I spent some amazing years teaching in Turkey, and I’d be happy to send you copies at a discount. Contact me to share this tale with friends and family. And if you haven’t read it yet, well, prepare to be surprised. Five Stars on Amazon with 53 reviews. Order before December 15th, because I’ll be off on yet another adventure.
Shameless self-promotion, I know.
Sigh…
Our second week in Istanbul was less eventful, mostly because we’d been pummeled by the Turkish cold bug. Poor Lynette had it the whole time we were there. So unfair!
I started feeling punk on the way back from Cappadocia. I knew I had a fever by the time we got to the Kayseri Airport, so we went up to the cafeteria to get some hot water for a cup of Tylolhot, the Turkish cold remedy that we basically mainlined for the rest of our stay. Well, enough of that. The show must go on!
Far more delicious than our Tylolhot was the Turkish Delight:
I talked Lynette (the Taxi Queen, as I later learned) to forego a taxi and take the shuttle bus to Taksim, 3/4 of the way home. It was a comfortable ride in a beautiful bus. Never mind that it took 1 1/2 hours. When we got to Taksim I suggested the funicular and tram (public transport), but Lynette was feeling crummy so we grabbed a taxi. Our driver seemed nice enough, but as we got closer to Sultanahmet he began complaining more and more. Many of the taxi drivers don’t know the city well, and he tried to drop us off a half-mile from our destination. No way! We finally got him to drop us off a few blocks from the apartment, and I handed him the full 110 lira that was on the meter (about $45). He pulled the same trick our previous driver had pulled, swearing that I’d given him two 5’s instead of 50’s. I said “HAYIR, Çok ayip!” (NO, shame on you!) and we stormed off in spite of his protests. I wouldn’t advise anyone to trust an Istanbul taxi driver. When we told Musa about it, he asked if we’d gotten his taxi number, but we hadn’t. From now on, I’ll take down the taxi number before I ever step into an Istanbul taxi. Oh, FURY!
Each day is punctuated by five (I think six) calls to prayer. Here’ s evidence from a small mosque that these are broadcast live by each mosque’s imam:
On Friday I felt better, although Lynette felt worse, so she stayed in while I headed off to Arnavütköy and Robert College. It was a sunny day and my heart filled with nostalgic warmth as I climbed the long hill to campus.
Robert College’s main building, Gould Hall (in autumn):
The campus had hardly changed, although it boasted a new teacher’s lounge (a previous computer lab) and a beautifully renovated library. I got to chat with a number of my teaching cronies, all of whom were almost as happy to see me as they were eager for their spring break, which began that day. I also basked in enthusiastic hugs from former students, both male and female. I’ll never get over how warm the Turks are; I feel true affection both for and from my former students.
I trekked down to Arnavütköy to the bank and was pleased to see my gypsy friend still selling flowers on the main street.
After a chatty cocktail hour at Bizimtepe, the Robert College alumni country club attached to the campus, I trekked back down the hill to head home. I expected a packed bus at rush hour, and I got one. It took an hour to crawl along the Bosphorus to Kabataş, where I’d catch the tram home—a quicker ride. When I got there I just missed a tram and had to wait for the next one, usually about 3-5 minutes. Well, it started to drizzle as the crowd increased, but no tram. After 20 minutes an announcement (in Turkish) informed us that the trams were stuck in a traffic jam in Sultanahmet near the train station. Sigh… We stood in that rain for nearly a half hour, and very few of us had umbrellas. Heck, it had been a gorgeous day!
A kind young man gave up a seat for me in the tram, one of the few perks of having white hair. By the time I got to the Sultanahmet stop I’d quit shivering, but another six-block walk in the rain didn’t do my cold any good. By the time I got back I was losing my voice, which was totally gone the next morning.
Lynette and I did manage to get out a few more times, but we had to cancel three social engagements because we just weren’t feeling that great. So—Bahadir, Julide, and Mark and Jolee: I’ll definitely see you on the next visit!
I couldn’t resist including this view over the Golden Horn from the Süleymaniye Mosque:
We did manage a short trek to the Maiden’s Tower for tea. The Maiden’s Tower (Kız Kilesi) is steeped in myths, my favorite one that it was built by a sultan to protect his daughter from a foretold death at age 18. The sultan visited his daughter regularly, and on her 18th birthday he brought her a basket of food and gifts, unaware that someone had sneaked a viper into the basket. Of course, it struck and killed his precious princess.
The Maiden’s Tower perches in the Bosphorus just across from Sultanahmet near Uskudar:
This princess is having her wedding photos taken in front of the Maiden’s Tower—note the hair-covering headpiece.
We also found our way on the metro to the Chora Church (Kariye), a stunning Byzantine church near the old city wall that has been cleaned and renovated. Sadly, the naos (main area) of the church was closed for renovation, but there were plenty of beautiful mosaics and frescoes for us to see. It’s supposed to be one of the best preserved Byzantine churches in the world.
This stunning dome is a part of the narthex decorations in the Chora Church:
And this glittering masterpiece decorates a section of the ceiling of the narthex:
After both outings we came home and collapsed on the couch. Energy levels were NOT high.
We’d planned a trip to Emirgan Park on Monday to see the tulip displays, but we just didn’t have the energy. Instead, we headed down to nearby Gülhane Park, just below Topkapı Palace. The tulips there were in full bloom, and people were out enjoying them, snapping photos and basking in the beauty of Istanbul’s Tulip Festival.
This river of tulips and hyacinths (not all blooming yet) flows under the bridge in the background.
In spite of a cloudy day, people basked in the luscious displays of Istanbul’s Tulip Festival.
This little miss waited her turn to pose with Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, the founder of the Turkish Republic:
And this little dolly was pleased to pose for a tulip snapshot:
We topped off our final evening with a bowl of mercimek (lentil soup) in a small restaurant near our apartment. Pretty quiet, but nice. Istanbul is a good place, even for those a bit under the weather. Bed by nine, and up by 2 AM to catch the airport shuttle. No more taxis for us!
Ah, heaven! Back in my beloved Turkey again. I’m actually here to work on the guidebook I wrote with my friend Edda, Istanbul’s Bazaar Quarter~Backstreet Walking Tours. If you haven’t bought one yet, you might find it interesting.
I’m updating information, improving the walking directions, and taking care of some contractual issues before we have the book developed into a phone app. My friend Lynette has been an indispensable aide, my guinea pig as she attempts to follow written walk directions with neither maps nor photos to guide her. We’ve improved on nearly all of the 100 sets of directions in the book, and let me tell you, we were greatly relieved to finish the last walk. We celebrated by treating ourselves to a dinner of fasuliye (spiced, stewed beans), pilaf, and eggplant hot dish near the Süleymaniye Mosque. It was fabulous (and quite reasonable).
Lynette on top of the Sair Han overlooking the city and the Golden Horn:
Speaking of reasonable, I feel bad for the Turks, as the lira is weak right now. It’s a GREAT time for Americans to travel here, though. When I taught here a dollar was about 1.3 to 1.6 lira, and now a dollar is 2.6 lira. It makes for some cheap meals. Sadly, though, hotels and carpet dealers operate on the dollar, so no great deals there.
The ceiling of the Süleymaniye Mosque—cascading domes and arches:
We spent our first four days in Istanbul in my friend Musa’s third floor apartment with two bedrooms and a stunning view over the Marmara. It even comes complete with a pair of cooing doves on the balcony. All this space is a luxury, especially in the Sultanahmet location. Unfortunately, Lynette caught a nasty cold on the plane and has been lying low much of each day.
My friend Musa Başaran dyes fibers and designs kilims. The design he’s showing on the computer will be fabricated in tulips next week by the Haghia Sophia:
I’m posing beside the silk threads Musa uses in his own kilims:
On Saturday I ferried out to join my friend Sandra on Burgazada, one of the Princes Islands. It was a treat to revisit its horse carriages and incredible vistas. No cars allowed sure works for me!
This is the local taxi service as well as an adventure for tourists:
On our ride back from the island Sunday morning Sandra confronted a young man who was going to light up a cigarette on the ferry (in spite of clear NO SMOKING signs). They ended up in quite a quarrel with him insisting that people should resist unreasonable rules. A Turkish man stepped in to support Sandra, but we all just ended up shaking our heads. Turks can definitely be stubborn. Actually, I’m surprised at how many Turkish people still smoke in spite of all the information about the health risks. The entire cover of Turkish cigarette packages is a warning about smoking.
My friend Sandra on our ferry ride back to the city, cloaked in fog:
Before we knew it, the time had come to head for Cappadocia. Lynette and I decided to forego the lengthy public transport to the airport (3 hours, 35 lira total) and grab a taxi. It should have cost about 100 lira (now only $40). “Traffic problem,” our driver said, “taxi 200 to 250 lira.”
“Turn on the meter,” I told him, and he did, but it stopped at 23.5 lira. (Gosh, I wonder how.) When I asked about it he said it was automatic. I was mad. When we arrived at the airport he asked for 260 lira. What???? By that time smoke was pouring from my ears. I told him to wait and walked over to the taxi stand. Another driver said it should cost about 130-140 lira from Sultanahmet. I stormed back to our driver and gave him 140 lira. He called me a crazy woman. Yup! I hate when this happens. I’ve heard that taxi drivers will often bilk tourists out of money, and if I hadn’t known what to do (and known a little Turkish), we’d have spent an extra $50 on that trip.
We thoroughly enjoyed Cappadocia. I’ve fallen hard for Göreme, and the Kelebek Hotel is like a kiss on the cheek. We woke the first morning to a bevy of balloons floating through the sky, recalling memories of our balloon ride the last time we were in Cappadocia.
Most of the stone formations in Cappadocia have been carved out as homes:
I happily connected with old friends at the hotel (Mehmet and Hasan), and we stopped in to visit with Ali, a carpet dealer who took us dancing a few years ago when we came with a tour. According to Hasan, Göreme is about the size of my home town of Grand Marais, about 2000 residents but it has 143 hotels. Amazing. A good percentage of them are cave hotels, too.
A bevy of back-street signs directing tourists to the many cave hotels:
And look who I discovered walking along near those signs:
On our second day in Cappadocia the power went out—not just in our area, but all over Turkey. I can’t begin to imagine what the traffic must have been in Istanbul. It’s a nightmare even when the stoplights are functioning. Fortunately, our hotel had a generator, so we had both lights and internet.
We ate that evening at the Dibek Restaurant, and thankfully they, too, had a generator. They serve regional foods prepared by the family under the direction of Anne-Anne (Grandmother). The decor is traditional with floor cushions and low tables. I went back to thank them for the fabulous meal, and they were tickled that I could speak Turkish. It warms my heart to reach out to them in their own language.
Lynette and I wait patiently for our dinner to arrive at the Dibek. We weren’t the first diners—there were two other tables that early.
The next day Lynette was a bit under the weather, so I hiked alone: five challenging kilometers through the Pigeon Valley and up to the top of Uçhısarı, which was once a castle overlooking the entire valley. The highest point in Cappadocia, this castle was carved from the soft rock of Cappadocia’s tallest peak over 2000 years ago. It’s pocked with windows and doorways carved into the stone, and I wasn’t sorry that they’ve added stairs around the outside up to the summit. Lots of stairs.
A view of Uçhısarı from about halfway through the Pigeon Valley:
And then another more up close and personal:
I later learned that people lived in these carved-out homes until 1950, when they were relocated to hand-built homes for safety. The next year a large section of Uçhisar caved in during an earthquake.
The next day was a tearful goodbye to the magic of Cappadocia, and back to Istanbul. Ah, Istanbul!
Our fourth and final week in Turkey began with the arrival of friends from Switzerland, Franziska and Carl. Their glee at every experience buoyed us all as we explored the back streets of Istanbul.
Carl, me, and Jerry on our apartment balcony (photo by Franziska):
While they explored Sultanahmet on their first day, Jerry and I headed up to my publisher’s office near Istiklal, wandered through the sumptuous Pera Palas Hotel (where Agatha Christie wrote Murder on the Orient Express), took in the Pera Museum’s exhibit of Manolo Valdez, then indulged in an Efes and French fries at the Tavanarası, a funky rooftop cafe.
The Pera Palas bar and lounge—not too shabby:
An Efes break at the Tavanarası Restaurant:
The next day we explored the Bazaar Quarter with Carl and Franziska, skipping along through workshops and hans, which they loved. We found a few great deals on “scarf street,” of course finishing with adult beverages on the balcony before finding a new spot for dinner.
Roses in bloom at the Çuhacı Han
Morning tea with Carl and Franzisca in the Çuhacı Han:
We stopped into Kaya Demirci’s jewelry shop, where he was setting diamonds into this necklace (on a wax form):
A bouquet of silk scarves flutter in the breeze:
We covered the food bases well, indulging in meals from kebabs to kumpir (baked potatoes with butter and grated cheese mashed in, then piled with numerous toppings).
Jerry’s favorite döner, spiced lamb sliced off a huge skewered roast:
Kumpir, the mashed potato treat!
They also enjoyed our rooftop drama—a family of seagulls across from our apartment. The three remaining fledgelings (we lost one last week) have grown by leaps and bounds in two weeks, and it’s been fascinating to see the devoted parents chase away hungry blackbirds and gulls and take turns bringing food for their famished babies (regurgitating tiny fish for them). As Jerry put it, “I’ve developed a new respect for seagulls after seeing how hard they work.”
Mama and her hungry babes:
Finishing their stay with a Bosphorus cruise and another meal of mezes and lamb, Carl and Franziska assured us they’d come back to Istanbul. Their taste of the city has whetted their palates for new adventures.
Flower sellers near the Kadiköy pier:
After waving them off, we headed over to the Asian side to rent bikes for a trek along the Marmara. Getting there was a comedy of errors (the new Metro delivered us a few miles up from our destination), but we finally found our bike shop and headed off on wheels. Istanbul has little green space, so they’ve reclaimed a wide swath of sea to create parkland all along the Sea of Marmara. We biked an hour (about 10 miles), weaving between pedestrians who ignored the bike path signs. Turks are wonderful, but they’re not big on following rules. Jerry was reluctant to stop, but was snoring shortly after we settled on a park bench. Oh, to fall asleep so effortlessly!
Jerry recovers mid-ride:
The trek back was harder (into the wind), and we were worn out by the time we returned to Bostancı. With a few hours before our scheduled meeting with my friend Söner, we found a seaside restaurant that served beer and French fries, our new favorite snack. Söner arrived to share another beer with us, then drove us to Kadiköy and walked us through Moda, Kadiköy’s charming upscale community of beautiful homes, shaded cobbled streets, and sea views. We had dinner in a bustling Kadiköy street cafe/night club while a Beşiktaş soccer game blasted from screens dotting the street’s many cafes.
Me and my friend Söner in Moda:
On our ferry ride back to the European side I noticed brilliant lights near Beşiktaş—a bustling Bosphorus community. “It must be a home game,” I commented, interested, but not excited, as Beşiktaş isn’t one of the city’s top teams. We stepped off the ferry to fireworks exploding over the Golden Horn. “They must have won.”
Little did I know how that win would affect us. We joined a throng to await the tram for our Sultanahmet apartment, realizing there was little chance for a seat in spite of our tired legs. The first tram was packed solid with white-and-black garbed Beşiktaş fans, singing at the top of their lungs and pounding on the windows and doors. The doors opened, but there was no way another body could possibly squeeze in. Not only were there fans, but many carried seats they’d pulled from the stadium and grass they’d cut from the field. Oh, my!
“Maybe we should get a taxi,” I suggested.
“Let’s try one more,” Jerry responded. Exhausted from a day of exercise, the thought of walking to find a free taxi was far from enticing. Another tram pulled up, just as noisy and crowded as the last. The doors opened and the fans “manning the doors” grabbed us and pulled us in, laughing. I have to admit, it was fun to merge with these soccer maniacs. One had stolen a huge fire extinguisher (on wheels), which stood by the door with a white plastic seat and a square of sod sitting atop. Three times the driver stopped the tram tram and asked the revelers to settle down. After a hearty cheer, the chaos would abate and he’d continue. The noise would gradually rise until he had to stop again.
Wild Beşiktaş fans pause to pose on the tram:
Soccer mania is a mystery to me—mob behavior at best. I later learned that this was the last game to be played in the İnönü stadium tearing it down.
On Mother’s Day we met my friend Alison for a stroll through Balat, an area I’d never explored. Once a hillside Greek community, it was abandoned during the population exchange when all area Christians were deported to Greece (and Greek Muslims moved to Turkey).
St. Stephen’s Bulgarian Church steeple:
Ataturk’s intent was to create a more cohesive Turkey by making it all Muslim, but it was a painful time for those uprooted from their homes. In addition to scores of fascinating houses, we saw many people in traditional dress, as this has become a fundamentalist community of both Muslims and Jews. We saw men with şalvar (loose-fitting pants), turbans and flowing coats, and many women were garbed in head-to-toe black.
Balat residents buy their morning poacı (bread) from a street vendor:
Two young men in turbans and flowing robes:
We were amused at a common practice of letting children sit inside window grates for fresh air—sort of a window/playpen approach to supervised play.
These little dollies were tickled to be photographed:
Sunday morning laundry in Balat:
We happened upon an ancient Christian Church (1292), now the Fetiye Mosque and Christian museum, then later stumbled on an Orthodox Greek Church holding a christening ceremony. Wonders never cease. We finished our tour with lunch at the Zeyrekhane, a fabulous terrace restaurant perched high above the Golden Horn.
Two days left—and we spent one evening with our friends Mark and Jolee, Americans who’ve lived in Istanbul for the past six years. We’d had them for dinner the previous week, and they returned the favor with a walking tour of their Çıhangır neighborhood and a sumptuous dinner. Jolee made a few mezes, the crowning glory of which is a traditional dish of a fresh artichoke heart covered with diced potatoes, carrots, and peas and drizzled with olive oil, lemon juice, and dill. Oh, yum!
Jolee’s Zeytinyağı Enginar and other mezes:
Of course, the delicate grilled lamb chops were beyond compare. Mark and Jolee are fascinating, interesting ex-pats and great fun to boot! More good times ahead…
We spent our last evening with Dana and Matt, friends who I met through my sojourn in Ethiopia (Matt volunteered with me at the orphanage). They were on their way back from Addis Ababa, where they are adopting a 9-month-old boy.
We’ve hugged our friend Musa goodbye (my kilim designer friend who rented us his apartment) and caught what sleep we could before our taxi arrived at 3 AM. Back to life and adventures in Minnesota, where we hear our seemingly endless winter may have finally abated.
A Turkish Cat House (Kedi evi) provided by the city government for strays:
Ah, leisure! Well, relative leisure anyway. Jerry and I have bid all our tour buddies goodbye and are basking in the quiet of a Sultanahmet apartment. My friend Musa Başaran, kilim designer extraordinaire, owns a six-story building just blocks from the Blue Mosque, and we’ve taken one of his apartments for our last two weeks here. We enjoy a view of the lovely Sokullu Paşa Mosque, the Sea of Marmara, and a family of fledgling seagulls on a roof below our balcony.
Musa’s kilims:
The Sokullu Paşa Mosque from our balcony:
For the first few nights after our tour we checked into the Turkoman Hotel, where we were met by their scruffy dog, Fluffy (I know—hardly an apt Turkish dog name, but what can one do?) and their volunteer cat, Arsız (which means shameless—a fitting moniker). In fact, while we were settling into our room, Arsız wandered in and curled up on our sun-soaked rug. Minutes later she’d settled up on the bed. Shameless. Though I’m allergic to cats, I tolerated it for a whopping ten minutes while Jerry gave her the requisite portion of petting and stroking.
The shameless Arsız makes herself at home:
The terrace breakfast room at the Turkoman overlooks the Blue Mosque, a heart-stopping view that enticed us to linger long over a last cup of coffee—filtered coffee, no less. I hope the days of Nescafe are behind me.
Our breakfast buddy on the Turkoman terrace:
May 1st is Labor Day across the world, a day that has often grown violent in Istanbul. We escaped the city with five of our friends by ferrying across the Marmara to Termal at Yalova, a mountain spa community that I adore. We soaked in the hot tub, scrubbed in the 500-year-old hamam (Turkish bath), sweated in the sauna, then shocked our systems with a plunge into an icy tub beside the sauna. Then we all moved outdoors to the olympic-sized outdoor pool, naturally heated from hot-springs pumped into the water. We swam and basked the afternoon away, finishing with a soft drink and a walk along the river.
Sparkling clean outside the hamam—me, Nancy, Judy, Glen, Bob, and Eddie. (Photo by Jerry)
We all reveled in the park-like atmosphere, the hot-spring eye-cleaning station and the lung-clearing steam breather. If nothing else, it soothes the soul to be in such a pristine, peaceful environment. Ataturk (the Father of Turkey) took the cure at this spa on a regular basis.
An olive stand in the Yalova street Market:
That evening we returned to find the Hippodrome chock full of sticker-covered cars—what??? A little research revealed that it was the Allgau-Orient Rallye, an event of 113 cars trekking back roads from Allgau, Germany, to Aman, Jordan, over the course of three weeks.
Rally cars lined up near the Blue Mosque:
Drivers both young and old spent two nights in Istanbul, many sleeping in their vehicles. One couple slept in a tent on their car roof—amazing!
Rooftop accommodations, sleep at your own peril!
Beer played a large part in the event as well. Heck, they’re Germans. Along the way the drivers earned points for a series of specific tasks like taking a photo of someone milking a cow in Germany, of a ferry crossing the Marmara, or of Turks drinking beer in Istanbul. The winner of the competition would win a camel, which they would, of course, have to leave in Jordan. The drivers would fly home, leaving their cars behind to be sold for a charity. What a blast! If you’re curious, check out the videos on http://www.allgaeu-orient.de/
The next day Jerry, Nancy Daley and I hiked to the Süleymaniye Mosque, which has been closed for renovation for the past five years. It was lovely to see this masterpiece in its full glory, all scrubbed and shiny.
Spring Irises bedeck tombs in the Süleymaniye cemetery:
The Stunning Süleymaniye Mosque:
After numerous contortions to take photos in the sanctuary, I emerged to realize I’d lost my prescription sunglasses. I took off my shoes and donned a scarf again to go in and hunt for them, but they were nowhere to be found. I reminded myself that if you lose things in Turkey you get them back and approached a guard outside. “Güneş gözlüğüm kaybettim,” I said (something like ‘I lost my sunglasses’). The guard held up his finger, reached behind a counter, and pulled them out. Thank goodness someone had turned them in. Whew!
The amazing city view from the Süleymaniye courtyard:
On the walk home Nancy treated us to döner, a delicious meat sandwich similar to a Greek gyro. YUM! That afternoon Jerry and I moved into our apartment at Musa’s then collapsed. I’m not a big napper, but I was out for over an hour. Heaven.
The next morning we met Sally and Judy (more friends from the tour) for a trip to the Marpuççular (bead) Han and a tour of the Rüstem Paşa Mosque.
Rüstem Paşa has some of the finest hand-painted tiles in Turkey:
Sally emerges from the Men’s Room (When ya gotta go…)
That was the last of our time with friends from home—they left the next morning.
Saturday Jerry and I hopped a ferry to Burgazada to visit my friend Sandra. Burgazada is one of the Prince’s Islands, a series of small islands off the coast of Istanbul, a peaceful oasis with no cars. Residents and visitors walk, bike, or hire horse carriages to get around the islands.
The Burgazada taxi stand:
We spent Saturday wandering the island with Sandra and finished with a sumptuous fish dinner at a seaside restaurant.
Jerry and I pose on stone stairs to nowhere down on a seaside pier
Sunday we ferried to the largest island, Büyükada, where we rented bikes and rode around the island. It may sound idyllic, but we began at great peril, sharing the road with scores of wobbly bicyclists and thundering horse carriages. Once we broke away from the hordes, though, we pedaled the coastline, enjoying views of the sea, the other islands, and Istanbul in the distance.
Well worth the bike ride!
We finished with a beer and French fries at a little outdoor restaurant, where we chatted with a delightful young couple, surgeons visiting from Ankara. It never ceases to amaze me how friendly the Turks are once you open to them.
It’s been a lovely week, and last night we welcomed friends from Switzerland to our little abode. Carl and Franziska are excited to be here, and we’re eager to share the many charms of Istanbul. The great dilemma is how to squeeze everything into three days. We’ll do our best.
Yet another week of adventures with friends in Turkey—oh, lucky me! Lucky us. We began week two in Antalya, one of my favorite cities. We arrived around noon at 7 Mehmet, a modern open-fronted restaurant overlooking the Mediterranean. Our guide Mehmet deemed it one of his favorite restaurants, and it was spectacular. The manager emerged with a tray of a dozen mezes (hors d’oeuvres) to choose from, then a massive tray of uncooked meats, ranging from spicy lamb kebobs to steaks to lamb shanks to chicken and fresh fish. Within minutes we had drinks, mezes and bread before us, and soon an array of luscious main courses arrived. Oh, my.
A Turkish meal begins with a variety of mezes:
Our guide, Mehmet, explains our meat options:
Everyone snaps a photo of the Antalya beach after lunch:
After desserts, tea, and coffee, we headed for the Antalya Museum, which holds treasures from the area’s many ruins, artfully displayed with thorough explanations in both Turkish and English. Since many of Turkey’s greatest treasures reside in Berlin and London, they’re quite proud to have finally acquired the top half of an important statue of Hercules. Mehmet explained that in 1980 it was discovered in two pieces in the ruins of ancient Perge, and its discoverers reburied it to gather equipment and retrieve it the next day. The returned to find that the top half of the statue had been stolen. It finally materialized in Boston, and lengthy negotiations finally brought it back to its home in Turkey. A life-sized statue, it’s a significant archeological find.
Hercules is once again whole and home in Antalya:
Chris stops for a shoe shine in Antalya’s old city:
Sunset over the Mediterranean:
We spent two glorious days exploring Antalya, deciding to forego another tour of ruins for a boat ride on the Mediterranean. Mehmet chartered a wooden sailboat, the highlight of the trip for many. We skimmed along the rocky coastline until we reached Düden Falls, where we anchored.
Düden Falls, Antalya:
Some of us dove into the sea, as warm as Minnesota’s inland lakes in July, though far saltier. It was fabulous. My 84-year-old friend Thelma swam with us, increasing the respect that everyone had already developed for her. Thelma’s my role model, enjoying every experience that comes her way. She didn’t balk at a thing on this trip—talk about living life to the fullest! Once we’d dried off and sipped a brew or two, we were treated to a lunch of fresh grilled fish, salad, and pasta. YUM!!!
Sally presents her fresh grilled lunch:
After an afternoon wandering the old city, my young friend Aşkin joined us for dinner. We’ve been friends since 2005, and he calls me “My Sweetie Teacher.” Aşkin has moved to Antalya to help engineer a 30-million-dollar yacht with a heliport on the deck. Man, oh man. Some people live mighty high, I guess. Turkey is proud to be producing yachts on the level of Hamburg, Germany. Its economy is healthy and growing, partly because it’s a progressive and innovative country and partly because it’s a young country. 60% of its population is under 45.
A pesky pelican gets shooed from a roadside shop on our way to Konya:
Female friends garbed for the mosque at Konya:
On our way up to Cappadocia we stopped at Konya, where we toured the Selimiye Mosque and the Mevlana Museum, the center of Sufi mysticism founded by the famous poet, Rumi. We’re most familiar with the whirling dervishes of this movement, which was totally fascinating.
The museum was filled with tableaux of Sufi life:
These are seven principles of Mevlana:
How could anyone dispute this wisdom from Rumi, the 13th century poet sage?
Our next destination was Cappadocia, the land of bizarre rock formations and cave homes. It broke my heart to stay in a bland, massive hotel rather than the charming Kelebek in Göreme, but that’s one of the trade-offs for traveling in a large group. Though the Dinler Hotel was disappointing, their food was the best of all the hotels we stayed in. Sadly, though, we were all so stuffed from ten days on the road that we could hardly take full advantage.
Our shadows cavort on a sunset rock formation:
A camel poses for photos at a roadside stop:
Yet another amazing formation:
Eleven of us opted for the expensive but mind-boggling balloon ride over the area. We paid $220 each for the experience of a lifetime, sharing a wicker basket with friends as our driver navigated our balloon over the ripples and fairy chimneys of Göreme, the Pigeon Valley, and the Rose Valley. It was beyond stunning.
Muriel, Susie, Chris, Eddie, and Lynette prepare for take off–
Looking down on the bizarre landscape (and an inflating balloon)
Our pilot communicated by walkie-talkie with his ground crew, who followed along beneath us to position for our landing. Unfortunately, they got the trailer stuck on a steep roadside incline and had to unhook their truck and tow it out from the other side. We hovered happily until they extricated themselves and tore off to another field, where we landed directly on the trailer. A few of us were carried from the basket to the ground, and Lynette, our youngest, was carried across the field to a card table table, where we were treated to champagne and presented with heavy gold medals, proof of our unforgettable experience.
That night my friend Ali (a Göreme carpet dealer) brought five of us to a cave night club for live music and dancing. It was an absolute blast; the Turks welcomed us warmly with smiles and encouragement as we danced, and they went nuts over Jerry, who dances with enthused abandon. The only foreigners there, we joined hands with the Turks for the halay, a traditional Turkish dance. I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed a night out so much. And Susie got her dancing fix, an absolute necessity at home and away.
Dancin’ in the cave bar (photo by Ali)
The next day we visited an underground city and a number of extraordinary rock formations, then hopped on a plane for Istanbul, completing our circle tour of Turkey.
We finished with a Bosphorus cruise, a lovely fish lunch in the quaint waterside community of Beylerbeyi, and a visit to the Grand Bazaar.
The Bosphorus’ Rumile Castle was built in 1453 by the Ottomans to conquer Constantinople.
We celebrated with a final meal at the Taş Han’s Arkat Night Club, located in its underground cistern. The highlight of their floor show was a belly dancing lesson for two of our members, Muriel Thompson and Bob Hertzberger. It just doesn’t get better.
Muriel and Bob have a go at belly dancing:
I never dreamed that a group of 20 friends could make for such an interesting tour. We all enjoyed it, and even our tour guide felt the camaraderie of this bright, interested, and positive group. As I said earlier, lucky us!
Half of us are extending our trip to enjoy Istanbul. And enjoy it we will.
It’s heaven to be back in friendly, fascinating Turkey, and I’m sharing it with 20 friends. People asked me to organize a tour of Turkey, and this is my compromise—an exclusive GoAhead Tour for just us. It’s been beyond fascinating.
I’ve traveled Turkey on my own, often with guided tours of particular sites, but this tour is amazing. We have a spanking new Mercedes tour bus and our own full-time guide, who talks us through the historical, political, and social facets of Turkey as we pass through.
The Sultan’s bedroom in Topkapı Palace, Istanbul:
The domed ceiling of the majestic Haghia Sophia, Istanbul:
School girls waiting to use a rest room in Sultanahmet, Istanbul:
We spent two days in Istanbul before heading west down the Gallipoli Peninsula, where we ferried across the Dardenelles Strait to Troy. Hard to believe, but someone actually discovered the location of Ancient Troy where the great battle was fought over Helen. We’re all amazed at Mehmet’s vast knowledge of Turkish history and the archeology of each site.
Our wonderful tour guide, Mehmet Çabuk:
One great help on our tours has been “whisperers”, remote headsets that carry Mehmet’s comments to us without him having to yell. It’s an amazing improvement, especially for those of us who are hearing challenged or who tend to wander off taking photos.
We continued south along the Aegean Sea as Mehmet transported us back in time through the Persian, Roman, Greek, and Ottoman empires (among others–see the link at the top of my blog page for an interactive map of the Mediterranean’s historical empires).
Standing columns at Pergamom:
Ephesus, of course, was a highlight, one of the best-preserved ancient cities in the world. It blew my mind to think that 250,000 people lived there over 2000 years ago.
Our Group heads down the main street in Ephesus, Turkey:
A few of us split off to see the upper-class terraced houses, which had intricate wall paintings, floor murals, and stunning marble wall coverings.
Mosaic floors in the terraced homes at Ephesus, Turkey:
We also visited the reputed home of Mary, the mother of Jesus. Though I’m not convinced she really lived there (so far from Bethlehem), she apparently fled Jerusalem to avoid persecution for the evils of her son. I have to admit, though, it was a serene mountain-top setting, and I was surprised to see that it was visited by many Turks. People don’t realize that Islam embraces Biblical history with Jesus as a prophet and that Mohammed was the next prophet after Jesus.
The home of Mary…
We also visited Şirince (Sheer-IN-jay), a quaint mountain village that lost its Greek-speaking citizens in the population exchange at the end of the first world war. It gave us a taste of rural Turkey as well as a few sips of the fruit wines it has become famous for.
Şirince’s Greek-style homes near Selçuk, Turkey:
Our next stop was Didyma’s Temple of Appollo, a 2500-year-old oracle second second in the Hellenic world only to the Oracle at Delphi. Young female priestesses inhaled gasses emitting from the ground and gave cryptic answers to questions from people who traveled many miles to consult the oracle about their fates. Intricate marble carvings surround the temple, including floral patterns, griffons, and repeated images of Medusa. Two of its 60-foot high columns still stand, majestic above the ruins.
Medusa guards the Temple of Appollo, Didyma:
That evening we landed in Pamukkale, where an entire mountainside is covered with glittering white precipitate from hot mineral springs that flow up from the mountain. Our group’s scientists (Jerry Wilkes and Dan Bale) enlightened Mehmet about the chemical composition of the water and the resulting carbonate formations. Apparently the water carries calcium bicarbonate in solution, which solidifies into calcium carbonate as it evaporates. I must admit that I don’t much care what it is, but they’re thrilled to have resolved the confusion. At any rate, it was gorgeous, and we enjoyed wading through some of its many pools.
Jerry and I wade in the mineral pools of Pamukkale, Turkey:
The highlight of Pamukkale was the ruins of Hierapolis, a huge city dating back to 200 B.C. Apparently it was the first city to be laid out in a grid plan, something we’ve carried to modern times. Some of us took a mini-bus tour of the ruins, and our driver’s 8-year-old son, Ahmet, joined us. He was off school for Children’s Day, a national holiday in Turkey. Ahmet joined us to practice his English, asking and answering simple questions in English. I had fun chatting with him in Turkish, in spite of my paltry vocabulary.
How could I help but pose with darling Ahmet?
He shared his English manual, and we got a charge out of the phonetic translations. Turkish is a phonetic language where every letter always makes the same sound, so it was fun to see their take on our phrases:
“I’m very sorry.” = aym veri sori
“That’s all right.” = dets ol rayt
“It doesn’t matter.” =it dasınt metır
“Sorry to bother you just now.” = sori tu bodhır yu cast nau (a Turkish ‘c’ is pronounced as a ‘j’)
“Goodbye” = gudbay
“See you later.” = si yu leytır
Ahmet was happy to point out all the lizards sunning on the sarcophagi. He was absolutely precious. He also explained (in Turkish, translated by Mehmet) that gold coins were placed in the mouths and palms of wealthier people when they were buried. Funds for the next life, I suppose.
The theater of Hierapolis in Pammukale:
Our spa hotel in Pamukkale had its own thermal bath, a cone-like formation outside one building that spouted hot mineral water that poured into a pool that stretches into the building, leaving calcification as it flowed. Though the water was murky, it was a natural hot-tub that soothed our bodies as well as our souls (and didn’t stink).
The mineral spring at the Lycus Hotel, Pamukkale:
The spa pool was a little murky, especially compared to the clear azure of the unheated outdoor pool. Jerry and I, desperate for exercise, swam laps in the pool in spite of its frigid temps. It was over 70 degrees outside, but the pool couldn’t have been much over 50 degrees. BRRR!!!
One of the major frustrations of this trip has been the price of wine in the hotels. We bought a bottle of rose thinking it cost about 25 lira. ($16). We excused its bitter taste because it was so cheap, but later discovered that we had had mistaken the single glass price and were charged 70 lira ($45) for a crappy bottle of wine. I’d NEVER pay that much in the U.S. Of course, I’m pretty cheap.
A ponderous Turkish tourist at Ephesus, Turkey:
It’s been a joy to share my favorite second home with friends, and they seem truly happy with what they’ve seen. And my goodness—have we learned a LOT!!!
They say the Pukaskwa Peninsula (pronounced PUCK-a-saw) is the most beautiful stretch of Lake Superior as well as its most challenging. Yup, our adventure across 120 miles on the east side of Lake Superior’s North Shore was both gorgeous and tough.
We seven youngsters (ages 61-73) headed off early on a Wednesday morning and arrived at the Pukaskwa Park campground in time to make dinner. Jerry and Jim (stalwarts both) crawled out of their tents at 5 AM to drive our vehicles two hours to the other end and caught a prearranged shuttle back ($600—not cheap). By the time they returned, the rest of us had broken camp, hauled the kayaks to the beach at Hattie Cove, and had everyone’s gear ready to load. You wouldn’t believe how much a kayak can hold—the contents of two large plastic bins, and then some.
Hattie Cove, our launching point near Marathon, Ontario:
Kayaks loaded and ready to launch by noon:
We launched into calm waters, the sun shining on our azure inland sea The shoreline’s mammoth stone edifices were garbed in pines growing on no soil at all.
Dick & Jini head out of Hattie Cove to explore Lake Superior:
So began 12 days of paddling in every condition from calm water to 7-foot waves. Our 17-foot kayaks rode up and down rather than through the waves, so we got to surf a bit. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Our first campsite was 10K (6 miles) from our launch, which we paddled in less than three hours, marveling at the rocky coastline, picturesque inlets, and dancing waters.
The sun followed us the whole time—except for one rainy day.
We were all getting our “sea arms” but were happy to pull up onto the white sand beach of the Willow River, our first home.
Kayaks pulled up on the Willow Creek Beach, away from the big lake.
The campsite had plenty of space, an actual outhouse, and a suspension bridge just up the river.
Willow Creek’s amazing suspension bridge that we couldn’t even sway:
Dick went out fishing, and the rest of us set up camp, relaxed on the beach, swam in Lake Superior (which is usually far too cold, but not this year—global warming?). My friend Jerry was new to kayaking Lake Superior, and he dove into the experience with gusto. Susan and Jim served hors d’oeuvres, burritos, and dessert, a pattern repeated each night. We lived high, but decided on one-pot meals in the future (with hors d’oeuvres and dessert, of course).
Our first Lake Superior sunset:
We enjoyed eleven campsites, all pristine sand beaches a la Caribbean, some a thousand feet long. The water was aquamarine blue and amazingly warm, so we swam every day but one (rain).
The second night we were crowded on a SMALL pristine beach:
Wavelets were common, as streams often flowed near the beaches.
Then there were the waves. We had two days of flat water—well, one and a half.
One of our calmer mornings; Tom and Jerry peruse maps as a distant bluff watches over them.
Though a windless day was a rarity, it got darned hot without a breeze.
Sometimes the wind comes up out of nowhere on Lake Superior, particularly on the east side, which makes the Pukaskwa Peninsula a challenge. We paddled into the wind, with the wind at our sides, and with it at our backs. I’d thought I hated side winds the most, but at least you can see what’s coming.
It was hard to take photos in waves, and we often completely lost our compatriots behind the swells.
On the fifth day after being wind-bound all afternoon in Bonamie Cove, we decided to give it another try around dinnertime. The waves were 8-10 feet high, and when Dick got pounded by a wave straight into his chest, he yelled at us all to turn around. Turning was difficult in such high winds, but we each waited for a set of smaller waves (under 5 feet) and turned as fast as we could before more big ones came. It was all I could do to keep my kayak on a straight line as the waves lifted me from the back, threatening to toss me aside. I make it sound scary, but it was also great fun. Jerry said he would have liked to go on, and Dick’s comment was, “But you might not have made it.” This was intended to be a safe trip.
Jini Jerry and Dick discuss our options after we’re wind-bound by sudden winds behind Le Petit Mort Rocks.
The next morning we launched into the waves from our sand beach.
Jerry helped Susan and Jim launch their tandem into the waves.
Another highlight of the trip was the Pukaskwa pits, which are nest-like formations of rounded stones in vast fields of lichen-covered rocks. No one knows what they are, how old they are, or what they were for, but they are clearly man-made, perhaps for food storage or some religious observance. Hunting, perhaps? We found one that was about 9 feet across and probably four feet deep, perfectly rounded.
Dick stands in a Puckaskwa Pit near the end of our trip.
On our whole trip we only saw two other kayak groups, two sets of canoeists, a sailboat, and a solo kayaker. On our ninth (windy) morning we pulled into a small, protected cove for a respite from the waves and found a lone kayaker hopping around on the rocks like a mountain goat. Finn greeted us warmly, explaining that he was touring the Ontario coast of Lakes Superior and Huron to Georgian Bay, near Toronto. He planned to do it in a month, traveling about 70 K (40 miles) a day. We were averaging about 12 miles a day. Needless to say, we were greatly impressed at our newfound hero. He used a Greenland paddle, less than four inches wide, and he could paddle circles around us.
Finn beams as Jerry shows off his Greenland paddle.
Finn is 70 years old and has circumnavigated Lake Superior twice. He grew up on the Faroe Islands, a tiny country in the Norwegian Sea midway between Great Britain, Norway, and Iceland. He regaled us with tales about his youth, his adventures, his wife, and his cabin in Michipikoten, our destination. He told us about the best campsites ahead, and as he paddled by our site at 6AM the next morning, he blew his horn to wake us. “Wind’s on the water already—time to get up!” We got up early to beat the wind on our last three days.
We never saw a bear, but we often found bear and moose tracks in the sand.
A stunning view from a stonefield where we hunted for a Pukaskwa pit.
Tom heads out early from a morning break on the rocks, halfway to our lunch destination.
I have many more stories to tell: Jerry leaving a pile of gear at a campsite, Jini and I sneaking off to skinny-dip, Jerry’s kayak floating away at the Pukaskwa River, camping in the rain beside a 100-year-old chimney (great fire!), finding a rock carved with the name of someone who drowned on November 7, 1920, discovering three falling-down log cabins, and the list goes on.
We lucked out on our one rainy day with a concrete chimney in the woods. Jerry and Jim sawed wood and built a fire to warm us.
A trappers cabin Jini discovered in the woods near Trapper’s Harbor, aptly named.
We had an amazing trip, and after being delayed again by high winds, we finally surfed our kayaks onto Indian Beach, thirteen days after we left Grand Marais. Let me tell you, paddling Lake Superior is a real rush, and the Pukaskwa is the bomb.
Of course, I sure didn’t mind my cozy bed at home on Monday night.
The Stalwart Seven, Bottom row: Dick Swanson, Jini Danfelt, Susan Gulstrand. Back row: Tom Egan, Ann Mershon, Jerry Wilkes, and Jim Gulstrand
Sandra left a day early, so we I parted ways at the Hong Kong Central Station, where I boarded the metro for our (my) hostel, the Oi Suen Guesthouse. Luckily, I’d perused their instructions on Facebook, because everything was in Chinese. The 8th floor concrete hallway was dreary at best, and I followed it past a few hostels until I found the Oi Suen sign. A young Chinese man welcomed me but spoke no English. Sigh… We figured everything out, and he showed me to my cell. In its defense, it was clean. It was taller than it was long or wide—a light-green-tiled compartment, I’d call it. He pulled the dingy sheet off Sandra’s cot and flipped it up so I had a wooden platform for my stuff. No extra space. No window. There was an air conditioner and a fan, and a tiny green tile bathroom.
My “cell” at Oi Suen
I coped, thanks to earplugs and my computer. I wandered the streets and enjoyed a sweet & sour pork dinner with shrimp wontons–about the only Chinese food I’ve liked.
Whew!
Next stop: Bangkok. Curt—the saintly husband of my friend Beth’s sister, Kathleen—waited in the endless arrival hall holding a sign with my name on it. He guided me across the city on public transport while Kathleen finished her day teaching at the Bangkok Christian College, a boys’ school. Curt gallantly carried my 35-pound suitcase up and down more stairs than I could count, and we finally landed at their classy apartment complex. Curt had just started working weekends for Habitat, refurbishing schools and building houses for flood victims. What a guy.
We shared a scrumptious Thai dinner, and the next morning Kathleen and I rendezvoused for breakfast with my good friend Leah.
Kathleen and I at breakfast
The five of us (Leah had two guests from the U.S.) took a boat upriver (an adventure in itself) to visit Bangkok’s Grand Palace–think Anna and the King of Siam.
Leah and I on the boat to the Grand Palace
Big hotels provide these river shuttles
The palace was stunning in spite of the repeated showers that deluged us.
Love the rooftop decor on the Wat (temples)
A smiling monk welcomes visitors to the palace grounds
This lion guards the entrance to the Jade Buddha
I often saw these five-headed serpents guarding stairway entrances:
Even live guards prevent encroachments in the palace.
We also visited the 150-foot-long Reclining Buddha (gold) in the Wat Pho Temple.
This reclining Buddha’s head had to be five feet from chin to eyebrow.
Temples abound in Bangkok, and if that’s not enough, most buildings have an ornate Spirit House at one corner, designed to please the spirits (both good and evil) that might otherwise create mischief for the residents. Saturday morning we passed a spirit house where people had left flowers, eggs, fruit, and a roast duck. I hope these are later shared with the poor (if the spirits don’t devour them, of course).
A typical spirit house in Thailand
After a few nights with Leah, I flew to Chiang Mai in northern Thailand. I was picked up at the airport by a young man who led me to what I thought was a pickup truck with a topper. Not so. It was a songthaew, or two-bench bus, a typical form of transport in Thailand. The covered bed of the truck has two facing benches, and the back is open, so it’s important to hang on to the ceiling rod. No seat belts. I sat alone in the back, although the passenger seat in front was vacant. Oh, well.
This songtheaw waits to load outside a school
It took a half hour to get to the Secret Garden, an exquisite little bungalow resort 12 kilometers from the city. The air resounds with gentle music, bird songs, and the splash of a fountain near the thatched dining room. It’s absolutely lovely, rated second of over 300 Chaing Mai hotels (Trip Advisor). I’m staying in the Hibiscus, a spacious and well-appointed bungalow with a mini-kitchen, sitting areas indoors and out, and mosquito netting over the bed. Totally charming. I know I use that word a lot, but nothing else really works.
The Hyacinth, my home in Chiang Mai
a little fountain just outside the dining area
The trickling fountain cools the atmosphere at the Secret Garden
Tuesday I visited the Elephant Nature Park, a preserve that rescues handicapped and mistreated elephants. Lek Chailerk, the founder, has dedicated her life not only to saving elephants, but also to educating both the public and mahouts (elephant trainers) of the need to treat the animals humanely. There used to be about 25,000 elephants working in Thailand, mostly in the logging trade, but since logging was abolished in 1989, many have been destroyed while others have been enlisted into begging, tourism, and various other uses.
Elephants roam free at the Elephant Nature Park
Some elephants are tame enough to be touched by anyone:
One of Lek’s elephants was blinded by her mahout when she refused to work after her baby died in a fall from the mountain. Another was maimed when she stepped on a land mine. After watching an educational video on our way to the park, we helped feed the 35 elephants (who eat 10% of their body weight each day), we climbed in the river to help them bathe, and we watched them cavort in the mud.
Tons of bananas, pineapples, sweet potatoes, and squash are delivered daily.
One very tired elephant waits for lunch
Visitors and volunteers help feed the 35 pachyderms
We helped the more tame ones enjoy a daily bath
A mud bath is an afternoon treat
A few performed tricks for us (former circus elephants), and one has developed her own method of kissing people on the cheek. Let me tell you, that’s some SMACK! The end of their trunks are huge and slobbery.
The KISS!
Each of the elephants has a mahout who sticks with it most of the day, and the loving bond between them is almost tangible. Some of them are naughtier than others, and we watched the active and positive management of their mahouts.
This mahout stayed close to his elephant all day long.
And a final farewell to elephants!
Here’s a video of logging elephants at work in 1925 (Thailand was then called Siam) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iKjaiW6gHPQ
Wednesday I caught a ride to the highway, where I climbed into a public songthaew for a 45¢ ride to the old city. I toured a number of temples (wats), then visited a museum, caught a very spicy lunch, and indulged in a Thai foot massage by a blind person. One hour for $4.50. Amazing.
A dichotomy at Wat Bupparam
Chiang Mai’s famous Wat Phra Singh graces the old town:
Wat Phra Singh Buddha
Wat Phra Singh back of the temple
Wat Phra Singh monk walks through park surrounding the Wat
On my last day in Chiang Mai I visited an umbrella factory where they make handmade bamboo umbrellas covered with handmade paper.
A worker ties supports to the umbrella ribs
Another worker pounds a top onto the umbrella frame
painted umbrellas dry in the sun
The umbrella and fan painters are also eager to paint your clothes, cell phones, and bags for a very reasonable price—between $1.50 and $5. These artisans worked like lightning and were great fun to watch. In addition to a few other embellishments on shirts and pants, I got an elephant butt painted on my camera lens. Why not?
An artist paints a design onto a tourist’s pants ($1.50)
I brought in a shirt to be painted, which cost me double ($3)
I’m now back in sweltering Bangkok, and tomorrow I head back to Istanbul to pick up Libby, then Monday I head back home to chilly Minnesota.
Actually, I can’t wait.
Sandra and I topped off our Taipei stay by basking in a mountain spa,
The hot-springs stream just above our spa hotel:
The hotel rooftop spa–can’t see the mountains in the fog:
then took the high speed train to stay with with Linda, Les, and Linda’s sister Chris in Koahsiung (Gow-SHUNG), where Linda teaches at the American School.
We biked everywhere in Kaohsiung—you can rent from bike racks on the street, and if you just use them an hour, there’s no charge. A full day of biking cost about $5.
Sandra pulling a bike from the rental rack:
I had just a little trouble raising my seat:
Linda and Les live near the Love River, which is lined with parkland and a well-kept bike trail.
The first day we biked to Linda’s school
The Kaohsiung American School—and Linda:
then Lotus Pond, where Chinese New Year festivities were in full swing. A Massive tiger and dragon regurgitated Chinese revelers from pavilions at one end of the lake.
The dragon and tiger spew revelers through open jaws:
We parked our bikes amid a thousand scooters, then elbowed our way through the street, occasionally pausing to indulge in street foods and bargains. The Purchase of the Day was a watch for $1.50 (still running a week later).
This Foo Dog guards a lakeside temple:
Street food anyone? Skewered grilled squid at the ready:
Sandra purchases a bag of cheap watches:
Lotus grace pools beside the lake:
Another Kaohsiung highlight was a lantern festival along the river. Schoolchildren spend months creating elaborate lanterns for this competition each year, and since 2012 is the year of the dragon, that was the predominate theme. My favorites were lanterns obviously done by the students (some looked WAY too professional), particularly those crafted with recycled materials. One dragon was made of bubble-wrap and soft-drink lids,
The bubble-wrap and drink-lid dragon:
another of sticks gathered along the river, and many were fashioned with recycled pop bottles. We wandered past scores of lantern displays, marveling at the creativity and effort put into each display. We also chatted with a few of their proud creators.
This princess was a part of a more professional lantern scene:
This dragon was recycled from bottles and cans:
Schoolchildren proud of their artistic creation:
We also trekked to the Foguangshan Monastery one day—an extensive edifice with myriad monks, numerous temples, and a massive retreat center. The air reverberated with musical chanting by worshipers in the main temple, and we were twice entertained by a small parade, surely a part of the new year’s festivities. We opted not to lunch in their total-silence dining hall and bought street food from booths outside the monastery—vegetarian options only.
I loved the eves of all the monastery buildings:
Monks seeking donations from the New Year’s crowd:
Devout Taiwan citizens chant and pray in a temple lined with thousands of Buddha statues:
A close-up of the niches covering the walls of this temple:
A laughing Buddha in the parade draws many donations:
High on the hill, a 118-foot golden Buddha gestures to all of Taiwan:
Our last day in Kaohsiung was another bike trek (hooray!) to Qijin Island, a ferry ride across
the harbor. Crowded with revelers, it offered endless street foods and souvenirs, an entire indoor bazaar of dried fish stands, a black sand beach, and a hike up to the lighthouse. I splurged on a pair of flip-flops ($3). All in all, a good day.
Sandra and Linda crossing the street to the ferry boat to the island
This was one of hundreds of dried fish booths in the bazaar. The tassels twirl on a fan to keep the flies away:
For some reason, ice cream in a toilet-shaped container just didn’t appeal:
A view of Kaohsiung from the island lighthouse:
Sandra and I flew to Hong Kong, explored the art museum and surrounding city, then headed to the airport for our greatly-anticipated beach vacation in Hainan. Sadly, the web sites informing us we didn’t need a visa were mistaken. A speedy visa would cost $320 each, and we’d lose two nights on Hainan. We gave up our trip. Sigh…
After two hours on line searching for another destination that evening, we gave up and spent $200 for a room at the airport hotel. What do you do? Of course, the exclusive hotel included neither free wireless nor breakfast. I’ve never understood why exclusive hotels offer the least free amenities.
We finally found a little beach hotel on Lamma Island, a ferry ride from Hong Kong. We dragged our suitcases about a half hour up and down concrete paths through Yung Shue Wan village and through the forest to the Concerto Hotel on Hung Shing Yeh Beach. Our room is small but bright, and our balcony overlooks a sweet sand beach.
This is the beach view from our balcony:
Our sweet accommodations—not quite Hainan, but just fine for now:
Yung Shue Wan is a hippie-haven type place with more ex-pats than we’ve seen on our entire trip. Our activities here include relaxing, hiking, eating and napping, not necessarily in that order. So—in spite of a visa debacle, we’re content.
