(#1/8) The Turkey Trip

When it was snowing sideways and daylight lasted for 6 hours, I decided that I needed to buy a plane ticket to a hot place. Once upon a time I saw a pretty cool picture of Turkey, so that was good enough for me. Seven months later I was not disappointed.

 6 Aug 2011-

Good grıef, where do I even start?! So far the biking in Turkey ıs super easy, the cars gıve me a WIDE berth and a polite little honk to let me know they are comıng up behind me. This almost made me pee myself the first time it came from a big lorry, but now I find myself appreciating the not so subtle heads up. There isn't very much traffic on the main roads so the biking is relaxing, but this is not the way it started. 

I flew into Istanbul then caught a connecting flight into Kayseri, a smaller city in the center of Turkey. A picture of the rock formations in Cappadocia area was the whole basis for me traveling to Turkey so I thought I would start there. I landed, and went to the baggage claim to wait for my bike. I waited, and waited, and waited some more. Two days later, looking like it had a run in with the jaws of life, my bicycle and most of my belongings decided to join me on my cycling trip. 

While trying not to let the fact that the screws attaching the wheels to my bike were gone ruin my trip, I received my first taste of Turkish hospitality. My bike box was brought out to me on a flatbed cart with it's bowels exploding all the gear I needed for a month. I stared at it in open mouth shock. An airport official who was walking past looked at me, looked at the mess of bike parts then promptly sat me down and brought me hot tea and biscuits. After nibbling my cookies and slurping my tea my shock and dismay dissipated. I methodically put my bike together and miraculously the only thing missing was the quick lock that keeps the front wheel stuck on the bike. In a pinch a nut will work in it's place, and soon there were airport workers running to equipment closets and tool boxes to find the right size nut. When we found one that finally worked a collective cheer went up from the now sizable crowd. I was clapped on the back and herded out of the airport with an entourage of well wishers waving me off. I pedaled out the sliding door and into Turkey.

A right turn out of the airport seemed the least treacherous so right I went. Cars were whizzing past me at a furious pace and lane lines didn't exist. Ahead looked like a crazy jumble of madness. My balloon of headstrong self reliance quickly deflated into a withered little puddle of questioning my chosen method of travel. This wedge of doubt was bolstered by the fact that I had absolutely no idea of where I was going or even which direction I was headed. Suddenly ahead was a gigantic shiny, and welcoming bus terminal... and it was on the right. 

Taking the bus is far easier than biking, so in a matter of hours I found myself in Göreme. A little village nestled in a valley of questionable looking spires. This area was on the silk road trade route and throughout thousands of years monks, vıllagers, and nomads have hollowed out living quarters, churches, and pigeon rookeries (apparently you were a nobody if you did not deal in pigeon poop). 



The village was made for exploring, and for tourists. Walking up narrow little alleyways carved out of solid rock, you could duck into doorways and look up to find yourself in an elaborately painted centuries old church that was being used to store grain. You could also be led by the hand by little old women who didn't speak a word of English and brought you into their homes to show off the potholders that they had been knitting all winter just for you. After a cup of tea and lots of wrinkly smiles, it only seemed right to buy four. 

I spent a day hiking through some of the valleys surroundıng the village with my main objective being to find one valley in particular. There is a magical place fılled with hundreds of thin spires. Each with a pointy cap of harder stone which gives all the formations a decidedly inappropriate look-  the apptly named Love Valley. 

 Oh what a place. I walked around a corner on a nice, innocent sandy little path and my wise mature countenance dissolved in a 5th graders sense of humor. I lapsed into a helpless fit of giggles. To say that that the spires are phallic is an understatement. There they sit, each slightly ribbed by the weather and standing at very attentive attention. The thing I was not prepared for was the shear size of these massive pillars. Some were so big that they had stairwells carved into the shaft opening into a panoramic view of the whole valley.  I wondered if previous inhabitants had ever looked at their neighbor's spire and felt slightly inadequate. Walking around the base of an average pillar took a considerable amount of time. Leaning back against a spire, I was struck with the thought of how very ancient this place is, and how very lucky I was to be here.

Goreme and the surrounding villages are the Disneyland of Turkey. The whole area was so stunningly surreal and different from any place I had ever been. My trip had finally started.

(#2/8) Scooters and Underground Cities

9 Aug 2011

The night before I left Goreme, the hotel owner asked if I wanted to drive out to a viewpoint to watch the sunset. Not wanting to miss out on a potentially fabulous experience (the sunset of course) I immediately said yes. I walked out the front door of the hotel and there he was. Black hair billowing in the breeze as he sat astride his scooter. Thankful I wore pants, I jumped aboard. The roar of all 50cc's straining against a maxed out weight capacity was music to my ears as we buzzed up windy cobblestone roads and sandy washes to the overlook. We made it just as the sun was dropping below the hills. Suddenly the sandstone took on all the colors of a sunset and the landscape eclipsed the sky with it's vibrant show of light and shadow.

We took the scenic way back. Instead of riding the roads, we took the scooter up and down rocky dirt trails that would make me squeamish on a mountain bike.  Many times I offered to walk up steep sections, but no, no, I was assured that this was just fine. A rev of the engine and a bounce on the seat usually got us over the rocky stretches. I have never been so impressed with a motor vehicle. I vowed I would get myself a scooter as soon as I got home. With cliffs on one side and shear walls on the other, we wound our way, in the dark, back to the village. I thanked my guide and with a pounding heart I headed off to try and get a little sleep before the morning call to prayer woke me.

Six days into my cycling trip I had yet to travel farther than 2 miles on my bicycle. Today that would change. The average daily temperatures were consistently in the 90's. To keep my sanity I woke up at 4:30am and started my day as the morning prayers echoed in loudspeakers from the mosques in the village.

On the way to the Ilhara Valley, my goal for the day, I stopped in Darinkuyu, home to an extensive underground city.  The city didn't open for another hour so I stopped at a tea stall nearby (also not open) and without asking I was served tea, biscuits, and fruit. Not as many people spoke English as I expected so with the very few words of Turkish that I learned and lots of charades, the stall owner said he would watch my fully loaded bike as I went to go see the underground city.

The city goes down hundred of feet but only the first 8 are open to the pubic. Since 2000BC many groups of people have used the city for protection from raiding parties, for living, for sleeping, for food storage, and for praying. Thousands of years and millions of chisel marks have created roomy chambers, tables, benches, and even a stable with feed bins carved out of the walls. The most affluent dwellers lived in the top levels where the air was fresh, lower down the rooms were smaller, the hallways more cramped, and the air was cold and stale. Walking up into the daylight never felt so liberating.

The rest of the day's ride was one of the hottest I have ever had on a bike. When I reached the river at the bottom of the Ilhara Valley, I ditched my bike and waded in up to my thighs washing the salt and sweat from my face as the valley inhabitants looked on with amusement. There was a restaurant that had cushions on little platforms in the middle of the river. You had to walk across narrow gangplanks to reach them and I asked if it was possible to stay the night there. One of the young workers smiled and told me to come back this evening, he would have my room ready. I spent the rest of the day hiking through the valley and exploring the hundreds of caves carved out of the cliffs on either side.

When I returned to the restaurant in the evening, the young man motioned for me to follow him. Holding a candle on a dish to light the way, he led me across a board to a small platform in the middle of the river that he had hung with beautiful patterned cloth of reds and golds to make a tent. He pulled back the opening and inside my room was lined with cushions and blankets. On a small table there was a dish filled with  little candles that cast a soft warm glow throughout the space. He waved goodnight and I  slept with the water gently flowing all around my little world.

(#3/8) Selime Monastery and Turkish Taboos

11 Aug 2011
I rode my bike straight up out of the Ilhara Valley, and promptly descended back down on the most welcome and glorious downhill stretch of road that I had biked so far. Throughout the 6 miles that I biked that day I had stunning views of the Selime Monastery, one of the largest religious buildings in the Cappodocia region. The monastery is set into the side of the plateau and lies within a honeycomb of  hundreds of smaller rooms carved out of the rock.

 I stopped for lunch at a small restaurant by the river to fortify myself after my long ride. I started talking to one of the owners there, and not only did he let me camp in the grass on the side of the restaurant, but he said he would be my tour guide to the monastery. When we arrived the gates were closed, but my smooth talking tour guide slipped us through and we had the whole site to ourselves. As we walked up ramped leading to the inner chambers my guide explained that caravans would seek refuge here, so the hallways had to be large enough to accommodate fully loaded camels. Every single window, arched doorway, and stairway had been carved out of the rock and the walls, though smooth to the touch, upon closer inspection had millions of tiny scratch marks from hand held chisels.

My guide turned to me and asked, "Are you brave?" I scoffed at him and followed him through a gated hallway to a narrow staircase. The stairs became a stone ladder, a ladder with drooping rungs covered with sand. Up and up it wound, every now and then an opening would be carved out of the wall that looked down at the valley floor. As the stairs became steeper small cups had been carved into the sides as handholds. Feeling not so brave at this point I tried not to think of how on earth I would get back down.

Thankfully the stairs ended and we walked to a chimney. My guide looked at me with a twinkle in his eye and pointed up. "You first" he said, "That way you have something soft to land on if you fall!" The chimney was four feet across and sixty feet tall. There were scoops cut into the wall on each side for my feet and hands. With a gulp I worked my way up, stemming my feet the width of the chimney one foot at a time. One belly-flop and a wiggle brought me to the top of the landing. The no guard rail, super exposed, sand covered and sloping downward landing. On one side was the gaping hole I just crawled out of and on the other was the sunset view of the entire Ilhara Valley hundreds of feet below. "Move Over!" My guide called out, and I inched slightly farther out onto the landing. "I didn't think you would go up" he said as he climbed up in his slip on leather dress shoes, "I think you are the first American woman who has climbed up here." That was almost enough to make me loosen the death grip hold I had on the rock behind me, almost.

Back on solid ground, My guide asked if I wanted to go to the hotsprings nearby. He said that every night people light candles surrounding the pool and it glows with the moonlight making it a magical place. How could I refuse?

We hitchhiked a ride up the road, making a quick stop so he could buy potato chips and cigarettes. At the head of the short trail leading down to the spring, a family was having a late night dinner. They invited us to have a cup of chai with them. As soon as I sat down, the round faced happy mother pulled me into a bear hug and would not let me go. She laughed and squeezed me as she rapidly asked me questions. Not understanding a word she was saying, I smiled  and said "thank you" which only made her laugh out loud and bounce me up and down into her ample bosom. I managed to extract myself after cupfuls of tea and many more squeezes and we walked down the trail to the pool.
"I will be going all open" my guide declared, and proceeded to take off all his clothes.

I was pretty sure that I was pushing the boundaries of appropriate social interactions already, so I decided that a tank top and pants was a better swim suit option for me. When I tried to explain that I was not comfortable going "all open" my guide looked at me with a confused expressions. "You did not come here to make sexy time?" He asked. Thus began one of the most interesting hotspring soaks I have ever had.

Since I most likely would never be able to have a conversation as "all open" about Turkish sexual culture again, I took full advantage. My guide was convinced that American women were strong willed and overtly sexual. He assured me that this was true because he had seen Sex in the City.  As tourism was growing in the valley so was his exposure to women with a less conservative background.This was a vast difference from Turkish women who are expected to be both publicly and privately shy and modest. We talked long into the night, until my guide, laughing so hard he almost choked, held up his hands and said,"I cannot take it anymore! You don't even know what 31 is!" We walked back up the trail and caught a ride back into the village with a passing truck. With a quick wave I was dropped off at the restaurant. I walked over to my tent wondering what on earth the next day could possibly bring.

(#4/8) Dervishes and Bat Caves

3 Aug 2011
This morning I biked into Konya. It felt epic. Not because of traffic or (for once) heat, but because I had no idea where I was going. As I neared town I went through enough round-abouts that I completely lost my sense of direction.
 Eventually I found myself at the Shrine of Rumi, the Sufi poet. Around 1245 he withdrew to a monastic life, wrote poetry, and developed the Whirling Dervish Dance.

The Whirling Dervishes wear white gowns to symbolize their death shrouds and tall brown hats to symbolize their tombstones. They start to slowly turn, reaching one hand down towards the earth showing the connection to material life. The other hand extends upwards symbolizing the relationship to god. As they spin, the Dervishes relax into a meditative state, surrendering themselves to an inner peace and connection with god. The ceremony is completed with a reading from the Qu'ran.

The Shrine was a beautiful place, and now a popular pilgrimage site. Inside there were relics from Rumi's life including a copy of the Koran so small that it made the writer go blind. The walls and ceilings were adorned with detailed inscriptions From Rumi's writings. In the center stood his tomb. His epitaph reads:

"When we are dead, seek not our tomb in the earth, but find it in the hearts of men." 

From Konya I took the bus to Ergirdir. After the dust and heat of the roads, the bus was a luxury. But Turkish buses would feel like an extravagance anywhere. The buses they use are the same "luxury coaches" they use to take nursing home patrons to casinos. Each bus has an attendant, usually in a crisp white button down shirt with a colorful bow tie. Once the journey begins, the attendant rolls a little cart down the middle aisle and passes out various snacks and cookies. Next comes the little cart with hot teas and soft drinks. Each seat has it's own TV and headphones. The only channel that had English speakers was the pop music videos. I have never felt so up to date with popular teen songs in my life. After a short period, the attendant wheels his cart up the aisle and the whole process repeats. I was beginning to wonder why I even bothered bringing my bike.

Ergidir is up on the Anatolian Plateau in the lake district of Turkey. The lake is surrounded by mountains, the water is an impossible blue-green, and bathtub warm. I decided to stay in the hostel there and while eating breakfast I started talking to an Australian family. The husband Bob had been an avid biker. As soon as he found out that I was cycling through Turkey his eyes lit up. The rest of his family rolled their eyes and scooted their plates to the far end of the table. "Do you fancy a bike ride today?" Bob asked. I happily accepted.

I don't think I have ever cycled with such an enthusiastic man, ever. From the minute we took off Bob manically chattered about the joys of cycling, how his family thinks he is crazy, and how much fun he was having on our little ride, "Nothing like the feel of a bike seat on the old bum eh?!" He gleefully shouted questions and observations to me, hysterically laughing at his own jokes and comments. "Look at that dead animal in the road!" He roared, "It looks like mushy peas!" I loved him.

23km away there is a cave in the mountains. The rocks around the entrance are carved with Roman letters dating back to the ADs. When we go there we woke up the attendant who insisted that we wear bright yellow hard hats for our safety. The cave was a welcome respite from the growing heat of the day but as far as caves go was fairly unimpressive. As we walked deeper into the rocks, the stench of guano and the squeaking from thousands of bats steadily increased. The ground was damp and squishy with mud and gravel... or so I thought. As we rounded a corner into a well lit area, we realized that it was not mud that was squishy, but the dead bodies of hundreds of bat bodies that cushioned our feet.

Upon emerging from the Cave of One Thousand Bat Bodies, my new Australian friend and I ate a quick lunch before Bob decided that sadly, he should probably get back to his family vacation. "They wouldn't have liked the bats," Bob ruefully sighed. As we rolled back into Ergidir, Bob clapped me on the back, nearly toppling me over, "Ah- life's a beaut when you're on a pedal bike."

(#5/8) Sagalassos, Best Ruins off the Beaten Path



 

5 August 2011

When there is no plan, each day is full of opportunities. I decided that I would head south towards the Mediterranean coast. On the way there is an Archeological Site called Sagalassos. The ride was hot, dusty dirt roads full of construction traffic, and steep winding downhill. By the time I got into the valley below the ruins I was delirious with heat, but all signs pointed up, up, up.

 

 After a quick lukewarm water break, I oozed myself back onto my bike and started the long uphill grind. The road climbed above the valley floor, climbed up into the surrounding hills, climbed to the top of the ridges, and still no sign of the ruins. By now it was the hottest part of the day without  a speck of shade on the climb. I was mashing my pedals down to gain a little bit of up. I was standing, sweating, grunting out loud, and beetles were going up the road faster than I was. I gave in, I pushed my bike, and pushed, and pushed. Hours dribbled by and finally 5,500 feet up, I saw the gate. Two men were sleeping as I limped into the shaded entrance area, huffing and blowing hard as sweat streamed down my face and crusty salt flaked off my skin. They looked at me, and without asking brought me a drink... of scalding hot tea.

 

The site had 30 minutes before it closed for the night, but the men told me that I could wander around as long as I wanted. The sun was easing off, and there wasn't a single person around other than the two men back at the gate. With the ride over and done with (and heat blisters rising up on my thighs) I took my water bottle and sat overlooking the main marble road within the ruins. A quietness settled me as I took in the view.

 Looking around at the thousands of intricately hand carved marble blocks, I was struck by the amazing amount of time and work it took to build this city. People had been living in the area since 8000 BC but to hear some of the big names of Roman History and know that those people had walked these same paths was blowing my mind.

Alexander the Great captured the city in 333BC and roman style development continued. The main attraction of the ruins is the fountain in the square. Giant marbled pillars topped with scroll worked arches frame statues of gods and goddesses. Each of the statues stand taller than I am and water pours out of a fountain into a pool that they watch over. It was jaw dropping beautiful.

 

I walked around the site for hours and I had it all to myself. There was a heaviness to the area that made me feel like an ant in size and a speck in time. I felt so lucky to be there and to see it at my own pace. The roman baths built around 1 AD, during the rule of Marcus Aurelius, are some of the oldest in the Anatolia area. As I walked along the outskirts of the site I stubbed my toe on the corner of a rock and stumbled forward. Looking back, my "rock" was carved heavily on one side with roman lettering and a patterned border. Every stone seemed to have significance here. I felt like I was slipping into a gladiator movie.

 

The city was devastated by earthquakes multiple times, the last was so severe that the inhabitants were forced to move away from the ruined city and down into the valley. Because of the difficulty in getting to the site, it has mostly been protected from looters. The earthquakes have also served to protect the site. The library once held thousands of scrolls in alcoves surrounding a beautifully mosaic tile floor. The floor, almost fully intact was saved when the roof of the building collapsed suddenly during one of the quakes

I made my way slowly back to the entrance. The two attendants wanted to know if it was worth the ride up the mountain. I told them that I would have made the climb ten times over again to see this place. After one last cup of scalding tea I jumped on my bike with a spring in my step. The downhill back to the valley was crazy fast. Zipping along I hooted and whooped all the way down.



(#6/8) Sneaky Field Camping and onto Antayla

6 Aug 2011

After leaving Sagalassos I was thinking I would just camp by the side of the road in the grass just above the town. This was a good plan. But when I found the perfect spot, the ground was full of goat heads, sharp rocks, and thorns. I had just bought my new tent, my really cool one person lightweight spiffy neato tent (the MSR Hubba) and the thought of ripping the bottom apart on thorns was too much for me. I convinced myself that I would find a better spot a little farther down, which of course I did, in someone’s yard.

This would have been a much less stressful night if I had asked to spend the night in that person’s yard, but it was dusk, I felt like I had heat stroke, and the thought of dealing with the language barrier right then and there was just too much for me. So quietly and slowly I pushed my bike down into a lush, grassy orchard. I could barely see a building through the trees and I planned to be out early in the morning.

That night I moved in slow motion, I was silence itself. It took me half an hour to blow up my sleeping pad but finally with camp set up, I crawled into my tent and passed out… until I heard footsteps. With dread stealing over me in waves of hot prickles, I waited for the angry voice. This happened all night long. There were cats that gave me heart attacks, flying night monsters that made my heart pound, and actually snakes that slithered against the walls of my tent.

 

When the sky started to lighten, I gave up on sleep and packed up. Riding the last mile into Aglasus I arrived just as a dolmus pulled up, heading to Antalya. The Dolmus is a van where, like magic, amazing amounts of people all fit into an exceedingly small space. I pointed to myself and my bike, then to the dolmus. The driver nodded and I nearly threw my arms around him with joy, until I looked inside.

 

If the Dolmus is a magic capacity machine, then the driver is most assuredly the magician. In the blink of an eye, the wheels were taken off my bike, the panniers were thrown somewhere, I was pushed into the lap of very boney woman, and my dirty, greasy bike frame was pushed into mine. I have never been happier to ride 120km in a non-air conditioned car. The road was steep, dusty, and under construction; there was not an inch of shade or shoulder on the road.

 

With temperatures over 100°, I was thrilled to pay the 10 lira for the ride, and despite my awkward and inconvenient baggage, not one passenger gave me a dirty look. I was pretty sure they all though I was just plain crazy. And truthfully, I had to agree. Perhaps a bit more research on bike routes in Turkey would have been worthwhile. So far, this is not the route I would suggest.

(#7/8) Antayla

7 Aug 2011

I found a beautiful hotel, Embassy Pansion for 40 TL per night, with a fenced in courtyard where I could dump my bike. I felt like I needed a little alone time away for the bicycle. I had a puffy rash on my legs and feet from cycling in the heat, and had managed to sunburn my back through my shirt the day before. I felt like I was wearing too much clothing and my head had been aching for two full days despite drinking gallons of juice and water. I needed a vacation.

 

Fortunately Antalya is the place.  The Mediterranean is blue green, the sunbathers are out in force, and every street corner sells fresh squeezed orange juice. Kayleci, the historic old town of Antalya has narrow winding streets of cobblestone and Ottoman style houses where the second floor overhangs the first. The town is full shops and little markets selling souvenirs, spices, and fresh fruit.  I went immediately to a clothing store and bought a tank top. For the first time in Turkey, I bared my shoulders, it felt fabulous.

 

The heat was ever present so I would walk around for about an hour, find my hotel, take a freezing cold shower, and lay down with the air conditioning blasting until I dried off. This was working pretty well for me until the cleaning lady walked in on me laying buck naked on the bed. I decided that I needed to get out more.

 

There was a mosque nearby, and I had yet to go inside of one, so I peeled myself off the sheets and left. At the entrance to most mosques there is a bin of scarves that you can borrow. I had donned a shirt to cover my arms and with my borrowed headscarf, I left my shoes at the door and stepped inside. There was an instant hush when I walked in. The noises of the city are muffled by the plush carpets and thick marble walls. A few people were seated around the mosque praying. There was a special section for women off to the side, and I sat with my back against the smooth stone so could people watch without being noticed.

 

There is a different feeling when you step inside old religious buildings. Sounds become muted and the air feels heavier. The domed ceiling of the mosque let in an amazing amount of light and gave it a sense of airiness. There was pulpit in the center and a few rooms at the entrance. The mosque was very simple inside, the carpets rolled out wall to wall being the only decoration.

 

I realized after I had planned my trip that I would be traveling during the holy month of Ramadan. For the entire month, Muslins abstain from eating or drinking from sunrise to sunset. Just before sunset, people sit at restaurant tables with water glasses beading up from condensation waiting in front of them. As soon as the evening prayer sounds out from the mosque’s loudspeakers signaling sunset, everyone grabs their water glasses and drinks deeply. Each day, that must be the most delicious glass of water imaginable.

(#8/8) Vertical Tombs and Santa Claus



After my standard breakfast of tomatoes, cheese, olives, and bread (most always included in your hotel room) I decided to catch the bus to Myra. I took one last cold shower and forced myself into the blazing sun for the short but oh so long hot ride to the bus station. So far I had ridden my bike very little and my bike had ridden the bus very much. I saw no reason to change this, as I was on vacation after all.

The Myra archaeological site is a sheer cliff face riddled with ancient tombs and carvings. I thought that the tombs were the only thing to see there, but just to the right there was a beautiful amphitheater with seating for thousands, and thousands came to see it. Bus load after bus load of tourists poured into the site as the afternoon wore on. Even full of people, Myra’s tombs and stone work was massively impressive. Every nook and cranny was full of giant blocks carved over ever inch with theater masks and scrollwork.

 

I wandered for hours, forgetting the heat as I explored nooks and crannies full of giant blocks with every inch carved into theater masks and intricate scrollwork. Nothing was off limits, you could crawl around the steep hillsides to your hearts content. The tombs required a sandy scramble to get up to them, but once inside the coolness flowed through the rocks and the view over the site looked down onto an anthill of tourists.

 

I made my way down to a restaurant and drank juice until I could hardly move. Cats and chickens moved around the table legs without anyone even taking notice. I had the brief thought that if I waited long enough things would cool down, but I had to make the next town before nightfall.

 

In town there is a Christian cathedral to St Nicholas, the patron saint of western Christmas. At the church there are statues of St Nick and just outside the main doors, a baptismal font that could fit a 300 pound man. I was starting to get a glimpse of just how much ancient history played a part in Turkey's Christian history. Inside, the cathedral was cool, so I liked it and was happy that I had stopped, but much of it was in ruins. More interesting were the souvenirs and knick knacks that were being sold outside. There were stalls filled with Christmas decorations from little glass ornaments with St Nick's face to tinsel covered holly branches. With 100 degree weather and desert all around I felt like I had stepped into a Christmas twilight zone. I reluctantly pulled myself away from glittered evergreen trees , climbed onto my bike, and rode towards Kas.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I had the idea that I would be riding blissfully along a seaside road, wind blowing through my panniers and birds chirping as I made my way past. Reality was a bright red streaming salty sweat into my eyes. I audibly gasped my way up and down hills, stopping only to have a temper tantrum about the heat. During one such tantrum I realized that I had thrown my bike up against not a horse trough, but a Lycian coffin from about 700 ad just sitting there on the side of the road. The hand chiseled marks that created the coffin out of one solid piece of stone snapped me out of feeling sorry for myself, I pedaled off reminding myself that I was supremely lucky to be here.

 

The ride into Kas (pronounced “Cash”) finished with 6 km of pure downhill joy. As I made my way along the last few ups and downs I was escorted by a scooted with two teenage boys doubled on it. They would wait on the side of the road at the top of each hill and cheer as I bike up to them. They gave me the thumbs up and smiled, even offered me cigarettes as I huffed past. Then they would race ahead and wait for me at the next summit, cheering and clapping. At the last hill before the winding decent, they stood next to their scooter jumping up and down yelling “Perfect! Perfect!” as I crested the top.

 

The view coming into town was like a dream. The setting sun was glowing on the harbor full of sailboats. The hillside was dotted with white stucco houses and the air off the sea was cool and fresh.. A few days in Kas and then onto Efesus!