This picture may fool some of you into thinking I am once again up to no good rattling around somewhere in the South of France. Perhaps a little fishing village, south of Antibes? Good guess but oh so very dead wrong.
Allow me, dear readers, to recount for you a snippet of a story about my stay in a small, quite picturesque Turkish fishing village hugging the Aegean Sea and just miles from Izmir – a bustling city if there ever was one. You see, I arrived, only after my driver made several wrong turns, at my destination under cover of darkness; me, my bags my passport and a terrible thirst for a strong drink. Arriving somewhat incognito was probably a good thing I thought as an American in town would probably have attracted more than your normal share of curiosity and questions. I wanted neither. The sleepy desk clerk quietly observed my efforts as I struggled towards him with my suitcases. I reached the desk, looked at him, smiled and rang the bell. Two could play this game. He looked back at me and uttered the universal word understood by all weary travelers: “Passport.” It was a beautiful beginning. He then made enough gestures for me to understand that my signature was desired on a document written entirely in Turkish. I signed and prayed that I was not agreeing to be taken to Istanbul and thrown in a Turkish prison. Let’s just say the movie Midnight Express kept coming back to me. Grumpy reviewed my passport with great interest. I felt as if I was crossing the Czech border at midnight in some God awful Cold War movie where everything is in black and white, raining and generally uncomfortable. At that moment, I felt I could still run from police. The night clerk nodded his approval only after having carefully examined my passport from cover to cover, upside down.
I was handed the key to room 205 and up the narrow winding stairs I went, panting and tugging at my suitcase, one damn stair at a time. The room was furnished early 1950’s Turkish beach house style, I imagine as I really have no idea what that might look like but I think I was close. The paint was chipping here and there. The bathroom looked challenging and the shower foreboding. The bed had a slight starboard list to it. Only one plug was in evidence and even though I was hanging out from the wall, that was going to be for my iPhone and computer even if it meant that the power surge blew up the hotel. Opening the porch door I stepped out into the inky darkness of night. I could immediately smell the Aegean. Somewhere out there in the distance there appeared faint hints of lights, dotting the horizon here and there. I could hear the occasional clanging of the lanyards on the masts of sailboats. The air had that strong smell of salt and fish. Somewhere along the waterfront, I heard the faint sound of music and lyrics I could not even begin to understand.
The next morning after remembering just where I thought I was, I stepped out onto the porch to get a better idea of my geographical bearings. It was a bright and clear morning. There was no evidence of any fishing fleet around though I thought I vaguely recalled hearing the sound of trawlers firing up their engines as they prepared to head off for a day of fishing in the clear waters of the Aegean. All I saw were some unknown land masses off into the distance and a single trawler working the waters, back and forth, close to shore.
I was hungry and decided I would play guess that land mass at a later date. Downstairs I was greeted by a lovely young lady who pointed the way “breakfast, yes?” she said broken British English. The breakfast was a buffet of strange looking foods some I thought really had no business ever seeing the light of day. I reviewed the dozen or so dishes looking for something I might recognize and went for some salty goat cheese, olives, tomatoes, hard boiled eggs and something that looked like it wanted to a bagel. I mastered the multiple options coffee machine and I was now ready for a feast sitting out on the porch overlooking the water. The same friendly little lady who politely steered me to breakfast came by and inquired, in her best English, if my accommodations were satisfactory. She followed up with: “You are from Washington, yes?” That was close enough for government work and I nodded as I worked though my boiled egg. Not to be deterred in her mission she continued: ” We have another guest also from Washington she is basketball player.” I felt like saying “now just a GD minute lady, I didn’t fall off no turnip truck, as far as I know ESPN or the NBA don’t broadcast or play here. More juice please.” Instead, I feigned complete and utter surprise at this factoid and told her I sincerely hoped I would meet this famous basketball star. She smiled, I smiled, we both smiled and nodded. More juice please? I asked.
I thought over the days agenda. There was lunch. Maybe I could walk the village from end to end. Dinner would be a business meeting with my client driving in from Izmir bringing with him customers who had flown in from Ankara. He had told me the name of the restaurant where we would have dinner. I planned to check it out during my village visit. Maybe things could get interesting in this little town.