SIDE BY THE SEA

After a day of rest in Antalya ( not really, because we walked the old town for hours, shopping at the antique stalls and snapping photos), on Thursday we decided to head east to SIDE (pronounced Sedah).  It was an easy and pleasant drive.  From the highway you could see the endless march of mega hotels that had sprouted up along the long coastline, many designed to hold 2-3000 guests.   Elaborate pools, water-parks and amusements poked through the skyline in an attempt to lure motorists into the lobbies of these Las Vegas like monoliths.

About an hour south, we took the SIDE exit. The weather was overcast, the sky and sea both gray.   The sea level road (yeah!) wound through an unremarkable town. We stopped at an equally unremarkable cafe and had a mediocre coffee and cheese pastry.  We geared ourselves up for disappointment.

Another mile or so down the road, we rounded a bend and the ruins of SIDE spread out before us in an incredible  display of stone walls and monuments. Reaching for a mile or more in  all directions, tumbling down to the sea, the remains of this seaside metropolis boggled the imagination.    No disappointment here.  Just amazement.  The ruins were sprawling, with many roads still well articulated. The theater, temples, baths and a hospital were all in remarkably good shape.  A modern corniche encircled the harbor.  The main shopping bazaar sliced through the ancient harbor thoroughfare. At the end of the road stood the remains of the Apollo and Athena  temples.  Throngs of tourists clustered at the base of the pillars while the surf lapped a the marble paving stones.

The Roman baths had been converted into a small museum with some notable relics, but nothing extraordinary.  The better part of the day was spent hiking the side roads and byways of the old city, and hike we did.  As the sun began to dip toward the horizon, we ate at a seaside cafe. the food and the view were both good, but not better than  the opportunity to get off our feet.  Before heading back to Antalya, we snagged some well priced leather goods and a few gifts for our friends back at the hotel.

PHASELIS...

Another cloudy day so, we headed southwest from Antalya, hugging the coast line and marveling at the views. Steep mountains emptying into the turquoise sea, freckled with large rock outcroppings.  Evergreens scented the air, while late blooming fall flowers spilled over window boxes and trellises.

The turn-off for Phaselis was about 45 minutes away and down (yes, a welcome change in direction!) a gradually sloping road through a pine forest to the edge of the sea.  The Lycian city is nested in cove encircled by three beautiful harbors. The aqueduct still stands like a guardian at the edge of the sea, creating a magnificent arched view through to the ocean.  The salt and sea have done a number on the buildings.  Little remains in tact.  However, the grounds are well marked and the city layout is clearly identified.  Most remarkable were the number of pediment bases lining the main street that leads from one end of the harbor to the next.  Standing at regular intervals along the walk, the bases are  etched with ancient accolades to the politicians and sportsmen whose accomplishments have long outlived them.  Wrestling was prominently featured, and we had a few good laughs about our own family's involvement with the sport.  Maybe in another time, the El-Hag wrestling dynasty would have been celebrated in carved marble. At least Nabil imagined that would be the case!

We spent a short time walking the grounds and much longer mesmerized by a fisherman tossing his line ( no pole, just a line)  out and then pull it in with two to three small sardines hanging onto the bread soaked hooks.  We watched a few brave swimmers leap from their boats into the water, some of whom swam to a landing dock not far from our rock perch. The water was warm, but the air chilly.  We waited for the sun, but it did not come, so ordered a cappuccino from the lone food stall near the parking lot.

On our way back, we took the Kemer exit and found ourselves in a small village that is predominantly populated by Scandinavian  expats.  We ate on the terrace of a small but lovely restaurant owned by a Turkish entrepreneur who spent 10 years training in the food business with Royal Caribbean Cruise Line.  He gave us the low down on living in The Antalya area, strongly encouraging us and any serious vacationer to consider booking at the small outlying towns that had sprung up along the east and west shores.  Sated on freshly grilled fish and organic greens, we walked the Kemer bazaar, buying a suitcase ( how will cart all our purchases back home?) and a pair of walking sandals (as you might imagine, we are hard on shoes!).

We returned to Antalya just as the sun broke through the clouds.  Dinner with friends capped off the day.

TERMINAL TERMESSOS

From our base camp in Antalya, we headed northwest to Termessos. A thin veil of clouds shielded the sun, but the day held promise and it seemed like ideal weather for a mountain excursion.  WRONG.  Termessos was a far greater challenge than Sagalossos.  Situated within a National park in the hollow of a a multi-peaked mountain at nearly 9000 feet, much of this  abandoned city has been reclaimed by the lush forest vegetation.

We hiked for nearly two hours and saw only a handful of other tourists.  The climbing was difficult.  Steep inclines, narrow paths and loose rocks made for rough going.  And then the rain came down. The moss covered rocks became slippery. Mud puddles formed. We tried to keep our footing as we stumbled on looking for the marked paths that had become overgrown with weeds. Of course, we had no rain gear.  Soaked to the bone, we had trouble seeing past the rain. We were too far in to turn back, just at the halfway point when the storm intensified.  Thunder and lightening threatened  in the distance. We questioned our sanity, but we persevered.

When  the clouds parted, we were rewarded. From the theater, which was carved into the hollow of the  highest point on the mountain, you could see for miles.  Clouds skittered across the top tier of carved stone seats. The commanding views were breathtaking. It was impossible to get a sense of the city layout from our ground view perspective, but it seemed to stretch for miles . The ruins of the buildings  were perched in the most precarious of places.  Tombs were carved out of the rock walls of the mountain cliffs.  Sarcophagi were scattered like dominoes that might have slipped off an overturned card table.  Everywhere there was evidence of the grandeur of this once important city, one of the few unconquered by Alexander on his march to greatness.

We picked our way carefully down the mountain, knees throbbing, backs aching.  Glad we came.  Gladder still to find ourselves back on firm ground.  Termessos might have been terminal. But at least we could have made use of the empty tombs!

SAGALOSSOS

After a restful sleep at the Barida, we woke to a light drizzle, cool winds and grey skies.  We were heading high into the Taurus mountains to see SAGALOSSOS, an archaeological site anchored by the village of  Ağlasun. Nabil, who prefers to vacation shirtless, was ill-prepared for the cold snap, so we headed to the local mall to buy  sweatshirts and long sleeve T-shirts.

Cozy in our newly acquired winter wear, we headed southwest, climbing higher and higher with each passing kilometer on the well marked highway.  We turned off at Ağlasun, rejoicing at having found our destınatıon with ease.

We celebrated too soon. From the base of the village to the entrance of SAGALOSSOS, we had to navigate several miles of switchbacks as the narrow road climbed steadily up and up and up to a height of ~5000 feet.  It was a white knuckle drive. Again, no markers, no guard rails, no center line and free-for-all driving regulations! A two tiered tour bus came barreling down the mountain and nearly slammed into us on a blind curve at the hemline of a steep gorge.  Nabil's lightening quick response saved us once again.  I have to applaud his driving skills.  Equally skilled at assertive and defensive maneuvers, he is well suited to drive among the crazies here.   As they say "it takes one to know one."

The entrance to the site was crude and a jumble of mega-tour busses, construction equipment and cars vied for parking space amid the potholes and rubble.  It was damp and chilly and we were grateful that we had the foresight to purchase warm clothes.  Many of people from the tour buses were shivering in their shorts and sandals and I could not have imagined myself in their shoes..literally!

The city of dreams sat on the crest of a mountain with magnificent views.  Extensive research and reconstruction was in progress.  The most impressive structure was the Nymphaeum, a fountain constructed in honor of Alexander the Great.  And it was here, that despite the wind and rain, Nabil stripped down once again, to strike a pose amid the statues of the gods and heroes of Sagalossos.  The man refuses to keep his  clothes on!  When he starts taking off his pants it will time to come home.

The artistry of the buildings and the scope of the city were mind boggling, especially considering the challenge of the ascent. The views were inspiring. The terrain difficult and the city built on terraces that climbed even further up the hill. It was an arduous hike through the ruins.

Over the next few days, we were to visit six more sites. Each  was uniquely situated, but there were common elements..wide streets featuring statues of prominent and famous citizens, public bath complexes of elaborate design with cold, warm and hot bathing facilities, theaters for entertainment and sporting functions, market places decorated with elaborate fountains, grand public buildings and private housing for both the gentry and commoners. Pillars, plaques and elevated statuary.  Cisterns and aqueducts.

How did they haul the materials needed to create these masterworks?  How could crude tools and equipment carved out such beauty?  How many people were required to erect such commanding buildings?  How did they conduct trade with other cities, without benefit of modern transportation? At some point in time, most of these cities were abandoned.  Many have been abandoned for more than a thousand years, some for hundreds.  Where did their citizens disperse? Why didn't they rebuild these cities?  At what point did people say, "no more?"


At every stop, these questions haunt us.  Is there a scenario when we too might choose to walk away? Could a hurricane like Sandy  break the spirit of whole cities.  What kind of disaster or "perfect storm"  would it really  take to force us to simply walk away and never return?

Trust Your Tom-Tom

The Muslim holiday of Bayram is a big deal here; a four day holiday during which almost everyone leaves for holiday.  So we left too to join our  friends in Antalya.  In order to take advantage of the many sightseeing opportunities along the way and on the coast, we decided to drive instead of fly.  We headed south with the intention of stopping at a small site about 90 minutes outside of Ankara, but the Tom-Tom was temperamental and we lost trust in the  guidance system.  Once on the road, our navigational system is our lifeline.  A momentary lost connection with the satellite signal can mean the difference between driving on a cow path or a highway.  This time we opted for the road not taken.  Maybe we are getting smarter. Or lazier?

In any case we pushed straight through to Psidian Antioch, a site in the foothills of the Taurus Mountains outside the village of Yalvac. Spread over several square miles are  scattered the remains of a 3000 year old city, famous for being the site of St. Paul's first sermon preaching the dogma of new Christianity. Ancient Turkey was the cook-pot for all the monotheistic  religions and it is fascinating to trace the trail of these enduring belief systems.  Ironically the more I bump into theological history, the less meaning  religion holds for me.

Psidian Antioch is under excavation, but for the most part, little remains of this once wealthy and important city. However, after viewing so many of these abandoned city sights, we are now familiar with urban planning circa 65 AD. We can literally read between the lines and see what is no longer there. Walking down the ancient paved roads surrounded by fallen pillars and temples which only hint at their former glory evokes a sense of awe and wonder that is addictive. Here, the past coexists with the present, whispering a reminder to be humble in the presence of the many wise and talented people who have walked this same path before you.  

We spent  a good  hour hiking around and through the city ruins, before we came upon the  lead archeologist and his crew.  A dashing Turk with glossy black curls he sat in director's chair barking orders to a crew of villagers sifting dirt and moving rocks. He had his interpreter call out to Nabil (as so many people do), commenting on his muscularity and healthy appearance.  He  wanted to know more about Nabil, so the two wannabe movie stars traded compliments through the interpreter.  If there had been some wet cement available, they might have both left their handprints on the Psidian Antioch walk of stars.

As we headed south to Isparta, the Tom-Tom encouraged a right turn through a small village at a major cross road on the highway.  We took the turn and found ourselves inching through the weekend bazaar, past the main square and then  heading down a dirt alleyway.  We consulted our map (a folded road map is a mandatory backup item on our travel list) and decided we didn't trust the GPS guidance.  We made a U-turn and eased back to the highway, feeling confident that we were better off traveling on main roads.  Big mistake.

Along the highway, there were only a few towns marked on the map, so we decided to duck into the next village we came across to grab something to eat. The village was small, with limited options.  We eventually found a sweet shop, but bypassed that in search of real sustenance and finally found a little hole in the wall luncheonette whose owner enthusiastically waived us in and seated us at one of six tiny tables.  His little one man show turned out two delicious wraps, filled with grilled meat, onions and parsley, accompanied by Shepherd's salad.  He was thrilled to be serving us and was intensely curious about our visit there.  He offered us tea ( the traditional topper for all good Turkish meals), but we opted to return to the sweet shop for baklava and Turkish coffee to steel ourselves for the balance of our drive.

Once on the highway, we gained confidence as we tracked our progress on our trusty map.  The mountains were getting steeper and the views more spectacular.  All seemed good until we realized that the highway to our destination was around the mountain instead of through the valley to Isparta. And then we hit the construction detour.  We spent an hour jangling over rutted gravel and dirt by-passes that hugged the narrow margins of the hillside without the benefit of signs and sometimes with no visibility.  Dust billowed up from the red dirt roads obscuring the view as we maneuvered the hairpin turns. It was an hour from hell and I am sure the Tom-Tom would have barked, " I told you so," if I had been willing to turn it back on.

Finally the car wheel grabbed onto smooth blacktop after a harrowing 90 minutes.  We drove  on through the mountains, hugging the shore of a huge lake that shimmered in the autumn sun.  At the southernmost tip of the lake a small city rose up in the distance and we decided to look for a tea shop to calm our jangled nerves.  As we pulled into our parking spot, we were overwhelmed by a strong sense  of deja vu.  A year ago, on our extended vacation in Turkey, we had stopped at the exact same rest stop with our tour guide.  As we sat on that terrace we couldn't help but reflect on the  unexpected turn of events that has  changed the course of our life in just one one year!

Dark clouds were gathering as we pulled into Isparta at dusk.  A light drizzle was falling and the wind whipped through the streets.  Bad weather was on the horizon, my first since arriving in Turkey four months ago. We stayed at the Barida hotel , a surprisingly luxurious property with a rooftop restaurant that sat nested between the mountains hunkered in the distance. Wrapped in blankets, we dined under the stars, staring out over the twinkling city lights before climbing into our "heavenly beds" to rest up for the adventures ahead....a rest we needed more than we could know at that time.

BOOKS A MILLION

Crouched on the floor next to my bed in a small yellow pool of illumination cast by the plastic night light meant to keep the boogie man away, I was reading long past bed time and my mother's last call for lights out. Reading has always been a passion.  The luxury of so much free time has unleashed the thirst to indulge, no really gorge on books. Internet downloads, paperbacks, dusty hardcovers scrounged in the antique shops of downtown Ankara ...an endless supply of information, stories, and crafty word smithing  keeping the wolves at bay.  Somehow reading seems purposeful, even when there is no end game. It is the one activity in which I can indulge without judging or evaluating its worthiness or connection to a larger purpose.  And so I am....

BUTTERFLIES ARE FREE TO FLY, by Stephen Davis is a free internet download from the I-tunes library that starts off with a bang.  It makes wonderful use of  internet technology, allowing you to click back and forth on links connecting you to Davis' experts, inspiration and references as they are introduced.  It was my first experience with an interactive book, a construct ideally suited to an impulsive curious mind that often forgets to follow up on the many "I want to know more about that" thoughts that pass through my Swiss cheese brain. In any case Davis weaves his case for a new age spirituality based on quantum physics, consciousness, eastern mysticism and a few edgy gurus, including Robert Scheinfeld, Jed McKenna and UG Krishnamurti. Much of this is  extremely interesting, especially the sections that delve in quantum consciousness. However, in his attempt to tie it all up and present a spiritual path to freedom and self realization, he turned me off.  It becomes a little too trite, a little to certain and in the end, merely brings us back to old ideas slightly repackaged in paper that is a little too flimsy for my taste.  Still, much of the  book was worthwhile and because of it my " must read" list is even longer. Reading has always been a passion.

WHY BE HAPPY WHEN YOU COULD BE NORMAL, by Jeanette Winterson is an autobiographical account of this well regarded British authors childhood as the adopted daughter of a malcontent and possibly crazy mother and a father who didn't have the balls to take a stand.  The writing is at once hilarious and poignant.  Jeanette is no pushover.  Stubborn, often defiant and unlikeable, she is is brutally honest in both her retelling and in dissecting the complex emotions that swim in the undercurrents of her life.  She writes like I think....in run on sentences, with choppy thoughts strung together i in unexpected chunks.  Lots of hyphens, dashes, parentheses and .....!

Early on, she lassoed me in with this:

"I know that she adopted me because she wanted a friend (she had none), and because I was like a flare sent out into the world - a way of saying that she was here- a kind of X marks the spot.
She hated being a nobody, and like all children, adopted or not, I have had to live out some of her un-lived life.  We do that for our parents--we really don't have a choice."


This is book that makes you look at the shame of being both a parent and a child, and the harm we do to one another in setting unreasonable expectations for each other in those confining roles. She also reminds you that life  is a gift, the blessing that we can't really fuck up, as long as we accept ourselves with all of our warts and scars. It is a testament to survival and the weedy nature of the creative drive to find meaning in a random world.

When I read this book, I thought of all the young mothers ( myself included) who feel that instinctual pull to give birth and who nurture not only the growing fetus inside, but the burning desire to feel unconditional love and validation.  Yes, mothers matter.  They matter because they are  life giving.  But we also steal  life away.  We bury the ugly parts of ourselves in  our children, burdening them with the responsibility to erase our past . We ask them to be what we could not be.  Sadly, the love we seek and the love we meter out is seldom unconditional. And while we may matter for a short time, we never matter in a way that shelters us  from loneliness.  In the end, mothering cannot  protect us from that. And neither can love.

Read it.  You will laugh, cry, ponder and wonder. You will realize that normal is really crazy and crazy is normal, and happiness is just a punctuation mark in the long paragraphs of a life lived in the moment.

LITTLE GIANT OF ABERDEEN COUNTY, by Tiffany Baker was a $3.99 discount offering in the I-tunes book store, that packs a premium punch. Afflicted  with acromegaly, Truly  lives in rural upstate NY in a small town where her freakish size and unattractiveness are  only exacerbated by the beauty of her diminutive sister, Serena Jane.   In a voice that captures the plain spoken observations of small town living, Truly lays her trap deftly, luring you deep inside her story of family secrets, death, abandonment, deception and rescue. Language perfectly pitched with descriptions that drill deep into the dirt of rural communities.  Baker' voice is full of hard-edges softened by the drone of flies and late summer sun.  Her characters are just that; some pinched and skinny, barely holding their ground, and others full-bodied and spilling over the pages.  A book that gently rocks your soul, slowly exploring family ties bound with white lies and purposeful deceit, its wisdom slowly leaching from its pages.  Nearly tied up in bow at the end, I wanted to spread a blanket and picnic with Truly, Marcus and Bobbie and drink in a little bit of the hard won happiness.

READING LIST

THE LONG WALK, by Brian Castner is an unsettling read of the physical and mental toll of the Iraq war (and all war) on soldiers and their families.  It is a raw, honest retelling of the adrenaline rush of battle, the addiction living on the edge, an ode to fallen heroes and failed morality.  It brings the battle for peace of mind right into the center of your heart.  It will make you feel the CRAZY. If you are a yogini, it will bring you back to your mat.  Thumbs up.