The Road to Cap-Cap-Cap-a-docia (Days Four and Five)

It is 8:10 PM and I sit comfortably on the Nevsehirliler bus company’s vessel bound for Istanbul from Nevsehir, the bus station in Goreme, a quaint tourist town engulfed in Cappadocia, a breathtaking geographical area and wholly unique wonder of the world. If it sounds complicated, that’s because it is, but miraculously Mitch and our new travel companion Dave, another temporary visitor from the states, managed to navigate the complicated legs of this journey and are now safely bound for home. But before all that…

Tuesday

On Tuesday morning, I again woke late, having stayed up late on Monday night, typing furiously and providing my curious and beautiful readers with news of my escapades. If there is one thing I must say, it is that while I enjoy the fruitful adventures of travel, I am equally engrossed by the moments of reflection, when I do my best to share these experiences with the outside world. Again, I must admit that my communication of events since passed is, while earnestly composed, hardly comparable to the events themselves. Basically, if you like what you read, save some money, fly to Istanbul, and come explore Cappadocia. This, I’ve learned, is not complicated – the world is yours to explore.

Tuesday, after my blurry-eyed awakening, I showered and composed myself for a new independent adventure. Because of a lack of keys (Mitch having taken his to work and Nicole owning its only twin), I knew that after leaving the apartment, I would not return until Friday. Therefore, I stuffed clothes, a camera, my computer, gum, and other important necessities into my well-worn travel companion, a seemingly bottomless pit of a backpack, and exited. Our bus to Cappadocia left at 9:30 PM, so I had the entirety of an afternoon and early evening to kill. I chose the Dolhmabache Palace as my first destination for the day.

At this moment, I am without my handy Istanbul guidebook, so be forewarned that the history I am prepared to recite will be shared loosely from memory. The Dolhmabache Palace (almost certainly grossly misspelled) sits on the water of the Bosphorus and was constructed in the late 19^th century. It was a step forward in Istanbul-ian architecture, as it was designed to mimic popular European styles. When you enter the gates, you are overwhelmed by the meticulously cared for lawns complete with tulips, hedges, fountains, and statues depicting animals. My personal favorite was a triumphant lion standing on the face of a crocodile. I sauntered about the compound, snapping photos instinctively and inhaling the cool, rain-strewn breeze. After returning to the entrance, I joined another line, desiring entrance to the palatial edifice in hopes of seeing first-hand the priceless treasures of the aristocracy.

King of the Jungle wins every time. 

Perhaps to humble the potential entrant, or perhaps it is just good housekeeping, but all visitors to the palace must first quarantine the infectious grime of their shoes by wrapping them in bright red plastic bags with elastic bands, devices reminiscent of shower caps and equally fashionable. Sporting my new kicks, I penitently crossed the threshold of the main gate into a room with intricate carpeting, highly polished floors, fresh-smelling mirrors and a chandelier worth more than America. Rather than elaborately describe each room, just know that the previous scenario occurred in multiplicity – I entered a staggering number of rooms, observed countless tributes to human artistry and craftsmanship and generally enjoyed my stay. The last room, the Main Hall as I believe it was called, proudly displayed a crystal chandelier weighing more than a family of elephants and what could cost more than our cumulative national debt. I quizzically wondered what would happen if someone tried to climb its 100-or-so feet to the ceiling above. I didn’t try it.

My plan for the day sort of fell apart after exiting the palace. I’d really seen most of the must-see attractions on my Istanbul itinerary, so I decided to delve back into the lonely art of wandering. I’d heard Ortakoy is a very chic area to enjoy cay on the river, so made a plan to walk up the southeast side of the city, along the Bosphorus, until my arrival. What ensued was much more walking than I’d anticipated (an estimated 2 – 3 miles), but I reasoned that since my exercise regiment has fallen off greatly, the extra steps would do me some good. While I walked, I admired the passing cars, a few fancy hotels (Four Seasons Istanbul – great for free maps), and multiple depictions of Ataturk, Turkey’s favorite political leader and icon.

Ortakoy really wasn’t too special. The mosque that sits on the water is currently under construction, so I couldn’t take a look inside. Instead, I settled in at a waterside restaurant, ordered overpriced stuffed mussels and cay, and enjoyed the view of the water, the sight of the Fatih Sultan Mehmet Bridge, and the theater of a gang of pigeons accosting a small child feeding them with fright and good intentions in his eyes. Having had my fill of inflated tourist pricing and excessive walking, I bound the DT2 bus and returned to Taksim Square, close to where Mitch lives.

"I immediately regret this decision," thinks small, pigeon-feeding child. 

Without a home to return to, but in need of a base to prepare for my adventure to Istanbul’s central bus station and what lay beyond, I stopped to rest again at Bar-ish. With its cheap Efes (Turkish beer), endless bowls of free popcorn, and wireless Internet, I thought it was as good a spot as any to prepare for the logistics of my trip. But alas! The Internet wasn’t working! I packed up and hopped to a nearby Internet café, where 1.5 Turkish Lira purchased 30 minutes on the computer. Struggling with the Turkish keyboard and Turkish language default settings on the web browser, I just managed to set my travel itinerary and shoot a quick email to Mitch, wishing us luck for a successful rendezvous.

I walked down Istikal Street with expertise, entered the Funikhuler with experienced precision, switched to the Tramway at Kabatas without error and even managed to switch to the M1 train at a new stop, all in order to arrive at Ostogular, the central bus station, where my travel skills were truly put to the test. I was hoping to find Goreme Turizim, the bus company that runs to Cappadocia regularly, only to learn that the company recently went out of business. With zero language skills to help me find the next best ride to Cappadocia, I wondered how in the hell I was going to pull this off, as well as communicate all of this to Mitch in time, having no immediate way of contacting him. Miraculously, while stopping to think at a restaurant, I met a Turkish man with limited English skills but an eagerness to help. I am still not entirely sure if helping me was out of kindness or some professional responsibility, but he walked me from the station to an awning that read “Star Batman” and the promise of a ride to Cappadocia. With slow words and much gesticulation, I communicated that while I understood I could purchase a ticket for the next bus, boarding in 20 minutes, I needed to wait for my friend, and would not leave without him. Frustrated, the Turkish salesman continued to urge me to board the bus as soon as possible – I smiled, politely refused, and walked out, still needing to communicate with Mitch. Another Internet café. Another quick email to the tune of, “Mitch – I sincerely doubt we will pull this off. But if you get here in the next 15 minutes, I’m outside a bus company called Star Batman. See you there.” Somehow, some way, a few minutes later, Mitch arrived via taxi and we were aboard the bus, looking at the barrel of an 11-hour red eye embarkation.

Even more amazing, moments before our departure, a frantic Dave boarded the bus with people calling after him shouts of, “No ticket! No ticket!” Confused, and with panic in his eyes, Dave boarded the bus and searched around frantically – “Josh? Mitch? Are you here? Is this the bus?!” He’d had a similar challenge locating the appropriate port of departure, but also, by the grace of God, stumbled upon it in the nick of time. “Yep, this is the place,” we responded. Eleven hours of restless travel later, we were in Cappadocia.

(Note: The following was composed on April 23, 2012 – a week and a half following the trip.)

Wednesday

We arrived at Goreme’s bus station and I sincerely believed we were in the wrong place. I was reminded of the words of Lloyd Christmas – “You’d think the Rocky Mountains would be a little rockier than this.” Searching for intricate rock formations and breathtaking landscapes, all we saw were dilapidated homes and depressing horizons. We got off the bus a bit unsure of ourselves, tired from 11-hours of restless jostling, but eager to find out just what we were supposed to do next.

In the station at 10:00 AM, almost all shops were closed except for a small, non-descript office, Rock Town Travel and Tourism Agency. The man inside welcomed us, offered us tea, and asked us if we intended to see the superior rocks of the region. We consented. In a rush, the gentlemen told us that the next tour was just starting. He guided us out to a tiny, white Renault Flash, a vehicle that looked like it was out of a bad 80’s movie. Entering the car and with limited abilities to talk with the driver, we earnestly wondered if this, this suffocating ride complete with diesel fumes, was our tour. It wasn’t. A few miles down the road we met up with the other tourists who’d just begun exploring the more scenic views and historical landmarks in a spacious bus. “Ohhh…” Mitch, Dave and I collectively sighed.

The Mighty Renault Flash.

That first day, although we were a bit beat up, our desire to see the sights won out – plus, the natural majesty and amazing history of Cappadocia is hard to overlook. Again, without a guidebook to consult, I’ll describe the region to the best of my ability. Essentially, Cappadocia is composed of pockets of incredible rock formations, some of which leading to incredible heights; minerals that seem to drip with soft stone as if melting in the sun. At some point in the past, I can’t forget if it was the BC’s or early AD’s, people began to carve homes and churches out of the stone, sometimes creating elaborate layers fortified into the rock. Many of these ancient churches were even created before Constantine came around, and Christians were being harshly persecuted for their beliefs. Thus, many of these temples were secret places of worship, insulated from Roman oppression. Later, after Constantine and the Romans switched their attitudes toward the Christians, artists in the 11^th and 12^th century decorated the spaces with beautiful frescoes. Miraculously, much of this history is still in great condition, and yours to climb on and explore for approximately $40 a day. Not a bad deal, especially since lunch is included.

We climbed rocks. We took lots of pictures. We headed back to our hostel.

At the hostel (recommended by our guide) we met our new roommate, Dan. We’d actually met Dan on the tour, but hadn’t spoken much to him, since he carried himself with an almost monkish modesty and reserve. However, at the hostel we learned how fascinating he was. Dan was a 23-year-old British student, hitchhiking his way from England to Croatia for a semester studying biology, and was also a travel journalist and amazing artist. He showed us his journal, a thick binder of notes, maps and hand drawn pictures encapsulating his recent memories. I wonder if we made his book. We went out to dinner with Dan at a nearby bar restaurant called Fat Boy and enjoyed a few games of Tavla (Backgammon) before walking the few blocks back to our room.

At the conclusion of my fifth day in Turkey, I found myself on the exposed rooftop of a hostel in Cappadocia, drinking Efes with Mitch, Dave, Dan, and Mischa, a 20-year-old German engaged in 1.5 year bicycle ride to and through Asia (yeah – crazy right?). It’s only been a few days since that moment, but it feels otherworldly now, even describing it. Less than two weeks ago, I sat thousands of miles away, admiring the scenic view of Turkish hills, conversing with a hitchhiker, a cyclist, an expatriate and a brick builder. It almost sounds like a dream.

An international party. Dan, Mischa, Mitch (from left)

I promise to finish my description of Turkey, including my terrifying encounter with unreasonable heights, our mobile wine party with NYU sophomores, and an exquisite Turkish meal; however, this will have to wait for another night. It’s almost 9:30 PM on a Monday and this teacher needs to settle in for bed.

Sleep well; may you find adventure and travel in your dreams.