I was oddly fascinated with the ladies standing in the red-curtained “window brothels” of Amsterdam’s red-light district. Not like I haven’t seen prostitutes before — Madrid’s crudely nicknamed “Calle de las Putas” was within walking distance from my apartment, after all. But these women looked like they should be in lad mags, they were so glossily done-up in their crazy underwear and big hair and boobs. Standing behind the glass, they also oddly recalled the Barbie dolls I opened on Christmas morning as a child, except these ladies were life-sized and they moved around and had sex for money. Barbie had many professions, but never went in for sex work, as far as I knew.

As a polite Midwesterner, I felt that staring would be rude, so I just kept sneaking glances as I walked down the street. My boyfriend, walking at my side, sensed it would be bad form to check out hookers whilst strolling with his lady, and so gallantly kept his eyes on the sidewalk.

I understand Amsterdam is a wild place; I really wouldn’t know. Being with a significant other is lovely, but it also makes you a much more boring person. With my girlfriends I’m sure I’d have partied all hours. But with my boyfriend, the two of us became fairly lame. Going to clubs in the red-light district seemed like a rather silly thing to do. A pair of monogamous nerds, nervously wandering about the town in their sensible shoes and eyeglasses? Eh… 

Instead, we ate stroopwafels (little caramel-waffle treats, the best things ever), drank lots of good beer, had some hearty, stick-to-your-ribs Dutch foods, among other things. Another fantastic free walking tour, where we learned about the city’s outdoor urinals, its history as a freewheeling place, its mysterious, mammarian artworks:

In case you can’t tell: that’s a disembodied hand, rounding second base. 

If you DO want to do some lame tourist things in Amsterdam when you go, prepare for long lines. We waited about 90 minutes for the (very good) Van Gogh Museum, and never did make it to the Anne Frank House — the lines were easily two hours long, which I understand is quite typical. If you go, I would recommend purchasing the Amsterdam card, in which you pay a flat fee and get a ton of freebies and reduced-price offers — including free admission to many museums - but, more importantly, you get to line-jump ahead of all the schmucks who aren’t carrying one. We had opted not to, figuring we wouldn’t use it very much, but if you’ve got the time, it’s probably a good idea.

Amsterdam has an amazing assortment of weird museums, none of which I managed to go see: The sex museum, obviously, and the marijuana & hemp museum, a fluorescent art museum, a smoking pipe museum, and museums of spectacles, of purses, of watches & clocks, of medical oddities…. too bad, really, because I adore museums. Guess I need to go back?

A canal at night.

Amsterdam is called “the Venice of the north,” but our tour guide said it actually has more canals than Venice. Fun fact.

Amsterdam also has a lot of bikes, as you might have heard - many of them, perhaps unsurprisingly, end up in the canals. The city employs boats to trawl the waters, dredging up tons of submerged bikes every year. They also haul up tiny cars, which bikers sometimes toss into the canals under cover of night - these micro-cars, no bigger than golf carts, are legally allowed to occupy bike lanes. They go quite slowly. Bikers do not approve of this. Thus, into the canals they go. Not sure how often it happens, but, apparently it’s a thing.

The Dutch, although generally a very nice people, do seem to be quite brusque. Bicyclists in Amsterdam will indeed run you over; so will the trams. That’s something to be aware of, if you’re super high and not paying attention. Or if you’re nerdily snapping photos. Whatever, really. 

Sometimes in life, you find yourself in a Turkish bathhouse, yelping and skittering away as a Turkish woman tries to disrobe you in front of your friends. It happens to the best of us.

And in retrospect, I really should have seen it coming. To explain: We three travelers obviously wanted to experience a real Turkish bath — it’s a huge part of the culture, as these bathhouses have been around for centuries. Also, weeks on the road had left us with a feeling of persistent griminess. We all felt the need for a good wash.

These bathhouses work a bit like a spa. First you go for some sauna time, then an attendant scrubs you from head to toe with soft soap, and then you go for a soak in the bathhouse’s tubs. The bathhouses are large tiled rooms dotted with faucets and pools, and ours was mostly underground, so it had a coolly sheltered feel to it (photos were generally not allowed, which I understand).

My friends and I knew we’d be unclothed for our scrub, but for some reason we figured we’d have, I don’t know, a bit more privacy? Like we’d be alone with our designated scrubber, behind some partition or something. Clearly, we’d forgotten where we were.

It happens sometimes on the road, where you catch yourself thinking things like: “Why is there no safety railing here? Or, Why is there no sign marking the bus stop? Why is this shop closed? Why are all these people naked?

The answer to all those questions is the same: Because you’re in Southern Europe. 

After we checked in, we stashed our clothes in our individual little changing rooms and emerged in our towels. We next went to hang out in our sauna, guided by a cheery Turkish woman who spoke no English and wore a bikini (she did work in a bathhouse, remember, so the bikini made sense. On the street the women often wore multiple layers of long clothes, even in the heat, but here they all hung out in swimsuits.)

After we marinated in the sauna for awhile, the lady beckoned us out, and she immediately went for my towel and tried to whip it right off me. Right there, in front of my friends! I was greatly alarmed. 

I hate to wreck anybody’s image of typical girls’ locker room behavior, but, in the U.S. at least, most girls don’t just hang out naked in front of their friends. We all casually saunter behind stalls or just try to keep it as modest as possible. So the idea of just like, hangin’ out and whatnot, all unclothed, in front of my friends, was an idea I was not ready for.

On pure reflex, I darted away. In her bikini, the Turkish lady gave chase, shouting “Wait!” at me in Spanish (they get a lot of Spanish tourists there; she had apparently never bothered to learn the English). 

I danced around, clutching at my towel, while my friends were similarly being accosted by an unsmiling middle-aged woman in a one-piece swimsuit who had very little patience for our (my) foolishness. My friends weren’t crazy about the situation either, but they handled their disrobing with much better grace — trying to maintain some modesty, but also staring and laughing at me as I batted the Turkish woman away. They told me that they would have averted their eyes, except I was making such a spectacle of myself that it was impossible not to watch. 

So here’s a lesson: When a Turkish bath-house employee wants you to get naked in front of people, just play it cool, man.

***

It must have seemed very strange to these local women, when you consider it. Here we Western-type chicks think nothing of strolling around on the streets in what must seem to be outrageously skimpy summer dresses, but there, in the privacy of the bathhouse, surrounded by female attendants, we were squawking and protesting.

Eventually we did just get over it. I surrendered my towel, got doused with giant puffs of soap, and the lady put on these gloves that look like giant oven mitts and got to scrubbing, taking off loopy strings of dead skin in the process. It’s oddly fascinating and sort of gross, seeing all these lumps as they get sloughed off. It didn’t hurt, either, just felt like a sort of pleasant massage. I felt like a dog, getting a highly efficient wash from an impatient owner. And I emerged feeling, indeed, far softer and cleaner than I’d started out.

And then my friends and I rendezvoused in one of the big tubs and all had a good laugh. Totally worthwhile experience. But yeah, I was pretty quick to grab that towel and put it on again.

Haunted places around the city center.

The Hagia Sophia

 From the outside, the Hagia Sophia isn’t much to look at. But the interior? It feels gorgeously haunted — faded walls of ashy grey, dozens of iron chandeliers, a kind of decrepit grandeur over everything. As you walk, the eyes of old icons stare down at you from the walls. During our visit, the mid-morning light filtered in with a dreamy golden quality and the heat seemed to mute everything. It was one of my favorite spots.

The Hagia Sophia has seen a lot of stuff in its day, being torn down and remade with every major change here. Starting out as an Eastern Orthodox Basilica in 306, it burned down a couple times, as these things always do. But presiding rulers always re-built. 

After Constantinople became Muslim Istanbul, the place became a mosque. Then the first Turkish president, Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, turned it into a museum. 

(Ataturk is a true giant of history, by the way. His rule as a general and statesman pretty much molded modern Turkey out of the old Ottoman Empire. And yet I’d never heard of the guy before going there. In school I was too busy learning about World War II those four or five times, I guess)

The Basilica Cistern

Not a satanic lair, although that would have been my first guess.

Ancient Muslim people were assiduous cistern-builders. Clean water, and bathing in general, were very big for them. Christians appear to have been more content with their own filth, and didn’t really take the time to lay down the infrastructure.

An impressive legacy of this religious preference for fresh, flowing water: 1) gorgeous fountains, as one finds in the Alhambra in Spanish Granada, and 2) old cisterns for water storage under Istanbul and quite a few in other places, including, again, Spain.

They’re all hushed, cool, and damp-smelling without being dank … most of them, anyway. This one was originally an old basilica during the Byzantium days, and was a water source until only a few decades ago. Currently it is the home of many fat fish that swim and splash lazily in the dark water, as well as a cheesy photo booth at the entrance where you can dress like a belly dancer or Ottoman warrior. 

Oh, and Wikipedia says it’s been featured in the Bond movie From Russia with Love, and Assassin’s Creed! Neither of which I have seen. 

The Grand Bazaar

Speaking of Bond, Daniel Craig was in a high-speed chase through the Grand Bazaar in that rad opening scene in Skyfall. I was doubly thrilled, as I had been there!

It pretty much looks like this photo I got from the Guardian  except with less Daniel Craig and more of me overpaying for jewelry. 

This picture I did take — spices from the Bazaar.

Whatever tourist stuff you want, it’s there. The bazaar is many, many hallways of trinkets, furniture, food and of course, jewelry. The shopkeeps are pretty vocal about trying to attract your attention or sell you something, but it’s more amusing than annoying.

The Blue Mosque

A view from the outside. It was built in the 17th century, so it’s still the “new” mosque, compared to the Hagia Sophia.

From the inside…

I’m so accustomed to churches, it’s strange to be in a major house of worship like this. No pews or statues or images, just the lovely fugue of repeated scrollwork covering the walls, and hundreds of people kneeling and reciting in worship inside on the wide open floor.

Tourists come and go outside the mosque as the faithful worship inside.

Speaking of the Muslim faith, we happened to be visiting during the holy month of Ramadan. Ramadan is a roaming holiday, and it happened to be in July/August of 2012… which, then you think about it, is horrible luck. Adherents cannot eat from sunup to sundown, so that’s roughly from 6 a.m. to 8:30 p.m., according to timeanddate.com. That’s a long time to go without so much as a snack. And here I am, a Catholic on the verge of Lent, who is already dreading the Ash Wednesday fast. And our “fast” still allows for some light nibbling throughout the day. Not really that hardcore, although I’ll be whining about it plenty loudly come Wednesday.

One good thing about the Ramadan fast (other than the spiritual benefits) is the sunset meal, which is a vast, chummy communal event for many Muslim people. The green spaces near the Blue Mosque, for example, were packed with picnicking families at 8 p.m. every night, enormous platters of delicious-smelling food at hand. And right at sundown, everybody was feasting happily, together.

Google translate tells me this means “Religious morality is.” Gotta work some kinks out of that, it seems.

NEXT TIME: Turkish baths. Things …get awkward.

A city so big, it requires an all-caps blog title.

In part one, we arrive. Things go sorta badly.

At this point in our journey, we had clocked in about three weeks on the road — three weeks of getting lost and awkwardly asking for directions, of cramming ourselves into tiny hostels, of trying not to slip on donkey poo. We’d fallen asleep in public parks, we’d desperately dashed — luggage thudding with every step — to catch the ferry on time. We zealously over-applied sunscreen. We had an awesome time.

So as we headed to our last stop, Istanbul, we were feeling pretty confident about things. One more city? No problem! Congratulatory high-fives all around.

Istanbul, it turns out, was not a city we should have taken for granted.

Some pertinent information:

FACT #1) Istanbul is big. Holy bejeezus, is it ever. At 13.9 million residents, give or take, it’s the largest metropolitan area in Europe. And it is apparently required that, several times a day, every citizen must go out, get in their car, and enthusiastically jam at once onto the streets and honk loudly at each other. 

FACT #2) All those people gotta live somewhere: Istanbul is quite sprawly. And its mass-transit system is — surprisingly for a city of its size and sophistication — really terrible. NPR recently reported that their subway system (such as it is) often faces work delays because every time crews try to dig more tunnels they run into more artifacts (that link, for example, talks about running across an entire fleet from ancient Byzantium)

I imagine it’s like, “Boss, got some more priceless treasures over here!” they holler to the foreman, who busts out of his trailer in a fury of swears, and then angrily calls his guy over at city hall to tell him the news. Then everybody takes off their hard-hats and goes to, I don’t know, smoke a hookah and drink some strong coffee or something. Whatever it is Turkish construction workers do on their leisure time. 

The point is, Istanbul’s subway system is broken up into fragments — there’s a tram, a proper metro, some random underground train, a regular train, Charon’s ferry on the River Styx, the path to Mordor, I don’t even know. Look at a map of this thing. What I’m saying is, it’s very complex.

One might even call it … Byzantine?**

Ahem. Which leads us to…

FACT #3) We had a rousingly unsuccessful arrival into the city.

We were staying a couple nights at a friend’s apartment, and getting there from the airport proved… difficult. We took the subway into the city as far as we could, hoping to save money, and then hopped in a cab. We wrote down our address and gave it to the cabbie, who assured us that he knew of our destination. But after 45 minutes sitting in traffic, punctuated by furious bursts of driving in the wrong direction, it turned out that no, he had no earthly idea where we were going.

My friend Samantha called her friend (our host), who burned up many euros of precious time on Samantha’s phone card to laboriously explain things to our cabbie. We finally arrived, about an hour after getting into the cab.

Do I need to mention we were sweaty and sleep-deprived for all of this? At this point, you should just be assuming that yes, we were.

END PART ONE. Next up: Some touring! Underground cisterns, cruising the Bosphorus River, and those mosques you always see in movies that are set in Istanbul.

Like this one:

**FOOTNOTE (for people who  hang out on the internet a lot).

Except, regrettably, I did not fight any Nazis. But on the plus side, there were no Nazis here to fight, which I think we can all acknowledge as a positive.

Old pigeon coops, carved high in the rocks. 

Some crazy friggin’ rocks. Plus some abandoned homes and coops carved up in there.

For tourists, Turkey has stunning beaches and one hell of a capital city to visit. But plenty of countries have beaches and historic cities: What they don’t have is Cappadocia.

This region, smack in the middle of the country, is a windswept plain marked by amazing rock formations that look sort of like the badlands of South Dakota, but with the addition of “fairy chimneys” — spiked rocks molded by volcanic activity and other peculiar geological forces. But for added awesomeness, these rocks are soft enough to carve up, and have been inhabited over the centuries. 

Views of Goreme, where we stayed.

We arrived there half-delirious — this time from lack of sleep, not heat. A lot of our arrivals were made in a haze of confusion and extreme fatigue, but Cappadocia was one of the worst. We’d taken a night bus there, riding from about midnight to 7 a.m.-ish or so, jolting through the Turkish countryside, unable to sleep as the bus rattled along. The big red digital clock hanging at the front of the bus glowed through the dark, and I watched the hours scrape by. Two o’clock… 2:25 a.m…. 2:40 … 3 a.m….My head hurt. My eyeballs were like sandpaper. 

But then we arrived, just as the sun was coming up, and our bleary eyes beheld:

and:

We spent a lot of time wandering around various cities on this voyage, taking in the scenes. But nowhere was quite like Cappadocia. 

And, you’ll notice, hot-air ballooning is the preferred tourist activity of the place. It was obviously on our to-do list, although first we had to stagger our way to the hostel — and yes, sit around and wait for a few hours before it opened/our rooms were ready. Again. 

The Balloons

They’re pricey, but well worth it. You call around to find a good company, and can take your pick from a range of options. The cheaper ones put something like 25 people in a single, huge basket, while the top-of-the-line ones put you in a smaller one where you aren’t jostling with everybody to get a good view — but, obviously, are much more expensive.

We aimed for the mid-range, putting us in a basket with about a dozen people in it. Among them was a tiny Italian child who was interested for about 10 minutes before he crouched in a corner of the basket and went back to playing with his phone or whatever thing kids play with nowadays. (Speaking of, remember when Gameboy was a thing? That was such a huge deal, getting to play Nintendo whilst out and about. But I digress).

To back up: The tour companies pick you up from your hostels well before sunrise. We were lucky to have a clear, calm morning. They first fed us breakfast, then drove us to the balloon site, where we got to watch the men use large, impressive flame throwers to inflate the balloon. We clambered aboard and our pilot cheerfully explained how to brace ourselves if the landing was bumpy and the basket toppled on its side.

He also made a few droll jokes. Example: “Is this your first balloon ride? Oh, mine too.” 

WHOA WITH THE JOKES, SMARTGUY. 

….Also hey, look how freckly I was! Oh my. I write this in January in Massachusetts, where the sun does not shine. How very melancholy. 

These hot air rides are generally extremely safe; there was one recent incident, however, when a British tourist fell to his death after his balloon was clipped by another. Being there, you can understand how it happens as the skies above Cappadocia fill up with a herd of balloons every morning. Safety is obviously a huge issue, so you hope that kind of horrifying accident will never happen again.

Because, yes, it’s great. Such a strange and beautiful way to pass an hour, rising smoothly into the air and drifting around above the stunning landscape. Accompanied by other balloons in the sky, you get to see the sun come up and feel the cool air on your face, and see the ground far below.

Ahhhhhhhh.

We landed smoothly and safely. No crash-landing crouch required.

The caves:

Another tourist must: going on a tour of the underground city (Oh yes, underground cities. So, so rad).

Early Christians, to hide from the persecution of Romans, dug hives of living quarters underground complete with defensive fortifications and traps — twisting tunnels and surprise holes that made it really easy to pick off enemy soldiers as they crawled or stumbled inside one-by-one. They’re not the most ornate of caves, however, so while they’re impressive to behold, don’t expect, like, elaborate living quarters.

The outdoor carve-outs are somewhat more fun to scamper around in.

Long-ago Christians carved large places of worship in the sides of the rocks, painting them with tempera paint (where the yolk from pigeon eggs, for example, comes in handy). We arranged a tour through our hostel and got carted up to a particularly amazing site, which basically had a multi-level cathedral hewn straight out of the rock. 

What the what?

Check me out here, wearing my super-rad jean shorts … I miss those things. RIP, jorts. I donated them to a charity back in Madrid, although I’m pretty sure even the most impoverished Madrileña would refuse to wear them.

 Anyway… the pictures don’t nearly do it justice. The place was obviously crawling with tourists so it was actually hard to get a photo snapped off without getting some random dude meandering into the shot, but it was still delightful, full of breathless moments. I swear, tons of my favorite old-school YA adventure novels were set in places like this. I may have to go back here someday.

Travel Information:

As I mentioned, we took a bus here, although there is a tiny airport that also services the area (and which, if you have the funds, I would recommend).

Our lodgings were Rock Valley Pansion in Goreme, which is an amazing hostel and I highly recommend it. Very Turkish in flavor, with be-rugged communal sitting areas and a little bar/breakfast room with tasty, tasty foods, this is like the platonic ideal of “hostel.” Its common areas promote the kind of inter-guest chats and friendly conversations that make hostels far superior to hotels in terms of making friends or sharing travel tips. The staff is extremely helpful, and it has a pool. 

Of course, our un-air conditioned room got pretty stifling (Cappadocia is far, far cooler than our other stops, but still), and you have to share a few bathrooms with a lot of people. But, eh. Such is life in a hostel.

Turkish adventures continue…

Approaching in our un-air conditioned bus, Antalya loomed pretty large on the horizon. It’s a big town, with a giant main street of cinderblock buildings and endless cheap-looking shops at ground level. It’s all functional, and not terribly pretty. But the old town, as Old World old-towns usually are, is lovely.

It was here that we had our worst time finding the hostel. The shuttle pulled away, leaving us instantly confused as to where we were. A nice Turk saw our confusion, and (as Turks are wont to do) gave us directions, which we tried — unsuccessfully — to follow. 

So it went like this: Every time as we pulled out maps, some nearby lounging Turk, with a vaguely Arabian-Nights accent, would inquire, “where are you going?” They always knew of our hostel, and always gave us directions — we would trudge a bit, then promptly get lost. In sweaty despair, we would pull out the map again and have another Turk holler at us. 

But, find the hostel we did! 

This is not our hostel. It is some Roman ruins at the entrance to the old city, which are prettier than our hostel.

Antalya’s old city is compact, easily explorable in a day. Fascinating little shops full of Arabian-styled goods, along with mysterious corners, old wooden buildings and stone towers. You can promenade along this old stone fortification looking out onto the water, and see the lights of the city slung around the harbor. Antalya has great restaurants, too, although we were lured into the first one solely because they had air conditioning. Seriously, the guy in the entrance (whose job it was to lure people in) just looked at us and called, “We have air conditioning!” which was all we needed to hear.

They blared what seemed like the Turkish version of schmaltzy 1970s love ballads at us the whole meal, but they were cheap and I was famished, so, meh.

One regret — we needed more time in Antalya. Just a few hours’ ride outside the city is a ton of extra stuff, like old ruins and amazing landscapes. If you go, maybe give yourself an extra day to roam outside the city.

Gorgeous lamps everywhere. I wanted one, but it surely would have broken during our travels.

But we spent our brief time there well. We were lucky enough to nab a spot at this postage stamp-sized beach that’s only accessible if you walk through this particular restaurant that hides the beach from view. I never would have guessed it was open to ruffians like us, but you can pay a few Turkish lire for a chair practically in the water.  

Our hostel was Sabah Pansiyon, a very, very Turkish place with open-air courtyards and areas with rugs and pillows, ideal for smoking a hookah. Well-located, although, obviously, sometimes difficult to find. Breakfast is free, so you can eat the traditional cheese and olives, with decent coffee, to your heart’s content. Our four-bedroom dorm was tiny, though, which was irritating, and the nearest bathrooms were across the courtyard, up a staircase, and through the shared kitchen. 

Another thing about Turkish bathrooms — we found that, often, there is no designated “shower” as such. Just a showerhead  jutting out of the wall, which sprays out at will, splashing over the toilet and besoggy-ing the toilet paper. It wasn’t so bad at Sabah, because the showerhead was a ways away from the toilet/sink area, but it wasn’t always so comfortably far. Kinda awkward. Glad I had my shower shoes.

Next, on to Cappadocia! You’ll like this one.

Sneak preview

When the Blue Mosque shows up in movies now (Skyfall, Taken 2), I elbow the person next to me, nod at the screen and say, “Ya know, not to brag… but I’ve been there.” And then sit back in my seat, quite satisfied with myself.

Culture Clashes

Turkey straddles the line between Europe and Asia, and a few cultural differences immediately stand out. Observation No. 1: Most conversations with Turkish people end in sweaty, awkward confusion. The Turks have three basic levels of English-speaking ability.

No English. You just speak English at them, helplessly, and they speak Turkish at you, amusedly. You wear a look of deep chagrin.

A few key words of English: Like “bus,” and “6 o’clock!” but that is all. Vital context is inevitably missing, so you make nervous noises like, “ahhhhhh,” and repeat one-word questions at them, like, “Here?” or “Cost?” You look helplessly at your friends, who shrug. You concentrate very hard on hand signals and hope to divine their meaning. You wear a look of deep chagrin.

Intermediate-level, conversational English: The Turks often don’t speak great English, but they absolutely do not care. They press on, with flamboyant abandon, as they butcher the language in an attempt to sell you things or give you directions.

About this — Turkish men love to give directions to tourists! They friggin’ love it. Can’t get enough of it. Are these directions accurate? Not always!

Actually, we have no way of knowing for sure. Maybe the fault wasn’t with the directions, just that the city was a damn nightmare to navigate. A charming, exotic, frustrating nightmare.

Who can follow directions when steps No. 3 and 4 are something like, “Is a small street. Go to small street! There is the wood door, you go right. Not the wood door, wrong.” Oh… kay? Sir, this intersection has eight streets branching off of it, and every door is made of wood. And it is so hot I am sweating out my actual brain cells. The air is a boiling stew. I am dying right now.

In tourist-heavy areas, particularly in Istanbul, the storefronts are lined with men (and they are always men) whose job it is to cajole passers-by into their restaurants or shops. They always have some witty, jovial quip, some (usually) good-natured back-and-forth. And again, that cheerful disregard for the niceties of English, which is funny and occasionally endearing.

Of course, there are some interesting gender dynamics at play here. Women can be seen walking down the street (often in long skirts and coats, with headscarves, even in the blazing heat), but not always. But you almost never see women working at the shops or restaurants. Always a waiter, never a waitress.

And some of the men’s comments to women tourists take the form of borderline-insulting catcalls — but then, my summer dresses must look extremely slutty to them, especially relative to the Turkish women nearby. I wish that didn’t entitle them to make assumptions about my activities, but that seems unavoidable.  

At the spice market, Istanbul

Marmaris

Our first stop, however, was very un-traditional. Marmaris was a fishing village not too long ago, but its perfect beaches were an irresistible lure for tourists and developers. Now it’s all beaches and clubs — crazy, loud clubs.

Sorry it’s a poorly constructed shot, it’s the only one I have that wasn’t just a blur of lights and flames. Things were hectic in there.

Along the Marmaris waterfront is an enormous line of bars and restaurants. One street over, is an enormous line of clubs. No cover charge at any of them, and a lot of Europe’s favorite dance hits blaring. A pretty wild scene, and great if you love the Euro-party vibe. 

We only had one night there, so we chilled out with hookahs and mojitos before hitting the clubs. And yeah. Drinks and whatnot. Music. You know, clubs.

We rushed off to Antalya the very next day, but I must tell you about our hostel in Marmaris — Maltepe Pension.

As it happens, we ran into our hostel proprietor almost as soon as we landed in Turkey (some ticket agent pointed him out to us… we are unsure if the hostel owner just hangs out at the ferry station or what, but like I said; Turkish conversations are bewildering sometimes. Best just to let it be).

The proprietor told us how to get to the hostel, and then said, with a very serious look —

“As soon as you arrive, you will see my sister. You will know her because she is very very fat.” 

Us: “Oh!… uh…sure?”

Him, with an air of sadness: “No, really. She is the fattest in Turkey. Second-fattest in Europe. You will feel sorry for her when you see her, she is so fat. She is my sister.”

This went on for awhile, with us trying to duck the topic of his sister’s obesity, and him bringing it up again, assuring us we would be horrified. 

So we showed up to the hostel, where the proprietor sat us down and gave us apple tea (common in Turkey, very tasty), and eventually showed us his “sister.”

Gleefully, he presented us with the following:

Yep, pretty fat. 

It was the guy’s little joke — I don’t know how he arrived at her ranking as “fattest in Turkey, second-fattest in Europe,” but I can attest that this is one large cat.

So if you stay here (and you should, it’s perfectly nice for a cheap joint), it might be strange, but you will not encounter Johnny Depp’s mom from “What’s Eating Gilbert Grape.” The cat is pretty interesting to see, though, especially when it decides to hoist itself up for a walk. Thing is like a fur-covered whiskey barrel with legs. 

We arrived on the sunny shores of Kos at 7 a.m., when the streets were deserted except for the last lingering drunk people, walking home from the clubs. 

We had taken an overnight ferry, leaving Santorini at about 1 a.m. I had pushed two chairs together and slept for a few hours, jolting up to defensively clutch at my purse every half-hour or so. By morning we were tired; it was very hot. Our room wouldn’t be ready until the afternoon, so we stashed our bags and stumbled around sweatily for several hours. I have never been so happy to get to a hotel room.*

*I should say “at that point.” Antalya, Turkey, had not yet happened. 

Kos is a tourist/beach/club town. Kitschy souvenir shops, a few trendy clubs, lots of British and Dutch people hanging out. Kind of a kick to see the old Roman ruins (yes, Roman — they conquered the Greeks), and ancient walls and fortresses, plopped in the middle of tacky touristville. 

But my favorite bit? Renting a bike and getting outside the city. You go pedaling down the rural roads, coasting through long stretches of fields and trees as the insects hum, with the ocean popping in and out of view. You bike, then beach, then bike and beach again. It’s a fine way to live.

It is super pleasant. Also the roads are blessedly flat.

The promenade in Kos. Lots of boat tours, but we mostly stayed by the shore and  ate yogurt.

Then, the ferry to Rhodes.

Rhodes is best-known for its Colossus, which no longer exists and nowadays we’re not even sure where it was located. It was 107 feet tall, constructed around 280 B.C., but an earthquake knocked it down only about 50 years later. 

Now, Rhodes is the usual warren of twisting ancient streets, but with a decidedly Middle-Eastern flavor. Indeed, it was owned by Muslims on a few occasions. Rhodes has changed hands quite a few times — our old friends, the Knights Hospitallier, owned it for a couple centuries before losing it to the Ottoman Empire in 1523. They merely relocated to Malta, as I discussed here, where they would eventually have a re-match with the Ottomans in a crazy bloodbath.

What does this mean for tourists like us? That Rhodes is pretty packed with culture: Ancient Greeks, ancient Arabs, Medieval Christian knights, Ottoman Turks, all serving as a backdrop for present-day Greeks’ excellent food and hospitality. 

Inside Rhodes’ archaeology museum. The artifacts are cool enough, but the building itself is really the best part.

The gloomy palace, where it’s pretty easy to envision knights striding grimly down the hallways.

Elli Beach was one of my favorite beaches, solely on the basis of that random diving board right there. 

At night the streets and plazas are packed with tourists roaming around the shops and restaurants. The shopping was good in Rhodes — even I was tempted to buy stuff.

My tour of Europe seemed to have two major historical themes: The clash of Christians versus Muslims, and the horrific scars of World War II. It seems like no matter where I went, there were memorials to the Nazis’ victims, and Rhodes was sadly no exception. It had once seen a thriving Jewish population — the descendants of Jewish people expelled from Spain, as it happens — who had their own unique culture and language. Now that culture is preserved lovingly by the island’s now-smaller Jewish population. If you can, you really should check out the synagogue/museum that, in part, stands as a memorial to those people who died or fled. It’s a little hard to find (most things are in Rhodes, it seems), but well worth it. 

Also well worth seeing: the ancient ruins. We got to check out an old temple ruin in the hills above the city. It wasn’t the most elaborate structure, but we visited around sunset, and it was pretty great to wander around the almost-deserted park area in the fading light. 

Lodging information:

Kos Bay Hotel: Kos is a fairly expensive place to stay, so if you’re going, this is a decent bet. The location seems a bit sketchy, as you have to pass by a few run-down structures to get there, but it’s clean and safe. Our bathroom was private to our room, but it did not have a shower curtain. Our beds were nice, but they were crammed three to a room that was clearly only meant to fit two. So… eh. At least the service was good.

Mango Rooms in Rhodes: A very cramped private room/bathroom, but the AC was powerful and the location was really good for the price. Also right above a really cool bar/restaurant. But then, all the food on Rhodes was pretty great, so you can’t miss there.

*Not a euphemism 

The island of Santorini

The Parthenon, Athens

Greece can be a tough country to do on a budget — despite the ongoing financial crisis there, it ain’t cheap. Or it wasn’t in July 2012, anyway. Many of those islands are spaced far from each other, and we were at the mercy of the ferry schedules and prices, which are high. We managed to hit four stops: Athens, Santorini, Kos, Rhodes.

At this remove, what do I remember about Greece? Sun-washed beaches, blue sea, poetically craggy landscape. Yes. And most importantly, food. The overflowing pitas, stuffed with meats! The Greek salads! They are exactly as we make a “Greek salad” in the U.S., but it’s better there because the ingredients are just fresher, it seems, and have more flavor. And the feta, good lord, the feta. Greece transportation and lodging can be expensive, but the food is cheap.

Speaking of cheap — if you have a student ID, access to all historical sites is free. Glorious.

And that’s lucky, because it costs 12 euros to get into the Parthenon in Greece. Although I understand the great importance of the site, to the naked eye… it’s really a few dusty pillars swarming with tourists. That’s sorta what you get. The new, gleaming museum at the base of the hill — which we also got into for free — is actually cooler to look at. All the well-preserved artifacts are in there, along with some good explanations about the place and the people. Also, air conditioning and no dust blowing in your face.

But the floors are made of glass, so if you’re wearing a skirt just know that the people on the level below you can see right on up there. Just a note of caution, ladies. And I guess also American gentlemen who favor loose shorts.

The city of Athens is not especially beautiful, but the tourist/central shopping district is fun  to wander around in after you’ve seen the city’s historic spots. You want some sandals? They got sandals. Boy, do they. Also sea-sponges to use as loofahs, Grecian-style dresses, and enough tacky graphic t-shirts to clothe everybody’s embarrassing dads and white-trash cousins for years to come. They also have frozen yogurt aplenty in Athens, but, this being Greece, they do it better: GREEK frozen yogurt. Thick Greek yogurt, that is also fro-yo. Wrap your brain around that for a second.

The protests against economic austerity had calmed down during our stop in Athens — the most we saw of it was extra gun-toting guards around government buildings. Obviously that changed when autumn came back, but summertime seemed to be a breather for protesters. 

Athens only requires about a day of sightseeing, then it’s off island-hopping. We headed to Santorini. 

Sunset-watching is a major event on the island. 

Santorini has a distinctive color scheme. Not all buildings look like this, but clearly there are enough to be charming.  

What to do on Santorini? Beaches, obviously. And clearly, you’re going to wander the narrow, sloping streets and join the crowds along the hillside to watch the sunsets. But I barely even need to mention such things. What I should mention, however, is that you need to 1) rent an ATV and 2) ride some donkeys. 

Rent an ATV and just zip along the roads to different beaches or lookout points. You have the roar of the engine in your years as breathtaking views whip by. And nothing says “Tourist: Out and proud” like riding an ATV in traffic while wearing a swimsuit.  24-hour rental will cost you something like 15-25 euros, depending. 

Also, donkeys. If you happen to find yourself at the Old Port, and you hand 5 euros to the brusque, non-English-speaking Greek man corralling donkeys, he will lead one over, angrily direct you to the saddle, and as soon as you’re on there he’ll give the donkey a mighty slap on the rear and send it trotting, with you awkwardly hanging on, up the massive stone steps. You are now without a guide, on the back of an extremely irritable pack animal — one that keeps slipping on the giant piles of donkey poo that carpet its path. 

About these steps from the Old Port — there are many hundreds of them, winding up a staggeringly high hillside to the village above. We had walked down them a few hours earlier, and ourselves did slip on donkey feces and risk getting kicked in the face by the many random herds of donkeys crowding the pathway. 

An example of the herds that you must tiptoe through. They have a lot of these animals just hanging around.

Those steps go on FOREVER. So the ride up was, on balance, better than the walk down. But our donkeys were not friends with each other. Oh no. Mine kept lunging at my friend’s donkey, and I watched in great fear as hers craned its neck over and bit mine, hard, on the neck. This, while barreling quickly up those very steep steps. I had visions of our donkeys just deciding to throw down and have one of those up-on-hind-legs fighting moments and then losing their balance and falling/crushing my friend and I under our respective mounts. But instead I just scraped my knee. This happened when my donkey, veering past another animal with an air of great disgust, careened too close to a wall. I now have a nickel-sized scar on there. The kind of souvenir money cannot buy.

Once we were safely dismounted, we agreed it was hilarious and fun and that we probably weren’t going to do it again for awhile. Still, I do recommend it. I don’t know your life, but donkey-riding opportunities do not just grow on trees so you’d better take advantage. 

Lodging info:

In Athens, we had the great fortune to stay with a couch-surfing host, who was awesome.** A friend who’d stayed with him previously had recommended him to us, and similarly vouched that we were nice, trustworthy travelers. He gave us a tour our first night in town, and then we all got gyros and beers together. One of those ideal couchsurfing experiences that make for the best kinds of trips.

In Santorini, we stayed at a hostel/hotel but had an equally great experience (The Greeks, as far as we can tell, are just super nice people). If you’re in Santorini, you  must try to stay at Pension Stella in Karterados. The lodgings are very nice, but it’s the proprietors who make it the best — George and Stella are amazing people who work overtime to help their guests. Just, stay with them, for real.

**If you’re unfamiliar, couchsurfing.org is a way to connect travelers. You put up a personal profile and say you’re either willing to host travelers, or looking for a spare couch to crash on in a particular city (You can send messages to people who have volunteered to host, and see if they can take you in). It’s like a lower-rent AirBnB, except I believe couchsurfing predates that site, and couchsurfing is free. Obviously you have to do your homework and make sure that your host/traveler is all above-board, has solid recommendations, doesn’t seem like a weirdo, etc., and I personally wouldn’t couchsurf alone, although lots of people do. As part of couchsurfing, it’s expected that you will hang out with your host/traveler, at least for part of the time. After all, part of the point is to meet people from other countries. Which is cool.

I wanted to call this Croatia: First Blood, thus tying in a Rambo reference to a blog post that includes me sustaining minor cuts. But I figured it was a bit of a stretch.

Possibly the most distinctive, gorgeous part of this gorgeous country is the Plitvice Lakes National Park. This place is a damn wonderland. 

Blue-green water, endless waterfalls, in the midst of a leafy forest of friggin magic.  We spent half a day getting there, then we stayed two nights and spent an entire day bussing it back to the coast, all for maybe six hours’ hike in this park. But, yeah, it was worth it. 

The interior of Croatia is forests and mountains and bears and whatnot, and in the middle is a particular series of lakes, fed by underwater streams and waterfalls. It’s created by some complex geological process that I read about and promptly forgot. But, you guys, it’s real pretty. Swimming is not allowed, and I understand why. With water this clear, I would have felt like I was befouling it just by getting in.

It’s like Narnia up there. (The books, that is — not the movies, which weren’t that great.) 

Yes, the water is that clear. 

Here I am at one of the lookout points, being enchanted.

Yep.

There isn’t much surrounding the park, which actually makes the place nicer and more laid-back. We found the one cheap restaurant near us, and stayed at a modest hostel. It was actually inside an apartment building, which in turn looked like a 1970s-era college dorm. In fact the village outside the park all pretty much looked like it was put up in the 1970s. Rapidly. 

It’s a popular spot — we did encounter large crowds, but we really didn’t care. The place was so gorgeous, it was hard to be annoyed. 

Then, onto Dubrovnik!

In case you’ve forgotten — or were too young/unborn to remember — Dubrovnik got smashed up pretty good in the early 90s. I won’t get into the crazy intricacies of the war (I tried to brush up on Croatian history, then I got confused and tired), but basically Croatia tried to declare independence from Yugoslavia. Yugoslavia objected. Bombed and burned, the city’s beautiful buildings and streets (not to mention the civilian population living there) suffered because of it.

The city has been cleaned up quite a bit — it actually looks shinier than many European capitals, precisely because much of it has been so recently fixed up. But the white stone streets are pocked with holes from the shelling, and every once in awhile there are other reminders: A sign outside a building, maybe, or the photos in the war museum or the odd gift-shop book documenting the period. It’s incredible, to look at the teeming tourist hordes, the beautiful streets and peaceful night sky, and compare it to photos from 1991.

But that was then: Now, Dubrovnik is quite popular, and rightly so. 

Views looking into and over the old city. 

Dubrovnik is a beautiful place to wander. The old city is a walled-in neighborhood perched right on the Mediterranean, surrounded by picturesque cliffs and the usual sapphire-blue waters. Plenty of old churches and statues (No European city lacks for churches and statues. Except maybe Amsterdam), but the real must-do is a walk around the top of the city walls. You pay admission to get up there, but you can wander however long you want, peering into the city and out to sea. 

Tourists on the street. Actual Croatians are probably the minority during summer months.

Handily, the sea is quite accessible from the old town. One can also go sea-kayaking right from the cove by the main gate, although winds were too high for us to kayak during our trip. We consoled ourselves with seafood paella and a cold lager by the docks, and then, because it’s always best to go swimming after a ton of food and beer, we went to our next adventure: rock-jumping.

A five-minute walk from the docks, just outside the city walls, is a cluster of tall rocks. One can jump off of them quite safely (unless one is really stupid or unlucky). Although I can tell you, standing on the outcropping, looking far down and seeing the jagged underwater rocks at an indeterminate depth below you, does give you pause. Or maybe that’s only if you’re Nervous. As I am.

But I jumped! And survived, bones unbroken.

Jumping was fun. Getting back on shore was a challenge. Remember those high winds that prevented us from sea kayaking? They were still busy, whipping up those waves in a salty frenzy, and us in the choppy water got tossed around and raked over the rocks as we scrambled back from the water. 

I saw this exact thing happen on Bay Watch, and it ended with David Hasselhof’s character breaking his back. I was gravely concerned. 

Instead we just got cuts on our legs, feet and hands. And then a day later, those cuts got itchy-red and full of pus-like fluid, so I imagine some kind of algae-related infection? But nobody’s limbs or digits rotted and fell off, so that’s ok then.

I got off a quick shot of some kid jumping after the wind calmed down. It doesn’t even look very high, but it totally was, I promise. Also my friend Irene’s hand is in the shot, whoops.

Dubrovnik is also a lovely city on a warm night. Outdoor cafes, strolling ice-cream-lickers, brilliant lights. We spent a good hour or so just sitting by the port, people-watching and resting our feet. 

If you hadn’t noticed, Dubrovnik is quite a hilly city. Not handicap-friendly.

Travel information:

For Plitvice, we stayed at Apartment Sanja. This, you will recall, was the simple one that felt like a baby boomer’s college dorm. But it has a full kitchen, is very well located for the price, and best of all, a really nice proprietor. When we got off at the wrong bus stop and called him, he drove over (his daughter in tow) to pick us up. He gave us excellent information for touring the park and was generally a super nice dude. The wifi didn’t work very well, but meh.

Family Stanos in Dubrovnik was similarly staffed by a super nice dude, who similarly lived in the place with his family. He poured us some traditional Croatian liqueur, gave us awesome recommendations, and showed us to our pretty, comfortable room. It’s outside the old city, and it’s a fair walk down (and then back up) many, many stone steps to get there, but cost was much lower and we didn’t much mind the exercise. For the hospitality, I’d say it was well worth it.