Women in mini skirts, women in headscarves, women in black veils. Opposites that catch the eye. Modern cities and remote villages, western thinking and rooted traditions. Businessmen in suit and tie, shepherds in knitting sweaters and tattered pants. Common to them all: The Turkish hospitality, it laughs at us from every face. Hos Geldiniz! Welcome to Turkey!
For days it smells of fermented grapes: sour, heavy, insistent. In Western Turkey, under the merciless sun are drying the raisins of the world. Spread out on towels on concrete places, along the four-lane interstate highway or in front of houses. Initially, green and sweet as sugar, then shriveled and tart, dry and delicious at the end. The scent travels with us across Turkey.
The first Turkish chai we drink at a gas station. It's evening. We asked the gas station attendant if we can stay here. No problem. But first we get tea, strong black tea, slightly bitter, sweet. In Central Anatolia we are accompanied by headwind: it lets waver the yellow burned prairie grass, ruffles trees, shakes the bushes, lets arise small tornadoes in the dusty plains, challenges us gleefully to a duel. It wakes us up in the morning and shakes on the tent poles in the evening, continuous, across Turkey.
The muezzin in Pamukkale has a special voice. Five times a day he is heard of the mosque next to our guesthouse. Between each Sura a break, you can hear him breathing, a crack in the speaker, then he continues to sing, passionate. In the morning gently and quietly, hard and dry at noon, in the evening wistfully until he ceases. Mosques are everywhere in the country. From now on, the muezzin of Pamukkale is our benchmark. His voice in the ear we cycle, always to the east, across Turkey.
A woman changed our life in Zara, a typical Turkish town in which we stayed after a long bike ride. Serene, with a massive mosque, a fountain on the town square and guys with cool bikes. In the morning we stand around looking for a suitable breakfast. The woman speaks to us in English, asking if we would like to have breakfast. In the small shop in front of us we could get "Turkish breakfast, very cheap", only 5 Lyra per person. We are skeptical. There are no chairs or tables, and the store looks more like a kiosk than a breakfast place. But quickly there be filled two styrofoam plates with sausage, cheese, honey, butter and olives and then we are send to the bakery around the corner, where we are supplied with fresh pita bread. Thus equipped, we go to the next tea house, enjoy chair and table in the morning sun and get served coffee and tea. Prohibited picnic in restaurant? What a nonsense! Since then we look in every major town in the morning for "Turkish breakfast, very cheap." And soon we also know the appropriate Turkish word for it : Kahvalti. We need it often on the way to the east. It's the magic word to open us the door to the breakfast paradise in Turkey.
It has become cooler. The wideness of Anatolia lies behind us. The summer heat is gone. On the slopes of the Black Sea coast hangs thick fog. The birch trees change color, people pick rose hips. It has become fall. A few days ago we've seen storks circling above our heads, we are awakened by the noise of starlings in the trees. They move to the south and we are still facing east. On and on, until the end of Turkey.
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