Our Ephesian Revelations

The concluding leg of our journey to Turkey took us via the previously-unknown-to-us, Pegasus Airlines (Joe said fine, as long as its name isn’t Icarus), to the spanking new Izmir airport. Our final destination was Ephesus, the archeological site about an hour further south along the Aegean coast of Asia Minor. We were aware that it housed the ruins of the 550 BC Temple of Artemis, one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, but beyond that, we knew little of what we were about to find.

We arrived at our hotel in Kusadasi, a few miles outside Ephesus, just in time for dinner. As genuine and serene as the Kelebek Hotel in Cappadocia was, the Hotel Tatlises was not: it was the epitome of factory tourism at its worst. Our check-in coincided with that of the passengers of no fewer than six air-conditioned coaches, which pulled up and disgorged waves of international tourists, each bus representing a different country. Needless to say, check-in took forever. The place was evidently successful catering to and luring travelers looking for a bargain basement deal and for good reason. There was an enormous patio the size of a football field on which meals were served and we joined the crowds for the endless dinner buffet once we learned that our evening meal was included in our room rate. We enjoyed decent Turkish food but suffered through bad ‘80s music (who can enjoy stuffed grape leaves and baklava while listening to a Muzak version of “Get Outta My Dreams and Into My Car?”) while sitting on stained white-on-white faux-satin slipcovered banquet chairs. It was like being at a wedding with no bride, no groom and not a soul we knew.

Our one unfortunate night of impersonal, mass-produced travel behind us, we proceeded to Ephesus, where we had much to learn. We’d done some reading overnight and discovered that the ancient Greek city and then prosperous Roman metropolis had a population of well over 250,000 in the 1st century BC, thereby making it one of the largest cities in the Mediterranean universe. On our way to the site, without warning, the language light bulb over my head went on. Ephesus. The Ephesians. St. Paul. St. Paul’s letterto the Ephesians – now I get it! Now I know where we are! While finally connecting the language derivation dots of Ephesus to its inhabitants was hardly genius, I was genuinely excited by the revelation. (A linguistic breakthrough may not make Joe’s day the way it does mine, but when he discovers a new connection technology-wise – and sometimes it’s very literally a connection, like each time the Monster Cable Electric Powerstrip he’s lugged along with us works in each new country -- he’s a very happy camper.)

Back to our day as part of a small tour group... Our first stop was the Virgin Mary’sHouse, a Roman Catholic shrine on Mount Koressos, which overlooks what remains of Ephesus. The house was discovered in the 1800s when archeologists followed the directed visions of a Roman Catholic nun. Ever since, a steady flow of pilgrims files through the small two-room stone dwelling and chapel every day in the belief that the mother of Jesus was taken there by Saint John (who may have written his gospels there) and lived with him until her Assumption into heaven. It was a sweet little house and a touching story, but my skepticism about this particular vision quest weighed heavily.

It’s difficult to capture our wide-eyed level of surprise at seeing the Ephesus ruins. Unlike so many other sites we’d visited, this one was easily accessible, comprehensive and colossal. It didn’t take much imagination to recreate the city and envision it as it had been at the height of its past glory. We truly had no idea that Ephesus had such historical significance, that it covered so many acres and that it would be so grand.

Our little tour group was a mixed bag of English speakers led by a spirited Turkish guide. He pointed out and identified all the local flora as we made our way through the site -- mulberry, apricot, pistachio and almond trees – and we got to sample some of their ripe fruit. One of our tour compatriots was a lovely young Japanese woman named Hata, who stuck close to the guide and repeated the final few syllables of everything he said in a high-pitched voice with an excited, upward lilt: apricots, theater, BC, Romans, aqueduct! Perhaps this was to clarify his utterances in her mind and I don’t think she even realized she was doing it, but it helped us remember the details of his explanations and gave our group a few giggles as well.

The day’s temperatures intensified, progressing to that uniquely white, dry heat of the Mediterranean midday that washes out color to dull shades of green, gray and brown. We continued on, stopping under the shade of olive trees whenever they were available, to see the remains of various temples, public baths, the 24,000-seat amphitheater, fountains, brothels, public toilets (a fascinating side-by-side with no privacy marble bleacher system with modern, running water drainage canals underneath – just pay your fee, lift your toga and go in comfort) and the magnificent Celsus library. Built by the son to honor his father, Roman Senator Tiberius Julius Celsus, among the earliest men of purely Greek origin to hold an important position in the Roman Empire, the massive public library was the centerpiece of Ephesus. It stored 12,000 scrolls and served as a monumental tomb for Celsus whose final resting place is a sarcophagus beneath the main entrance. The building’s interior and all it held were destroyed by fire in a devastating earthquake that struck Ephesus in 262 AD and only the stunning, reconstructed facade now remains. We were fascinated to find out that Ephesus, currently several miles from the coast, had originally been a seaside harbor. Hundreds of years of silting by the Cayster River had filled the waterfront and slowly pushed the shoreline away from the city and out into the sea.

On the other side of what is now the modern town was the only sight we had anticipated: one of the famous Seven Wonders – the Temple to the Goddess Artemis. In its day, the temple was considered the most beautiful structure in the world, sheathed in glowing white marble with 127 graceful pillars that nobly rose 60 feet high and thrust its massive red-tiled roof towards the sky. But all that is left of the ancient beauty are a few clumps of stone and scattered piles of rubble and debris on a swampy plot of land. Our guide declared it not the 7^th Wonder of the Ancient World, but rather the 7^th Disappointment – and unfortunately, he was right.

Although happy to make the Hotel Tatlises and the bad ‘80s chart toppers distant memories, leaving Turkey was more difficult than we’d anticipated. Getting to know the country and its delightful, funny people was truly a revelation; Turkey had indeed grown on us. We’d never been able to squeeze seeing a whirling dervish ritual into our schedule, so once again, we pulled out our file of places-to-go-back-to and added Turkey to the growing list.

Pictures of our adventures: http://gapyeargirlgoestoeurope.shutterfly.com

The Wild West, Turkey Style

Twenty years ago a travel book club friend mentioned her recent trip to Cappadocia and described the marvels of its fairy chimneys. Once she clarified for me what a fairy chimney was, I mentally added it to my list of must-see places.

Our early morning flight from Istanbul on Turkish Airlines (which miraculously managed to feed us breakfast and serve us coffee on a quick 50-minute flight) arrived in central Anatolia at the thoroughly modern airport at Neveshir set on a vast, arid plain ringed by distant mountains. We had landed in the middle of nowhere. The airport transfer van took us across the lowland to the east with nothing to see for miles until the green of the vineyards started to appear.

“Look, grapes!” I exclaimed, “There must be wine.”

Joe, ever the optimist, replied without a beat, “Or jelly.”

We soon reached two-lane country roads where we slowed behind horse-drawn Cappadocian produce carts and passed farmers tilling spacious farms with mule-drawn wooden rudders. Like the rustic scene of a Millet painting, sturdy, sun-burned farming women in heavy babushkas covering their heads and outfitted with long, stifling woolen skirts wielded hoes in the scorched fields. It was difficult to believe that the rural scenes we were witnessing were actually taking place in the twenty-first century.

Continuing our drive through the sprawling, nondescript terrain, we at long last reached the flat-topped mesas and sinuous valleys we’d first seen on the horizon. In an approach reminiscent of the somewhat unremarkable move towards the south rim of the Grand Canyon, with the scraggly olive trees of Turkey standing in for Arizona’s scrub pines, the earth suddenly opened up and the extraordinary landscape miraculously appeared. We’d reached the heart of Cappadocia and there they were in front of us: forests of dreamy, delicate fairy chimneys sprouting across acres of moonscaped terrain tucked into curvy, sandstone cliff faces. The tall, thin, stone columns, some like elongated teepees and others textbook phallic formations, are the vestiges of volcanic eruptions whose lava flows the elements sculpted into eerie, pointed creations. Four thousand years ago, ancient Hittites chiseled homes into the gigantic anthills that look as though they might crumble to the touch but are actually hardened, solid cones of stone. The original inhabitants paved the way for future residents: Byzantine Christians seeking refuge from persecution first by pagan Romans and then marauding Muslims, cave-dwelling hippies in the 1960s and today’s chic boutique hotels. Gazing at the fascinating structures in their surreal setting, I kept waiting for oversized desert insects to crawl from the pointed tops. Surely the creator of the Flintstones took a trip to Cappadocia for visual and atmospheric inspiration because there we were, smack in the middle of the Turkish Town of Bedrock. I continually fought the urge to break into song: “...it’s a page right out of his-to-ry.”

Our accommodations in the busting frontier town of Göreme were in one of the aforementioned cave dwellings turned boutique inns, the beautiful and accommodating Kelebek Hotel, set high along a ridge and dug dramatically into the volcanic rock. It was a lovely all-stone property with rock-hewn archways and cozy panoramic porches covered with soft Turkish carpets and strewn with overstuffed pillows for making ourselves comfortable as we surveyed the valleys. We spent two relaxing evenings on the unique loggias enjoying the troglodyte lifestyle sipping crisp Cappadocian white wine while gazing over the otherworldly rock formations.

We hiked the scenic Red Canyon just outside Göreme and the following day, through the distant Ilhara Valley. Ancient dwellings called pigeon houses – traditionally used to collect bird droppings to be used as fertilizer -- and carved directly into the walls of the canyon riddled the sheer rock faces. The remnants of medieval monastic settlements and tiny, frescoed, vault-ceilinged chapels cut into the base of towering cliffs lined the tranquil, green valley from the 11^th century days when Christians hid and practiced their faith in the difficult-to-discover gorges. Simple but effective giant stone wheels that could easily be rolled into place as a last line of defense to shun attackers peeked out beside the entryways. At the end of our valley hike, we enjoyed a simple outdoor lunch at a brookside restaurant that included a delicious bowl of white lentil soup (our third version of this scrumptious potage), eggplant and tomato stew and plain yogurt drizzled with honey for dessert. Turkish yogurt is a bit sour -- mouth-puckeringly sour, in fact – and while refreshing, is not quite up to par with the thick, creamy version we enjoyed daily in Greece.

Beneath Cappadocia’s Star Wars-like landscape is an intricate network of subterranean cities. The local Christians used them to hide from the ever-present hostile forces; they went underground, in quite a literal sense. Each of the subterranean systems housed up to 10,000 people at a time and the largest yet discovered are ten levels deep, with tight passageways connecting the floors like so many hamster burrows. We stooped down and squeezed through the narrow tunnels, fighting waves of claustrophobia with every step and saw smoke-blackened kitchens, handy indentations for storing spices, undulating ventilation shafts masquerading as wells and chambers near the top for housing farm animals. They were extraordinary labyrinths dug to respond to frightening times and we gratefully breathed the fresh air and deep sighs of relief when we finally resurfaced.

Cappadocia was the Wild West, Turkey style. Its landscape and spirit were so evocative of the American Southwest – places like Mexican Hat in Utah with its funny rock formations and the deeply spiritual Canyon de Chelly in the Navajo Nation in Arizona. There were towering buttes and squat mesas, horses, dust and the unmistakable feeling of a border town. I had a powerful urge to saddle up and head for the hills and had we more than just two nights in captivating Cappadocia, we just might have done so.

Pictures of our adventures: http://gapyeargirlgoestoeurope.shutterfly.com

Istanbul: The Sights

Any reservations we had about Istanbul evaporated after several revealing days of taking in the city’s sights. They were beautiful and exotic and we enjoyed each one.

First up on our agenda was a casual luncheon cruise on the Bosporus for a magnificent view of the city from sea level and an afternoon heading up to and back from the Black Sea. The day was sweltering as we were transported to our little excursion boat in a so-called “air-conditioned” van that would have been cooler had we rolled down all the windows. As we’d already learned back at the Princess Diana, Turkish AC has no resemblance to the icicle-producing jets of cold air we’re used to. It merely circulates the hot air with the goal of making you think you’re cooler as the sweat continues to trickle. Simply put, Turkish air conditioning is what is commonly known as a fan.

Our boat ride underway, the Bosporus breeze lowered the temperatures and we enjoyed a tasty paper-plated lunch of kebabs and rice and were kept company by dozens of graceful dolphins that played in our wake. The broad, critical waterway slices transcontinental Istanbul, which straddles both Europe and Asia, in two. One-third of the population lives on the larger, eastern, Asian side but the western piece is home to the bulk of the population and is the city’s cultural heart. After an hour and a half of cruising north past sumptuous palaces followed by wooden mansions and the Selimiye Barracks (where Florence Nightingale worked during the Crimean War), we disembarked in the harbor of a nondescript little fishing village, climbed up the steep hill behind it and gazed out over the vast, storied Black Sea. And all at once it hit me: we had landed on the eastern shore of the Bosporus and were now in Asia! Our gap year has taken us not only to Europe but to Africa and Asia as well.

The following day, not having done adequate Istanbul homework to venture forth effectively on our own, we joined a small tour group to take in the city’s highlights. We found ourselves under the guidance of Tahir, a delightful young man from the area, and part of a remarkable cultural stew: a French-speaking woman from Quebec who ran a relief organization in Nairobi, Kenya and lived there with her 16-year-old daughter; her husband, originally from Saskatchewan, who headed up a refugee agency in Khartoum, Sudan; a woman from Bangalore, India in town for a regional meeting of the World Economic Forum; and, a young Filipino couple who worked in Dubai. We were an impromptu set of international visitors ready for a few days in Istanbul.

Sightseers know the Sultan Ahmed Mosque, built in the early 1600s, as the Blue Mosque, so named for its exquisite interior blue tiles. With its six minarets and perfect cascade of domes, it is a magnificent piece of architecture. We passed by the ablution fountains outside the courtyard, I draped the requisite scarf over my head and we then slipped off our shoes before stepping barefoot onto the plush Turkish carpet along with the scores of other visitors. Despite the crowds, the cavernous chamber was hushed and the delicate morning light that streamed through the pastel stained glass windows added to the tranquility of the space. Every available surface was embellished with hand-painted blue, green and red tiles in graceful, flowery patterns. No human or animal images were in evidence since Islam forbids prayer in front of such since to do so would be a bit too close to idol worship. I’ve found the mosques we’ve visited generally more peaceful and conducive to contemplation than the many churches we’ve seen. They are lofty, light-filled places of prayer with no distracting statues of Saint Sebastian punctured by arrows, frescoes of bleeding, beheaded martyrs or dark paintings of souls condemned to the fires of eternal damnation.

Our next stop was the neighboring Topkapi Palace, sprawling residence of Ottoman sultans, their mothers, sisters, wives and concubines in the harem and the bejeweled, golden-hilted dagger made famous by the 1964 caper film (Topkapi) starring Peter Ustinov and Melina Mercouri. Much of the palace’s enclosed space is dedicated to the presentation of priceless treasures and Islamic artifacts sitting on sumptuous velvet cushions behind thick vitrines. Just as in Croatia, where myriad macabre Catholic relics were displayed -- shards of saints’ bones and clips of their nails housed in hollow gold coffers in the shape of arms and feet -- so the sacred relics of Islam’s holy messengers were presented. Treasures such as a hair of Mohammed’s beard, a tooth, his sword and his cloak were similarly preserved in gilded and argentine receptacles. And I wondered in Istanbul as I had in Croatia about the authenticity of all these religious artifacts: who vouches for the provenance of such things? The sultan robes on display were close replicas of the priests’ vestments we’d also seen in Croatia: royal regalia of gilded thread and the finest embroidery. Was it any wonder that citizens and kings (like those of France in centuries past) became so wary of the “bedecked like royalty” clergy? In Croatia, each room of the convent treasury was vigilantly guarded by a genial, habited nun who we were told would have no problem physically pouncing on us should we attempt to take pictures or touch anything inappropriately. In the Topkapi Palace, armed guards from the Turkish military replaced the smiling sisters but I’m not sure with whom I’d rather tangle.

What is it that compels people to buy funny hats and ridiculous shirts on vacation and to actually wear them as if they were attractive? Perhaps its make them feel like locals but in reality they stick out like sore thumbs. Over the course of our travels we’ve seen so many tourists, especially bands of merry men off cruise ships, in silly looking sailor caps and black-and-white striped sailor shirts or cheap straw panamas with coordinating ribbons. They wear their new attire enthusiastically for the length of the holiday, but I’m certain that once home, it is relegated to the already existing piles of discarded accouterments from previous excursions. I imagined their lucky children and grandchildren as they picked through the heaps of discarded bonnets and chemises with delight as they prepared for Halloween and other dress-up occasions.

As we wandered the Topkapi Palace, I spied a troupe of several dozen weathered older women draped in black and wearing navy and white baseball caps atop their headscarves. Well, that’s a unique look, I thought, and while happy to see that the women were out and about, wondered, given their hats, if they could possibly be off one of the massive cruise ships docked in the Bosporus. Tahir told me when I asked that they were actually peasant women from rural Turkey enjoying their first trip to see the top cultural and religious sights of Istanbul, paid for by a charitable foundation. Wow, I thought, their particular baseball caps are not silly at all and I was certain that once back on their farms, the women would continue to wear them proudly.

Around the corner from the palace, monumental Hagia Sofia (Holy Wisdom) rises at the end of what was the ancient Roman hippodrome. In the reverse of what took place in Cordoba where the victorious Catholic monarchs mutilated the mosque by dropping a basilica into the middle of the Islamic mezquita, the triumphant Ottoman Empire defaced the cathedral by turning it into a mosque. In both cases, the buildings should have been left alone, but alas, such is not the behavior of conquerors. In 360 Hagia Sofia was dedicated as the Greek Orthodox Cathedral of Constantinople, for a short time in the 13^th century was a Roman Catholic Cathedral, was first transformed into a mosque in 1453 and finally was secularized as a museum in 1935. The echoing interior is a massive example of Byzantine architecture and was the largest cathedral in the world for nearly a thousand years until Sevilla’s cathedral was built.

Lying beneath Istanbul are hundreds of dark cisterns that stored water for the emperors from the city’s days as Constantinople. En route to the Grand Bazaar, we left the 90-degree temperatures of the streets to descend to the refreshingly cool depths of the grandest of them all: the Basilica Cistern, so called because it lay beneath a grand Byzantine public square (the original meaning of the word). Sometimes called the Sunken Palace because that’s exactly what it appears to be, the cistern covers almost two and a half subterranean acres and includes a procession of 336 marble columns. The symmetry and grandeur of the deep, cavernous structure, illuminated by atmospheric lighting, are really quite extraordinary. We walked along the raised wooden platforms, watched the slowly moving, ghostly carp silently guarding the waters and felt and heard the drip-drip-drip of moisture from the vaulted ceiling. In addition to being a welcome relief from the aboveground heat, visiting the cistern was an eerie, entirely unexpected and fascinating stop on our guided itinerary.

There are more than 3,000 shops in Istanbul’s celebrated Grand Bazaar. While merchants are indeed anxious to make a sale, shoppers are not subjected to undue pressure à la Morocco. A retailer may ask you once if you’d like to see some beautiful belts or shawls or carpets but then smile and let you go on your way when you shake your head and say, “No thanks.” The covered marketplace was considerably more modern than I expected and while many of the stalls were tiny niches overflowing with merchandise, others were bright, roomy showrooms with plenty of space for displaying their wares.

Our stay in Istanbul ended with another van-with-two-drivers transfer to the airport. One of our chauffeurs was a young man who, when we told him we were American, enthusiastically shared that he’d always wanted to go to the US – out west to Texas and to Dallas, specifically. He was a big fan of the late ‘70s television show and wanted to see the ranches and the horses and wear cowboy boots and a cowboy hat like JR Ewing. We wished him well in his quest to reach Dallas as he dropped us at the terminal and then headed for our hour-long flight to Cappadocia – Turkey’s particular version of the American West.

Pictures of our adventures: http://gapyeargirlgoestoeurope.shutterfly.com