Out of It
Former Provinces of Yugoslavia
A Backpack Journey
through a Disturbed Region
April of 2002
A Slice of Turkey
Travels of Mike
& Marcy through Western and Central Turkey
May of 2002
Foreword and Introduction
To any reader, I suggest, no,
state, that my facts are not 100% accurate.
They represent the truth as I think I saw it. My perception of my environment (the world),
is also my reality. Unquestionably, this
is a work of fiction because few facts were corroborated, and most tales were
accepted at face value, which was usually the smallest value at all, just
slightly above zero. I was the scribe,
whose singular purpose was to record what often was told to me by a housewife,
child, policeman, taxi driver, or guide.
My memory is not close to perfect so when I found a moment to
regurgitate the day’s events, it too was less than perfect because I may have
shrunk them to fit in my brain.
Compounded with my less-than-totally-reliable sources,
and I have concocted a travel journal made in Hell. Fortunately, the purpose of this journal is
not to rewrite history. There are few
facts that I felt inclined to research since that would stray from the
direction I intended. I wrote all of
these words with the sole purpose that I might reclaim the “feelings” I had
during this trip. As for what I saw, I
tried to capture glimpses of that through video and photographs. Those photographic mementoes of a particular
moment are far less open to interpretation, or expressed in better terms than
the subjective writings of an easily distracted scribe.
In order that I may get the
“feel” for when I made this visit I have incorporated a list of some
contemporary events of the day. Most was taken from the current newspapers of
yesterday and today. (April 10th and 11th of the year 2002)
International: Israel
is asked by George W. Bush (who has been in power less than a year) to pull
their soldiers out of Palestinian towns.
Ariel Sharon said yesterday they would not do so until operations of
getting terrorist cells out of Arab homes and towns is completed...whenever
that is. The fighting is fierce. The two
towers that made up the World Trade
Center in New
York’s Manhattan
borough were destroyed last year on September
11, 2001, by members of the Taliban from Afghanistan. Yasser Arafat, the head of the Palestinian
authority, has done little to rein in terrorists who are purposefully creating
havoc in Israel. His contention is that he cannot control
Hamas, a Palestinian group currently headquartered in Syria
and Lebanon.
Local: Police Chief
Bernard Parks was removed from office by the police commission. Talk of a secession of the San
Fernando Valley from Los Angeles
has resurfaced again.
Business: Mark, my son, is
efficiently running M. Richards Insurance Agency, soon to be called C.I.G.
Insurance Services Inc. I am still
trying to finish the procedure to incorporate.
We are trying to sell a big policy to Deck King (Current prices are
around 100k). We want to get a new
program for roofers. It has been tough
since the first day of 2002 when companies tightened up their underwriting and
took huge hikes in the rates. Minimum
premium for small roofers exceeds $9,000.
For comparison, last year the smaller roofers would have paid two or
three thousand to purchase liability insurance for one year.
Personal: I left the Lexus
for Mom and Dad to use to drive to Sunnyvale
to see Aunt Tommie. Maestro, our
Dalmatian, is about five years old and I am going to be 56 years old in a few
days. Marcy is working at U.S.I.
(formerly called Triwest Insurance Agency) and enjoys the pressure and prestige
of a well-paid and important position there as a vice-president, in charge of
insurance programs. Dad is 84 years old. Marcy has planned to go with Karen and her
mother, Dorothy, to Palm Springs
while I am gone.
How This Trip was Planned. In
June of 2001, Marcy and I concluded that it was time to travel. The last
vacation we took together was more than two years ago. We quickly agreed on Turkey,
but we “argued” about how long. Marcy
felt two weeks was the longest she could leave her job at U.S.I. I wanted a
month. So we arranged it just that way.
I added Syria
and Lebanon to
my agenda, although news was coming about travel warnings there. My flight was going to start two weeks before
Marcy. I’d meet her in Istanbul.
Departure was scheduled for September 13th. Unfortunately, less than forty-eight hours
before our vacation was to start, the September 11th bombing caused
all flights to be delayed or cancelled.
Mine was one of the flights cancelled.
The news was devastating for Turkey
and many other progressive Arab countries that depend heavily on tourism for a
proper balance of trade.
We had to schedule new
dates. We usually go just before or
right after ‘High Tourism Season”.
Leaving to go mid-April will mean some rain, but low prices and no
crowds. We bought our tickets through
the Internet. I purchased an additional
flight to go to Dubrovnik. It was a circuitous route I had to take. From Istanbul
I would fly to Budapest, then Zagreb,
and lastly, Dubrovnik. I reverse the route to return to Ataturk
International Airport
in Istanbul.
The Journey Begins
Thursday April 11th,
2002 Los Angeles, California
7:10 a.m. I am sitting at the terminal for American
Airlines waiting to board. My stomach is
filled with anticipatory butterflies.
Because of the World Trade Center Building bombing on September 11th,
2001, seven months
ago, and current Middle
East tensions,
everyone is on high alert. The
Muslim/Arab world has threatened more terrorism; security at the airport is
very thorough. Al Queda has stated that
they intend to do more damage. Nobody
knows where they will hit next. American
soldiers are in Afghanistan with a new “interim” government formed by
outside western forces.
My flight leaves at 8:00 a.m. for John F. Kennedy Airport in New York. I
have a three-hour layover before continuing on to Istanbul. Marcy drove me to the airport. We left the house at 5:30 a.m., long before the Sun began to rise. I reassembled my backpack last night, making
certain I forgot nothing important, and culling items I can do without. I stuffed the black twill zippered bag into a green nylon Army-style duffel to protect it from having
the many pockets being rifled, snagged, or torn.
I’m
already anticipating Marcy's arrival in Istanbul on Saturday, April 28th
2002 at 11 a.m. My
flight leaves in twenty minutes, but I have already boarded after being
assigned to a seat next to the bathroom.
If Marcy were here she would have gotten us bulkhead seats.
Besides the actual flight time, there is a four-hour time difference
between L.A. and JFK/NY.
Construction work in the airport is in high gear, causing all traffic to
get bogged down. Disorganization reigned.
Escalators and shuttle buses were not working. To get to Terminal A (for Turkish Airlines),
I had to wait forty minutes, and the bus was jammed solid. Along with several other desperate travelers,
I pushed my way aboard, fearful that the next bus might take equally as long
and cause me to miss my flight. I
called Marcy from the terminal. I miss her and know she’ll be surprised when
the flowers she receives her flowers on Monday, which I made previous arrangements
to have delivered (She’s going with Karen, Dorothy, and Chris to Arizona this weekend). The following Monday she’s supposed to get a
wrist corsage, which I ordered from the same florist. I have “owed” her one for over thirty years. She’ll get that just before she leaves on the
27th of April to meet me in Istanbul’s International Airport, Ataturk.
Meeting my flight (once I got in
the terminal) was not a problem. This
leg of the flight lasted about six hours.
I spent the first hour of the flight reading the “Turkish News,” an
English language newspaper. While Turkey
is Muslim, it is very progressive and moderate about secularization of the
country. The Turkish government has been
very pro Israel,
but the current Palestinian conflict is reflected in the paper’s attempt to be
“evenly balanced.” Some articles were
pro Israel,
others were not. There was one photo of
a prominent ambassador who was meeting with the “powerful Jewish Lobby” (but
they didn’t show any representative of the lobby) in Washington
D.C.
I don’t know of a particular group that wields such power, but I do know
of smaller, less influential lobbyists who frequently come together on certain
issues. Is there a powerful Christian
lobby? Maybe a Muslim
one? I think so, because I am
certain these factions have such representation in Washington
too. They attempt to get support of
other lobbyists for their cause.
Collectively, several groups usually have more influence than one group
alone. I was a little startled by the
innuendo put forth in that Turkish article.
I believe that newspapers often reflect the views of the people, unless
it is a government run affair. Turkey
has adopted most western values and mores so I took this to show a variation
from official government views. I would
be watching for this while in Turkey.
The value of a U.S. Dollar has
eroded further. In November it was 1.6 million Turkish liras to the dollar, six
months later it is only 1.3 million. The
newspaper editorialized that the government wants this to occur so that it
might avoid high interest on loans, and it artificially inflates or deflates
the lira as their needs dictate.
I have not been able to watch CNN
or other English language news on television, so I’m not informed about what
news has happened today. Information shown on one of the on-board television
screens indicates we will land at Ataturk
Istanbul Airport
at 10:37 a.m. tomorrow morning
(that’s April 12th). My
flight to Dubrovnik leaves at 3:35 p.m. on April 14th. In a precautionary mode I thought that I
should allow at least twenty-four hours to adjust to the time change and to
have time if there is a delay or rescheduling of any flights. The plane headed east into earlier time zones
at over six hundred miles an hour. Time,
for me, was compressed. I lost ten hours that day. April 11th was only 14 hours long!
Friday April 12th, 2002 Istanbul,
Turkey
Although I had two adjoining seats, the total length was
inadequate for sleeping accommodations.
Coupled with the shortened day caused by the changing time as I traveled
east, I was feeling irritable and very tired.
The local time in Istanbul
is 10:00 a.m. We should touch down in less than thirty
minutes. Without a definitive plan my travel future remains unknown. I am beginning to feel the angst that I
treasure so much. The complete freedom
to go north or south is a heady, unbridled feeling.
What I must do when I
get to Turkey:
Choose a hotel in the
central district
Select a travel agent
to plan Turkey
Take a city tour of Istanbul
Find the Covered
Bazaar
Find guides in areas
we’ll travel
Arrange for flights to
Cappadocia
Check out some unusual
boat travel
Underground
trains/subway
This way or from the airport was not pleasant. The scenery was of a big, gray, mundane city,
with little to set it apart from any other city of commerce. Knowing how important first impressions are,
this might have put a pallor over this section of the
journey.
Fortunately, I had seen the heart of Istanbul
before and I knew to expect much more.
In the drive into the Sultanahmet district, I could sense I was close to
its center. It is rich with character
that both charms and fascinates the most jaded of travelers. Although teeming with merchants of all goods,
it is still wonderful to be here again.
I paid seventy dollars for two nights at the hotel,
including breakfast and transfers to the airport. I checked my room to confirm that it was
clean and satisfactory to me. I had a
view of Haghia Sophia from my fourth floor window, which looked out over an
alleyway clogged with sellers of clothing and luggage. I fell upon the bed and fell asleep,
listening to the barkers hawking their goods, trying to be heard over the
clanging din of the metal and wooden wheels of carts overloaded with huge bundles
of merchandise being dragged this way and that over the rough and cracked
asphalt alley.
I left my gear in the room and
walked to the Grand Bazaar. Over a
hundred riot police had gathered by a mosque where an anti-Israel demonstration
is expected. The police checked many
people for explosives or weapons by frisking them and using a metal detector.
I only had twenty minutes to look
in the Grand Bazaar because it closes at 8 p.m. All shops inside the huge, covered bazaar
must lock their doors before the main doors are shut. There are hundreds of shops, some occupying a
space barely larger than a closet, but none larger than a bedroom. Outside the covered bazaar there were a large
number of shops and small eateries.
These shops were free to set their own hours. Many had chosen to stay open five hours or
more. I walked into a candy shop and
admired a rectangular, black-veined block of halvah, at rest in a wide display
window. I looked at the different
candies they made. The small shop was
crowded with customers, but a bearded employee invited me to taste a dime-sized
sample of the candy. I bought a quarter
of a kilogram, that’s more than half a pound.
My eyes lit as my taste buds sent a joyous message to my brain. This was absolutely the best thing I’ve ever
eaten. I crunched through the delicate
flaky pieces of sesame pastry, momentarily pausing at the denser texture of
pistachios. The smooth aftertaste was
not oily. Pinch by pinch the entire block was slowly consumed. That was no help for losing weight during
this part of my travels.
I went to sleep to the sights and
sounds of CNN. I woke whenever a loud noise bellowed from the ancient speaker
mounted on the cracked and worn veneer side of a seventeen-inch screen
television. Loud noises happened several
times during the night, but I continued to keep the set on. A new bus bombing that occurred today
dissuaded Secretary of State Colin Powell from meeting with Yasser Arafat,
Palestinian president.
Expenses of 4-12-03
Cotton tee shirt $5
Meerschaum pipe 45
Hotel (2 nights) $70
Kebaps (three) $2 ½
Halvah candy $1
Tips (various) $3
Daily Total $126
Saturday April 13th, 2002 Istanbul,
Turkey
I
woke very early this morning. My
biological clock has not yet reset itself.
At 4:00
a.m. the Sun was just coming
up. As I started the water to shower, I
heard a not so distant imam begin morning prayers from the balcony of the
minaret. Like an echo, another imam
elsewhere in the city began his haunting morning prayers. I shaved and toweled
dry. The room was warm and
comfortable. Despite my urgent desire to
go out and rediscover this city, I am overcome by sleep. I surrendered to the urge to sleep and fall
over onto the very firm bed. Over two
hours passed before I open my eyes again.
Internet $3
City tour $60
Kebaps (2) $4
Tee shirts $8
Bottled water (3) $2
CNN, the international news
channel, was still on television when I woke.
I walked upstairs to the breakfast buffet. The red paper sign posted on a column read
that breakfast would be served at seven until
nine. Because it is only a
few minutes after six, coffee wasn’t brewed yet. Two eggy gruels were available as was cereal
(like Rice Krispies), plain yogurt, a beverage resembling Tang, rose
jam, and very salty soft white feta cheese were among the choices I could
select from. I ate a small plain roll
with a dime-sized scoop of cheese while I waited for the coffee to be prepared. The restaurant area was glass-walled,
permitting a panoramic view of a portion of Istanbul
toward the Bosphorus.
Later, in the lobby, I spoke with
the hotel clerk. He showed me a brochure
outlining places that an organized bus tour would cover. It was a full day tour for sixty dollars and
I would get an all-around view of Istanbul. I was in a group led by a dark-skinned,
English-speaking Arabic girl of twenty.
The tour is titled “Byzantine and
Ottoman Relics.” Haghia Sophia was the first stop close to where I was
staying. She guided my small group of
nine into the Blue Mosque and the Egyptian obelisk, then the Serpentine Column
of Persian Shields. All of this, and
more, were around the ancient arena called the Hippodrome.

We were carefully shepherded to a
pre-selected carpet store where a small army of salespeople was waiting for us
to appear. One well-dressed, gray-haired
man explained the different ways various knots can be used in rug
manufacture. Except for Chinese or
Persian silk, wool on cotton were the best rugs. Different towns had different styles of
creating very good rugs, like at the town of Kayseri,
which is close to Cappadocia. I made a successful effort to escape and meet
them nearby at noon. I roamed the streets looking for more great
deals, and they could be found with the most modest of efforts. When I rejoined the group forty minutes later
in front of the rug store, I was not surprised to see that several members of
my group had made purchases. The rug
merchants are especially aggressive, but from each I have been able to learn
something about carpets. Wool on cotton
gets the finest knots, except for silk from Asia. The pros and cons of vegetable and chemical
dyes were explained. Double knots versus
single knots add material and labor to the cost of the finished product.
Postcards $2
Taxi
ride $20
Postage
stamps $10
Bottle
of water $2
Hotel
Room $50
Our next stop was Topkapi
Palace, which in itself was worthy
of a few hours from the casual tourist.
Adding to that, this palace contained holy relics of Mohamed. I tried to
link up with a local gift shop for the benefit of PrayerCentral. The owner had a fax machine but no e-mail
address. I’ll continue my search for a
correspondent. I went to the hotel,
dropped off everything but my passport and money, and then headed straight back
to the Grand Bazaar. I tried to buy a
beautiful black leather doctor’s bag.
The seller started at five hundred dollars and quickly moved down to two
hundred fifty. I started at one hundred
dollars and slowly moved up another fifty.
He let me walk, and then he called me back to explain that I don’t know
about leather, he does. He tried to
injure me with the barb that ‘I am not trusting him.’
The theatrics became more intense. He
stuck with two hundred twenty dollars...any less and he loses money. It’s just
as well since I’m not sure why I need such a bag. I called back “One fifty” as I left, but he
seemed so disjointed that I had impugned his integrity...which he said is very
important to him. I moved away, and
continued to make my way through the bazaar, which meant going through a very
busy flood of other prospective customers.
Soon he lost sight of me as I did of him, and we both looked elsewhere
for new interests. There were many
pretty things to see and buy, but I’ll be back and I can wait until then.
Sunday April 14th, 2002 Istanbul,
Turkey
I woke around 5:00 a.m.
just as the imam began singing from the city tower, calling the faithful to
Morning Prayer. I quickly dressed and
opened my fourth floor window out to the balcony and a view of the ancient
university buildings across Topkapi Boulevard. The modern streetcars are as I remember them
from my previous visit ten years ago.
I bought a small piece of halvah from the candy store that
has become my favorite here, called Kostas.
I walked over to the Internet center and sat there for an hour
responding to Shelby’s (Robin’s) request forwarded to me. She said I should respond to a
schoolteacher’s request for e-mails around the world. I also wrote a romantic e-letter to Marcy.
At noon I was
packed and had the hotel mini-van drive me to the airport. I still had enough time to meet Ahmed and
discuss plans for exploring Turkey
once Marcy arrives, but I couldn’t find him.
I’ll send an e-mail to him when I can.
Each of the three short flights will last about 90 minutes
on the average, but also have over an hour for the wait. I was at the airport
at 2 p.m, but the third leg ended
when I arrived at Dubrovnik 10
minutes before 11 p.m.
The flights not only took the major part of the day, but
they were also energy drainers. Going
from Istanbul to Budapest
to Zagreb to Dubrovnik
was not as easy as I thought it would be.
Hours of idle waiting in airports gave me an opportunity to read more
about my destination in the three travel books I brought along. When planning my trip I prefer books with
many pictures. A photograph is subject
to less editorialization than verbiage.
Once details are selected, then my preferences reverse themselves.
At the Dubrovnik Airport
I grabbed my bag and went outside in the warm evening air. Although it was very late, there was a line
of white Mercedes taxicabs waiting for a fare.
I was a fare and I was very tired.
I opened the door of the first cab and said, “Do you speak
English?” The driver answered, “A
little.” That was good enough for me so
I got in. The airport was about twenty
miles from town, and the road was a windy two-lane ribbon that cut through
hills. We carried on a brief
conversation, often finding some German words to use when the driver was
unfamiliar with the English term. I
discovered that he had spent four years (during the recent local war) living
and working in Germany.
In my Lonely Planet Guidebook to Croatia
it offered a recommendation to a hotel in the newer Lapad district of
Dubrovnik. The Hotel Lapad, even though they we in the midst of construction,
asked for 310 Kuna per day, equivalent to $39.
I paid 240 Kuna ($30) to the taxi driver.
Monday April 15th,
2002 Dubrovnik,
Croatia
I really hadn’t seen a glimpse of Dubrovnik
last night because of my very late arrival. The journey was tiring; nonetheless
I woke at 7:30 a.m. I had to dress quickly because I had talked
with the cab driver that drove me from the airport and we had set an
appointment for 8:00 a.m. to discuss
him being my driver, which means taking me to several towns along the Croatian
Adriatic coast, which is dotted with numerous villages.
One US Dollar equals 8.2 Kuna
I met Miho (the taxi driver from
last night) at 8:00 a.m. We discussed my hope to travel along the
Adriatic coast. He said it would take two days minimum, or three days maximum
to see most of everything between Dubrovnik
and Pag Town. If it was two days I should pay him six
hundred dollars, and if it is three days I would pay seven hundred dollars (not
kuna). I said it is way too much and I would pass on his offer. We drank some dark brown liquid labeled
coffee, but that was where the similarity to the beverage I am used to drinking
ends. We shook hands and separated. He gave me his business card (everyone has
one) and I told him I’d call if I changed my mind. I wasn’t prepared to be skinned so early as a
tourist.
Fish
lunch for two (with wine & tip) $20
Admission
to the Old City Wall 5 Kuna
Internet
Usage for an hour 50 Kuna
Ferry
Ride to Cavtat (Round-trip) 60 Kuna
Hotel
room
700 Kuna
I ate some bread and cheese. I overheard English spoken nearby. A robust balding man of forty some years was talking with the English-speaking receptionist at the
hotel counter. I stood nearby and waited
for an extended pause in their conversation then interrupted. I asked him if he was going into town. A journey whose length I was unsure. He said we should take the bus since he was
told that it would pass right in front of the “old town”.
I had told Miho to wait for
me. I didn’t want to stiff him on this
short journey into town, so we took the taxi at my expense. Customarily the charges are shared. We introduced ourselves to each other. Simon Neal was the name of this hearty
Welshman.
He spoke with a pronounced
brogue. I understood every third word he
spoke, but that was enough for me to piece together a fairly concise picture of
his story. He was married, no kids, but
two cats. His wife worked as a manager
in social services in Wales. He chose this hotel because it was the scene
of a business conference he would attend on Thursday. He is involved with environmental issues. The balding gentleman had a jovial, infectious
laugh and we quickly became comrades.
Embarking on an exploration of
the old town, I paid three dollars to walk atop the four-kilometer walled
perimeter of this fortified site.
Immediately, I was struck by the profound charm of this medieval town,
and took great pleasure in the first panoramic views. There have been many articles written about
the mindless damage to this historic village by Serbs. Certainly there was another side of the story
to tell (by a Serb as he saw it) but no such writings (in English) were
seen. In war, there are always at least
two sides of the story; each side feels they are the vindicators of
righteousness. A Serbian article might
reveal what slight was served up by the Croatians to encourage this attack for
retribution. I could see orange
clay-tiled rooftops that were partially replaced with strange ochre tiles.
Sometimes old tiles were decoratively laid over functional new tiles, successfully
camouflaging the last of an inadequate number of old, original tiles.
Simon was quick to laugh, a characteristic I
find rare and uncommon among people from the United
Kingdom.
We walked through parts of the old town and felt the early morning mist
lift quickly, melting into a warm sun. We walked along a route described in a Lonely
Planet Guide on Croatia
(My edition was March, 2002). Because
the book was published so recently I felt extremely confident that the
information it provided would prove worthy as my sole guide. Of course, the walk through old town and its
features couldn’t have changed much in the past four or five years (since the
previous edition of my book), and I walked through the narrow streets, making
my way past numerous churches hewn from the local limestone. Marble, used in many places, was quarried
elsewhere. The streets were marble and
showed the markings of hundreds of years.
I took many pictures because everywhere I turned was another photogenic
scene. I understand why this is the
“Jewel of Croatia”, as it is claimed.
The medieval charm and beauty I see everywhere I look astounds me.
I examined a piece of lace
handmade by an old woman. It was pretty,
a 14”x8” white cotton, latticed piece.
She wore a broad vanilla colored scarf over her gray hair. The barrel-shaped woman spoke softly, but
clearly, and her demeanor was not significantly changed when no counteroffer
came. She just turned away, and I left
without the lace, but with my sixteen dollars.
This small craft pier was a gathering spot for tourists so there was no
shortage of customers, even in the pre-high tourist season period now. The very old harbor was picturesque. The old ladies selling lace certainly added
to the quaintness.
For sixty Kuna each, we purchased
a ticket to go to Cavtat Island. The sun was in full brilliance, and the boat,
holding fourteen passengers, exited the harbor and soon picked up speed. The spray, speed, and cold water combined to
give a chilly ride for the next twenty-five minutes. We docked in the tiny azure blue harbor
of Cavtat. Simon and I got out and walked around the
stone paved alleyways.
Being that Cavtat was a very
small town we easily found a particularly well-recommended eatery just one
short block from the waterfront. When we
sat I discovered that the owner spoke English.
Since the recommendation for his restaurant came from the Lonely Planet
Guide, I thought that would flatter him to read the words of praise in the
recently published book. It brought a
broad smile across his face and his attention to us dramatically
increased.
Simon asked for a risotto with
mushrooms. It was butter-drenched with
caramel overtones. At the proprietor’s
suggestion I ordered the local fish, gray millet. The proprietor, who was also our waiter,
showed the fish to me first then said he’d grill it for me. He served a white wine with it. All this was
deliciously outstanding, and it was the best meal of this trip so far. The bill was 320 Kuna including tip (250 Kuna
w/o tip) totaling $40, but it was well worth it. We each put twenty dollars to the tab.
We walked some more. Simon wore open sandals, which were not the
best choice for a day of walking. He
unobservantly stepped into a huge, very fresh, dog dropping. Simon, at this point, decided to once again
mention his general dislike of dogs.
The ferry began its final daily
return trip to Dubrovnik at 2:30 p.m.
We arrived at the dock early, as did all passengers, there were no last
minute stragglers, because this was the last trip of the day. The return trip was just as chilly as the
trip to Cavtat once we were in open water. Simon and I were getting along very
well. We climbed the castle/town walls
after paying a five Kuna admission fee.
The one and a half mile route around the city walls was quite a hike
with plenty of steps to turn this walk into an endurance building aerobic
exercise. I saw some areas of the old
town that were bombed and not yet rebuilt. I must have taken twenty or more
photos as I walked the wall, even from up here the ocean looked translucent
green. I could see a few feet down to
the floor of the Mediterranean, until the depth exceeded
ten feet. No problems were presented
because I don’t speak the language. I
found some ice cream very close to Italian quality almost immediately after we
walked down from the walls edge. The ice
cream had a deep rich flavor that is hard to duplicate. The coolness was very refreshing after
walking in the hot sun. The ice cream,
while delicious, left a bitter after taste, which was uncomplimentary compared to
beer by Simon and I. I drank some tap
water to clear my palate. It seems good
enough, but I am prepared for the consequences if I get sick. Actually, I couldn’t prepare for that but I
am willing to bear the problems that may come from my violation of my own
travel principles. “Don’t drink any
water, but bottled water”.
Simon suggested that we go for a
beer afterwards. I enjoyed the beer with
as much gusto as the ice cream. The rest
of that hour was spent sitting and talking.
Eventually we had enough of resting. Off we went to walk around the
walls. I stopped at a small internet
café just outside the walls and asked how late they’d be open until, which is 10 p.m. every night. I got knocked off like everyone else in the
shop then so I left with Simon and we went back to hotel right in the new
section. We rode the #6 bus for ten
Kuna, or you can buy ten prepaid coupons that reduce the cost to five Kuna.
Tuesday April 16th,
2002 Dubrovnik, Croatia
and points southeast
The
bus trip cost twenty dollars and lasted seven hours. For the view alone, it was worth it. The bus was scheduled to leave at 8 a.m. so that’s when I was at the bus station, which is eight
hundred meters from hotel Lapad. That’s
an easy walk, even with a twenty-five pound pack.
I followed my guide to a house four miles away from the town
center and it sat at the top of a hundred steps. I kept balking that this is
too far from the center of town. She was
steadfast in coaxing me forward, indicating that it is just a little way
more. I climbed the wide steps with my
full backpack, then, at the creast of this hill she pointed to a large,
modestly maintained apartment building.
It looked exactly like thirty other apartment buildings all around us.
Once inside the main door I saw that there was no elevator, just more cement
stairs. The “pensione” was up six
flights. Incredibly, I did it. Once there I realized, well really concluded,
this was a bad choice, nonetheless I stuck it out. The “Mom “ kept
trying to teach basic Serbian words to me, but I kept smiling and looking
away. She was insistent and her daughter
was insistent...compulsive is the more accurate word that described her bizarre
behavior. I started thinking about the
weirdest potential things that could happen, nothing that would be good. I could be spending my last day here. Scary stuff. They
were eating weird food and I discovered there isn’t a lock on my door. The mom forced me to watch a television program, the ancient black and white set had little contrast
so I could barely make out the picture.
The room was darkened; I was filled with a feeling of caution and
foreboding yet I continued on “acting normal.”
Mystical Readings
of the Coffee Grounds
I.
My wife
loves me very much.
II.
My wife
or I will lose our passport before this trip ends.
III.
Marcy
has thought seriously about another man, but loves me too much to do it.
IV. I am
“economical.”
I haven’t seen any television
news since leaving Dubrovnik. When I get to Zagreb
or Mostar I’ll be interested to see what is the news. Since I am language-impaired, I depend on
visual images exclusively. There is no
news shown on Sarajevo television. With caution, I’ll try to sleep. I feel like I’m in an eerie situation and am
considering leaving now even though it is 11:30
p.m. My tired eyes close
and I can’t resist. My last thought I
had was asking myself, “Could I be drugged?”
Wednesday April 17th, 2002 Sarajevo,
Bosnia
I’m
alive! I woke up!!! Ja!!! Alright!!
I’m a SURVIVOR! It is still dark
outside but I hop off the couch that had been made into a guest bed. Forgive my moment of jubilance but I didn’t
know if there would be more entries in this book. That was a real weird place!! Something bizarre was going on. I had such eerie “vibes” that I’d been sure
deep sleep wasn’t going to be happening for me, and then it pulled me in,
almost against my will.
It’s 3:50 a.m. I don’t care! I tried to be as quiet as possible so I
wouldn’t wake anyone. I especially didn’t want to wake whoever was planning on
killing me. The light went on down the
hall. I could see the evidence, a sliver
of light along the base of her door. I
hurriedly got dressed and left. At the
last moment Mama appeared. I gave “Mama”
Five American dollars more. After I walked out of small apartment I thought
about how strange it was that she was still up.
I walked down the hill and looked to find a taxi driver who can speak
English, otherwise I am in trouble. I
hadn’t purchased a guidebook for anywhere but Croatia, so this could be bad. I walked around a bit on the main street
until I saw a taxi stand, there I asked if anyone
spoke English. Nobody except the
station-controller knew of such a driver/guide.
He called him. Sejo, was the name of the
English-speaking driver who appeared in ten minutes. We talked about my interests. He set a course and said it would take two
or three hours. I asked him how much he
wanted to charge, and he said “whatever I wanted to give.” Nope - let’s fix a price now. The other way would be too expensive. I know from prior experience that it is best
that we hash it out before hand. We
agreed on the meter price, plus twenty per cent, it was generous. He said that although the battle for the city
has been stopped four years ago, the war still rages elsewhere in Bosnia and if the U.N. were to leave the entire
region would immediately burst into a hellish conflagration. That was unsettling. It heightened my awareness of where I
was. This isn’t Kansas.
First, he took me to a place where there was an underground
railway. It was used to get food into Sarajevo
during the war years. A dumb waiter on
rail would be sent from one side of the empty field to the other. Less than one mile of track linked the large
town with the rest of the world during the years the entire city was under
siege. Now the tunnel entrance is a
small, poorly run museum displaying tattered remnants of war litter (It is open
for a small fee, of course). Ten lithe
cats warily patrolled the tiny roadside gravel parking area surrounded by a
low-cut whitewashed picket fence. The
cats did not welcome me, instead, they wearily resigned themselves to my presence
in their midst, if only temporarily.

I had Sejo drive to a particularly large apartment building
I had passed on my way into the city.
There are many large buildings that were destroyed or seriously
damaged. Many are still un-repaired,
with the debris of battles fought littering the ground. The structure that I had current interest in
was a long, five-story apartment building along the south side of the main
boulevard that ran into town. A number
of peopled streetcars efficiently cut up or down the middle of the wide
street. Two sets of shiny clean tracks
lay atop a grassy island that stretched the length of the boulevard, dissecting
the road evenly. The former living
quarters seemed to be politely upscale, and although it was colorfully painted,
architecturally it was of simple communist-era design, totally pragmatic
without a flourish of style. Now the
rubbled remains lay in tattered disrepair, the result of shelling by either a large
caliber canon from a tank, or hand-carried bazooka-type missiles from just
three or four years ago. Huge chunks of
rebar-reinforced concrete were all around, presenting a danger like the
tentacles of a myriad of frozen spiders.
I imagined that its owner and all of its legitimate tenants abandoned
the building. I later discovered that I was accurate. Refugees from the war had occupied the rooms
that were the least damaged. Little was
done to make their environment more livable.
They were basically camping there.
Less than adequate effort was made to dispose of refuse. Translucent
pink or blue plastic bags filled with everyday trash were piled high in a rear
courtyard. Many of the residents,
according to my driver, were war refugees.
I was able to see inside of one of these abodes. The husband
and wife that occupied it came from Pakistan
over twenty years ago on the offer of a job.
Nobody in the family of eight currently works. The husband worked as a
laborer until he was injured two years ago in a construction accident. He has no skills, so he hasn’t looked for
work because he is “uncertain about the future” but refused, or was unable to
elaborate on that to my guide. Sejo
didn’t understand this man very well.
Sejo thinks he has some mental illness too. The wife tries to keep a clean house and the
three children looked surprisingly well cared for. I could get no explanation for that because I
imagine social welfare programs have all but dried up as one consequence of a
long battle. I can only imagine that
some sort of governmental support system exists in some form. They say they get
no aid from the government. I saw many such buildings apparently destroyed, yet
inhabited throughout the city. The outlaying land was usually sallow farmland
that was unworked.

Sarajevo was a
city in need. I felt that this was a place that Muslims and Christians live
more harmoniously than elsewhere in Eastern Europe. The few tiny communities of Jews live
quietly, trying as best they can to be obsequious in daily life. To temper that statement I must add that no
other factor has had greater divisive force throughout all of the former Yugoslavia
than religion, itself. I visited a
mosque and spoke with its spiritual leader, who claims that his group is the
largest mosque in Sarajevo.
Taxi 300 Markas
Lace
tablecloth 250 Markas
Zagreb hotel Room 780 Kuna
Bus
ticket 183 Kuna
Sausage
soup 27 Kuna
Snack 20 Kuna
Tips 16 Kuna
Purse 50 Kunaa
From a hillside overlooking the city, I could count the
towers from which the imams sing. The
Muslim minarets dotted the city everywhere.
There seemed to be no section of the city’s topography that was without
the slender stone towers. Only in the
graveyards, which were plentiful, did it seem that each group or religion
congregated to itself. So why would they
choose segregation at death when they didn’t in life? It’s either a paradox or
a lie. I suspect the latter. Certainly war can make enemies of best
friends. One-time foes become endeared
allies as the history of wars show. The
bitter aftertaste of war is evident in one panoramic view of the cityscape.
Rusting hulks of smashed cars still sat randomly throughout
the city, as monuments to the destructive powers of war. I moved through the city, closely examining
everything I could. Like poor countries
throughout the world, trash was a common component of the landscape in the city
or the countryside. Gutters were clogged
with plastic bags filled with used diapers, cans and other refuse that Mother
Earth would find indigestible.
The taxi driver drove to several places I marked on the
small tourist map I’d recently acquired.
Although Sejo was born and lived in Sarajevo
all his life, it took a map to refresh his memory about places of interest to
the traveler. I was getting very tired
because I had little sleep last night.
In mid afternoon Sejo collected his fee with an extra bonus. We separated at the main bus station. He told me that he had enjoyed this day
because sometimes he forgets what an interesting city this is. I bought a ticket for Zagreb. There was no wait, a bus was about to leave
for that destination right then. I got
on immediately, without buying water or eating lunch. The bus is usually much more direct than the
train. Trains in this region all emanate
from Zagreb. Like spokes in a wheel, it is easy to find a
train going to or from Zagreb. Track was laid to many towns and cities while
under communism. Because while under
communist domination the political powers resided in Zagreb,
train track was laid accordingly. Since Zagreb
is not in my travel plans, I will take a bus that connects the cities with each
other and operates very efficiently.
Bus
travel is very cheap.
Lots of farming and sheep.
Smoking
is still very popular.
American
cigarettes are preferred.
Very
few dogs or cats were seen in public
Few
women smoked in public, even in restaurants
A
popular color of hair for young women is burgundy.
Women
often plump after their thirtieth birthday.
My destination was Plivitce
National Park, and I enjoyed the
beautiful scenery we passed through. The
windows were stained with rain. A woman
passenger who spoke English told me that the rain is expected to be heavier
tomorrow. She lives near Plivitce.
On each bus there is a driver and a controller. The controller is an assistant to the bus
driver and drives with him. He does the
ticket-taking, the map-reading, the snack-for-the-driver-giving ... all those
miscellaneous duties that must be done to keep the bus running smoothly. I stopped the bus controller as he walked
down the rubber matted aisle to ask if I could continue on because the heavy
rain now in Plivitce would be unpleasant to sit out. He scribbled on a small tissue ticket, “118
KN”. I took the purple rectangle,
examined the number to confirm that he meant 118KN, not 778KN and paid it. We were about three and a half hours out of Zagreb
and the total cost should have been more like 150 instead of 220 Kuna. Reflecting back I don’t think I have been too
badly taken advantage of (yet). I
cleaned a broad bowl of very lean, roasted lamb chunks simmered in red wine
reduction sauce, then scooped over thick strands of spaghetti. I sat alone, writing and enjoying the flavors
of this delicious meal. I tried to use
some English with a waitress so I could get another paper napkin. The restaurant owner brought a glass of wine
and a big smile to me when he heard American words. His brother moved to the U.S.
during the war and is staying there. He
knew less English than I knew Serbo-Croatian.
Nonetheless we communicated with gestures. I felt good, like I had become his
friend. The wine was very pleasant
too. I went to an Internet café after
exploring the city center in the rain, guided by a local cabby.
I rode a short cable car up an incline and visited a few old
churches. Most were either reconstructed
from war damage or built in the twentieth century. This city doesn’t show its scars from the
war. A taxi driver told me that about
twenty miles beyond the edge of town was the closest point that the Serbian
soldiers had encamped. Further, there
are very few Serbs living in Zagreb
today. Many had been lynched or
otherwise executed if they were unable or unwilling to escape early
enough. I was told the heads of all
members of a Serbian merchant family were put on a row of twelve wooden pikes
at the edge of the Central Park. I wandered farther, not hindered by the light
rain. I bought a large, handmade, lace
cloth and a small purple, embroidered purse.
I sought direction from the taxi driver who I’d hired as my short-term
guide. He brought me to a plaza that had
an Internet café. I wrote to my
wonderful wife and to the rest of my family.
I met several clowns who were taking a break from the rain while
performing in a children’s show. They
spoke English. While I spoke with them
very briefly they said they were traveling around Europe. Each of them is a student in a university in Breslin,
Germany.
I paid about forty Kuna for each fifteen minutes on DSL. DSL
is a very fast way to connect via the Internet.
I was happy to have it work so well.
The Internet coffee shop was pleasant and very busy, with no older
people (except me). I walked out to the
tracks, found a streetcar that was going to the bus center, climbed
aboard the No.17 streetcar and climbed off at the train center. There are no trains stop
at Plivitce National
Park, so I had to walk in the light rain about a
mile to the bus center.
Zagreb is
outside of Belgrade and all trains
meet at this central point. Zagreb
was constructed largely during Tito’s communist regime. Trains go to all points from here, but trying
to get from one of the outer points in Croatia
to anywhere else in this country (except Zagreb)
is very difficult, although change is expected soon. It isn’t here now and now is the right time
for me. Travel between towns is done,
almost exclusively, by buses, which are comfortable, modern, and cheap.
Thursday April 18th, 2002 Zagreb
to Plivitce to Split Croatia
To get to Plivitce
National Park it would be best to
go by bus. The bus station was about a
mile away, but I walked there. The rain
was proving the weather predictions I found on the Internet to be correct. The downpour was heavier in the National Park
with some patches of ice. The bus halted
at a closet-sized, yellow and blue metal room at the edge of the forest. The rear door of the bus opened hydraulically
and waited for someone to leave. Nobody
was going to get off but me, but in all this rain I had to do something
else! I changed my plan; the driver’s
assistant was paid another eight dollars to let me continue on to Split. The bus ride from Zagreb
was a long one. We stopped two times,
and it lasted nine hours from start to finish.
We started at 1:30 p.m. and
it ended at 10:40 p.m.
I watched what many others ordered. Many asked for a bean soup with sausage in it
then they took two slices of thick white bread.
I followed their lead. Soon I’d
discover why this was a local favorite, the sausage had a savory flavor that
was pleasantly unusual to my palate. I
slurped the soup quietly, copying local behavior, and enjoyed that
sausage! It only cost 27 Kuna, or about
three US dollars. I was full! The bean soup itself was nothing very remarkable, it had a cumin-type flavor. The thick, hearty, white bread had real body
to it as well as a slightly bitter, but pleasant flavor that complimented the
soup well. There were still over three
hours left before this part of my journey would be over.
The moment I stepped off the bus I must have had that look
on my face, which was easily read which says, “Well, I don’t have a good clue
as to where I am going next.” Quickly, a
pleasant, but stocky woman grabbed me, maybe in her early sixties. She said, “Sobe!” Not “Sobe?” or even “Sobe”, it was
“Sobe!” I was somewhat apprehensive
after my last experience. I looked
closely at her face. She seemed kindly,
and I asked how much she wanted “One hundred and twenty Kuna”, that’s about
fifteen dollars. She promised it was
only three minutes away by the city center, but it was actually closer to
fifteen minutes. The walk through a very
delightful city center was actually quite pleasant. Across from a department store she pulled out
a large, rusty, silver key and unlocked a large, heavy, creaky wooden door. A
few steps down a hallway we started to climb the steps. Carrying the forty-pound backpack up six
flights of stairs was a fitting way to end this leg of the journey. Out came the key ring, and with a brass key
she opened the apartment door.
As it turns out, it is a pleasant room and she isn’t too
imposing. I was able to relax and use a
room she had set for five people.
Instead, I had the room to myself. I tried to straighten my backpack but
it is getting too full. In the morning I
realized what a comfortable sleep I had right on the edge of the old town. I must step back and mention that after
parking most of my gear I was given the keys, and I decided to walk around town
even though it is getting dark.
Digesting what I have seen on the way over here, I discover
that I love this town. There was marble
all around. Also, it’s not the flat,
glassy kind, but the aged, foot-worn uneven kind that smelled of a long
history. It just feels good underfoot; I
can feel the years it has lived.
I took about twenty pictures. I love this!!! It’s so difficult to explain, the flow of
ancient times, all leading to this moment, to be trodden by me, a lone traveler
who merely wanders by to taste the air and smell the harbor air, a heady mist
of sea foam, wet marble pavement, and petrol.
I easily made my way back along the strangely photogenic street,
illuminated by an eerie mix of rococo street
lamps and colorful neon signs advertising the tiny retail shops along each
side. The lights splashed off the rain
dampened marble and reflected in ghastly shapes in the moonless night.
Only a few shops were still open this late. I bought a scoop of ice cream from a street
vendor. The ice cream was unremarkable,
except that it was filled with jam. I
made my way back to the apartment. I
climbed the six flights of plaster stairs with my only company being the hollow
echo reverberating through the tall stairwell.
I had the door keys, but all things aren’t locked down, like in L.A. The front door was left unlocked.
A long day of traveling, and the very clean smelling bed,
encouraged me to take a shower despite the late hour. I examined the Eastern-European-type
contraption in the shower to figure out how to control water flow and
temperature. I’ll certainly need the
instruction manual for this device, but I proceeded without it, knowing that I
risk freezing or scalding water. I
managed to avoid both. The bed was soft
and clean, with the unique fresh smell of being aired in the sun. The window overlooked a busy street. At two a.m.
other than the occasional bus that went by or the soft clicking of solitary
heels maintaining a gentle cadence on the sidewalk, there was nothing to
disturb a pleasant sleep.
Friday April 19th, 2002 Split, Croatia
I woke, and then dressed
quickly. My time is valuable and I don’t
want it wasted in sleep or useless lounging.
The madam woke too so she could greet me. She asked if I wanted coffee and I accepted a
cup of the thick chalky brew. The brown
liquid was very hot and I noisily sipped it while I gestured that I had to wash
clothes. She said she’d do it, but no
price was discussed. I paid her 120 Kuna
for the room plus an extra twenty for the washing.
On the bus, I noticed how the weather changed, once the bus
traveled beyond Plivitce National
Park in the mountains. Moments later, the modern bus began its
descent to the coast. Instead of a thick
fog wrapped around patches of dense rain, it is pleasantly sunny, and skies are
clear with only a few white wisps of clouds.
I decided this would be a day of rest, and getting my future plans set
up.
I shall go to Medjugoria tomorrow,
it’s a three hour bus ride each way, so I’ll be leaving early in the
morning. I’ll return and take a late
ferry to Starigrad, stay overnight and continue to Dubrovnik
or come back to Split and take a
train south. Having talking with Ante,
he persuaded me to go to Hvar Town
rather than Starigrad.
Without any pressure I leisurely traveled around and through
the town, eventually finding a guide. I
met Ante, he’s a Croatian living his whole life in Split
except for four years he was in the army.
He's Catholic but not really big into the religious stuff because of
problems he suffered with the church when he divorced after ten years of
marriage. This particular indifference
to religion is incongruent with most of the people of Croatia
who are overwhelmingly Catholic. He
brought me through the town explaining items of history. Since I was alone, he charged me 150 Kuna
(less than twenty dollars) for an hour and a half. Make no mistake about it this was a business deal, I only rented him for a specific period of time during
a slow period. This is his
livelihood. Between cruise ship
dockings, it was difficult for him to keep busy.
He knew many people in the town of
300,000. So it was no surprise that he
stopped to chat with twenty people at different times along the route we
traveled. I asked him to include a stop
in our walking tour, at a Catholic church, a Jewish synagogue, and an Islamic
mosque. As I would soon discover, the
Muslims had tremendous fear of persecution if a mosque was erected. They were relatively anonymous now, and by
renting a building and holding quiet prayer within they were invisible to all
except those that knew where they were there. The head of the center says they
are trying to raise enough money to build a mosque anyway. Muslims hold the most menial jobs and are
among the poorest inhabitants of Split.
No one greeted us at the Catholic nunnery, although Ante
takes great pleasure in having several keys to certain doors within the
nunnery. The women were not to been
seen. Ante had a key to enter their
building. Then we met the synagogue's
president, who said there are only eighty members, all over fifty. They are
unable to attract new members so the order may be join another in ten years. Muslim tyranny was no worse than the Catholic
rages that defiled life and land to the east and south. There was oppression here when the fascist
military moved in, and then again when it left.

Croatians quickly took the lead from their German
masters. Brutality was just an everyday
thing. The names of forty people are
inscribed on the wall, so that they will be remembered, until the synagogue is
gone.
The temple president, a tall, slender, white-haired, man in
his mid-sixties said that even he is married to a catholic. Like many of the congregation’s offspring,
his children don’t care much for any religion and don’t readily identify
themselves as Jews. He sees the
congregation as slowly dying, with only forty members left after WWII. He said that residents of the city were
polarized during the war. They were in
his perception of those times, split almost equally for the protection of the
Jews, or for their extermination.
At the mosque I found dissatisfaction with the current
system, but for different reasons. The
imam said that they haven’t asked to build a tower because they think that it
would call too much attention to them, so they won’t try to do so. Further, the young imam said they had never
asked for permission or monetary help from the government. This was a contrast with the synagogue, which
had asked and received some help.
The Catholic religion is the state religion. The government sponsors it heavily. Ante said, that the
economy was better under Tito. There was
no infighting, and everyone was employed.
The way it is now, if you have one slow year you are destroyed
financially, and you’ll never recover from it!
He is searching for those responsible for his plight. At one time he ran a successful travel
agency, but he had one bad year after seven good ones. This is typical of the
Balkans, I would soon discover. Someone
else is always responsible for the bad stuff, and in Croatia,
they thank Jesus for the good. That's
the result of capitalism (to Ante).
An Observation of the Women of Split:
The young ones are pretty with very pleasant figures, but almost all
middle-aged, elderly, and even a few young women had severely misshapen breasts
caused by bras designed by someone, probably during the communist era, who is unfamiliar with the female anatomy. I suspect it was
the bra; at least I hope it was not the result of a Cold War experiment gone
awry. It was quite a phenomenon! Because it was so common, it was more than a
little unsettling!
The ferry is along the dock, and the train and bus terminal
were all very active today. The
schedules of time are all posted and followed fairly strictly.
I walked through a very active market place that had all
sorts of mercantile goods. There was a
separate section for produce, and another one for flowers. The restaurant Sarajevo was open. It offered a special of lard-soaked meat
cooked with spices and served with potato balls, tiny ones. The shiny burgundy gravy was speckled with
grated cheese. I randomly chose, from
the wine list, a local white to drink, pretending that I could tell one
Croatian wine from another. One glass
cost 52 Kuna. For the entire meal I paid
98 Kuna, tip included.
I climbed the worn marble steps, twelve stories, to see a
panorama of the town. The narrow marble
steps were uncomfortable for my wide foot.
The evening weather was pleasant.
Saturday April
20th, 2002
Split to Medugorje Croatia
I woke early to go to Medugorje. The bus stops in Mostar, a larger village
that I spent too few moments in. Several
buildings, and a historic stone bridge have been
recently destroyed. There was shooting
in this area yesterday. Everybody is on
edge and few stores are open. The cute
downtown area, about three blocks big, has some vehicular and pedestrian
traffic. The bright morning sun belies
the tragedies of yesterday. I took a
taxi from the bus station to the town where Mile, Carol’s husband, is
from. Often I cannot see the end of the
paved road and the beginning of a gravel road.
The climate here is typically Bosnian.
The foods reflect Bosnian tastes, meat and potatoes, not the fish and
broad assortment of vegetables found in Croatia.
There was only a momentary stop at a small store where I could buy bottled
water, then I returned to the bus stop where I
continued on to the “holy place” of Medugorje.
The bus let me off around the corner from a large church
that was built as a monument to a miracle. The church sits adjacent to the holy
hills, site of the apparition. I hope
to gather some information for a project, a web site that I’m working on. I think it will be possible since there are
many gift shops around. I have high hopes because this place is very highly
commercialized. The merchantability of
the supposed miracle seems to be the most profitable, and it is certainly the
most abundant, industry in town.
Once I got my bearings, I sat at a small white table along
the sidewalk in front of a quiet restaurant.
It was partially shaded by a new green canvas umbrella. I requested steak “Zagreb
style,” selected from twenty entrees listed on the fancy menu the waiter handed
me. That got me a thin flank steak is
rolled with ham and cheese, and then deep-fried with a lightly breaded
crust. I walked across the asphalt
street to the Medjugoria complex of building.
English was a common language, so I talked with several proprietors, and
only one had an e-mail address. All were
happy to have a fax sent to them. I slowly walked along the cement sidewalk
looking at everything around me.
Within a minute a swarm of thirty children, all severely
disabled, and forty parents, moved quickly in a grey-brown cloud of dust. They came in from behind me, encompassed me,
and then moved rapidly ahead of me. They
were on a determined mission, of which I was merely an observer. I heard German and French excitedly spoken;
this must have been a special moment for them.
Quietly, I found this moment difficult to assimilate without
cynicism. I understand the hope that
these parents and, lesser so, the children place on this “miraculous”
site. I can sense the anticipated
miracle if only one of the children was cured!
The story is almost too thin to recall accurately from my memory. From what I recall, the children that saw the
vision of Mary were all born before 1971, and were preadolescent when they
claimed to have “seen Mary several times.”
There were five kids who witnessed the reoccurring event. Here is either the strength or weakness of
this “event.” The locals say the kids
swore a holy oath that this is true and nobody has been able to disprove this
yet! My cynicism shows through, I can’t
be apologetic for my feelings any more than believers can for theirs. I had hoped for some sign, but the only sign
was how an insignificant dot of a town gains notoriety
for a “miracle,” but it has become, by far, the greatest industry in this part
of an otherwise obscure plot of land.
Room
120 Kuna
Lunch
in Medjuoria 67 Kuna
Bus
ticket to Med 47 Kuna
Bus
ticket to Split 51 Kuna
Religious
Trinkets 49 Kuna
Dinner
Pizza 8 Kuna
Internet
Use 35 Kuna
The sight of fifteen seriously ill children being paraded
over a gravel parking lot saddened me.
The is a constant crunch of knuckle-sized stones being ground by heavy
steps, or ambitious wheelchair pushers walking behind the whitewashed church
and auditorium, who reach a wide dirt path leading to the hills of the
apparitions. A fifteen foot tall white
wooden cross supported a large bronze statue of a bearded, European-looking
Jesus on the cross.
I realized how wonderful it is that in spite of how small a
chance there is of a miracle, all of the parents had pinned high hope on a
miracle for their child. Looking deeply
into the eyes of many of the fathers and mothers, I saw a dreadful look. A look that is truly indescribable because it
spoke of the deeply seated fear or knowledge that said “What shall we do after this?”
I stopped and took a deep breath. It was an emotional minute
for me. I was brushed by a collage of
hope and tragedy that electrified the air.
I had to leave; it was not right that I shared this deeply personal
moment with them. Even as I pen these
words my heart recalls too well how I felt then.
The sun shone brightly.
I took off my green jacket and stuffed it into the red, nylon bag that
was always with me. Even my casual blue
shirt was too warm. The street lacked
any trees or vegetation. The rows of
tightly spaced white buildings abutted the sidewalk, and the sidewalk was
against the black asphalt of the street.
The only escape from the heat was indoors. I was seeking a better understanding of the
importance of this site. I was
incredulous that the story I had heard was enough to anoint this sleepy town as
a holy site. I tried to follow the story
written in six languages on the outer wall of the church gift shop. I bought a
booklet to explain it to me, but that was a waste of twenty Kuna. Without blind
faith no booklet will open the door of understanding for me. I trailed behind a group of German tourists,
not one of them burdened with less than sixty-five years. The side of the blue and white bus was
painted with a sign partially obscured with mud flung up from the wheels. The metal placard indicated a tour company
from Munich sponsored this
journey. I couldn’t truly grasp their
story because my understanding of German has grown weak from thirty years of
disuse. I was certain they sought relief
from some earthly pain.
I left the church compound to traverse neighboring
streets. I wanted to find a gift store
that spoke English (that was no problem) and had an e-mail address. That was the problem. I eventually got enough information to send
to Steve by e-mail. I caught the 11:30 a.m. bus back to Split. Waiting even a few minutes
in the hot sun stung. Shade could
only be found indoors. The bus was half
empty, so I was able to take a double seat all by myself. The bus followed the same path in reverse
order, generally westerly, until, three and a half hours later, with the sun
speedily dropping lower, I stepped down the narrow
metal stairs to touch the ground again.
The town of Split is
situated on the Adriatic, so it faces west toward Italy
(I could take a ferry from here to Italy).
While sitting, writing, and people watching, a tape of
somewhat disharmonious accordion music disturbed me, accompanied by a tenor’s
rich voice. It just didn’t belong in
this setting and irritated me like a fingernail across a blackboard. The sound played loudly through two five-foot
tall black speakers placed conspicuously along the walkway. Even this dissonance was disturbed by the
muscular, rapidly approaching, heightened drone of a motorcycle as it was being
raucously driven on the marble paved pedestrian pathway by a pimpled-faced,
fair skinned, helmet less boy. The noise
was amplified into a huge crescendo by the brick buildings that solidly lined
both sides of the pathway.
Sunday April 21st, 2002 Split to the Island
of Hvar, Croatia
After two false early morning
starts, I finally rolled out of bed.
Once I got up while still dark. I
sleepily enjoyed a three-minute pee. The
toilet was typical of an English loo, with the water tank over six feet up on
the wall. I pulled the chain to flush
and a huge torrent of water followed. I
had to wake the matron of the apartment after I endeavored to wash up a
bit. The sink was stopped up and there were
no simple tools to fix it. I walked over
by the bed, and then fell back into it for a few more minutes. When I woke again I peeked at my luminescent
pocket-watch, and then glanced outside through the large lace-curtained window
to see the chilly light of early morning.
Information I had gotten last
night was that a 7 a.m. ferry leaves for
Starigrad. I wanted to be on that
boat. I paid 104 kuna for a round trip
ticket to Starigrad, an island town.
From port side, in Starigrad, a bus shuttles those that will pay fifty
kuna, over to Hvar town, according to my Lonely Planet guidebook. The yellow
and black schedule was thumbtacked to a white fibrous interior wall in a
glass-covered bulletin board displayed at eye-level across the street from the
town marketplace. Since bus, ferry, and
train schedules in all languages are similar, I saw in Croatian, what seemed to
be a 7
a.m. departure time. I was soon to discover there was another
schedule posted elsewhere that correctly said 9:30 a.m. for the first departure of the day.
I had 2 ½ hours to fill
before the ship left on the one hour, forty five minutes trip. An open-air restaurant was just across the
street. I sat at a round white table and
sipped a cup of espresso while I waited for the waiter to bring a baked
sandwich of ham and cheese on a quarter circle of bread. The spongy bread had a white interior, but a
very crunchy, fried crust. The sandwich
was an inch thick and at least eight inches across. Like a pizza, it was cut into four sections and
served with a filling of your choice.
Such a sandwich is called a “Burek,” it is the “street food” here. Pizza, itself, is in second place.
Maybe because today is Sunday and it is early, yet few
people are ready to get up, which was why there were few people aboard this
vessel. At 9:30
a.m. the ship pulled out of dock.
I stopped on the dock in Starigrad for a brief moment where I was
cajoled by a seemingly “friendly” cabby into sitting in his taxi to wait,
rather than on the hot, dusty bus. In no
time he took off with me as the sole passenger.
It looked like a mini bus but when we had started the journey I saw the
meter lit and running. He caught one! Me!
The drive form Starigrad to Hvar town was a
race through a well-paved passageway between steep rounded hills. The island roads were very well maintained
like most in Croatia,
much better than Italy.
I paid 170 Kuna for this ride. If I’d been on the bus the trip would have
cost less than thirty Kuna. I was the
only English speaking person here. The
taxi driver continued his charade of not understanding anything I said except
“Here’s 170 Kuna.” He was gone in a
moment. Needless to say, I started with
a bad feeling about this place.
The sun is out in full force; it might be 90 F today. I couldn’t wear a jacket now, but it was good
to have it for part of the boat trip this morning for coming to the island
Hvar, then from docking at Starigrad.
The town of Hvar is one of
three popular villages: Jeni, Hvar and Starigrad. After the morning buses there are several
hours that pass till the return bus starts at 14:10. I was at the stop when I asked a woman who
was cashiering a small kiosk if she knew when they’d be back and she said yes
at 16:00. That’s four p.m. to those that are not “military”. There wasn’t enough to do and see to use a
whole day but I was obliged to do just that.
Ouch!!!
So I left for a while,
and I spent several hours in the small town.
First observation: over one hundred aged German tourists
pour off a bus, and they overran the small town even as they moved through it
like a giant blob. Although I could see
that this was a charming place, it was too touristy. Just as that a though
entered my head, the swarm of Germans had reached the end of a picturesque
seaside street. Two buses sucked them
back in like a huge dust buster. They
disappeared and all was quiet again. I
had climbed twenty stories of steps to get to the top of the “Spanish Fort,”
built on the highest point of the island.
Climbing down was much easier, but I was exhausted and very
thirsty. The dust rose higher on the
hill because of the intense heat. Tiny
fragile ringlets of mud caked around my nostrils as I breathed a little harder
because of the extra effort required to reach the summit.
Ferry ticket (round trip)
to Hvar 104 Kuna
Coffee 5
Kuna
Sandwich 10
Kuna
Hvar Taxi 160
Kuna
Fish Stew 80
Kuna
Ice Cream 4
Kuna
I sat in a restaurant and asked the waiter for some filets
of fried cod like I had seen on another table nearby. The waiter brought a delicate, very pleasant
fish soup with the fried fish. I enjoyed
the warm soup, and even as the sun continued to radiate heat, I could feel a
refreshing cool breeze come in from the ocean.
After an hour at the restaurant, I felt re-energized so I walked around
the town more. While there was little
else to see, the bus to return to Starigrad, on the other side of the island,
wouldn’t be there for another three hours.
Especially interesting in Hvar was the Venetian influence
seen in the tile and stonework. I found
an Internet service on the island of Hvar
right by the bus stop. I wrote a few
letters, then the bus appeared at 4 p.m. In a moment
the bus was crowded and people were being turned away because there was no more
room. This is the ONLY afternoon
bus. I got a seat quickly; it cost nine
Kuna but took ten minutes longer than a taxi.
Everybody got off at the ferry station. Since I had already purchased a return ticket
I saved some time and I got right on the boat.
This morning there were ten autos and a hundred people, now there are
six times that, fully loading the large ferry.
From this point I could choose to further explore some of the small
outer islands if I didn’t want to get back to Split right away.
I dragged myself upstairs through a steep and narrow
stairwell to get a good seat on the boat.
I expected to see many Germans who, by far were the most populous
tourists on the island, but I did not see any on the ferry. To reflect back on this island visit, like
Medjugoria it cost too much time and money to see too little. This is a tourist town whose main export is
lavender flowers.
I checked on the Internet, with the help of
the office manager, to see if it was still raining in Plivitce
National Park. Before checking the weather map the fellow
told me, “It is always rainy there.”
Sure enough, the weather report indicated heavy rains today and heavy
rains are expected for tomorrow. Now my
plan is to drop down to Dubrovnik and arrive in the early a.m. so I can arrange
further passage south, hopefully to Kosova, Montenegro, Albania. The area formerly known as Yugoslavia
has splintered so much (with more changes expected,) that how someone gets in
or out is going to be a big discovery for me.
The guidebooks, even local residents, nobody knows the answers. The exploration of Kosova will be strange
because it is still under a “Cease fire” request from the United Nations, and
still cursed with heavy state department warnings to avoid that area. I’ll be considerably more cautious and keep
my stay to a brief day or two before moving on to somewhere else.
I must get Kuna because I must pay on
the bus, also I must pay for the room tonight. Sunday evening
at 7 p.m. I'm eating a whole medium-sized seafood pizza
for 40 Kuna (less than $5).
I’ll take a 3:20 a.m. bus to Dubrovnik,
so I’ll arrive at 8 a.m. If I can’t
arrange a trip to Kosova this way I’ll take the train to Zagreb, then a train
to Belgrade, and then a train to Kosova.
I might try to find Atlas Travel, they have a
strong presence throughout Croatia.
Monday April 22nd, 2002 Dubrovnik,
Croatia
I am sitting on a bus headed (I suspect) to Dubrovnik while I recall and
write the following words. I wanted to
leave very early in the morning today but I had no Kuna to buy the bus ticket
or to pay the matron for the use of a room last night. I had only hundred dollar bills and
traveler’s checks. Businesses normally
opened at 8 a.m., when the church bells rang. I had several orphan coins left in my
pockets, enough for coffee and a flaky folded pastry that was being bought by
everyone, it had a cheesy salty flavor, but by far, it is the most popular
thing here.
I exchanged a one hundred dollar bill, for 816 Kuna. The moneychangers only want the new kind of
dollar bill with the metallic thread running through it because the old
American hundred-dollar bill was too easy for forgers to duplicate. I paid for my room (120 Kuna), bought another
pastry that I discarded after two bites.
Although it was fresh, it smelled of fish. I bought a bus ticket to Dubrovnik. I could have sat at the bus station, which is
right near the tourist part of town.
Instead I chose to walk around for the next thirty minutes. I stopped one last moment at the Internet
café to say good-bye to Zack, the owner of the Internet station. He allowed me to use the computer while I
waited for the bus, but refused payment. He said I was there too briefly. Apparently Internet cafes are found in almost
every larger town but are seldom frequented by locals. Most individuals don’t have their own
computers linked to the Internet at home, if they even have a computer at
all. Croatia
seems to be plodding forward economically, but they are still about fifteen years
behind the levels of most metropolitan areas in the U.S.
The bus ride continued for a comfortable four and a half
hours because we made several stops for stretching and stops at small,
disjointed restaurants that want to sell “everything for the traveler.” Their monopoly on the bus passenger’s trade
is enforced by isolation from any other nearby businesses.
The Adriatic coastline was an ever-beautiful panorama
outside my window. It was a very
pleasurable drive. The coastline between
Split and Dubrovnik
was stunningly beautiful, sparkling under a dazzling summer Sun.
I recognized the bus stop in Dubrovnik
as the same place where I caught the bus to Sarajevo. As soon as I stepped off the bus, like hungry
vultures calls of “Sobe?” and “Zimmer?” were hawked loudly. I wanted a room in the city center but took
one close to this singular intercity bus stop because I’d make further travel
plans to go by bus. The next bus heading
in my direction will leave at 11 a.m.
tomorrow. If I was going to be stuck in
a town, this is a good one to be stuck in.
I wish I’d been able to convert dollars to Kuna yesterday,
since today it is already too late to do so at a bank rather than a
moneychanger, who takes a big slice. I
would have saved a day but I’m in no rush, I want to savor my time here. Tomorrow will bring something of excitement,
of that I am certain, for I shall enter the land to the south of which is
unspoken here. South of here is Montenegro,
then Serbia (Republic
of Yugoslavia). Although the border is thirty miles away,
nobody “sees” it. It is as if the Earth
ends here. The house matron, Ivana,
spoke some English actually rather well.
She told me her life story, including the death of her husband while she
was pregnant. Ivana said he died in an auto
accident. Personally, I thought I would
find little reason to feel sorry for anyone in Yugoslavia
after their mistreatment of Jews before and during World War Two. She was a kind woman filled with compassion,
and ultimately I found myself feeling her grief. She explained that she is a nurse at a local
hospital trying to earn enough money so her daughter can continue in Zagreb,
studying at the university to become a doctor.
A doctor’s strike looms heavily in the very near future. They are going out on strike, and if they do
Ivana will be without work. Being without work means no income.
Ivana’s mother and father lived here after her grandmother
died. A second house in the rear was
added, but Ivana has acquired two dogs and four cats. They are the regular residents of that
building. She must spend fifty Kuna
daily to feed them. Ivana’s mother
speaks no English, so there was no conversations with
me unless Ivana was there to translate.
I was already comfortable in this house, although I had been here less
than two hours. Exhaustion from the bus
ride was quickly catching up to me. I lay, fully clothed, on the thin, but
stiff mattress for ten minutes. I
realized I was too tired to sleep. I
needed some physical exertion, so I got up and walked for twenty minutes into
the old town. It was an uphill walk, not
the kind I like, over a hill during a hot day.
The fort appeared as I walked through twisted streets paved with large
gray stone bricks that measured one by two feet each. The older, central areas of Dubrovnik
are made such. I could have taken a
quick bus ride but (at first) I thought the walk would be good for me. Certain
buses (Numbers 3,6,9) all travel the four-mile route
from the central bus station to the old Fort.
It is a not a large city. On the
other side of small harbor lies the brand new district of Lapad. I knew this area because it is where I stayed
when I first arrived, at Hotel Lapad, for more than one hundred Kuna per
night. I walked around the old village
and had a scoop of ice cream. I used the
Internet at a little shop (twenty Kuna for thirty minutes). I took the #6 bus for seven Kuna to a stop
near to the room I’m staying at. I
walked around Lapad, and ate a light dinner of squid and salad at a restaurant
that was highly recommended by my guidebook.
First I was served some bread and a small bottle of local white wine.
While the wine was a bit too woodsy for me, I drank enough so I didn’t insult
the waiter who took special pride in the wine because his brother either owns
or works the winery. The calamari was herbed and grilled with olive oil. A special word about the olive oil. At several restaurants in Croatia,
I have found it is exceptionally light and clean, always adding a light unique
bouquet in whatever dish it is incorporated.
The meal total was a hundred Kuna (including a fifteen Kuna tip). That works out to be twelve dollars. I walked back around the small harbor
Portable snack
Bus ticket
91 Kuna
Haircut
50 Kuna
Pizza 8 Kuna
Room
120 Kuna
Bottled Water 15
Kuna
Room in Dubrov100 Kuna
I tried to reorganize the backpack but I felt exhausted, and
while still clothed laid down on the bed.
I was soundly asleep in minutes, even though the bed was extra firm and
felt like it was stuffed with blankets with almost no yield at all. While the bed was wide enough for two, it was
too short for one. My height of six feet
allows me to usually fit into most beds. This one required that I lay diagonally
so my feet wouldn’t hit the footboard and my head wouldn’t crook on the top.
Tuesday April 23rd, 2002 Dubrovnik,
Croatia
Ne - No
Da - Yes
Voda - Water
Dobro - Thanks
Havalla - (Most gracious) Thanks
Musliman - Moslem
Frizeur - Haircut
Sobe - Room
The bus I want to be on leaves at 11 a.m. It is the
only bus headed south because the “frontier” border is only thirty miles from
here. I spoke with Ivana about many
things this morning. I was awake before 6 a.m. to do the morning routine (of shower,
shave, then dress), and then walk to a nearby coffee shop. In the rear of the shop was a market, neither
a “mini” nor “super”, just big enough to have it’s own
small bakery and butcher shop. After
getting the attention of the counter attendant I pointed to a circular, dark
brown bread. The young woman wrapped it
with small sheets of waxed paper then enclosed the warm, aromatic bread in a
brown paper bag. The top was dusted with
white flour. The 12” wide bread was only
two inches tall. I could smell the
display of cheeses nearby. There were
several types on display. The one I
chose was light yellow, sliced very thin, and pleasantly tart. After a short wait in a quiet line of
shoppers, the cashier, standing behind modern equipment commonly found in the U.S.
asked me for seventeen Kuna to complete my purchase.
Bus ticket to Prishina $31
Bread and cheese 17 Kuna
Coffee 4 Kuna
Bottled Water $1

I very briskly walked the short distance back to my
temporary shelter. I offered some of the
fresh bread and cheese to Ivana and her mother, but they declined. We continued to talk until 10 a.m., they were
very interested in America’s
perception of Croatia. A ticket to Tivat was what I purchased but it
turned out I should continue to Ulcinj, which is deeper into the interior of Serbia
(Yugoslavia). I am heading into an area where there was
little to read about beforehand. To me
this is “the unknown”. The bus ride is quite an ordeal; not so much, in a
negative sense, but measured in its uniqueness.
I was one of many people who crammed together, trying to be
the first to board the bus. Ultimately,
there were few passengers so there was little need to secure a good spot. I wanted to make certain to sit on the west
(or ocean) side, and toward the front of the bus where
bad shocks could make for a miserable journey.
The bus made its first stop at the Dubrovnik
airport, which is sixteen kilometers beyond the edge of town. In about another twenty kilometers the bus
driver stopped the bus and turned off the engine. Passengers were instructed to take everything
off the bus. I followed those
instructions, then followed the riders as they exited Croatia
and had the passport stamped as they entered Montenegro. The two border points are one kilometer apart
but it was downhill, so it was an easy walk.
I saw an older white-haired lady struggle with a heavy package; I was
traveling very lightly so it was not a problem to add her large box to my
load. For this she was most
appreciative. While language prevented a clear understanding of what she wanted
to say I could see she felt it necessary to carry all of her packages through
the checkpoint. They detained four young
men who didn’t get back on the other bus that was waiting for us on the other
side. The Montenegro
bus was not in such excellent condition as the Croatian bus, but everything was
well civilized. Mechanically the bus had
a non-working speedometer, and bad brakes, which squealed around each corner
and emitted an irritating high-pitched wheal punctuated by a guttural shutter
when the driver came to a complete stop.
The ride was pleasant, nonetheless, because the coastline of the Adriatic
is spectacular. Mentally, I compared it
to the Monterey peninsula of
central California. This was more spectacular because it is two
hundred miles long and studded with stone fences, fortresses, and beautiful
homes. This vision was psychedelically
enhanced with abundant color by the hundreds of auto carcasses strewn anywhere
without care of the environment. Sadly,
I think some people might not see through this environmental stain, and they’d
miss the stunning beauty of the coast. I struggled not to doze off because I
might miss another view.
It was suggested by Ivana that I stop in the ancient town of
Kotor. In hindsight I should have done so, but
because it wasn’t in my original plan I would have had a difficult time trying
to rearrange my tickets, saying nothing about the cost of extra time used. As the bus cruised through the village, I saw
a domed church and another old stone building domiciled on an islet, no more
than a hundred yards off the coastal shore.
The craggy basalt outcropping rose only a few feet above the high water
mark and was protected by a huge, tranquil bay.
Many homes, mansions, and commercial buildings were built along the
shore, right up to the water’s edge.
The islet church was nobly capped with a green copper
cupola. A short bit south of that, maybe
ten kilometers, was an island that was separated from the main land by twenty
feet, yet every inch of that island supported a building – also
incredible. The bus made many stops and
seldom exceeded thirty mph. From 11 a.m. to 4:20
p.m. we drove to Ul. Ul, Montenegro
doesn’t have charm that is apparent to the casual visitor like me. I found an Internet service, but they don’t
open to the public until after 8 p.m. They are holding class today because many
people want to develop computer skills here.
The only place I could change money was at the “banka,” and I was
pointed to where the “banka” was. I
walked a half mile to a glass store front underneath a big blue sign that read
“Banka” I looked in the front window and saw textiles, white plastic tubs of
laundry soap and various plumbing parts sorted in gray, wide, plastic
bins. So I walked on, looking for the
real “banka,” praying that wasn’t what they were talking about when I said I
needed to exchange American dollars, formerly hidden in my money belt, into
local currency.
The town walkways and streets were covered with a white
chalky dust. There were rumbling cement
sidewalks and asphalt with long deep cracks, that
knowledgeable drivers knew to avoid. I
happened to pass a tourist bureau. I
wasn’t exactly certain of what type of business it was except that it looked
professional, that is it was clean, neat and modern. I could see three young women working behind
their desks, two of them on the telephone.
I stood quietly at the wooden desk closest to the door. All three of the young women became silent,
ceasing whatever task they were in the midst of and stared at me
expectantly. The girl behind the desk
stood. She was tall, and slender with
long straight black hair. Other than a
half dozen small red pimples on her forehead, she’d be described as
pretty. I looked around and asked, “Do
you speak English?” She spoke enough
English and had the desire to help me so we were able to communicate fairly
well. I definitely needed the bathroom.
She let me use it, thankfully. I
am expecting Turkish style toilets, but was pleasantly surprised to find
European type. This was a travel
agency. She sold me a round trip ticket
to Kosova for thirty-one Euros. The bus
station in Dubrovnik was not able
to provide the connecting bus, and instructed me to buy it at some point in Montenegro. They took dollars instead of Euros, one to
one. Although the US dollar is worth
about ten percent more than an equal amount of Euros currently, they explained
I should go back to the ‘banka’ where a row of moneychangers sits in the rear
of the store! I thought that was a
little unsavory so I paid the penalty knowingly. I asked for a few Euros so just in case I am
without them when I arrive in Kosova at 4 or 5
a.m. According to them, the
bus leaves at night to return to Ul at 6 a.m.
then, when I return, I’m to take the bus to Dubrovnik
at 7 a.m. I’ll really like it if the schedule works out
like that. I anticipate breakdowns in the scheduling and shortages, which alter
how many or when buses in any direction successfully leave.
I walked back to the bus station with over ninety minutes to
spare. This is the best time to write in
my continuing journal. Several white
mosques stood, blue capped, stark against a cerise sky. The places of worship predominate
this small city. Music played loudly
from small cafes, driving me away from it (but possibly attracting the younger
crowd). It wasn’t uncommon for either
Western music or Middle Eastern style sounds to be intermixed on the radio,
tape player, or whatever was the source of the tunes. Dogs roamed freely, a rarity in Moslem
countries. As skinny as the canines
were, they still had a life preserving respect for motorcycles, cars and
trucks. There was no reciprocating
respect extended for the hounds, and it showed.
The bus cuts through the town picking up and dropping off many
people. One old lady,
whose thin white hair was poking out in wisps from underneath a tightly wrapped
blue checkered kerchief, entered dragging a large satchel of horse manure that
challenged her physical abilities.
The putrid odor upset most people on the bus so the driver had to
finally ask the old bent woman to get off at the next stop. I sat, quietly writing, recording what experiences
I have had until the bus arrives at this bus stop. I am having some language difficulties, but
the thrill of overcoming that minor obstacle is relished. I wish the language created in the first half
of the twentieth century to breach communication between languages, named
Esperanza, had flourished, instead of fading away. That would have changed the complexion of
travel. These very obstacles are what
keep others from doing what Marcy and I do.
The thrill of the journey is certainly equal to the pleasure of the
destination. The bus lurched forward
across an ill paved parking lot, and we were off to Kosova. It was time to put away my pen and watch what
happens.
From the oceanfront flatlands we began to head toward an
outcropping of mountains. Narrow roads
that cut through the gray slag were just wide enough for one car to travel in
each direction. Heavy rain would wash
the loose dirt and gravel of the sides, and they would mire the asphalt
roads. Skies were clear so I felt
certain that we’d make it to the other side safely. I felt a bit uneasy when I looked at the
passengers in this bus. Many of them
looked like miners, oil riggers, or mechanics.
They were dressed to rugged unkempt work clothes, with a small brown
cloth satchel, probably to carry their lunch.
The bus driver steps hard on the gas as we enter a flat
straight road. I looked out of the
window to see a small village of one-story houses all with the same color
scheme. Brown-orange tiles over white stucco walls. It was quite pretty to see. In the next mile of travel another village
had twelve or thirteen houses that resembled ones I’ve seen in Tijuana’s
shantytown. This hodgepodge of
pockmarked hovels was assembled with whatever excess construction media they
could scrounge. Part stone, part brick,
part wood, part something else. The
roofs were often tin sheeting.
I am jiggled about in the bus, not because the shock
absorbers are bad (which they are), but because the complexion of the road has
changed. Because of huge potholes, the
driver could seldom go more than fifteen miles per hour through long stretches
of the roadway. I had left at 7:30 p.m.
from the last bus pick-up point, now at 1 a.m. as we passed a checkpoint as we
headed into Serbia (formerly Yugoslavia), the police (not military) came aboard
the bus. When he was
sitting directly behind me the staccato of one long coughing spell followed by
the next. Wet, phlegmy, mucousy, coughs by somebody. It echoed through the bus. The policeman was spitting, and where he spat
I don’t know; I tried to avert my eyes as he walked the aisle checking
everyone’s face and asking questions. I
believe, when he was spitting, he was trying to show disdain for us for a
reason I am not aware of, other than the fact that none of the Yugoslavian
countries get along with their neighbors.
He instructed the driver to let him off at a point further down the
road. While he looked at me closely, he
coughed without putting a hand over his mouth.
In the faint interior light of the bus I thought I saw a disgusting
yellow globulate fly from his mouth.
What will I discover on my clothes at daybreak? I was surprised that I was never asked for my
passport. Nobody showed identification
papers, visa, or passport. Nobody, near
as I can guess, was asked for it.
Wednesday, April
24, 2002 Prishtine, Kosova province , Serbia
(Yugoslavia)
It was another four hours before arriving in Prishtine,
Kosova. We had, on part of the last
stretch of roadway, to navigate through narrow, snow-clogged streets, barely
wide enough for one vehicle. If another
car approached from the opposite direction, the solution was that one vehicle
had to give way by backing into a slender dugout carved into the mud walls. A banged up yellow Mercedes passed us shooting
billowy clouds of black smoke from his tailpipe. The blue-black stream of smoke spun like a
pinwheel before it blossomed into sight blinding, suffocating, chemical
mist. A mile further on the road we saw
the driver of the yellow car being interrogated by an armed soldier. Fortunately I had gotten some Euros in Ulcinj
because the taxi drivers in Prishtine like the world over,
are opportunists, ready to take advantage of the next naive soul to visit their
town.
Everywhere I’ve gone I have noticed that cabbies are a tough
lot. The singular taxi driver waiting at
the bus stop at four a.m. is like an
old fisherman who baits his hook and then sits on the bench waiting, with
infinite patience, for some unlucky fish to happen by. He played his part well and he knew this
time, that I was that fish. At first I
wasn’t able to communicate my intent, which was to be in the town center. I’d like to be sitting in a coffee shop watching
the town wake up while I was sipping a hot cup of coffee. The weather was clear but very chilly. He got out of his taxi, ran over to a local
policeman who spoke English and brought him back to me. The policeman translated. The driver said he’d drive me for five
euros. What could I do? I accepted, there was no meter in the taxi
and I had no idea of how far he’d have to travel to get me there. Then the driver brought me about one mile to
a poorly lit café and said, in effect, we’re here. I said “Town
Center!”, “Centrum!”, and
“Centrale?” Reluctantly he
proceeded. The roads seem fine in the
city. I will see how they look in the
full light of the day.
Slowly, very cautiously, the town came alive. Unexpectedly, I saw no treasure trove of
historical items here. This city (and it is a city), is the communist ideal
with little to look at, with roots dug far back into history. This city was built from nothing but six
buildings that acted as a shoddy, lackluster nucleus. Real construction started in the seventies
and ceased in the eighties. All the
larger structures were starkly modern with no flair, no flourishes, and no
flamboyance. Everything was strictly
utilitarian. Even the ruins of an
ancient village where the people lived underground was now used as a site to
build three factories, rather than making any effort to glorify the ancient
history that existed there. Prishtine is
devoid of a physically colorful past, and from the communist perspective, it is
unencumbered with myths of old. This was
in large part the reason this city was created.
Communist officials decided it was necessary to build a city where one
had not been before. Only the foundation
of a one-century year old mosque, and the gigantic
statue of an Albanian King of the fifteenth century who defeated Turkish
advancement on the precursor to this city numerous times are still here. His statue looms tall over the city center.
I spent several hours at the Grand Hotel in the
morning. The rooms there were $75 a
night, but it was a 5 star hotel (they claimed). The rooms had simple furnishings, but the walls
had at one time been laminated with the most elegant wall coverings of flocked
gold and silver. At 8 a.m. I started to get a clearer overview of the city
altogether. Tourist offices either didn’t speak English, were not open, or did not have
any tour I was interested in. The only
way I found to solve that problem was to hire a taxi. Two drivers said they’d be my driver till 6 p.m. for one hundred Euros. This was a preposterous proposal, but they
may have thought I was very wealthy, or, even more likely, here on business
with a business account. I politely
declined since neither driver spoke English well. I’m certain I’ll find a better offer if I
wait and ask around. A travel agency
opened its front door and a young woman threw a bucket of water across the
sidewalk and into the street. The front
window was decorated with several travel signs, some were written in
English. I spoke with the girl behind a
desk. She spoke English with a heavy
French accent. I asked if they had a city tour, embellishing my question with a
stirring motion to indicate ‘going around the city.’ She looked at me quizzically and said,
“No.” That was it, no alternative plan,
nothing. Right here we had one of those
long ‘pregnant pauses’, while I waited for her next words, none would come
without further prompting. I asked if
they had tours of historical interest to nearby towns or villages. She replied, “no”
with the starkness of someone who is without interest in continuing any kind of
dialog. I stood waiting for her next
words but they would not be coming. I
shrugged my shoulders and walked out.
She didn’t notice that because her head was bent as she read some papers
on the desk, to avoid the courtesy of any departing remark, such as “good
bye.”
I stopped to talk to a taxi driver, and I quickly discovered
that he and the two drivers queued in line behind him, spoke no English, and to
make matters worse, they laughed among themselves. I admit that, back in America,
I might respond similarly if someone was speaking like “Latka” (of the 70's
television sitcom “Taxi”) and said “Yibbi Da.”
That means something in Albanian but I don’t know what, just like the
syllables I spoke to them had equal nonsensical value. A man standing nearby overheard the
conversation, if you can call it that.
He said he would spend about four hours to show me the town. I suggested
a price of fifty Euros and he was happy to accept, since that was an average
week’s wage in Kosova. He introduced
himself, as I did. Each of us included a
very brief “bio.” My first request of
‘Essat” was to take me to a bank so I could get some Euros. Although they are
not part of the European Common Market, they chose to use Euros to replace
local currency. The bank was my
preference over the black marketers who were willing to give 1.20 Euros instead
of the bank’s 1.15 to the dollar for the difference of 5 euros (when I changed
$100) I didn’t think it was worth the risk of getting counterfeit money because
I really didn’t know exactly what a Euro looked like. That’s the common currency used in Albania,
Kosova, and Montenegro. I agreed with Essat to meet in a half hour to
start our four hours because I wanted to use the Internet.
There were several Internet cafes along the main
boulevard. I walked into one built into
the second floor of a three story wooden building that may have been a large
warehouse at one time. The cost was
reasonable at one Euro for two hours use.
They even had DSL here. In a moment I was logged on and communicating
with people back home. Marcy should have
gotten the wrist corsage of gardenias by now.
She hasn’t said a word about it though.
I was surprised that Carol wrote that Mile was insulted that I didn’t
think “his” country was the best.
Mile claims to be Croatian but his hometown is far within
Bosnian borders. Living with his parents
if he did, in an area clearly reflecting Bosnian way of life on many levels
included variations from Croatia
like a dietary change. Croatians eat
fish and many vegetables, Bosnians eat mainly meat and potatoes. Croatia
is progressive. Bosnia
seems to stagnate. Roads and private
conveyances, like cars and trucks, are remarkably newer in Croatia. Bosnia
is Moslem, Croatia
is Catholic (and THIS is the GREAT separator between all the minuscule
Yugoslavian states. Religion, it appears
divides people in some sort of chaotic, rapidly shifting game). He wants to think of himself as Croatian. Croatia
is a far cry from perfect, but, in general, they seem to be moving quicker
towards the twenty-second century than other parts of Yugoslavia
I have seen so far. From the perspective
of a tourist, there are beautiful parts of it for sure,
the coast is incredible, which it shares with Montenegro. Most of the people I have met are very
sensitive people. That last remark isn’t
intended in a good way. What I mean is
that the people of the former Yugoslavia
have difficulty hearing anything but praise for their petit, impotent country,
whichever one it is that they associate themselves with. The only power they ever would have, other
than as a cute tourist attraction, is if they bound themselves together under a
strong leader like Tito. I have heard
several people lament his passing. It is
the pettiness. That is why fighting
breaks out so frequently here. Without
many Jewish communities here since the brutality of WWII ended fifty years ago,
they can only point to each other to find blame for their failure. The brutality still exists, but it manifests
itself differently.
Essat met me after I finished in the Internet. I suspected
Internet is all over this city too. I
have felt the presence of the Internet in every town and city I’ve been in so
far, small and large. DSL, a rapid port
for Internet transmissions over telephone lines, is very popular now, at the
very beginning of the new millennium, and is not uncommon or all that difficult
to find.
Although the fighting has significantly declined in Kosova,
it is currently under the domination of Albania,
and is trying to establish itself as a sovereign nation. The Serbs are rejecting their claim because,
although (according to Essat) they pay taxes to Serbia
(Yugoslavia),
you must simply “follow the money.” That
means if taxes go to Serbia
then this is part of Serbia.
Essat says “no, it should not be that way.
Most of the taxes must stay here to help people locally, not a kingdom
far off.” Essat continued while I sat in
his car. “Serbians are Slavic people, but Kosovans are Aryans, like Germans,”
he said proudly. I try to remember that
these are the thoughts of one man, not an entire province or country. He drove me out to Mitrovica when new
fighting is breaking out, and
there
is a very strong UN presence here with hundred of armored vehicles and many
soldiers of all nations. In the town of Mitrovica
there was the real danger of being shot. Most visible were the French soldiers
in their foppish berets.
There was some light gunfire far across the bridge. I walked across the silver metal river bridge
into a fairly large residential district of apartment buildings. The four-story
structures lined both sides of the street leading away from the river and
looked like they were built after 1920, and before 1940. Under the bridge and on
both sides of the river stood the brown, earthen banks of the river. On it stood one fortified structure, which
was probably an office building before some military forces took it over. No flags flew to identify the forces within. The masonry building was surrounded by burlap
bags of sand or dirt and topped with razor-edged barbed wire. I stood around a corner, out of the line of
fire, protected by the stone wall of a corner apartment building. I could hear frequent bursts of shooting that
wasn’t far off in the distance. An
occasional burst of machine guns, or larger gauge weapons would erratically
punctuate the momentary silence. Usually
I could hear small arms fire, such as hand guns or rifles. An occasional stray bullet would ricochet
down this street making a ghastly, whizzing sound. I don’t remember hearing a shot, when at one
particular moment a part of the masonry from the apartment building I had taken
shelter behind suddenly had a cemented stone fly off and spin on the sidewalk I
stood on. A small white cloud of gritty
dust settled in my hair as I listened to the ricocheting twang of a nearby
bullet invisibly whizzing by from somewhere unseen. I wondered no longer why Essat refused to
accompany me, instead saying he’d wait in the car, on the other side of the bridge. It has been a chilly day, probably no warmer
than 50F. I shot a few pictures then I left, crossing the bridge a second time.
After that, Essat brought me to a recent graveyard with
fresh graves. I could tell they had been
made recently because of the color of the turned earth above them. Several had the red and yellow military arm
patch still resting on top of it. These
plots were dug on grassy public land with a white wooden cross dug into a mound
of dirt above. Each grave was covered in
bouquets of plastic flowers. The grassy
field was an acre on a hill overlooking the city. A big part of the park served as a playground
for children from a neighboring governmental housing project. I shot a few more pictures of some of kids
playing near the graves, oblivious to the sacrifice young men made, and without
full knowledge of what good their death served.
None, I’d say.
Essat showed me a modest mosque
that had no grand story behind it, nor was it worthy of a photo because of its
aesthetic grandeur. He showed it to me
to “prove” that there was acceptance of other faiths here. I bought a couple of Kosova hats, made of
light tan felt in the shape of a deep cu,p without a brim or any other
decor. The ride out of here is
long. I wanted something to eat on the
bus so I bought some peanuts and two liters of water. My bus leaves at 7 p.m., so I should make it by morning.
Wednesday April
24th, 2002
Prishtine, Kosova
The airport is closed and the trains are not moving. No embargo, as I understand,
just mischief and issues of local skirmishes.
Essat didn’t know why there are no trains to Belgrade
now. I suspect that the violence has
prevented trains and planes from operating.
There was plenty of time to kill before the bus would
leave. The bus terminal had been badly
damaged in the war five years ago, but the damage remains un-repaired, other
than simple dirt and asphalt fill-ins in the roadway. The people work around it, blindly avoiding
any recognition that something is out of the ordinary. Three huge pillars supporting a huge quadrant
of the cement overhang are so badly damaged that the area below cannot be
used. The behemoth corner folded in on
itself from it’s massive, now unsupported weight, and
so it remains.
I have another three hours before the bus
goes to Montenegro
for transfer, and it has given me an opportunity to tune in to the Arabic music
played, scratchily, over the loud speakers.
I may be the only one that the music annoys; it must be like elevator
music to everyone else.
The bus began its long journey just a few minutes before 7 p.m. Most everybody in this part of the world
uses a 24-hour clock throughout the former Yugoslav country. When I boarded this time, there were many
more people to accommodate, so I didn’t have the luxury, as before, to stretch
out between seats across the aisle.
Because I knew how long this drive would be, I had purchased a small
block of yellow cheese and a large round, dark rye and sesame bread from a
vendor at the edge of town. Most people
brought some food or drink with them. Soon the bus has many unusual smells wafting
by my nose. Not all of them are
pleasant, especially the fishy ones.
Even the driver is eating a thick sandwich and drinking from a thermos
while he is driving. Unlike Croatia,
there is no assistant to accompany or relieve the driver if he is tired.
The ride is long, it is about 2 a.m. right now. We stopped at a small restaurant for some
coffee if we wanted some, and to walk around while the driver refueled. Passengers enjoyed a cup of rich, flavorful
coffee at all hours. There was little
beer or wine drinking. We make the long
journey all the way through with only the one short stop for gas, and the men
pissed unabashedly by a small gathering of slender trees at the edge of the
asphalt parking area. The women just
‘held it’ because there were no facilities for them. The evening passed by the bus window as I
watched. Eleven, eleven thirty, midnight, one a.m. The time just ticked by slowly in the black
night. Seldom was there a speck of light
to see. Everybody slept. A large burka-shrouded woman sat, snoring
loudly, two rows behind me. Each of her
exhaled snores was accompanied by a fecal odor.
I buried my face in my jacket to mask this disturbance. I slept a bit more.
Thursday
April 25, 2002 On the Road in Montenegro
The bus driver knew I am from United
States, so he took special care that I
understood what was happening. He was a
wiry young man of twenty-five years of age, with a yellow band of gold that
said he was married. His sharp features
appeared Russian. He’s hold up so many
fingers to indicate a break for so many minutes. I’d smile and nod in appreciation and as a
note of acknowledgment.
After all other passengers were
discharged he kindly brought me to the exact spot I was to wait for the next
bus to Herzegovina. I left him with a tip of one Euro which he
made certain the remaining passengers on the bus saw. Hopefully, he must have thought, they might
do the same.
Bus
ride back to Dubrovnik $43
Taxi
ride to Dubrovnik $31
Lunch
in Dubrovnik
30 Kuna
Internet
Use 20 Kuna
Room
in Dubrovnik
100 Kuna
Clothes
washing 20 Kuna
If I had an opportunity to come back to this part of the
world I am certain I’d want to spend some time in Kotor. It’s about thirty-five kilometers north of
“Sweda Schefa,” which is an island that is completely developed. Three acres of land jutted slightly above the
high tide waterline, and it was swollen with brick homes that filled every
meter. Kotor, the town on the
peninsula, not in the peninsula, superficially showed much promise as a
place to visit. My observations were
made as we approached and traveled through the town. A medieval castle stood in the center of the
town. Ghosts of knights long gone, I could imagine, jangled as they walk across
the castle bridge onto a green pasture where stables once encircled. Although Euros are need in Montenegro,
prices were about forty per cent cheaper than I’d expect to pay in the U.S. And they were about 25% cheaper than Croatia;
Dubrovnik in particular.
I fell asleep for a short while, but when the bus stopped at
the end of the line I exited with the other passengers. I carried my small bag and a half bottle of
water through the passport control checkpoint.
A modern bus was waited with it’s engine
running on the Croatian side. When all
passengers had boarded the bus, it took off for Dubrovnik. We were at the main bus station in twenty
minutes.
I had nothing that I had to do except get stamps for Steve
and a Dalmatian t-shirt for Mateo. Then I’ll leave beautiful Dubrovnik
the day after tomorrow.
I went to a restaurant recommended by my Lonely Planet
Guide. The book was only published two
months ago, so all the information is as fresh as possible. After I had spent several hours resting at
the ‘sobe’, I had a chance to reflect back on my recent adventure. I packed
everything away. All gifts and souvenirs
were packed tightly together, then I showered and
shaved. That really freshened
me.
To
buy drinking water, sold in plastic bottles,
If
you want ‘without gas” look to see that the cap is
blue.
If
the cap is white then it has gas, like seltzer water.
I thought about sleep, having had very little before my
return, but instead I opted for a pleasant evening walk, about four kilometers
where I was the only customer. It was
still early (for dinner); it was only 4:30 p.m. I enjoyed an appetizer of sardine filets in
olive oil, then I was to use some fish cheese, it looked like a mix of butter
and cream cheese but it tasted like lox.
Toast corners were spread with the butter then the sardine filet was
laid on top. It was very good. Truly a surprise to me! And I must admit I was very proud of myself
for not throwing up! This was not
something I ordered, but since I was the only paying occupant of the restaurant
the waiter, who spoke some English, took special pride in guiding me to making
the best menu choices. His pleasure, and certainly mine. I had a very mild fish soup that was mainly
fish broth with tiny, almost minuscule, bits of fish (I can only guess it was)
and a few grains of white rice. I ate
some white bread with oil and red wine vinegar.
The olive oil found in Dubrovnik
is very light and uniquely pleasant. My
fondness for this butter substitute grows daily.
At first I was sitting inside the dimly lit restaurant, but
I was bored with the melancholy radio music playing in the background. The yellow-tinged, rough stuccoed walls were
slathered with many expensive-looking, but nonetheless bad paintings and cheap
posters. I moved outside, into the bright sun, and I discovered a shaded corner
of the patio where I could watch the people and traffic pass the busy
corner. Petrol fumes seldom wafted my
way, but it was a small price to pay to watch the Dubrovniks push their way
home at the end of the day. Quartered
and herbed potatoes, long dark green strings of very fresh spinach and two
small filets of “pomodoro” fish was enough to fill me. The fish was braised, then
pan-fried with a coating of olive oil and a sprinkling of greenish herbs. The white flesh had the texture between fish
and calamari. I slowly savored the very mild but tasty flavor. For this meal at
an “upscale” bistro, I spent about $16, including tip. I elected to omit wine
because, well, I’m not a big wine drinker. I walked around the Lapad area,
which is dotted with small shops of all sorts.
No large restaurants, markets, or other such places. In fact, many of the small coffee shops
seldom served anything but small mass produced packages of candy, chocolate, or
nuts, coffee, coke and beer, except maybe, they might offer a cellophane
wrapped cold sandwich baking in the front window in the hot sun, but that’s it.
I am attracted to a sweet smelling bakery. I struggle with myself to buy just one light
pastry. The crisp sweet bun is savored
slowly while I walked along the harbor’s edge.
I noticed that I was the only one who was walking and eating. I bought a Croatian chocolate bar for
later. It was neither better nor worse
than others I’ve had, right there in the middle of “average” somewhere. Actually, I take that back, American
chocolate bars are becoming more waxy with a bit of
sugar and brown coloring. Taste is not
an ingredient in an American chocolate bar of 2001. So for this matter, Croatian chocolates are
superior to American. This was the first
candy I've had on this trip and a real treat, even if it tasted a little ‘old’. I bought some drinking water. This is the one commodity I strictly purchase
rather than drink from the household tap.
It has helped me maintain good health throughout all of my travels.
Friday April 26th,
2002 Dubrovnik,
Croatia
I fell asleep quickly and I awoke in a snap, just before 6 a.m. I
could see through the chilly morning haze that the sun would be out soon. From the fourth story bedroom window I could
see sharp shadows thrown across the tops of buildings that dotted this crowded
town center. When I walked outside, the
brisk cold morning air was too sharp for me to be comfortable so I retrieved my
jacket. There was just no need for me to
challenge the elements, regardless of how brief the chill would remain. I wandered around with little purpose other
than my desire to find a shirt for Mateo, colorful postage stamps for Steve’s
collection, and some beach soil to put in a small plastic film canister for my
collection at home. I walked to the dock
where the ferries load. Nothing is going
to happen here until 1 p.m., which is
when the ferry leaves for Lokrum, and I can rent appropriate equipment to
scuba. I’m told that the beach by Lokrum
is an ideal spot. I had a cup of
espresso in a small Internet café. I
wrote emails to several people, including Marcy. I make sure to write to her
even, if it’s a letter to someone else.
I finished and walked on to a bakery where I had flaky, horn-shaped roll
filled with apricot and walnuts. It was still hot. The rising steam from the tan pastry caused
the powdered sugar on the top of it to congeal into a brittle yet fragile
coating. Strangely, I am struck with the
realization that bakeries here do not sell cups of coffee and I have not found
a coffee house with pastries. I imagine
I will, I just have not yet.
I spent ten Kuna to take the number 6 bus into old town. It was a stressful walk because the walk is
almost all up hill, until sighting the fortress at the last twenty-five or
fifty meters.
In old town, the original section of Dubrovnik,
I found a Dalmatian t-shirt for Matteo and Steve’s stamps. I gathered a pinch of beach soil and a small,
brightly colored porcelain statuette of Dubrovnik. I packed all these things together tightly
and spent the next two hours exploring the town and the fortress. Cruise ships pull into a nearby deep water
port and allow passengers to have a brief excursion into this section of Dubrovnik. Stores and local craftspeople immediately
raise all of their prices while huge hordes of people follow the designated
leader, who usually holds a highly visible article of some sort, like a
gaily-colored parasol or a small rectangular cloth of light green. The groups travel en masse, usually about
thirty in number.
The circumference of the fortified old city is about a mile
long. Adjacent forts are an added
defense in case of attack, which has happened many times. Serbia
and Montenegro
launched a recent attack on December 6th,
1991 and did the most damage to the old town. There were several full-color books that
depicted the savage attack. None of
these books, and there were several, cost less than the equivalent of twenty
U.S. dollars. Prices were usually posted
in dollars in this neighborhood.
Because I had less pressure to see the city, I was able to
leisurely browse through three of the many tiny museums in old town. The damp sea air damaged beautifully colored
frescoes that decorated the outside overhang of a walkway in a nunnery. Pieces of the stucco were separating from the
ceiling but the colors remained vibrant and clear. There was restoration work being done to
preserve and repair this treasure.
Writing
Pen 5 Kuna
Stamps
for Steve 230 Kuna
Pastry 7 Kuna
Room 100 Kuna
Bus
Ride 10 Kuna
Coffee 10 Kuna
Tee
Shirt & Small Gifts 150 Kuna
Loaf
of Brown Bread 27 Kuna
The layouts of the museums that I visited were strangely
similar. Each museum was quite small,
seldom more than three rooms off one large chamber with a very little shuttered
one, which was probably used to store valuables. The cruise ship passengers had been called
back to the ship by three long blasts from its bellowing horn, and the town
immediately became sparsely populated.
Several shops closed early because of inactivity. The summer sun cast long shadows, providing
welcomed shade on a very hot day.
Resisting the impulse to have a cool ice cream cone, I bought a small
bottle of water in a tiny market, and paid seven Kuna to a young woman in a caged
kiosk for a bus ticket for the ride home.
This was the terminal point for the city bus, and many people stood with
me waiting for the next one. The buses
come, fairly promptly, every fifteen minutes, but fill quickly once the
passengers scurry aboard, looking for the best seats.
In the evening, about a kilometer from my room, a small
gathering was starting. I investigated
the reasons for such a gathering. I was told that a young boy, ten years old,
was discovered to have cancer. He badly needed chemotherapy, but couldn’t
afford the expense. In order to help this family, two hundred or more people,
especially young ones, showed up to drink one beer, or even a few. Most of the men would toss down a hamburger,
which is surprisingly similar in appearance to those sold in America.
Knockwurst-sized sausages, rather than a much skinnier hot dog, sizzled on a
large wood-burning grill. Tiny yellow
embers flew up from the grill and speckled the darkening sky. I could hear the bubbling of the dark
sausages as they were rolled on the large metal grill. I watched a young woman
wrap the sausage in a small light tan dinner roll, open her mouth wide, and
then crunch through this delicacy. My
mouth watered. My fingers wandered
through my pockets to grasp enough change to pay for one sausage. If it were not for the fact that sausages are
a marginally healthy “meat,” composed of whatever remnants of a slaughtered
beast are unclaimed by the butcher, I would have enjoyed more than one. I hate
myself when I start thinking like this!
The milling crowd congregated around the beer stalls. The
food lines were short, which was quite a contrast to the beverage line. Several pockets of local police stood at rest
on either end of the closed street at nine
o’clock. Today is Friday, and many people were going stay out till
the morning hours if permitted, especially if the beer kept flowing. The evening air was cooled as it came in from
over the harbor waters. Wood fires were
started in large, black, metal drums, drawing those less appreciative of cold,
brisk, moist evening air.
The temperature dropped ten degrees (F) in less than an
hour. I walked back to the room and
spoke with Ivana for an hour or so.
“Thanks,” I said for her hospitality.
Her mother stood nearby, and for whom all communication, except Croatian,
including English and ‘sign’ language, was an insurmountable obstacle to the
expression of a single thought. When the
mother saw me, in the warm afternoon, writing and nibbling on a small snack,
sitting in the lavender laced garden, she brought a knife, cup, and plate to
make me more comfortable.
I repacked everything to prepare for an early morning flight
at 7 a.m. It had been requested that I be at the
airport by 5:30 a.m. Ever since the World Trade Center in New York
were destroyed on September 11, 2001 by Muslim Arabs who were part of the
Taliban, an extremist Sunni Muslim paramilitary group based in Afghanistan, air
travel has been increasingly difficult.
Security measures in the U.S.
and around the world have been amplified.
Saturday April
27th, 2002
Dubrovnik to Zagreb
Croatia
and Budapest, Hungary
I didn’t sleep well, I had left my window open yesterday and
a bevy of bugs decided to spend sometime here too. Although I didn’t see them, they knew exactly
where my ear hole was! They droned
around my head all night like evil sugar plum farces. Partially covering my head with the cotton
sheet left my mouth and nose as favorite areas for them to touch and
light. I turned on the light and put on
my glasses at 2 a.m. They shirked from the light and hid. Their pleasure comes from invisible nocturnal
taunts.
I turned the light off again hoping for one or two hours of
sleep, but they wouldn’t have it. To
continue my torture, they giddily returned to their fleshy playground. I took momentary solace in the fact that
gnats generally have a life span of two weeks.
The futility of my unwilling participation may be the only joy in the
life of a gnat. It was time to leave.
Bus Ride 25 Kuna
Coffee/Strudel 45 Kn
Budapest in Taxi
$30
Sausage and Roll $2
Room in Istanbul $35
Kebaps (2 @) $3
Halvah (1 Kilo) $3
Dinner $5
Internet (90 min) $2
I always suspect that I have
lost, misplaced, or had a small item of value pilfered from me. It was a constant fear. But this was is necessary so that I always
remain on a high level of vigilance.
Travelers and tourists are always a favorite target of thieves. Before leaving the room I checked for keys,
tickets, money, all items at least twice, usually more. Feeling confident that I have everything, I
wrote a brief card to Ilyana thanking her and promising to send a copy of a
photo I took of her once I am back in America.
A small white bus with large blue
letters saying ‘ATLAS’ emblazoned on it appeared at 5 a.m. at the main bus stop.
The bus traveled the 20 miles to the airport. I waited, and
boarded at the Zagreb airport where
they scanned my luggage and found a Leatherman pocket tool. I surrendered it rather than miss the flight,
which was to leave in ten minutes. He
saw it as good for air safety overall, but I still wasn't too happy to leave
it. The weather is bad in Zagreb,
like when I was there a week ago, and it was just as bad in Budapest.
The plane landed in Budapest,
Hungary and gave me three
hours to look around. I've been here
before but I might find something to enjoy here. At the airport the main foods
offered was Sbarro pizza. I bought some
wurst and brot, and then brought them back to the airport. All of the luggage
was already checked through, so I had little problem going through customs and
leaving, especially because the plane was forty minutes late. I met a man in his mid-fifties who has
traveled the world with his mom. They were truly adventurers; they had been to
many of the places I’ve been, and a few I hadn’t.
We landed after three hours of flight from Budapest
to Istanbul. My bag was one of the first to come off the
ramp. From a distance it looked
strange. As I examined it once it came
closer, I saw that had been ripped open.
A baggage handler somewhere took about $100 in cash and $1000 in
travelers’ checks. I saw several locks
were ripped off. I walked to the Malev
airlines office to make a report, but they said a baggage report identified the
problem and made a record of damage when it was taken to them, from Croatia
Airlines. Apparently this happened in Croatia. The clerk seemed nonplused. Such things happen frequently and she didn’t
seem optimistic that anything would be done about the damage or theft I told
her about. I made an official report
anyway. The cash was gone, but I had the
numbers of the travelers’ checks with the travelers’ checks. I had no record of
them, thus I would suffer the loss of the travelers’ checks too.
I met Mr. Ahmet of the Sport Hotel, where I am staying in Istanbul
in the Sultanamet district. He also has
an office at the airport. I spoke with
him, and he tried with little effort to be sympathetic and helpful. There was nothing else for him to do. Each of
his employees asked me questions like “Did you check every pocket?” or, “Why
did you not carry the money with you?”
The answer to the second question is that I carried all hundred-dollar
bills on me, stashed in a secret pocket and all credit cards, i.d., etc. with
me. I have Traveler’s Checks, $1000 in
twenty dollar notes, plus one hundred dollars in brand new dollar bills, which
was a thick stack and not very easy to conceal.
Everything was too bulky to carry with me.
When I packed this morning I put everything of value in the
duffle bag that I brought with me on the plane.
I packed little of value elsewhere.
When I got to my room in the hotel and took inventory, I looked in the
pocket where the money was stolen, and my return tickets to the U.S.
were missing! You lose an hour on the
clock when traveling from the Yugoslavian
Peninsula to Turkey. I was tired and had gone through an emotional
drain; to have someone pick through your stuff like that disturbed me. As bad things are, this wasn't the worst that
could happen, because I found the Traveler’s Checks receipts. I called the American Express office and
replacement checks were promised. So that’s it!
Rather than repair the damage to my faithful backpack of a
few ripped tabs I decided to live, temporarily, with the inconvenience of
having a difficult time opening or closing certain zippered pockets. I will leave it as a remembrance and
testament to travelers’ vulnerability.
Tomorrow morning Marcy arrives. I am very happy to see her! Tonight I had arranged to meet Mr. Ahmet in
the hotel to discuss further travel throughout Turkey. He should be here at 9 p.m., that’s what we agreed to, but because Turks obey
different business etiquette, 9 p.m.
could mean 10 or even 11. Bye and bye I
would discover that 9 p.m. meant 11:20 p.m. to Mr. Ahmet. I was already
asleep. I finally had an opportunity to
watch CNN, and I closed my eyes for the last time this night while listening to
news of the world. Of great importance to Muslim Turkey is the worsening
situation in Israel
with the Palestinians. The
Israeli-Palestinian problem was highlighted by several armed Palestinians holed
up in the church of the Nativity looking for refuge, but they were also well
armed. Quite a
paradox.
In the Yugoslavian
Peninsula there was no CNN, and the
news emphasis was on sports. Mr. Ahmet
called my room and woke me. I told him
we should talk in the morning because it is too late to chat now. He said he’d meet me in the lobby at 9 a.m.
I had prepared everything to leave the hotel early,
including a driver and taxi to the Ataturk
Airport, so I’d be on time for
Marcy’s arrival tomorrow morning. I
really miss her and I am anxious to see her.
I watched CNN until I fell asleep again.
Sunday April 28th,
2002 Istanbul, Turkey
(Marcy arrives)
I woke with the distant singing of the imam’s morning call
to prayer. I ate a simple breakfast
upstairs on the top floor. Large
floor-to-ceiling windows let the light from the rising Eastern Sun come through
on three sides of this coffee shop sized room.
The breakfast was just coffee, plain yogurt (which I added some rose jam
for sweetness), a small, crisp, tan roll with a very soft white inner part,
which I stuffed full with small slices of cheese and salami. I ate as I walked toward the window looking
out over parts of this tumultuous city.
The lone Japanese man walked softly while I wrote in my journal.
At 9 a.m. I had the hotel driver bring me to the airport, about
twenty-five minutes away. I waited until
I could see her face pop through the only gate through which every exiting
foreign passenger must exit. She was happy to discover my face in a sea of
strangers. I ran over to her and we
hugged each other. I was glad she was
okay, and she looked beautiful! I missed
her very much.
Candy $2
Room $70
Fish Lunch $20
Lamb Kebaps (2) $3
Internet (2 hrs) $2
Phone (Local calls) $6
She was wheeling her luggage, which she handed to my
driver. He put the items in the car and
we drove off to the hotel. The clerk at
the Sport Hotel gave us a different room, one with a parlor and a large window
with a partially obstructed view out over the sea
of Marmora.
Marcy flopped on the sofa.
In a moment she was asleep in front of the TV with CNN on. I sat next to
her for a while. After ten minutes, I
got up and straightened out some of the personal affects that were scattered
randomly around the room.
When Marcy woke from her very brief nap I took her on a
short walk around the hotel. Although
this is not the finest hotel, it has a wonderful location at the edge of the
Sultanamet district. Marcy saw the
entrance to the Grand Bazaar. Time was
whizzing by and the Grand Bazaar closes at 7:30
p.m. She only was able to
glance inside as the giant doors were closed for the evening. I saw a special glimmer in her eye, the look
she gets when she’s ready to do some serious shopping. She’s ready now. On the periphery of this huge indoor swap
meet are a great many shops and street vendors who benefit from the daily
closing. We bought two barbequed lamb
sandwiches called “kebaps.”
Marcy got a good look at the Turkish bath house, which now
seemed to have acquired a huge tourist trade.
I don’t recall so many visitors when I had been here in Istanbul
before, twelve years earlier, when I had visited Greece,
which is located southwest of this ancient metropolis.
One vendor had fried
seafood had a pleasant display.
He offered us an opportunity to sit upstairs. The food was
disappointedly greasy, with small portions of less than memorable quality. I am certain he chuckled when he charged
seven dollars for two small glasses of poor table wine, possibly wine
vinegar. I noticed that this seemed to
be a favorite ploy played out in many little restaurants. The owner of the shop tries his best to lure
foreigners upstairs. Foreigners are
perceived as wealthy and “fair game” for the restaurateurs. After that bad experience, we wouldn’t let
that happen again.
The Imams sang from the open towers of the mosque
minarets. The Arabic chanting filled the
quiet streets. The entire city was
bathed in the charming Eastern rhythms.
I think a westerner needs to acquire an ear for the mysterious sounds.
The modern streetcars traversed the main streets. We walked back to the hotel and went to sleep
at about 9 p.m. The Grand Bazaar is supposed to be open from 7:30 a.m. to 7:30
p.m. We can take the
streetcar to several important historical sites along this street or other
streets nearby. I met Mr. Ahmet back at
the hotel and confirmed tentative plans to have a tour of Istanbul
tomorrow, but with a private driver to take us to places further out. Care needs to be taken about Marcy’s
foot. It begins to hurt after only a
small amount of exertion.
Monday April 29th, 2002 Istanbul,
Turkey
Mr. Fahtid, (pronounced like
Mr. Fatty), our driver and guide, was a balding man of
forty years, and showed every day of it. Soon we felt very confident with his
guidance. His limited knowledge on
English was impeding a fully comfortable day for us. With some effort I was
able to express ideas to him, and he was able to give an understandable answer
to me. Undoubtedly, his knowledge of
English far surpassed my repertoire of five Turkish words. The American Express office was the first
place to visit to get replacement checks for those that were stolen. The bank clerk had me fill out a quick form, then go to a nearby bank, Cok Bank, later today or
tomorrow. This bank ran out of
travelers’ checks and couldn’t give me cash, either in liras or dollars.
We ate a very light breakfast
of cumin spiced rolls, small wedges of soft Swiss cheese, thin American-style
coffee, yogurt, and eggs. The only
unusual item was rose jam, and it did taste like it was made from roses. Tomato
soup was available too. Japanese prefer
soup for breakfast. There were many
Japanese here at this hotel.
After breakfast we took the
aged elevator down to the hotel lobby where we met Mr Fatid who brought us to
the waiting car. After a short drive we
got out to walk around the hippodrome area. Marcy’s foot limited the amount of
walking she could do. The cobbled
streets paved with uneven surfaced stone rectangles made walking in the boot
difficult for her. Several areas were
paved with raised, rounded, silver dollar-sized stones mounted in
concrete. That was even tough for me to
walk in canvas shoes, it must have been much worse for Marcy. We left this area and drove through congested
streets to the Europe side to get my travelers’ checks at 2 p.m.
Parking on the sidewalk often
solves the problem of where to park. Drivers seeking a place to temporarily
lodge their car will think nothing of angling the vehicle in any odd way while
shopping or conducting business around town.
Some people try to prevent
The
most precious things to a Turk are:
1. Horse (now an auto)
2. Gun
3. Wife (or mother)
sidewalk parking by installing a
mushroom-shaped cement post to barricade a car from entering that area. Istanbuli drivers, when pushed, become very
creative. So property owners have to be more inventive. It is definitely a case of “one upmanship”
between drivers and landowners. One
devise is a low platform constructed of metal with spikes pointing up to
destroy tires. Cars edge each other out
in congested streets, often traveling less than ten miles an hour, and the air
is flooded with noxious black plumes of oily auto exhaust, or bus exhaust from
broken gaskets.
Mr. Fahtid owns a new
Volkswagen Autobus with no air conditioning.
This particular deficiency was overlooked because we were enjoying good
weather, about 75F temperature. We saw
the fancy buildings on the European side, the Anatolian side. This is the Golden Horn. There are three bridges that span these two
parts of the city. One was built to
resemble the Golden
Gate Bridge. Along the shores of the Bosphorus there were numerous homes and
palaces that showed diverse styling.
Rococo, baroque and modern architecture melded together to reflect the
diverse history of the city. We sat
waterside in the outside plaza by a palace, drinking afternoon tea. This is the point where the Bosphorus meets
the Marmora Sea; temperature and thermoclimes conflict, and it is easily
apparent by watching the water surface.
Fahtid drove by an ancient fortification built to stop a naval
invasion. It didn’t work, the invasion
was successful.
Mr. Fahtid, Taxi Driver $130
Room in Istanbul $70
Topkapi
Museum $30
Miscellaneous Snacks $10
We watched black gowned women, hidden frequently behind thin
veils, walk through the streets wearing fashionable
shoes and glittery jewelry all hidden under the gown. Most men wore western style clothes, jeans
are less popular here than in the Yugoslavian peninsula. Men often greeted each other by fake kissing
each other on both cheeks. And it wasn’t
unusual to see two men or two women walking arm in arm. Most pairs were same sex. No husband-wife or boyfriend-girlfriend
together. Street sanitation is not a big priority. However preservation of historical stuff is a
high priority, because that is what draws a huge tourist trade to Turkey.
Mr. Fahtid, our driver recommended by Mr. Ahmed, was paid
one hundred American dollars, an exorbitant amount I would later learn. I had agreed to that price earlier (and I was
not aware yet of my imprudent behavior), so I gave him an extra twenty-dollar
tip. Audaciously, he asked for another
ten dollars US for parking fees. I paid
with no protest. We enjoyed his company
and he took special care that Marcy was never overexerting the bad foot. That alone was worth a great deal to me.
Tuesday April 30th,
2002 Istanbul,
Turkey
Today I must decide between the program developed by Mr.
Ahmet or Mr. Levant, a fellow from another travel agency which was located
along our short walk along the main street in Sultanahmet. I had told Mr.
Levant the same itinerary that was divulged to Mr Ahmet so I could compare two
programs. For Marcy’s comfort I wanted a
private guide with a timetable we can establish. Both Mr. Ahmet and Mr. Levant worked out the
way they thought we could see the important sites that we chose before coming
here. We used travel books and the Internet to decide what we wanted to see.
Although Mr. Ahmet worked out
a program that might work, he was very casual, too casual about things not
being exactly as he had promised, and his written program didn’t quite do what
we had hoped. After a second meeting
with Mr. Ahmet I told him we’ll use the other program from Mr. Levant, not
his. He was disappointed but
gracious. He chided me that we would be
very rushed to try to do all of the things proposed in the other program. He asked for, and I consented to, twenty
dollars for his phone calls and “effort.”
His audacity amazed me, but I applauded his unabashed willingness to
ask.
Marcy’s foot seemed to have enough rest after yesterday, so
today we will spend in the Grand Bazaar and the Egyptian Spice Market. Marcy bought twenty purses and I bought a
wallet. When we return I want to get a
big water pipe just before we head back home.
There were a few other items we bought but spent less than two hundred
dollars during a major spending spree.
Purses (9)
$140
Bag & Wallet
$30
Another Purse
$20
Vest and Belt
$18
Taxi $4
Lunch
$3
Halvah
$5
Tour Package
$2865
We walked toward the Spice Market, which was supposed to be
a ten-minute walk. Instead it took over
an hour because the rough uneven pavement was such a physical challenge for
Marcy. At the spice market we bought a
brown paper bag filled with fresh, sweet, but small strawberries. 2lbs. cost 50 cents, shelled walnuts ½ lb.
for 80 cents, a half kilo (a little more than a pound) of dried apricots cost
the equivalent to one dollar.
We ate two kebaps of lamb.
Marcy waited at the table till I brought the purchases back to our room. I had
another conversation with Mr. Ahmet, then decided to
have the tour with Mr. Levant, a wiry man of forty, who spoke fluent English
because it was necessary when he served as a fighter pilot for Turkey ten years ago. After a bad accident he looked for another
line of work. I choose not to ask him
about the accident, figuring that he was intuitive enough to realize I had a
willing ear to hear his story. I might
be seen as “too nosy” if I inquired at all, instead I smiled benignly while he
spoke. Mr. Levant work out a detailed
itinerary that incorporated the cultural and historic highlights of Turkey we were seeking. He wanted $2650 for eleven days. Mr. Ahmet had revised and adjusted his price
down to $1980 but there were extras that would have put the price far above Mr
Levant’s. Much more was included in the
schedule itinerary designed by Mr. Levant.
Levant made flight reservations for the 1½ hour flight of about
920 kilometers to Kayseri. That is ninety kilometers away from Cappadocia.
Everything was repacked that
night since the bags had to be prepared for when we get up early. Our flight leaves from Istanbul’s Ataturk International Airport at 7:30 a.m. so
we must be there before 6:30 a.m.
because of heightened security. We fell
asleep around 9 p.m. I showered, shaved, etc. at night so I could
pop up like a fireman, put on my clothes and go. Marcy was too tired, and she was committed to
waking up even earlier in order to have time for a shower and such things that
women do.

The drive from the center of town to the airport is about
forty kilometers. Taxis will charge
twenty U.S. dollars to get into town, but going the other way, into the
airport, there are cheaper taxis, or “taksi” as it is
called here. All legitimate taxis must
be metered, but just like traffic laws, they are frequently disobeyed. There
are many ways around this regulation.
Most common excuse I heard is “My meterrrrr is brrrrroke.”
(Note: the rolling r’s are needed for the sound of
authenticity.) It was so common an
English phrase spoken that you must know what is a fair price
beforehand, or find a dolmus, which is a shared taxi, usually painted
yellow, going to a common area. When
exiting a dolmus just watch to see what the other passengers are paying.
Wednesday May 1st, 2002 Istanbul
to Cappadocia, Turkey
Although we didn’t know it
yet, just like each of the preceding days, this day would be more fun,
fantastic and wonderful than the last.
The future held a surprise of what would be the best yet.
The driver was right on time. This was a
pleasant surprise in a country whose citizens usually are more relaxed about
issues of time. He took our luggage to
the car and we settled the bill at the hotel, having made two local phone
calls, once about replacing the stolen travelers’ checks, and once to Mr.
Levant, the travel agent whose program I selected. There was also a charge for one dollar for a
small pint bottle of water from the mini-bar.
The hotel room cost seventy dollars daily.
I have a little
knowledge of the German language. I
lived in Nuremberg, Germany thirty years ago. The Turks have been close friends with the
Germans since the early 1900s. Germans
enjoy Turkey “too much” according to our driver Fahtid of two days ago. Although several Turks have expressed a
dislike of Germans, it is not easily visible.
German tourists are notorious for never bargaining when purchasing
goods. Discussing a trade is an
intricate part of Turkish business etiquette.
German is the second
most common foreign language behind English.
English is mandatory and is taught in all schools. Germany has left its mark here (the double entendre
was purposeful). There are monuments to
the relationship maintained, including an alliance during World War Two for
which Turkey suffered some consequence of having “bet” on the wrong team. Groups of
old German tourists clog narrow streets when disgorged from a “Pasha” tourist
bus. They are either unmindful or
disdainful of ordinary traffic. I
believe that they follow the Turkish group leader exactly as he says.
The driver sped away from the hotel. The early morning brings very light traffic
now. I asked the driver for our travel
papers. In German, he said that he
didn’t have the documents. He thought
that I was supposed to have them. He
made a call to the hotel after stopping the car on the street. Because there are so many one-way streets he
ran back to pick the papers up. A
bellboy stood outside the hotel on the front steps to hand them to him
quickly. Our driver was back in the car
in less than five minutes. We were off
to the airport, still with plenty of time.
At 7:10 a.m. the city streets
were hardly busy so we zipped along. We
saved more time by occasionally not stopping at a quickly changing traffic
light here and there, even brazenly skirting through a lifeless, but lit by a
red light, intersection. We sat quietly
in the back seat, trusting in the unshaven, wild-eyed Turkish driver.
Turkey
spans Europe and Asia. It possesses cultural attitudes from both
worlds. What lay ahead would reveal a
deeper meaning to this country than I had ever imagined.
Airport traffic was
light. We took care of all necessary
tasks with ease, then waited to board the plane. Security measures were efficient, and they
x-rayed everything.
This flight carried the
maximum number of passengers today, but it was mercifully brief. The stewardesses rolled their stainless steel
cart down the narrow aisles and offered passengers coffee, tea, milk, apple
juice, or cherry juice. A young man
followed the cart to present to the occupier of each seat a small hard roll
with a slice of Swiss cheese and a slice of green pickle. Each such serving was tightly wrapped in
clear plastic wrap.
We landed. Musti, a
young man who would serve as our interpreter and guide, and Hussein, an older
man, maybe virile sixty, very Semitic in appearance but he has adapted to western-style
clothes; he was our very able driver.
They waited in the Kayseri Airport
for us. By appearance Musti picked us
out of the crowd and asked me for my name.
I had asked for an opportunity to inspect rugs in this city, famous for it’s style of rug-making.
They dismissed my inquiry by saying we’ll be going to a rug making store
later.
They brought us the forty
kilometers to Kayadam Cave Hotel in Ürgüp.
What a wonderful place! The inn, and all of the
rooms were carved from the stone. We had
to walk up three short flights of stairs also hewn from the monolithic
rock. The climb was not easy for Marcy
but we were rewarded with a bizarre cave-room dug out of the soft porous
stone. The rock hardens when exposed to
air for a long time. This “five-star”
lodge would have been enough to satisfy us for the day, but fortunately it was
only the beginning.
After thirty minutes to
“freshen up” we were off to see the “fairy chimneys.” These spires were cut into the valley by
millions of years of brutal erosion. The
weird geologic formations could have been backdrops for demented sci-fi
movies. We parked and I hiked a trail
with Musti. We had a panoramic view of
the valley and the shadow capped mountain, second highest in Turkey.
While Marcy and I prefer small restaurants to big ones, my
dad taught me, many years ago, certain signs of a good
restaurant to look for when I am in a new area. If there are
a lot of cars in the parking lot that’s good. Here there were many tour buses in the
parking lot, a bad sign I would guess.
After we maneuvered the downhill climb, we saw and smelled the food, it
seemed to be a great choice, we ate chicken kebab, korma, grape leaves, spices,
braising meats and herbs sent their aromas wafting through the cavernous
sitting room with very long tables.
Marcy enjoyed the eggplant, but we both enjoyed the orange couscous,
halvah, what a wonderful spread! There
were busloads of older German tourists being carted here and there. The experience wasn’t too tarnished by hungry
Germans greedily hoarding certain foods.
Luckily, my first impression was wrong!
As Musti predicted, around 5 p.m. the weather turned cold quickly. A light rain made climbing rock steps
dangerously slippery, but we did it. The
frescoes that decorated the interior of the rock cave churches that had been
created by early Christians were often defaced by Muslim conquerors as they
swept through this valley hundreds of years ago. There are no permanent residents who are anything
but Muslim now.
We next went to a carpet
dealer. Marcy and I started with a
budget of $500, but he was showing us carpets for $2000-$5000. We looked at all of them. Before seeing this he took us on a tour of
how they get the silk. The unfortunate
worms that were not selected for the breeding program get boiled and the silk,
which is what their cocoon is made from, is scratched and stretched to yield
about 25 yards of a single strand. They
are boxed and wound on a spool then turned into silk thread of various
thicknesses. Each cocoon is about an
inch long. The threads were often dyed.
Seldom are natural colors selected because of a narrow number of colors
available.

Well, we looked at a bunch of
them and decided to spring for a burgundy and blue carpet about 4x8 feet this
place asks not to bargain because it offers very low prices. I countered an offer of a “discounted price”
of $1962 (plus some small fees) with $1400 total no fees, we settled on $1530
total, no fees. I could kick my self for
not offering an opening price of much less. We paid more than three times it’s true value. We
just shouldn’t have bought anything here.
Marcy insisted that I should not bargain here. She said it would insult our guide. Stamp my forehead with “Sucker.” The carpet workers packed the rug tightly in
a bag and off we were.
Marcy and I visited many
churches, and enjoyed the mystical views of the spires. It started to get very cold. I didn’t bring a jacket since it had been so
warm earlier. Now a light shower of cold
rain made the rocks glisten as the red sun disappeared in the cold shroud of
misty fog. While I enjoyed seeing the
amazing churches, the cold rain made my visit less pleasurable because there
was lots of climbing rocks, ladders, and dirt paths. Marcy decided to watch
from the interior of the warm car.
Afterwards I was cold, wet and tired.
Marcy was unhappy that I’d spent an hour here, but I could have spent more
since there was much to see.
Thursday May 2nd, 2002 Ürgüp, Central Turkey
We woke in time to eat a light breakfast of coffee, cheese
and bread, then we met driver Hussein and guide Musti
at 7:45 a.m. at the underground city,
where the early Christians lived underground because of their fear of
attack. Christians were ultimately
either converted or slain, as was the custom of the Muslims when they conquered
new territory. The earliest settlers came here to escape persecution, and they
were hunted once the Muslims conquered the area. They could hide for long periods of time
underground in a labyrinth of tunnels.
In an effort to bring these perceived infidels above ground, their wells
were poisoned, causing many deaths.
We were shown how a local red clay was used to make pottery. We bought nothing there, nor did we buy anything
at a jewelry and handicraft shop. I
liked the bowls and vases, which varied in color from white to green. Marcy
said they remind her (in a negative way) of Mexico, specifically Tijuana. She saw a piece of
jewelry that she liked, but they wanted $60, which was their “discounted
price.” I offered $20. So begins the
money dance. I went up, he goes down,
till he stopped at $40 and I stopped at $30.
He would come no lower, so no deal was struck. Marcy said she didn’t
really “love” the necklace and was glad to get out from the “smarmy” salesman.
She didn’t want me to go back and offer any more. The rain started again.
Musti and I had hiked along a
canyon, created from a small, but not navigable river that cut through the
canyon. The walls had caves dug out, and
several were worship centers. They were
decorated with primitive paintings and designs of the sixth through tenth
centuries. So many of the caves were
identified as churches that I suspect the caves may often have been the homes
decorated with paintings. These frescoes
were noticeably absent from most rooms of the underground city we visited. Several neighboring communities had
flourished below ground.
We drove back to the cave
hotel in the Goreme region, in the small town of Ürgüp.
Goreme National
Park has
some of the most beautiful natural phenomenon.
We watched as a ten-year old boy taunted a young small camel on the dirt
shoulder of the narrow asphalt
street. Quickly the young animal became
enraged and trounced the boy, stepping on him as the beast briefly attacked
then retreated. At the first moment of
opportunity the tattily gowned Arabic boy got up from the dusty ground and ran
away. He dusted himself off once he was
behind the security of a large wooden table. He watched, with large expectant,
black eyes, to see what the camel might do next.

The four of us met for lunch after I hiked four hilly
kilometers with Musti along a river. It
was a pleasant refuge from the rain.
With me came a hundred people.
The local trout, spicy beef or chicken kebabs were the simple, and popular choices.
A small bowl of lentil broth, followed by a chopped lettuce, tomato, and
cucumber salad, and then they served a portion of rice with Italian parsley,
which was unique with a special flavor to it.
We were back at the tiny six-room hotel in a few
minutes. Marcy was asleep by 7:30 p.m., but before she fell asleep we
talked about how great this adventure was and how much we liked the hotel
room. There were several other cave
hotels, but they were generally located in the town center. Ürgüp was well set up to handle expanding
tourism, and even if we had no hotel reservation I am sure we could have found
lodging here.
Friday
May 2nd, 2002 Ürgüp
At 8 a.m. driver and guide meet us after a light breakfast of yogurt,
honeycomb honey, and apricot jam, which were mixed in the yogurt. We both thanked the woman who ran the small
hotel. She spoke little English, saying
that she speak Turkish and French. We
told her what a wonderful time we had in the hotel.
We drove through Goreme National Park. I wanted to stop to
capture a few more memories on film. It is just too incredible, but my memory
is less than perfect and I forget some details that I want to be able to
remember. We had purchased five one-liter
bottles of water earlier. We can be
comfortable for long hours without almost anything but water. Marcy and I each had our own bench in the
van. The dry air and dusty wind did
affect me in several expected ways. I
tried to use the time to lay down and shut my tired
eyes for a few minutes. Only my eyes
needed relief.
Four hours of driving through
a mountain range on well-maintained asphalt roads brought the four of us to the
city of Konya. This is the city
where the whirling dervishes still continue their dizzying dance into a
trance-like mental state to prepare for prayer. At the mosque that they pray,
we discovered that there is a strict social hierarchy. Each societal level dictates the costume, so
that they can clearly see status of other men.
We walked through the mosque after paying an entrance fee. We found ourselves in a sea of
French and German tourists.
The mosque and its walled garden were overrun by the busloads of
tourists brought by the busload from Pasha Tours.
We walked through the mosque,
seeing the tombs of important village people that stood as monuments. The
dervishes used this area for their important dance of prayer. Musti said this city is well known as an
ultra conservative bastion of Islamic culture.
At the noon prayer call,
businesses by the score closed.
We sat at a restaurant that
was a block away from the mosque. Marcy
had what looked to be pounded and highly seasoned beef molded to form a bar of
meat about the size of a chocolate bar.
Then it was grilled. Marcy had what is called, the “mixed grill.” I
ate the locally caught trout, which was grilled with some butter.
Hussein knew tons of people
everywhere. People waived to him
throughout the many neighborhoods. While
at the restaurant several friends, including his niece, stopped by. She was married a week ago and quickly
gathered her groom from around the street corner. The young couple was happy to see him. A familial greeting is to kiss both cheeks.
She is twenty, he is twenty-two. When
they finish their studies in Konya
they intend to leave this town because it is too conservative. She continues to say that this small city is
too stifling for those who are trying to be more intellectual. They have no specific plans as to where they
want to move, just out of here. Konya
is a fairly large city population, which looks to be 250 thousand. Hussein seems to bump into more friends and
relatives at every turn, and we are astounded.
As the young couple leave, Hussein presses ten million Turkish lira into
her hand. The young bride politely
protests, ultimately relents and expresses her gratitude. The groom pretends not to see the gift.

Up the street, Musti was
informed, is the most well known vendor of Dervish hats. It is where the
Dervishes buy their uniform. The old,
bent proprietor opened his shop on the dusty street with a big old-fashioned
door key after he finished his afternoon prayers. Musti explained to him what I wanted. The white-haired man demanded fifty million
lira. I offered ten. After a little customary bargaining I pay
thirty million Turkish Lira, which is about twenty-five dollars.
At 1 p.m. we begin
the longest driving leg of this journey by auto. Coming from Los Angeles,
I measure travel in time, not miles.
Here, driving is often difficult and the roads may have treacherous
potholes. In the less traveled regions
of Turkey,
roads are often laid directly over rock-hard soil, or exposed bedrock. The layers of soil make a greater obstacle
when paving roads because each layer is composed of different rock or soil and
can separate easily in any kind of earth movement, like an earthquake. Musti said that there have been no
earthquakes here since 1870. I don’t
think all his facts are correct. He may
guess sometimes and present it as fact.
We arrive in Antolya at 8 p.m. Sunlight cast long crisp shadows while we searched for
Dedeman Hotel. It turned out that we had
passed it twice during our search. Not surprisingly, it was near Dedeman Aqua Park. The hotel had a
bronze plaque that was posted at eye-level just outside the main door. It proclaimed the hotel as being rated by
Michelin with 41/2 stars. Service was
quick, and always prompt. They accepted no tips when a service was
performed under the watchful eye of management. We had our room reserved,
however the clerk offered a room with an ocean view for fifteen dollars more
per night. We paid it. It was a nice room with three single
beds. The balcony overlooked the Mediterranean Sea,
and from our room, number 518, we had a wonderful view of the ocean and the
waterline. I saw no beach because of the
eroded edge of land that crumbled into the sea.
Anatalya’s bay was a mile wide with mountains that conformed to the “C”
shaped coastline.
The last straws of light would
soon dance away to the night. We were
the only people to sit outside to enjoy two pint-sized, screw-topped bottles of
wine. Marcy asked for Merlot, what was
provided was red. That’s what they
had. We enjoyed a leisure evening and we
did not notice time slipping by. Now it
is after 10
p.m., and it is too late for the
regular restaurant. We considered room
service (which is reasonably priced), but opted instead for the gourmet
restaurant on the “R” floor (that was the thirteenth floor). The menu looked
good but we were very casually dressed.
This seems like a more formal event, but because there were few patrons
we got full attention. We were seated
with a window view looking out to sea. I ordered a braised fish and some sort
of very tasty artichoke appetizer. I was
surprised that Marcy asked for the “mixed grill” again. I suspect that she doesn’t know what THEY
mean when they say “mixed grill.” It
means (to them) that various meats are ground and mixed to create a hand-shaped
meat bar. Was she thinking that there
would be various pieces of meat on her plate?
Maybe so.
I was so exhausted from the long drive earlier that I fell asleep in a
minute. Marcy was even quicker.
Saturday May 4th, 2002
This was a casual
morning. We woke unhurriedly and prepared
to leave the hotel because we expected a new driver to get us and our growing
number of baggage at 9:30 a.m. Usually the drivers are very punctual, not a
normal attribute of Turks. All of the luggage was brought to the lobby where we settled
the bill, and went to breakfast.
Breakfast was a pleasant
affair, a huge spread with endless choices.
Not being one who prefers many breakfast foods, I looked beyond the
omelettes cooked with ingredients of one’s choice. I looked beyond the waffles, breads and
cereals. I discovered a hot entre that
few people were clamoring for. I eyed it
closely, somewhat suspiciously, then took a plate and spooned two scoops of
chicken pieces that simmered with brown mushrooms and green peppers. I grabbed an apple from the fresh fruit bar
and sat down on the outside patio to wait for Marcy to join me. There was still plenty of time left before
our meeting time in the adjacent hotel lobby.
The coffee was a pleasant finish to the meal. It was rich and good, but not Turkish coffee,
which is when hot water is poured over finely ground coffee at the bottom of
the cup.
We waited for the driver and
guide to appear. Mr. Hussein, a new and
different one, with no relation to our last driver, showed up almost
immediately after we found comfortable chairs to watch for him. Hussein took a liking to Marcy and throughout
the day was very partial to her comfort and interests. I appreciated his concern. Mr. Hussein drove a small white Fiat sedan
with the tour company emblem posted in large letters on one side. He handed us a packet of papers, which showed
a change of itinerary. Marcy sought
another day in the Grand Bazaar of Istanbul, so we had to cut out Pamukale,
which is not far from Istanbul and can be arranged in a future visit. I was willing to make any adjustments she
wanted in our plan and allowed her a free hand.
So when the revised plan was given to us Marcy called Mr. Levant in Istanbul to advise him of more changes. Levant has been wonderful, he has attended to all details and gave us a well
designed plan.
Our first stop after the
office visit was a waterfall that, unsurprisingly, comes from the mountains
thirty miles away and takes a final sixty foot plunge into the sea. Marcy had some trouble navigating the rocky
path to the cliff edge but managed it with constant attention from Mr.
Hussein. We drove to a fantastic Roman
ruin called Per. The remnants of the once great city
were unique. The streets were tiled with
fancy mosaics along both sides of the street.
The mosaics were for pedestrian traffic.
Merchant stalls were well marked by two-foot high walls that still stood
beyond the black and white tiles on either side of the street.
The bathhouse was a central
part of city dwellers lives. It was a
complex system of hot water and hot air that could be managed to control the
bathhouse environment. While all
citizens were permitted to use it, the evenings were reserved for royalty and
officials. The public toilets were a
social event, too. While sheltered, people
of both sexes sat and talked while using the toilet. The city was the best-preserved ruin I have
seen. It was conserved by the national
government under Ataturk the early part of the twentieth century.
We passed Hadrian’s Gate as we
went out of town, deciding the water park was a waste of time. For lunch Marcy had the reconstructed beef
bar again, and I had trout. Next we
visited an oceanside village that had roman ruins of great importance,
unfortunately I cannot recall its name.
We walked to a three-pillared
arch of Apollo. The fifteen foot tall
statue was high on the cliff just outside of the ancient city where the temple of
Diana once stood. Large
sections of expertly carved marble was scattered across the weed-filled
land. It must be reconstructed to save
the value of these ruins. Most large
pieces have been numbered for reassembly.
The huge open library was a standout feature of this very touristy town. The library had several large, intricately
carved marble cornices that still stood exactly where they were built to stay.
According to Hussein, the
search of the ruins only yielded one parchment, which was the last will of the
princess Diana, whom people loved. Marcy sat while we looked at the vast ruins
more closely. She drank half a glass of
freshly squeezed orange juice. I
finished it for her. Hussein’s legend
didn’t sway either of us.
The local cafes are especially
popular with young Russians. There are
at least a hundred young Russians along this cobblestone street, now populated
with kitschy cafes, with signs identifying the tiny kitchens with french names,
and a menu in U.S. dollars. Hussein
resents the young Russians because they take advantage of Turkey. They come because Turkey is cheap. They drink
vodka and have sex, then leave.
According to Hussein, they have no appreciation of the country.
Hussein had been telling us about his favorite ice cream
maker who makes his delicacy one small batch at a time. Hussein said that the ice cream is so thick
and rich that you must eat it with a knife and fork. He seems to be very proud of knowing the ice
cream maker of this shop. We stopped at
the fabled ice cream confectionery and we were greeted by the ice cream maker
who was hard at work, stirring a new batch of the cold, white treat. We were seated in a tiny room with open
walls. Behind the rear wall and
concealed from our eyes, but not my nose, came the wafting fragrance of honeyed
buns baking... baklava. It smelled
deliciously sweet. The ice cream was
served. A thick ribbon was twisted in a
flourish to fit on the baked clay plate. The vanilla ice cream was topped with
a generous dusting of green pistachio meat.
A honey drenched coconut pastry accompanied this confection. I found it impossible to eat the pastry, although
it smelled wonderful. The amount of
sugar I would have consumed would have sent a shock through my system. I have never had thicker or richer vanilla
ice cream, but the vanilla flavor wasn’t snapping through the congealment like
it would in Italy.
This place had numerous photos of
visiting dignitaries posted on the walls conspicuously. The proprietor was proud to pose for a
picture with his ice cream wound around a wooden paddle. I took a few snapshots to remember this
moment.
Later we traveled back to the
town center where Marcy was able to reconstruct our travel plans at the travel
agency. It was there we said “good-bye”
to Hussein #2 and “hello” to Dennis, a young, energetic, constantly busy,
thirty year old Turk. He may marry in a
year, evidenced by the wedding ring on his right hand. He used to be a pilot,
and a parachutist, before becoming a guide.
He speaks frequently and fondly of his engagement to a Turkish woman,
who is studying computers. We overhear
some angry words exchanged in the travel office. The new team is, just temporarily, Dennis and
Hussein #3. Hussein #3 teaches at a
local high school but to supplement his income, acts as a tour guide. He has a relative in Dallas, but wonders if he can afford to live in the United States. He is 39 and wants
to visit or live there. I think he hopes
we know a way. He said he wants to leave
his wife of 8 years, because she is too strictly tied to traditional ways and
he is much more progressive. Hussein
leaves the car after we’ve toured the town.
Now it’s only Dennis and us.

Dennis drove and drove. This was supposed be a five-hour drive along
the coast. We saw very little of the
coast, we ended up driving over a range of mountains that overlook the
coast. Many small farm communities had a
small outpost where several farmers met and sold their produce to locals and to
those driving along this long sparsely populated road.
We are whizzing along at the
fastest speed that Dennis, the driver, feels is safe. Maybe even a little beyond that. Centrifugal and other natural forces cause
Marcy and me to push, pull, and slide this way and that on the smooth plastic
bench seats of the van whenever this vehicle would try to circumnavigate to a
point beyond another of the many hairpin bends in the narrow, but well
maintained, road.
Each small town had a restaurant lit, both eerily and dimly,
by a vertically hung neon light that would indicate whether the restaurant was
open. Marcy feigned sleep as she lay
across the rear bench, gripping the seams of the seat to avoid being
catastrophically flung to the floorboard.
I tried to help keep Dennis fully attentive to his driving. He wanted to smoke. Although I granted permission (because I was
willing to do anything that would keep him fully awake), he chose to smoke only
when he was refueling the van at a highly flammable gas station. There were big, conspicuous red and black
signs posted that prohibited smoking, but that did little to hinder Dennis or any
of the other patrons. Ground out cigarettes
littered the pavement, I am sure that one of them wasn’t entirely snuffed
out. There must be at least one. I noticed this station looked fairly
new...was it built over the cinders of the last gas station here? I wondered.
Petrol was 1302 liras for one liter of gas, which translates to over $3
a gallon, more than twice the price in the U.S.
After five hours of
uncomfortable driving, we reached our destination. It was getting dark now, after 9:30 p.m. We looked for the
right boat. Dennis didn’t see it so he
walked around to find it. The three of
us agreed to a plan, we’d meet at the car in five minutes after we looked
around for the boat. We sat at a small
open-air café and drank some coffee as we watched for Dennis, but we didn’t see
him. What we did see was that the town
of Marmora was one big party.
Mark and Angie or Carol and Mile would enjoy it since it was a hard
drinking young people party town. We
didn’t totally fit in.
Dennis found the boat; it was
right in front of us! We moved our stuff
from the car to the boat. While waiting
for Dennis, Marcy had bought a cup of coffee from a small open-air patisserie
so she hurriedly finished the hot drink then we walked along the boardwalk,
looking in the windows of a number of shops that were closed, but lit, on the
way to the boarding ramp of the boat.
All told, it is forty feet from stem to stern with six cabins for
passengers. Our cabin measured three feet
wide by six feet long plus a tiny bathroom.
There was a shower, sink and a toilet crammed together so tightly that
two people could never be in there at one time.
We tried to put everything away so that we’d have a little room to
breathe, and the closets accepted enough of our luggage that we could get
comfortable here. We brought everything
except for what we left in Istanbul.
The stores, restaurants and
shops of Marmora, whichever ones had remained open for the party-goers, closed
promptly at midnight. Only a very few
remained open to provide last-minute supplies at exorbitantly high prices to
those that were setting off in the morning by boat, like us. Next we walked around then Marcy bravely
crossed a broad metal bridge from the dock to the deck of the boat. It swung right and left as water currents
dictated, even though it was attached to the boat by wires and ropes. With arms outstretched like a man on a
tightrope, she swiftly recovered her full balance when her foot reached beyond
the boat’s edge and she felt the success of the moment. Marcy bravely marched forward to the middle
of the polished, wooden boat deck, still not fully confident of her sea
legs. She needed a few minutes to
arrange our luggage from how I had it.
The narrow bed served its function; we were asleep before 1 a.m. The very slight swag
of the boat was very relaxing.
Zzzzzz!!!!
Sunday May 5th,
2002
6:00
a.m. was wake up time. I talked with the chef who said the boat does
not leave until 9 a.m. today. There are more visitors expected, and it will
be a full ship. Marcy and I could take
no shower while in port. Marcy had a
couple of cups of coffee. I didn’t
because I fear I’ll have a problem keeping my food with me. I am not good with
long boat travel. Since we had enough
time, we went to a few shops that did open early to buy several bottles of
water, a couple of towels, and a sun hat for Marcy. I mentally readjusted for the movement of the
sea just before we boarded the vessel.
Three couples had to resolve
serious issues they had with their travel agent before we could pull out of
port. We left the dock at 10 a.m. and traveled an hour to a nearby island that could be
inhabited. It looks too big to have no
animals living on it. It was close to
Marmora, so several other boats moored here, too.
I swam a bit in the nippy
ocean water for an hour, and then came aboard for a vegetarian lunch. I ate what we had, onions, tomatoes, spinach,
and pine nuts mixed and served over spaghetti.
I have a seldom need to use
sunscreen, but the sun was hot, and air temperature must be approaching 90 F. I
figured I had enough sun when my nipples were sensitive to touch. I noticed that I burnt them when I put on a
cotton tee shirt. They stood up like two
golf tees. I hope this condition heals
soon. I really don’t like sitting around
with a new group of people and having guys staring at my chest. Marcy had sun screen with protection level
35, I think highest possible is 40. She
thought she might have burned, too, but thankfully, not like me.
We had a very pleasant
afternoon and evening where we did little but lounge around. Marcy did show some color, and I always tan
up well and quickly. The water was no
warmer than 65F. Most people didn’t go
in. I had two short swims. One was entirely for the benefit of the
camera. I wanted some photos of me so I
had to give Marcy some brief direction on how she should do it. Coming out of the cool water to the heat of
the afternoon sun warmed me quickly.
Olga and George from Russia spoke English well.
Jay and his wife are a young couple from Australia. Weid and his wife
are from Holland, and we all got along very well. We had some political discussions that I
found of interest.
A dinner of quartered chicken
and rice was served with a light salad.
We ate at 8:30 p.m., but few of us looked
at out watches. The sun slowly sank into
the sea while we ate. Several people
elected to take the small boat into a nearby port, but not Marcy and me. We are anchored at a small harbor by another
resort town much smaller than Marmora. The lights and sounds coming over the water
reach our eyes and ears, but we were not attracted it. Outside our cabin window came the sounds of
music loudly blaring from monstrously large speakers aimed out over the waters
at our boat. The music continued until 2 a.m. when it ended abruptly.
The quiet peacefulness of the boat was very comfortable as we rocked
gently, listening to tiny waves lapping at the sides of this yacht. The city looked like very few tourists were
there right now, but they expect a party tonight. That’s just the feeling I got. Like an old, lonely, cosmetic-caked whore
fluffing the pillows and spraying perfume in the air of her purple-lit room in
pregnant, but oft unsatisfied, expectation of commerce.
It wasn’t enough to attract us
(meaning Marcy and me), nor any of the other six passengers. All of us stayed shipboard, but when the sun
had gone Marcy and I climbed down the narrow steps to stay in our cabin until
the morning. We were able to shower
because the boat was not moored in a port.
Monday May 6th, 2002 Sea of Marmora, Turkey
We had stayed moored for the
night. It was a peaceful night with
little waves lapping at the waterline. I
woke just before daybreak to watch the first beams of light whisper over
distant mountains, then twinkle-dance across the surface of the water. The sun was bursting back into life, lifting
the coolness of a damp morning. Soon we
were off to Ko, another roman city now in ruins. Immediately its special quality became
apparent to me. This city, although under protection by the Turkish government
was as it was, without restoration, a product of the elements since its
abandonment in the ninth century. The
intent of the Turks is to keep this structure as it is, that is, no
reconstruction, no restoration. I could
see archways of large stone blocks spreading apart with only a few hundred
years left before they fall. I could see
now the need to preserve and, more significantly, embark on the restoration for
future generations.
The value of numbered blocks
of stone on the ground and a drawing identified as an “artist’s concept” of how
it “may have looked” seldom keeps the interest of people long enough for them
to say “thumbs up” to spending of taxes for this one ancient monument or
another. Without the support of the
people the money to maintain the ruins would be more difficult to find. Fortunately, the treasures of Turkey attract the interest of preservation groups from many
affluent countries, so the money does pour in.
Marcy could only walk to the
edge of the ruins, but she was at a vantage point to look around and see
portions of the city. I followed a
well-marked path and was led by the best remains. A castle protected the city like fortress
perched high on a hill. I wasn’t going
to climb the hill to examine the fortress, but I would guess that it had been
partially reassembled. There were
several desert tortoises that had congregated on grassy area. Black snakes had slithered to the tops of the
blocks. There were many of them. Heated in the sunlight, a large, horned
lizard crawled out of a crevice in a rock to watch us from a safe
distance. After seeing what I could, I
met Marcy back at the water’s edge at a small rickety dock. She sat in the little powerboat that would
carry us four miles to the main boat, moored safely in much deeper water. The water is full of reefs, and gets
dangerously shallow in several places.
The small white boat had a blue canvas awning and could hold twenty people
if they did not mind having someone’s elbow shoved into their back. Today there would only be the young Holland couple of Weid and wife, George and Olga, and Marcy and I.
Marcy was waiting at the
boat. Soon everyone returned and we
headed further up the river. To the west
I could see huge carving in the flat rock side of the mountain, reminiscent of Petra, Jordan. The building fronts
carved out of the stone were beautiful, but we didn’t leave the boat, since
they were thirty meters away. Our small
craft meandered up the shallow river through forests of cane and bamboo. The boat motored slowly past a motley
collection of riverside pensions and small hotels, most of them crowded around
a short, but wide-open bend in the river.
The
navigable waters became too shallow to continue further up as it broke into
several small, reed-clogged tributaries. The water fanned out quickly over a
broad area just beyond the wooden dock.
I held Marcy’s hand to help balance her exit from the boat. We walked a short distance over a rocky path
until we could smell sulfur. One hundred
feet along the rocky pathway, around a two-story high rock, we saw white and
yellowish vaporous clouds float away into the air and dissipate. White crusty
rings stained the rocks, which lined the steamy pond. This pool was the source for where the
gaseous fumes emanated. The rotten egg-like sulfuric odor wafted over a broad
flat plain bordered, on all sides by low-lying hills lying in the
distance. Adjacent to the pool, but not
touching it, was a pond of very muddy water.
The shallow area had steps into going down into the water. The steps were covered in slimy mud, making
the trip down into the pool a treacherous, and very
cautious event for everyone who dared.
We successfully were able to settle in somewhere toward the center of
the 20’ x 20’ lake.
The mud adhered to our clothes
and bodies with epoxy-like strength. It
was the mud bath one should take first, as we did. After covering all parts of our body we
exited carefully, and then waited in the warm afternoon sun to let the mud bake
on our skin. It changed from a dark gray
to light gray as it hardened. I rubbed
some off and walked with Marcy to the communal sulfur pool after we rinsed off
our muddy bodies under an unheated cold shower.
Then we soaked in the thermal pools for thirty minutes before slowly
walking into the cold shower again, despite the cool windy breeze. A cold shower wakes the senses and partially
cleared mud and sulfur from the skin pores.
That stuff can hide in so many folds and crevices in my fifty year old
skin that a much more thorough and warm shower will be necessary to really
complete the cleansing. This has been
proclaimed to be a very healthy experience, based on all of the posted writings
about this place. I certainly could not
understand how such an ardent attack of uncleanliness could benefit me and am
still bewildered at my very own lack of resistance to do so.
Back in the boat, we slowly
motored past the same route, going the same route we used to get here, just in
reverse. Weather shifted slightly to a
cooler breeze. A stop at a local town
allowed our Russian friends, George, Olga, Marcy and I to buy some supplies at
a local market.
A kilogram of fresh
high-season oranges cost 850.000, bananas were
3.250.000 for a kilo. Real coffee, some
wine, a small chocolate bar, two large squares of sticky baklava and some long
green peppers finished our shopping. We
walked to the waiting boat, we because we were the last to return, we quickly
got in, and off we went.
Almost immediately the cold
wind became the predominant subject of conversation. Each couple, in their own way, sought refuge
from the cold. Some used a pillow, one
couple used a too small white towel unsuccessfully, but I used an old thick
carpet on the floor. Dirty as it was it
was, and dusty to the extreme, but nonetheless it prevented a good amount of
the cold headwind. Marcy resisted at
first, but eventually surrendered to the practicality of it all. It wasn’t clean, but it was warmer behind
it. George and Olga said that they’d
prefer the brisk chill of the damp wind to some measure of warmth behind the
thick carpet. The small craft had to cut
across the water of the jagged shores to reach the yacht; bouncing over one
foot high waves, then slapping down on the water after we cut through the wave.
After an hour we reached the boat.
We boarded and each of us
headed immediately to our rooms to find a toilet and a jacket. To warm our bodies and eat hot food were the
main issues that all passengers considered.
Dinner was served moments after our return. While no gourmet meal because it was very
simple, but the fact that it was hot was enough to please us all.
Tuesday May 7th, 2002
The engines of this vessel
were cranked on while the night was still black, and the loud whirring of the
motor woke us up. I looked at my
watch. 4:20 a.m. We fell back into
sleep, for me it was only momentary because I wanted to see the sun rise. I
dressed and climbed on deck.
The black night was lifting quickly. Once one beam of morning light peeps over the
mountains, seconds later the entire morning scene is flooded with fresh
light. The morning chill is preserved
for an hour more by the frigid deep blue water.
This vessel, now with the anchor weighed and under power, sailed to
another, yet unseen, shore. After
another hour passed, George came up on deck and joined me for a hot cup of
coffee. He said he couldn’t go back to
sleep once the engines had started with a flaccid shudder. Slowly, rhythmically, other passengers woke
and climbed the steps to greet the new day.
Marcy came up too, amidst them.
We are having a wonderful time.
We never thought that we’d enjoy three or four days on a small ship but
we are. All the other passengers are
pleasant and we have a bit of cohesive camaraderie.
We arrived, after five hours
of travel, at a small rocky harbor. No village could be seen and there seemed
to be little reason to pick this place, but I had to rely on the good
knowledgeable captain. I would have to trust that he knew these waters. I changed to swimming trunks, the same ones I
bought in Marmora, the same one that were dyed from the gray mud of
yesterday. After a dip of less than an
hour in chilly water, and sighting very few fish I climbed back aboard and
toweled off. The sun was out so I dried
quickly. We ate a small lunch on board
then get off to a new spot three hundred yards out from the dock at
Fethaye. Nobody swam because the water
was even colder here. The captain said we’d be here all night. Weid proposed we all chip in ten million
Turkish liras per couple to raise the fifty mill they
needed to pay the port tax. Once the
money was in the hand of the captain the engine was fired up, anchor pulled in
and we motored the short distance into Fethaye.
George and Olga joined Marcy and me.
We walked along the dockside street.
This town, certainly this area, is built for tourists. We looked in all the shops and
restaurants. The travel agencies here
are trying hustle people who are interested in water
activities like the “Blue Cruise,” which is like what we are doing, scuba
diving, or island hopping looking for parties, drinking, and excitement.
The ship’s cook said dinner
would be served on board at 8 p.m. but
we saw other restaurants and decided we’d prefer dinner from a restaurant. Our guidebooks have noted that this island
especially is noted for not revealing prices until the final check comes. I insisted on seeing the menu. Marcy felt that I was embarrassing her. I felt that there was something strange about
a restaurant where prices are difficult to find, until you are paying the
bill. George and Olga wanted to eat on
the island too. It was a very pleasant
evening. The temperature was a tiny bit
too warm and the air was a tiny bit too moist, but very pleasant for us to be
out walking. Marcy had the
swordfish. I had grilled calamari. I don’t think the food we ate was especially
important although this was the best meal of this adventure. The most wonderful element of this moment was
the beautiful friendship and warmth that we felt together. George, a Georgian, said a custom of his
homeland is that a toast be made with each drink. He made a few, I proposed one or two, and
Marcy did too. One which touched me in a
special way was George’s toast to friendships and bonds, it made all of us as
emissaries of our countries and so long as we see each other as true people of
the earth then this bonds our countries just a little closer.
The fact that we were sharing
this moment in Turkey
on the Mediterranean added an extra pinch of spice that sealed this event in
each of our minds. They told us of their
pending formal marriage, how up to now it has only been on a paper with the
Russian government, a religious ceremony is necessary to be a monument of their
commitment to each other.
Olga told of her family and
her prior failed marriage. George
mentioned how Olga’s father said it was necessary for her to have a stamp in
her passport that she is married or she may have to explain why she is not a
virgin.
George told how it is the
custom to have an official sit at the head of each long table at a
marriage. This official has the duty to
frequently propose toasts. Marcy said
Steve should have that job. We told the
story of our wedding. A highlight was
the wonderful gifts that Steve put together, which were invitations to
important leaders and people around the world.
We all shared personal stories.
It was a glorious moment, a rare gem that happens too seldom in a man’s
life.
Out of the entire cruise, this
one moment made all else pale in contrast.
We walked back to the boat through the neon lit tourist alleys of
luggage and purse knock-offs. Imitations
abounded in each shop. This town tried
to emphasize the historic value of an ancient hamam, or communal bathhouse, but
in this country, with millions of great ruins, the bathhouse wasn’t enough to
deter people from walking by a row of brightly lit attractive shops. The four
of us, one at a time, crossed the narrow metal bridge that extended from the
rear section of the boat. I sat down on the boat cushion and waited with George
while Olga prepared some coffee to accompany the baklava purchased in a town
bakery.
Interestingly absent are
places to buy a cup of coffee or tea and a pastry or two. This baklava was made with walnuts, not the
customary pistachios. It was a fitting cap to a wonderful evening. The stars were out and if you looked away
from the city, out to sea, they shined brightly against a black velvet
sky. The last thing I saw before falling
asleep was a small clock, which told me that the time was later than 2 a.m.

Wednesday May 8th,
2002
We slept aboard the gently
rocking boat until 5 a.m. when we woke, almost
in unison. I went up deck after
completely repacking. Marcy appeared
soon. Breakfast was the same boring
things, so we only had coffee in expectation of greater meals ahead.
We waited while our driver and
guide ate breakfast within eyeshot. They
casually got into their car and drove one long block to meet us, forty-five
minutes late. The five-hour drive to
Kusadasi was uncomfortable because the guide spoke very little English, and
conversations in the car were mainly between Marcy and me, or the driver and
guide. I was successful at interrupting
a few times when we needed water or the WC.
At the end of the drive was
the Andakule Otel. It was about three
miles from town center. It was infested
with busloads of old German tourists.
Our room view was wonderful, it overlooked the Aegean Sea. The two single beds were not up to the five
star reputations claimed by the hotel.
The television worked, but only Turkish, German, and some French was
spoken. The hotel generally was a nice
one with few shortcomings. We parked
most of our stuff in the room, only bringing the bare essentials with us into
town, our next objective. Instead of taking a taxi, which was what we thought
we’d do, the concierge promised a minibus, which passes by every ten minutes.
We walked a few feet up a
stony incline to the point we were told the bus would meet us. Moments before we reached the exact point the
bus pulled up. I ran ahead to advise the
driver to wait a moment for my wife. He
did so, and we were soon driven to several points in the town. The driver knew we wanted town center so we
waited for him to say something. At the
appropriate moment he spoke and we disembarked, and I left a small tip of five
hundred thousand lira for him. Few gave
him anything.
The area was loaded with
tourists. Later I could see why... a
cruise ship was docked here. Until its whistle blew to call passengers back
aboard, they had control of the town by their sheer mass of numbers. But happily, it did sound it’s
deep bass tone and, as far as I could tell, all passenger wandered back to the
cruise ship. The town exhaled. Trades-people gave us a second glance. The merchants were interested in us
again. We lost our anonymity and each
merchant tried to lure us into his or her shop.
No longer was I the “bum magnet,” now it was Marcy that the vendors
hounded.
The shop’s hawker stood out
front trying to guess your nationality, then say something in a familiar
language to entice you inside like “ Hello, what
country are you from?” So the ice would
be broken and a dialogue could begin.
Any interest in their goods would have the proprietor standing or running
over to coax this chance meeting into a sale.
However small, there was no effort spared to create a sale out of the
smallest interest shown by a passer-by, especially if he looked foreign. Foreigners are all thought to be wealthy.
We made our way through a maze
of streets, not really caring about where we wound up because, as long as we
had the hotel business card, our return was well guaranteed. We’d take a “taksi”, if we were too lost. Thankfully, quite accidentally, we did find
our way back to the bus stop. After a
short wait we were aboard the minibus, which headed back to the hotels nearby.
They had many interesting
items priced well below what I would have expected to pay for such things. Because we had many miles ahead, we chose not
to buy anything, this decision did not last long. Vendors of watches perched their table inches
away from each other. One cleverly had
an English sign posted along the table’s edge.
It read “genuine fake watches.”
Few merchants were unable to converse in less than three languages.
English, German, French and Japanese were the most popular. I bought two watches at ten dollars apiece
before we caught the minibus back. We had eaten a small pizza at a small
sidewalk cafe. This was one of those times when we were thankful that the pizza
was not larger. Further up the sidewalk,
maybe another hundred feet was an Internet café. Both of us were issued time slips since we
used separate computers. No DSL here, so
we needed a full hour. Each of us paid
the charge of two US dollars. We were
thankful that we had access to see email sent to us from home.
The bus let us off at the
hotel. A buffet dinner was included in
our tour. Everything displayed for the
buffet was low quality. Grilled chicken
wasn’t grilled long enough. Coffee was
faintly colored water, but the tea was good.
Even the wide assortment of desserts all tasted like honey drenched
bread, except one of the desserts tasted like honey-drenched toast. In the area where fresh fruit was displayed,
I handled several sad specimens; they were apparently for show, not for eating.
All drinks, even water, were
extra and cost from a million lira to three million. We were tired so we went to our room. I had proposed a drink after dinner but that,
I suspect, would be an equal disappointment.
We went to sleep in separate beds, a rarity for us. I looked out the window once more to the see
the moonlight on the water.
Thursday May 9th, 2002
We woke at six. We got dressed quickly, then
walked down to breakfast; it also was included in our program. It was on par with the meal last night, but
because it is warm weather we sat outside by the edge of the balcony looking
down on the rocky beach. At the next
table was a Connecticut couple with whom we had much in common. They were the Epsteins. Marcy talked with the mother and daughter
about Istanbul shopping and how she bought a beautiful leather jacket for
$180 that was customized.
I talked with Ed, her husband,
and discovered he sells insurance with his own agency. Their daughter is married to an Istanbul importer of medical equipment. They have one grandson who was there, he was
too a cute a kid. He reminded me of
Mateo. We could have made a couple of
friends here but we had to leave in a few minutes. Too bad.
As we walked through the
lobby, and headed for our room the taxi driver of yesterday watched for
us. He was sunken into a big brown
leather easy chair placed dramatically in the middle of the cavernous room. We pointed to the luggage that we had piled
together so he could get it put into the trunk of the cab. We were soon off to Ephesis.
It was about fifty minutes from our hotel, on the way we picked up a new
guide and three liter bottles of water.
The water is never an area where I look to save money. I believe that is why I’ve never been
seriously sick throughout my travels. It
might be another hot day. Our guide spoke limited English, really not good at all. She was
a thin, young, dark, Turkish girl, who was pleasant to look at but even when I
listened to her very closely, she spoke a stunted British dialect of some sort
in soft monotones. I strained to hear
her whisper of the significance of one part or another. Once our guide had paid the admission price
to get us into the ruins I tried to listen to one of the other English-speaking
guides with large groups of tourists following them. The three of us wandered through this large
complex of fantastic ruins. I thought it
is amazing how a town could just be abandoned like this. How could people just walk away? Large pillars still stood, or were realigned
to original purpose and design. Turkey is actively doing much to restore this and many other world
treasures. No one could understand how
the threads of western cultural history intertwine without a visit to this part
of the world.
Religious Christians find this
former city of special importance because it was the first city that had been
entirely converted to Christianity. I’ve
wondered how that could happen, you know, an entire city?
What an amazing coincidence that
everybody just figured out that this new deviation from Judaism was the “right”
way to believe. The Roman Emperor
Constantine was the first leader of the Romans to convert and then make
Christianity the state religion.
The level of preservation and
restoration make this site important to any student of history. Naturally, someone had to “conceptualize” how
some things were then, but generally it was like putting a huge jig-saw puzzle
together, or so I am told.
We went to lunch at a place
furnished with many long tables and an appropriate number of chairs. Obviously, they are expecting tour buses to
stop here. Since we’re the only ones
right now, we could eat whatever we wanted, and there was no line for us to
wait in. As I mentioned, it was buffet
style so we had to search, test by deep inhalation of fragrance. Then we did a cautious, petite tasting of the
suspect entree. I
especially enjoyed “reading” Marcy’s eyes when she put the spoon to her lips
and made studied judgment of the subject’s edibility. I looked for meat, mostly fish or
chicken. No items contained any meat
except one dish that Marcy said was very good, Aubergine (eggplant) with
shavings of lamb. I prefer the sacrifice
of one animal or another, put on a plate before me. At this meal my preference was denied.
I finished before Marcy so I
walked around the restaurant. I saw some
t-shirts, which he wanted six million liras and a white cotton gauze, button
down shirt, which he wanted five million.
Marcy said the shirt looked bad and you could see my still burnt nipples
through it. The material was just too
thin so I didn’t buy it. Our next stop was Virgin Mary’s retirement house. It is at the crest of a small mountain about
thirty miles from Ephisis. We had beaten all the tour buses to this site of
religious pilgrimages. We arrived to
find` a huge, empty, asphalt parking lot.
Sadly there is no certain
evidence that Mary, mother of Jesus, really ever lived here, or for that
matter, that anyone actually lived here.
There is no definitive archeological proof that anyone occupied this
area, even bits of columns were taken from elsewhere. Actually there was a house here constructed
of stone and mortar, but this structure has only stood for fifteen years. Prior to that, there were only a few pottery
shards on the ground and a household tool or two to prove any human existed
here before 1950. That was the year a
Greek woman had a dream about this region.
She dreamt that Mary lived here, and to this day nobody could disprove
it. Her dream continued, partially
entwined with verse from the New Testament, explaining that Paul took her here
to live out her final days, twenty miles away from Ephesis.
Now nuns operate and control
the area. A wall near the “replica” home had several white corkboards fastened
to it. People would fasten their notes
to the corkboads. There were ardent
prayers in many different languages were pinned to the cork. I was astounded to discover no other evidence
existed, only one laywoman’s dream was sufficient to
mark this as a holy site. I looked to
find a place where there was a gift shop, there were
three but none with e-mail, web site or phone number. Those from Ephesis would have to do. I recorded my visit, and then we left just as
the first tour bus arrived.
Our next stop was close to the
airport. Izmir is the third largest city in Turkey, and according to what we’ve read, has a history rich with
Jewish culture. Our speeding car climbed
over a mountain and we looked down on the seaside city from the window. The wide road was in good condition so our
driver didn’t slow the descent until we were going through angled roads that
lead down into the modern city. We specifically asked our guide to show certain
points of interest to us, but she either didn’t understand or didn’t know. She, like most people of Turkey, is Islamic and look at relics of
other faiths with interest such as one might examine a Paleolithic tool in a
museum. History, to them, truly began
after Mohamed.
I think it is important to
note a ground swelling of anti-Israeli sentiment. For many years there has been cooperation and
friendship between those two countries, Israel and Turkey. It is eroding,
albeit temporarily, because of inflammation by the press seeking a broader
popular support for the Palestinians.
They share a common religion and feel a kinship to the Arab world
regardless of Ataturk’s reformations early in the twentieth century. Semitic bonds may prove to be stronger than
the industrial-political bonds, which exist at a much higher level.
Turkey
is progressive, but bewails its lack of acceptance in the European economic
union. The EEU said it couldn’t afford
to pay 50 billion euros to bring Turkish conditions on par with the rest of its
members. The EEU said it is incumbent on
Turkey to improve itself before serious consideration is
given. A news commentary suggested that
Turkish customs might further separate it from its neighbors. The group, called Reporters Without Borders, said a Turkish general is and has been
instrumental in the prevention of free speech in Turkey. As part of their
display of contempt for the general, they placed his picture on the floor of a Paris
subway station and danced on it. The
nation of Turkey saw this as a national insult. The photo, amidst all this
furor, was removed.
We didn’t see the Jewish
history we sought. We parked near the
seaside boardwalk, got out of the car, and looked at the water held back by the
handsome block wall that prevented further erosion of the land. The look of Izmir
reminded me of Santa
Monica in California because it is somewhat upscale, has a long pleasant
beachfront park, and modern business activity and
mixed architecture that is largely modern.
We had to catch our flight back to Istanbul from Izmir so
we drove to the airport just a few miles away.
We had nothing to do in Izmir. Our only intention was to come here to see
any Jewish history. Our guide was unable
to get us on an earlier flight going to Istanbul. Actually, this
guide was deficient in most ways. I
don’t even recall his name but under his guidance nothing went the way we
desired. This was the only guide I gave
no tip, primarily because he was anxious to bring us to the airport early so he
got paid for more hours than he actually worked. He was done with us, and we were done with
him. I added our names to a standby
list, which resulted in us getting on.
Marcy paid fifteen dollars more and flew in business class. I wasn’t so lucky; I sat in the 3rd
of 4 seats in a row. I spent the entire
flight trying to gain a bit of territory on the armrests, quietly battling with
the large male passengers on both sides of me.
There was constant shifting, letting me gain space, then lose it
again. This went on for the duration of
the blessedly short flight.
In Istanbul, two hours ahead of the proscribed, time I called Mr.
Levant and asked for an early pickup.
Although he said “yes,” we didn’t see the driver till 9 p.m., which was the original time, set out. Our singular objective for dinner was donner
kebab, a barbequed shaved meat sandwich of lamb that was impossible to
acquire. We didn’t have enough
time. By the time we were where the vendor’s
stand was, all the shops had closed, including his.
We were driven close to our
hotel “Yesil Ev” hotel, a former Ottoman residence of luxury located a few feet
from the Blue Mosque, Hagia Sophia, the Hippodrome, etc. in itself the historic
residence was successively owned by a line of important people. It was well decorated, and the classical
music gently playing, and colorful fresh flowers all
around made this another wonderful surprise of the travel agent Levant. Fifty feet from the doorstep of the hotel
brought us to Sultanamet, it is the center of the
heart of old Istanbul. The rooms were
equally rich with history. The bathroom
was more contemporary in design.
We walked outside searching
for kebabs, but knowing that most places stop grilling the meats at 7 p.m. We regretted the
knowledge that our days of kebap-eating were drawing to a close. Across the street from The Blue House was an
open air dining area. We looked at the
posted menu, jockeyed to find the “perfect table” far enough away from kitchen
or bathroom, and not too close to the entrance.
We slid through the carefully arranged wrought iron chairs to the ideal
table, and then we sat. Since there were
very few patrons in here at this time of the day we could hardly escape the eye
of the waiter. With the smallest finger
flourish in the air, the waiter quickly came over to take our request. I ate very little. Marcy was hungry and asked for a meat dish
recommended by one of our guides. She places
her order. It was the reconstituted beef bar again! Marcy was surprisingly
disappointed for she had hoped to never see this “meat” again.
An evening chill floated in to
this open-air patio, which is ten feet lower than street level, and was open to
the elements. We anticipated a cool
evening and had light jackets with us.
We had some hot apple tea to brace us for the cold night air, paid the
bill, then left.
We had flashlights to
illuminate the uneven cobblestone street.
There are beautiful streetlights around this small park. The wide spacing between the lights and their
low intensity would not be adequate to reveal all, or even most, of the hazards
of the streets. We struggled back on the tiny hotel. We were tired from the long day and slept
through the night call to prayers and the early morning call to prayers. The
morning call happens at approximately 4:30 a.m.
Friday May 10th, 2002
When we did get up, we joined
a few other guests from European countries for a typical Turkish breakfast of
coffee, tea, juice, yogurt, bread, fruit and jam. I would mix fresh fruit and the homemade
orange marmalade in the yogurt for a more palatable treat for me. They served the best coffee of the entire
trip. Marcy soon discovered that you
press the button on the coffee dispensing machine only once for each cup of
coffee you want poured now. Although the
served beverage took a moment to ejaculate from the machine, more than one
pressing of the button would yield more than one cup of joe
Our
objective today was to explore with more vigor,the
Grand Bazaar, and the adjacent Egyptian Spice Market. We gave up seeing Pamukale
so that we’d have a full day in Istanbul. At the days end,
we’d be exhausted and Marcy's foot would have suffered greatly from our
adventure of buying. Marcy started with
much anticipation when we thought the market would open at 7:30 a.m. but instead, we discovered the access gates were closed
until 8:30
a.m. I was told about a much smaller rear entrance
on the other side that vendors use to go to their shops. She browsed through a couple of silver shops. In no time, it seemed the bazaar was open and
there were large crowds of old French tourists waiting for the doors to
open. Even with Marcy’s foot brace we
manipulated our way through the slow moving crowd to begin some kind of quest,
a quest that I didn’t really see with the clarity of purpose, but Marcy could.
We had agreed that we were not
going to get a carpet. We also agreed
that we’d try to spend less that $500, but events would foil all of our
agreements. Instead we were drawn, again,
into their lair, falling as easy prey.
Without Marcy’s help I would have brought back a walking stick that had
a dagger concealed inside of its shaft.
Carvings of snakes illustrated the cane’s exterior in bas-relief. I saw Marcy, stacking a new cache of purses
from the same vendor of our earlier visit.
This time only six were counted.
While she negotiated I walked to a nearby stall and bought a man’s purse
for three dollars. It was slightly
marred on the back and had no fake brand name emblazoned on it. Marcy was, according to our prearranged
design, to get to her best deal then turn it over to me.
Marcy did a great job getting
the price for all down to 100 million liras.
I could only get them down another ten million. Everybody had jackets
for sale. Leather was very popular
here. Marcy said lambskin is the best,
and the vendor quickly agreed with her. She had tried on four or five, maybe
more. I lost track of how many, or even
what time it was.
Marcy asked where we could
find “Leather Street,” a section of the interior of the Grand Bazaar where many
leather merchants gathered. With some
simple instructions we found it. She
tried on jackets, examining every aspect of the subject from every angle. She was feeling and touching every part
constantly, in order to discover the perfect jacket. She did more searching in each of the
vendor’s tiny, but well stocked store.
Since she had lost so much weight she looked much better in clothes, and
knew it. Eventually one of the vendors
cajoled her into his shop to offer a beautiful red leather jacket to her.
We had nothing to do today. We
want to look around, through the remaining unexplored shops, to see if we can’t
find a better one. I promised we would
return if we found nothing better at his price of $120 or we’ll buy now at one
hundred dollars. There was a bit of
heated debate between the two brothers that ran this leather shop. The deal was sealed and Marcy had the most
beautiful red leather jacket that she had tried on. After much bargaining, the jacket was sold
for a hundred dollars.
I
bought a water pipe for $20 and a bunch of small items, mainly as gifts.
We sat in an open-air
restaurant in the bazaar and bought a cup of coffee for Marcy and a cup of tea
for me. Today is a nice warm sunny day.
Sitting, relaxing, we decide that this is a pleasant place to order a
light snack rather than a big lunch.
Marcy accidentally ordered her mixed grill meat bar once more! I had a lamb kebab.
While we sat and talked, we
there was a young carpet salesman who sat in front of his basement shop on a discarded
kitchen chair. He was a young man with a
wisp of a beard and dark eyes. He tried
to carry a conversation with us to get our interest and fulfill his objective
of selling a carpet to us. I told him
that I’d look willingly but we have a strict limit of two hundred dollars. I added that I would be happier if I could
found one at one hundred dollars. He
said he has many at that price. I looked at several, and then invited Marcy to
look in his store. It should come as no
surprise that we bought one for four hundred.
This one we intend to use in
the kitchen. They rolled it tightly and
he had his brother carry it for us to Levant's travel agency. We thanked him for a well-planned trip and he
was extremely happy to get such praise.
He was smiling broadly while we told him about the great trip we
had. Marcy tipped the carrier of the rug
generously.
He asked if he could bring the
carpet to our hotel tonight because he lives near Yesil Ev
and wouldn’t mind. I accepted because it
meant we could continue our shopping.
Taxi service was very inexpensive compared to a big city in the U.S. This morning it cost
only $1.50 to bring us two miles to the bazaar. We strolled to Kostas, our
favorite candy store. Two pounds of
Halavah candy left the deliciously scented shop with us. Marcy bought some fruit filled candy as
gifts. I hailed a cab, and the driver
took us back to the hotel. I thought we
were through with the buying craze, but after fifteen minutes in the hotel,
while looking at all the stuff we needed to pack, we realized we had missed the
spice market. Time was getting short
until our return to the U.S. Frantically we
walked outside to have a taxi take us the two miles to the Egyptian Spice
Market. I bought a kilo of baked corn
nuts. Marcy purchased two pounds of
shelled walnuts and one-half kilogram (about 1.1 lbs) of dried,
sulfur-preserved apricots. Adjacent to
the spice market were several small bazaars, one selling live birds and aviary
goods while the next sold only gardening items. The largest section, the covered section, had
a wide assortment of stuff needed for daily living. There were few items that would interest a
tourist. We bought nothing large there.
I did buy another fake watch for five dollars.
Outside the covered bazaar was
a large cobblestone courtyard. In the
center of the open area was a large non-working water fountain. People gathered here because the city
streetcars began their journey from this point.
There were buses, crowded with people so densely that we could see the
flattened bodies of bus passengers pressed firmly against the large glass
window panels. Millions of pigeons flew
around a vendor who sold small packets of pigeon food. It was always frightening to walk around on
the ground level of the area that these flying pigs claimed as
their own. City sanitation
workers tried to rid this area of many of the birds through poison, but the
public outcry made city officials cease two years ago. Since that time their numbers have increased
substantially. Now they threaten this
area with massive amounts of excrement.
I politely asked a taxi driver
if he knew of our hotel because we remembered the hotel name, but not the
address. He said he thinks he knows but,
sadly, he advised us that he has no working meter so his price is five million
to get us there (Even though that’s only four dollars, it just sounds
outrageous when you say “five million”). We got out and talked to the next
waiting driver in the line. He was watching
the interpreter who flashed ten fingers.
This driver said ten million. Marcy was the first to bolt out of the
door. We had to get far enough away from the interpreter to find an honest
metered cab. We walked sixty feet. I flagged a driver down. When we got off at our destination, he asked
for two million. I only had one million
Turkish liras, so I gave him one million lira and a dollar, which now is worth
1,380,000 lira. He happily took it and
off he went. We went back to pack for
the long and uncomfortable ride home tomorrow.
Because it was our last
evening (and Marcy’s foot was getting worse from all of the walking), we chose
to have a romantic and expensive dinner at our hotel. I made 9 p.m.
reservations. They had fifteen rooms,
but only seven tables for an intimate dining experience, classical music,
proper lighting, and well-dressed waiters.
We shared a small bottle of red wine.
Each of us ordered lamb, I asked for lamb slices, Marcy asked for lamb kebab. The entree was served in a few minutes after
we finished the appetizers of stuffed grape leaves. We had some flaky baklava
with fresh coffee for dessert. I was an,
excellent dinner and no walking was involved, except up the old wooden stairs
to our room.
It was a very pleasant
meal. We went upstairs after a very
brief walk in the cool night air, by the garden. From our room we heard, probably for the last
time, evening prayers.
Reflections of Cappadocia
First, I would recommend the
flight form Istanbul to Cappadocia rather than a nineteen-hour drive. The pleasant flight lasted less than two
hours. Without reviewing my notes I
intend to capture, here, in words how long it ‘felt”. 11/2 hours.
Our hotel was a very fond
memory. While we saw about twenty cave
hotels ours was outside the town of Goreme, in Ürgüp.
Had we taken a room in Goreme,
there were several restaurants that looked inviting and markets with fresh
produce, cheeses and meats. Also there
was an Internet café, which I used briefly.
In Ürgüp we had none of those amenities.
We had a wonderful view and room.
The breakfast was of homemade type foods. I love that.
The
valley is very rich with history.
Several underground cities were created ages ago. The Turkish are using their beautiful history
as a strong card to draw the tourist. Well played. The country in general is devoting huge
resources for the pleasure and interest of those bringing foreign currency with
them. Next, the geologic formations are so astoundingly bizarre they certainly
have a draw all their own but coupled together it is a place that should be
visit. I’d give it 4 ½ stars out of 5.
Reflections of Konya
We traveled to this city in hope
of seeing live Dervishes. Dervishes are members of this local sect that is
devoutly Muslim. The unique quality of
this group is that they’d spin around in a colorful costume until they were so
dizzy they would hallucinate.
What we saw was a very
conservative Islamic city, which had the Dervish mosque set up for tourists to
visit, and it did contain some good Islamic art, but we only saw some wax mannequins
dressed as dervishes. That’s it! There
were plenty of Dervish books, videos, and pictures to buy...just not the real
live Dervishes. This place was
Dervishless! A total
non-Dervish rip-off event. The
mosque was pleasant, but not enough of a drawing card to induce the
knowledgeable traveler to visit it. I’d
say that it deserves a rating of less than one star out of five possible.
Reflections of Antolya
This city was a surprise to me. I
anticipated a modest seaside Muslim city with a few quaint sites, and because
we had read travel guides before our visit, roman ruins of modest importance.
All preconceived notions were wrong. Yes, Antolya is a Muslim city like all
others. But starting with Hadrian’s Gate
and continuing out to Perge, the Turkish people were actively restoring these
world treasures and preserving them for future generations. The sites in this region alone, by themselves
were enough reason to visit here. Anyone
with any interest in world history would soon discover there were other
important ruins nearby, too, which I found to be beautiful. There are several large sections of
intricately carved marble and granite pillars imported from Italy
and Egypt. Streets lined with colorful mosaics were a
rare sight for me. Then the waterfall
and water park, well those wasted a couple of hours of time. Our guide, Mr. Hussein, brought us to a
famous, in Antolya, ice cream parlor, where he introduced us to the proprietor
of this small shop. The fellow pointed
to numerous pictures on the wall of many people who ate ice cream in his shop
and the people are famous (in Antolya).
The ice cream was wonderfully rich and thick. It was maybe the smoothest
ice cream I have ever eaten. In any case
it was a pleasant and memorable experience.
Reflections of Marmora
As I recall this town is a small
city made for the comfort of tourists, the beaches seem to be very limited at
least from what little we saw, but big on water sports, boating, yachting,
skiing.
It was not yet the height of the
tourist season but throngs, yes I said throngs, of couples in their 20’s and
30’s from neighboring countries have come for one big party. The warm and very
pleasant temperatures induced young women to dress less modestly. Well, they came for the party. Prices on
goods were higher than in other towns. This is a place to drink and do those
things that go with drinking loud music, lights, and dancing. Lots of other young men and women who are here
for the same reason you are, nice clothes and money flashed around. It isn’t my kind of place but I know people
who would think this new city,
maybe five or six years old, is their favorite. Two stars of 5.

Yugoslav Reflections
Zagreb- To exist here is expensive.
Make this the very first stop because all trains and buses start from Zagreb. The city tries to
resemble and have the cosmopolitan air of Vienna. Good food, although
not for the diet/health conscious. While
I was there it was bad weather. Colder climate.
Figure out the bus system right away because this city is the hub of
Croatian travel. Plan all trips from
here; this is the center of Croatia. Trains run to most
cities from here, just not from one smaller city to another. For that you must use the bus, which is
modern, reliable, and efficient. Zagreb has become the cultural and business center of Croatia during the Communist era when Field Marshall Tito commanded
that the people construct modern roads and lay train track from Zagreb to other cities for the benefit of important dignitaries of
the former Soviet Union, now commonly called The Russian Federation. They demanded comfortable and quick travel to
many of the other cities and towns throughout Yugoslavia, of which Croatia was a part.
Sarajevo-
a fairly large city that sits in the midst of war wreckage everywhere, things
still sit as they were when attached over ten years ago. Serbs are excitable
and wear their emotions on their sleeve.
They are predominantly Muslim, with a visible Catholic and Jewish
presence. Slow recovery without much active help from other countries,
continues as the people try to just live their lives. I saw construction underway but seldom is a building demolished, instead a new structure is erected
adjacent to the old one on the same parcel of land. Some building material is
scavenged and reused from the old building.
Sarajevo, and Bosnia
in general, desperately need an environmentalist with political clout. They are destroying the natural countryside
and streams. The highways and streets of
the entire country are polluted. Junked
vehicles lay abandoned everywhere.
Usually the engine and seats are salvaged, and then the hulk is left for
the elements to demolish. It is a slow
process and much damage has already been done.
Bosnia
is the poor cousin to Croatia. Tjinalina, the town where Carol’s husband,
Mile, is from is quite deep into the backcountry of Bosnia,
on forgotten, hardscrabble, farmland turf.
Had it been further from Medjugoria it would not, and already it usually
does not, appear on maps. Although I
wasn’t invited to stop by their home I wanted to see the village anyway. It was hardly out of my way, except for a few
minutes taken to arrange to be driven there from the bus stop. It is not a place that often sees tourists.
I agree with Lonely Planet’s travel guide on Croatia
regarding most things. Inland, the diet
is Viennese-style foods, potatoes and roasted meats. While on the coast, fish is a predominating
ingredient in dinners. Fresh fruits and
vegetables are easy to find and are inexpensive to buy.
Split- a
beautiful town reminiscent of Venice, in small part. I
spent several pleasant days in warm, coastal Split.
One of my favorites. Like the other towns, except Zagreb,
the water is clean, the weather and food are good. It is reasonably inexpensive
to live, being cheaper by half than Zagreb. I could enjoy a longer stay here.
Dubrovnik
- Everyone agrees this is a wonderful place. Great weather, good food, lots of
fish. I had a great meal, probably the
best in all of the Yugoslavian provinces, while on the island
of Cavtat. During my second visit to this fair seaside
town, I was able to see much more of the city and understand its friendly
comfortable character, which is a contrast to most of Croatia
sitting away from the coastal waters. Croatia
envisions itself as the edge of Western Europe and the
protector of Catholicism from eastern Muslim ways. Dubrovnik
is often overrun with tottering aged cruise passengers. They travel in a tight
pack, fearful of falling outside the group and become prey to the wiles of the
city. As much as that attitude disgusts
and annoys me, it is that very behavior which allows me the anonymity to travel
any and all places.
Dubrovnik, like
other coastal cities, can be relied upon to find wonderful fish/seafood, and
very fresh local produce. Fruits and
vegetables frequently are coming from Austria
or other areas, and are rare and expensive, except bananas. As with anywhere in
the world one might travel, the best tasting and cheapest produce is usually
locally grown. Hazelnuts are cheaper
than peanuts, but they are much easier for me to overindulge in.
Once more I want to mention the
delicious olive oil. I think I will look for the best to find when home. It was
everywhere in Dubrovnik. Commonly
the oil I tasted was the best in Dubrovnik,
but Croatian olive oil is superior to Greek or Roman, and for that matter, any
olive oil I have had ever. If I had not
been concerned about breakage or spillage during the remainder of my travels, I
would have tried to bring home a gallon of it.
Prishtina - I was
surprised to find nothing of historical value here. It was a manufactured city,
post WWII and built by the communists. The city was big and many big buildings
were clean, like maybe L.A. city
areas. Life seemed normal, although a mayor battle for independence is brewing;
gunfire has already started in an area about 20 km east of the city. Like so
many of the fiefdoms of Yugoslavia
it wants its own ability to have self-determination.
Yugoslavian Peninsula (as a whole) - Fly into Zagreb
and take a train to your first destination, then use the very good buses that
travel all over Yugoslavia, sometimes stopping at the geopolitical military
borders. Most train travel is slower and cheaper than the bus, but more
comfortable. All cities are connected to
Zagreb in Croatia.
Traveling to other fiefdoms - Although a traveler is
advised to get a visa in Zagreb I
didn’t, and had no problem crossing into Montenegro,
Bosnia-Herzegovina, Albania
or Kosovo. The political environment changes daily. Get the visa or take your chances.
As far as I see Croatia,
closely followed by the other nations of Yugoslavia
are rapidly coming of age. Bickering
among each of these tiny countries has netted little for them as a whole, and
must have set each of them back economically. From having visited Macedonia
(‘94), Albania,
Montenegro, Kosovo,
Bosnia, Herzegovina,
and Croatia,
with few exceptions they all blame their neighbors for the problems. Serbians tend to be more emotional and wear
their emotions on their shirtsleeve. Just my impression, but they seem to be
the real bad boys.
I felt safe in all cities except for Prishtina, but I
anticipated action and possible gunplay there. Actually, even in Prishtina,
everything seemed “normal.” It was the
outlying areas where disturbances and gunfire would frequently erupt.
A word about “normal.”
Incredibly, the goal of Croatia
is to appear to the world, especially Western Europe and
more specifically, member countries of the European Economic
Community, that they are normal. They scream it too loudly.
Personally I have feared little, but I will admit to great apprehension when
meeting someone who has to point out to me that they are normal. Having someone point out that they are
“normal” is something of a frightening non sequitur that counts against the on
that very issue. That aside, I would suggest that a traveler
without an abundance of time, concentrate his travel to the Adriatic coastal
cities. Croatia
was the most beautiful and advanced of the little countries here. Outside that, a day trip to seaside towns in Montenegro
would fill out the travel ticket, I think, for a traveler of limited means.