November 2016 – Page 2 – a lover of the road

My last day in Konya and Turkey goes crazy again

Although I was planning to sleep longer today and I feel like hiding under the duvet rather than getting out, the stories still tossing about inside me, struggling to survive like fish out of water before they receive their words, wake me up at 7.30 and, despite my repeated attempts to ignore their impulses, eventually they pull me out of bed and soon my fingers are typing, weaving the new clothes my mind is tirelessly designing for the stories lined up around me.

The street and the air-conditioning noise make me think it must be raining heavily before I actually pull the curtain and notice it is a sunny day. I need to make plans and write and send postcards, meet another nice girl from couch surfing later on and let her take me around. And, yes, Rumi and Shams one more time.

The second half of yesterday in Goreme (a story I have not posted yet) is still haunting me and a part of me is still struggling with what seems like a bit of a trauma. That gives me something more to work on, if I didn’t already have enough. And it is still so fresh I am not entirely sure I know what to make of it yet, so I just ask my angel to help me make sense. And remember to thank him again and again.

I go down the stairs and notice the weird shape of the reception on my left and the breakfast room right in front of the stairs. I realise I must have been really tired last night not to notice absolutely anything. I stop at the reception, placing my hands on the stone counter and ask for my passport back. The fat bearded receptionist asks me my room numbed and then hands me back my passport.

As I turn and walk into the breakfast room, I soon notice I am the only woman there. Except the all male staff, three other men are having their breakfast. They all look at me as my painful knees only allows me to take small, carefully placed steps across the room. The open buffet breakfast selection is generous enough and I am happy about the fresh fruit, different cheese types and parsley plate.

As I sit down at a table for two next to the window, I get so cold I need to take a sip of hot cay before touching the food. On the wall on my right there is a huge TV screen and everyone, including the staff, is watching. I don’t usually pay attention to the news and I don’t watch TV, but now I feel I should try to make out what this is all about. I cannot understand Turkish, but I see Erdogan giving a speech, his facial expressions so cold and sharp, and then an image of him shaking hands with Angela Merkel, followed by images of street shooting, explosions and something about terrorim.

I resent my autism for the political world and for the first time since I left Romania I want to know what is going on. Facebook and WhatsApp are not working this morning and that makes me uneasy. I remember my decision to come to Turkey now was largely based on my feeling that things are going down fast and it will not be so easy to come here anymore. I do hope I am wrong. When I come back to the room, I do a Google search and become a member of the society again. Although I still have no access to Facebook and WhatsApp. I feel I want to go home. I finish my post about the drive back from the caravanserai, write postcards with random Rumi quotes from the poetry book I brought with me and decide to head out into the city again.

Excuse me, do you know why Facebook and WhatsApp aren’t working?”
“Facebook, WhatsApp, Twitter. All finish today in Turkey”, the fat receptionist tells me. “But is ok”, he adds when he sees my face flaring up as my worst fears are coming true.

I find a way to communicate with Merve – the girl from Couchsurfing I am supposed to meet later: I send her a message using the couchsurfing app, telling her (as if she didn’t already know) that WhatsApp and Facebook aren’t working. She quickly replies: “At 4.30 pm I will come to nun hotel😉 unfourtanetly these arent working cause of political troubles anyway if you need sth write me here best see you😉.”

I can hear the muezzin as I am getting out of the hotel to go to Mevlana again. This is not the adhan. I have been here long enough to know that. It is too long. I’m feeling anxious and every loud noise is making me nervous. I look around carefully and curiously and I am happy I am not hiding in my room like a mouse.

I picked a bad time to be a writer in Turkey. I quickly evaluate my situation: I have just upset an influential hotel owner in Goreme who used to be a cop in Istanbul and brags about owning a gun and doing cocaine, informed me he has a copy of my passport and my fingerprints, along with perfectly valid DNA samples and threatened to stage a crime for me so that I won’t be able to leave Turkey; all with a smile on his face. (Did I decide to solve all my karmic issues by the end of this year, by the way? I wonder…) Let’s go on now, that was not everything: I am a single woman traveling alone in Konya, the most religious and traditionalist city of Turkey, where almost nobody speaks English. But let’s not get paranoid, shall we? I made an unfortunate choice of European clothes. Otherwise I look Turkish enough. Though I am not sure that is so good now, either… And can say ‘hello’, ‘goodbye, ‘thank you’, ‘beautiful’ and ‘honey’. That should do. So I hide my map in my pocket, put my leather purse in my backpack and head to Rumi. This is a holiday, after all.

So many people outdoors on their knees praying in front of mosques. I guess it is simply prayer time and the mosques are too small for the big number of people praying. I have never seen that before and take my phone out and take some photos. I cannot help thinking about writing. Tomorrow is not so far away and I will return home in one piece, inshallah.

There are many more people at Rumi’s tomb than on Moday. And I let the quote above the gate lead me inside: “This place has become a Ka’bah for the lovers of God. The one who comes here with flaws has now become completed.” I now walk before his tomb completed.

As much as I like going to places for the first time, I absolutely adore it when I arrive for the second time. It is like a bonus and I can have a better, more quiet experience once the rush and the excitement that accompany the first experience have settled. Rumi fills me again and my chest becomes round and light like a hot air balloon, taking me up.

When I get out of the Mevlana museum the crowd praying in front if the mosque has scattered and it is quiet again.

I cross the street to pay another visit to Shams. As I get to his mosque, some kids are trying to sell me tissues and as I hurry inside I forget my shoes on and they quickly help me remember. Then, after a few minutes in front of his tomb, feel I have forgotten to cover my head. As I am pulling my hood over my hair, I see from the corner if my eye the kind, blue-eyed man heading towards me and suddenly changing direction as my hood is finally covering me.

I am not sure where I got this image of Shams as a tall, thin, bald man, wearing black. It is more than just an image. I can feel his presence. The strongest man I have ever felt. And the most free. His strong, black eyes looking at me and through me. I can only address him as ‘my love’. That clock on the right side of his tomb makes me cry again. Measuring absence. Why do we do that? I complain to him a lot about his being away. It is so hard to leave again.

Carry me, my love. In your strength, I can be weak.
You are not to be carried, my love. You are strong.
It is hard here without you. I don’t want this strength. I want you.
I am you. I am inside you. You are me. Go. You are never without me. It is not here that you will find me. But in your heart. In your eyes. In your hands.

I let him convince me and I finally get out of the mosque. It is a warm, sunny day and the fear and tension floating around cannot scare me anymore. I am a writer travelling in Turkey. Strike all the description I made above. I am free. I am strong. I am smart. And I am no threat to anyone. I do not fight wars. I have no ambition or interest in any conflict. I believe we are all very similar, our differences are merely geographical, which makes us allthe more interesting to one another. My strength is serving only love. And it shall never change its master.
I take a walk through the old part of the city and get lost in the narrow streets, lined with packed shops and loud buyers. My stomach is still protesting against the tension and tells me a better idea would be to avoid crowds, but I simply ignore it since I have not come here to hide.

I leave the old center and find the post office eventually. After a long line, I manage to make the lady there understand I want stamps for ten postcards, not just ten stamps regardless of their value. So after she gives me ten stamps and I pay for them, I convince her to give me twenty more. “Expensive”, she says laughing. ” Evet!” I almost scream back, thinking how difficult it is in this country to keep in touch with the rest of the world. There was this box in the post office and I couldn’t help thinking Turkey should get one, too:

I then get back to my hotel and release my knee for one more hour from the terror of the tight jeans. (Did I just write terror?) I lie in bed working on my blog as I am waiting for Merve. When she finally arrives, having driven through busy traffic and then left her car somewhere and walked to the hotel because the road was blocked, I am so happy to meet her in front if the reception, as if I were meeting a very old and dear friend and we hug and kiss and look in each other’s eyes with so much gratitude.

“So what’s going on?” I ask as we are walking to her car.
“Ah, well, political trouble. The news here said there was an attack, an online attack, and that is why Facebook and WhatsApp and Twitter are not working. And they are now trying to fix the situation.”
“Bullshit!” I hear myself say before I can stop myself and quickly add: “Sorry!”
“Yes, of course it’s bullshit.” Merve replies, making me feel more at ease now.
She’s about my height, wearing a scarf over her head and glasses and a long green coat over black trousers and purple knee length dress. She looks so beautiful and strong and I am feeling so lucky to be in her company. She tells me she is a doctor and has an exam in two weeks and feels rather anxious about it. We get to her car and I can’t help thinking I’m getting into a car with a stranger one more time. Although this time I am sure I have nothing to worry about.
She then takes me to dinner to this nice place next to a river and we also feed some cats and the ducks on the river. We talk about Romanian and Turkish and make a list of common words, while Merve is taking photos of us. Then we drive to Meram and have hosmerim, a traditional dessert, on a terrace with a bird view of the city. On the way, she suddenly exclaims:

“Oh, yeah! Internet is back! I am happy!” and my thighs can finally release some of the tension.

It is here that she hands me a small black box with a gift from her – a necklace and a pair of earrings, right after I get another “You look so Turkish!” from the waiter.

“I just like making people happy” she says.

We then make a stop at the mall and drive to Nari and pick up my luggage (I can’t help making a note of the fact that I leave my bag with my wallet and passport and everything in the car as I go up to Nari’s apartment to get my suitcase and I tell myself I never want to be so ‘careful’ that I trust no one; though, maybe, I should be a bit more selective, I admit) and then head back to the hotel. By the time I get to my room I am so tired and my knee is so upset I just want to pass out I my bed and forget everything. Tomorrow seems too far away. Oh, yeah, and again I get the precious advice to AVOID CROWDED PLACES. Right.

PS It looks like the images are not uploading, so I will have to do that in Bucharest.

Getting back to Konya and a different type of civilization

My bus is late and I decide to collect my luggage from Nari, my couch surfing host, tomorrow. So when I get to the otogar I get down the bus through the middle door, to avoid the large crowd engaged in what seems to be a loud celebration at the end of the platform area, and I head to the tram station. My right knee hurts so bad that I now have a limp and I know I have an infection.

When I get off in the city center I ask this tall, pudgy young guy if he can speak English. Yok, he replies smiling. I don’t give up and I take out my phone to show him the address of my hotel . He checks it out and then takes out his phone and shows me the route on Google maps. We try hard to have a conversation, I’m using my hands a lot and make all sorts of faces, while he just smiles impassibly and speaks Turkish. When the scene gets crazy enough, we both stop and sigh, smiling powerlessly to each other.

Then his face lights up as he takes out his phone again, opens Google translate and we start passing it between each other. He decides to come with me the whole way and walk me to my hotel. We pass this small group of young, thin, gay guys, looking gratious and cautious, we discuss the weather, how old I am, how old he is (19), his favorite place in Turkey (Istanbul), if I like Turkey, why I am here, where my parents are, where I come from, where he has traveled (Turkey), how far the hotel is, why I stay at the hotel.

Suddenly he stops and grabs both my shoulders, puts his head close to mine so I can feel his tall hair brushing my left temple and points somewhere ahead of us. I squint and, on the right side, across the road, I can see the name of my hotel in bright pink letters. He then takes me across the street, carefully telling me to stop or walk as he checks if cars are coming, as if I could not see for myself and I am grateful for all the care. When we get in front of the hotel, he opens the door, gets in and I follow. He stops next to the door on the left, straight and tall, looking down at me and smiling as the two dark haired men in the lobby, the receptionist and the bell boy, are watching us, waiting to see what happens.

I position myself in front of him, look up straight into his green eyes, smile back, stretch out my right arm and we shake hands. He looks proud and handsome, like a sultan. Daniela. Fatah, I believe he replies. Tesekkur ederim, I add. Rica ederim, he retorts a bit disappointed as he releases my hand and heads for the exit. Gule gule, I add and turn to the receptionist. Merhaba.

The bell boy takes me to my room. I am so tired I don’t mind anything anymore. We get to the door and the boy follows me in, kneels on the side of my bed and then stretches, pressing his palms on the white sheet, reaching for the remote control and, despite my faint protests and repeated sighing, he insists to show me how it works. It takes him a while because it doesn’t really work. I have to tell him several times “yok TV” and start making desperate hand gestures to help him understand before he finally stops and leaves the room.

I take a hot shower and attend to my knee. Just as I’m getting into bed, at 00.00 sharp, there’s a loud knock on the door. I get up and open. The bell boy has brought a plate of fresh fruits and a steaming coffee. I swallow my comments because my Turkish is not that bright and colorful yet and his English is as illusiory and volatile as democracy in his country, so I know I shouldn’t rely on it. I let out my ‘oh’ and watch him as he walks past me into the room and finds the best place to put the treat: on the chair, over my cardigan.

Tesekkur, I blabber and he follows immediately with the right lines and leaves the room. I say something in Romanian about drinking coffee all the time and start missing my place. The room feels cold and loud and the street noise and the noise coming from the neighboring rooms make me uncomfortable. The silence in my cave house hotel was truly wonderful. I want to go home…

PS I wrote this last night and am posting it today. My account on my last day in Goreme is postponed because of the political situation in Turkey. I see myself forced to live the day. By the way, I have no access to Facebook, and WhatsApp anymore, as they are not working in Turkey today.

Leaving the safety of the caravanserai behind

The car is cutting through the darkness like a big, hot, round-shaped meteorite falling from the sky. The sema is still shaking its earthquake inside me as my eyes, right one still wet, are wandering among the lights of a distant town.

“You are engaged to be married, I say pretending to be outraged at the passes he’s making on me, like an innocent, naïve eastern European. (Does that even exist? I wonder). “Can men in Turkey have several wives?” I ask, putting on a curious face.

“Well”, he says pausing and leaning back in his seat, ” No. But they can have several girlfriends. Secretly…”

“Oh, I see…” I reply and, although I have absolutely no interest in him, it is finally so clear to me that I never want to be anybody’s secret anymore and don’t what my life to be about secrets. So I giggle as if I received his answer as an innocent joke between buddies, wrapped up in a thin, golden layer of flirtatious attention.

“I see you are writing sometimes”, he says.

“I am a writer.” I swiftly reply and, for the first time in my life, I feel comfortable saying that and I know it’s true, not something I am merely pretending or aspiring to be. This is it.

“Really? I hope you don’t write about me. Or I’ll come to Romania and…”

“You need a visa for that.”

“No, actually, I don’t. I’m a special citizen.”

“Really? What makes you so special?” I ask, inviting him to impress me.

“My father”, he says hesitantly. “He is an imam… You know what an imam is?” he asks and continues without waiting for my reply. “The leader of the mosque.”

“So your father is an imam and you aren’t a religious person…”

“Yes. I pray, I believe I God but I am not a religious person. It is not important. I will tell you, you should know three the things about Turkish men: firstly, they are aggressive. They are nice in the beginning , but when they know you are theirs, that they have you, they will show you their anger. You know, we cannot help it. It is what we have seen our fathers do…”

“Are you saying this because of my purple eye?” I ask, trying to make a joke because I would hate to have to take this seriously.

“No, I am serious. Secondly, they are very jealous. And, thirdly, they are not good in bed.”

At this point I’m laughing.

“Really, because we are not allowed to have sex, we can’t be good. Maybe some of us are born with a good potential, but since we can’t practise, we are bad. I don’t know about your experience…” he adds and pauses for me to answer.

“Well, a lady never tells.”

“No, a gentleman never tells. And I am a gentleman. So I never tell about my experiences. All my friends like to brag about their adventures, but not me. But I can see your potential. You don’t have to tell me.”

“Really? What do you see?” I take a risk and push him and, although he is not touching me, I can feel the boneless and fleshless and skinless part of his right arm already pushing against my left shoulder and his hand sliding down the inner part of my thigh. I gently push them away.

“You are an amazing girl. But not to date. To marry!”

“How come?” I ask laughing.

“You are too good.”

“Damn, I blew it again”, I add pushing my head back and laughing even harder.

” No, really.”

“OK, it’s good you already have a fiancé then. I am safe.”

“Well, I like dating and I am interested in relationships. And girls. Not just to have sex with them, you know. But to know them. I am interested in their body. I have books at home about the woman body. Their shapes, functions, you know… Red hair would look good on you, by the way.”

“Really? Did you get that idea because we are just crossing the Red River?”

“No, I am good at this. Trust me, I have seen many people… I live with my family. But when I want to be free I go to a hotel, you understand me. Do you live with your family or alone?”

“Alone.”

“That is good. You are free. You can date several guys.”

“Why would I want to date several guys?”

“You see, I told you you are too good.”

Mevlevi Sema in Saruhan, a 1249 caravanserai on the old silk road

“Hi, captain, let’s go.” Samet says picking me up from my hotel.

Although I remember resorting not to trust him, his company is somehow predictable, his English is good, so I feel comfortable and think I can handle him. When my red tour of North Cappadocia finishes (long story, so I will probably break it up and post it later from my laptop), the minibus drops me in front of Angelos Travel and, as I sit down and have the cappuccino Samet gladly makes for me, I ask him to check if they have the sema tonight and where. As he’s taking his seat and starting making calls for me, I simply tell him:

“Make me happy.”

We negotiate the price and when I finish my cup he accompanies me to the cash machine and promises to pick me up from my hotel twenty minutes later.

On the way, as I am admiring the beautiful view, taking photos and notes in my notebook, he is happy to give information and tells me about the caravanserai where the sema will be performed tonight. He tells me it is one of the oldest in Anatolya and that on the silk road there is a caravanserai every six kilometres. That is the limit for camels, he explains. In the old times, he tells me, traders would get shelter, food and women for free for two days in the caravanserai. “Everyone is happy in the caravanserai. Because they are safe.”

I get such a strong feeling of freedom as we arrive at the caravanserai. The gate, “we call it a portal”, Samet insists, is amazing and I can’t help thinking how many people have walked through it, from so many places, shrouded in so many stories, so many connected lives like the colorful threads in a carpet being woven by so many hands all at once.

We visit the rooms that used to welcome traders, now waiting rooms for tourists and guides and I am taking pictures as my private driver and guide walks around feeling important. When I get into the large hall at the end of the yard, where the sema will be performed, I feel I should whisper or be silent.

I sit down on the left of the ‘stage’, in the middle of the second row. My guide informs me he will wait for me outside, since he has seen the sema too many times and doesn’t want to get bored. I am grateful for the space and take out a tissue, since I already know I will cry and want to avoid making noise during the ceremony. The other people in the audience all come in and sit on the right side if the stage, opposite me, leaving me the only one on my side.

The dervishes come. Three sit at one end if the stage and sing and play musical instruments and I let the Sufi music fill me as my legs can finally let go and abandon their weight on the bench. We are an audience of 10: 9 on the right side and 1 on the left – me.

Three dervishes whirl and the oldest one keeps his black ‘cloak’ on and remains a witness, walking among the others or just standing. The whirling is prepared and waited for. They begin by paying respect. They all lign up facing me and bow several times. My body remains still, but the rest of me bows, touching the ground a few times, my forehead kissing the floor where so many steps have carried their weight.

Never in my life have I seen men doing anything more beautiful. My right hand finds its way to my heart, hides it fingers in the damp warmth of my armpit and rests there like a blessing, soothing a very old pain. I have been carrying it for too many lifetimes. On my silk road I make a stop.

Right before the ceremony ends, I am shaken by an earthquake and I get dizzy and a bit nauseous. So I close my eyes. I can feel the movement with my whole body. And, suddenly, I remember. I don’t know whose memories these are. But I remember.

At the same time, my right eye starts crying. The purple eye. The bruised eye. The swollen eye. The left one, like the old dervish in black, remains a silent witness, open and still, holding it together so that the other one can feel free to lose itself in the experience.

A guy comes and announces ‘Now you can take picture’ and, for a moment there, I do not understand what is going on, I do not understand the language. And then the meaning of the words lights up in my mind , but I do not understand what he means by the announcement. The audience raising their phones all at once, in a synchronised dance in the side opposite mine help me remember.

When they all bow in the end, my right hand still over my heart, I bow too. My brothers, I missed you. My brothers… And I remain silent, still shaking and crying as they are leaving. My cinnamon sorbet is getting cold next to me, as I am lost in the empty space in front, around and inside me. I cannot move just yet. As everyone leaves and lights are going off, I convince my body it is safe to move even with an earthquake inside and so my feet push against the hard floor, helping my back lean forward, my legs stretch and knees straighten and then the weight if my head leans backward and my whole body comes upright again.

“How was it, lady captain?” Samet greets me outside as I am the last one leaving the place before the lights go completely off and the door is locked. I am still carrying my earthquake, so my voice is a bit shaky as I am staggering for an answer he would not ask me to explain.

Outside the caravanserai the night is cold, the sky is sharp and clear like the blade of a scalpel, shining in the amber light of the moon, which is resting between two major surgeries.

More about the way back and my last day in Cappadocia in future posts.

Turning Turkish on my first night in Cappadocia, Goreme

I arrive in Goreme just as the muezzin is performing the adhan. I look around, trying to guess the direction to my hotel from the description on booking.com, but I soon realise a better idea is to get help, so I head towards the most populated area. I soon find out Goreme is a village, so the populated region is a group of small shops.

In about two minutes I find myself in front of this travel agency, where a guy in his mid twenties is just finishing a conversation with an Asian tourist and I see in his eyes he’s getting ready to fish for me. I am too happy to hear he speaks English to care about anyting else.

“Hi there. I am looking for my hotel. Do you think you could help?”

“Of course I can. But come in, I can offer you something to drink and we can talk.” he says, pronouncing every word clearly and separately, carefully and as convincingly as he can.

“Thank you, that’s very kind. I’ll come back later, now I just need to find my hotel and check in first. It’s Mystic Cave House Hotel. Do you happen to know where it is?”

“Yes. It is very close actually. Just go round the mosque and to the right and you will find it.”

“Really? Are you sure? I mean I just came from there and didn’t see it.”

“That is because it looks like there is nothing there. But you will find it.”

“OK, thanks, see ya then.” I reply, feeling little bit discouraged by the involuntary unflattering description.

“Wait! What is your name? he says, coming down the steps into the sidewalk in front of me, his right hand reaching out.

” Daniela.” I smile and shake his hand.

“Samet”, he says, stressing the ‘a’ and making it stretch like chewing gum, one end between his teeth and the other one tightly squeezed between his fingers.

“Where are you from?”

“Romania.”

“I traveled to Romania two months ago. I love it.” he says, all the time keeping eye contact, his eyebrows tensed in a little frown from the constant concentration.

“Oh, really? I’m happy to hear that. OK, see you later then.” I add, resolving not to trust him.

“OK. I am waiting. I can offer you some good deals on tours. Better than your hotel. ”

“Tesekkur, we’ll talk about that later then.”

“Oh, you can speak Turkish. You look Turkish, too.”

“Thank you. I can only speak a few words, I am not very Turkish.”

When we finally manage to say good bye, I go round the mosque, which is maybe 50 m away and past a public toilet and see my hotel on the right. I like the stone walls and think it looks good enough, but I am still expecting the worst, on account of the very good deal I got on it. (That’s another thing: I tend to expect things that seem good to go bad – just another virus I need to clean from my system.)

The reception, a small kiosk-like space next to the entrance, looks rather unwelcoming and the receptionist – an agitated guy, light brown hair, bruised face (!?) that seems never to have known laughter or even smiling, rough hands and dirty fingernails – is very unfriendly and gives me the impression of a newly escaped convict planning a revenge. He never says ‘please’ or ‘thank you’, but keeps ordering me around.

“Are you ok?” I ask, looking for his eyes.

“Yes.” he quickly replies and seems to stop there for a moment, surprised by the question.

“You seem very busy and tired.” I insist, looking for a small doorway to his heart. I don’t find it this time, but I am determined to try again on our next encounter.

He takes my backpack and leads me to my room. But for the small, covered, high window, everything looks good. The bathroom (which is not a separarate room, but a corner enclosed by glass walls only a few centimeters taller than me) is an interesting surprise and I can’t help thinking about how it would be to have to share the room.

I take off my coat and rest for a while, send a few messages, then take a long hot shower and when I get out again it’s dark. I wonder if I can still find the travel agency open. I go round the mosque and the call to prayer starts again, making me wonder if all my arrivals and departures are to be blessed like this on my entire trip.

Before I get to the travel agency, I get the feeling that being out after dark on my own around here is not the best idea, although I have never been afraid of that. I find the guy sitting outside and, when he sees me, he quickly invites me in. We take our seats and he offers coffee, but I politely decline on account of the late hour.

“I have hot chocolate. Do you want hot chocolate? he insists, so sure of himself.

“Thank you, I think I’ve had too much chocolate today, actually.”, I tell him, remembering my lunch on the go.

I look at him and I see he’s becoming offended by my refusals, so I decide to make him feel good.

“Do you also have water? I would really love some water. I feel so thirsty!”

“Yes, I do have water!” he quickly replies, clinging to the question as if to a lifebuoy.

“You look so Turkish, you know, really. Are you sure you’re not a little bit Turkish? ” he says as he’s bringing me my water.

“Oh. Thank you.” I laugh. “Who knows? Maybe I am.”

“What happened here?” he asks pointing to my right eye. And I realise he is actually the first person to ask openly about it since I left Bucharest.

“Fell off my bike.” I quickly reply and right after I close my mouth I bite my lips to stop myself from answering what he didn’t utter out loud.

“When was that?” he insists.

“Friday. So it was my birthday on Sunday and this trip is my gift.” I continue, changing the subject so that he doesn’t get kicked in the balls before I get a deal.

” Really?! Happy birthday! Great gift. Who is it from?”

“Thank you. Myself.” I reply and see clearly what he is thinking: I got beaten up by my jealous husband because I cheated on him, so in a fit of anger, I took off my wedding ring, flushed it down the toilet (or just threw it in a drawer, his mind is not decided about this detail), took all the cash in the house, packed the bare necessities and ran away from home.

I smile to the image and let him have it, petting my left knee as I convince my leg to stay put and leave my foot on the floor.

“I like your style of clothes. It is European. Don’t ever change that.” he continues checking me out and making remarks as if voicing lines from an inner dialogue while weighing an item in a shop right before purchasing it. Or stealing it.

“I like you. You are a nice person.” he continues, convincing himself the merchandise he’s got his eye on is a good choice.

“You’ve just met me, I just walked in here five minute ago. ” I reply somewhat indignantly, perfectly aware that it is all a strategy meant to open myself up, feel comfortable, be friendly and get ripped off. And it doesn’t bother me, I can tell it’s what usually works for him. I just realise one more time how much people really need to be seen, to be appreciated, noticed and valued. So much so that they are willing to pay through their teeth to get the illusion of it.

“Don’t get me wrong”, he continues, waving his thick ring in my face. ” I am engaged to be married. I am leaving to America in two months. My fiancé is there.”

“That is wonderful! Congratulations!”

“So if you come to the USA, I can be tour guide there if you wish to visit the Grand Canion. I will open a travel agency there.” he adds and I am not sure if I can believe him.

“Good luck! You are starting a new life. Great! All the best to you!” I sincerely wish him. “So, what have you got for me then? I am here until the day after tomorrow.”

And we start discussing options and prices and I know from Hamodi – my dear Syrian friend in Istanbul, whom I met when he was working in the Grand Bazaar – never to settle for the first price. So I negotiate and eventually we manage to shake hands on a tour for the next day.

I get out and check the name above the agency. It is Angelos Travel. I like that. The dark, empty street is no discouragement for my desire to explore the new place. Nor is the man kicking a stray dog in the middle of the street, out of the blue. So I walk to this shop opposite the agency and get bread and olives for dinner and then walk up this narrow street and get to a beautiful hotel on the left and then to this small, dusty shop and I go in.

“Merhaba.” I say to this old man as the door opens and I just love hearing my voice saying that. I feel like repeating it and, when I see this older lady wearing a hijab watching TV in the far end corner, I say it again: m e r h a b a (careful about every sound, laying the stress on the ‘e’, rolling the ‘r’, pushing the ‘h’ upwards toward the back of my throat and finally letting the end if the word be released from between my lips like a sigh.

The shop has all possible souvenirs, but I am drawn to this wall displaying handmade necklaces – silk and beads. The lady joins me and explains she has made them all and I can sense, as I’m touching them, that she’s being honest. She helps me try a few of them on before I decide which one is mine. I don’t really need one, I’m thinking as I’m running the tips of my fingers over them, but I look at the old couple and I know they need me to need one, so I decide I can afford it.

“Cok guzel”, the woman says, admiring her work against my skin and I know she is right. She offers a fair discount and we are both happy. The energy it carries, of the strong hands of a woman who has lived through the hardships of life and never gave up, is a priceless bonus she is not including in the final price.

“Tesekkur ederim. Gule gule!”

“Rica ederim! Gule gule!”

And, at the end of the day, I am a little bit more Turkish as I head back to my hotel, listening to the adhan again and passing through this empty carpet shop on the way.

And one more stop before my hotel:

Settling karma and travelling to Goreme

I wake up after about four hours of sleep and I am greeted by the golden light of the sunrise. There’s this sharp pain in the middle of my back, as if I’ve got ‘stabbed’ again. Since I am on holiday and quite far from my current city of residence, it comes as a bit of a surprise. Still, I remember last night had a very special part about getting even (a settlement of accounts between lovers from a previous lifetime).

I am grateful for it and giggle as I am putting the pieces together and the complicated scenario that was so carefully orchestrated behind my back, casting me as a special guest star, seemingly in the very last minute, is stripped of all its secrets. And my crystal clear mind sucks all the charm out of it at the same time, too. (Just like I do with the creamy white foam on top when I have my latte on Thursdays, getting white, sticky, sweet milk drops on my lips, only to let the tip of my tongue remove them skowly. By the way.)

Former pride and old karma are so blissfully replaced by amusement, inshallah. And everything right after Rumi and Shams. By the looks of it, we agree we are even now and happy with the new settlement, so we can move on. You know those Mastercard commercials? Plane tickets checked etc, etc, etc. The newly conquered freedom… priceless! So another perfectly good former lover is free to become a good friend, if he will. (I did warn you about my special talent.) No hard feelings. No hard anything else anymore, for that matter. Tesekkur, canim, yok benim.

I take a cold shower (literally because I need to wash even if there is no warm water and metaphorically because I am a writer and I need a more or less clear perspective on the facts), do my nails, apply makeup and admire the unique combination of purple, yellow and pink surrounding my right eye – a signature blend that has my name on it. A friend says it matches the golden Konyan sunrise, so I like it even more. My left cheekbone is wearing blush. My right one doesn’t need to.

I take my luggage, leave my host’s key downstairs, on the doorman’s reception desk, and go to the otogar to catch my bus to Goreme, where I will be staying till the day after tomorrow, when I am coming back to Konya right on my mother’a birthday. I get on my bus and feel satisfied about the comfort level, so I relax. The new trip fills me with a sense of contentment and I start feeling the stillness that accompanies the newly created space to be conquered by fresh experiences.

“Oh, I want to travel” says Nari this morning, as she’s getting ready to go to work and I am watching the sunrise through the glass wall of the room downstairs in her apartment, where I spent two quiet, pleasant and safe nights. “You have so much energy when you travel, you have a fresh perspective on things, your senses are awake, you pay attention to everything… When you just work, work, work every day, you get tired and sleepy and lost in the routine. Why do people have to work?!”

The bus starts and, as it leaves the clean neighbourhoods, with their new apartment buildings of Konya behind, the view gradually changes dramatically and I start thinking of Syria. I feel so close to her now. I have not been to Syria in this lifetime, but the scenery on the way reminds me of her somehow and I take a few pictures, wondering if Syria can ever be a travel destination for me. I take out my tablet and write, but then the air becomes so hot I think I am going to die and I cannot keep my eyes open anymore, so I take a nap and am awaken by the painful sound of my phone landing between my feet and, when I look up, I see we are in Aksaray. Here I have my luch on the go: chocolate candies and plain water.

Turkey looks so clean and cold, hard, shiny and dangerous like the freshly polished pipe of a loaded hunting weapon being held by the big, strong hands of a psychopath with the sharp mind of a genius. Its people are still wearing golden rags of former glory, busy making ends meet and shattering distances at any costs. No one is alone here. Ever. Pain is hidden under the hijab or crushed in clenched fists, stuffed with sugar, smoked, washed down with cay or coffee and, secretly, alcohol. See, nothing separates us. We are all the same. Fear is no more than a virus we get while navigating news channels, never while traveling the world.

All of a sudden, the view outside the bus window tells me I am in Cappadocia and in a few minutes the bus stops and I am told to get off. I am the only traveller getting off here and I am so surprised at the amazing view that I take small steps, to be able to take in the whole beauty and not change anything by making sudden moves or taking too deep breaths.

It is my first stay in a cave house hotel and my hotel room is also much better than I taught myself to expect for fear of being disappointed. A nice surprise. On the other hand, the first contact with the people here tells me they work a lot and are underpaid and seem less friendly that their brothers in Konya. That gives me a little bit more understanding for my own brothers and sisters back home.

And so my first day in Goreme, Cappadocia, can now officially begin. Since absolutely nothing on my trip so far has gone according to plan, I now have no plan and will just let life take it from here. So here we go!

First cry in Konya

The stress falls on the “a”, while the “n” is dipped in melted chocolate, so it is softened and slippery, like the way people in the central region of Romania pronounce it (only they usually prefer to smear it in pork fat; the smoked kind, with a crushed garlic crust).

Konya is very clean and well kept, well organized and somehow seems to have a clear head. (Though the strict rules about sexual activity often seem to make people a bit frustrated, confused or even obsessed. By the way, how come two of the most open minded and free people ever are buried in the strictest city in Turkey? Isn’t it ironic?) Anyway, she is nothing like Istanbul. So that makes me think Istanbul is not typical for Turkey, just like London is not like the rest of the U.K. and Bucharest is a different world than the rest of the country.

I leave home late today because posting from my phone and tablet takes forever. But when I get out, I can finally smell the winter air. That is one more thing: it is colder and windier than Bucharest. And it’s got hills!

I get to the train station and I ask the security guy about getting to the city center. Although I got good instructions from a smart Turk back home, I ask for confirmation about the direction. Of course he speaks absolutely no English whatsoever. But he takes me to this girl and leaves me in her care. She doesn’t speak English either, except for a few words.

I start thinking whether here it is considered a form of betrayal of your own culture to learn foreign languages or what. I guess if I moved here and worked as an English teacher, I would either get filthy rich or go bankrupt.

The girl makes room on the bench where she is sitting and, with a determined gesture of her hand, has me sit down next to her. I realize I have been very submissive since I arrived and I am comfortable following orders and being looked after. That is something new, and I carefully study the phenomenon.

So when the train comes, she signals I should follow her and I do. Once on he train, she gives me another signal and I follow her to the route map, so she shows me where we are at and where my destination is. I tell her I want to get to the Mevlana museum.

“Mev’laa’ana”, she repeats as if rolling a spoonful of whipped cream on her tongue and then on the roof of her mouth, like a cotton candy cloud getting stuck up there for a fraction of a second.

She then points to a seat and makes me sit down, takes out a piece of paper and her phone and, a minute later, she hands me the paper with my question translated into Turkish, showing me the screen of her phone at the same time – it is on google translate and it reads “show to authorities”. I am impressed by the effort and I thank her, happy that not every kind gesture in Turkey hides a sexual frustration, as I have been warned and refused to believe.

She then starts talking Turkish to this girl I am sitting next to and I understand she is saying her phone battery is almost empty. I am not sure I should pay attention to them, but I love listening to their conversation and, for the first time ever in my life, Turkish sounds so beautiful and precious, like a necklace of small, natural pearls, irregular, sensitive and expensive, being polished by a the lips, tongues and teeth of an entire nation.

The girl next to me lends her phone to her. She makes a call and hands me the phone. I am surprised at the gesture and put it to my ear.

“Hello! How can o help you?” A male voice greets me. “Mev’laa’ana”, he repeats, rolling it on his tongue and then pushing it down between his teeth and cheeks, like a hamster gathering food for later.

I get to Rumi’s museum about an hour later and I am struck my the smell of roses and I postpone walking to his tomb as much as I can (just like I usually postpone gratification in any form, to enjoy the pleasure surrounding the special moment). I sense where it is, but I don’t look, either. I just feel. And listen on the audio guide to the expalanations about other exhibits.

When I finally let my feet take me to him, my eyes start stinging from the light. I mimic the receiving gesture of the hands I see at he people around me and close my eyes. My chest becomes hot and my head sends out a prayer, pausing after each line, allowing it to wash me like a warm sea, wave after wave:

Let Your light flood my eyes

Let Your wisdom guide my thoughts

Let Your words fill my mouth

Let Your music come out of my throat

Let Your love laugh in my heart

Let Your kindness rest in my hands

Let Your courage inspire my deeds

Let Your road stretch under my feet

Let me become your home

Fill me

And, as the muezzin is performing the adhan, I get goosebumps and I almost run to Shams’ tomb, which is in another mosque, not far from Rumi’s. The rush makes me realize it is him that I have actually come here for.

When I enter the mosque, having taken off my shoes and put the hood of my coat over my head, I can feel the same smell of roses again and I want to run directly to the tomb and throw myself on my knees in front of it. But I barely catch a glimpse of it before this kind man in his mid fifties approaches me and gently leads me to the women’s section upstairs, on the right.

I submit again and, although it still hurts, I get down on my knees and, hidden under my hood, tears start rolling down my cheeks and onto my blue shawl. I cannot contain them anymore.

My love, I miss you. It is you I search for in everyone I meet. I long to be looked upon by your piercing eyes. I long to be burnt by your look. I long to be made ashes. I long for the touch of your voice, my love. It is your absence that leads me everywhere I go, like a wondering Jew, all the time looking only for you.

And I feel everything I am or used to be gradually leaving me, as I let my tears wash your absence off my face. And I kneel before you naked. Do what you will. I am not my own anymore. Nor do I wish to be.

When the prayer is over, I go down the stairs and spend a few minutes in front of the tomb, which is placed in this elevated, enclosed area, like a miniature room with windows and a clock measuring the time without you. Come back, my love. I am here. Find me.

I then sit on the carpet behind a column and write everything in my notebook before saying one more prayer and leaving, promising never to be a stranger and to come back. Always.