A lot as changed since last I used this blog.

I went back to the US, entered an amazing relationship with Mika, my best friend of several years, and graduated (just under a year early) from Lewis & Clark. After that, I moved to Alaska for three months to work and save up some money while spending time with her family, we lived in Colorado for a month and got a CELTA certificate at Bridge TEFL, and visited friends and family on the West/best coast. Now, the next adventure.

Mika and I are moving to Turkey in just over a week to teach English. That’s the plan, anyway–we don’t have jobs lined up, and we don’t really know what’s going to happen. We’re just flying to Istanbul, armed with a TEFL certificate and our savings from the summer, looking to travel, teach, build our resumes, see the world, and delay the harsh realities of the domestic job market or graduate school for as long as feasibly possible. If all goes according to plan, we will settle in Istanbul for 6-12 months, then perhaps Egypt for a similar amount of time (Alexandria is calling to me), and then after that try to find a way to work in Africa. Who knows where we will end up after that?

I don’t intend to use this blog anymore, but it will remain here as long as WordPress continues to exist. However, if you’d like to follow our more current adventures, please visit and subscribe to our new, joint blog–The Way and the Wayfarers. Between the two of us, we will hopefully post frequently and keep everyone well updated with stories, information, and pictures. The journey continues. Thanks, everyone.

Neil

I finally have all of my photos from the trip uploaded. Thanks to Facebook expanding the maximum size of their albums, I fit about 250 pictures into two albums. You can see all of Greece and Turkey here, and all of Syria here. Also, as an added bonus you can see some debauchery from my last week in Beirut in my final Lebanon album. Enjoy!

Cheers,
Neil

After all of that, the driver took me to the hostel without incident. I got a room with two other guys, one from Quebec and one from France. The place was simple but nice, with a small central area with a fountain and very helpful staff. It was evening by this time, and there was relatively little to do in the area, but I wandered around for a bit and made some good finds. One was just around the corner from the hostel–a stand selling some sort of lemon ice concoction. For 10 Syrian pounds (about 20 cents), one could get a medium sized plastic cup filled evenly to the top with a delicious, sweet, lemon gelato-ish substance. I don’t know how many times I visited this stand over the next two days, but I would guess more than five. I also discovered a pretty cheap, air conditioned internet cafe in the neighborhood with a friendly owner who spoke English and had no qualms about helping customers access Facebook via a proxy, as that site is blocked by the government. Finally, I got some great Damascene shwarma for dinner–basically a  kebab, and quite cheap and delicious. I went back to the room and researched things to do the next day. Pretty successful night in my book.

In the morning, I dipped into the Old City to do some exploring. There’s a lot to see there and I definitely didn’t catch it all, but I was very impressed by the Grand Mosque of Damascus, which is an extremely important religious site. There are a lot of key things centered there. First, Muslims believe that at the end of time Jesus will appear at the top of one of the minarets. Lots of people don’t realize that Jesus is a prophet in the Quran, though to Muslims he (as well as Muhammad) is only a man who was chosen by God to receive part of the greater message, and isn’t the son of God or anything. However, he’s still a pretty important guy. Also, the mosque is one of several places that claim to house the body of John the Baptist. I’m not sure what role he plays in Islamic theology, but I guess he’s at least regarded as a good dude by Muslims. There is a small shrine to him in the middle of the mosque, looking sort of out of place, but still very dignified. Finally, the Grand Umayyad Mosque in Damascus is where the survivors of the battle of Karbala, including Husayn’s son Ali (not to be confused with Husayn’s father Ali), were marched by their captors to stand before the caliph Yazid I, almost universally regarded as one of the biggest meanie-heads in early Islamic history. Though I think most of the prisoners were released, the heads of those slain in the battle (including Husayn) were kept in a metal box for Yazid’s enjoyment. I saw that box (now empty, obviously) in the mosque, and had a pretty powerful experience of watching Muslim women weeping and running their hands over it. Shiite Muslims come on pilgrimages from around the Middle East, but especially Iran, to see it and touch it. I saw many women with green handkerchiefs rubbing them against every reachable surface, trying to capture the essence of the place. Pretty powerful. The mosque itself is by far the largest that I’ve ever been in, and absolutely gorgeous. There are extremely impressive mosaics stretching out everywhere, all done with green tones, depicting paradise or other idyllic scenes. The massive courtyard is impressive in its emptiness and the simple monuments that it holds in the middle, and the interior prayer space is quite spacious and airy. It’s a very striking place, overall.

After the mosque, I went to the nearby mausoleum to pay my respects to Saladin, who rests  in a simple building with two coffins–a simple wooden one covered in green cloth that really holds his body, and a more elaborate marble one that was a gift from Emperor Wilhelm of Germany several hundred years later lies next to it. The walls are a pretty blue mosaic, though I think the most notable part of the whole experience is the sign outside, in Arabic with an English translation pointing the way to the “Putting On Special Clothes Room.” Awesome.

The next stop was the Damascus souq, which I’d heard a lot about. There are several different parts to it, but I went in the more modern one. It actually felt more like a luxury shopping district than a Middle Eastern bazaar. There were a lot of fancy stores selling modern clothes, accessories, furniture, hookahs, and other essentials. There was also a pretty amazing ice cream store that I hit up, serving huge cones of freshly homemade vanilla ice cream, covered in pistachio, for a dollar. I enjoyed walking around, though definitely didn’t see anything that I would buy and bring home. Once again, I found myself frequently tempted by the argilehs being offered, and considered breaking down and purchasing one. In the end, I decided to hold out.

I made my way back to the hostel afterward and contacted a young man named Hannado, who indirectly obtained my large luggage bag after I sent it with a mutual friend from Beirut to Damascus. I’d never met him before, but he did me a huge favor by holding onto a bag full of books, winter clothes, room decorations, and other things that I definitely did not want to have to carry around in Greece and Turkey. It was a little tricky to meet up with him to get the bag back, but we set up a time to meet at a spot a short minibus away from my hostel’s area, and it all worked out perfectly. There’s no way that I could have survived carrying this bag around with me for the first part of the trip, so I was very thankful that he helped me out. I returned to the hostel and repacked everything, estimating the weights of my bags and trying to gauge what would be under the limit and wouldn’t. I felt reasonably confident that they would slip by under the maximum, but I wasn’t sure and had no way of checking scientifically besides guessing and asking other peoples’ opinions. During this, my roommate Max noticed that I had a Lonely Planet Middle East book in addition to one for just Lebanon and Syria (courtesy of my father). Both had been put to excellent use, but as I was leaving the region, their continued usefulness seemed questionable. Max offered to buy the Middle East one for $20, not much less than the price marked inside the cover. It seemed like a good deal to me, and I knew exactly what I wanted to spend my new $20 on. Gauging that I still had some wiggle room as far as weight, I went back to the souq area and went hookah shopping, finally settling on a lovely small-medium sized blue argileh with a hardhsell  case and all of its attachments for exactly $20, with a box of shisha and some tinfoil thrown in for good measure. Not a bad deal at all.

The next morning, I wandered around Damascus a bit. I didn’t have any particular goal or destination, I just walked from place to place, enjoying my last few hours in the Middle East. I was very content to just wander, staying in the shade when possible, and double checked my packing job. At about 12:45, I left my hostel and took a taxi to the bus station, and from there a bus to the airport. I was let through with relative ease, though had to pay the obscene exit tax of 1500 Syrian pounds (over $30) in order to leave the country. I checked my big bag and boarded the flight that would take me back towards home after so much time, ready to return at last. My journey was almost over.

I hadn’t exactly decided on where to go in Syria besides Aleppo and Damascus, the two largest cities. I debated going to Palmyra, a famous archeological site in the desert in the eastern part of the country, but in the end elected to go to Lattakia on the Mediterranean coast. I didn’t know much about Lattakia besides that it was a more modern, western city. Considering how hot it had been in Turkey and Aleppo, I figured going to the coast was a good idea. What I found was a disappointing city, but an amazing ruined castle, so it all worked out in the end.

My arrival in Lattakia was uneventful—I took a train for a few dollars from Aleppo to the coast, and caught a taxi from the station to a hostel I’d heard about from a few places. My driver was a very amusing and engaging man named Obey (“Obey…but not ‘disobey,’” he was quick to laughingly point out in pretty smooth English). He was definitely a charmer, and in the short amount of time between the train station and the hostel, he had convinced me that it was a good idea for me to ride around with him the next day to two large archeological sites, and then to a conveniently-located city on the main highway between Aleppo and Damascus, so that I could keep my luggage in the trunk of his car and cover a lot more ground. Price was negotiable, but sounded pretty reasonable when I did some quick math in my head, considering how much this would help me out. He dropped me off at Hotel Safwan with a plan to meet the following morning at 10 am.

Safwan is a kind of bizarre place that, in the end, I feel was pretty overrated. I had read about it in both my Middle East and Lebanon/Syria Lonely Planet books, as well as found the owner Mohammad’s page on CouchSurfing. He advertised extremely cheap rooftop beds, the maximum rate for which appeared to be about $3 / night, but with discounts for CouchSurfers or people who stayed more than one night. Additionally, Mohammad was advertised as a pretty fantastic local resource and all-around quirky guy—he has what could only be labeled as an obsessive fetish with the Tin Tin line of comics, and owns every book in the series, many of them in multiple languages. On the walls are pictures of historical Syrian sites, with cutouts of Tin Tin and his dog Snowy pasted amongst the ruins and palaces. Apparently, further lodging discounts were offered for guests who could answer Tin Tin trivia. I have no idea how he developed this particular manic fixation, but it’s pretty pervasive everywhere in the hostel. However, on my arrival I was disappointed to find that the rooftop beds weren’t available, and my only option was to book a double room for myself, at 8 pm, and hope that someone else showed up without a reservation and would split the cost with me. This was still incredibly cheap compared to American prices, but I ended up paying $10 for a bare, dirty, hot room that I shared with at least five good-sized cockroaches, and a pretty filthy shared bathroom that I avoided in whatever ways possible. Mohammad did indeed seem like a pretty personable guy, but I was unimpressed with my experience overall.

After I checked in to Hotel Safwan, I wandered around Lattakia on my own for a while. There wasn’t a lot to see—I was excited to hear that they had their own version of a Corniche, but it turns out that it follows the ugly industrial harbor, so really is nothing but a glorified sidewalk along a shipyard. The central “downtown”-ish area, as far as I could tell, was only really made up of a few streets with some restaurants that I wasn’t particularly interested in. I wandered around until I found a falafel stand crowded with locals, and worked my way into the mob in the doorway. The spectacle inside was incredible—a round, balding man was making falafel sandwiches faster than I’d ever witnessed any food prepared. His hands flew across a wide counter with pita bread, freshly fried falafel balls, trays of vegetables, and wax paper wrapping, simultaneously taking orders and money while he worked. He did the majority of the labor, aided only by another man in the back continuously frying up batches of falafel that would disappear as quickly as they were finished, and what appeared to be the most facial-hair-endowed 12-year-old kid I’d ever seen, who would reach into the flurry of the first man’s hands to crush the falafel into the pita and put orders of the finished products into plastic bags. It seemed like there was no end to the orders, and at any given moment there would be between four and eight sandwiches on the counter in simultaneous production, with a never-ending rush of activity around them. I ordered two and a drink, and was amazed at the total price—50 Syrian pounds, or just over $1. Not bad.

I didn’t really do much of anything else that night, but talked to Mohammad about my plans for the following day. He helped me a little bit with my math, and I realized that I would actually end up paying a huge amount to ride around with Obey, and could pay probably less than 20% of that by going on my own. Oops. He called Obey for me (apparently they knew each other already), and cancelled my request for the next day’s transportation. However, at 10 the next morning, Obey showed up regardless, hoping to still con me into some sort of a deal. He almost managed, too, convincing me that just going to the first of the two castles on our earlier itinerary was still a good deal. Once again, I semi-agreed to it without doing the math very well, and then quickly afterwards realized that I was getting ripped off badly. Once again, I changed my mind, and him take me to the minibus station instead so I could do it myself. He did so, but ripped me off very badly on the fare, charging about four times what the short ride was worth and blatantly lying about the distance traveled. It was an unfortunate experience, but at least I didn’t end up going the full distance with him.

Citadel of Salah Ed-Din – قلعة صلاح الدين

The minibus was extremely cheap and took about 45 minutes to take me to the village of Haffa. There’s not much to see in Haffa, except a large crusader castle about 6 km away that I was really interested in. I figured the best way to get there was to take a taxi, but before diving into another haggling experience I wanted to get some breakfast. This actually turned out to be a great move, because the falafel stand I went to was owned by a very friendly older man who helped me out a lot. He had a much more low-key operation than the one in Lattakia, and I sat and chatted with him in Arabic for a while. A few other men from the village came by and ordered food as well, and I had a nice conversation with them. They offered me a bizarre combination of juice boxes and cigarettes, which I found amusing, and advised me that the cheapest way to get up to the citadel was by “moto.” You don’t have to speak Arabic to guess what “moto” implies—we’re talking motorcycles. I was a little apprehensive, as I was raised with a pretty healthy fear of two-wheeled motor vehicles and have very little experience actually riding them, but it was sort of a “when in Rome” moment. The owner of the stand offered to flag one for me, which he did by walking out into the street and whistling loudly when a motorcycle passed by. I have no idea how he distinguished this particular one as a motorcycle taxi, rather than someone who owned their own wheels, but the driver agreed to take me to the castle for a few dollars. I hopped on the back, and off we went.

Of course there were no helmets. Of course we drove fast. Of course there was frequent traffic going the opposite direction. Of course there were steep up and downhill slopes, and switchback curves. But damn, this was fun. I resolved to trust the driver, as his life was just as much at risk as mine, and he seemed to know what he was doing. We raced along the small but paved road, until we reached a densely wooded ravine, and dropped into it on a series of tight switchbacks. The castle was clearly visible at the top of the other side, large and ominous. My driver turned the motor off and we coasted down, fast and silent, announcing our presence at each turn with a single honk before drifting around it. As we descended, we became more and more surrounded by trees, which surprised me considering my initial perceptions of Syria being a hot and desert-like nation. We reached the cool shade of the bottom, crossed a bridge, and started ascending. The driver used our remaining momentum to kick the engine back on as we were climbing the first switchback, and we started speeding uphill, still honking with each corner. Finally, we leveled out, and raced past a particularly amazing spot—we were passing through a deep and narrow stone canyon, and in the exact center was a lone, perfectly square pillar of rock that went up level with the top of the stone walls on either side. Researching afterwards, I found that this canyon was dug out of the ground by hand by the Byzantines when they originally improved an existing Phoenician fort in that location in the 10^th century. The Crusaders improved on it further when they took it, and that this “needle” of rock was cut out as a support for a bridge that ran across the top. The canyon is 28 meters deep and 14-20 wide. The bridge is gone today, but the pillar stands in the center of the paved road, dividing it into two lanes. Pretty impressive.

My driver dropped me off at the stairs around the back side of the castle where people enter. A quick climb up took me to the ticket office, where once again I presented my faded and expired International Student Identity Card to get a ridiculously low entrance fee. I spent the next few hours wandering around the fortress and grounds, taking lots of pictures. There were a lot of very impressive features of the castle, including two absolutely massive water cisterns underground that I accidentally stumbled upon. I would walk through a doorway and suddenly be in a massive hollow room, at the top of a metal staircase that led down to a foot or so of centuries’ worth of rainwater collected at the bottom of the stone container. A few holes in the rock ceiling provided squares of sunlight that reflected off the water and illuminated the room, and otherwise there was nothing but a huge cavern. I had a good time climbing various towers and walls, and just wandering all over the place. It was also interesting seeing the rock needle from the top. Where the drawbridge used to be, a small metal platform has been installed that extends into space over the massive drop, allowing the viewer to appreciate just how impressive this thing is.

Another interesting thing that happened while I was at the Salah Ed-Din Castle (Salah Ed-Din = Saladin = Muslim general who took the castle from the Crusaders) was that I ran into a big family of Syrians that were really funny. I had noticed that there were some tourists around, but all of them were Arab, which was refreshing. I had only seen two Western girls with cameras (and they were kind of cute so I forgave them for being tourists), and the rest were Syrian or of other Middle Eastern origin. Passing through a tight stone doorway at the same time and in the opposite direction as an elderly Arab woman, I used a very polite word that I actually find myself utilizing pretty often, roughly translated as “go ahead” but in a very courteous way. She did a complete double take, shocked to hear it come from me, and asked how it was that I spoke her language. Before I could even respond, there was a huge crowd of family members around me. I was literally facing about 25 people of various generations, all staring at me. One man spoke English, and the entire family watched while he asked me questions in my language and I answered in his. I was nervous and disconcerted about having such a large audience that was paying such strict attention, so I didn’t talk for as long as I might have otherwise, but it was fascinating to watch all of these people who had probably never heard an American speak Arabic before. They wanted to know what I thought of their country, the castle, the language, Lebanon, and so on. I had to excuse myself from the conversation after a bit because I still felt so awkward with their rapt attention, but it was a rewarding experience.

I took another motorcycle down to Haffa, changed some money, and caught a minibus back to Lattakia to gather my belongings and move on. Coincidentally, the white girls that I’d seen up at the castle were in the van as well, so I struck up a conversation with them. It turned out that they were graduate students doing a summer Arabic program in Damascus, and had just been taking a weekend trip to the coast before heading back. They were planning to take a bus back the same day, and were returning to Lattakia to pick up their luggage—at Hotel Safwan. Small town. I chatted with them for a while, which was fun because they were both much better educated and cultured than other Westerners that I’d met there (the Brits at Bab al-Hawa being a good example). It turned out that one was British and had a degree in History and was now studying Law, and the other was from Seattle and studying political science but with a solid focus on Sociology and Anthropology as well. We stuck together for the rest of the day, catching a taxi from the minibus station to Safwan, another one to the actual bus station, and a charter bus for the 4.5 hour ride to Damascus. I hinted that I was in need of lodging if they had anything available or knew anyone, but they regretfully informed me that they were staying with host families and guests weren’t really an option. I did however exchange contact information with Heather, the Seattle girl, and it’d be nice to run into her back in the Northwest.

…..

As I said, I’m back home now, adjusting to life in America. I will make a few posts about this trip, covering Damascus and the return home, and then I haven’t decided what to do with this blog. I might take a break from it, might just use it to comment on news stories (Saad Hariri is going to be PM in Lebanon by the way, and I don’t want to talk about it), might turn it into a personal blog, or come up with some other use for it. We’ll see what it turns into. It’s been quite a ride, though. Cheers.

Neil

I just wanted to let my faithful readers know that I have safely returned to Montana after one day less than five months even gone. My return home was delayed a little bit by an unexpected overnight stay in Salt Lake, but I wound up with a $400 Delta travel voucher, a free stay in a nice hotel, and got to see an old friend for a while, so it worked out perfectly. I’ll continue on with my travel posts in chronological order soon, but just wanted to let everyone know that I made it back. It’s good to be home. 

Neil

My arrival in Aleppo was uneventful, other than the fact that Mohammad the taxi driver turned out to be less than entirely pleasant. I asked him to take me to the train station, where my CouchSurfing host had suggested that we meet when he got off work shortly afterward. It was an unconfirmed rendezvous, but I figured it was a good starting point and that I could find a phone and call him and work it all out definitively. I had tried to call him from Mohammad’s cell, but for some reason the call wouldn’t go through. However, Mohammad didn’t know where the train station was, so instead took me to the taxi station where he wanted to go, parked, had me get my stuff out of his car, and started asking around how to get to the station on foot. It was a long walk, but I didn’t want to pay anymore than I had to, so I figured I’d do it. After walking for about 15 minutes, including several brief stops to ask friendly and helpful Aleppans where I was going, I arrived at the dusty station. However, there was no phone available there. I asked if there was an internet café nearby, where I could Skype my host Kemal from. Big mistake. Apparently, internet cafes are pretty rare there, and the ones that do exist have weird opening hours. I wandered around for at least an hour in the hot Syrian afternoon, carrying my luggage, until I finally found one that would work with the aid of a little kid that didn’t speak any English but was very helpful with running around and asking directions. I asked the guy next to me if I could use his cell phone and tried Kemal, but the number still wouldn’t work. I finally checked my email and found that I’d written the number down incorrectly since it was on two lines, and I hadn’t noticed one. However, the cell phone of my neighbor had broken in the last two minutes, so I couldn’t use it. Also, apparently Skype-Skype works in Syria, but not Skype-Phone. Not sure what that’s about, but you can chalk that up there with Facebook being blocked in this country. Talking to my mom online, I also had her try Kemal—still nothing. I sort of gave up and figured that sooner or later he would check his email and see the message from me telling him where I was, and I’d get a response telling me what to do. I was tired and frustrated, and enjoying a fast internet connection that vastly lowered my enthusiasm for going into the evening heat and wandering around with my luggage some more. On a whim, I checked the email with his number again, and realized that I’d copied it incorrectly a second time. Finally, I called and got through, and met up with him shortly afterward.

Kemal is a half-Syrian, half-Turkish young man that works for some sort of cosmetics company in Aleppo. I don’t think that he’s terribly interested in his work, but it pays well and gives him a lot of benefits. He took me to his apartment, which he repeatedly warned me was cramped and tiny, but turned out to be about three times as large as what I’d been living (and hosting people) in for four months in Beirut. The apartment is entirely windowless, which is kind of weird, but otherwise very cozy and modern. His French girlfriend Emily was there, as well as the original CS host I was supposed to stay with pre-schedule change, Cristophe. Cristophe and Kemal met through CS, though they have a lot in common. Cristophe also works in cosmetics, though in a different company and a little higher up the food chain, and also has a French girlfriend. However, he himself is very French, in accent and mannerisms. He and Kemal are actually moving in together to a very large apartment in about a week, and make for a very amusing pair. I had a lovely dinner with them at Kemal’s current apartment, and then the four of us drove in Christophe’s company car for a beer at the Baron Hotel.

Baron (pronounced by this group at least in French—“Barón”) is a pretty famous place that opened over 100 years ago to service workers of the Orient Express railway. It has remained largely unchanged, and has a very antiquated style and old feeling. They also joke that the waiter is original as well; a tottering but friendly white-haired man served us our Turkish Efes beers and joked with Christophe and Kemal, who are obviously regulars. Cristophe and I switched between Spanish and Arabic a lot, which impressed him heavily—he has a very French view of stupid Americans that speak only English and have little to no cultural understanding of the rest of the world. Meanwhile, Emily worked with Kemal on his French, which he’s learning. Of the four languages spoken at the table, Cristophe was the only to be proficient in all of them. English was the best common language for everyone, followed by Arabic, but we mostly preferred to speak in French or Spanish and then translate to the other for those who couldn’t understand. Lots of fun with languages. After a big Efes each, though, everyone was pretty tired, and we all retired early. Kemal and Emily took a mattress on the floor in the common area of the apartment because they both get up early for work, and were insistent on not waking me, so I got a big, comfortable bed to myself. We all fell asleep quickly, and I slept very solidly.

When I woke, I had no idea what time it is. I don’t wear a watch, and my computer was off, so there was no timepiece. However, by the very limited amount of light coming through a tiny frosted glass skylight and the silence from the next room, I assumed it must be fairly early. I went back to sleep for a little bit, then decided to check the time. My first guess when I saw “1:30” was that I had only slept for an hour or two, and there must be a streetlight close to the skylight. False. I actually slept more than 12 hours, and it was well into the afternoon by the time I finally got out of bed. Whoops. I rushed around getting stuff together, and went out into the hot sun to go to the Old City.

The main draws of old Aleppo are the souq and the Citadel. The souq was cool, but not hugely different from the bazaar in Istanbul. It was however a big step up from Khan al-Khalili in Egypt as far as enjoyability, which was painfully full of tourist-attacking hawk-leeches that wore me down very quickly. Like the market in Turkey, locals seem to shop there as much or more than tourists, which is always nice. I spent a few hours walking up and down different streets and speaking with shopkeepers. The souq is vaguely organized, with different sections selling different types of products. There were confusing signs directing traffic to the appropriate areas, but these were in Arabic and I largely ignored them, opting instead to wander at random. Doing this, of course, resulted in lots of backtracking and running past the same shopkeepers more than once, who would invariably engage me in Arabic, English, or French. They were universally impressed (or claimed to be, at least) by my Arabic, which is always encouraging. I bought several more gifts, quickly blowing much of the money that I very foolishly had pulled out thinking would be enough for all of Syria (ha!) but finding some legitimately nice stuff. I was very tempted by the section of the souq with argilehs for sale, as I found some pretty impressive and relatively cheap stuff. However, I resolved to try to save at least a little bit of money, and also need to keep in mind transport internationally. Amongst the opulent hookahs that I saw was what appeared to be pretty much the pinnacle of flavored tobacco smoking—four bowls, four hoses, one massive chamber, decked out in flashy gold and blue. I pretty much wet myself when I saw it; and don’t worry, I took a picture of it in all of its glory. We’ll see if my self-control remains in Damascus—no promises.

Halfway through my shopping experience, I exited the souq to go to the Citadel. This was a very worthwhile side trip. I honestly pity the fool whose job it was to sack Aleppo back in the day, because attacking this castle would really suck. It’s built on a commanding, steep, natural hill above the Old City, surrounded by a wide and deep (though now-dry) moat. The only access that wouldn’t involve swimming would require crossing a relatively narrow stone bridge far above the moat, exposed to arrows and boiling oil and whatever else the soldiers in the keep wanted to throw at the aggressor. The walls look very thick and solid, and like they wouldn’t come down or be climbed easily. The outer walls of the castle are the best preserved part of the site, but the rest is very complete and interesting too. I really enjoyed wandering around and walking on top of the inner walls. I generally much prefer physical ruins to museums full of artifacts, maybe because it gives me more of a picture of what the reality was however long ago. I think I’m less of a history buff than I used to be (Age of Empires as history class, anyone?), but I like thinking about what would have been. Another nice thing about the Citadel, as well as most other historical sites in Syria, is that it is ridiculously cheap to go to, especially if you have an International Student Identity Card. I happen to have an ISIC in my wallet that expired at least a year ago, has no photo of me on it, and is faded and grimy almost beyond all recognition. However, the attendant accepted it without question, and my entrance fee was just a few Syrian pounds—literally, like $0.20. This is the case all over the country, so an ISIC is a very good investment for that amongst many other reasons. Another really cool thing happened to me while I was on top of the Citadel, actually the opposite of my call to prayer experience in Cappadocia. Here, when the call rang out, I could see I’d guess over 100 minarets of mosques, in all directions. Rather than the rising and falling of a few identical calls overlappying and layering as I experienced a few days previously, this was a cacophany of entirely different voices, all competing for attention. There were many styles, volumes, cadences, and variations on the same thing, and it was an equally powerful experience. I’m very glad that I got to hear it.

Next to the Citadel and souq is a fairly famous Umayyad mosque that I was interested in checking out. It actually reminded me a lot of Al Azhar in Egypt, on a slightly smaller scale, but it was fairly full of Syrians and I felt awkward being the only non-Muslim wandering around the wide-open marble floor. I didn’t spend a lot of time there, but I definitely appreciated being let in. There’s also a sister mosque in Damascus that is much larger and more famous but built at the same time, which I definitely intend to visit. For some reason, I’ve always appreciated Islamic architecture more than Christian. I definitely am impressed by big cathedrals and such, but I think I just like the style of grand mosques more.

By the time I finished with the souq, Citiadel, and mosque, it was around 6:30. I knew Kemal would be off work by then, so I caught a taxi back to the Al-Azizieyeh neighborhood where he lives. Azizieyeh is a largely Christian area, with a nice big park and fairly convenient location. Kemal and I walked to the train station and got me a ticket to Lattakia for the next day, and then met up with Emily at a shwarma stand for a quick dinner. I found that Syrian (or at least Aleppan) shwarma is different from Lebanese, in that it had a creamy garlic spread, and some sort of red chili sauce. It was spicier than expected, but not overwhelming, and quite enjoyable. After this, the three of us continued on to the apartment of a French friend of theirs for a going away party.

The party was…interesting. There were probably about 25 people there over the course of the night, at least 20 of whom were French or French-educated. This obviously made communication difficult for me, but after a while a Syrian showed up who spoke Spanish in addition to French, so he and I talked for a while. That made things a lot more fun, and we chatted European and Middle Eastern politics and culture. The party wore down after a few hours, and Kemal and Emily and I returned to their house to crash again.

The next day was ridiculously hot, and Kemal (who doesn’t work on Fridays) and I stayed in all day. There was talk of going to a swimming pool, but this is quite expensive, and we decided that it wasn’t worth it to us and we would rather hide with the air conditioning. Emily brought us lunch, which was very sweet of her, and we hung out for a while until it was time for me to take the 5:30 train to Lattakia. I didn’t get to spend much time in Aleppo, and a lot of it was spent in Kemal’s place, but I definitely got a good vibe from the city. I don’t think I’d want to live there, but it’s definitely worth visiting for a few days, if nothing else just for the souq and Citadel.

I’m working on catching up on my blogging—as of posting this it is 5:45 pm on Saturday evening in Damascus. That puts me about 48 hours behind present moment in my recording of this journey, and about  24 hours from my flight out of Damascus, and 55 hours from home, insha’allah. Obviously, I’m in the finishing stretch of this trip. It’s been absolutely amazing, but I’m ready for the longest bath in history, followed by sleeping in my own bed with my cat back in his usual place at my neck. It will definitely be good to be home with family and friends, and back into a normal schedule without the stresses and expenses of buses and trains and luggage. Looking forward to it.

Cheers,
Neil

There is a lot of information out there for Americans who want to enter Syria without obtaining visas beforehand. I hope that this post can relate my personal experience of this part of my journey from Athens to Damascus, as well as give some helpful tips to other US citizens who find themselves in the same position that I did. All following information is from my perspective as an American; for nationals of other countries, I recommend that you also search for information directed at your nationality elsewhere, but understand that it is very doable and actually easier for you than it is for us Yanks.

The official line, as you will undoubtedly read everywhere you look for information, is that visas must be obtained beforehand, period. Lonely Planet, the Syrian government, and the US State Department all tell you that it is impossible to acquire a visa at the border. This is tricky for Americans, since there is a Syrian embassy in the states, and the Syrians much prefer that you obtain the visa from the embassy in your own country, rather than abroad. For example, while American and Syrian consulates both exist in Turkey, it is not guaranteed that you can pick up a visa there. Instead, they will likely tell you that you must send your passport back to the US, pay more than $100, and wait a considerable amount of time. Obviously, that is far from ideal. Also, it’s almost 100% unnecessary, as long as you’re smart at the border. Here are some tips for entering Syria from Turkey at the Bab al-Hawa crossing, based on my personal experience as of June 2009:

• Understand the procedure. From the Antakyan otogar (bus station), ask for a bus to Aleppo. If you speak a little bit of Turkish or Arabic and are a little savvy, you should be able to negotiate the price down a little bit because you will not be going all the way. I heard that the price would be 15 Turkish lira, and I got it for 10, which is a good deal considering how much the bus people help you out. Taking a taxi for the 50 km is entirely unnecessary, especially with any driver that says he will wait for you as you get your visa and cross the border with you. Bab al-Hawa is extremely busy and there are buses, taxis, and minibuses crossing constantly. It is very easy to catch a ride on the other side, and there is no reason to keep the same taxi from Antakya unless you have some very special extenuating circumstances of some sort.The attendants will ask for your passport several times during the process. Don’t worry, you’ll get it back, and this is a necessary part of the process. The first thing your bus from Antakya will do is exit Turkey. This is easy, just involving you getting off with everyone else and getting your passport stamped at a window. Make sure one of the assistants on the bus knows that you are an American without a Syrian visa and will thus be staying at the border rather than continuing to Aleppo, and they will help you go where you need to go. When exiting Turkey, you are treated the same as everyone else. Only when reaching the Syrian border station are you treated differently. Rather than fighting through the mostly Turkish crowd at the counter marked “Foreign Arrivals,” as would seem to make a lot of sense, you need to go to an office around the back. Take the hallway to your left, turn around the corner to the right, and go into the first office on your right. It doesn’t look like much, and you might actually think that you’re in a restricted area, but the guy at the desk is who you need to speak to. Explain your situation to him, along with a good excuse. For me, the excuse was that I had been in Lebanon for four months, where there is no Syrian embassy. Syrian visas are only valid for three months so I couldn’t get one in the US beforehand, and I didn’t want to mail my passport back home given the nature of Lebanon. He accepted that reasoning very easily and it seems like a solid, foolproof excuse, though I would caution against using it yourself and lying to the officers in any way that could be verified as you really don’t want to get caught. Playing the part of the dumb tourist who doesn’t understand the situation is always an option, as long as you’re not an annoying dumb tourist. It also wouldn’t hurt to say that you originally weren’t planning to but now you just really, really wanted to go to Syria because everyone you met in Turkey told you how amazing it is.
• Bring the appropriate supplies with you. You’re likely going to be waiting for somewhere between 2 and 8 hours, depending on a variety of factors, and there is no food or drink available at the border besides a duty free selling chocolate and cigarettes. It’s also kind of hot in Syria, so keep that in mind. Another thing that you can bring, which will further ingratiate you with the officer in charge, is a copy of your passport. That removes one step that he has to do, and when I presented the commanding officer with one, he gave me a big smile and said “montaaz”—fantastic. You’re also going to need the name and address of where you’re staying in Syria. Even though I was going directly to the home of a CouchSurfing host in Aleppo (which is called Halab by Syrians), I supplied the name, address, and phone number of a popular hotel just to make it easier. Even if you don’t have a reservation or won’t be going there, write down the contact information of a place in Halab or Sham (Damascus) in very legible capital letters and give it to the officer to put him at ease.
• Think ahead when it comes to money. As an American, your visa will cost $16 USD, which as far as I’m aware they prefer to actually have in dollars. I heard that there was a bank at the border, which I assumed meant there would be an ATM. I was wrong. The “bank” is actually a money-changing station, manned by a few very surly and unhelpful non-English-speaking old men. My wallet was full of an ugly combination of Turkish lira, Lebanese lira, Egyptian pounds, and a few Syrian pounds, but not all of those were exchangeable and I ended up not having enough of any one exchangeable currency to get me $16. Frustrated, I carried my luggage to the duty free, a ways down the road, hoping that there would be an ATM there instead. No luck. I started chatting with the taxi drivers hanging around outside and explained my situation to them. These guys ended up rescuing me. I’m not sure if they spoke English or not because I greeted them in Arabic, but I’m sure you can communicate your situation to them. Their first offer was to exchange money for me, under the table. This isn’t very helpful—they give worse rates than the official exchanger, and won’t really take any different currencies. The next thing I thought of was selling them random stuff that I had on me in exchange for dollars. This actually resulted in a hilarious mock auction, with them bidding for things like my sunglasses or food or the pack of cigarettes I’d brought along for bribes. It was a classic role reversal—I was the Arab shopkeeper touting the qualities of my products, and they were the tourists trying to haggle the price down. This was a lot of fun for everyone, but didn’t really solve my problem. In the end, though, I had an idea that worked perfectly—I asked them if there was anything they wanted from the duty free. I went in with one driver, who picked out a three-pack of cigarette cartons for $33 US. I bought them with my credit card, and he paid me back with $33 exactly in cash. He didn’t make any gain out of it other than some simple entertainment, but for just two minutes of his time he made my life infinitely easier. If you find yourself with insufficient funds at the border, walk over to the duty free and see if the drivers hanging around the front door can help you out.
• Know a little bit of Arabic. I’ve found in my travels that Arabs are generally very hospitable people, but their patience can understandably wear thin with dumb Americans that don’t understand their customs or speak their language. A few simple phrases likely won’t make the difference between visa approval or denial, but it will make it easier to get their attention when fighting through lines, and make them more receptive towards your situation and less frustrated with your “stupid American”-ness. Here are a few things to say, spelled out phonetically for the non-Arabic student, that certainly can’t hurt your chances:

Asalaamu wa’aleykum – Hello, lit. “Peace be upon you”
Amille maroof – Please, lit. “do for me this favor”
Min fudluck – Please, more formal
Tawlib – Student (if you look under 30, say you’re a student—they tend to like us, for some reason)
Aasif – Sorry
Afwan – Excuse me
Zawbit – Officer
Shukran – Thank you

• The time you show up really isn’t that important. During my research before going to the border crossing at Bab al-Hawa, I read several blogs of Americans who obtained visas there. I noticed a common trend—every one of them finally received approval between 3 and 4 pm, regardless of what time they got to the crossing. This is because the border guards fax a copy of your passport to Damascus, and wait for a reply, which always comes at about 3:30, no matter what. I was delayed in Antakya and showed up later than anticipated, around 1:00 pm, and started the process around 1:30. I still got my visa approved at 3:30, just like people who show up at 9 am. Don’t put yourself through the suffering of waiting an extra four hours unnecessarily, and instead take your time getting there. Of course, there are limits on that. I don’t know when the cutoff is, but I wouldn’t recommend getting there later than 2 or 2:30 unless you’re willing to potentially take one for the team in the name of further research on how late one can safely show up, and have to come back again the next day a little earlier. 1 or 1:30 is probably a pretty good compromise, as two hours pass by a lot better than six or eight, but there’s still ample time for your paperwork to process.
• Don’t be afraid to talk to other people waiting. Even in the best case scenario, you’re likely to be waiting for at least two hours. You’ll quickly realize that there is nothing to do in the border station, and that it’s pretty dirty and grimy and unpleasant. I could have sat in the corner and read by myself, but instead I decided to engage the people around me. As a reward, I got a fascinating lecture on Islam from a wild-eyed Syrian sheikh. He explained his admiration for well-educated Americans such as myself who are very knowledgeable about various world religions, compared to Arabs who so infrequently choose to educate themselves about anything outside of Islam. However, he was simultaneously critical of how many atheists and agnostics exist in the US. His English wasn’t great, but we switched back and forth between languages and it was really interesting hearing his views on suicide, conversion, and Westerners living in the Middle East. I really enjoyed the conversation, and was glad that I talked to him. Conversely, I made very drab small talk with a pretty clueless group of four college-age British tourists who were painfully white, with guide books and expensive cameras and awkwardly bright white outfits. Many Turks and Syrians don’t speak English, but I recommend that you try anyway in case you get lucky. In my experience at Bab al-Hawa, it was a lot more worthwhile than talking to the other Westerners.
• This should be really, really obvious, but just for the sake of completeness in this guide—Israel doesn’t exist. And even if it did exist, you wouldn’t have any interest in going there in the future. Obviously, you’ve never been there in the past, either, as you have nothing on your person that would indicate as such—no passport stamps, no guidebooks, no loose shekels in your wallet. Keep in mind when crossing Israeli borders by land (either in the Sinai or Jordan), that Syrian and Lebanese border guards are smart and check the exiting or entering stamps for Egypt or Jordan as well. If they see that you got on the Allenby Bridge that runs across the Jordan River from Jordan to Jericho, it doesn’t matter that you have no record of entering the forbidden land. The bridge only goes to one place, and the Syrians know it. Having the Israelis stamp an extra piece of paper not in your passport is a no-brainer, but have the Egyptian or Jordanians do the same if you want to be sure not to get caught. Also remember that even the Palestinian Territories are off limits. As much as Syrians might support (or pretend to support, but that’s a story for another day) the Palestinian cause, it is illegal for you to enter Syria after entering Palestine because that is legally Israeli territory. If you have a Hard Rock Café Ramallah t-shirt in your bag and they happen to search it (though they had no interest in looking through any of my stuff), you’re just as screwed as if you went to Hard Rock Tel Aviv.

I think that is all that I can think of in the way of advice. I was anticipating the wait taking longer than it did, and when I returned from my money changing adventure at the duty free I was actually the one lagging behind, and was rushed through the process of running from counter to counter with various receipts and stamps. I walked out the front door with a valid visa at about 4:00 pm, clocking in at officially the shortest time period of any American that I’ve heard or read about crossing into Syria sans pre-approved visa. The physical crossing of the border line was another amusing story—a taxi driver quickly located me and offered me a ride to Aleppo for $10, which is probably a lot more than it was worth but after all my adventures didn’t sound that bad. If you’re on top of things you can probably get a taxi for a few dollars cheaper, or try to talk your way onto a bus for considerably less, but $10 was manageable. The driver, Mohammad, was clearly a common fixture at Bab al-Hawa, because everyone seemed to know him. He was actually in charge of directing the ugly traffic jam of cars, minibuses, and taxis squeezing through a single tight lane and getting cursory searches by armed guards. He had me drive his taxi through this mess, which was an adventure in itself. Fortunately, my parents made sure I knew how to operate a manual transmission when I first learned to drive (thanks mom! knew it would pay off!), so I made it through without too much difficulty. I parked on the far side of the borderline and Mohammad joined me a few minutes later, and we were off to Aleppo.

…..

If you are a fellow traveler who has stumbled across this blog while searching for more information about entering Syria or other Middle Eastern countries, please don’t hesitate to comment with any additional questions here or email me at the address provided on the “Contact” page. I also encourage you to browse Lonely Planet’s Thorn Tree forums, though please don’t post your query until you’ve searched a bit. There is an infuriating amount of repetition and basic questions asked over and over again, and you can eliminate the need for another frustrated response by people that continually are forced to give the same answers with a basic search. Good luck with your travels, and feel free to post your own experiences here.

For my more regular readers, I apologize for falling behind on posting. I’ve finished in Halab, and I’m currently writing this from a comfortable train on my way to Lattakia, on the Syrian coast. I’m planning to be there for one night, then in Damascus for two, and then flying back to the US on Monday-Tuesday. I’ll be home soon. Until then, cheers.

Neil

As seems to happen EVERY time I come up with a solid plan, based off of seemingly reliable information and double checked with seemingly reliable sources, something got screwed up again. I showed up at Haydarpaşa station around 10 pm, with over an hour to spare to catch my train to Kayseri. I checked with a station employee, and he confirmed that it would be in exactly one hour, and that my train would be at platform seven. Perfect. I got some food, pulled out a little money at the ATM, and sat down to use the station’s remarkably good wireless connection in clear sight of a big clock. I checked it continuously, and about 15 minutes before my train was scheduled to leave I packed things up and went to platform seven with my ticket. A train was already there, warmed up and good to go. I found a conductor, who didn’t speak any English, and showed him my ticket. He pointed up the train a little ways, with an encouraging smile. I found what appeared to be the correct car for my ticket, and boarded the train, and sat down in the empty seat that appeared to be mine. Mission accomplished, right? The wireless still worked there, so I put on headphones and went back to work.

After maybe half an hour, someone tapped my shoulder. He seemed to think I was in his seat. We compared tickets, and I realized that I was indeed in error. His ticket said “Pullman Car #3,” and mine said something in Turkish #3. Pullman seats are what we’re used to in America; what you have on a basic Amtrak train. That’s what I was sitting in, assuming it was mine, but instead my ticket was for something else. Very confused but thinking I had maybe a couchette ticket instead, I gathered my things and got off. I’m honestly not sure what a couchette is (maybe a very effeminate sofa?), but I’ve seen the word in English a lot on some websites describing these trains, so I figured my car was further up the line. I walked up, but didn’t see any more #3s. I asked another conductor, and he indicated to me with hand gestures that no, my train had left.

Checking with two other conductors was no help—one said that it had indeed left; the other said that this was my train. Wtf. Panicking, I started asking passengers on the platform, and finally determined that the train I’d been sitting on, and would have departed with me on it before anyone intelligent checked my ticket, was going to an entirely different city. The one to Kayseri had somehow left without me noticing, presumably while sitting on the train that I was told to sit on at the platform I’d been told to go to. I hurried back to the ticket office, and asked when the next train to Kayseri was—not until the following afternoon. I was already spending less time in Cappadocia than I’d like to, so that seemed to be pushing it too far. So, time to improvise. I asked for a ticket on the next train to Ankara instead, which the conductor said wouldn’t be until the next day at 7 am. Fine, whatever. I got it. Walking out of the station, I realized that the name of the train to Ankara on the ticket was the same name as a train currently at the station. I booked it back to the window, edged my way back into the line, and asked if it was possible to get on that one. There were only a few tickets left, but I did manage to snag one, and got back to the train just a few minutes before it left.

I arrived in Ankara the next morning, took the very drab subway to the bus station, then booked a bus departing an hour later straight to Göreme, the small Cappadocian town that was my actual destination. This was a nondescript 5 hour ride. There was some pretty scenery, but nothing worth writing home about until we got into the region.

Cappadocia is crazy. I will, of course, post the many pictures that I took once I return back to the states in a few days, but in the meantime I once again recommend you look for images online. It’s pretty spectacular. The landscape is a geological madhouse of soft rock that has eroded into massive pillars and spires everywhere. The inhabitants, who historically were often Christians seeking to escape Muslim persecution, have hollowed out caves into the spires or cliff walls, and made entire houses and churches underground or in the pillars. Everywhere you look, there are windows and doors cut into the rock. Modern towns have evolved around the ancient, now mostly uninhabited ancient cities. Göreme is probably the largest of these, and is a good base for exploring the region. It’s a bit touristy, but with good reason—there aren’t many people living here that aren’t connected to the tourism industry in some way or another, because the population is no longer composed of Christians hiding underground from Muslim conquests. There are a wide variety of hostels, boutique hotels, and pensions in Göreme, many of which have “cave rooms” available for guests. I stayed in a nice little place recommended by Lonely Planet called Kosë Pension. It’s owned by a Scottish woman and her Turkish husband, who were both very friendly. For some reason (I would guess related to the current economic atmosphere), the summer tourist season has started very late in Turkey, meaning that Göreme was much less populated than it usually is in June. Kosë only had about a dozen guests, and only three including myself were staying in the large dormitory-style room that had beds for about $9 / night. However, there was also a very nice, large, deep pool available for guests, and a friendly Dalmatian named, creatively, “Spotty.”

After arriving and dropping my bags off at Kosë, I took a quick swim and then walked to the Göreme Open Air Museum, which is a very impressive and well-preserved archeological site housing a large number of cave houses and churches about a kilometer out of town. Walking around here was a very interesting experience. I heard almost no English from the large groups of package tourists, almost 100% of whom appeared to be Korean and Japanese, and almost all of whom had umbrellas, big hats, and long gloves to protect themselves from the sun. It was a little surreal, as I hiked in classic solo Neil style with my shorts, t-shirt, Tevas, and no sunscreen, hat, or water. Wandering around for an hour or two was very interesting, as a lot of the churches had very decorative frescoes on the walls and ceilings depicting Biblical sequences. The whole area was pretty bizarre to imagine as a city, out in the scrubland middle of nowhere. Interestingly, I learned that some of the opening scenes of the first Star Wars movie, on the desert world of Tatooine, were filmed in Cappadocia. Makes sense.

After seeing everything there was to see in the Open Air Museum, I decided to hike up the road to the next town, Ortahisar. I had a tourist map (though I should note here that it lacked a scale or any sort of markings indicating distance), and I recognized the name of the next village from a picture I’d seen online. I started walking, not realizing how far away it was or that much of the trek would be uphill, on an exposed highway. However, I kept myself entertained along the way, in very typical style, by climbing unsafe things that I really shouldn’t. There was a particularly large rocky spire off to the right of the road, conveniently at the edge of a small cliff, with a Turkish flag planted at the very top, and I resolved to climb up. I scoped it out from three sides (the fourth being a straight drop-off to more rocks below), and decided on the best route to take. I made it almost all the way up before reaching a point that was much steeper, leading up to the very top. I was only maybe eight feet below the flag’s base, and I felt like it would be worth it to reach my goal. However, in examining the remaining part of the climb, I judged my chances at ascending it without falling as about 80%, and my chances of successfully descending it being considerably lower (well, I should say safely descending it—I was pretty much guaranteed to make it down one way or another…). In the end, I decided to not climb the last portion, but I did take some pretty good pictures from the vantage point I had.

Another rather bizarre side note was a colorful sign in English painted onto a large rock that originally got me very excited—“Underground Lemon Storage Caves. FREE TOUR.” Um, hell yes? Like most people, I’ve never been on an underground lemon storage cave tour, so I was pretty stoked. I walked up to the building advertising the tour, and found two older Turkish men smoking cigarettes and drinking tea outside. Neither of them spoke any English, but I tried unsuccessfully to convey what I wanted (imagine doing a charades round where you have to act out “Underground Lemon Storage Cave Tour,” and that’s basically how well it went). They either didn’t understand or were unwilling to give me a tour, and offered me a cigarette instead. I gave up, and continued on my way to Ortahisar.

The main draw for going to this town was a huge castle made out of the natural rock, with rooms carved into it all the way up. I wasn’t disappointed. It took a while to navigate through the sprawling village, but eventually reached the base of this monstrous free-standing block of stone, with windows and rooms all over. I could even see ladders and metal staircases attached precariously to the rocks. I found my way to the entrance, next to an Ottoman Wine House with very friendly English-speaking attendants, and started to ascend the various staircases and ladders. It took me some time to make it all the way up, passing through many similar stone rooms, with benches and troughs carved into the walls and floors. Finally, I reached the top, where another Turkish flag was planted. There was a great view of Ortahisar and the surrounding countryside. I was tired, hungry, and a bit dehydrated, but this part was worth the long trek from Göreme. It was starting to get a bit later into the afternoon and I was hoping to find a minibus heading back up the road, so I descended after sitting on top for a while.

Walking back through Ortahisar, I was confronted by a middle aged Turkish man with intermediate English skills who very persistently attempted to engage me in conversation. I relented finally and started chatting with him, and eventually accepted his invitation to sit in the shade from the blazing sun and drink a cup of hot tea (wtf, Turkey). It turns out that he was a multipurpose tour guide/shopkeeper/employee at the information center, and was likewise being affected by the unseasonal lack of tourists. He convinced me eventually to go for a short tour around a close-by valley, which I think I accepted more out of feeling bad for him than any real interest. It was interesting, though. The tour involved a lot of scrambling around off-road down steep hills and through tall grass and weeds, exploring the topography of the area. He was very helpful, considering that I was wearing old Tevas that have long since lost most of their traction, and kept slipping on the loose dirt and packed down grass. He continually offered his hand, which I thought was a nice gesture. Eventually, we reached another cave church that was similar to the others I’d seen near Göreme but clearly much more rarely visited. It appeared almost to be his little secret church. We sat in the cool, slightly damp cave for a while and chatted. At this point, things got awkward. I’d appreciated his assistance in climbing around on the slippery ground, but we were now sitting on a bench and I clearly was not in danger of falling. However, he insisted on holding my hand. A minute later, he put his arm around my back, and moved my hand around his. Uh oh. He then asked if I wanted to peek through a window high up in the cave wall—which would obviously require him boosting me up from behind. I quickly declined, and said that I should probably move on. He remained sitting, so I had to gently remove his hand from my back and stand up on my own, which I think helped to convey my lack of interest. He made one last ditch effort, asking if I had a girlfriend or boyfriend back in America. I told him that I had a girl back home, and was looking forward very much to seeing her soon, and I think he finally got the message. So, um, yeah, that was fun.

It turns out that there are no buses from Ortahisar to Göreme, so in the end I had to trek all the way back. The trip back was uneventful, and I made it back to Kosë without incident. I had dinner in a nice Turkish restaurant in town, one of a seemingly endless number of essentially identical eateries. This part actually kind of sucked—the food and beer were both good, and there was a very talented musician singing and playing traditional songs on an oud-like instrument, but I was completely alone. I had actually picked this restaurant because there was a big group of friendly-looking people not far above my age at a table, and the name of the establishment was the “Meeting Point.” It turned out that the group was composed entirely of Turks, and no English was being spoken. I sat by myself for as long as I could handle the painfully obvious solitude of my situation, and then returned to the Pension to watch a movie on my laptop and go to sleep.

The next day, I stayed in for the morning while I planned the next portion of my trip. I had a very sudden realization that in all of my careful planning I hadn’t thought out the Syrian border crossing. I had planned to continue using my Balkan Flexipass for free train tickets in Turkey, with which I could go from Kayseri to Adana, in the south, and then Adana to Aleppo, Syria. I had even changed the amount of time I’d be staying in Istanbul to make sure I was in the right cities on the correct days that the trains run. However, I hadn’t considered the fact that taking the train across the Syrian border was very much not an option for me. I’ll cover the process in my next post, which should come soon, but the long and short of it is that I needed to do some research and re-plan my exit from the country. I spent the morning researching options online, and then bought a bus ticket from Göreme to Antakya, 50 km from the Syrian border.

After this, I took a hike by myself around the outskirts of Göreme. Acting on the advice of a friend who had been to Cappadocia before, I decided to explore to the northeast of the town, where there are no particular marked trails or attractions, but just a lot of rock spires and weird geological formations. This was a lot of fun—I scrambled all over the rocks, descending and ascending steep and slippery hillsides, and generally enjoying myself. I found that the type of rock there is very easy to keep traction, no matter how steep it is, so I could walk up pretty much anything. It was fun to plan out my next several steps and jumps, gauging distances and slopes to determine how I would first gain speed running downhill for several steps, then bounce from one boulder on the left to another on the right, execute a 90^o turn in place without losing momentum, and leap across a gap to the next safe, flat spot. For some reason, I never really grew out of my childish love of running around and climbing things, so simple pleasures like this are a good way to keep me busy. Eventually, I ended up on top of the highest spire that I was able to climb, and sat down to enjoy the afternoon view. A few moments later, I experienced something really cool—the Cappadocian call to prayer.

Turkey is an overwhelmingly Sunni Muslim country, though the majority of Muslims there are more flexible when it comes to restrictions like alcohol or going on the hajj. However, like the rest of the Islamic world, there are mosques everywhere and the call to prayer rings out five times a day. From my vantage point, I could see the minarets of Göreme’s two mosques, and three or so more in another town with a rock castle called Uçhisar. When the call suddenly started, I could also hear it from a mosque or two in the opposite direction, presumably in another village that was obscured from my view. However, the most distinct thing about the experience was that all six or so mosques were playing the exact same recording of a muezzin reciting the call, separated by a few seconds. Also, there was a pronounced echo running through the valley. I sat in awe on top of my personal pillar, hearing the reverberations and echoes layer and overlap. I’m used to only being in hearing range of one or two mosques when the call rings out, so you can hear the distinct voice of the muezzin, and there are clear breaks in between the stanzas. However, in this instance, it was a constant drone that rose and fell and repeated itself. I was very impressed, and very happy to be exactly where I was.

I eventually walked back to Göreme’s center, and hung out in the pension for a while. I was determined to not repeat the dinner experience of the night before, so I waited for the French girl who was also in the dorm to come home and ask her if she wanted to join me for dinner. Her name was Manu, or something similar, and she had been studying in Istanbul for a semester and was now just traveling around. I had a pleasant dinner with her, which was much preferable to the solitary meal I had 24 hours previously. Afterwards was another quiet night in Kosë, during which I just read for a while and hung out, preparing for the next part of my adventure.

The next day, I took a bus to Adana, and then from there another to Antakya. Antakya is a small city with relatively little to offer besides a mosaic museum that is supposed to be very impressive, but I didn’t get a chance to go to. I had dinner at a Turkish restaurant, and was pleasantly surprised to find that most of the wait staff spoke Arabic. Finally, more familiar territory. After dinner, I hung out with these four guys for half an hour so, speaking Arabic exclusively, which was good practice. We had a cup of coffee and chatted about differences between Turkey and America, and the adventure I had in store trying to cross the Syrian border the next day. I slept in a pretty seedy motel for $30, which was a big disappointment after the pleasantness and cheapness of my Cappadocian accommodations. The following morning, I loaded up on snacks and supplies, pulled out what I thought would be enough cash, and caught a bus to the border. I had a lot of preconceptions of what that adventure would be, many of which turned out to be wrong.

I’ve had a few slow days here, which has suited me fine. A lot of my time has been spent relaxing in Ufkum’s neighborhood by myself, with Meltem, or other family members. I’m enjoying time here, even if I’m not seeing every spectacular tourist-attracting thing in the city. In fact, I’m slightly embarrassed to say that I have failed to see the interior of Haya Sofia or Blue Mosque, despite my great interest in doing so and the ample time in which I could have spent the money and effort to get into town and across to the Sultanahmet peninsula to see them. However, I guess I can justify that by saying that I definitely intend to return to Istanbul at some point (or several points, or for one extended time) in the future, so I can leave those sights to look forward to. I’ve really enjoyed it here, and could see myself living here for a while. There’s a summer program put on by the US government that gives all-expenses paid intensive summer courses abroad for less-frequently learned languages. I was considering applying to do that for Arabic in Jordan or Egypt or something maybe next summer, but I could alternatively do it here in Istanbul and learn Turkish. Having a free flight to Turkey, and classes and lodging paid for seven weeks in this city sounds awfully nice to me. Just something to consider for the future.

In the meantime, I did get out and about and have quite an adventure yesterday. I decided that I hadn’t seen enough of the Bosporus, and hadn’t yet taken a ferry ride, which is sort of a requisite Istanbul experience. I looked up the ferry routes in my handy Lonely Planet book, courtesy of my father, and made a plan for getting from the downtown area that I know well, to the Haydarpaşa train station on the Asian side, to the Prince’s Islands a little ways into the Sea of Marmara. Thinking that I was all on top of things, I set out on my own wearing swimming trunks under my pants, with a bottle of water, my book, a towel, and my camera in tow.

The first step was to catch a minibus taxi from Yeniköy, where Ufkum’s family lives, to one of the more central neighborhoods. These go by frequently, either taking a windy road that follows the Bosporus that I am very accustomed to and familiar with, or an interior route that I had never yet taken. The one that I caught took the interior route, which caught me by surprise, but deposited me in the Beşiktaş neighborhood, which worked fine for me. From there, I intended to take a ferry to Sirkeci train station stop a ways down the strait, and from there either to Princes’ Islands or Haydarpaşa station, as the Sirkeci area had departures to both according to my book. Instead, I was informed at Beşiktaş that I had to go to the Kabataş, down the road. Fair enough, I thought, I’ve done that walk a few times before and it’s very manageable. 15 minutes later, I was at Kabataş, and there gave the name that Lonely Planet provided for the ferry stop next to Sirkeci. The very friendly woman at the counter repeated the name and said that the ferry there would be departing shortly, so I got on it. It did leave shortly afterward, but I watched as it sailed past Sirkeci, and went instead all the way to the other side of the Bosporus. I ended up on the Asian side, far north of Haydarpaşa. This was unexpected, but I figured I could adapt to the situation, and just walk south along the coast until I got there. Mistake.

I underestimated the distance that this would take on foot, and spent about the next hour and a half walking and trying to find the station, which was not accessible from the north. It’s pretty hot in Istanbul right now, and I was exhausted by the time I got there. However, I did finally make it, and successfully bought my train ticket for the next day (today) to Kayseri. I felt like I had wasted a lot of time, but had managed to complete the one task that I really needed to, so I enjoyed some success. From Haydarpaşa, I decided to walk to the next ferry stop, where Ufkum said there were boats to Prince’s Islands. I did walk there, but it only went to two stops—both back across the strait. Confused, I just decided to get on one and go to more familiar territory, then go from there.

Fifteen minutes later, I was in Karaköy. From there, I took the tram to Sirkeci. From there, I walked around for 45 minutes trying to find the boat that would take me to Princes’ Islands before finding that no such thing existed—I had to go back to Kabataş, where I was at the beginning of the day. I was getting tired of spending so much money on transport, so I walked halfway back to Kabataş before getting too exhausted and taking the tram anyway—for the same amount of money as if I had taken it for the whole way. I recognized that I was tired and frustrated and making poor decisions because of it, which was only making my situation worse. Finally, by 5 pm, I got there and found the ferry to go to Princes’ Islands. I paid and boarded, and got a chance to relax on the trip over.

The ferry first stopped at the biggest island, Büyükada, which I decided looked more crowded than what I was looking for. Princes’ Islands are known for being serene escapes from the crazy life of Istanbul, and I wanted to see what a more secluded place was like. I stayed on the ferry until it got to Heybeliada, which I knew nothing about, and got off there. This was the best decision I made all day.

Heybeliada rocks. It is a fairly small island, with a friendly but small population all centered in one town, and the rest is wilderness. There is a paved road that circumvents the entire island, and several streets within the town, but the only motorized vehicles are a few police cars and a garbage truck. The rest of transport is done by bicycle, horse-drawn carriage, or walking. There are many restaurants, a few supermarkets, some pensions and bed & breakfasts, and not a whole lot else—which is fine by me. Restaurants appear to specialize in seafood, which is a little pricey, and Turkish fast-food, which is much more reasonably priced. There’s also a lot of ice cream, which works for me. I also noticed that there were many stray dogs and cats, but all were tagged and seemed to be very friendly and in good health. I decided to explore the island, so set off walking one direction down the Corniche-like paseo where the boat docked. I saw many people going the opposite direction, many carrying suitcases or backpacks. However, I noticed that almost every single one of them was Turkish. My whole time there, I didn’t hear any English at all. The weekend, it seems, is when these people leave the island, perhaps to escape the influx of wealthier Turks that come to stay there during the time. I quickly got out of the town itself, and into a beautifully idyllic hilly area with trees all around me, but glimpses of cliffs and the sea below me on the left. The more I walked, the fewer people I saw, and I just enjoyed being in nature again. It actually felt a lot like hiking in Glacier Park back home, minus the constant threat of bears and constitutionalists. After about half an hour or more, I’d reached the other side of the island and a group of six or eight very attractive Turkish girls carrying bags and going the opposite direction called out to me. I think I was so shocked at their attention that I didn’t have anything to say, not even “I’m a dumb American and don’t speak Turkish, but please enter into a loving Big Love-style group marriage with me anyway,” so I just smiled and kept walking. They even kept talking to me as I was walking away, but I still didn’t turn around. I guess this is a lesson in why Neil shouldn’t interact with pretty girls when he’s exhausted and slightly lost, because he is far less than his normal charming self. Lesson learned.

On the far side of the island, there was a very nice cove and a smaller community, which seemed to be composed only of houses and some beaches. They were the sort with tons of chairs laid out right next to each other, presumably which cost money to rent, so I was relatively uninterested. I continued on the road until I saw a promising dirt path leading off to the side and downhill towards the water, so I followed it down a steep hill to the water. Success! I laid out my towel and waded into the water, though it was rocky and too shallow to swim properly. It was definitely nice to cool off my feet though, which had started to form some pretty impressive blisters on the heels. I chilled there for a little while, and then continued on my way.

I finally came around the other end of the island and re-entered the town as the sun was getting pretty low. Evening time there is very mellow and enjoyable, and it was nice how quiet the town was. I bought a little food and a beer, and got out From Beirut to Jerusalem, which I’m re-reading now for post-Beirut impressions. Time flew by, and it was getting pretty dark by the time I looked up and decided I should take a ferry back to the mainland and get home. I went back to the ferry office to find that there was actually only one boat going back to the area I needed to go, around 10:15 pm. I was glad that I looked when I did, but still had to wait around for another hour before it would go.

Finally, the boat came, and I boarded with a small group of other passengers. Already on the ferry were two young Turkish guys singing and playing guitar for change, who were actually quite good. I gave them a little money while they played while we were waiting to take off. Suddenly, everyone ran over to the port window to see something happening on the dock. They were only speaking to each other in Turkish, but it was obvious that someone was getting dragged off the boat and handcuffed, and did not seem pleased about it. There was a bit of a struggle before a few officers subdued him, and then carried him back into the ferry building. I never did find out what happened, and a moment later we left.

I arrived at Kabataş, and took the funicular up to Taksim as I did on the first day. I figured I could follow Ufkum’s original directions back to her house, and this would be more reliable than trying to guess which minibus to get on. Once again, mistake. Only after a walk around İstiklal Caddesi and my return to Taksim did I find that the bus I was planning did not run this late. Now panicking slightly, I decided on a different bus, which was heading past the same neighborhood, and I was reasonably confident would pass by Ufkum’s stop, which I was sure I would recognize out the window. Unfortunately, it took the inland route, and bypassed the area I needed to go to by a pretty wide margin. By the time I realized the mistake, it was coming up on 12:30 and I was outside of walking distance, now on the far side of home. I walked to a bus stop and waited while several minibuses passed by, each going to different places that did not help me. Finally, I broke down and got a taxi for 15 TL (about $11), arriving to Ufkum’s a bit past 1 am.

Lesson? Well…I don’t know, I’m not sure that I learned much of a lesson. The majority of my decisions were based off of faulty information provided by guidebooks or other individuals. The rest were educated guesses with plenty of logical backing, which turned out to be incorrect. I guess the lesson is that I should be more careful, and maybe seek second and third opinions before committing to a decision. Regardless of all the misadventures and wasted time and money, Heybeliada was worth it. I still feel good about the day.

Now, it’s Saturday evening and I’m hanging out with Ufkum. We did some serious grocery shopping for dinner tonight, after which I’ll head back to Haydarpaşa and board an overnight train for a central Turkey city called Kayseri. Kayseri itself interests me very little, but it is an access point to get to the Cappadocia region, which I’m very excited about. Do a Google image or Wikipedia search on it, and you’ll understand why—Cappadocia looks like an amazing place to wander around, hike, and take pictures because of the very unique geological formations there. It looks pretty wild, with all of these “fairy chimneys” made out of rock, and churches and cities built underground or into the sides of mountains or in free-standing spires. I think it looks sort of like Utah on acid, which sounds like an exciting experience to me. I also may be staying in a hostel in a cave. We’ll see how that goes. Until next time, cheers.

Neil

So, um, this place rocks. Like, a lot. I’ve been in Istanbul since Sunday morning (it is Wednesday afternoon as I write this), and I really don’t want to leave. There are so many amazing things about this place; it’s mind-blowing. I think the best way to cover everything is to give a day-by-day up to now, and then maybe some general observations afterwards or in a later post.

Sunday
I arrived at about 9 am on the train to Sirkeci station, on the European side of the Bosphorus. While the city does exist on both sides, it seems like the majority of things are in the European part. Sirkeci services the Thessaloniki line, as well as transport up through the Baltic States. Another station, Haydarpaşa, services all domestic Turkey trains, as well as ones that extend to Syria, Iraq, and Iran. I haven’t been there yet, but that’ll be a story for another day. On Sunday, I immediately started following my CS host’s directions to reach her apartment. This required a pretty complex series of public transport transfers. The first step was to get to Taksim Square, across the Golden Horn (a spit of the Bosphorus that comes off more or less perpendicularly from the main body of water, separating the European side into two halves). A tram ride and funicular (little one-stop underground line that goes up and down a relatively steep hill) later, I was at Taksim. From there, I had to find a bus, and ride it for an unknown amount of time to get to a station whose name I couldn’t pronounce because it had a few Turkish letters in it not found in English. To accomplish this, I was to give a copied note to the driver, telling him to let me off at a very specific point. This actually worked out perfectly, though my host lives farther away from the center of things than I expected. It took at least an hour from Taksim to the stop, and then a bit of walking.

The result, though, was very worth it. My host, Ufkum, lives alone in a gorgeous two-bedroom apartment in a very friendly neighborhood. One primary reason that the neighbors are so friendly, I think, is that the vast majority are blood or marriage relations to Ufkum. There’s definitely a pretty big tribal network here. On the first day, Ufkum and I just hung out at home, which was a nice change from the pace of things in Thessaloniki. In the early evening, we went back to Taksim, ate some very good Turkish fast food (sort of like a mini hamburger, but with a sweeter bun and more spices in the meat), and met up with another Turkish CS guy. I never quite figured out his name, but he was a very friendly Harvard-educated guy with some pretty intense work experiences. He worked in developmental banking, so within the last year or so had been working in Sudan, Iraq, and Iran. He had never really visited Istanbul before, so we both got a tour of the central part of the city together from Ufkum.

We ate at a pretty chic tapas bar (Istanbul is often compared to Barcelona) off of İstiklal Caddesi, and then wandered around. We went by Galata Tower, which is a pretty impressive medieval-looking structure in a pretty sweet older neighborhood. It was evening by now, and a jazz band was playing for a pretty good-sized audience at the base of the tower. We walked on by, and found a street that was composed for several blocks of nothing but musical instrument shops on both sides—very cool. We were at this point walking downhill towards the water, and I also noticed a lot of pretty interesting graffiti in the area. There was obviously one very thorough artist whose tags were proliferated throughout the whole neighborhood, with two main motifs—a human eye on a stalk (it looked a little sperm-like, but I don’t know if that was the purpose), and a yellow fist, sometimes with wings or connected to a second one. I don’t know the significance or source of this art, but when the stores were closed and their garage door coverings were down, these symbols were literally drawn everywhere. I even noticed them higher up, on walls at the second or third floor. Whoever this guy is, he’s good.

We walked from the Galata area to a bridge across the Golden Horn, which is a spit of water coming off of the Bosphorus that further separates European Istanbul (look at Google Maps and it will all make sense, I promise). We crossed and returned on the same bridge, witnessing a pretty spectacular sunset and the pleasantness of the area. A lot of fishermen crowded the bridge, hanging their lines down to the water below and clearly catching a lot of smaller fish. Underneath the bridge were a variety of restaurants, which was interesting. It seems like there’s a symbiotic relationship between them and the fishermen—the restaurants presumably generate a lot of food waste that ends up in the water, which the fish are attracted to and subsequently caught by the men up above, who sell the fish to the restaurants. If that isn’t recycling, I don’t know what is.

We took a bus from this area to Ortaköy, another very nice neighborhood. This is another waterfront spot, which on Sunday night had a very busy market going on. There are also a lot of small restaurants and stands that serve Turkish food, especially kumplir—a massive baked potato cut in half and filled with any combination of a huge number of interesting ingredients. A really interesting waterfront mosque dominated the main square, with some interesting architecture. It was a lot taller and thinner than usual, and had some large glass windows on one side—something I’ve never seen before in a mosque. I originally suspected that it may have been a cathedral at one point, which would be very typical for Istanbul. A lot of the holy places have been stolen and traded back and forth several times between Muslims and Christians since the expansion of the Muslim empire in the 600s. However, I did some research afterwards and found that it was indeed a mosque, only one built in the “neo-baroque” style (that’s what Wikipedia says, at least). Anyway, it was a very different appearance for a mosque, and I liked it a lot. Eventually, we parted ways with the other Turk, and Ufkum and I returned to her house.

Monday
Ufkum works at AIG (I know, right?) and is very busy during the week. She got up around 6 and had to leave at 7, so I didn’t see her in the morning. However, she set me up with her 17-year-old cousin Meltem for a tour wherever I wanted to go, which I thought was very generous. Meltem studies English at high school, and is a sweet but shy girl. She came over at about 10 am, and took me to Sultanahmet. This is the area actually close to where my train got in, and is the home to the biggest of the Istanbul attractions. Hagia Sofia, the Blue Mosque, and Topkapı Palace are all within close walking distance of each other. Unfortunately, Sofia is closed on Monday’s, it was prayer time for another hour at the mosque, and Topkapı costs more than I was willing to throw down. But, um, the gardens were nice? No, really, it is a beautiful part of town, and very scenic. Just seeing the outsides of these very majestic buildings was pretty amazing, and I’m definitely planning on returning to Sultanahmet before I leave. We also spent some time in a nearby park, which was very tranquil and nice and also free.

From Sultanahmet we went to Eminönü, to see the spice bazaar. This was pretty cool. It exists in a large, high-ceilinged building that has a few intersecting hallways, each packed with stores selling spices and herbs, Turkish delight, antiques, touristy crap, and whatever else. However, I was pleasantly surprised to see how few obvious tourists were there—the locals legitimately shop in the area. We exited out the other side into an even more authentic market that stretches up a hill, with lots of streets winding into each other, and some semblance of organization in all of the chaos that was mostly over my head. After walking through this quite a ways, we ended up in another building, this one with lower ceilings and nicer shops. This too seemed more frequented by locals doing their shopping, which made me happy. I always do what I can to avoid tourists, despite being one myself.

After our shopping adventure (I picked up a few things, but I’m not telling who for), Meltem and I went back to the Karaköy neighborhood, where Galata tower is. I had intended to go up the tower, but this was more expensive than anticipated, so we passed and instead took a bus to Ortaköy to see it during daytime. It was actually less busy during the day, but still a very pleasant place to sit and talk. I got a kumplir, which was as delicious as it looked, and we headed back home. On the way, we stopped by the hospital where Meltem’s sister works as a receptionist, and chatted with her for a while. She didn’t speak any English, but judging by the questions she was asking through Meltem, she appeared to be sizing me up and deciding if she approved of me or not. Seemed like a very protective sister, but as far as I could tell I passed the test. That evening, I met more of the extended family. Ufkum and Meltem are surrounded by relations, with various cousins and aunts and uncles coming and going or leaning out their windows to yell across to each other all the time. It’s really quite amusing, and I was very popular. Neighbors walked by and asked who I was, and all of them collectively decided that I was “very handsome”—which Meltem blushingly translated for me. I was surprised to find that none of the family spoke any English at all, so she did all of the translating. They are all big Obama supporters, which was fun, and were genuinely interested in what I thought of Istanbul.

Later on, Meltem and I met up with some of her high school friends and went to a neighborhood café. We sat on the terrace and joked and talked a lot (once again, with Meltem needing to translate almost everything said between me and someone else). One of them, a girl named Buşra (pronounced something like “Bishra”) took a particular liking to me, and a playful and flirtatious tug-of-war ensued between her and Meltem over my attentions. It all felt very innocent and fun—they’re good people. Eventually everyone dispersed to their homes, which are all within a few blocks of each other, and I headed back to meet Ufkum. She didn’t come home until 11 pm because she takes Spanish lessons after work, but it was nice to sit and chat for a little while before she went to bed, only to repeat the cycle again.

Tuesday
The next day, Meltem and I had no plans beyond “going to the pool.” This sounded nice to me, as the last week has been pretty hectic, but I didn’t really understand what that entailed. We actually got a ride north of Istanbul all the way to the Black Sea (not that far away), and met up with another friend, Yağmur (“Yaa-moore”). Yağmur lives in a pretty nice gated community that has a spectacular pool area, with a lots of deck chairs and a rec room and just general nice surroundings. The three of us hung out and swam, then another guy (whose name I can’t remember and wouldn’t know how to spell anyway) meet up with us. Now four, we played some ping pong (ok, have to geek out for a second—Turks hold the paddles weird and put crazy types of spin on the ball I’ve never seen! It was amazing!), and lounged around. Eventually families with small but friendly kids showed up, who really enjoyed the waterproof qualities of my camera. We had a lot of fun throwing them in the pool, or organizing big group jumps of all of us while the slightly cougar-ish mothers and aunts looked on (“You’re American? You’re so handsome!”). Eventually, we got tired of this and us four “big kids” walked to the coast. This was a pretty amazing experience.

We came out of a field to suddenly see a beach, covered with empty umbrellas and deckchairs. A wide strip of sand was closest to the water, and above that was a grassy area with more seating areas. There were very few people there, for no discernable reason—it was gorgeous! The son of the beach area’s owner is Yağmur’s boyfriend, Brock, so he met us there and gave us a tour. Then we jumped in a little motorboat and headed out of the cove, along the coastline. It was a beautiful day, and there were a lot of big cargo and refining and fishing ships out. The coast itself was gorgeous, with lots of rocky cliffs and fjords and just general beauty. We followed it for a while, and then turned into a crevice between two tall cliffs. Spaced out on the rocks above us were a bunch of Turkish teenagers, hanging out and grilling kebabs on a little charcoal stove. We parked the boat and climbed up the rock wall, which was an adventure in itself, until we were on top of the cliff. I’m not very good at estimating distances, but they said it was about 8 meters or so up. Brock and I both jumped off into the deep water below, though he was diving each time and I was just doing cannonballs and trying to not scream like a girl on the long fall down. Once in the water, I also realized that there were jellyfish with us, though they seemed small and harmless like the ones I ran into in Egypt. Brock also climbed up a higher rock spire and dived off of that, but I prudently decided not to. Unfortunately, my camera battery died right around the same time, so I didn’t get many photos of this adventure.

After we had enough jumping we drove the boat over to another beach, then back to the first one. We left Brock there and the four of us took a taxi to the nearby town of Kilyos, which is where the guy was from. He took us to a local food stand owned by a friend of his, and ordered a Turkish dish whose name I can’t remember. There was so much collective enthusiasm centered around me eating it that I immediately assumed it was some sort of trick (like a confused Korean wandering into Scotland and being told by very friendly strangers “Oh, we eat this ‘haggıs’ stuff every day, and it’s delicious! Here, try some!”), but it was a legitimately good sausage-and-spices combination wrapped up in bread and topped with ketchup and mayo. After dinner, we went to a seafront café and sat on a balcony to watch the sunset over the Black Sea. Here, we ordered nargileh (same as Lebanese argileh, or Egyptian hookah). This was a treat for me, as I guess I’ve become somewhat of a connoisseur of tobacco water-pipes. They showed me a Turkish recipe/trick that I definitely plan to bring home to America, though the exact method and ingredients will of course remain a secret until I can improve on it and claim credit for myself. Anyway, it was a very smooth and pleasant smoke, and a very nice cloudless sunset. Quıte idyllic.

Afterwards, we split up to head to our respective homes. Meltem and I took a very cheap minibus back to her home neighborhood, which was quick and painless. We were both very tired by this point, so made vague plans to meet up sometime in the afternoon of the next day. It is now 8 pm on that next day and I haven’t seen her or left Ufkum’s house yet, but I’ve actually been quite productive. This brings me to the next part of the post…

…..

My travel plans have changed a bit. I was originally hoping to make it through Greece, Turkey, Syria, Jordan, and back across to Egypt for a full tour of as much of the Middle East as one can see in three weeks, but realistically that isn’t really a viable option. I lost a day in Thessaloniki, I really like Istanbul and want to be here for longer (I was actually supposed to leave yesterday…), and I’ve been dreading picking up my luggage that I sent with a friend from Beirut to Damascus and would have to cart around for the last week of the trip. When I planned this, I was originally countıng on havıng a friend traveling with me, which might have changed things a bit, but as it is I think it’s pretty unrealistic that Plan A is the best course of action. Plus, any excuse to stay in Istanbul is good for me. Seriously. I love this place.

So, I’ve rearranged things a bit. I’m skipping Jordan and Egypt, and instead only going as far as Damascus. Today I bought a plane ticket from Damascus to Cairo on the day of my flight back to the US (June 29^th-30^th), which will make things a lot easier. It was slightly more expensive, but I also justified it by thinking of all the costs that were eliminated by this change of plans, which I think mitigate the price of that extra plane ticket and luggage fees I’m bound to incur. I feel really solid about the decision, because it gives me until Saturday evening here in Istanbul, and a few more days in Syria than I was planning on. It’s a bummer to miss out on Jordan and the Alexandria crew that I was planning on meeting up with in Egypt, but such is life. It’s better this way, and I’m looking forward to the rest of the trip. Until then, carry on.

Cheers,
Neil