signs

I'm still not sure what the second to last sign on the top row is supposed to be... an electric building?

I entered, and then some.

burning in the night

A short and bumpy minibus ride from Olympos lies Yanartaş, a large mysterious hill with perpetual flames that ignite from crevices in the rock. Yanartaş, also known as Mount Chimaera, contains about a dozen or so methane vents— it is claimed by people in Olympos that scientists have no idea why or how these flames continue to burn, and are just as mystified as the ancient inhabitants of the region were. After hiking up massive steps in pitch darkness with a tiny flash light for about 25 minutes, I could barely stand on my jelly legs, and suddenly, my breath was taken away at first sight of an orange glow. Thoughts of how I need to get back into shape quickly vanished as I sat down on the rocks, staring into the flames, which seemed paler and sharper than any fire I have seen.

I read somewhere that the chief god of Olympos was Hephaestus, god of fire, metallurgy and volcanoes. I scrawled a wish onto a small slip of paper and offered it to the flames, watching my words burn and curl.

wanderers

One of the things I love most about travelling is meeting people that I otherwise never would have met had I sat at home. The world is full of fascinating and inspiring people— people who question, seek and discover.  Worn out soles and sun-kissed noses, that spark in the eye and a well-travelled grin, I feel a connection to these wanderers. I'd like to introduce you to a few of the wonderful people I met in Olympos, people who I would call a friend, though the time we spent together is measured in days.

Meet Tyler, Vagabond Extraordinaire. Tyler has been travelling through Asia for eight months, exploring Thailand, India and Turkey. Tyler and his friend Katie had found themselves helping out in an Istanbul hostel that ended up being well, a hostile experience. Following the advice of someone they had met, our adventurers ended up in Olympos, helping out with the bar at Bayram's. I love a good story, and Tyler is one hell of a storyteller— you simply must check out his blog, Lessons from a Vagabond, where he posts beautiful photographs and candid, fun videos documenting his adventures.

In the blue, we have Ken from Malaysia, who has a list of countries under his belt that would strike any traveller with envy. Behind him is Tom, who works for a human rights organisation and has explored the Middle East in depth, with a warm laugh and a great sense of modesty. In the red jacket is the quiet and adventurous Elise, who has been travelling solo through India for several months. She's got an infectious smile and a calmness about her that I deeply appreciate.

Wrapped in the crimson scarf is my friend Molly, whose husband Aurél is driving a vintage VW van out of Afghanistan to Turkey, where he will pick up Molly and drive to France. The entire adventure is being documented on their blog Combi-Nations, which includes the various projects they are undertaking on their long way home. Their camera obscura portrait project is a must-see for anyone interested in photography and culture.

And lastly, yours truly, grimy from hiking and avoiding the cold showers.
You know my story.

hidden gems

After a typical Turkish breakfast of omelettes, white cheese, olives, fresh cucumbers, olives and strong black tea, Molly, a little group of fellow travellers and I decided to take a hike into the woods to look for some of Olympos' famed ancient ruins. We didn't have to walk far before we came upon crumbling walls and mysterious arches, fragments of mosaics and weathered stone carvings.



There is something quite different about walking among the ruins in the trees, you almost feel as though you were that first explorer who discovered them lying there. You can run your hand along the walls, and try to imagine what it all once looked like, a city by the sea.

wet wednesday

Wednesday was cold, rainy and grey— not exactly what I had hoped for, but it was a great time to meet some fellow travellers, sip on tea and listen to wild and wonderful stories. Having avoided a cold shower, I was feeling pretty grimy under my five layers of shirts, my dusty jeans and long striped socks. I had not packed well; I was so optimistic about having spectacular weather in Olympos, I believed that if I packed light clothes, the warm weather would come. It does not work that way.



Dinner at Bayram's was announced at eight by cowbell, and travellers slowly appeared from their little bungalows and cushioned platforms to line up at the buffet. Heaps of pilaf, mounds of eggplant and mantı (a Turkish ravioli) were generously dished out as other staff members tried to light a bonfire near the bar area. The rain had subsided and soon, the orange glow of a fire was growing. Belly full, I wandered over to the warmth with a beer and some new friends. Stories and laughter rose into the night like smoke.

flora

from orchard to sea

After settling into our tiny wooden bungalow at the very chill and funky Bayram's, Molly and I decided to take a walk to the beach to see how far away it was. The cool breeze brought salt and the heavenly scent of orange blossoms, and the sun was warm enough to make us forget the rainy grey city we left behind. We set out down the road, cameras in hand, thankful for the sun.

To get to the beach, one must pay a very affordable three lira, as the area is a major historical site full of hidden Hellenic, Roman and Genoese ruins. We decided to wander off the main path into the woods to quickly scout out some of the crumbling structures and found ourselves in the most beautiful little orchard, dotted with flaming red poppies. I felt like a little girl again— exploring, inspecting and marvelling. Honeybees and unrecognisable beetles caught my eye, and the rustling of an animal in the brush conjured up images of mythical beasts in my mind. I was slightly disappointed to discover that it was just a very determined-looking chicken.

Hello, Mediterranean.

among the lemon blossoms

The sun has finally made its debut and warmed the citrus orchards of Olympos, on the Mediterranean coast of Turkey. I've been here since Tuesday, sitting by campfires, sipping ginger tea and having endless conversations with Molly and a growing collection of new friends. The air is perfumed by sea and flower, pine, earth and fire. The muscles in my shoulders are softening, there is birdsong and the laughter of happy travellers. A hoopoe in its flashy stripes and blushed chest flitted by— an omen of good things to come. Every time I've seen a hoopoe, which has only been three times in my life, something good has followed. I'm feeling very relaxed and excited about today— I think Molly and I are going up Mount Olympos.

forgotten drawings

Inevitably, when you're split into so many directions at the same time, some artwork gets forgotten on a shelf or in a dark portfolio stashed somewhere out of the way. These are some close-ups of work that has fallen by the wayside— stories of heartbreak and the desire to prune one's feelings before they grow out of control.



I hope I can get back to them soon. Right now I'm distracted by a giant bumblebee and pools of little octopi...

a small adventure in the works

As you may have noticed, my posts have become increasingly sporadic— this is in part due to the ongoing ban of Blogger in Turkey, and the difficulty it has caused me. I have to access my blog in this irritatingly roundabout way, which is not the most conducive for posting. I've also been cooped up at home writing essays and lesson plans and whatnot for my postgraduate certification in education, which I've been working towards since September. This certification programme has not allowed me much free time for gallivanting around the streets of my beloved Istanbul, nor has it enabled my wandering eyes and heart to travel to any new and exciting places. The adventurer inside me is crying out for even the tiniest travelling— anything to get my feet moving and my brain and senses stimulated.

Back in July, my friend Molly left Turkey for America to marry her love, and I have sorely missed our endless conversations and laughter. Lucky me, she's back in town for a few weeks and we've decided to take a trip to the ancient Hellenic city of Olympos, on the Mediterranean coast of Turkey. I have no idea what Olympos is like, and I've resisted the urge to fully research it so I can be surprised. Through some light googling, I understand that Olympos is green with trees and there are rocks to climb, beaches to lie on, and bluer than blue sea to swim in. I hope for sun and warmth and laziness. I want to lie around and draw, chat with Molly, laugh with Molly, and maybe do a little hiking and swimming. The days, hours and minutes have been dragging on, reminding me of an annoying thing called patience, telling me that Tuesday will eventually arrive, and to occupy myself with other things in the meantime. So I'm working on a large oil painting of a bumblebee, trying to make Saturday, Sunday and Monday fly.

saint sophia and the crème caramel

While in the Sultanahmet area, it is always a great temptation to run away from the people you are with and sketch the Ayasofya— which is naturally, what I did. The sun was warming the small stone wall opposite the former basilica, upon which I planted myself for a quick scribble and a listen to Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds on my beat up little iPod. The cerulean sky was nearly cloudless and mesmerising in its depth, and I found myself staring at the blue, kicking my feet like a happy child, unwilling to add much detail to my drawing.



Lunchtime slowly rolled around and took us to the oddly named Pudding Shop, formerly known as Lale Restaurant, which was apparently a favourite haunt of hippie backpackers in the sixties. Traditional Turkish cuisine served cafeteria-style and a delightful selection of puddings are what an empty belly can look forward to at Pudding Shop. I selected a plump, rice and meat stuffed tomato called a dolma, topped with a dollop of puréed potatoes, and a plate of rice with semizotu, or purslane. It was insisted that I try the crème caramel for dessert, which was reportedly divine— and didn't disappoint.

Pudding Shop
Divanyolu No.6 Sultanahmet / ISTANBUL
212 522 29 70

morning, in the blue mosque

Morning never looked so magical as it did streaming through the curved windows of the mighty Blue Mosque, dancing off tiles and coiling around half and quarter domes. I always seem to be in the Sultanahmet area around prayer time, when the mosque is closed to tourists, but as I was accompanying a tour group of alumni from the now 100 year old Istanbul International Community School— of which I am also an alumnus, I got to set foot onto the well-worn red carpet of the mosque. When I was a little girl, the Blue Mosque could have leapt out of the pages of a fairytale— it was mythological; somewhere great heroes and heroines lived and loved. I did not grasp its religious purpose, but I felt its power and understood its holiness. While Rüstem Paşa Camii in Eminönü is by far my most favourite mosque in Istanbul for its intimacy and stunning tiles, it is impossible to deny the overwhelming beauty and magnificence of the Blue Mosque.

saturday night

blossoming

Sometime during my recovery from what my doctor charmingly referred to as the "goat flu" (as there can't possibly be any swine flu in Muslim countries), Spring decided to unfurl her arms around our grey city. Little green buds and pink blossoms have erupted on bare branches that stretch toward an inconsistent sky— cumulus and cirrus sweep across blues and greys, pinks and peaches. Istanbul in the springtime is a positively magical place; full of colour, birdsong and warmth— and I don't just mean the actual temperature— people's faces are softened, smiles and laughter seem to pop up everywhere, like cherry blossoms.



As my flu winds down and my workload is lightened, I look forward to stepping out in a light printed dress, the sun on my arms and the smell of flowers and sea in my head.
Happy Spring!