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.

LOST CHANCES

Our original intent was to spend the weekend in Germany traveling the Romantic Road, a highway that traces the old Roman trading routes winding through medieval villages and castle grounds. But after a day  of business travel and meetings and a rather disappointing tour through Augsburg, the launch point of our motoring itinerary, we decided to reorganize and returned to Munich, since we had barely scraped the surface of its rich history.  So glad we did!

But first, we stopped off to eat in an old farmhouse restaurant serving traditional German food.  My mother's family hails from Bavaria and a quick scan of the restaurant decor brought back a flood of memories for me.  Red gingham curtains just like the ones that hung in my grandmothers kitchen.  The same carved wood plaques and iron trivets decorating the walls.  Knickknacks in the cupboard. Sauerbraten on the menu, along with potato dumplings.  ( I ordered it, but it couldn't hold a candle to my grandmother's recipe.) It was both comforting and unsettling to realize that I was sitting within spitting distance of ancestral homelands and dining with their ghosts.

The next morning, our first stop was Olympic Park, a beautiful landscaped oasis on the north side of the city that housed the 1968 Olympics. Because of the Egyptian boycott, Nabil missed his second shot at an Olympic medal in Munich.  Forty four years later we wandered the park trying to imagine what his then twenty-one year old self might have been doing, thinking and feeling,  and how his life might have differed if he had indeed had a chance to compete again.

Of course there is no possible way to place yourself in the past.  Time and experience permanently alter us. Flooded with knowledge of both the world  and self, how can you reverse engineer an unfiltered experience of a past that never happened.  There was the realization, that in the end, the only thing that matters is what did happen. There are so many times when we think we might have made a different choice or voiced a different opinion, or had a chance at a different opportunity.  But in the end, we are shaped by the road taken and it is a one way street. It leads us deeper into the experience of life, building us up one layer at a time.  Padded with emotional baggage and carrying the burden of our egos, we can only hope that we are able to lighten the load by gracefully accepting that which is, rather than what might have been.

From the park, we headed into Marienplatz, the center of the Munich old town. A sea of bobbing heads met us as we entered through the old city gates.  Cobblestone streets lined with the residences of kings and their court are now lined with side walk cafes and designer boutiques.  Museums claim prime real estate that once housed government councils.  On the periphery of old town, a food and flower stalls overflowed into a riot of color. Locals and tourists gathered at long picnic tables, raising their beer steins in an endless series of toasts to the good life.  It is appears to be a very good life.  The city is clean,well maintained, safe and affluent.  The population is handsome and well built. Everyone bikes everywhere. We decided we liked everything about Munich, except German food.

We capped off the night with a Vietnamese feast in a small restaurant in the bohemian section of the city. The food was exceptional, the ambiance funky.  We ate crispy fish and basil duck.

On our last day, we spent the morning touring the Nymphemburg Palace, the summer residence of the bavarian electorate in Munich.   The palace was magnificent and the grounds even more so.  Unfortunately, the weather soured and a steady rain made it impossible to wander the gardens and smaller palaces tucked inside them.

Instead, we took in two of the national museums close to old town,  viewing an exhibit on the gods of mythology.  Afterwards, we ducked into a tourist trap of a restaurant for our farewell meal of sausages and pork roast, reaffirming that we liked everything about Munch except German cuisine!

A snarl of traffic met us on the way to the airport.   Tired and eager to find our way back to our Ankara routine, we fought the panic rising between us.   No need to worry.  The German GPS system recognized the stalled traffic and rerouted us safely to our destination. Oh, those Germans engineers.  I hope its in the genes!

MUNICH TOUCHDOWN

Our arrival is Munich coincided with the final week of Octoberfest, unplanned but welcome serendipity.  German is everything that Turkey is not.  Clean lines, crisp direction, finished details.  No crumbling curbs and unfinished sidewalks here. Bike paths run parallel to every roadway.  The underground system is efficient and traffic moves predictably (though with frightening speed). The GPS system in our rented BMW anticipated every small detail of our route from airport to hotel. everything in German is engineered, though surprisingly with ease of living as its end goal. Munich is ranked 4th in the world for best quality of city living.

Our touchdown in western Europe felt as if we had slipped into a pair of well worn shoes....comfortable, familiar and not too fussy. After unpacking and getting our bearings, we walked  a short distance to a street lined with an international array of restaurant options. We chose RUAN THAI, and had a wonderful meal along with the company of the restaurant owner, a Thai expat, with an encyclopedic knowledge of fine wines and a working knowledge of five languages.  After dinner, we wisely turned in early, though slept fitfully because of of overfull stomachs.

Our first outing was to Dachau, a small town about 40 kilometers northwest of the city, with the ignominious distinction as the birth of Germany's first and longest functioning concentration camp.  The town itself is charming, the center still laced with cobblestone streets and village shops leading to an old palace that stands guard over a commanding view of Munich and the surrounding countryside.  The fist floor of the palace has been reclaimed by a restaurant that serves both daily visitors as well as attendees for the special events often held on the now empty upper floors.  The architecture was magnificent with huge arched windows opening onto the grounds. The gardens were lush with the last of the fall bloom.  After a quick tour and a walk through the town, we drove to the camp site on the outskirts of the city. I wondered how the residents of this charming village must feel as flocks of people arrived to view the scar of their history.

The visit was sobering.  The sky turned gray and the weather chill as we pulled into the parking lot. We felt less like tourists here, and more a part of a remembering.

The entire complex is awash in putty colored buildings separated by huge expanses of gray gravel walkways and squares.  The sign placards are in greyscale.  Everything speaks of death.  A quiet hangs over the place, despite the throngs of visitors.  Entrance to the DACHAU camp is free, but we elected to purchase a guided tour and we were lucky to get an English expat with a nose for detailed human interest stories along with facts and dates. The camp was constructed as a place to detain and torture political prisoners and dissenters were threatening Hitler's bid  to solidify his power base, and not specifically to eradicate Jews.  In fact, there was a complex  hierarchy at the camp, and while Jews languished at the bottom of the pecking order, blacks, Eastern Europeans, Greeks, and a host of other sub groups were systematically tortured and eradicated at Dachau. It was also interesting to learn that a relatively small SS force supervised the sprawling camp, enlisting other prisoners to do their bidding, by trading on a system of privileges and punishments that tapped into humanities most basic instincts for survival.  The ovens and gas chamber still stand as do several of the barracks which at the end of the war were packed with the skeletal remains of nearly 40,000 desperate and despairing prisoners. Piles of bodies stood outside the warehouse waiting to be burned.  Fuel supplies were low, both for those who needed to fed and those requiring burial.  Museum exhibits have moved into the main building, where showers, meals and punishments were once metered out.  The guard house still marks the boundary of the camp entrance and the prison building hidden from view stretches out like a long walk through hell.  The military layout of camp offered few places to hide.   With with the help of our guide, it was easy to reconstruct the misery of living and dying there.

The day grew colder, the sky darker.  A light rain fell just as our tour guide wrapped up, and the group filtered back to their cars, heads hung low.  Sobering.  Shameful.  And a reminder of the atrocities that are often committed in a grab for power in desperate times.

We drove  back to the hotel in a reflective mood, and showered  to refresh our bodies and spirit. The chandeliers in Il Paladino, a small Italian restaurant twinkled across the square from our hotel and somehow the comfort of pasta seemed like the ideal antidote to our emotionally draining morning.  As the  silky smoothness of the spinach egg soup first course slipped into our bellies, we knew we had chosen wisely.  Food, service and ambience were all perfect, the idealized romantic European trattoria.

Too full to sit, and too early to sleep, we decided to walk, and headed south into the unknown, enjoying the cool October evening.  Within a few blocks, we saw the carnival lights of Octoberfest beckoning.  Of course, we answered the call.  Octoberfest is the South Jersey boardwalk on steroids.  Beer consumption is the primary activity. All else is secondary. The beer tents and gardens open at 11:00 in the morning. A sea of people is packed into each tent, singing and swaying to pumped up bands playing German folk music and American  rock and roll. The last draft is drawn at midnight.

An enormous ferris wheel anchors the complex, which is  studded with a wild  array of dare devil experiences that challenge the drunks to test their balance and bravery. The smell of sausage and sauerkraut, roasted chicken, and pretzels compete with cinnamon buns, chocolate and crepes. Bands of friends weave through carnival games, souvenir stands and strong man competitions, emptying their wallets and occasionally the contents of their stomachs.  Pools of beer and vomit puddle under the high flying swings and coasters.  It is an international party for adults who have never grown up.   The hosts are recognized by their traditional German costumes: the men in short sueded knickers with suspenders, the women spilling their bosoms out of gingham peasant dresses. It was a hoot...and an awkward and unexpected contrast to our somber morning. But then we are used to contradictions.....