kars

As the time we had carved out for The Great Anatolian Road Trip was running short, we realised that Kars would have to be a stop to get some sleep and get going. The images of a bleak and melancholic town were written in my head by Orhan Pamuk from his novel Snow, and I expected to find a poetic greyness about Kars. Instead, the town was quite pleasant and seemed like any other town, were it not for the occasional linear touches of Russian architecture. I think I imagined it on a hill or something, and a bit more run down. After spending the night in a quirky hotel and marveling at its mournful receptionist in his old-fashioned navy blue blazer, ruby ring, and tragic black brows— a character made for a Wes Anderson film— we bought some honey, and headed for the ruins of Ani.

magic birds

As the sun began to make its descent on the way to Kars, somewhere in the middle of fields and hills, we were distracted a large flock of small birds. Flashes of pale pink sent us on a U-turn back to a small side road where the birds were gathering.

Once, in Portugal, Pedro and I visited a roundabout in Peniche where there were rumours of a single Rosy Starling among a flock of Spotted Starlings— a big draw for birders in the area. We examined every group of little dark birds for the one pink and black one, but without success. Reports of sightings of the unusual bird awakened an envy within us, but now, somewhere between Ağrı and Kars, that envy melted away.



There were around two hundred beautiful Rosies. It was one of those moments in life that can only be described as magical, and I wish I had a better camera to really capture it, but these photos will do well enough to bring me back.