CLINTON ST. QUARTERLY ■ Michael and I have been traveling for two months in Turkey now and we find ourselves in a village built on top of a Roman town by the sea. Al- SillOBmost two thousand years ago this place was a bustling city of 12,000 people and a port for the Roman colony of Asia Minor, which was most of what is called Turkey today. But the city dwindled with Rome’s loss of power, and the local population was unable to keep the port dredged or the seawalls maintained. Today much of the site is covered by encroaching sand dunes. From a ruined amphitheater, I watch the big sun ball plop into the ocean as the Taurus Mountains behind me shade through blue, lavender, grey to black. The ancient city is reborn below me — white marble sparkles in the moonlight, broken pavements are smoothed, broken walls mended with shadow. I wander into the night, the air filling with the scents of the bay and rosemary I must push aside to make my way down the narrow goat trail and back to our room. Christmas in Turkey and Other Adventures Gold teeth flash in the mirror of the madly swaying bus. Michael and 1 are thoroughly coated in fine layers of white dust and the lemon cologne that has been offered to us all afternoon by the bus boy after each hourly tea stop. Dust is continually pouring in the broken-out windows of this old, sad vehicle as we, its only passengers, are being borne along Turkey’s southern shore. We have been on this same route now for one week, stopping each evening at some small seaside village to recover from the day’s wear and tear, rinse away the dust with a dip in the ocean or a few beers; eat, sleep, and then the next morning meet the same driver and his battered bus by the side of the road. He amuses himself daily by seeing how fast he can drive right on the edge of the cliff-hanging road while admiring his newly acquired solid gold smile. The bus boy has become our friend. He has eaten our cookies and sunflower seeds; we have shared his oranges. Our Turkish vocabulary consists of “ very good” and “ thank you.” He beams at the excellence of our speech. We stop in another dry, dusty town perched on a cliff overlooking several small islands. The water is deep blue and far, far below where we stand waiting for the bus to pick up more passengers. A few more miles down the road we are stopped — there has been an avalanche. Enormous rocks are stacked every which way down the face of the steep cliff, obliterating the road and reaching all the way down into the waves. Our driver and bus boy begin quickly handing down our baggage from the top of the bus and we try to figure out what is going on. Feeling terribly dwarfed and unsafe just standing so close to the slide, I look up to see a tiny, ancient woman being helped over the topmost rock by a young man. Soon others appear and make their way down the rocks toward us. They must be coming from a bus on the other side. Once the slide is clear of people, it is our turn to climb. I take a deep breath and decide not to follow too closely the people up ahead. The whole pile feels as if it could go again at any moment, and 1 am in thongs with a too- heavy pack. The great ocean view is suddenly very undesirable; the heat makes me dizzy. I make it to the top where, below us, 1 can see the other bus, its driver impatiently honking the horn for us to hurry. A Journal By Mary Wiseman The coast flattens into low, rolling hills and, to our relief, we reach the end of the gravel road. I have seen pictures in a tourist brochure of Roman ruins near the main highway, and we visit them. The Turkish fishing village built from the old baths and temples has become a popular summer beach resort for Ankara’s wealthy. But it is now late September and we are the only tourists. We take a room in a small, deserted pansiyon on the main street. There is a shop directly across from our hotel whose door is always open. Its windows display ornate silver belts and bracelets studded with coral, traditionally printed scarves trimmed with hand-crocheted flowers, and gleaming copper bowls. We are tempted inside, where we meet the owner, Recep, a smiling mustachioed man in jeans and a cowboy shirt. He speaks a little English as he shows us the flat woven rugs, called kilims, which are stacked against the inner walls of his shop. Late the next evening the lights in Recep’s shop are still on, so 1venture in and meet a group of strangers Illustration hs Steven Sandstrom 5
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