Detour through Athens, Greece

Our original 5 month travel plan was to backpack through Africa, then hop a flight to Turkey and backpack south from Turkey, overland through Syria, into Israel and Jordan, and on to Cairo where our departure flight was booked, but like any trip, our plans were subject to change.  Egypt’s Revolution threatened to change our departure city, and Syria’s protests and the government’s reaction to those protests (killing their own citizens) was enough to make me nervous about visiting, but ultimately it was Syria’s visa policy that changed our plans.  In reaction to an increase in U.S. visa prices for its citizens, Syria raised its visa fees to $131 USD and required advance approval from the embassy in America.  This was impossible for us as we were already moving southeast through Turkey when we discovered this bit of information.  Thankfully, Uncle Sam was good to us this year, so we forked over the extra cash to backtrack by bus to Istanbul, then hopped two flights, one from Istanbul to Athens, and the other from Athens to Cairo.

When we arrived in Istanbul, we were fried from the long bus ride, so it was the last straw when our taxi driver deliberately attempted to swerve toward a detour.  Mark and I firmly yelled in unison “No!”  The driver failed to arrive at our destination (Evrim’s apartment) so we told him to let us out and we walked the remainder of the hills alone.  We arrived at Evrim’s with our bags and during the reunion, we discovered that she had other guests from Bodrum and they were out on the town for the night with no plans to sleep.  We dumped our bags and joined them in Taxim Square where we bar hopped until past 4am. 

The following night, we flew to Athens, Greece.  At immigration, we paid nothing and were asked no questions as they swiped our passports and welcomed us to Greece.  We boarded a bus to the historical district, about an hour away.  The Greek bus felt strange, like being back in the States on a subway where everyone picks seats that are as far away from each other as possible and no one looks at anyone else or dares strike up a conversation.  All body language says, “Don’t talk to me.  Don’t look at me.  Mind your own business.”  It was such a dramatic change from Turkey where people were bubbly, smiley, chatty, and struck up conversations with complete strangers as a regular occurrence.  When we arrived at the historical district, an Aussie who works in London but has a flat in Athens asked where we were going and told us he was heading that direction and could show us a few hostels if we wanted.  We were grateful for the help and dragged our bags and chattered along the 20 minute walk through winding cobblestone streets.  Around corners we occasionally caught glimpses of the lit Acropolis atop the hillside.  It was strikingly beautiful.

The prices were surprising, 15 euros each per night for a no-frills dorm at the Student Travelers Inn, which meant that Mark and I would be forking out $45 per night for bunk bed accommodations.  Suddenly, we were relieved that we would only be in town 3 nights.  Over the next 3 days, we continued being shocked by the prices, like $30 breakfasts (some of the cheapest we could find).  Our backpacker budget was between $55-65 per day, so to spend $500 over the course of just 3 days was distressing, but we were in Greece, so we determined that we were going to enjoy ourselves, and we did.

We used our student ID cards to get ½ price tickets to the Parthanon and Museum.  With the help of the front desk attendant, we mapped out a walking tour that included Greek ruins throughout the city.  We spent a full day walking from ancient libraries to Olympic stadiums.  We climbed the steps to the Acropolis and sat on rocks while marveling at the smooth marble structures.  Women were dressed in their 80’s best (pink flowery short skirts and leggings with gladiator heels and decorative scarfs).  Just as I had in Istanbul, I felt out of place in my functional, quick-dry Colorado camping clothes, but who cares, I was in Athens, man.

We spent an afternoon at the Old Museum which was full of tiny historical knick knacks and expertly crafted life-size human sculptures and gravestones.  The placards describing each white statue were intriguing.  From the way the sculptures were positioned, dates of construction and influence of gods/goddesses could be determined.  Family members were sometimes pictured together, and the importance of sports and youth were evident in the postures. 

In addition to the high prices, I was not prepared for the Athinean rudeness.  We’ve since been informed that Athens is considered one of the rudest cities in Europe, and we now understand.  Here are a few examples of the rudeness we encountered.

1)     1)  While buying t-shirts, Mark asked me if I cared for the blue one he was wearing.  I said the neckline looked too tight.  The saleswoman turned to me and said to Mark with a serious face, “It’s because your wife, she is difficult woman.”

2)      2) In a separate t-shirt shop, Mark said he wasn’t in the habit of spending $22 on a t-shirt.  The salesman replied, “It’s good quality, not like the shirt you’re wearing.”

3)      3) We purchased schwermas (chicken pitas) at an outdoor restaurant and seated ourselves to eat them.  A couple seated nearby saw what we were enjoying and told the waiter they wanted what we were having.  The waiter told them they couldn’t have what we were having because it was only available on the take away menu.  He promptly told us to leave the restaurant.

All this to say, we were glad to visit Athens, but it is a city that can be seen in a day.  Many people suggested visiting the islands from Athens, but we didn’t have enough time to do so.  If you go, just know that the prices are high, the people are a little rude, and the historical elements are totally worth it.

Green Tour- Goreme, Turkey (ie: Tour bus with ugly Americans)

Unique landscape

Clay Pot Supper (lamb is cooked inside of the clay, then the pot is broken to serve the meal)

We were at an outdoor restaurant smoking apple nargalie with Georgie and Rohan, honeymooning Aussies we’d met a few towns back, when we got a sales pitch for the Green Tour. “It’s a must-see,” they agreed through bites of clay pot supper, a local speciality that is cooked in a sealed clay pot, then smashed open during the meal. They described the green tour route: panoramic views of the volcanic activity that created the cone caves, an underground city, a creekside hike through a green valley, an opportunity to hike through a cave city located in a hillside, pigeon valley, and last but not least… the onyx sales demonstration. Rohan recounted his near-purchase of jade earrings at the sales demonstration. “They were in my hands. I had already drank their tea. The salesman seemed like such a nice guy, and he was offering me such a good deal. I couldn’t say no.” Georgie confirmed his story, “It’s true; he can’t say “no,” so I have to do it for him.”

Caves Homes and Hotels in Cappadocia, Turkey

Inside our cave hotel

Mark and I tend to be too independent for tours, but after hearing how much the Aussies had enjoyed theirs, we were sold. We booked our tour through our Cave Hotel and despite the fixed price of 70 TL per person, we were able to negotiate down to 60 TL ($40 each), not bad considering it included lunch, petrol, a guide, and all entrance fees. We were the first to be picked up on our 9:30 am shuttle. We circled town to pick up a family of 5 Canadians (3 of them pre-teens), a family of 4 from Kentucky/Tennnesee (including an 80 year old Narcissistic grandmother), 3 Aussies, and 3 Koreans.

The sites were outstanding, especially the underground city, a Christian labrynth of underground stables, living rooms, wine rooms, food storage and churches. We went 4 layers deep and only took in 10% of the underground maze where Christians used to hide for 1-2 weeks at a time. In between sites, we enjoyed viewing the green prairies and snow-capped mountains. At one point, the sun was shining so spectacularly on one particular mountain, that Mark asked, “Hey, does anyone mind if we stop for a photo?” “Yeah, sounds great!” we heard from the backseat of the shuttle. We felt proud of our ability to customize our tour to fit our needs and were quite pleased that others were on board with our plans.

Mark, exploring underground caves

We took a 4km hike through a valley where 4-5,000 Christians used to live in the cliff caves. One of the caves was a church with painted icons on the domed roof walls. The guide explained that the front window was used to begin construction in the hillside. By digging out the top of the church first, the painters were able to reach the ceiling before the lower walls were formed. We ended the hike at a 5-course creekside restaurant. Mark and I were tired of white bread, but still managed to polish off a full round loaf of bread between the two of us before the beef casserole arrived. As we pulled out of the parking lot, our guide said, “It’s about an hour drive back into town. Does anyone want us to stop for the toilet before we go back?” Mark and I looked at each other with dessert in our eyes. “How about ice cream?” we suggested. “Sure,” the guide chimed. We felt that it was another personalized victory on a group tour. The driver, the guide, all of the kids, and of course, Mark and I went in the petrol station to get ice cream and came out with big, happy smiles on our faces.

We continued the tour to a hillside city of caves where pigeon holes dotted the landscape. The guide explained that pigeons were important in carrying information back and forth to towns. It felt great to hike around through the caves, and when we finished 20 minutes later, Mark and I were the first to load back onto the bus. So far, so good; this group tour wasn’t so bad. Our next stop was Pigeon Valley, a less than spectacular site. We snapped a few pictures and gathered near the bus. I noticed a vineyard across the street and commented to Mark that it was such a shame we were on a group tour because I’d love to stop in and see the winery. Our driver, smoking a cigarette nearby, must have overheard our conversation because he asked, “Do you drink wine?” “I love wine,” I replied. “Come with me,” the driver motioned. I smiled giddily at Mark as we crossed the street to the tasting room. We tried a few samples of delicious local red wine before heading back to the shuttle. As we crossed the street, we noticed that the van was already full from the front seat, two passengers were giving us the stink eye, like we had personally held up the tour by taking the driver to the winery. We realized that the passengers may believe it was another one of our suggestions to visit the winery, but we consoled ourselves with the fact that it didn’t take too long, and it was the driver’s suggestion, not ours.

The shuttle continued down the road without any further suggestions from Mark and I about ideal panoramic photo opportunities. Eventually we pulled into the Onyx demonstration building. Mark and I weren’t interested in the sales, so as everyone emptied the van, we slipped a tip to the driver and explained that we had enjoyed the tour and would be walking back into town. We gathered our belongings, shook the driver’s hand, and headed back up the hill on foot to take photos. We skipped along the roadside clicking away at the majestic landscape all around us. What a perfect day, we thought. We did a tour, and we did it our way. About 30 minutes later, we were walking back downhill towards town when we again caught sight of the Onyx demonstration building. “Hey, I think that guy pacing there is our guide. He must be waiting for the group to finish buying crap,” I said to Mark. I added, “Oh, some of the people are in the van; they must be almost wrapped up.” Mark thought out loud, “Georgie said the demonstration only takes literally 5 minutes.” “OMG, they’re waiting for us!” I instantly realized. “How long have they been waiting!?!” We felt the piercing glare of everyone in the van. With humiliation we looked at each other, “We told the driver not to wait for us! They must all think we’re jerks!” We burst out laughing. There was nothing to be done. We waved and smiled with embarrassment. From across the street, we motioned that we were walking and they were free to go, but we were pretty certain that they hated us, the self-absorbed, ugly Americans.

The Universe is so on our side

We were on a high from paragliding. Here we were in Fethiye, Turkey, on the sandy beaches of the Mediterranean Sea; it was just too much. We looked around for a sea-side place to get a drink. Nearly every business was closed, undergoing renovations in preparation for the tourism season which begins in the end of April. We heard music coming from the second story of what appeared to be a restaurant, so we climbed the staircase searching for the origin of the music. The restaurant was empty except for a handful of guys working. “Is it open?” we asked. The owner, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt covered in his work shook our hands and smiled, “Anything is possible. Please, have a seat.” We picked a table with an open view of the beach and ordered an Efes beer and glass of red wine. Murphy, the owner, chatted with us like we were friends of the family, completely welcome at any time.

It wasn’t until I had reached the bottom of my over-sized glass of wine that I realized alcohol and Dramamine were interacting in my system to produce an incredibly sleepy effect. It was all I could do to put one foot in front of the other and walk back to Hector’s Paragliding office. All I wanted to do was curl up on the ground with the cats and have a nap. Hector wasn’t in his office, so we were stranded without a ride back to our hotel. We bought a snack and waited as the sun was setting. Eventually, Hector pulled up on his scooter wearing a leather cowboy hat. He was short and round and it struck me as funny because the cowboy hat sat like more of a sombrero. Up until this point, our interaction with the company had been superb, but Hector was about to change that. “Hey, instead of giving you a ride back, why don’t I give you 10 lira and you can take the dolmush (public minibus).” “Okay…” We didn’t know the city at all, but Hector assured us it would be easy to take the dolmush to the Otogar where someone would tell us where to go. We boarded the dolmush with confidence. I chatted with a Scottish family on a two week holiday and some English kids visiting for the week. 45 minutes later, the dolmush emptied us out into the dark. “Finished,” was the only English the driver spoke. We had no idea where we were, and no idea how to get back to our hotel. Usually I grab a business card from the hotel or write down an address, but we had come and gone in such a whirlwind that I hadn’t thought to do it. Besides, Hector was supposed to give us a ride back to our hotel. We picked a direction and started walking, hoping that something would look familiar.

In the dark, nothing looked familiar. We’d been walking for about 20 minutes when suddenly we saw 4 guys waving at us from an outdoor restaurant table. “Hey! Join us!” they said as they jumped up to push another table into theirs. “Sure,” we replied, dumbfounded. These were the same guys we had seen an hour and a half earlier at the landing site. They were from Saudia Arabia. We’d barely said two words to each other and didn’t know their names, but they spoke broken English, and they were inviting us to join them for supper which was a lovely distraction from being lost. Like them, we ordered the lamb and cheese tortilla specialty that the restaurant is known for. They brought out their fancy I-phones and showed us videos of their solo-gliding adventures and pictures of their homes and families. They bought us supper, loaned us their GPS unit, and helped us request a local phone from our Syrian waiter. I loved looking at the Arabic writing on their I-phones and GPS unit. They had a rental car and offered to drive us to our hotel. Again, we were overwhelmed by their generosity. By calling Hector, we were able to get the hotel name, and from there our waiter gave us directions to our hotel. Abdullah and Mohammed drove us to our hotel which turned out to be just a 5 minute drive from the restaurant. It was one of those days that we got to our hotel and thought, “Wow, the Universe is so on our side.”

Paragliding- Fethiye, Turkey

It was 4/5/11, a Tuesday, not that we cared. On a 5 month adventure, dates and days of the week have a way of escaping us. All we knew is that we were four months into our holiday with one month left to go, and today we would be paragliding from the highest commercial paragliding site in the world. It was going to be awesome.

We left Izmir at 7:30am on a Pamukkale bus bound for Fethiye. Seven hours later, we arrived and took a free shuttle to our Pension (a Turkish guesthouse) on the Mediterranean Sea. Yachts floated in the marina and yellow lemons filled the green trees. It was 2:50pm, and we hadn’t eaten all day (except for some breakfast zuchinni and egg stir fry- which we ate with toothpicks from a plastic baggie), so we were hungry. Mark suggested that before we eat, we check with the front desk staff to see about paragliding. All I wanted was food. The desk staff hung up the phone, “They’ll be here to pick you up in 10 minutes.” My heart sank. I was so hungry and this was all so rushed. We’d just arrived in town, and already we were rushing to paraglide, which I was looking forward to, but I was hungry and was about to miss out on the build-up of anticipation that I enjoy so much. Mark asked the hotel staff to call the paragliding company back to see if they could stop for lunch and an ATM on the way. They agreed. And so it was that we were whisked away in a old, white station wagon just 10 minutes later.

We careened through town and screeched to as stop in front of a small restaurant. We quickly ordered two lamb donor kebaps which we devoured in the backseat as we sped across the remainder of town. With food in my system, I started to feel better about the rush; after all, we were going paragliding, something I’d been looking forward to for quite awhile. At headquarters, we joined 2 Brits, 2 Aussies, 4 Saudis, and half a dozen or more Turks in the back of an open-air, parallel dual bench jeep with a mound of colorful parachute bags piled up above. We breezed up the mountain taking in spectacular views of evergreen trees scattered throughout purple mountains that reminded us of Ouray, Durango, and Glenwood Springs. Loggers dotted the gravel road that smelled like the cedar trees that lined its edges. The temperature dropped, and as we spotted snow, we were issued jumpsuits and helmets. Further up the mountain, we saw grey clouds at the peak.

When we reached the first launch pad, it was filled with chutes and people waiting in the midst of the grey clouds. We continued up to the second pad where we were outfitted with padded chairs that resembled giant diapers. Despite the grey cloud, the instructors went to work quickly spreading out the chutes and locking us into leg harnesses. Out of curiousity, I asked Harkim, my instructor, “So, how many times have you done this?” “This is my first time!” he joyfully replied. I laughed and said, “Mine too… yeah!” I kissed Mark with excitement and his instructor said, “Last kiss…” We laughed again. We weren’t scared. This was exciting. In front of us, the grey cloud quickly shifted to the side creating a sunny window. “3...2…1… Run!” Like a football player I pushed forward and felt the chute of resistance raise behind me. Exhilaration and joy filled my body as the chute picked us up off the cliff and I took in the valleys below me, the mountains to my sides. “Whooooooo hoooooooo!” I yelled as we floated on the wind.

We skirted the clouds, slowly gliding around the ridge toward the crystal clear turquoise Mediterranean Sea and Fethiye, my instructor’s home town, below. We could see clearly into the distance, though clouds covered the Greek islands far on the horizon. For 25 minutes we floated peacefully, sweeping occasionally from side to side. At one point, I saw a tandem glider doing spirals and told Harkim, “I bet that’s my husband.” It was. “Would you like to spiral?” “Yeah!” The rapid descention and G-forces tugged my stomach inward as I screamed in exhilaration. I laughed and screamed like it was the best roller coaster drop of my life- exciting and scary in a good way. I’m a self-admitted weenie when it comes to extreme sports, but for me, paragliding feels totally safe. After several spirals, Harkim tugged the lines, and we immediately returned to peaceful suspension, dangling in the air like we were born to soar with the birds.

After about 35 minutes, the pools and hotels below were magnified, and Harkim briefed me on the landing process. I was sad it was over, but moreso I was still on a high from the glide. By walking just three walking steps, we peacefully landed on the sandy beach. “That was so great! I’m so glad we did this!” I yelled to Mark. “I know! It was awesome!” “I want to do it again!” My only regret was that it was over. I think it was my favorite thing I’ve ever done. I just love paragliding, and from what I understand, Fethiye is the best place in the world to do it. Thank you, Fethiye!

Change, my traveling nemesis

Change is a necessary evil of travel. I say evil because I’ve been cramped up in a bus seat for the past 3 hours and my limbs are falling asleep. I’m hemmed in by curtains that dangle in my air space, an arm rest that randomly whacks at my elbow, a travel bags that’s wedged in between my thigh and the window, a book that’s continually falling over as I begin to doze, a computer that self adjusts font size without my permission, and my husband’s arm is touching mine (think of the end scene in “War of the Roses” when Michael Douglas reaches out to touch Kathleen Turner’s hand and she picks it up and throws it off of hers). I’m sure there are worse evils in the world, but being cramped up is my own personal version of mental hell. It gets me grouchy inside and I start to snap at those around me. Unfortunately, Mark’s the only one who speaks English, so he receives the majority of my complaints (for the sake of estimation, we’ll say 99.9%). Let it be known that from time to time I have been known to sit still and simply enjoy myself on a long bus ride; unfortunately, that is not today’s bus reality.

Anyway, change is probably not evil… just occasionally annoying (a word we recently taught our couch-surfing host- he asked, and no, it wasn’t in regards to our behavior). Annoying change struck our liesurely travel plans when political protests flared up in Cairo, Syria, and Jordan. We had planned take buses in small leisurely spurts from Turkey going south through Syria, Jordan, and Israel into Egypt. Unfortunately, Syria is under the impression that Americans are spies, therefore visas are unavailable at the border (they can be obtained in advance for $131, but the paperwork has to be done stateside). When we obtained this information we were already on our way toward Syria, so we rerouted our plans back west through Greece. Heck, we could take a ferry over to Egypt. It turns out that this option was closed too. The Turks cancelled all ferries from Cyprus to Israel and Egypt about two months ago- something about Israel attacking a ferry of food aid bound for Palestine. Well, we could still fly from Greece to Cairo. It was expensive, but Uncle Sam was good to us this year, so we planned to pull the funds from our computer replacement stash and make the trip happen. Getting to Greece created a time crunch (and abundance of bus time) which necessitated a second flight from Istanbul to Athens, another expense, another chunk of the computer replacement savings fund gone. So, those travel changes were slightly annoying.

In addition to our travel plans being in flux, Mark and I have been trying to figure out what the heck we are going to do with the next few years of our lives. We had put all of our eggs in a University of Hawaii Graduate School basket, but Mark got word from University of Hawaii that the professor for his graduate studies program was in the process of being replaced, therefore the program was not a good fit for him for Fall of 2011. We debated about applying to other grad schools with extended deadlines; we even looked into attending graduate school in Turkey, but the area of historical focus was outside the scope of Mark’s long-term interests. We decided and undecided to backpack South America and start our family. Our plans have been in complete flux, which surprisingly, I’ve been okay with. I tend to do just fine with the big factors being crazy; it’s the little ones that get to me… like when we showed up lastnight (a Wednesday) in Konya to see the Whirling Dirvishes, the dancing praying Muslims, only to discover that they only perform once a week, on Saturdays. On our tight schedule, there was no ability to linger in Konya for 4 days; we had a schedule to stay on. So, as soon as we arrived, we had to take another 4 hour bus ride to Gureme, Capadocia. We could come back to Konya in a couple of days… cue the whining.

If I may whine just once more, I’ve finished all of the books I brought with me. It was a bitter-sweet finish because “Shantaram” contained endearing descriptions of India, but dragged on forever with detailed descriptions that got in the way of simply getting lost in the never-ending story. Anyway, I was without entertainment (unless you count Turkish television, which I don’t). I have my ipod and a big open window, but otherwise I’m surrounded by the misery of my ass falling asleep and the occasional gust of someone else breaking wind (and, no, I don’t mean Mark or myself).

At least the scenery out my window is beautiful and ever-changing. One minute it’s like the green agricultural plains of North Dakota and the next minute we’re in the sediment-layered Bookcliffs of Grand Junction, Colorado. Turkey can boast a diversity of landscape including clusters of tall purple mountains and lone jetting snow-capped covered peaks. Plus, the coastline stretches on forever which adds its own excitement and diversity. So, really I shouldn’t be complaining. I mean, cramped bus seat or not, how many Americans get an opportunity like 5 full months to travel? Okay, okay, I’m done whining (until the next bus attendant forgets my free cookie and hot Nescafe).

Seven Churches of Revelation

Detail at Efes

Detail at Efes

Ruins at Thyatira, in the midst of a new urban city

Ben (Age 25) and his wife, Anna (?) (Age 22) tending sheep above Artemis Temple in Sardis

Sart, aka: Sardis

What Remains of Philadelphia, the City of Brotherly Love

Dessert in Izmir (Smyrna) with Khorhan (our Izmir couch surfing host), Llana, and Lenka from Czech Republic)

Library at Efes

Ladokia Restoration in Progress

Pamukkale and Hierapolis

Hiking Up the Pamukkale Calcium Deposits and Spring Pools

Theater at Hierapolis

Napping Amongst the Red Poppies and Wildflowers in the Hillside Ruins of Hierapolis

What Remains of the Church Built Where St. Phillip Was Martyred

Photos of Turkey

Donor kebap (lamb and beef mix placed in a bun or wrap), available on every corner in Turkey

At Blue Mosque (aka: Sultanament) in Istanbul

Walking across the Bosporus Sea where men spend the day fishing off the bridge

Eating Fish and Drinking Raka, Near Freedom Street
LR: Mark, Annie, Evrim, John

Inside Hagia Sofia (church turned mosque)

Lamps for sale at Grand Bazaar, Istanbul

Hagia Sofia in the Historical District of Istanbul, Turkey
(stock photo)

Taksim Square, Istanbul, Turkey... where we got dropped off at 1:30 in the morning

Riding the Escalator down into the Metro for the first time in Istanbul, Turkey

Flight from Nairobi, Kenya, Africa to Istanbul, Turkey... It's so close :-)

Did you know… Turkey

Did you know that Turks pay an average of 3.5 to 4 Turkish lira per liter of petrol? While we complain about $3.00 per gallon gas, Turks are forking out $9 per gallon. Fortunately, public transportation is affordable and accessible. Metro/subways, buses, and ferries cost about 1.7 TL per ride, just over $1 USD.

Did you know that many Turks have a great sense of humor? Korhan, our 27 year old couch surfing host in Izmir, had us doubled over laughing with his story about kids being his personal kryptonite. When he discovered that his nephew had broken his Darth Vader collectible light saber, he asked his nephew, “Are these your toys?” He then broke several of his nephew’s toys. As he told this story, he made swatting motions targeted toward imaginary children. Later, as we walked to the ferry, he yelled “OMG, kryptonite” and started falling over as a classroom of children calmly walked past. Mark and I nearly died laughing at his antics.

Did you know that Turks love to tsk each other? I detest the tsk. It’s condescending and rude, but perfectly conveys disapproval, disgust, irritation, impatience, annoyance, and condescension all in three little clicks of the tongue. Turks tsk other drivers, pedestrians, clerks, friends… in short, everyone, and when severe enough, the tsk is accompanied by a waggle of the pointer finger.

Did you know that Turks have their own special kind of ice cream? It’s called Dondurmas. When I ordered it, I didn’t know it was special, so I was not amused when the street vender handed me the ice cream and promptly ripped it back out of my hands. The ice cream is stretchy and it sticks to the metal pole (think crow bar) that the vender uses to dish it up, so when the vender hands it to you and pulls it back, people laugh or reach for it. I didn’t know that the teasing came standard with the purchase. I just thought he was some prick pranking me for no apparent reason. I gave him my best glare that said, “Listen, asshole, I’m not amused. Now give me back my ice cream.” When we told Khorhan about this experience, he empathized with a story from his childhood and described it as “humiliation.”

Did you know that despite winter temperatures, Turks prefer to eat at open-air restaurants and cafes. Patrons bundle up in winter jackets to sip tea, smoke nargeli (shisha/hookah), and play board games at outdoor sea-side cafes. When sunset comes, servers drag out T-shaped outdoor heating lamps for each table. Some cafes will also offer blankets.

Did you know that Turkey is covered in cats? We couldn’t be happier about this fact, although an aggressive Bob Barker spay and neuter program could really help the situation. There are scads of cats at every restaurant, on balconies, in dumpsters, at historical ruin sites… they’re everywhere, and some are incredibly friendly and loving while others can’t help but bite or scratch when petted.

Did you know that the Mediterranean diet is a great way to GAIN weight? Sadly, unexpectedly, this is true. I thought we’d be eating a lot of vegetables (our as the new-to-English Turks pronounce it, “W”egetables), but actually, we’ve been chowing down on a lot of high-fat olives, cheeses, and simple carb breads. Mark and I went on a 4 day spree of exhaustion. We drank tea and spiked our blood sugar with sweets to obtain a little energy, but it was short-lived. We napped on every bus ride and nearly fell asleep while we were walking. Finally, I realized we were lacking sufficient meat/protein, complex carbohydrates, and veggies/fruits. We made an effort to splurge for a meal of chicken Tex-Mex and felt strong and alert for the first time in days. We joked that we could make a documentary on Turkey that mirrored “Super-Size Me.” We’d show the progression from normal and happy to fat and depressed. In only 3 short weeks in Turkey, I had managed to gain an easy 10 lbs and felt like I now owned the cheeks and chin of Gwenth Paltrow in “Shallow Hal.” I was hungry and never full. I walked 5-10 miles per day, and still I was gaining weight. Women, it’s still worth coming to Turkey, but beware, those simple carbs are a killer for the waist-line.

Did you know that although Turkey is affluent like America, some Turks will rip you off? Mark and I have had a hard time figuring this one out. Our couch-surfing hosts had been so generous, friendly, and kind we felt obligated to give all Turks the benefit of the doubt, but taxis and bus drivers (and occasionally small grocers) shouldn’t always be trusted. Repeatedly, we were ripped off for small amounts and because of the language barrier we just moved on, but if it happens again, someone’s getting a tsk.

Did you know that white Americans stand out in Turkey? In my heart, I felt like I blended in just fine, but when kids stare on the street or people stare and occasionally point and laugh on the bus, I remember that I am not from here. I am blonde-haired, blue-eyed, not brown-eyed, brown-haired, but in my heart, I belong here in Turkey, the mid-point where East meets West, the place where the Christian church began, the place where I am happy to be learning.