I love the bus from Bursa to Istanbul. I love it because it parks on the ferry in Yalova in order to cross the Marmara Sea. I can sit in the cozy bus if I want, but I prefer to get out with the wind and waves and the seagulls. Sometimes, the boatmen will throw crusts of bread into the air, playing catch with the incredibly agile seagulls following the boat. They're more coordinated in the air than people on two feet. I don't usually run into anyone I know, but this morning I run into one of my students and his proud father.
"Jack Teacher!"
"Well hello Kemal!" I shake his and his father's hand. A moment of weird silence follows as we all try to figure out if we're going to speak English or Turkish and do we actually know each other's language? My girlfriend chimes in.
"So, you're the famous Kemal!" she says. Then turns to me, "Is he in your strategic class?"
Kemal's father smiles, hinting at some acknowledgement of the joke. But I can't really tell.
"Why, yes he is. Where are you going, Kemal?" I ask. He is unusually, but not surprisingly with his father, exhibiting calm behaviour.
"Istanbul." he says, looking around. The conversation doesn't really go anywhere after that, and they walk up to the canteen. Eda finishes her cigarette. We see them again and politely say hello but I'm totally focused on "tost" -- a hot pressed sandwich of cheese and "socuk," lamb sausage. It's just a minor snack before we gorge ourselves on Istanbul, a tradition every time we have the opportunity to come.
Gorging consists of thick cappuccinos, shopping Istiklal St., Taksim tea gardens, simplistic dilapidated coffee shops -- the kind where a thousand revolutions never gained momentum -- terraced beers and candle-lit dinners overlooking the Bosphorous River where thousands of seagulls harass the minarets of the golden mosques. We take Istanbul like a shot of tequila and a lime: lick it, slam it, suck it. Because we have to catch a plane. "We're going to Kapadokya!"
It's getting dark now and that means more cold. It's a chilly climb up the stairs into the plane. It's even colder in Kapadokya as we search for a way to get from the Kayseri airport to Goreme at midnight. We realize as we stiffly throw our bags in the trunk of a taxi, that we are in another world of cold. My toes are little icy flames. Eda and I smash together in our swishing nylon coats in the back seat. I only have gloves, so I wear one and she wears one. It's stupid but it keeps us laughing. And that's a good distraction. Another good distraction for Eda is the taxi driver. I have no idea what they are talking about. Evidently, it's interesting and funny. But my mind is cashing in. It's one cold, dark, barren 100 YTL ride to our cave pension.
We arrive in Goreme in the quiet shadows. I can't see much, but I know that there are many and large shadows cast. These must be from the fairy chimneys I read about. I hear nothing. It's been a long time since I've been to a place on Earth where there's nothing to be heard. I only see the dark holes of my room carved into the round slopes of the rocks. A ghost jumps out of his warm bed in all white pajamas and leads us to our room. Then our spectre disappears, leaving us to our cave. we turn on the lights and find the walls draped with carpets (for sale) but we only want to jump into the bed that we find pleasantly heated. Wondering how it it's heated I look under the mattress. I'm fantasizing about some ancient technique still employed -- a pile of steamed rocks under the bed maybe. It's not until the next morning that I see the cord snaking out of the mattress into an electric socket.
"Jack Teacher!"
"Well hello Kemal!" I shake his and his father's hand. A moment of weird silence follows as we all try to figure out if we're going to speak English or Turkish and do we actually know each other's language? My girlfriend chimes in.
"So, you're the famous Kemal!" she says. Then turns to me, "Is he in your strategic class?"
Kemal's father smiles, hinting at some acknowledgement of the joke. But I can't really tell.
"Why, yes he is. Where are you going, Kemal?" I ask. He is unusually, but not surprisingly with his father, exhibiting calm behaviour.
"Istanbul." he says, looking around. The conversation doesn't really go anywhere after that, and they walk up to the canteen. Eda finishes her cigarette. We see them again and politely say hello but I'm totally focused on "tost" -- a hot pressed sandwich of cheese and "socuk," lamb sausage. It's just a minor snack before we gorge ourselves on Istanbul, a tradition every time we have the opportunity to come.
Gorging consists of thick cappuccinos, shopping Istiklal St., Taksim tea gardens, simplistic dilapidated coffee shops -- the kind where a thousand revolutions never gained momentum -- terraced beers and candle-lit dinners overlooking the Bosphorous River where thousands of seagulls harass the minarets of the golden mosques. We take Istanbul like a shot of tequila and a lime: lick it, slam it, suck it. Because we have to catch a plane. "We're going to Kapadokya!"
It's getting dark now and that means more cold. It's a chilly climb up the stairs into the plane. It's even colder in Kapadokya as we search for a way to get from the Kayseri airport to Goreme at midnight. We realize as we stiffly throw our bags in the trunk of a taxi, that we are in another world of cold. My toes are little icy flames. Eda and I smash together in our swishing nylon coats in the back seat. I only have gloves, so I wear one and she wears one. It's stupid but it keeps us laughing. And that's a good distraction. Another good distraction for Eda is the taxi driver. I have no idea what they are talking about. Evidently, it's interesting and funny. But my mind is cashing in. It's one cold, dark, barren 100 YTL ride to our cave pension.
We arrive in Goreme in the quiet shadows. I can't see much, but I know that there are many and large shadows cast. These must be from the fairy chimneys I read about. I hear nothing. It's been a long time since I've been to a place on Earth where there's nothing to be heard. I only see the dark holes of my room carved into the round slopes of the rocks. A ghost jumps out of his warm bed in all white pajamas and leads us to our room. Then our spectre disappears, leaving us to our cave. we turn on the lights and find the walls draped with carpets (for sale) but we only want to jump into the bed that we find pleasantly heated. Wondering how it it's heated I look under the mattress. I'm fantasizing about some ancient technique still employed -- a pile of steamed rocks under the bed maybe. It's not until the next morning that I see the cord snaking out of the mattress into an electric socket.
1 comment:
ahhhhhh...turkish coffee...
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