For many, travel is about destinations and sights. For me it is more often about moments; moments that stick with me and form my impressions of the countries we visit. Below, I have tried to capture some of those moments. (In re-reading these moments, it would seem I am too preoccupied by beer. :)
Safranbolu-Amasra
The road winds through the mountains beneath a golden leafed canopy of trees. The sunlight strobes through the tree trunks hypnotizing with the beauty of a mountain fall. Golden leaves, kicked up by the tires, form small whirlwinds in the wake of our rapid passage. At a quick stop for a photo, we are serenaded by the mid-day muezzin's call to prayer from a mosque in the village below. His voice provides a moment of enchantment as we gaze across the steep sided valley to the golden hued hillside beyond. We have stopped in a forest of sycamores whose spiky bulbs provide the promise of new trees to come. The muezzin's call prolongs a moment in our dash through the mountains from Safranbolu to Amasra on the Black Sea.
Selcuk
I step out of the gate of our pansion in the early evening to walk to the corner market for a beer. The cool night air is alive with the scent of burning rubbish and the smell of roasting meat from the kabab cart on the corner. Two children walk by laughing that innocent laugh only children possess. As I near the corner store, I pass a tea shop. Several men sit on stools on the sidewalk sipping chai. I nod a greeting at some who catch my eye. Soft greetings of "Salaam Aleikum" and "Merhaba" follow my passage. I pop in the store and grab a few bottles of Efes beer. I retrace my path to the hotel and know I am in Turkey.
Catal Hayuk
I peer into the deep excavation of the mound ruins at Catal Hayuk. This is a veritable Turkish time machine that carries me back 8000 years. Catal Hayuk is purported to be the first city in the world. Little remains but some low mud brick walls that tell the story of a 1400 year occupation in the 8th and 7th centuries BC. Traces of an agrarian society are scattered about the ruins. Here a piece of pottery, there a pair of horns from an auroch. As many as fourteen layers of ruins have been identified in the 150 foot high mound. From the top I look out across the Anatolian Plateau and imagine the lives of the thousands that lived, loved and died here not knowing they were living in the cradle of civilization.
Konya
I walk out into the drizzling rain. After a long day's drive from Olympos, I am tired yet wired from the stress of driving into the night. I need a drink to ease my mind and body. I walk down streets lit with dazzling and flashing LED lights advertising electronic and appliance stores. The meat smell emanating from kabab stands makes me salivate but I am on a mission for beer.
Konya is the holiest of holies so liquor stores are rarer than rain in the Sahara yet somehow Konya has the highest rate of alcoholism in Turkey. I pop into a mini-mart and start to leave when I see no beer. Somehow, the proprietor catches my eye, looks at me, and knows my mission. He makes a drinking motion with his hand and queries softly, "Bira"? Slightly embarrassed, I nod. He smiles and takes me by the hand, gestures and tells me in Turkish to go two blocks and turn left to find the beer store. Somehow I understand him and with his directions easily find the beer store. It is now raining harder but I don't care as I wander back to my hotel through the Turkish night.
Istanbul
Galata Tower looms over the neighborhood of Beyoglu. On one side is the Golden Horn and the other the Bosphorus. To the west the massive Sulieman Mosque squats on the shore flanked by four minarets. The western sky is aflame with the sun dropping behind wispy clouds punctuated by darker fluff balls in the foreground. It is call to prayer time. The caucophony of every muezzin's call in every mosque in the city reverberates across the water; an accompaniment to the riotous sunset.
The Galata Bridge spans the Golden Horn from the old city to the new. A sky blue painted span teems with fishermen trying their luck. We see several small fish pulled from the water wriggling on the line for the long pull up to the bridge. We sit in a quayside restaurant sipping beer on a cold November day...our last day in Istanbul.
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| Sunset-Amasra, Black Sea |
Safranbolu-Amasra
The road winds through the mountains beneath a golden leafed canopy of trees. The sunlight strobes through the tree trunks hypnotizing with the beauty of a mountain fall. Golden leaves, kicked up by the tires, form small whirlwinds in the wake of our rapid passage. At a quick stop for a photo, we are serenaded by the mid-day muezzin's call to prayer from a mosque in the village below. His voice provides a moment of enchantment as we gaze across the steep sided valley to the golden hued hillside beyond. We have stopped in a forest of sycamores whose spiky bulbs provide the promise of new trees to come. The muezzin's call prolongs a moment in our dash through the mountains from Safranbolu to Amasra on the Black Sea.
Selcuk
I step out of the gate of our pansion in the early evening to walk to the corner market for a beer. The cool night air is alive with the scent of burning rubbish and the smell of roasting meat from the kabab cart on the corner. Two children walk by laughing that innocent laugh only children possess. As I near the corner store, I pass a tea shop. Several men sit on stools on the sidewalk sipping chai. I nod a greeting at some who catch my eye. Soft greetings of "Salaam Aleikum" and "Merhaba" follow my passage. I pop in the store and grab a few bottles of Efes beer. I retrace my path to the hotel and know I am in Turkey.
Catal Hayuk
I peer into the deep excavation of the mound ruins at Catal Hayuk. This is a veritable Turkish time machine that carries me back 8000 years. Catal Hayuk is purported to be the first city in the world. Little remains but some low mud brick walls that tell the story of a 1400 year occupation in the 8th and 7th centuries BC. Traces of an agrarian society are scattered about the ruins. Here a piece of pottery, there a pair of horns from an auroch. As many as fourteen layers of ruins have been identified in the 150 foot high mound. From the top I look out across the Anatolian Plateau and imagine the lives of the thousands that lived, loved and died here not knowing they were living in the cradle of civilization.
Konya
I walk out into the drizzling rain. After a long day's drive from Olympos, I am tired yet wired from the stress of driving into the night. I need a drink to ease my mind and body. I walk down streets lit with dazzling and flashing LED lights advertising electronic and appliance stores. The meat smell emanating from kabab stands makes me salivate but I am on a mission for beer.
 |
| Mevlana (Rumi) Mosque-Konya |
Konya is the holiest of holies so liquor stores are rarer than rain in the Sahara yet somehow Konya has the highest rate of alcoholism in Turkey. I pop into a mini-mart and start to leave when I see no beer. Somehow, the proprietor catches my eye, looks at me, and knows my mission. He makes a drinking motion with his hand and queries softly, "Bira"? Slightly embarrassed, I nod. He smiles and takes me by the hand, gestures and tells me in Turkish to go two blocks and turn left to find the beer store. Somehow I understand him and with his directions easily find the beer store. It is now raining harder but I don't care as I wander back to my hotel through the Turkish night.
Istanbul
Galata Tower looms over the neighborhood of Beyoglu. On one side is the Golden Horn and the other the Bosphorus. To the west the massive Sulieman Mosque squats on the shore flanked by four minarets. The western sky is aflame with the sun dropping behind wispy clouds punctuated by darker fluff balls in the foreground. It is call to prayer time. The caucophony of every muezzin's call in every mosque in the city reverberates across the water; an accompaniment to the riotous sunset.
 |
| Sulieman Mosque across the Golden Horn at sunset from Galata Tower |
The Galata Bridge spans the Golden Horn from the old city to the new. A sky blue painted span teems with fishermen trying their luck. We see several small fish pulled from the water wriggling on the line for the long pull up to the bridge. We sit in a quayside restaurant sipping beer on a cold November day...our last day in Istanbul.
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| Enjoying a drink on Galata Bridge-Istanbul |
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