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.
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