Byzantium Calling – Part 1
Everyone knows the fable where the tortoise is slower than the hare, and yet wins the race. How did that happen? I suspect the hare took a path that zigged and then zagged, while the tortoise took the more direct route from start to finish – the hypotenuse, so to speak. Perhaps Aesop got some inspiration from his neighbor, the mathematician Pythagoras, when he wrote his famous fable. Both of them lived on the lush island of Samos, in the eastern Aegean Sea, over two thousand years ago.
In their time, of course, neither could have foreseen that Samos would become a modern-day gateway from Greece to Turkey, just an abacus’ throw to the east across a narrow stretch of water. While Samos is worth visiting in its own right, I was there for the short ferry ride that would take me physically from Europe to Asia, and culturally from the land of Plato and Aristotle to the domain of Sultans and their harems.
With a free day before the next ferry sailing, I decided to visit an archeological museum in the village of Mytilinii, about six miles from Samos Town. It was a Sunday, and bus service was infrequent, so I set out on a hot and sweaty trek along the spine of the island. Traffic was sparse, olive and pine trees fragrant, the sky cerulean blue. Glimpses of the nearby Turkish coast appeared intermittently across the mist-covered channel separating the two countries.
Three hours later, I arrived in Mytilinii. The village was a whitewashed jumble of stucco buildings shimmering in the hot afternoon sun. It must have been siesta time – nary a person stirred anywhere, and there were no signs (literally) of the museum. Low on energy, food, and water, I walked by a nondescript building and noticed the “Taverna” sign above the door, which was slightly ajar. Peering inside, I saw what indeed looked like a tavern, its tables and chairs empty, devoid of patrons save for an old man sitting on a stool and another man – whom I assumed to be the proprietor – drying glasses behind the bar. I asked for some water. The proprietor spoke to the old man, who smiled and gestured to the empty barstool next to him.
No sooner had I sat down when the old man regaled me in rapid-fire Greek. Yes – I’ll just get this out of my system now – it really was all Greek to me! But fortunately, the proprietor didn’t seem to mind translating as he tidied up behind the bar. The old man told me about his childhood, how his leg was injured in the war and how he had to go on disability; he talked about his deceased wife, his children, and his grandchildren. As he spoke a plate of watermelon appeared in front of me, and then a bottle of beer. The old man continued nonstop, his voice softly echoing in the empty pub, only slowing down when some fresh figs materialized. He asked me: “Do you know how to eat figs right off of the tree?” and proceeded to peel one and pop it in his mouth. I sat on the stool listening to his life story, while the beer and snacks kept coming. Time passed quickly as I was engrossed in his tales from another time, another place. Finally, his cadence slowed, and I sensed his story had caught up to the present day. I thanked him for his generosity, and knowing I had missed any chance of catching a bus back to Samos Town, announced that I was starting my walk back. This prompted the old man to stand on his one good leg and give me a hug. An unexpected wave of emotion washed over me, a mixture of embarrassment, affection, and quite possibly indigestion.
The walk back to Samos town was long but pleasant, my stomach satiated, my legs refreshed, and my spirits buoyed by alcohol. As kind as the old man was, little did I know that I would soon have an encounter that would surpass even his amazing hospitality!
The next afternoon the ferry crossing took only about twenty minutes. I disembarked in Kusadasi, Turkey, whose only redeeming features as far as I could tell were the ferry dock and its proximity to the well-preserved ruins of Ephesus, the legendary city that was the Asian capital of ancient Greek and Roman empires. After visiting Ephesus, a short bus ride took me to the coastal resort town of Bodrum. As luck would have it, I arrived the weekend of the town’s annual festival, a regional affair that attracted locals from nearby towns and cities. There was not a spare room to be found, but eventually I was offered a cot, separated by threadbare curtains, on the linoleum floor of what must have been a school gymnasium. Overflow accommodations – bathroom down the hall.
By evening the festival was in full swing, the warren of small streets and alleyways dense with revelers and alive with the sound of music and smell of comestibles. I ventured out into the crowd, attracted to the sound of strummed guitars and singing coming from a café patio. As I stood on the sidewalk watching the musicians, a felt a tap on my leg; a young fellow sitting on the crowded street curb had cleared a space for me, but I gestured that I was standing to watch the musicians. He stood up and in halting English, introduced himself as Mehmet. Mehmet explained that he and his buddies Ozcan and Tuncer had come from the nearby city of Izmir to attend the festival. At the sound of their names his friends smiled and waved from their curbside perches.
Maybe it was the way I was dressed, or something about my look or demeanor, but they knew right away that I wasn’t a local. I was a novelty to them, an aberration of sorts… an American! With Mehmet as translator, they peppered me with questions as we strolled the town and took in the sights. As the evening wound down Mehmet asked what I was doing the next day. I told him I was planning to take a boat tour to the volcanic hot springs on Kara Ada – the black island – and invited them to join me. I made my offer mainly out of courtesy; I didn’t really expect them to show up, but sure enough the next morning, there they were! The boat, however, had broken down. My newfound acquaintances conferred amongst themselves, and then Mehmet turned and said: “My friend, the Sheikh” – he pointed to Tuncer, who was rather swarthy – “has a car, and we will drive to a beach club. Would you like to come with us?” Thousands of miles away from home, by myself, traveling in a vehicle with three Turkish men whom I didn’t know from Adam, to a remote destination? Sure, why not!
The four of us crowded into Tuncer’s little Datsun B210 and a short drive took us to the aforementioned beach club, which was essentially a spartan, fenced-off swatch of beach anchored by a single building containing concessions and a restroom. While locals frolicked in the water, Mehmet and his buddies bought beer for me and tea for themselves, which we sipped on the patio. We had an interesting conversation where every question, answer, and story funneled through Mehmet, being the only one besides myself who spoke English. Eventually we squeezed back into Tuncer’s car and drove a few miles to a small building, a store of some type. They left me in the car, coming out a few minutes later with various food items: yogurt, tomatoes, potatoes, oil, watermelon, and what looked like hamburger meat. Down a paved highway we drove until Tuncer suddenly veered off, his B210 doing its best imitation of an off-road vehicle as it navigated up and down brown, barren hills until we arrived… at paradise!
Picture an idyllic inlet of crystal-clear blue water, pristine white sand beaches, and scattered palm trees. There were very few other people around. Ozcan secured the watermelon in the shallow water to keep it cool. The Sheikh popped the trunk, pulled out a large camping stove and prepared a dinner using the ingredients they had just purchased. They hadn’t let me pay, they wouldn’t let me cook, or offer my services at all. All I could do was sit in the warm sand with my back against a palm tree, enjoying the shade. Somehow the watermelon got loose from its watery holding pen and started to drift with the current. Ozcan raced across the sand and jumped into the water to rescue it before it disappeared from view. Standing chest-high in water, he held the watermelon up high in both hands, a triumphant pose. The meal was quite tasty.
After my Turkish friends dropped me off back in Bodrum, I thanked them for their incredible generosity and hospitality. The timing was perfect; I had spent more than enough time in rural Turkey, and longed for a more urban experience. Istanbul, formerly Constantinople, before that Byzantium, beckoned from afar. I headed back to the gymnasium and gathered my backpack. My next Turkish adventure awaited that evening – an adventure that would nearly cost me my life.
(the story continues in Byzantium Calling – Part 2)
© 2021 L. Wechsler. All rights reserved.