I moved to Istanbul September 12th, last year. It was hot and humid as hell when we arrived.
The universe has a twisted sense of humor, or at least very cultivated irony, and when booking my ticket home a few months ago, I found that the cheapest fare was actually with a return component - on September 12th, 2012. It seemed crazy to me that I was consciously setting up a situation in which I could return to Istanbul only a few months after leaving it. I'd gotten the visa. I had the promise of an apartment to call home. I had several job prospects. At the time, I just didn't have the heart to commit. Right now I have 2/3 of that still, and yet again, I lack the heart and ability to even look at my luggage. Which, mind you, is still only half-unpacked and lying a foot away. I think this is what a psychologist might call emotional limbo? Self-sabotage?
I promised myself I would entertain the idea of returning. I promised myself I would be open to signs "from the universe" (as my mom might put it.) I promised myself that if something came up, I would pursue my options.
Cosmos, you have until noon. That's a little over twelve hours. (A girl needs time to pack.)
Okay. Now that's out of the way. Back to Cappadocia.
I discovered while living in Turkey that I produce a strange pheromone that attracts (almost exclusively) men from Asia Minor. By Asia Minor I really mean Turkey + The Middle East. This never ceases to befuddle and amuse me - and make me deeply uncomfortable. I'm not someone who feels at ease when given piles of attention in any scenario. Not as a teacher, not as a friend, not as a member of a family, not as a shopper in a store, and certainly not as a "woman." As a direct result of my attention-phobia, I spent at least half of my classes sitting in the circle amongst my students, rather than near the chalkboard like all of my colleagues. The students thought I did this to make them feel better, but in truth it helped me feel less like an authority/entertainer/adult. I am shy and good at laughing at myself, and I'm a compulsive sweater-wearer. (My name is Anya.)
(un)Fortunately, that seems to be a major part of my allure in Turkey. Unlike so many of the fierce, razor-sharp, coiffed, waxed, stiff young thangs that run around Istanbul in MANGO dresses and fake eyelashes, I wasn't trained from a young age to avoid speaking to or looking at strange men. I'm the first to shake a hand. If someone asks me how I'm doing, I'll usually respond. (Rookie mistake, I know.) Some of that bright-eyed friendliness is definitely gone, but apparently I still project an aura of foreign openness AND I've been told I smile a lot. So much so that most of my students told me it was the first thing that gave away my non-Turkish background. (Second was my glasses, interestingly.) I walk a fine line between wearing modest and slightly revealing clothing (no scarf, but no bare legs or shoulders for this girl). I have dark hair, light eyes, and "white skin" (uhh... not my words). And, the real zinger: I'm a "good girl." (Also not my words.) My coworker Tony told me that one. When I pressed him for a definition, he told me I was "the kind of girl a man wanted to marry, rather than uhh... you know." He meant that as a compliment, I'm sure, but it really just reminded me of an episode of Felicity when she gets dumped for being precisely that. Marriage material.
Now you have some cultural background for my bizarre episode at a church in Cappadocia. As I mentioned in the last post, my time in the region wasn't really planned or thought out. I had no book (it was lost/stolen/?), and though I got a map at the hostel, I then promptly forgot it on my bed. I literally spent my free time walking in no particular direction, with no strong idea of what I might find when I eventually got somewhere. So on my way towards the Open Air Museum, I stopped at one of thousands of fairy chimney cave formations that looked museum-ish, and I popped my head in. A middle-aged man with little head-hair but a giant mustache beckoned me in with a booming "HELLO!" I said "Merhaba" in return (Turkish Hello) and just like that - I flipped a switch. The Turkish psyche is a complicated one. On the one hand, Turks are incredibly proud of their Ottoman past, and their great Republican beginnings. On the other hand, they feel totally disenfranchised in the international community and have great disdain for imperial America and snobby, immoral Europe. What this translates to on quotidian terms is that every Turk knows how to say "hello" in English, but they are OH SO THRILLED when you can speak even a little Turkish in response.
This guy, whose name I never caught, started firing away in Turkish and I think we made it through thirty seconds before I broke the news to him that I'd stopped comprehending. He asked me the usual tourist questions of what I was doing in the area and how long I was spending in Turkey, and I told him that I was an English teacher in Istanbul. His eyes lit up, and he immediately called out his co-docent from another room. Hands were shaken. I eventually got to ask about buying entrance to the museum, and he told me that the majority of the museum was up the road and I would need to buy my ticket and come back to his church on my way back down. Annnnd that he couldn't wait to talk to me then. Oh boy.
About two hours later, sweaty, dehydrated, and hungry, I came back down the path towards his church with the intention of skipping it and heading straight to sustenance. But he caught me, and beckoned me in with what I can only describe as typical aggressive Turkish hospitality. Despite the fact that it was easily 95F outside, he insisted I sit down for tea with him. We sat for at least fifteen minutes while he asked me about my life in Istanbul and gossiped about it with the various tour guides coming through the exhibit. He not only pulled out a fresh copy of a local map for me, highlighting the points of interest and writing up an itinerary, but he also told me he would personally accompany me the day after for a driving tour, wine tasting at sunset, and then a trip to a spa. And I'd better bring my bikini. I tried telling him that I didn't have a bikini or a bathing suit with me, but I guess his English wasn't as good as it seemed because he repeated the word "bikini" with bulging eyeballs about five times. And then he made me swap phone numbers.
The nice Australian guy I met at the Dark Church (whom I gave the 12 TL) extricated me when he saw me sitting there, fortunately. We were eavesdropping on a tour group when my new mustachioed friend pulled me aside - by the arm - so he could explain the layout of the frescoes to me. He dragged me over to "Maryam" (Mary) and told me that her smile was beautiful, like mine. Oh my. He did give me some other interesting tidbits, which I then passed on to Australia. Here's another view of the church:
I promised, i.e. lied, that I'd meet him the day after at our designated spot and made my exit as soon as humanly possible. Oops.
The next morning was undoubtedly the highlight of my trip. For reasons of aerodynamics and physics - I'm guessing - hot air balloons only fly very early in the morning when the air is still chilly. I'm assuming it has something to do with the pressure of the gas and the weight of air and scientific things I don't fully understand. Anyway. I dragged myself out of bed at 4.45 to meet the balloon guys at 5.00. Marcie, my French roommate, and Brazil decided to come with me despite the steep flight price. I don't think I've ever been so excited in my life. Really. I've done and seen some really cool shit in my 27 years, but I can honestly say that this was an experience I'd dreamed about since I was a child.
Our van was late, which freaked me out, and ended up having to double-back to pick up a straggler, which pissed me off. But whatever. HOT AIR BALLOONS! Getting to the field whence the balloons ascend was... like magic. There were even snacks.
There were about seventy balloons being inflated and prepared. Let me tell you - it's no easy feat. Each balloon had a team of probably eight to ten burly dudes working giant fans, gas dispensers, and huge ropes. In Cappadocia, it's big business. Since I actually bought one of the less expensive flights (120 euro if memory serves), I was herded towards a larger balloon with a basket that fit twenty. Plus a pilot and copilot. In my naive enthusiasm, I climbed into the back of the basket and as a result, spent a good two-thirds of the flight trying to see from behind a very solid Australian beefcake and his family. He took a lone picture of the field of balloons for me, so a lot of my photos weren't so stunning.
...but I got the last laugh when the wind changed just as we nearly bashed into a cliff and flew over this amazingness:
Quite a few people, including my brother, asked me how I wasn't scared to death the whole time. Like him, I'm very afraid of heights, and I have an imagination prone to envisioning plummeting to my own demise every time I cross a bridge. Balloons are a lot different from planes, though. The ascent is so slow and so gentle that it almost feels like you're not moving at all. And when you finally are up in the air, it's so stunning and personal and (for me,) so unbelievably thrilling, that it's joy rather than terror pumping through ye olde veins. Having said that, I don't have a lot of confidence in Turkish drivers, pilots, drivers, or engineers of any kind. I say that having taught many, many engineers of all kinds and seeing how un-detail-oriented they are in their language classes. Having been convinced during too many car/bus rides that I might be drawing my last breath of air. So when we approached the nasty side of a cliff with alarming speed and the balloon lifting at an uncomfortably slow rate, I was pretty sure we were done for. And I was pretty sure if I was going to die, I couldn't think of a better way or a better place to do so.
Uña Guggliardo: Maker of cards and cake. Lover of dogs and emotionally unavailable men. Died in a freak hot air balloon accident. Survived by her family, friends, and cat Sheba.
I severely underestimated the pilot. I had a front-row seat to his gas/flame action, and I still have no idea how he did it, but we soared above that jagged rock with inches to spare. The Italian group in the balloon exploded into claps and cheers and "BRAVISSIMO!" Even though I resented the loud noises at such an early hour, they were right. The flight lasted a little under an hour, and we quickly landed and stumbled out of the balloon. When I reserved the flight, one of its great appeals was the guarantee of a glass of champagne (and flight certificate) at the end.
By glass of champagne, they really meant "glass of apple juice with a drip of champagne on top." I didn't feel obliged to tip.
I spent most of the rest of that day hanging out with Sindi, the hostel dog. She became my new best friend.
For lunch, Hiroko and I tried a cafe famous for its lentil soup. Çorba mercimek (chore-bah mare-jee-meck) is probably my favorite thing to eat in Turkey. It's comforting, cheap, and very healthy. And though this might repulse you, with a scoop of plain Turkish yogurt, it's kind of unbeatable. A little watery for my tastes, but who am I to judge:
After lunch, Hiroko and I parted ways and I ended up doing some spontaneous solo hiking in the Rose Valley. Some little boys saw me walking up the trail and ran to get their father. I could hear/understand them screaming "Baba! A tourist lady is coming!" Baba ("Dad") invited me to have tea with them at their restaurant, but I politely declined and made my way into the blazing sunshine.
Self portrait:
I sat in that spot for a few hours. That cliché of "wherever you go, there you are" is definitely true. Problems don't vanish with a change of location. There were people riding horses in the distance, and big predatory birds flying around. It was definitely a moment. At some point I sent a text to Museum Docent telling him I was much too tired for our "tour" that night, and had to apologize for canceling. He didn't text me back. Hiroko and I had a lovely dinner together that night at a total tourist trap of a restaurant. I think I paid more for the bowl of yogurt I asked for off the menu than I would have for three tubs of yogurt at the Carrefour down my street.
The next day - my last day - Hiroko, Marcie, and I took a popular touristy all-day tour of the region. It wasn't as memorable as I'd hoped, but we got "stuck" with a really funny mix of Portuguese women, Thai friends, a few Japanese students, and some Koreans. The tour was conducted in English and I was without a doubt the only native speaker. We visited a few valleys - only for photo ops - an underground city, and a beautiful though absolutely defaced church in a valley we hiked through.
Our tour guide was apparently a bit of a local celebrity, according to the guys at the hostel, but struck me more as a cross between Rico Suave and Vinny from Jersey Shore than anything else. He certainly knew his history, but there was just something about him that didn't sit well with me. Like he wasn't really Turkish. He took a lot of liberties with the Portuguese women, and when I finally let him know I wasn't going to be teased, and that I was on to his non-Turkish secret, he told me that I wasn't totally "American" and "looked Mexican." That caught me off guard. I told him I was half, and he shocked me when he said "it's your dad. He's Mexican." Creepy, oily, psychic!
Our last stop on the tour was a natural gemstone factory, of course. We had a short demonstration of onyx-polishing, and when the factory hack was showing us the little "egg" sculpture his worker made in front of us, he asked us what "Cappadocia" meant. Like the geek I am, I blurted out "the Land of Beautiful Horses" while everyone else looked on, eyes glazed over. He handed me the egg. Then they all shot me a filthy look. "When you see this onyx, lady, you think of us and Cappadocia."
A few hours later, my egg and I (and no Sindi because she went missing that afternoon) got on the bus back to Istanbul. Probably a pound or two lighter, a few shades darker, and a little less heavy-hearted. The large, head-scarfed woman next to me offered a treat and refused to take no for an answer.
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