Time to leave the loop.

If Istanbul struck me immediately as awesome, Antalya is just the opposite. Within a few minutes of arriving in the giant bus station I wanted to leave again, and the rest of the day didn't improve much. I'm sure the town has some good history, but right now it's crowds of complaining expats, Russians who look like they want to fight Rocky, and two (count 'em, two) things to look at.

That was fine with me though, since I was sporting a modest sunburn from my walk, my feet were still red and raw, and it was 37 C / 100 F yesterday. Cold drink and a seat in the shade, please.

The town grew on me a little though, particularly last night when I found myself in a park, at night, unconcerned about taking my camera out. Turkey so far has been a wonderfully safe experience, I have barely even had a sketchy feeling as I wander backstreets. (Maybe they just have discerning eyes for cameras, and know that 97% of the other tourists have cameras worth way more than mine.)

I'm knocking on the wood of my breakfast table as I talk about how safe it is, though. In a couple hours I fly to Diyarbakir, in far Eastern Turkey, which has a much less savory reputation. From there I plan to travel south to Mardin, a city that has lodged itself in my brain as someplace I need to go. I can't tell if the fact that it's quite literally 5 miles from the Syrian border is a plus or a minus in my mind.

I have nearly no idea of what to expect. Guide books from several years ago don't even mention Mardin, but a couple years ago they started including the place that has been “unofficially closed to tourism for 30 years due to the violent rebel conflict in the area”. It sounded like the Wild West, but then in this year's guide book, it mentions that tourism is flourishing.

If it's flourishing enough to have reliable internet access, I'll tell you what I find.

Otherwise, see you May 8 in Istanbul, the same day the Kurdish guerrilla fighters are scheduled to begin withdrawing from the Mardin area...

Antalya was consummately on the tourist loop. I'm ready to get off it.

Coming home from work

It’s raining tonight.

It’s usually raining here.  Especially at night.

I like the rain.

On the train everyone has their own something to read.  We sit looking down at our laps.  We don’t look at each other.  Someone left their broken umbrella, open, in the exit doors.  Every other disembarker nearly trips over it.  None of us pick it up.  I want music as I bicycle home.  Metallica is not right.  The Supremes are not right.  Shuffle guesses “Andare” by somebody whose name is probably Ludovico Einaudi.  It was a free download.  It’s piano and pretty.

It’s still raining.

The girl in front of me rides her bike with her red umbrella open.  She disappears when I’m not looking.  I pass the school where I took my first Dutch class.  That was fun.  Nice people.  I can’t continue with them because of my new job.  I’ll miss them.  Someone in the line of cars honks, and I consider the idea that someone knew me.  It’s unlikely.

I listen to the same song a second time, not wanting to risk a wrong next one.

I feel like I am riding fast, and wonder if I have the wind with me.

Today was the second day of my new call center job.  Still training, normalcy starts Monday at 14:00.  It is totally different from and resembles my last job.  I made my first call today.  To Saint Anthony’s Hospital in Denver, Colorado where Kathy was very friendly and gave me a different number to call.  My brain produced endorphins.  I hypothesize that it was like the first time I jumped off the high dive at Eagle Pool, 10 years old I think.  I’m not sure yet how I feel about it…but I want to do it again.  I think I could get good at it.  Swan dive?  I think I am the only one of the new people who tried it.

I listen to Ludovico’s song a third time.

I pass the house on the corner that just had a new baby.  They hang baby clothes and a banner outside, which says the name is Nieke.  I am guessing that’s a girl.  I wonder if she’ll go any of the places I’ve been.  And how they’ll be different.  I wonder if I will ever do any of the things she will.  I wonder where we’ll be on each other’s 40^th birthday.  I’ll be 70 at hers.  Will I be 70 at hers?

The third time through the song ends as I pull up to the garage we share with the other tenants, who fill it with bags of recycling and a baby carriage, and which smells like my rusty first car when it’s damp.

I turn the music off.