Naturally...

Lots to tell, lots to tell, but first, a word about wardrobe:

The best thing I've done so far is to buy a cheap Turkish national soccer team jersey with a player's name on the back (Normal 15 Lira, but special for you my friend 10 Lira America Barack Obama!) It turns out that Arda Turan also plays for Galatasaray, a big fan favorite, and he's a young superstar. I wear this bright red jersey most days cycling--good visibility!--and naturally, because this is Turkey, every place I stop, people want to come talk to me about soccer. I love you, Arda, they say to me.  Old men ask, Do you like Galatasaray? Sure I do. Then they call their friends over to show off the American. Occasionally, one person in the group favors another team, so we get into some trash talk.

I'm still riding with my new Aussie friends, Greg and Dorothy. It's nice to have company on the road and some help bargaining for rooms in town. We rode out of Pamukkale to Denizli, where I met another gracious Servas host, Ayberk. Before he came to meet me across from the in-town military base, I'd been standing for a few minutes near the base wall, where a young soldier with helmet and machine gun seemed to be eyeing me nervously. I made the international sign of peace, showing him my bicycle helmet and empty hands, and he backed off. Five minutes later, he came back to the wall to hand me five dandelion flowers he'd picked. Like a reverse Kent State.

Denizli marked the farthest inland we'd been, most of it climbing gently along long open rivers. From there, we pointed south and west back to the coast, this time over steep mountains. We didn't know for sure if the roads existed, if they were paved, how many days it would take--and every person we asked said, Don't go that way! Great adventure awaits, we thought. Or, you know, maybe disaster.

We left Acipayam, the last big town, ready for privation and suffering. Naturally, because this is Turkey, we hadn't gone 10 miles into the next village when we were flagged down by a flock of kids and some old men who insisted--no way to avoid it--that we join the whole town for an outdoor banquet. They had tables out on the street, pots of meat and soup and rice aboil, and chai for us before we could sit down. We were completely surrounded by kids and old men (the old women sat on the other side at their own table) who wanted to tell us about school, the years they worked in Germany, bicycles, and more.

Then back up and down through tighter roads, through villages and farms pasted onto hillsides, up onto the sides of a steep piney gorge with the green Dalaman river far below. Every time we asked for directions, the answer was (we think) something like "there are three ways to the next village." One man said go left, his wife says, Don't be an idiot like my husband: go right. So we pick one and ride along up and down canyons and valleys and hillsides. Roads varied from awful to terrible washboard gravel. In other words, perfect. We stopped to camp at lovely riverside spot after 65km. A cold night under clear moonless skies and stars filling the heavens.

Another day of steep climbing and descending, up 300 meters for every 350 down, over dry ridges and down into green valleys, with several stops to join farmers for chai, and we camped again in a small field by a creek. A woman with toddler strapped to her back and an enormous smile on her face came through our camp late in the afternoon, on the way to check on her goats. When she came back, Fatma invited us to her house for chai. Naturally, because this is Turkey, it turned into a two hour meal of fresh yogurt from her goats, tomato salad, spicy peppers. And some chai, eventually. We slept well that night.

It took one more day of riding to make sunny coastal Fethiye, and it's a bittersweet return to the tourist route. I'm looking forward to the next chance to head inland and find some steep, terrible, mountain roads and kind people.

More pictures when I can make it work. Internet speed is not rural Turkey's greatest strength.

The Kindness of Strangers

The schoolteacher army of amateur travel agents was mobilized and on a mission. I'd spent the day at my host's elementary school, and the whole faculty was gathered in the teachers' lounge grading papers, drinkıng çay, talking about the kids. After rain and wind cancelled my ferry out of İstanbul at the last minute, I needed a new plan. The music teacher said train to Ankara; the volleyball coach knew a guy in the bus terminal; the principal's assistant's brother had lived in Pittsburgh for a few years, which was helpful, she assured me. Fıve cellphones going full speed and full volume and a young guy working the internet made it happen: they decided I'd go by overnight bus to coastal İzmir, where the weather was better and the people even more legendarily friendly.

My host, the principal, and teacher Murat led me to the terminal--I pedaled through traffic and rain, following their car to Harem (really). There, my bargaining team worked for 30 minutes to find me the best price and to negotiate cargo fare for my bike. Up the hill to the home Murat shares with his parents to wait the several hours until the bus left. We were met by an elaborate feast of dolma, spinach soup, spicy potatoes, börek pastry, fresh bread. Several hours of friendly struggle with our limited shared language later, Murat took me to the bus for the 9-hour ride south. Mom packed me bus snacks.

In İzmir, I met two cycling Aussies, also refugees from the İstanbul weather, also planning a route around the coast. Dorothy, Greg, and I have been riding together for about a week now.

We cycled under sunny skies out of town along the beach. A picnicking family waved us over--insisted, really--and shared their bread, olives, and cheese. Çay for everyone. Five words of English and three of Turkish. Grandma wouldn't let us leave without a baggie full of sweet cinnamon bread for the road. I felt oddly like I was taking advantage of these strangers, but I didnt yet know that this kind of simple kindness and warmth towards travelers would be an everyday occurence in Turkey.

The coast towns are getting ready for the high season in a few weeks. Riding through them in May is like being backstage at the theatre, seeing the lights hung and the scenery painted. The funky Deniz Hotel wasn't really open yet, but they took us in and we joined the family for dinner and rakı on the patio, surrounded by eucalyptus trees and palms. After a few drinks, our friendly host decided that my Turkish name will be Ahmet. We drank toasts to America and to Turkey and to bicycles.

These last couple of days, as we rode on winding lanes up the broad river valley from Selçuk to Pamukkale, through farm villages and past the Menderes River, we've been waved down by old men to drink çay together at roadside cafes, by farm women who stop us in the middle of the road to fill our bottles with warm aşure (a fruity oaty sweet drink that would make an ideal breakfast), by another farmer who gives us a bag of young plums. Along the way, shouts of HELLOHOWAREYOU! from schoolkids behind fences; cheers from shepherds and men on tractors; waves, horns and thumbs-up from drivers in both directions. In a brief rainshower, we stopped to drink çay, and the guy at the hardware shop next door hurried over with tarps to cover our bikes. The guy at the fresh orange juice stand consulted with us on the map and route, and then refused money for the juice, as long as we stay in touch via facebook.

And in the last kilometer to Pamukkale, as we were separated up a steep hill at the end of a long day in the wind, a little boy ran up behind each of us and gave us a mighty running push over the steep part--a turbo boost across the finish line.

So: google Ephesus and Pamukkale to see the sites. Lots more to tell, which I'll do next time.

Your tired correspondent,

Ahmet.

Greetıngs from İstanbul!

(Sorry no pıctures ın thıs post. Technıcal ıssues wıth the computer. I'll post double next tıme. Also, please forgıve the funky letter ı. Hard to type on the funky Turkısh keyboard.)

Pıcture, ıf you wıll, the guy who gıves you the massage at the Turkısh bath ın İstanbul, the top-secret place no Germans have heard of. Who, I ask you to ımagıne, ıs he? What does he look lıke? Does he have a mustache, a few days of swarthy beard comıng ın? Strong forearms, a haıry chest? A weary look that says he'll do the job, but he's not goıng to take any shıt? Yes--all of that. He ıs exactly what you ımagıne. As the juttıng-jaw leadıng man ıs to James Bond fılms, thıs man ıs to the bath. Perfect. After I had spent about 15 mınutes sweatıng ıt out on the heated marble slab under a 600-year-old dome, sunlıght fılterıng through glass portholes above, Mr. Massage came ın to soap, scrub, and dıg ınto muscles, leavıng me clean and wrapped head to toe ın three towels. Nıce way to start the mornıng.

The mustache thıng ıs about as much snarky humor as I can manage for Turkey, as I've been overwhelmed by people's genuıne warmth and hospıtalıty. I've been stayıng wıth a host famıly ın a close-ın suburb of the cıty, just a few mınutes by ferry to the maın tourıst area. Aysun and her famıly have taken me ın completely, startıng wıth a fantastıc breafast of çay (tea) and börek (a cheese-fılled pastry) at a cafe overlookıng the Bosphorus and the mosquıto fleet of boats ferryıng people from Europe to Asıa. I've been ıncluded ın famıly meals, toured around the cıty, gıven complete daıly ıtınerarıes of must-see monuments. The week's hıghlıght, though, was not any of the hıstorıc or cultural actıvıtıes, but an after-dınner duet wıth a cousın who plays Amerıcan songs. Wıth grandma and grandpa and cousıns clappıng along, we dıd a set of Johnny Cash tunes--hım on guıtar, me on mandolın. He knew the words better than I dıd, so I just followed along and dıd my best ımpressıon of the gravelly JC voıce on harmony.

The Çervatoğlu famıly aren't the only hospıtable ones here. Every conversatıon I have wıth a Turk ends ın an exchange of emaıl and cell phone ınformatıon, wıth a hand shake and earnest exhortatıon that I enjoy my vısıt and that I please, please call ıf I ever need anythıng ın the country. I've been here 5 days and already my phone lıst ıs a full page. Lost ın the mıddle of downtown on Saturday, I had my nose burıed ın a map. A pıerced and tattoed rocker wıth a Judas Prıest shırt approached me and asked where I was goıng. Happıly, he was walkıng ın the same dırectıon, so we went together for 5 or 6 blocks, chattıng about metal bands, and he left me wıth detaıled ınstructıons to the next place. Another day, a man gave me a token for the ferry so I wouldn't have to fıddle wıth the balky machıne. No quıd pro quo, no agenda. Just nıce people ın a cıty absolutely swarmıng wıth tourısts.

Of course, the frıendlıness can be genuıne or ıt can be a sales tactıc--or, ın some cases, ıt can be both. Lıke every tourıst to İstanbul (and every local), I bought a carpet to shıp home. The carpet salesman here ıs basıcally the same guy as the car salesman ın the States. Charmıng, glıb, quıck wıth a joke, persıstent. But here, you drınk some çay, talk for a whıle about travel and the US, dıscuss art and culture and polıtıcs. Then, Orhan's sales pıtch kıcks ın and you're helpless. A few Lıra later, you're the owner of a nıce kılım and you have new frıends ın İstanbul, more phone numbers and offers of help, and a good place to drop ın later ın the day when the raın starts. Sure, ıt's busıness, but ıt's good busıness.

For those of you wıth access to the Google, you mıght want to check out Hagia Sofıa, the Blue Mosque, the Basilica Cistern, Topkapı Palace. All amazıng sıghts, ın a cıty where the so-called "New Mosque" was buılt ın the 15th Century. When you come to İstanbul, you'll see them, too, and you'll be knocked out by the hıstory ın the aır.

For the last few days, I've been vısıtıng the elementary/mıddle school where my host's sıster teaches Englısh. Guest classes, conversatıons wıth kıds, songs and performances, çay wıth the teachers. Hello! How are you! Fıne Thank You! Hello! Hello! Hello! Thanks, Mustafa and Dünya and Denız and Ahmet and Mehmet. (Dünya, age 12, tells me her favorıte band ıs Metallıca, wıth Blue Öyster Cult a close second. Her older brother ıs a fan.)

Thıs afternoon, I'll take the ferry across the corner of the Marmara Sea to Bandırma, where I can get on the road and start rıdıng my bıke. İstanbul has been great, but I have ıtchy feet. The kınd folks at the Anatolıan Mountaıneerıng club advısed me about routes (and offered to help any tıme!) ın and around the west coast. I mıght meet them agaın ın  9 or 10 days ın Şirinçe, where they'll be campıng near the ruıns at Ephesus. From there, who knows?

This, Not That

By now, many of my friends have come to this blog, seen nothing here at all, and retreated to the wilds of the internet--pissed off, bored, looking for cute pictures of cats, or that one YouTube video with, you know, that kid from the dentist's office.

For the rest of you (Hi, Mom!), or for the cat-photo people who finally came back, here's a quick post about my plan for the trip. This, not that.

I'll be staying in Istanbul for a few days, first with one local host and then another. I've hooked up with two networks of international travelers and hosts: Couchsurfing.org (younger, smellier, fun), and Servas (a little older, cleaner, and more established). I've had good experiences as a couchsurfing host in Seattle, showing folks the best of my town and learning about their travels.

Next, I'll probably head to the west coast of Turkey to see the many, many cultural/historical/archeological sites scattered throughout. Also scattered throughout, according to my Lonely Planet guidebook, are ritzy resort towns and yachtsmen cruising around them. "Cruising" in the nautical sense, not the "soliciting sex" sense, I suppose, though they could be related. This, not that.

East for a while, then up to Cappadocia, home of famous Love Valley, with homes carved into natural rock towers. This, not that.

Eventually I hope to make it to Eastern Turkey, or (this is for my parents), Eastern Central Turkey, where it's drier and more, well . . . Eastern in character. This, not that.

There might be some otobüs yolculuğu along the way, since it turns out Turkey is a big country and I only have a couple months. But mostly, I hope to ride my bike on small roads and spend time in places the big buses don't go very much.

I'll post here as I can, and might put a note on Facebook every now and then. See you on the road!