New Year's Eve

New Year's Eve. May a bit of its specialness rub off on you.

People party on this day of calendar change. Good for them, if it brings pleasure! I don't think I, myself, have ever attended a big party on New Year's Eve. But that doesn't mean I don't enjoy the mere idea of a transition from old to new. I like these silly little fabrications. They're a playful way to attack life.

Today, in Sirince, we celebrated New Year's Eve.

But first, the morning.

We haven't quite caught up on sleep, but when I look out the window and see that the sun is showing signs of popping through lingering clouds...



(the view from one of our windows)


...I really nudge us to get going. And so, after a Turkish-ly wonderful breakfast at our inn…





…we set out. To the market -- we're told to go there first. Start with the market.

We are a village of cats and dogs and even before reaching the market, it is abundantly clear that in Sirince, cats and dogs (and there are many of both) do not fight.





No, not at all.





Cats and cats tend to get along as well.





Or so it appears to these two Americans, passing through.

Down the hill we go, along a stone slabbed road, down to the shops and stalls and rickety tables that always seem to have a handful of men at them, sipping sweetened tea from small glasses. Down we go, as another day in the life of the Sirence moves ahead.


 
 there are a lot of tractors rumbling through: we're in the middle of the olive harvest




...the ubiquitous Turkish pants




...slabs of stone and a Turkish cap


[Sirence is a village of olive growers and, too, a few winemakers; some have said that the vibe here is almost of Tuscany. I wouldn't go that far, but it is true that olive products are a big market item.]


 


The market is vast.


 


Not too many shoppers, certainly not of the kind that would buy some of the items targeting visitors (artisanal jewels, crocheted this, embroidered that). But, it fills in during the day. And, as I said, you'll always find someone, somewhere, carrying (photo -- to the right) or drinking tea.

We're taken in by the many juicers. Meaning those selling the freshly squeezed stuff: pomegranate juice.








And the man who pounds his almonds and sells the nutmeats.





Those who speak English pick us out instantly and try their hand at conversation. When they find out we're American, they register surprise. Out comes the list of cousins: I have a cousin in Baltimore! I want to visit cousin in Washington! Again and again I am a little unnerved when I see how much status my home country, America, confers. It's not that I am in any way a better visitor because I come from "north of Chicago" (except that maybe I  have toiled more to get here than someone, say, traveling from Izmir or even Denmark). And yet, if anyone speaks any English, they will try it on us and they will welcome us. To their most private, happiest corners.

Take midnight.

After a fantastic dinner at our inn (see paragraphs below), Ed and I willed ourselves to get up from the table (too much food!). Ed could not wait to collapse in bed. But at a quarter to midnight, I nudged him. It cannot be that we're here, in Turkey, sleeping away the great transition from `12 to 13.

Is there a celebration in the village? -- he asks. Turkey is predominantly (99%) Muslim. The Islamic New Year took place at sunset on November 14 -- we are in year 1434 by that calendar!
I don't know. Let's go and see.

We walk down the stone road. A blast of music hits us from one place then another, but it's clear that these are private parties. Or at least places where you pay to eat, drink and be merry. I am about to suggest a return to our terrace -- not a bad place to light the sparklers our innkeepers gave us -- but as we pass one more merry outpouring of music, something causes me to pause. And as I do so, a very smiling (always smiling), very friendly young man urges us to come in. It seems to be a private party and so I hesitate. But he is so sincere, so delightfully happy to be escorting us in that we follow, up stairs, through the door... Inside, we are waved in by others, come in, sit down,  and so we do and we have a drink, and suddenly we are a part of whatever this is.


 


 I watch the young and old dance to traditional music played by two older men -- one on the violin, the other an oboe,  and I am cajoled to join in this dance and I do. And the playing musicians mingle with the dancers in that tight space by the tables and we all raise our arms, young and old...



Ed took this photo (I'm the one in the gray jacket)

... and then the very youngest takes out her iPhone (!) and notes that it is time for the countdown. And we do count down -- they in Turkish, me in English and though I am two numbers behind (they must have started with eight!), the cheer at midnight is obvious. We made it to 2013.

Happy New Year!

(Ed is there for the joyous embrace; at other times, he sits to the side, like these local guys. At one point one of the men bursts into a beautiful song for us. Ed does not respond in song, but we smile appreciatively.)





Thank you, whoever you all are, for the welcome and the merriment.


But let me not neglect the earlier part of this day, because it was a fantastic day, even though we did the usual -- get lost, which is sort of odd because we knew exactly where we were -- high on the hilltops towering over the village. But slowly the village receded and we could not find a path down to it. Walk with us along this most heavenly hike.

It starts inauspiciously. With a man carving up the meat off an animal carcas. Don't know what, but I do know it had horns. (Considering the number of spent bullets we saw on the dirt road through the forest and the hoof tracks we encountered, I have to think that this was something someone hunted up there).






And now up we go, in the beautiful light of the noon winter sun.



two horses




the olives




the view down to the village




...and mountains to the east




the occasional vineyard




mountains to the north




the path veers into the splendid, scented forest




we can still see the village, though after the next bend, hills will stand in the way




the olive harvest: she spreads the tarp, he hooks up a branch shaker to a portable car battery, climbs the trunk and down come the olives...




she bags them then, all in this beautiful hilly landscape south of Izmir




around the next bend, we come to the view of the sea


When finally, after three hours of hiking, a path veers to the right and down, we come across a village alright, only not our village at all and actually, oh my goodness! It's the town of Selcuk! There it is, not too far from the sea!





Well now, that won't do! Back we go, retracing our steps now, through the forest, past the olive groves, eventually finding a different path, a proper path, one that takes us back to Sirence. Yes, there you are, village of 180 houses!






Down the proper hill this time, past barking dogs...










...goats...





...and very friendly children (what is your name? my name is Aiden...)






…and men, returning home from the harvest (note the branch shaker)...


 


... and finally the market. Where we linger.







 


 It is more crowded now. People shopping, drinking tea (we indulge in yet another pomegranate juice)...


 



A family is eating an early dinner…






Eating, drinking, talking. Daily activities. More festive today perhaps.

And soon enough it is time for our own dinner at the Inn.






All the guests come to it -- six Turkish couples and one family of four from a place with a language we can't quite guess. Our innkeeper is anxiously hovering, Two staff people are also in attendance, including a young man who so loves practicing his English (it is his first day working for our innkeeper and he mentions to us many times how much he is LOVING his job! Add radiant smile here). The foods are excessively abundant, Turkish and delicious.


























A young man came from Izmir to play the guitar and croon folk melodies for us (I try to sing in many languages, he tells me, maybe you can Facebook friend me and suggest there songs I can learn?) and it is all so wonderfully atmospheric!

So I'll end this post now. All things must end of course, but luckily for our planet and those who inhabit it, this midnight is just a flip of a calendar page.

Happy page flipping, dear Ocean readers and may the next set of 365 be filled with splendid notations indeed! A rich year, well lived -- my New Year's wish for you.

arriving in Şirince

The flight to Izmir is full. I'm not surprised. It is shockingly inexpensive to travel within Turkey by plane. Take this segment: from Istanbul to Izmir (about an hour flying time) on Atlas Jet, it's $25 (without additional discounts). For this, we get not only the flight itself, but a warm snack (melted cheese sandwich, cake, coffee or a soft drink) and, too, upon arrival in Izmir, free transportation by bus to towns south of us. Including to Slecuk -- another hour's worth of travel.

It's 11 at night and raining as we touchdown. I'd be a lot more concerned about the what ifs and the what nows if it wasn't for the fact that both Ed and I are in that state of fog that comes from too much travel and way too little sleep. I must admit it -- we were bumped up on the transatlantic flight to great economy plus bullhead seats (it was a packed plane) so that we could stretch and doze some, but neither one of us sleeps fitfully on these flights and so now, 27 hours into the journey, we're bleary eyed and somewhat dazed. Tell us we're in central Turkey and it has the same impact as if you'd say welcome to central Illinois. Thanks for the information; now, where is there a bed?

There are eight of us on the small bus to Selcuk (the bus actually continues south, beyond our town). Somewhere in the recesses of my foggy mind I am relieved. Someone surely will help us reach our innkeeper. The rain hits the windshield steadily. The road (like the airport, like the local train that runs this way too, although at much earlier hours) is new and good. We are jostled from our half sleep when I see the lights of a quiet town streaming into the bus. Selcuk.

In the summertime, this now sleepy place of about 36,000 is buzzing with visitors. It's old, it's (they say) lovely to walk through, it's not far from coastal beaches, all that. But mostly, it's about a mile from Ephesus.

There'll be plenty of time for me to talk of Ephesus, but just as a preamble, let me mention, in case you haven't checked your Greek and Roman history lately that Ephesus was once (in Greek and Roman times -- think 1st century B.C.) the major port of the the Mediterranean (the silting up of the harbor pushed it inland by several miles). The ruins of Ephesus are what draw tourists to Selcuk. But this month the place sleeps through the rains. (Though I hear that a  couple of weeks from now they have a very popular camel wrestling competition going on. We are in Asia Minor indeed.)

Of course, we're not staying in Selcuk. I had to plunge us even deeper into quietness by picking the nearby village of Sirince for our first stop on this winter ramble. Sirince boasts of 600 residents. It's just about 10 kilometers up a winding narrow road. If Selcuk is quiet, Sirince is super quiet (though I read in the Huffington Post that it experienced its moment of good repute just about ten days ago when people flocked here to escape the Mayan Apocalypse, thinking for some reason that this area had some positive energy going).

As we pull up to the curb and the driver announces -- Selcuk -- looking straight at us, I reach for my sheet of paper with the innkeeper's phone number right there in big print. And sure enough -- though the driver doesn't speak English, we have more than one person reach for a cell phone. Ultimately the driver makes the connection. Eventually, through a confusion of many trying to convey a simple message, we understand. Cross the street and stand by the white building. Wait. He'll be there in fifteen minutes. One passenger waved us on: do not worry, he tells me in halting English, sensing my tired confusion. He will be there.

The bus leaves. The rain comes down steadily. And in fourteen minutes, a vehicle pulls up to the white building. No hike for us tonight. We are driving in the comfort of a heated little van.

It's nearly 1 a.m. (Turkish time, which is eight hours ahead of Madison time) when we enter our lovely, wee space at the delightful eight room Markiz Konaklari.




We throw back the shutters just to look outside. It's dark of course. A few lights twinkle in the village below (it's quite hilly here).





I'm tired, but so extremely excited for it to be morning already.

And of course, the misinterpreted Mayan Apocalypse notwithstanding, daylight does come and I look outside and I smile at the loveliness of it all.

still traveling...

It's evening. Against all odds, despite inconveniences, delays, but also with small pleasures and many grins, we are in the domestic airport of Istanbul, waiting for our quick flight to Izmir.

I have no great photos for you. I took the usual yesterday and today -- last breakfast at the farmhouse...

 


...then nothing in Chicago, a sunset in flight over Detroit, but then no pic of a much coveted croissant at the Paris airport (talk about against all odds -- we ran to barely catch the flight, but I paused for a croissant), then one photo over the Alps (yawn.... mountains) and one taken while sprawling over Ed's lap as we were landing in Istanbul.

I'll spare you those photos.

But since we have these hours at the airport (and WiFi at a cafe where I am attempting to nurse a mineral water for many hours; here, I have a photo of the waiting people, just because this is what we do when we try to get places -- we teach ourselves to be patient, to wait)...





...anyway, since there is this block of time here, I'll put up this nothing post, even though, really, we aren't anywhere at all. There is an Istanbul beyond the stark walls of this great airport hallway, but we're not seeing it just yet.

It's not my first, or even second trip to Istanbul (though Ed and I are only in the city at the end of this trip -- it's overpriced now, on this holiday weekend). In fact, you could say I first tested my travel feet on Turkey -- I dragged my sister here when we were barely adults and we half bused half hitchhiked our way up the Bosporus and back again, two young women courting adventure just a little bit too brazenly.

I assumed so much then! I assumed that flying in at midnight from Warsaw would be just fine. We stood outside the Istanbul airport as people quickly dispersed, there alone on the curb, two young women, wondering what the next step should be. In the city, I assumed I'd know what to see. I assumed that when I crossed a bridge, I'd be in Asia, because that's what the books say. So I crossed the wrong bridge and thought I was in Asia and I would have never known that I was wrong until, upon returning decades later I realized my mistake. So many of our mistakes never get corrected, adjusted, but that one did. I did not step onto Asia at age 20.

So here we are, Ed and I, waiting, thinking, reading, writing. It's good to be waiting with Ed. He is quite excellent at it.





And, too, excellent at coping. And taking the wrong turn, on purpose. And he'll nudge me to do the same, reminding me that the world wont end if we have to spend a night in the ditch because luck didn't hold.

But for now, luck is still holding. And from my perspective -- that's a good thing.

Away!

Okay, so we're off! Our winter break together -- much discussed, much planned and then completely revised and replanned (as the reality of airfares sunk in) begins NOW. My hard effort these last ten days to finish reading exams paid off and I turned in the last of the grades this morning, with plenty of time to get the farmhouse in order and to review once more the backpack items, neatly stuffed into their designated spaces (we're traveling very light). The cat sitter is there for Isis, the weather's looking good for travel, we are OFF!

To where? Well, it's a rather unconventional itinerary for this time of the year. We'll be splitting our time between Turkey and a few of the Greek islands. It's not exactly warm there right now, but nor is it cold. And, if you can find places that are open year round (and I did), you'll come across some wonderful bargains (which pleases Ed) -- the biggest of which is the airfare itself: Chicago to Istanbul, $550, roundtrip.

There is, necessarily, a period of blogging quiet as we try to get to our first destination: Sirince -- a small village south of Izmir (Izmir itself is some 350 miles southwest of Istanbul). There isn't an easy way to get there, I can say that much. Here's what's in store for us: a bus ride to Chicago, then flights via Detroit, Paris and Istanbul. From Istanbul, we've already had our flight to Izmir cancelled, but there is another! One that gets to Izmir just before midnight. Then a bus to Selcuk -- the nearest town on a bus line and now it will be past midnight and I envision the driver dumping us unceremoniously at the side of the road, leaving us to our own devices. We'll either figure out how to call our innkeeper in Sirince, or... well, there's always walking. At midnight. Ten kilometers. Into the hills, along some yet to be found road, in a country where few speak English, assuming that anyone but the roaming dogs of Turkey would even be up at such an ungodly hour.

Let's just say I hope to reach the innkeeper, who has volunteered to come get us, if we find a way to let him know we're there.

But, all that is to be figured out. So much can happen, so many connections can be muddled or missed altogether -- why worry now about stray dogs at midnight in the deep belly of Turkey.

I'll write when we get there, somewhere, wherever, because one thing is certain in travel -- eventually you do get from one place to the next.

days of work, cont'd

I see myself as the kid who can't go out to play because some authority figure has decided that there's work to be done. No break for you, buddy. Stay home and clean your room.

From a predawn wake up, 'til now, I grade.

Here we are, a photo from breakfast -- note not how I eat breakfast, but how Ed's chin is finally free of the Santa beard. I tidied him up for our trip just before we sat down to our various foods.





Then, I take breaks only to stare outside, wishing I could be there, rather than here, on the couch, buried under papers. The snow is coming down again and the world looks fresh and clean beneath its soft new cover.





Ah, the world of the outdoors. I miss it so!





Back to my books, notes and papers.