Three years ago, I lived for almost six months in Turkey. You all know this. You are all rolling your eyes back so far in your head that it exposes the optic nerve. Bite me. You'll see where this parable is going at the end. Aesop I am not.
At the end of my schoolin' at Bilkent Üniversitesi (motto: "No, you can't land your private chopper in the parking lot of Merkez Kampüs on the first day of class), I decided to take billions of lira and take my friend Ahmet to tour the North and Central Aegean. I had one of those rolly suitcases with my earthly goods; Ahmet had a backpack the size of a cat's bladder with a t-shirt and a book about Turkish Marxism. I didn't ask. So, we got on a bus in Ankara's four-story bus station and headed for Çanakkale (clay-pot castle). We "did" Çanakkale and turned our sights to Truva (Troy), where I beheld the blood-soaked plains of Homeric legend. From there, to Bozcaada ("greyish island), an island off the Turkish coast, where we proceeded to get third-degree sunburns because, um, no store on the entire island sold sunscreen. An old woman in one of the bakkal stores told us to "pour Coke" on ourselves and that would act as sunscreen. She was nice and meant well, but uh, no. Then on to Behramkale (Assos), which was famous for being a very secluded and atmospheric retreat for the ancients. Atop the acropolis in Assos, a Doric temple affords a view across the azure Aegean to the Greek island of Lesvos. We stayed at a pension there for TEN DOLLARS A NIGHT. Yes. For two people. Anyway, let's get to the fun part. While eating fresh octopus in a small seaside restaurant, Ahmet's cellphone rang. He looked agitated and when he finished his call, he pushed his mackerel away. I asked Ahmet what was wrong, and he blanched a little. He told me his favorite uncle had died and that he'd have to catch a bus to Adana right then so that he could be a pallbearer for the funeral.
Those of you who know Turkish geography just gasped. Adana is an 18 hour bus ride from Behramkale. Oh yes. So I went with Ahmet to the bus stop, where a braying ass guarded the well for the upper town. He told me that I needed to push on to my next and final stop, Bergama (ancient Pergamum). He told me my Turkish was good enough and that I would be able to find my way easily on the dolmuş. He got on his bus and left for Adana, and for a wild moment I thought: this is gonna be fun. Just me, no schedule, and Anatolia to feast upon. When the bus to Bergama came, I was drunk with power. Three hours later, at nearly midnight, we came around the bend of a very twisted highway and the bus shuddered to a stop. The bus driver announced that this was the stop for Bergama. What I saw was a roadside lokanta (restaurant) that looked like something out of a cheesy Western. The lights of the city brightened the darkened horizon miles and miles away. I asked the man who took my bags off the bus how far it was to Bergama from this "stop." He said that it was about 60 kilometers. I've never been good with conversions, but I think that's like FORTY MILES.
As the bus pulled away, I noticed on the side of the road four shadowy figures, each accented with a lit cigarette bobbing merrily in the dark. Youths. There I was, with a big ugly suitcase on wheels and what I imagined to be a look of resigned panic. The embers began to walk closer to me and I thought: so this is how I am going to die. The only person on the earth who knows where I am is heading to a funeral near the Syrian border. Surely I will be robbed, stabbed and my pathetic remains will be savaged by Kangal hounds and akbabalar (vultures). One of the embers detached from the other three and came close to me. It was a clean-cut young man, smiling broadly. He took an impossibly long drag on his smoke and asked me: "Are you trying to get to Bergama?"
In English.
Yes, I stammered. He took my shoulder and said that they had just called a cab. I could share it with them, if I desired. At that point I would have ridden in the cab of a goat-truck (yep, been there, done that) if it meant not sleeping in the parking lot of the dodgy establishment I saw before me. The taxi came, and the boys all asked me dozens of questions. I had to ask. "So, how did you guys know I spoke English?" The ringleader looked at me and said, "Well, that book you were reading was a clue. Also, you talk in your sleep."
They took me to their fifth member's grandfather's hotel, where I stayed in three star luxury for seven dollars, including breakfast. When I left, I kissed the old man's hand and lifted it to my forehead in the Turkish way of expressing extreme reverence, and he hugged me and told me call him Dede (Grandpa) and that I must come back soon. "Promise", he said, and as I left, he looked a little misty.
I write this story because I got quite a few (personal) responses to my earlier blog about the student who thanked me for helping him. In a way, I think that the reason I enjoy helping the internationals here is because, once upon a time, that was me. Sometime soon, that will be me again.
Nobody does hospitality like the Turks.
Good night, Indiana.
Dom
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