Civil war, terrorism, refugees … These days, as a writer, you occasionally feel there’s little else to write about in this part of the world. A holiday would be great – a journey always gives you something fresh and new – but it’s January, and we just returned from a trip to America.

But we can still go somewhere – memory lane – and stories, help us do that.

Shall we visit the ancient city of Troy then?

I think it will do.

###

Autumn, five years ago.

“Why not head to Çannakale?” my flatmate Linda suggested. We were bouncing around ideas for the upcoming kurban bayram, a four-day holiday. She was an Aussie about my age who had been living in Turkey for several years, had seen most of the country, and was a reliable source.

“Where is that?” I asked.

“It’s over on the Aegean Coast,” Linda said. “You can either fly or take the bus. While you’re there, you could head over to the battlefields of Gallipoli if you’re into that sort of thing. Or you could head over to one of the islands — Bozcaada is known for its wine. And you could head down to the site of the ancient city of Troy.”

Troy! That sounded pretty hard to beat. Linda already had her own bayram plans, plus she’d already been there. But there were two female colleagues from the school who were keen on the idea. In fact, they were leaving the next day. We exchanged text messages, agreeing to rendezvous in Çannakale.

###

The bus driver made good time. We left Istanbul in the morning, headed west through the Anatolian countryside, and arrived on the west coast by late afternoon.

“We’re at —” Megan texted, giving me the name of a local bar just down the street from the hotel.

I dropped my bag off at the hotel, and eagerly headed out. Çannakale is a pleasant, seaside town, full of palm trees and wide avenues. Down at the harbour stands the giant wooden horse used in the Brad Pitt film, “Troy,” a gift to the town after filming had finished.

Megan and Rebecca waved from inside the bar. They were already well ahead of me .

“You’re just in time!” said Megan. She was from San Diego, recently turned thirty. Rebecca, a few years younger, was a spirited girl from Wis-cahn-sun.

“Two things you should know about me,” Rebecca was fond of saying. “First, I’m always right. Second - I’m very stubborn.”

They were drinking pints of Efes, so I ordered one too. We raised toasts and talked about their trip to the battlefields at Gallipoli earlier that day.

I noticed they were both nervously looking out at the street, where the sun was already setting, and people were out for the evening. They told me how they met these two young Turkish men at Gallipoli who had given them a personal tour of the battlefields.

“So they gave us the tour,” Megan went on, “then afterward they bought us lunch, which was nice. Then they drove us back to the hotel.”

“Did they?” I asked.

“Yeah, so we let them drive us back,” Rebecca said, picking up the narrative. “But then when we got here we told them that our ‘boyfriends’ were meeting us —”

“So that’s you!” Megan said.

“I see,” I said. “I’m the boyfriend. Where are they now?”

“They just walked past outside,” Megan said. “They looked in and saw you, then they kept walking.”

I was glad they were gone. The girls were good colleagues, and I wanted to look out for them, but I was in no mood for dealing with local dudes.

We had a nice evening, with the Efes and the excitement of the holiday, the novelty of being in a strange city. We talked about the school, and what so-and-so was doing for the bayram. We talked about our plans for the next couple of days, and drank more Efes. You felt very far away from everything, and by the time midnight arrived, ready for bed. From time to time, my colleagues glanced out at the street, looking for the two young men. But they did not reappear.

###

The next day we set out for Bozcaada, an island off the coast. It was an overcast, autumn day. While we waited for the ferry to take us out to the island, we walked down to the beach.

The Aegean was calm, its surface as smooth and burnished as a smoky mirror. A young girl, with more Greek than Turkish features, was playing in the sand with her little brother. It felt really different here than in Istanbul; its rhythms and colours were more Mediterranean, several hours’ drive to the south, than the riotous Bosphorus and Black Sea to the north.

When we disembarked at Bozcaada, most people immediately headed for the ancient fortress that stands on a high cliff overlooking the sea. But we weren’t really in the mood for sightseeing. Bozcaada is renowned for its wine, and that sounded a much more refreshing idea.

There were plenty of options, but we settled on a cafe with a terrace that sat right on the waterline. Sitting at the table, you had the gentle, clear waters of the sea right at your feet.

It was expensive tranquility — Bozcaada wine doesn’t come cheap. But we didn’t care.

We sat for hours, clinking glasses (“Not bad for a teacher’s salary!”) and watching as a wall of clouds approached in the distance, hovering over the fortress, bathing the sea and sky in rose and pink light. It seemed you had found the most perfect spot in the world, hidden from anyone and anything; and what a preoccupation! To have nothing to do whatsoever, but drink Bozcaada wine and watch those clouds across the sky towards the fortress.

Presently, a cat came and lay on Megan’s lap, as she drank a third glass of white wine.

“Aren’t you allergic to cats?” Rebecca asked.

“Yeah,” Megan said, leisurely, stroking the cat. “But I don’t care.”

###

The next morning we set out for Troy.

From Çannakale, the bus takes about 45 minutes, driving across green, verdant countryside, which came as a surprise. For some reason, perhaps from Hollywood films, I’d always had this remote impression that the city of Troy was located in dry, rocky lands.

Our excitement grew as the bus neared the site, already breathing the rarified air of antiquity.

When we arrived, paid and walked toward the site, disappointment set in. First, there stood this giant, cheesy wooden horse, like something you’d see outside a Wal-Mart. Tourists were going up and waving from little windows, so that their friends could take photos.

A place like Troy, which is more of an atmosphere, a memory – there isn’t that much to see after all, just fragments, bits of wall, remnants of columns, whispering hills – cries out for reflection, solitude. You’d like to read the various signs (“The city actually was located much nearer to the sea, but perhaps because of seismic activity, it now stands much further back,” or “There were actually nine different cities, all built on top of one another over the eons,”) and have the whole of that ancient world all to yourself.

You’d like to walk, in that twilight world, school-day images of Achilles dragging Hector through the streets, or Paris’ fatal arrow guided by Apollo traveling in silhouette in the sun, or whatever images of Homer’s tale have stayed with you, all of them granted a thrilling veracity by the immediacy of the countryside.

But you can’t have Troy all to yourself. Too many tourists, too many groups; guides, in various languages, barking away any trace echoes of the past that may have still been lurking in the light, morning air.

“What do you say?” I asked the girls, after a rather frustrating hour or so.

“Let’s grab some lunch!”

That afternoon, I waved good-bye to the girls as they continued their adventure down the south coast. I dined alone at a restaurant on the waterfront, looking out at the boats glittering in the harbor. Even then, there was what I always feel when I am away from Istanbul for too long – a magnet drawing me back. Istanbul is a difficult mistress; you have to get away from her from time to time, but she always calls you back. When you are away, you feel as though you have spun off the earth’s axis, and are falling into oblivion, the dark edges of the world.

###

So that was our trip. I’d never got around to writing about it, for some reason. The feeling now is somewhat bittersweet.

The Aegean has always been a sea of sorrow, I suppose. Its name, after all, was taken from King Aegeus, who according to myth, mistakenly believing his son was slain, plunged himself into the sea and perished.

Looking back, the image of the calm Aegean, the girl playing with her brother, that afternoon drinking wine at the café in Bozcaada – all of it seems worlds away now. It seems as vanished as the city of Troy itself. The Aegean itself has changed too. Each week, you read about bodies of drowned Syrian refugees washing up on its shores, the same shores that were so quiet and lovely then.

###

James Tressler, a former Lost Coast resident, is a writer and teacher living in Istanbul.