The first morning did not get off to the most promising start. We arrived on the overnight bus at just after seven o’clock in the morning. The city of Kayseri was wet, cold and dreary.

Mount Eciyeres was shrouded in mist high over the city.

The service bus dropped me in a nebulous, grey part of town. Not having a map, I walked in the direction that most of the morning traffic was headed. Within a few blocks, I arrived at the ancient city walls near the castle. Groups of men in cheap, worn-looking suits stood huddled together in tight groups talking.

Further on, I found the tour bus offices, and bought a ticket to Nevşehir. The bus was scheduled to leave in an hour, so I went a few doors down and found a cafe serving breakfast. Kayseri is famous for its sucuk and the cured meat called pastırma but it was too early for that. Instead, I ordered the classic Turkish breakfast, a boiled egg served with cheese, sliced tomatoes and cucumbers, olives, fresh bread and tea.

Upstairs in the cafe, there were no customers. A painting of Mount Eciyeres was on the wall, and Turkish heavy metal was incongruously blaring over the speakers. I was tired from the overnight bus trip, and a little depressed. Kayseri didn’t seem like much of a town. I’d planned to stay a day, but now couldn’t wait to get on the bus.

The people seemed friendly enough. The woman at the Suha Tourizm office, where I’d bought my ticket, was very pleasant and helpful. The ticket had cost 10 lira, and she had shown me where to get the service bus, and even agreed to watch my bags while I went for breakfast.

The waiter, too, was friendly. “Where are you from?” he asked, bringing the breakfast.

“America,” I said, but was too tired and irritable to talk, so he left me alone. I ate quickly, looking out the window at the town, which still looked sad and dreary. Maybe it was just the weather. Maybe in summertime, on a fine day, it was a nice city. You could never tell. Earlier, I’d walked around the plaza near the castle, past a big mosque and many shops, as well as the restaurants advertising the famous manti, sucuk and pastırma. It was probably a much better scene at night, when all the people were out.

When it was time to depart, the clerk directed us again to the place where the bus would pick us up. I walked with a young Turk named Yusuf. He was carrying a heavy bag, so we had to stop now and again to let him rest. Yusuf was an engineer who was on his way to a job in Konya for three months.

The service bus was very crowded.

“Where are you from?” another young man said, in English. He leaned over the seat to talk. “America? What are you doing in Kayseri?”

“Travelling to Cappadocia.”

“Really? Very nice. I am going to Alanya and Antalya. After that I am going to Cyprus for one year for my military service.”

He introduced himself as Guneş, and we talked for much of the ride. I could tell he was showing off a bit, speaking English. The other young people around him seemed to listen with a mixture of shy bemusement and admiration.

“In Antalya it is very beautiful,” Guneş continued. “Many girl peoples, Rusya peoples. Very good. Do you like Kayseri?”

“So so,” I said.

“Yes,” he agreed. “A very cold city. I have been in Istanbul three times, and I have been to Ankara two times. Istanbul is very beautiful city. The Aya Sophia, Sultanahmet …Where do you live in Istanbul?”

“Kadikoy.”

“Kadikoy. Ah, so you support Fenerbahçe?”

“Yes, I guess. Have you ever been to Cappadocia?”

It was noisy on the bus. Guneş leaned forward.

“Sorry? My English … Cappadocia? No, I have never been. Only I see pictures.”

He was a bit tired of speaking, I think, for he got quiet the rest of the journey. But he handed me a card; it was his brothers’ coiffeur shop in Alanya. “You can contact me there,” he said.

We arrived at terminal and everyone began to get off. A girl who had been sitting next to me, and listening to our conversation walked next to me on our way to the terminal.

“You go to Nevşehir?” she asked, introducing herself as Esra. She was studying at Erciyes University in Kayseri.

“I also don’t like Kayseri,” she said. “Not for sightseeing. You will like Cappadocia much better.”

The sun had come out, and it was much warmer than it had been earlier. We boarded the bus. All the seats were reserved, and Esra’s was in the front of the bus, mine further back, so she wished me a good trip and I went back to my seat.

The bus got going, heading out to the main road. Most of the people on the bus were quiet, with that boredom that creeps in with the journey. The central Anatolian countryside, verdant, rolling green, passed by. We passed farmland and herds of animals grazing, but they were to far away to make out, here and there were asphalt refineries and service stations. It was really open country, a welcome relief from Istanbul’s incessant crowds.

As the waiter served tea, we passed a sign that read Nevşehir: 50 km. The countryside began to rise, and as it rose the landscape changed. We passed lumpy rock formations and hillsides splayed with yellow buttercups. We passed earthy stone houses built low to the ground against the high winds that could sweep over the land in winter, and we continued to rise higher.

Then we leveled off for a while, and more farmlands flashed by, the earth all freshly ploughed, the horizon seemingly infinite in every direction. Then the road began to rise again, getting bumpy. All distances seem great until you cross them. Back in Istanbul, 12 hours away, Cappadocia had seemed very far away, and now here it was approaching fast, stretching out in overlapping shades of blue and grey hills.

This was the land that had once belonged to the Persians, and later the Byzantians, before the Ottoman Turks came along. Even Alexander the Great had passed through here on his way to conquests further east. So it is a land of mythos, of high destiny and legend, of empires and their peoples crisscrossing the vast high hills though the ages. Nowadays, it’s hard to imagine, but it was there and you felt it.

We stopped at a little town called Avanos and picked up more passengers. Suddenly we were really in Cappadocia. All the pictures you had seen, of the strange volcanic rock formations, called “fairy chimneys,” suddenly came alive. They rose up toward the sky like curving apparitions, like the ghosts you see in El Greco paintings, or Van Gogh cypress trees. Much has been said and written about these fairy chimneys, but seeing them yourself for the first time produces a strange feeling. The rock is so soft that caves ;were cut into the sides — historically they were places for outlaws or persecuted Christians to hide. Nowadays the caves have been refurbished and outfitted into hotels and bed and breakfasts.

The bus arrived in Göreme. It was a very nice little town. Everywhere there were little shops and many signs indicating CAVE PENSIONS available. I was so taken by the town that I decided to get off then and there and book a room.

“You’re getting off here?” the driver asked.

“Evet,” I said. I waved to the girl Esra and she smiled approvingly, as though agreeing that Göreme after all was the better place (which was true; later, I found out that Nevşehir is mostly just a modern city, with not much to see).

I got off the bus. A man approached me from the service bus office.

“Can I help you?” he asked, introducing himself as Mustafa. He spoke fine English, and you could tell he was used to talking to tourists.

“Yeah, need a room.”

“A room? OK. What is your budget?”

I told him I was looking to spend no more than 80 lira (about 50 USD) per night. Mustafa got online and began checking. There was a room available, he told me, at the Göreme Valley, a pension just down the road.

“Are there cave rooms?” I asked.

“All houses here are at least partially caves,” Mustafa explained. “They want 80 per night at the Göreme Valley. But for you I make special deal, 150 for two nights. You pay me and I’ll phone the hotel and arrrange everything.”

The deal was done very quickly. Mustafa said his colleague Murat would take me up to the hotel. Murat arrived and we talked for a few minutes.

“You lived in California?” he asked. “Really? We lived in California too.” He indicated Mustafa, who nodded. “We still divide our time between here and there.”

“How did you get to California?”

“Wives.” They both laughed. “We met some girls who came here on holiday and ended up getting married and moving with them to California. So which part of California are you from?”

“Humboldt County.”

“Humboldt?” Murat was impressed. “Very good marijuana. If you have some, maybe we let you stay here for free!” We all laughed, and then Murat said he would take me to the pension. He had an old beat up Renault (“My father left it to me when he passed away.”), and he drove me to the pension. It was just a block or two away.

At the pension, an elderly man was expecting me. He introduced himself.

“We have two rooms,” he said. The first room was a cave room, but there were no windows, and I knew I would want to smoke.

“You can see the upstairs,” the proprietor Omer said. I’ve forgotten his name, so for this story I’ll call him Omer. He was balding, with a bushy mustache and he wore suspenders.

The upstairs room was not a cave room, but it had a nice view of the countryside. I said I”d take it.

“Can I smoke?”

“Normally it is forbidden,” Omer said. “But for you, no problem. Just open window. I bring ashtray. So — you already pay Murat?”

“Yes, for two nights.”

Omer made a quick call, confirmed it.

“OK,” he said. “You stay here. No problem. I bring you tea.”

“Teşekküler.”

I put my bag and trumpet down. Omer had been curious as to why I had so little luggage. My own philosophy has always been to travel light. Never pack more than you feel comfortable carrying. Besides, it was only for a couple of days.

Outside, on the terrace, Omer’s wife brought tea. She was a bosomy, cheerful woman who wore a white headscarf. She spread a red cloth over the table and brought an ashtray. I lit a cigarette, drank the tea and looked out over the terrace at the town. It was mid-day and very quiet except for the chirping of birds and the occasional car passing. I found out later that Göreme only has about two thousand permanent resıdents.

It felt very good to be off the road from Istanbul and comfortably settled into a pension, and to be very far away from everything.

“It’s a long bus ride from Istanbul,” I said, when Omer returned to check on me.

“Yes, very far,” he said. “You must sleep now. Other guests — they are from Germany and France — arrived from Istanbul today too. They are sleeping now.”

I took his advice and, finishing the tea, went back upstairs. It was very bright in the room, but the bed was comfortable. I laid down and closed my eyes. I was tired but I couldn’t sleep, I was excited about seeing the town.

After about an hour, I got up, feeling better. I could hear the imam sounding outside, the mid-afternoon prayer. I had a shower, dressed and headed out. Bright sunshine fell on the streets and in the plaza. Göreme feels a lot like a frontier town, or even a Spanish town. You don’t mind the inevitable souvenir shops and postcards and bags for sale on the sidewalks. Earlier, Murat had told me that the town is a popular honeymoon destination (“Some people even have their wedding ceremonies in the caves, or up in the balloons,” he said) and I reflected that it would have been nice to have a girl along (as I say, the bed in the pension was very comfortable) but I didn’t so I just tried to relax and enjoy everything. Perhaps I would meet people. Two American girls passed in the street, on their way to a nearby pastry shop. Yes, it was best to just let things take their own course. Besides, with a woman along, I thought, they always want to walk and walk everywhere and go to all the shops, when all you really wanted to do was find a place that sold beer and had a view of the street, so you could watch the people pass by.

Presently, I found just that at The Fat Boys’ Bar. It was right in the center of the town, with big, cushy sofas out on the terrace. There was a young American couple sitting at one of the sofas, but I didn’t bother them.

“We’re thinking of staying another night,” the woman told the waiter. “Y’ know, keep the adventure going.”

She was pretty, with a dark, frizzy cloud of hair and olive skin. They both had big backpacks.

I ordered a beer, feeling completely relaxed and happy, and settled back in the sofa. I’d brought Nazim Hikmet’s “Human Landscapes From My Country,” the Turkish poet’s famous epic novel in verse. The story begins at the Haydarpaşa train station in Istanbul, bound for the Central Anatolian countryside. As the train procedes, we are introduced to many of the passengers, and we learn about their lives, as well as the history of Turkey, from the fall of the Ottomans through the First World War to the start of the Republic, with its ensuing industrialization and modernization.

I sipped the beer, and read the opening page:

“The man on the steps,

Master Galip, is famous for thinking strange thoughts:

‘If I could eat sugar wafers every day,’ he thought when he was 5 …

”What if I get laid off?’ he thought at 24 …

And out of work from time to time …”

Reading on, I thought of our Galip, a Black Sea Turk who used to work as a maintenance guy at our school. A few months ago, just shy of retirement, he was laid off. It was sad. Galip was a really funny guy. Sometimes he would do Black Sea dances, sing folk melodies, up on the balcony at the school. We called him the komik pesivenk. Good old Galip. Last I’d heard he found work at a mosque near the school where his wife teaches.

After a while I put the Nazim Hikmet away and looked out at the street. There were not many people out, although I had been assured at the hotel that this was “the busy season.” Perhaps they were all out on tours. There were several different tours available. Or maybe they were out on balloon rides. I looked up but couldn’t see any balloons in the sky.

Almost everyone who walked by spoke English, and many seemed to be Americans, but then they could have been Canadians, and there were some Germans who passed as well.

Down the street, there were motorcycles and mopeds for rent. I thought about renting one. The thought of cruising along the winding, quiet roads was nice. I could even ride down the road to Nevşehir, or down the other way to the valleys. But maybe it was better to settle in first, drink the beer and have a good meal later. The next day was Saturday and I could have all day to look around. Too often people went on holiday and spent the whole time rushing around, keeping to some impossible program, so that by the time they got home they needed a second holiday to recover from the first. The important thing was to relax and just not worry about any programs, let things happen by the mselves.

The two American girls I’d seen earlier came by and went to buy some postcards. A man came out and they selected two postcards and paid by bank card.

I tried to go back to reading the Nazim Hikmet, but it wouldn’t get going again, so I put it aside and uploaded a Polanski film on my phone. Knife in the Water, an early Polanski masterpiece,” is a wonderfully crafted thriller about a bourgeoise husband and wife who encounter a handsome young drifter along the road while on their way to a lake resort in Poland.

They invite the drifter to join them on their boat, and almost immediately a love triangle develops, a power struggle fraught with all that great Polanski tension and psychodrama. I also loved the haunting jazz score by Polanski’s school chum, the late Krzysztov Komeda.

I wondered if any of the holiday seekers in Cappadocia were caught in any love triangles. Cappadocia would make an interesting location for a thriller. Well, maybe it would.

“Where are you from, brother?” The waiter (turned out to be the owner actually) interrupted my thoughts. Like Murat and Mustafa, his English was nearly fluent. He said to call him Mark. I found out later he had lived in Australia, and had a girl there.

“I’m from the States,” I said. “But I live in Istanbul.”

“What do you do there? Teach?”Mark asked.

“Yes.”

“Man, sometimes I wish I was a teacher,” he said. “You guys have all that holiday.”

“Not me,” I said. “This is the first holiday I’ve had in a year.”

“I meant all the Turkish teachers,” Mark said. “And how long have you been in Turkey?”

“Three years.”

“Wow, so you obviously must like it then.”

“Is it always this quiet here?”

“No,” Mark said. “It’s quiet now, but it’s picking up. You never know in the tourism business. Tomorrow this place could be packed with hundreds of people.”

Mark went back inside, and went back to watching the film. Just then, the Turkish national anthem sounded from somewhere down the road. I stopped and listened to it. The past week, I’d read in the papers that a well-known pianist and composer faced arrest over alleged “anti-Islamic remarks” he’d made in a Twitter post.

Thinking about that reminded me of what the Polanski biography had said about the film, Knife in the Water. Initially, the Polish authorities had rejected the film, saying they felt it lacked “seriousness,” and that the young man who vies for the wife “lacked any serious social commitment.” Polish censors in that time felt that cinema should support and extol proper socialist values. Polanski wasn’t particularly interested in socialist values; he just wanted to make entertaining pictures.

Watching the film again, I remembered that Polanski managed to get it past the authorities by adding seven lines of “socially committed” dialogue. Since the film was in Polish, without subtitles, it’s hard to figure out what those lines were. He probably had the young man denounce the bourgeoise husband as a “decadent capitalist,” or something like that. That would excuse the wife for being attracted to the younger man.

I wondered again if Turkish artists faced similar challenges, especially with the current administration. Wasn’t it difficult enough just to tell a good story, and tell it straight, without having to take into account the over-arching goals of the state?

Ah, you see what a holiday can do to you, Trez. Too much free time on your hands, you think up all kinds of rubbish. But sometimes that’s what one needed, t time to get away and let your thoughts go where they may. You were being too self-indulgent. But wasn’t that the point of a holiday?

###

A young man and woman came and sat on one of the sofas. They were from Columbia, I soon found out, and worked as airline stewards. They were on holiday. Their names were Raphael and Carmen.

“We spent three days in Istanbul,” Raphael said. “Now we’re here in Cappadocia for the weekend, and then heading up to Ankara.”

“There’s not that much to see in Ankara,” I said. “You’d be better off heading south to the coast. It should be warm enough now to get some swimming in.”

Just then it began to rain very hard. The sky had gradually been getting darker all afternoon.

“Tormenta viene,” Raphael said.

“Yes. Tormenta grande.”

With the rain, it got cold, and we huddled close together on the sofa, talking in English and Spanish. They ordered köfte, which was very good, and we drank beer. Later they left to “try the Turkish baths.” I went back up to the hotel. It had stopped raining.

Omer’s wife had prepared dinner, a big dinner with fresh, hot tomato soup, a big bowl of beans and rice, a salad and fresh bread, as well as fresh hot coffee. After dinner, I was sleepy, so I went upstairs to my room and got into bed. Outside it had begun raining again, and it was getting dark. I read in bed for a while and then went to sleep.

In the morning, it was still cold and grey. I went downstairs for the free breakfast. Afterward, I went for a walk. The young man at the hotel, Ahmet, had recommended going to Zemi Valley. It was just behind the town.

“It’s about an hour walk,” Ahmet said. “But it might rain again.”

The town was still very sleepy. I walked past a middle school and the bus stops and, following the signs, turned right and headed out of town down a narrow country road. The road leading to the Zemi Valley was unpaved and muddy that morning because of the overnight rain. It wound through soft meadows , with trees all around. Up in the hillsides you could see more caves, but they were uninhabited. They were too high to climb up to without any climbing equipment.

I followed the muddy road on for a couple of kilometers, feeling further away from the town. There were well-kept gardens way back along the road, but there were no houses nearby. They must have been kept by the people who lived in town. Further on, the road abruptly ended. I was getting a bit tired and lonely anyway, remembering that after all I’m not much of a Nature Boy (give me city streets, cafes and bridges), so I turned around and began heading back. I stopped long enough though to climb a small embankment and went up to the side of the rocky hillside. The rock broke off easily in my hand, and I crushed the piece, the dust flakes falling to the ground.

Later, I went up another road and found a church. It had been built out of the rock, and was conical shaped. Nearby a sign read that the church was a “World Heritage Site.” I wondered who built the church, and how old it was. There was a sign that indicated the church was open, but when I tried the door it was locked. There was an office up the hill, but it looked quiet. I couldn’t bothered. Enough of this hiking shit anyway. It was time for a beer.

###

In the town, people seemed to be up and about. I passed several Asian tourists on the road. Some of them were heading out where I had been. I went to a shop to buy some credit for my phone. The man working at the shop said the electricity was out because of the storm. He took my money, and went across the street to another shop, leaving me to man the store. While I waited I glanced at some English newspapers that were on a rack. In Boston they’d caught the Boston Marathon bomber, a young man from Chechnya. That seemed very far away.

Presently he came back with a receipt and said my account was topped up again. I walked

over to the Fat Boys Bar. It had just opened. Mark and the other waiters were sitting at a table outside eating breakfast. The electricity was out at the bar too; in the toilets they had lit candles. There were no people at the bar yet except two elderly Scandanavian women, who drank coffee and talked to each other in what sounded like Finnish. The few tourists that were out were all dressed in jackets and hats.

“You never can tell,” said Mark, bringing my beer. “Today it’s Saturday and it’s dead. On Monday it could be packed. You never can tell.”

Actually, by then I was beginning to write the trip off. I could feel disappointment, although I told myself to not feel it. After all, there was peace and quiet. If it were packed, you probably wouldn’t be able to find anywhere to sit, and perhaps the prices would go up too. As Mark says, you never can tell.

One thing I had learned though, it that a place like Cappadocia is not really the best place to go for one who likes to travel alone and who generally prefers life in the city. It would have been better to go to Bodrum, where at least the weather would have been better. But I’d already booked the room at the pension until Sunday, so there was nothing to do but just enjoy being in Göreme.

Just then a couple of young women came and sat down at the far end of the terrace. They were looking for conversation, so we started talking, at first from opposite ends of the terrace, then they invited me to join them.

Their names were Marja and Allya, and they were university students from Slovenia. They’d been backpacking around Turkey, mostly in the east, crashing on people’s sofas to save cash. This was their last day in Cappadocia. In the evening, they were getting the bus to Istanbul, and flying out on Sunday night. They had part-time jobs and had to be back at work on Monday.

Knowing they were low on cash, I offered to buy them drinks.

“No thanks,” Marja said, laughing wanly. “We were out at a party last night and drank until four o’clock in the morning. We just got up. We were thinking of going for a hike but said, ‘Let’s go here and have a cup of coffee first.’ Now, we don’t want to get up.”

Mark came with their coffee.

“You’re leaving today, ladies?” he said. “What a pity. So did you have a good time in Cappadocia? Did you get over to the underground city? It’s very wonderful.”

“No, we meant to,” said Allya. “But we got lazy.”

“Well, now you have a reason to come back,” Mark said.

“What’s this about an underground city?” I asked.

“Oh, you didn’t know about that?” Marja said. “It’s over near Avanos. If you have time you really should see it. It’s supposed to be amazing.”

“But very crowded,” Allya said. “Too many tourists. That’s why we didn’t go. We weren’t in the mood for crowds. That’s why we didn’t really like Istanbul.”

“I’m the opposite,” I said. “After a couple of days outside of Istanbul, I start to miss it. I was just thinking this morning that I’ve never been much of a Nature Boy.”

“Oh, we are,” Marja said. “We study biotech at university, so I guess you could say we’re all about nature.”

“Are you getting ready to graduate?” I asked.

They both smiled guiltily.

“Not exactly,” Allya said.

“On a gap year?”

“Well, more like ‘gap years.’”

“Right,” I said. “Well, as a teacher — I think you really should finish. You’ll need that piece of paper in your hand someday.”

“Of course,” Marja said, sharing a rueful glace with her friend. “That piece of paper.”

We sat and talked for several hours. It began raining hard again, so much so that the whole sidewalk in front of the bar was flooded. The waiters swept the water away with brooms, and picked some of it up in buckets brought from the bar. The electricity went on and off again, leaving the terrace dark.

We got chilly, so the girls consented when I offered to get us three brandies. Mark gave me a “special price,” and brought the brandies out in little glasses. We clinked glasses and sipped the brandy, listening to the rain.

“I hope we can get a place by the time we get to Istanbul,” Marja said. They were checking their mobile phones for updates from couchsurfing.com.

“If we don’t I think we can afford one night in a hotel,” Allya said.

Then we were all hungry. I suggested ordering the manti, which is famous in the region. Manti is a pasta dish served with a rich, heavy yogurt sauce. Mark agreed it was a good idea and presently brought two large bowls (the girls shared one). The top of the dish was covered in spices and herbs, and you stirred the sauce so that the light butter at the bottom came up and blended with the sauce. It was delicious and very filling.

“It’s wonderful,” Allya said, and Marja agreed.

Soon it was past six, and time for the girls to get their bus to Istanbul. We split the bill, exchanged warm good-byes, and each other safe travels. I walked back to the hotel.

The rain had stopped. It was evening now and more people had arrived. They were buying liquor at the shops and were getting ready for a night of parties back at their hotels most likely. Back at the hotel, I had a shower. There was dinner available downstairs but I wasn’t hungry. I got into bed and read for a while, and turned in early again.

The next morning was Sunday, my last day. I had breakfast at the hotel, and had the porter, Ahmet, book me a ticket on the evening bus to Istanbul. There were no morning buses. All of the buses that evening were booked, but then Ahmet made a couple more calls. I got the last seat available.

“You’re leaving today?” Ahmet said.

“Yeah. How far is it to the underground city?”
“You have to get the bus to Nevşehir,” he said. “Then from there get another bus.”

That didn’t sound particularly appealing, considering that I had a 12-hour overnight bus ride to Istanbul ahead. So much for the underground city then.

“But now you have a reason to come back,” Ahmet said, repeating what Mark had told the Slovenian girls the day before. Maybe they told everyone that.

I finished breakfast, went to my room and packed. Check-out time was ten o’clock, and my bus didn’t leave until seven in the evening.

“Come back again,” Omer said, shaking hands with me warmly. His wife gave me a small Cappadocia souvenir. “Next time we give you a nice cave room,” Omer said.

With several hours to kill, I went for a walk. I walked, following the road high up to a point where there was a good view overlooking the town. It occurred to me that I hadn’t played my trumpet once on the whole trip. What was the point in taking it along.

I found a spot that seemed good enough and took the horn out. I played a little bit, enjoying how the sound carried easily and well over the valley, the soft volanic rocks adding a nice bounce and echo. I played for a few minutes, and a woman passed. She gave me a nice smile and little thumbs up, and a couple of kids on bikes passed eyeing me curiously. Then, feeling better, I put the trumpet back in its case, took a last look at the town, and headed back down the hill to the Fat Boys Bar.

At the bar, Mark was very busy. They were expecting a party of “at least 50 people” for lunch. Mark found a spot for me that was out of the way, and brought a beer.

Presently, around lunchtime, two or three tour buses pulled in and unloaded groups of Australian and New Zealand tourists. They all came and sat down, filling up the terrace. They all ordered lunch and beer.

“Have you been over to Gallipoli?” I asked one of the young Kiwis.

“Not yet, mate,”he said. “That’s why we’re over here. The main reason anyway. Today we’re here in Cappadocia then tomorrow ‘eaded to Gallipoli to ‘ave a look at the memorial. Y’been there, mate?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I was over there a couple years ago to see the city of Troy. You should get down there too if you have time.”

“Yeah, right.”

The Aussies and Kiwis came in great waves. As soon as one group finished lunch, they cleared out and jumped back on the tour bus, and another group came and replaced them. Mark and the other waiters were very busy, but very cheerful.

“So — this is our business,” Mark said, grinning.

“It’s ironic,” I said, “You guys won the battle of Gallipoli, and now the Aussies and Kiwis are here as tourists, and the Turks are serving them. I don’t even think they even know about Ataturk.”

“Oh well,” Mark said. “They will learn about him when they get to Gallipoli.”

Before I knew it, it was time to get the bus. I paid my bill and thanked Mark for his hospitality.

“Sure, brother,” he said. “Come back sometime. You know where we are.”

“Thanks.”

At the bus station it was very crowded. The buses were already there and some people were still hoping to get last-minute tickets. Buy there weren’t any left. I showed the clerk the receipt Ahmet had given me at the pension, and he printed out a ticket. Some of the other people, especially some Turkish tourists, looked at me resentfully.

As I was getting ready to board the bus, I suddenly heard someone call my name. It was Raphael and Carmen, the Columbians.

“Caio!” Carmen said. “Are you leaving?”

“Yes,” I said. “Back to Istanbul.”

“We’re leaving for Ankara.”

“Well, have a good time.”

“You too. Much gusto, James.”

“Mucho gusto.” We all hugged and shook hands.

It was a very long ride back to Istanbul. My seat was in the very last row, in the corner. During the night, a young Turkish man squeezed next to me and fell asleep. All throughout the night, he leaned against me, snoring away. We stopped several times in the night, for rest and food. It was near dawn when we arrived back in Istanbul. I got off the bus and walked along Rihtim Caddesi. There was no traffic yet, so I walked past the ferry station, getting a look out at the Bosphorous as the sun started to come up. Again, as I had so many times before, I had that feeling of relief. Ah, Istanbul! She really is like a woman, as the poets say. She never lets up, she’s on you night and day, but if she’s not there you feel it and you miss her. Besides that, she’s damn good-looking. But perhaps that is the point of all journeys; there is a going away, a returning, a returning to yourself, and the life that is given you to make use of and find a way to be happy in, or at least as happy as circumstances provide. Not much had happened on the trip to Cappadocia, but at least I had seen it, felt in my own hands the rocks that I’d only seen in pictures before, and had met some interesting people. Other things had happened too that I would remember later. And there was always the underground city …. Mark was right. Maybe someday I will find a reason to go back.

James Tressler was a reporter for The Times-Standard. His work has also appeared in The Prague Post. His books, “Conversations in Prague” and “The Trumpet Fisherman and Other İstanbul Sketches,” can be found at amazon.com. He lives in İstanbul.