Sunrise in Goreme

I am getting used to getting to places right as the sun comes up. As much as night buses suck, the time of arrival couldn't be more impressive. This morning's arrival in Goreme, Turkey was no different.

The sunrise started with me wiping drool off of my shirt as I woke up. But then I noticed a line in the sky. It looked like someone had set a pen on fire, and started to scribble a bright orange line in the sky, the color of the embers at the bottom of a campfire. It may have been the Turkish words for "Here comes the Sun". Hey, I said it might have been.

As the sun did make its way up, so bright that I had to wear sunglasses at 7am, it lit up a landscape so expansive that your eyes ran out of strength for it. It was mostly flat, the tan color of dry grass, and all seemed to take in the sun equally. This would have been cool enough, but we hadn't even made it to Goreme yet.

Goreme looks like a cross between something out of the Flintstones and something out of the first Star Wars (I was actually told that part of Star Wars was filmed in this area). It's like another planet; an arid and nomadic one. There are huge erractically-shaped towers of beige sandstone (entirely natural) just jutting out of the ground everywhere. They look like huge termite mounds. And there are rooms, homes and churches carved out of the stone. The pension I am staying at is such a tower - and I'm actually staying in a cave. My dorm room carved out of a tower of sandstone. I've never stayed in a tower of sandstone before.

What is: Baht, Kip, Riel, Dong?

Is it :

A - the four members of the new Asian Boy Band "Powerfun MagicPack"
B - the onomatopoeic result of setting four blind dogs loose in Jimmy's House of Drums and Cymbals

or

C - The useless pile of currency I now have from each SE Asian country I went to.

The correct answer is C. Although I kind of wish there was a band called Powerfun Magicpack.

Another Set of Finger Cymbals, Please

On my first night in Istanbul, I went out with some new friends I'd met at my hostel. We decided to go to a bellydancing show that was supposed to be going on at a local pub.

After a little wait, one woman came out to the deafening clamor of traditional music. She was in an impressive glittery dress and had finger cymbals: both no doubt reminiscent of Turkish times gone by. She was a very good dancer - but she wasn't really bellydancing.

Those of you that know me know that I have a peculiar ability to bellydance (and to make an idiot of myself on occasion). Eventually, she was looking for volunteers from the bar to get up and dance with her. So, I took her by the hand, and started doing some dancing of my own. I showed her my own version of bellydancing, rolling my stomach with the music -- the very incarnation of the Anti-Chippendale.

She wasn't very impressed. But, see, I didn't have the finger cymbals. It works so much better with the finger cymbals.

The Benevolent Sandal Brusher Offers no Tea

Turks are known for their hospitality, and so far my time here has proven the legend true.

There was the bald sixty year old man that owned the restaurant I ate at last night. Today, when I walked by his restaurant, he invited me to have some apple tea. Not pay for it, mind you, just sit in his restaurant and have some tea.

There was guy who stopped me outside of the Blue Mosque to try to sell me a carpet. His name was Goakan. Goakan? I asked. Yes, like the pickle, he said. Ohhhh.... Gherkin. He invited me to have tea at his shop, despite my repeated assertions that a floor length Turkish carpet would not fit in my budget or backpack.

Then there was a shoeshine guy on the square here in Sultanahmet, where I am staying. I was sitting on a bench with this guy from Australia that I've met here. The shoeshiner came up and asked if he wanted a shine. I looked at his feet... he was wearing Teva sandals. They are very dirty, he said, maybe I should just brush them clean for you? Just a little bit? Sadly, my Australian friend said no, so the disappointed Benevolent Sandal Brusher just sidled away. He didn't offer us tea.

Istanbul's fantastic. I haven't really been here that long, only a couple of days now, but already I think it's fantastic.

There are slow-rising hills everywhere you look, brimming with buildings new and old. Grand mosques pepper the cityscape, and are more plentiful than anything that impressive has a right to be . These things are huge. Huge grey stone buildings with majestic domes. And as a seat of two of the biggest empires the world has ever known, this city has the kind of history that other cities dream about == I'm only starting to scratch the surface.

The Possibilites of Turkish Marble

Nothing helps me shed the weariness of long and uncomfortable travel like a brand new continent. Or the gateway between two continents.

An overnight flight took me to Turkey, and even before the plane touched down in Istanbul I could fill the excitement building in me, and the tiredness falling away. I looked out the window of the plane as we were coming into the terminal, and I swore it looked different than others, somehow more exotic, even though it didn't. And I could swear that I smelled exotic Turkish tobaccoes while walking through the jetway. I had images of people in fezes and camel caravans and precocious monkeys at the hotels acting as bellhops. There was a billboard ad in the airport that asked me == Did you come to Turkey for the marble? No... but show me! Show me the Turkish marble, and I will look!! Yes!

Bring on Turkey!

Improving Hanoi, One Hong at a Time

Truth be told, Hanoi rubbed me the wrong way. It was probably a combination of things... the time of day I arrived there (before dawn with the streets shadowy and unwelcoming), the insane streets that you had to walk on because the sidewalks were blocked by parked scooters, and just the inevitable irritation caused by another loud, dirty place that was strange to me.

On my way through Hanoi for the last time, before flying out to Bangkok, I stayed at an unassuming little guesthouse in the Old Quarter. There was a restaurant downstairs, so I came down for dinner. The proprietor, Hong, showed me to my table with a deep bow, as if it was truly an honor that I was visiting his establishment. I felt welcome.

Hong spoke some English, so we got to talking. He had only just opened this place with his own money, and what did I think? It was a great place, I said (it really was-- great food too). He was married, and had recently had his first child-- a statement punctuated by a sharp gleam in his proud eyes. He was also, on top of opening a restaurant, studying to be a tour guide. There were apparently classes that he needed to take to become licensed in Vietnam, and he wanted to be able to do that in the future.

He brought over his menu to get my thoughts on what he was offering, and then wanted my opinion a flyer he was creating for the restaurant. I gave him some advice on some changes he might want to make. I used to do things like that at my old job, and the fact that I was doing it pro bono at a restaurant in Vietnam was funny to me. Apparently, the marketing projects find me whereever I go.

I later met Hong's beautiful wife, and I saw him hold his 9-month old boy. I thought about this guy-- my age, going to school, starting a family, starting a business, working his butt off until 10 o' clock at night to make an honest but good living for his wife and pride-n-joy. And he did all of it with a smile and a deferential bow.

When I left the next day, I think my bow to Hong was just a little deeper than his bow to me.

Scurrying in the Rain

Sand crabs are fun to watch. They scurry. I don't often see animals that so clearly "scurry" rather than just walk or amble, but the average sand crab certainly does scurry. They scurry about, to and fro, digging holes and then jumping into them. I like sand crabs. I like watching them scurry.

But I'll tell you what I don't like: bullfrogs. And I'll tell you why: because they don't have any respect. They don't have any respect for the silence of the night, and the fact that it's the time for people to sleep. Instead, they make their awful, droning bullfrog sound, over and over and over again. The ones in Ko Lanta sound like Charlie Brown's teacher, if she were made into a zombie, and she only said one word. One word. Over and over again, outside of your bungalow in southern Thailand: "WaaaaaaaaaWa. WaaaaaaaaaWa."

But, anyway.....

Other than that, Ko Lanta is amazing. The only problem now is that it's raining, and has been for the last two days. So, I'm just re-reading a book that I brought (Dave Eggers' You Shall Know our Velocity) and am catching up on my wall-staring.

Ordinarily Uncommon

I'm impatient with entertainment. When a movie starts, and the opening credits are showing, I'm ansy for the start of the story. I can't believe how long it takes between an opening band and the headliner.... "Hurry up and start rocking," I want to scream. "We're waiting for YOU, you know, standing here drinking 7 dollar watered-down Coke and Beams while you sip chamomille tea and tease your hair backstage. Hurry up!"

So, I'm not sure why it is that I can stare blankly at the horizon when the sun is setting, and not move until the last color fades. And I'm confused by the fact that I can watch the waves crashing on the sand for what seems like minutes, and realize that it has been over an hour. I don't know why something that's so seemingly ordinary... something that I've seen before, dozens and dozens, maybe hundreds of times... can still captivate me like a kid watching his first fireworks.

But thinking about the time I've spent staring at those very things on the beach here in Ko Lanta Thailand, I guess I can understand a little. It's not really ordinary at all, no matter how common.