleddin Rumi

Turkey — Day Twenty-eight — Istanbul

Sunday, November 4, 2007

Our last day in Istanbul. Steve woke before dawn.

Our first evening at the Med Cezir, Steve had scouted around and had found a rooftop terrace just at the end of the hallway and up some stairs: it was closed for the winter, or at least all the tables and chairs were stacked up, but it still gave an astonishingly good view. The Hagia Sophia glowed to the right, the Baths Of Lady Hürrem and the Mavi Ev Hotel at immediately in front, and the elegant minarets of the Blue Mosque reached for the sky on his left. Having been on the go from morning until night, I hadn’t even tried to look at it, taking his word that the view would be spectacular. Given the weather, he hadn’t lingered up there either.

On this day, though, our last, much-cherished last day in Turkey, we woke to clear blue sky and glorious sunrise, unexpected given the previous clouds and impending winterness. For once I couldn’t resist getting up early myself, and I joined Steve before seven for sunlight on the golden spires of the Blue Mosque and the Hagia Sophia. It was amazing. It was indescribable. It was a washed clean sky backdropping the faded red arch of the Hagia Sophia, set like a fire-hearted ruby against tuquoise, lit by the golden sun. We stood in the long morning rays, both feeling as if you could see the warmth in the air, could reach out into the sunshine and your hand would come back with a powder of gold clinging to the surface. A half turn left brought the eye to the spires of the Blue Mosque, each crescent moon on the tip of each minaret a glittering treasure and the white gleaming so perfectly…

After an hour or more, we tore ourselves away from the spectacle and, after a nice warm shower, went down for breakfast with Sabo, who was very chatty and entertaining. He teased Steve unmercifully and Steve gave as good as he got. We liked Sabo very much.

The Ottowonians hadn’t called, so we decided to head off into Kumkapi ourselves. We stopped by the Arasta Bazaar to see if we could find Jedi’s owner and get an address to send the photos Steve had taken our first meeting, but he wasn’t there.

Wandering through the streets, south and east and down the hill to the Sea of Marmara, we followed our map to the ‘Küçük Aya Sofia’, or ‘little Hagia Sophia’ – a beautiful little church in the Kumkapi neighbourhood. While we could have found it quite handily ourselves, a young boy walking by decided to escort us to the gate… and then held out his hand for coins for the privilege of having guided us. Not wanting to cause a scene, and chagrined that we hadn’t told him no thanks at the outset, we gave him a few kuruş, even though we were sure it wasn’t what we were supposed to do.

It had only taken some twenty minutes or so of gentle strolling through cobbled streets to reach the Küçük – little – Hagia Sophia from our hotel in the heart of Sultanahmet. We were surprised to see very few tourists at this lovely and spiritual church which was begun five years before the Büyük (?) Hagia Sophia. Just as old, and almost as uplifting, as its larger step-sister (Justinian was father to them both), the little one was a wonderful thing to see. The very kind Imam (as the little ‘un is now a mosque) led us up the circular stairs to what was once perhaps a pulpit – it gave a splendid view of the whitewashed domes and cobalt blue medallions. It was lovely. He mentioned on our way out not to feed the animals pay the children for guiding us there. Oops!

On our way back up the street, we stopped to admire some cats. Ah, Istanbul! Full of kedi!

We decided our next stop would be the St. Saviour of Chora – once church, then mosque, and now the Kariye Müzesi. The frescos and mosaics were reputed as being truly incredible and we were keen to go. From my eBay-purchased Istanbul street map, it looked like we should be able to walk there in an hour or so…

The rest of Kumkapi that we saw was lovely, in a run down sort of way, which is actually how we found most of Istanbul that we saw. There were these great old wooden buildings with wooden-framed bay windows on the upper floors. Some had been carefully restored, and the wood gleamed against the subtle white of the stucco. Others looked like they had had a bomb go off inside them some hundred years ago, and their windows drooped and hung and clung to the walls. Sometimes these were right beside each other. In that moment, I would have given almost anything to buy and repair that old house, and live the rest of my days in Istanbul.

The streets were bright with Turkish banners – a leftover from National Day or general pride?

After a while, we turned right and headed straight uphill, aiming for the Divan Yolu where we could walk down to the old walls of the city and turn up to the St. Saviour Museum. Passing numerous stalls on the streets that gave me the secret hope that perhaps the reported closing of the Grand Bazaar was not so – unfounded, as it turned out – we came up onto the Divan Yolu almost right at the entrance of the Grand Bazaar. Turning left, we followed the tram line down to just past the university, stopped to admire a mosque under restoration, and turned right a street before Ataturk Boulevard, thinking the Museum was just down there.

We got just down there to the Fevzi Paşa Caddesi and I, in a fit of brilliance, realized I had missed an entire fold of the map. The St. Saviour was further away than all the distance we had already walked that morning, and it was rising noon. We sat in a little park attached to a mosque and considered our options: sit and watch the kedi gambol on the grass all day (very appealing, as it didn’t involve walking any more that day), take a taxi to the Museum (which would break our perfect record of taxi-avoidance) or walk a little further down to where we might be able to catch a bus (of limited appeal, as it involved applying feet to pavement).

After a little whining, and a little resting, and a little watching kedi play, I mustered my blistered toes to walk over to the bus stop where the bus was blessedly not too far behind. The Lonely Bastard had given clear directions as to which bus to catch and the driver obligingly confirmed his destination. Standing in the crush, we barely had a chance to register the sights we sped by: a kedi on a stone wall, a knot of black-clad young women with brightly coloured handbags, a football stadium with a tank parked in front.

Disgorged from the dolmuş, we popped out onto some very working class streets. The bus ride was surprisingly short: no more than fifteen minutes for what would have taken more than an hour to walk. We picked a random twisty street that looked as if it would lead in the general direction of the Museum.

The twisty street was picturesque and teeming with kedi. Feral cats sat in lumps on every wall, curled their tails around their delicate feet on every doorstep and one – just one – shot across the road on three legs, the other curled underneath, its front leg a shattered mess of blood and shocking white bone. Tired and overwhelmed with the last day of Istanbul, I nearly burst into tears on the spot. The broken cat was gone in a flash, and if I could have caught it, if in a million years, what could I have done? Rushed it to the veterinarian? Given it a shot of Phenobarbital? Swung its head into a wall or broken its neck, quickly, giving it an easy death? I was devastated.

With me not exactly in the best mental space to admire a bunch of dead rocks, we decided to stop for a quick lunch before we ventured into the museum proper. First we checked out Asitane, a recommended restaurant, which is a few short metres from the museum and its accompanying souvenier stalls. Asitane looked lovely, being in the basement of a graceful old house, but there was literally no-one in there for lunch and the wait staff looked quite disgruntled at our arrival. The menu looked appetizing but expensive by our standards, and I felt a little dusty for crisp white napkins and uniformed staff, so we headed back out and got a quick tavuk döner and urfa şiş at the café right across from the museum. It was certainly adequate, and it was a bit of a relief to be able to throw bits of chicken at the waiting kedi. This was definitely a tourist place, though, like almost everywhere we had been in Istanbul.

Slightly more heartened, we walked around the gate and bought our ticket. The approach to St. Saviour is really neat: instead of walking straight in, they wind you around the back of the building across a lawn, give you time to admire the architecture and striped brick exterior and in through the side… to come straight at a hall of the most splendid frescos.

After the Ottoman invasion, this little church in the country (Chora: country, from it being a ways out of the city proper, right up against the city walls) was repurposed into a mosque. Instead of destroying the mosaics and frescoes, the clerics plastered over them, unwittingly preserving them for the next 500 years. Now the plaster has been removed and the paints and tesserae glow almost as brightly as they did when first made in the 11th century.

We were overwhelmed. We were awestruck. We were… lying on the marble floor taking pictures of the glorious ceiling. Well, Steve was. Good for Steve. The other patrons looked at him like he was crazy, but we caught several of them flat on their backs in the same spot.

A large Spanish tour group crowed the place when we arrived, but they left after not too long and we had the place – well, not to ourselves, but relatively sparse. The tourists who were in attendance were rapt and respectful, which you cannot help but be in such a place.

It’s so hard to know what to say about the St. Saviour at Chora except “go there” – at once, or as soon as you can, or at some point in your lifetime – it is not to be missed. It’s not just the frescoes and mosaics, as amazing as those are. It’s the carved angels above the door, the green marble flagstones, the little Byzantine heads carved of stone peeking out from corners (all but one with the faces gouged out; I almost killed myself trying to get a clear photo of the one that remained), the vaulted domes (oh! the domes!) and every single surface is decorated with some lovely thing. What an amazing, amazing thing to see.

I almost cried all over again the beauty and the sadness of so much lost, including one poor little kitty with a shattered leg. I did look out the door into the garden one time to see a young man scooping kibble out of a backpack onto the grass in front of a few cats – he told me that he came around to feed the strays and look for any injuries. I told him about the broken one and he had seen her too; he hadn’t been able to get a hand on her, but he said he’d look out for her. I couldn’t have been more relieved and I almost cried some more.

In better spirits, we left the St. Saviour and thought we’d head back to Eminönü to check out the Kahve Dunyasi and get some cups and chocolates and chocolate spoons. Mmm… spoons! Fortunately the bus going back down the road dropped us off at the bus loop across the street from the spice market in Eminönü. We moved like eels in the crowd in the underpass, walked briskly across the Eminönü Square in front of Hamdi and practically ran the rest of the way to the coffee shop… which was closed. Yes, closed. On Sunday. The prime-est coffee drinking day of the week in Vancouver, and it was closed. I was very sad. Very, very sad. Steve was sad too – sad that he hadn’t let me buy the crack coffee yesterday, though he couldn’t have known.

Desolate, we walked back across the square to the underpass and through to the Galata Bridge. Well, maybe only I was desolate. Fortunately, it’s impossible to stay desolate on the Galata Bridge: the fishermen are so happy when they pull up a shiny wriggling fish comma-quote-comma, and so happy when they don’t. I guess it’s true that a bad day fishing is still better than a good day working, and the men we saw were living proof. Some had buckets full of living proof that they were having a good days fishing as well. The pale sun and weak blue sky were a gift on a Sunday afternoon in November and they knew it as well as we.

We thought we’d experience the Tünel, which is the 19th century funicular that carries passengers up the hill to the end of Istiklal Caddesi. It is a phenomenally short train ride, lasting something in the area of a single minute. We weren’t to find out in person, as the signs at the entrance advised it was closed for repairs. Standing around trying to figure out an alternative to walking up the hill, a dolmuş pulled up and the driver advised he was there to take people up the hill. For free. Yay! We climbed aboard and got the first seats. We thought we had been the only confused tourists stymied by the lack of Tünel, but apparently not. People of all shapes and sizes squished onto the bus. It was the most dolmuş-ed dolmuş we had been in in Turkey. The Tire bus was palatial in comparison.

After a very quick (I think I’ve mentioned Istanbullus drivers) and scary ride up the hill, we were disgorged in the same square we had bought the prints and cards in – just up from the street of musical instruments.

Feeling peckish, we stopped for a panini in a coffee shop called ‘Gloria Jean’s Coffee’ which loomed over the eastern side of the square. Wow, what a disappointment. It was easily the worst panini either of us had ever had, which was even more shocking given that the food in Turkey was so superlative. All I can say is ‘yuck’ – overpriced, overrated, and the coffee was crap too. It was rising 4pm and there might have been a sunset, so we walked a few blocks down Galip Dede Caddesi to the Galata Tower, paid our 10YTL each at the entrance and joined the queue at the elevator.

Let me point something out to the uninitiated, as there were many uninitiated on the Galata Tower that day: the signs indicate that you should turn to your right upon exiting onto the rather narrow deck that rings the tower top. You should then continue to your right, in a clockwise fashion, until you return to your starting point and exit. Turn to your RIGHT, people! Since we were not the only people having thought to enjoy the sunset from the vantage of the lovely Genoese tower that peered right out over Beyoglu, the Galata Bridge and Sultanahmet to the Sea of Marmara lost to the haze beyond… not really a surprise, I suppose – the deck was crowded with eager faces and a silver fortress of digital cameras and cell phones all raised to the view and taking pictures as fast as ever they could. The few individuals who had, inexplicably, decided to turn LEFT made life very much difficult for the rest of the people on the deck. Clockwise! Come on!

Fortunately Steve could tell that the sunset wasn’t going to be very much of anything, and we hastily (and irritated-ly, in my case) made our retreat to the stairs that led back down to the very cool bathroom and the elevator landing and emerged, flushed and triumphant, back onto the cobbles surrounding the tower.

Back up Galip Dede to the square, we found ourselves next to a little cd store. Having a few hundred YTL burning holes in our pockets, we thought we’d load up on some Turkish music to bring home. We picked out a half-dozen cds and asked the total less than 65YTL! Most of the cds were 11 lira or less – incredibly cheap by Canadian standards. Steve and I took one look at each other and picked out another six cds.

Our feet not feeling quite battered enough, we decided to walk up the Istiklal Caddesi to find the orginal lokum shop of ‘Ali Muhiddin Hacı Bekir’ who, according to the Time Out Istanbul, invented the now-ubiquitous Turkish delight in the 18th century.

What a bad idea. We knew we wouldn’t have considered walking along Robson Street on a warm Sunday night. It just isn’t our kind of place. Istiklal Caddesi was not our kind of place. It was very crowded, and the people were rather terminally hip. In some ways it was very interesting: certainly a side of Turkey we hadn’t seen. Most of the people we saw in Sultanahmet were dressed quite conservatively, as were most of the people in the countryside. This was our first look at that modern Turkey that sits with one foot in the Ottoman past and the other firmly stepping into cutting-edge Europe. The girls and boys were fashionable and fine, and very, very conscious of that fact. Like I said, not our kind of place, in our grubby pants and fake shoes!

All was not lost – I picked up an ‘Istanbul’ cup from Starbucks and we found a neat little bookstore where we bought some cookbooks of Turkish cooking – in English, even! We never found the lokum store… we found where it was supposed to be, at 129 Istaklal Caddesi, and scouted around a bit, but never found it.

It was full dark when we gave up on the lokum hunt and turned around. We were tired, a little hungry and exceedingly footsore, and we wanted off the Istaklal Caddesi train so badly it hurt. We took a random street to the left, back down to the Bosphorus and walked down to Kemeraltı Caddesi, which is the street the streetcars run on; the street which spills onto the Galata Bridge and home. The walk downhill was reasonably pleasant, except that it involved being upright.

We were pleased to arrive almost exactly at Tophane tram station, bought our tokens and settled with great relief onto the benches of the tram. It was about quarter to seven when we crossed the Galata Bridge to Eminönü, and we took a quick look at each other and decided to subject our poor feet to another indignity: we exited at Sirkeci station, walked across the street to the Sirkeci Istasyonu, and joined the lineup for the Dervish sema – the sufi ritual that puts the ‘whirling’ in ‘whirling dervish’ – that is held Sunday nights in the former waiting room for the Orient Express. We thought the performance – I hesitate to call it a ‘show’ – began at seven, but apparently it was seven-thirty. Had we known it would involve that much standing, we might have skipped it. We didn’t know, and we couldn’t quite bear to have our last night in Turkey whining away in our hotel room. So we stood. And stood. And shuffled, and whined a little bit, and made friends with the other tourists in line, and stood some more.

When we finally reached the front of the line, I found myself frantically learning some new Turkish words: flipping through my phrasebook, I explained, while pointing at Steve, göz (eye) and ön (front). The young man who was acting as usher figured it out, and told us in limited English that there were reserved seats in front for us.

Other than telling the car rental people that I would be the only driver and a few curious stares, this was the only mention we had to make of Steve’s eyesight on the entire trip.

We were so very happy to sink onto our chairs in the front row: there were chairs arranged in rows on three sides around a roped-off area in the centre of the room. We were dead in front, in the centre of the row, facing the chairs where the musicians were to sit against the windows of the old train station. Amazing! It seemed quite remarkable that we would just be able to show up for a performance which we hadn’t booked for, hadn’t planned on, hadn’t bought tickets – just show up, and get the best seats in the house.

Precisely on time (not Turkish time!), the musicians filed in and began to play. It was exquisite – we were unprepared for how lovely it was. Steve noted that they didn’t seem to be as tight as a band that played together often would be, but they still did an excellent job. The room collectively held its breath as the… dancers? whirlers? derviş? dervi? entered the room, carrying rolled up sheepskins. They entered reverently, with grace, and their long white skirts swept the floor. They unrolled their sheepskins, made their obeisance, were gathered into a little knot by the head derviş, and, as the music grew, each took – in their own time and manner – to spinning.

They sema unfolded with a billow of white skirts; they spun around open space; we watched, each caught out of our mortal coil. It was heart-breakingly beautiful. It was a poem, a painting on air, a prayer so deep and moving that I almost cried. As we watched, we got a sense of each of the derviş: the head man, whose face bore an expression of profound serenity, and whose feet made barely a whisper on the stone floor; the older man who whirled with a strong and focused energy – we wondered if he had come late to the Sufi, and what he had done before; two youngsters whose long limbs floated like spiders on the wind and a third young man, burning with desire to do it all so perfectly as he whirled, and thought, and strove for communion. “He’ll get it someday,” I thought. “He’s so young still.”

Within the sema, the dancer, holding up one hand to gather blessings and dispersing them to the crowd with the downturned hand, with a thousand shades of meaning and faith in every movement, the audience is to feel more blessed, closer to God. We felt closer.

When the derviş rolled up their sheepskins and left, followed by the musicians, there was a pause before the applause. For something that was put on for tourists, it had a sense of authenticity which I think was felt by virtually everyone in the audience privileged company of watchers.

Feeling replete with the day, we bought more tokens (our last tokens) and got back aboard the tram up the hill to Sultanahmet (our last tram!) and walked past the glorious Hagia Sophia, all lit up for the night (our last night!). Ah, we were going to miss Istanbul.

At the Med Cezir, we ordered a plate of mixed mezes and chatted with Sabo and Erol. Before dinner was served, I ran down to the little corner store for cookies and Nescafe sticks and a few little souvenirs. Steve got a little antsy when I was gone for too long; back at the hotel and with food in front of us, Steve regained his good humour enough to give Sabo advise on married life; Erol commented on the spending habits of wives. I was wise enough to not make a fuss. We shared some of our snacks and chocolate with the hotel staff before creeping back up the stairs to pack.

Packing was a painful and traumatic experience, even more so than our poor toes (recalling that before Istanbul, we hadn’t worn proper shoes in almost a month). Exhausted and sad, we rolled into bed later than we should, knowing we had to be up at oh-dark-thirty for our pickup at five in the morning.

Turkey — Day Twenty-five — Pamukkale & Night Train

Thursday November 1, 2007

The morning was a scurry of activity at the hotel: we had more on our plate than just eating yet another delicious breakfast and showering in abundant hot water. We wanted to leave Pamukkale in the evening on the night train – the Pamukkale Expresi – from Denizli to Istanbul that was to leave at 5pm. Since we wanted a sleeper, we asked Karyn if she knew if there was somewhere in town we could reserve our ticket. There wasn’t a travel agent handy, so she had Ibrahim check availability online and there was only one sleeper unit left! Eek!

Karyn suggested we buy the ticket online, but of course we didn’t have a credit card. We were intensely grateful when Karyn offered to buy the ticket for us, so long as we also paid her the few extra lira to cover her bank charges for her Australian credit card. Since this beat hollow the prospect of a panicky dolmuş ride into Denizli to buy a ticket that may or may not have still been available when we got there, we gladly accepted. Even with the small charge (which Karyn showed us on her statement – she didn’t take a fee on top of it, even though we would have happily paid one), it was still less than $50 each – I think 49YTL each for the ticket and two or three lira for the service fee.

The next order was the hotel we would stay in the next night. As exciting as it was to have arrived in Istanbul that first night and look for our hotel room, we wanted to see if we could get in with the Canadians who would be arriving there that night. We tried to call on Skype, taking advantage of the free wireless, but the connection was a little spotty. Karyn – again, such an awesome hostess – lent us the phone for no charge, even though we were calling long distance. Unfortunately that hotel was full. Karyn then looked online and advised of a few hotels that had space and were reasonable, including one called the ‘Med Cezir’ (pronounced Med Jezeer) which was right in the heart of Sultanahmet. We called, heart in our mouth, and were told by the nice man on the other end of the phone that he was full up for doubles with their own bathroom. We were just about to hang up when he told us he did have a double with a shared bathroom. The price was great, and we wanted this to be done, so we accepted – no deposit, just our names and the advice that we’d be there in the morning. Yay! Now we had somewhere to stay and a way to get there: we could enjoy our day in Pamukkale.

It didn’t seem like it would be difficult to get to the famous travertines since we could even catch a glimpse of them from our bedroom window. Indeed, it was a short walk up through the winding streets, past the little lokanta we were in last night, to the pond at the bottom of the road that led to the travertines. The sun intermittently broke through the high cloud and made the upper hillside sparkle. It was interesting from far off; fascinating from up close. We paid our 5YTL and walked (shoes on) up the gravel path until we reached the white… how do you describe the travertines?

Technically, they are the result of a natural hot spring which carries a large quantity of calcium dissolved in the water. When the water reaches the surface and spills out over the top of the hill, the calcium precipitates out of the water and is deposited on the natural rock as a new kind of rock called ‘travertine’. Over many thousands of years, layers and layers of calcium have created terraced rock pools that shine white in the sun. Perhaps because of the ability of the white pools to reflect the sky, they are coloured the same bright turquoise that we have seen many times in alpine lakes. From a distance, the white structure on the top of the hill looks like a shining fortress, which gives Pamukkale (pamuk: cotton, kale: castle) its name.

We had waffled, as I think many travellers do, if it was worth it to even go to Pamukkale. We had read the reports that the hotels in the area had diverted the mineral water for their own little pools and the reduction in calcium-rich water spilling over the travertines had made them dingy at best, completely ruined at worst. We pro’d and con’d for several days: Denizli was out of the way, but it was on the way to an easy route back to Istanbul. The travertines might not be as spectacular as they were, but it might be our last chance to see even the faded glory of an incredible natural sight. As we took off our sandals and took our first step into the cool white lower pond, we were so glad we came. Up close, you could see that some of the pathways were a little gritty and not all the pools were full. There were some workers digging a ditch of some sort along the edge of the travertines and I was glad to see they are still working on repairing it.

The silt in the bottom of the pool was pleasantly squishy between our toes, and it created fun little swirls as we walked through. The water didn’t get past mid-thigh and we hung out in the pond, watching the clouds roll through and hoping for more sunshine. After not too long, a crowd came down the trail and took over our pond, and it was time to move on. It is a requirement that you walk up the trail without shoes on as the dirt from shoes makes the rock grubbier. Most people adhered to it and I glared daggers at those who didn’t. Really, there was no reason not to take off your shoes: the rocks were surprisingly smooth to walk on, even where the surface was patterned into tiny rock ripples. Frankly, if you don’t want to take your shoes off, don’t walk on the travertine! Not that I was irritated or anything.

At the top, we were impressed at the quantity of the ruins that cover the plateau: we had read that Heiropolis was darn cool, but this was really neat. We decided to first take a look at the ‘Sacred Pool’ which was located in a very strip-mall looking building. The sacred pool itself looked interesting in that there were indeed mineral waters and actual Roman ruins in the water – broken columns you could swim by and over. The whole thing seemed a little dingy, though, and the prices were obscene, plus there was that whole strip-mall atmosphere. I think that if the ruins in Turkey were more hands-off or somehow less accessible to be touched and leaned on and generally mauled, swimming with ruins would be more attractive. As it was, we felt as though we had had enough of an intimate ruin experience that we didn’t need to get naked with them.

Instead of a swim, we bought two wildly overpriced Magnums and went outside to sit on a tomb and eat our icecream. See what I mean? intimate ruins.

We walked along the cliff edge over to the left and admired a few tombs that were being very sloooooooowly drowned in a rising sea of travertine, or at least until a tourist policeman (well, maybe a park caretaker, but he looked mighty official) told us to keep back from the edge.

Keeping away from the edge wasn’t much of a hardship given the interesting group of ruins, including a colonnaded street, a couple of well-preserved arches, and a hillside just covered in ruined tombs. I think I read on ‘Turkey Travel Planner’ where Tom Brosnahan said that lots of Romans came to Heiropolis to take cures in the spa but many of them died instead. Perhaps it was best we didn’t swim in the sacred pool!

We walked through the triple arches towards the necropolis where we admired the jumble of tombs and tried to decipher the interpretive signs.  The tombs were very interesting and some were even open to visitors!  The magnitude of the excavation was overwhelming.
Tiring of ghosts, we wandered back to the arches and walked up the marble-paved streets, lined with rows of columns and poplars.  It was lovely and graceful and we went twenty minutes without seeing another soul.  

We found stone paths to follow up along the hillside that were paved in huge marble slabs. It took a while to realize that these were city streets that would have served all the now-razed neighbourhoods we were walking through. The streets were laid out in a grid pattern and sometimes we thought we saw the remains of drainage troughs underneath the streets where a slab was broken. I would have liked to follow the street up the hill to more tombs, but we wanted to take a look at the theatre before heading back to the hotel to get packed up for the dolmuş to Denizli. Walking those paths made me feel closer to history than any other place we had been, even Ephesus, and I felt if I could just walk a little further, I could walk right into the past.

Instead we slogged up the normal modern road up to the theatre, where you enter from the top. The theatre was apparently restored by Italian craftsmen in the 1970s and it was the first theatre we’d been to where you didn’t have the run of the place. To prevent people from going down onto the stage, there was a wooden barricade set up on the walkway above the first rows of seats. Frankly, we felt a little gypped. Those Italians did a nice job and all, but as I’ve mentioned, we were spoiled by our access to and intimacy with other ruins.

By this time it was well into the afternoon and we wanted to be on a 3:30pm dolmuş at the latest. Even though it was only a half hour into Denizli, and the dolmuş went every fifteen minutes or so, we wanted enough time to comfortably wrangle our RSFH to the train station and make our 5pm train. We decided to head down the hill where I would take a quick fifteen minutes in the museum and Steve would go back down to the pool with water in it to take some more photos now that it was a bit sunnier.

Fortunately the ticket to the museum was inexpensive, since I certainly didn’t waste any time there: I basically ran through taking photos that I figured I could admire at my leisure. The rooms weren’t well-lit and it’s probably best that Steve didn’t attend, as the detail on the friezes might have eluded him.

The guards looked quite entertained as I left with a quick teşekkür ederim: I’m not sure they’d ever seen someone go through so quickly.

I found Steve in the lower pool as expected. It felt a little sad to walk off the travertines, put our sandals back on, and turn our backs on Pamukkale. We were very glad we came.

Back in town, we found our landmark lokanta and set off in what seemed like the right direction to get back to the Venus Hotel. I’m sure you can see where this is going, though we were unsuspecting… that we were most certainly NOT headed in the right direction. On the upside, we saw back streets of Pamukkale that most tourists do not see. On the downside, we were tired and hungry and anxious about the time, and spatted pretty much the entire 20 minutes we wandered around lost. We did ask a little girl the way to go, but she pointed us in the entirely wrong direction, which really didn’t help the situation. Finally coming back to the travertine entrance from around the far left side of town, we saw Karyn and Ibrahim parked in front of a shop. They offered us a ride back to the hotel and then a ride back to the dolmuş stop with the RSFH, which we gratefully accepted.

At the Venus, we hurriedly packed our things and found that we had had a casualty on the trip: my loyal Teva sandals, which had carried me faithfully throughout Turkey, to say nothing of the other adventures, were now officially dead. The sole was separating, they smelled atrocious and they were too heavy to justify carrying back to Canada for interment. I sadly left them on the top of the garbage can in our beautiful room in the Hotel Venus. Farewell, old friends.

Downstairs, we said our goodbyes to the dogs, the mum and dad, and were carted back up into town by Ibrahim. What a nice place! We had just enough time to grab snacks: simit, suyu and a few cookies before hopping on the dolmuş. I hadn’t realized how much time had gone by while we were lost, and even though the dolmuş was going relatively quickly by dolmuş standards, we arrived in the Denizli otogar at about 20 minutes to five.

Wrestling the RSFH and our packs out of the dolmuş, we were assured by the driver and various passerby that the train station (tren istasyonu in Turkish) was just down and across the road. They didn’t say that the sidewalks were GRAVEL or that our wheelie RSFH wouldn’t wheel very well (ok, at all) on gravel. They also didn’t mention that it was rush hour in Denizli, and that crossing six lanes of road would take our lives into our overly full hands.

We were hot and tired and overly-adrenaline’d when we finally ran down the metal mesh stairs (also not very good for the RSFH wheels) onto the platform. Fortunately, we changed our printed confirmation for tickets without incident and got on the train with five minutes to go before five. Needless to say, we were very, very relieved and actually quite pleased with ourselves. It had taken a lot of co-operation, cheerleading and finely choreographed suitcase-lifting to get ourselves to the train on time, and our satisfaction wiped the spat from our minds.

One last push of the suitcase onto the train and into our little room, and we were free from suitcase lifting for at least another twelve hours. What a relief! We ate the contents of our little fridge as we watched… the station.  Had we known the train would leave some twenty minutes late, we might not have panicked so badly.  Insert UTS (ubiquitous Turkish shrug) here.  

Finally, the train started off, leaving the city of Denizli. After about twenty minutes, it screeched to a halt.  We thought it might have stopped abruptly for a station, but official-looking people were running up and down the track outside the train, shouting at each other.  We wondered what all the fuss was about — did someone get left behind?  The conductor eventually told Steve that a passenger’s child had pulled the e-brake.  Hee hee!
After not too long, the train started again and we watched the darkening countryside roll by, before repairing to the dining (cough smoking) car for a well-deserved dinner.

There was a little menu card on the table from which we tried to order, but the waiter was either not familiar with English or (bastardised) Turkish, because he kept indicating things were not available or giving us blank stares. We were pretty sure we had ordered some mezes and perhaps a şiş of indeterminate animal by the time he left.

When he arrived, proudly bearing plates of food, I realized that this was what menu roulette must really be like. Steve just smiled; he’s played this game before. Everything was good, but it was also a surprise: we had two eggplant salads, one of which might have been Imam Bayıldı, a haydari-like dish, a cucumber-yoghurt soup that must have been cacik, and liver. Yes, liver. Now I’m SURE I didn’t point at that item on the menu, but we got it anyway. I have to say the taste was ok, but the texture was… well, it was liver. So it was liver-y. Fortunately Steve likes liver. It was all quite reasonable in both taste and price, though not quite as good as the food on the Istanbul-Ankara train. Finally satisfied, we hung out in the dining car until we were smoked out. There isn’t any smoking allowed in the train carriages themselves, so the smokers hung out either in the gap between cars or in the smoking car, which was fine. Turkish cigarettes are somehow less irritating to my allergies than North American ones.

We found ourselves tired out when we got back to our room and sat talking and watching the lights of the countryside go by. I was a bit anxious about going back in Istanbul as I wasn’t sure I had liked it much the first time through. Istanbul is chaotic, noisy and crammed to the gills with people, and I’d felt out of my element. I also wasn’t keen on introducing the RSFH to the cobbled streets of Sultanahmet – or to the ferry gangplanks, either… but Steve reassured me and I reassured him, since he had similar fears, and we cuddled and felt like successful newlyweds after our trying day. Whatever Istanbul was like, we’d manage it together.

Turkey — Day Eighteen — Kayakoy and Selcuk

October 25, Kayakoy to Selcuk

Thursday morning we woke to an intensely blue Mediterranean sky, and there was heat in the air even at 8am.  We were up on the terrace for an early breakfast — early enough that the woman had to head out to the store to get the bread.  After she returned, and we ate, she offered 1/2 in English and 1/2 in charades to go down to the town with me and look for a carpet bag like the one leaving today for Antalya with the English girls.
The girl and I, whose name I wasn’t able to figure out, walked briskly down the pier into the little pedestrian-only shopping area which was a maze of touristy shops peddling real and fake designer duds and shoes.  Some advertised their realness but that wasn’t, frankly, all that reassuring.  Much to my surprise, I was led to a purse shop full of what may well have been real Tod’s, Chanel and Prada… nice, but not quite what I was looking for.  I was then taken to a shop that had the carpet bags, but the littlest purse was the 150L I was looking at spending on a luggage-sized piece.  The man was very convincing, and the bags were lovely, but it was too much for me.  She took me then to a succession of bag shops with cheaper and faker bags — to give her credit, she did try to find me a bag, but there just wasn’t the bag I wanted at the price I wanted.  Mind you, I was Very Tempted by one of those Tod’s bags.  I felt badly, as no doubt there would have been a commission in it for her had I purchased, but at least I gave her a justified excuse to hang out and smoke cigarettes and eat pastries on the clock.
Despite my lingering, I was back at the pension in time to get packed up before checkout at 11.  We made arrangements to leave our packs at the pension while we tried to get a trip to the ruined Greek town of Kayakoy in before we had to meet our bus to Selcuk at 4:30pm.
We knew there was a dolmus leaving from the dolmus station near the market area in downtown Fethiye, but my lingering did, unfortunately, prevent us from making that bus.  In a fit of not disappointing Steve from seeing Kaya, I suggested we quick march up the high road over the theatre and meet the bus on it’s way up the Kayakoy road.  We set off in the already hot sun up the upper road.  Did you catch the use of the word ‘up’? Yeah — uphill, at a brisk walk.  Did you see that it was a hot day? Yeah.  
We passed the Horizon Hotel, which had been our choice for hotel.  It would have had an amazing view, but we had heard from somewhere (completely unsubstantiated) that the reason the tourism office didn’t recommend it is because some of the rooms come with girls.  
Anyway, we went up the hill past the slightly lame Ottoman castle, and found the Kaya road, and we should have been in time to meet the bus.  It didn’t come during the space of time that we stopped to catch our breath, and it didn’t come in the time it took to start breathing deep of the hot pine-and-honey scented air, and it didn’t come in the time that we gave up waiting for it and started walking up the hill.  It’s only seven kilometres, we thought.  Did I mention we started walking? Up the hill?  Yeah.  
After not too long, a slightly decrepit older sedan came by, and I guess we must have looked mighty hopeful, because the driver stopped for us.  We told him we were going to Kayakoy, and he looked briefly concerned before uttering a torrent of Turkish that we didn’t understand.  We would have agreed to almost anything that involved wheels at that point, and he gave us a bit of a look and beckoned us into the car. We were in in a flash and were astonished at the sheer number and steepness of the switchbacks that old car swooped us up.  Just over the crest of the hill, he pulled to the side of the road and guestured us to get out.  We thanked him very much as he turned off into a driveway.
We walked a few minutes down the hill towards the valley and were so pleased to see a little cobblestone road heading off the paved road to the right.  We looked at each other and thought what the heck? and left the main road.  
The cobble road wound down the hill through a wooded area for almost a kilometre — one of the nicest kilometres we spent in Turkey.  The pine scent along with honey and dust and heat hung heavy in the air.  The greens of the forest were deep and intensely Mediterranean.  We could see little glimpses of the verdant valley floor and, in the distance, a crest of hills dotted with the white houses: what could only be the ruins of Kayakoy.  
Once down in the valley floor, we walked in what seemed ought to be the right direction, past a few lovely little pensions, orchards and farms.  We got a bit of a glare from one elderly person in a field, but it wasn’t enough to ruin our enjoyment of the beautiful day.  The back roads and fields were exquisite and we wandered and looked and frequently consulted our LP map, which was not incredibly helpful in this situation.  After an hour and some, we found ourselves in a little village area, and turning left here, we approached Kaya itself.  
Kayakoy was a predominantly Greek town and when the Greek-Turkish population exchange occurred in the 1920s, the Turks that came decided not to settle in Kayakoy, which ended up completely deserted.  Over time, the wood from the roofs and floors were taken by the valley dwellers for their purposes, and then there was an earthquake in the 50s that partially destroyed the town.  A lot of it is still standing and there is an air of quiet contemplation among the whitewashed ruins with their hints of blue paint. 
After purchasing our tickets for 5L each as well as a little explanatory booklet for a few more lira, we wandered through some little roads to the Lower Church, which was in very good shape (it had been used as a mosque until the 1960s).  It was really lovely and full of light that spilled onto the arches and domes, and onto the faded icons and cracked mosaic floors.  We were tempted to linger in this spot, but we knew we had limited time — the walk through the valley had taken longer than we thought, and we did have to be back in Fethiye to catch a bus in the afternoon.  
We decided to climb up the hill to the observatory and then through the town to the other side, then perhaps to get some lunch in one of the charming cafes we had seen on our walk, before going back to town.  As we left the church, a friendly kopek joined us on our walk in a very nonchalant fashion so typical of Turkish dogs.  You’re going on a walk? Excellent.  I’ll join you.  Tesekkur ederim.
We walked up the steep and stoney paths towards the top of the hill.  I was finding myself a little out of breath and coughing, so decided to forgo the no-doubt fabulous view of the ocean that would be on the other side of the hill.  Steve and the kopek walked the rest of the way while I hung out on a flat stone in the sun, watching the birds and lizards and resting my lungs.  It only took 20 minutes for Steve and the dog to return to where I was sitting and we continued along across the top of the hillside, through lovely, sad ruins of broken houses.  
Every so often, we would see a hint of the relative immediacy of the former inhabitants: a painted design, a worn tread on a stair, the overgrown remains of a herb garden.  You could see where Louis De Bernieres got his inspiration for the gorgeous “Birds Without Wings” which tells the story of a fictionalized village with both Turkish and Greek inhabitants, right up until the population exchange.  I could just imagine a priest and an imam passing each other on these narrow tracks, exchanging a friendly “hello, infidel.”  
We learned that it was actually very difficult after the Greeks left as the Greeks generally were the professionals — doctors, lawyers, engineers — and when they left, Turkey was left with a bit of a knowledge vacuum for a while.
We made our way over to the Upper Church, was was large and impressive with a beautiful mosaic floor with designs made in black and white pebbles.  It was still very nice, but lacked some of the charm of the smaller Lower Church, but that may have to do with the Upper Church crawling with tourists.  We emerged into the courtyard and saw an older, rather quaintly dressed woman.  It seemed charming until she demanded, in very broken English, money for the privilege of looking at her.  We didn’t pay, which might seem harsh as she was adding to the general atmosphere… but she was rude, and I don’t pay for rude.
Walking back down into the occupied lower part of the village, we passed a restaurant.  Since it was getting on, and Steve was anxious to reach town with enough time to get our bus, we asked when the next bus left.  Most surprised were we to find out that it was going in less than ten minutes and the next one wouldn’t be for an hour or more!  We hoofed it down the road and ran up to the bus stop just as the dolmus was pulling up.  We climbed on, paid our few lira, and settled back for the magical mystery tour.  
The dolmus didn’t take the direct, steep route to Fethiye that we tried to walk up… instead it went through the VERY BRITISH town of Hisaronu.  For example, looking out the smudgy dolmus window, I saw the Red Lion pub, more fish & chip shops than I could count, and a vast number of very disturbing stores which promised to wax everything.  Every sign was in English and every price tag was in pounds.  We rather wished that we had made the Kaya valley our base while in this area rather than staying in Fethiye proper.  Even Oludeniz would have been ok — even though it’s apparently very touristy, at least it would have had the beach.  We still thanked our lucky stars that we did NOT opt to stay in Hisaronu.  What a nightmare!
Back in Fethiye, we walked from the dolmus station to the Ideal Pension, picked up our bags and walked back down to the quay.  As we were tired and hungry, laden with heavy packs, and a little stressed about making our bus, we (ok, I) opted to have lunch in the Park Cafe, since it was very close to the travel agency where we’d be catching the shuttle bus that would take us to the big bus station.  
After a quick lunch and a quick argument (one of the only ones we had on this trip, and entirely the result of being overhungry from not eating in Kaya as originally planned), we walked over to the travel agency with plenty of time to spare.
The slim blonde girl who had originally helped us buy our bus and tour tickets was in the office.  When the shuttle bus to the otogar seemed a little late, she told us not to worry.  When it was quite late, she told us not to worry.  When it finally showed up and we showed some alarm at perhaps not making our bus, she told us not to worry.  Worried, we got on the shuttle.  Only thing was, it wasn’t really a shuttle — it was a dolmus.  We knew this, because it stopped at every dolmus stop to pick up people.  It was more than a little frustrating to be on the milk run when we were late, but about halfway into the trip, the dolmus driver was flagged down by another dolmus driver on the side of the road and appeared to be given royal heck for not getting us to the otogar on time.  The flagger-downer waved and smiled at us, and our driver put his foot to the floor.  
We pulled into the otogar and were met at the sidewalk in front by a bus guy who ran with us to the bus, where everyone was waiting for us.  I managed to gasp a tuvalet request and the driver took pity on me, and waved me off to the WC for a pre-trip pit stop.  
Really, we should have known the trip wasn’t going to go well based on how it started, but somehow we were surprised when the bus left late (later than our late arrival warranted) and dawdled at every stop.  Even though the day was baking, the heat was on full blast and the driver wouldn’t turn it off, even when I asked directly in Turkish using my guidebook.   By now I knew my accent was good enough that it wasn’t a matter of him not understanding me.  Mind you, we didn’t get stung by anything, but it was a hot, cramped, long and uncomfortable trip.  It was our second branch out from Nevsehir bus lines, which we’d taken for every trip but Cirali to Fethiye and this one, and we weren’t impressed.  
We rolled into Selcuk at just after 10pm, an hour later than we expected to be there.  When we emerged from the bus, tired and grumpy, we were greeted by a man who invited us to stay at his hotel.  Fortunately, we had the excuse that we were already booked, and we thought he’d go away.  Instead, he asked which hotel and, when we told him ‘Hotel Bella’, he disappeared for a minute.  When he reappeared, moments later, he told us that he had had the bus man call the hotel and they would send a car to pick us up in five minutes.  
It actually seemed more like two and a half minutes later that a van whipped up and loaded our bags in about a second, and deposited the bedraggled us at the door of the hotel about a minute later.  We were handed our key by a sympathetic looking Australian woman, and hauled our sorry selves into our room at the front of the hotel.  We weren’t so tired that we didn’t notice that the dark wood furniture was lovely, the lace curtains floating in the breeze charming and the tiled bathroom impeccably clean.  Even though we had booked a double, there was an extra single bed in the room, which was great for throwing down our bags on so that we could immediately slide between the crisp white sheets and fall into a dreamless sleep.