Happy to just stay and relax, but time on this trip is running short, less than two months before the flight I just booked leaves, and from Poland at that, with a half dozen intervening countries I want to see in the meantime. This line is starting to sound familiar. I catch the little local train into Sofia, the capital, with some sort of sweet awning over the central train station:

After two previous locations (the first is now a dirt lot, the second has a sign hanging outside like a storefront with a little mini-map directing you to the new location) I arrive at Hostel Mostel – which I later discover is the local super chain, despised by the little independent hostels, but quite nice, all housed in a giant renovated 19th century building, tucked away in the middle of downtown. Sofia is an interesting place. Huge capital city, yes, but so much architecture and other remnants of post-Sovietism that I find fascinating. And, amazing pizza by the slice. I fail in my attempt to make it up to nearby Vitosha Mountain, my stubbornness at only taking public transport doing me in. The St. Alexander Nevsky Cathedral (Bulgarian: Храм-паметник “Свети Александър Невски”). Back to the land of the Cyrillic alphabet, which I pick up most of within a few days. The desire to learn Russian comes rushing back.

I head northeast to Veliko Tarnovo, past capital of the medieval Bulgarian Empire, most of the town perched on steep cliffs along a river which winds in a convoluted S shape throughout. The fortress is massive, if poorly maintained. I hook up with a few recent, post-Turkey, acquaintances, for a rather memorable night at something we nickname the “twenty-four hour bar” and Spider Club, if that is your real name. Fun continues as I strike east to Varna on the Black Sea (go Flag Hostel!), party town extraordinaire. The ATM right downstairs is apparently controlled by the mafia, and ads a hefty 100% surcharge to whatever you decide to withdraw. So, for that matter, are a number of the beachside clubs and bars. Controlled by the mafia that is, with large men in black suits and bulges under their coats. “No guns” signs are prominent on entrance ways, where one might expect a “no smoking” sign.

I can’t complain with life in Varna. East European attitudes about everything, just a hint of seedyness and danger, gorgeous women everywhere, and the price is right. We nearly make an expedition up to Vama Veche in Romania – for a night. That is, hop in a taxi at 9, cross the border into Romania and arrive to this beach party town two hours later. The cab leaves you, arranging a pickup place for 10am the next morning. The goal, until then: stay awake and party with a few thousand people at what is essentially a beach rave. Best for my health I think I pass, and likewise, that I spend only a few days in Varna

Between the spice bazaar and the Yeni Cami (“New Mosque”) a row of men washing their feet, hands, faces outside.

The inside of the Yeni Cami. The boy in the gown and specter is one of several we see in the city, undergoing part of their passage to manhood – circumcision.

The inside of the Blue Mosque is covered in exquisite blue tiles. The ceiling:

One of the specialties of tourist-Istanbul is freshly caught fish, perhaps from fisherman perched along all the bridges of the Bosphorus and the Golden Horn, freshly fried and stuffed inside a bun of bread with some onions. “Balik Ekmek” – “fish bread.” Is delicious. For a slightly more upscale dining experience, the underside of the Galata Bridge is lined with seafood restaurants just over the water.

The two palaces in Istanbul I am able to see: Topkapı and Dolmabahçe. Topkapı is a sprawling affair, sweeping vistas over the water and unbelievable architecture and decorations.

Inside Dolmabahçe, though, is the most beautiful building I have ever seen. No photography allowed, though Wikipedia has a few shots. Just to whet the appetite for something slightly off the tourist trail:

Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, the founder and first President of the Republic of Turkey, used the palace as a presidential residence during the summers and enacted some of his most important works here. Atatürk spent the last days of his medical treatment in this palace, where he died on November 10, 1938. Contains the world’s largest Bohemian crystal chandelier, a gift from Queen Victoria. The palace has an area of 45,000 m2 (11.2 acres), and contains 285 rooms, 46 halls, 6 baths (hamam) and 68 toilets. The famous Crystal Staircase has the shape of a double horseshoe and is built of Baccarat crystal, brass and mahogany. The palace includes a large number of Hereke palace carpets made by the Hereke Imperial Factory. Also featured are 150-year-old bearskin rugs originally presented to the Sultan as a gift by the Tsar of Russia.

Also, walks up through Beyoğlu and Beşiktaş, kumpir (the most delicious thing in the world, like some sort of amazing baked potato) in Ortaköy, a meyhane and general merryment in Taksim, nargile (shisha) pipes in Tophane, the ferry over to Kadıköy and a tea at a relaxing çay bahcesi (tea house), the Grand Bazaar, the Basilica Cistern. Abandoned tankers lopsided on the rocks in Üsküdar. I love the names of Istanbul’s neighborhoods. One place I need not even promise to return to. But at the end, the train station beckons, and an overnight train with a cabin shared by a curious old man sees me across the border into Bulgaria – back, to Europe.

Next to Marmaris, full of Ukranian and Russian tourists. The guys work on their suntan the “Russian way,” standing, speedos bunched up as small as possible, rotating slowly. After someone points it out to me I can’t help but notice everyone. Also, a fair percentage of ladies no longer feeling the need for their tops. I think I am as shocked as any of the locals, coming from the east. Marmaris is a big city without much charm, but I catch a little bus out to Datca on the peninsula, where I wouldn’t have minded staying a few more days. The ferry takes me across to Bodrum, party central, home to Halikarnas, the “loudest disco on the Med.” On the quieter side of the harbor, a sponge vendor.

And the view from the Bodrum Castle, built during the Crusades:

From Bodrum I head inland, forgoing Pamukkale (not worth it I’ve been repeatedly told), and landing at the ancient Roman city of Ephesus (Efes). There are a handful of hostels in town and all seem pretty fun. The ruins themselves are amazing, the main marble boulevard leading up to the library, and the immense theater. Spoiled only slightly by the hordes of European tourists in bright pastel tank tops crowding after tour guides. Still, the place clears out near sunset, and it is easy to see how this city was second only to Rome.

Not quite content to hit the west in one step, I make a midway stop at Bergama. The ancient city of Pergamon lords over, and the Sanctuary of Asclepius (awesome underground tunnel) is nearby, as is the massive “Red Basilica.” The redeeming feature of the guesthouse I stay at is the library, which provides me with a hardcover Isaac Asimov anthology which I carry with me until the end of the trip. The last stop I want to make is Troy, even though I’ve heard all the fuss about the ruins, not impressive, not well excavated, potentially not even Troy etc. It is nearly to Canakkale, my stop for the night, but if I have to go and then make the small trip back I’ll never make it in time. Instead, I take a tip and ask the bus driver to let me off at Truya, which he happily does, big backpack and all, whereupon I discover the 5km walk from the highway to the site. Which, an hour later in the hot sun, was just as rough as I had expected it to be. The guards take pity on me at the site, I stash my backpack and look around. A giant replica of the wooden horse, tacky. The best pictures I take are of an awning covering the ruins and of a friendly cat. Still, with a little imagination. I join a bunch of workers from a nearby restaurant who all head back into town in a little shuttle, their work done for the day.

My first view of the Dardanelles. A waterway whose importance has been impressed upon me by Orpan Pamuk. One night only – I’m not here for Gallipoli, the main attraction, as are all the aussies and kiwis that fill the hostels. Tomorrow morning, bright and early, to Istanbul.

I shack up in a rooftop dorm room in Göreme for a few days to check out the area. The surrounding countryside is perfect for hiking, crisscrossed with valleys, crazy rock formations, ancient rock cities and monasteries, and a spread of blooming flowers courtesy of spring. It all feels a bit like Dahab though, backpacker central, full of small cafes and bars, plenty of room for the ambiguous lounging.

The Göreme Open Air Museum is a small area full of rock-cut churches and houses, “fairy chimneys,” and the occasional cave monastery. I spend all my time hiking around a maze of interconnected valleys with such delightful names as Rock Valley, Pigeon Valley, Baglidere Valley, Zemi Valley, and Rose Valley.

Someone told me about a hike through Ihlara valley to the south and I manage to make it down via Aksaray. I drop my bags at a little pension in Ihlara, manage to catch the last bus up to Selime at the other end of the valley, and hike back the 14km before sunset. What an awesome hike, with a curious little segment in the middle where all the tour buses come for the “day trip” hikes. The vast majority of it I see more locals than hikers though, as the trail follows a river alongside farmland and orchards. The next day I get an early start out towards Konya, renowned for its conservatism and the heart of Sufism, ala Mevlana, Mystics, and the Whirling Dervishes. I never knew that the reason they twirled was because they believe the dizzying sensation itself brings them closer to something / is a sort of religious experience. A very cool ceremony, with mostly middle aged men, though also younger boys in training and a duo of elders in the lead.

Although I find myself perpetually behind schedule I can’t help but make yet one more stop before reaching the coast – Lake Egirdir. Jutting out into the blue lake is the majority of town sits on a awkward little promontory. Definitely a place to come and relax – my hostel has a unobstructed balcony looking straight towards sunset and a staircase straight down to the beach.

In Batumi we avoid any backpacker type joints and find the cheapest hotel we can. Which is a bit damp, no other way to describe it, but definitely the right price. Off exploring – the main attraction of Batumi is perhaps the ferris wheel, which we hold off on for tomorrow, and the fountains coordinated to a whole concert of music. My favorite was definitely when Blur came on.

Batumi is apparently party central in the coming months, though at the moment all the beach bars and clubs are frantically under construction, and things are a bit quiet. Our second day we dedicate to laying in the sun on the beach, drinking Russian beer and admiring the beautiful girls. A few hours into this strenous exercise the two Canadians randomly walk up – having been called crazy for trying to hike at this time of year they bailed the next day straight to Batumi. The five of us make a ferris wheel date, which for some tragic reason isn’t running this day, the saddest moment ever. We make up for it by going for khinkali (dumplings) for dinner, the size of which we drastically underestimate and order enough food for about ten people. With stomachs about to explode we are interrupted by a merry old chap who arrives to our little zone (apparently dining out in Georgia is quite a private affair, if you don’t get an individual room for your party you get a little area cordoned off with curtains) with a bottle of champagne and toasts us, Georgian style. That is, with a great many things said, and then the immediate consumption of all the alcohol in your glass. A bottle of champagne down, we are all invited downstairs to join their party (a birthday celebration), where all the younger relatives are dancing about while the whole family claps, drinks (well, the boys), and generally has a merry time. Dan about passes out from sunstroke/sunburn, while the rest of us consume an amazing amount of homemade [white] Georgia wine and make a pathetic attempt to match the amazing dancing of the kids. One of the guys, maybe a little younger than us, is in the national folk dancing troupe – amazing stuff.

A late night leads to an early start, the next day, for Gori, in the middle of Georgia and most renowned for being the birthplace of Stalin. Featuring, among other things, a giant statue of Stalin in the main square, the Stalin museum (all in Russian, be forewarned), and the “original” house that Stalin was born in, preserved in situ.

Our accomodation in Gori is our first experience with a Georgian homestay. It is listed in the book at 1 euro/night (prices have gone up slightly), and it takes us accosting a local, who proceeds to walk with us across town, to find the place. He knocks at the door, down the dusty side street of a dirty side street, neither with a name, and this old lady appears, speaking no English, seemingly unaware what three backpackers may be doing at her door. At this point, our guide has the most doubtful expression on his face, as in, you guys should get out of here, and at this point I am thinking the same thing. But a few seconds later we are waved inside the little family compound – one of the strangest places I’ve managed to spend a few nights.

In Gori we meet up with the first of two Georgia friends that Bryn met in Cairo – Data. We spend the next few days hanging out with all his friends in Gori, enjoying their amazing hospitality. A phenomenon we first discovered in Syria, it seems that whenever someone becomes your host all their other duties in the world cease to exist, something I will have to try and emulate back in the States. After much too long, or much too short, in Gori, we make our way to the capital, Tbilisi, where a general sense of angst has been ongoing for quite some time now (my new found source for all kinds of crazy news from this area). Protestors, living in little plywood and plastic huts labeled as “cells”, have completely blocked off the main street downtown which runs in front of parliament.

They are demanding the resignation of the president, for, among other things, his mistreatment of the Russian invasion, and suspicions over a tank battalion mutiny (how sweet does that sound) which happened just a few days before we arrived. With this in mind, we expected Tbilisi to be a rather lively place, but things were, sadly, rather under control, at least on the surface.

We are told that there are nightly police raids through the protester’s camp to scare people, and that big plans are afoot for independence day, only a few days ahead. At the insistence of our Georgian hosts we make a trip South to the Davit Gareja Monastery, a beautiful place in an “arid lunar landscape” sitting on the border with Azerbaijan, a country looking all the more tempting. A journey which involves chartering ourselves a private taxi for an hour ride from the closest bus stop for a negotiated price which our driver agrees to all too quickly – even if he does sit around waiting us for hours.

We meet up with Bryn’s second friend from Cairo – Tato (there is a bit of a name repetition issue in Georgia..), who is (a) somewhat a celebrity in Georgia, having been a star on the first ever Georgian reality show, something akin to Big Brother, and (b) the manager of the biggest night club in Tbilisi, which is conveniently having a bit of a shindig which we get some invites to, complete with a VIP table upstairs. Not too shabby at all. A night which doesn’t end until the sun is peeking back over the horizon. Our sightseeing the next day (feeling a bit bad that we haven’t actually seen that much of the city) includes what is apparently baptism day at the local cathedral. And a stunning view after a rain storm.

Among other curiosities, such as the availability of kachapuri (cheese or meat, flaky pastries) for breakfast, and nothing else, are the ubiquitous seedy casinos everywhere.

My first taste of the ex-USSR is quite satisfying. It convinces me that girls from this part of the world are exceedingly beautiful, things are exceedingly cheap, and that I definitely need to learn Russian.

Next stop, Amasra, and my first view of the Black Sea. While wandering around in search of a cheap hotel we are accosted by a group of old ladies leaving the park who want us to rent an apartment. With plenty of Turkish in hand to make it happen, we are soon enough deposited in some apartment in a housing block and make an appointment for the next morning to “check out.” Amasra is a sweet little town, with nothing to do other than wander around, gaze at the sea, meet the local English teacher, and eat pide.

An early start the next day is our attempt to make it East, a few hundred kilometers, to Sinop, via a series of minibus hops. “Advisable to start early, else you may find yourself stuck in Inebolu, with no onward connections.” Which is exactly what happens, as we wind along a gorgeous coastline at maybe 20km/hr, and so get to enjoy the hospitality of one of Inebolu’s two hotels, where I suspect every backpacker that lands here has likewise missed the last bus (at 3:30, ridiculous).

We make it to Sinop the next day, which is tourist central, with the town sprawled out on a bulging promentary with only a tenuous connection to the mainland. Some nice Roman (?) fortifications, falling into the sea. And yes, it is the sea, not the ocean as I often call it, and get shouted at each and every time.

After a full day of wandering about Sinop we grab the last bus to Samsun, further Eastward, to await a midnight connection on to Trabzon – finally. We arrive in the morning, and bump into Dan who hops in our minibus from the bus station and joins the traveling crew. We make straight for the neighborhood known for prostitution – home of the cheapest hotels. We get shooed away from some, invited into others (which we steer clear of), and eventually land a room for just the right price. A nice little parade in Trabzon, Turkish banners flying, guys in uniform playing music, little school children singing, how nice.

Among other adventures in Trabzon (including a failed attempt to locate any attractive natasha’s, the local name for Russian prostitutes), we make it out to Sumela Monastery, a beautiful place in need of a bit more work.

After a few days the three of us admit to the usual problem – no idea what we would do if we stayed longer. I debate with myself the Georgia question, and finally decide to skip it, instead getting on a bus headed back into central Turkey and go to catch the train to Cappadocia, and get, finally, back on “schedule.” I get the bus times for the next morning, set my alarm, and due to a rather un-mysterious sequence of events (a tearfully drawn out breakfast full of goodbyes) decide that I have missed it by about 10 minutes. And so saying, I change my mind and tell the guys that I’m coming with them to Georgia.

It makes me think of a “poor man’s Galapagos” actually – I nearly step on a turtle while hiking around, and then stop and look around and see a whole invasion of turtles slowly making their way over the landscape. One side of the island is a sheer cliff, with birds zooming around so fast you can hear the air make way. The next day I make it down to Hoşap Castle, where I encounter my second contingent of rock throwing children. This time, however, they are atop a rather impressive set of castle walls, and have the distinct advantage, bombarding me from above. I decide to make my approach a bit later, by which time there is a group of middle-aged Kurdish guys playing tourists and the kids are on their best behavior towards me, all smiles. Infuriating. I minivan hop my way to Çavuştepe, a Uranian site, and then back to Van, where I am quick to move on the next day – halfway up to Kars, in the far Northeast of Turkey, is Doğubayazıt, sitting under the shadow of Turkey’s tallest mountain, Mt. Ararat (5137m). A few hour hike into the hills lands you at the Ishak Paşa Palace:

Up to Kars, which has been on my unavoidable list ever since I read the novel of the same title by Orpan Pamuk – one of the best books I have ever read, for sure. To be honest, Kars isn’t quite the same as I had pictured after reading about nationalist vs religious vs communist struggles in the dead of winter some twenty years ago, but it is still a depressingly grey, Soviet-esque, town, exactly what I was looking for. Some caretaker at the Belediye (town hall) insists on posing for me.

I team up with 1 Switzerland and 1 Belgium and we hire a taxi out to Ani, the medieval capital of Armenia, and only a few hundred meters from the current (-ly closed) Armenian border, a river with Russian military bases spaced out evenly on the other side.

Thinking perhaps of a quick trip into Georgia, or else up to Trabzon on the Black Sea Coast, I get a message from Bryn telling me to get over to Ankara to partake in a massive music festival at the local university, Odtu (the Turkish equivalent of Harvard). A day stop over in Erzurum, where I meet, among other people, an old Turkish man who stops me on the street and confesses that he is addicted to buying Iranian carpets shortly before accusing me, as a proxy for capitalism, as being far inferior to socialism. We have a nice little chat, as I try not to miss my night bus to Ankara.

The next few days I spend enjoying the amazing hospitality of several lovely Turkish ladies (and gentleman), staying in their apartments and heading out, each day, to the festival. Which takes place on campus, guarded by Turkish military (Odtu is apparently a hotbed for socialist troublemakers, reminds me a bit of Berkeley) – apparently on the first night, which I missed, there was a massive pro-Communist march, complete with hammer and sickle flags. A few different stages of music occupy a few thousand people during the day, where the usual procedure is to find a spot, buy some illicitly-smuggled-in beer from the numerous entrepreneurs taking advantage of the rather lax alcohol ban (not allowed at the entrance gates, but not enforced whatsoever inside), and settling down. At night, we move into the stadium for the main stage performance, before hitting bed (or not) before the sun rises, and then rinse and repeat. The last night a guy called Hayko Cepkin on the main stage, blasting out some rather hard and good Turkish metal, while crazy fans of the #1 football team in Turkey, Beşiktaş, pop a bunch of flares at the top of the stadium and unroll a huge flag.

By the time the festival is over sightseeing in Ankara has taken a bit of a back seat, but we do make it out to the mausoleum of Atatürk, Anıtkabir, the founder and first president of the Republic of Turkey, whose statue can be seen in the main square of pretty much every city, and who is, more or less, revered by all Turkish people. We read his Address to the Turkish Youth, a rather poignant and fitting episode at the time.

Turkish youth! Your first duty is to project and preserve the Turkish independence and the Turkish Republic forever . This is the very foundation of your existence and your future. This foundation is your most precious treasure. In the future, too, there may be malovelent people at home and abroad, who wish to deprive you of this treasure.

If some day you are compelled to defend your independence and your republic, you must not tarry to weigh the possibilities and circumstances of the situation before taking up your duty. These possibilities and circumstances may turn out to be extremely unfavorable. The enemies conspiring against your independence and your Republic may have behind them a victory unprecedented in the annals of the world. By violence and ruse, all the fortresses of your beloved fatherland may be captured, all its shipyards occupied, all its armies dispersed and every part of the country invaved. And sadder and graver than all these circumstances, those who hold power within the country may be in error, misguided and may even be traitors. Furthermore, they may identify their personal interests with the political designs of the invaders. The country may be impoverished, ruined and exhausted.

You, the youth of Turkey’s future, even in such circumstances, it is your duty to save the Turkish independence and Republic. The strength you need is in your noble blood within your veins

The next day Bryn and I say a rather sad goodbye to the Turks, and with promises to reunite soon, are back on the road together.

First stop: Turkish border control. I slide over my passport, he types something into the computer, apparently has some inner struggle, and hands it back to me. “Problem, visa, problem, computer,” he says, and shrugs, “go to Qamishle, fix problem.” Qamishle is several hundred kilometers to the West, on the Syrian border, and as I am pushed out of line by other impatient passport holders I swear under my breath – something with the visa when I came into Turkey must have gotten screwed up. The whole “visa lady has already gone home” screwed me over, and my trip into Iraq is over a bit sooner than even I expected. The other guys in the taxi are ready to go, the driver looks at me questionably, and I ask about catching a taxi back to Silopi, ready to give up. Finally my taxi driver mentions a few key phrases which actually fall within my vocabulary, “fuloos, fish mushkila, …” i.e. money, no problem. And so I find myself being advised, by my taxi driver, to bribe the Turkish border official in order to let me out of the country. Very well – I inquire what the appropriate amount might be, he suggests 50 USD. I can’t afford it (even if I really could) and suggest 20 USD instead. He shrugs, runs over to the passport booth, sticks his head inside and has a short conversation. He runs back, nods, I stick a twenty inside the front flap of my passport, he grabs it and tosses it to the official, and twenty seconds later I am back in the taxi, passport on the dash, happily granted leave from Turkey. The driver obviously informs the other passengers about the bribe, who tisk tisk, Arabic/Turkish fashion, in disapproval (at the border official, I’m hoping). I note only that this is the only time on the entire trip I have to bribe someone (excluding, perhaps, Transdniester, which has yet to come), and doesn’t really speak well of Turkey’s EU bid and the whole no corruption policy therein.

With that rather adrenaline inducing border crossing out of the way we are soon on the Ibraham al-Khalil bridge, and then at the Iraqi border, where we crowd inside a nice sitting room and are served with tea as our passports are processed. The proper responses to prompted questions in order to gain entry:

Purpose of visit: tourism (just tourism)
Profession: student (avoid anything fancy, i.e. journalist)
Amount of cash you are currently carrying: I lie, low, and get frowned at. I have the impression they want you to be carrying more than enough – Iraq is cut off from the international banking networks so although there are ATMs all over the place none of them work
Why do you want to come to Iraq: just tourism (avoid elaborate story of the kindness of Kurdish people previously met in Syria, which got me a blank stare and a repeated question)
Do you know anyone / have any friends here: no
Would you like to visit Kirkuk or Baghdad: definitely not

In that case, “Welcome to Iraq”. Or more correctly, “Iraqi Kurdistan”, “The Autonomous Region of Kurdistan”, or if you’re feeling political, “Kurdistan.” (Coincidentally, likely the reason I ran into problems at the Turkish border, since Turkey actively opposes the idea of a Turkish Kurdistan, and is probably not all that happy to see tourists headed towards the Iraqi version, the most successful out of any of the Kurdish populated countries). I am actually the first, from the taxi, done on this side of the border, with a giant stamp in the passport and a warm welcome to enjoy my stay. We spent the next hour waiting just beyond the bridge for a convey (which never appears and we eventually just leave without), and then negotiating with the local taxi cartel for a ride to my first destination, Dohuk. Which, is beautiful, and definitely not the image I had in my head of an Iraqi desert.

When I first thought of coming, in Egypt, after realizing how close I was going to be in both Jordan and Syria, I imagined taking a taxi out to the border, seeing some giant “Welcome to Iraq” sign, a heavily militarized area manned by US troops, snapping a picture, perhaps crossing over for a few minutes, and that’s about it. A few google searches later reveals two or three (publicized) trips, my inspiration, from June 2007, and discovered later, March 2009, just days before I go. There is also an impromptu website, Backpacking Iraqi Kurdistan, which provides my only source of city maps during the excursion. About two months later I was to meet someone with a new copy of the Lonely Planet Middle East (published: May, 2009), which now includes extensive information and maps on pretty much everywhere I went. I get the feeling that it is soon to be swarming with backpackers.

That said, no one was ever overly surprised that I was there. Curious glances in the street were at a normal, Eastern-Turkey level, and I never once felt the need to say I was from “Canada”, as I had been prepared to do. Strange, then, that Americans can travel openly in this part of Iraq and actually feel welcome – the majority of the population is pro-American and appreciative of the US role in putting them where they are now. That is, free of Saddam and largely independent (with their own government and military), even with frequent and random power blackouts, which everyone just seems to ignore, and other such ridiculous difficulties in life. In Dohuk I meet Samir, and spend the near few hours polishing up my Kurdish. He knows virtually no English, is fluent in Arabic and Kurdish, and is at about the same level with Turkish as me. It is invigorating, to say the least, to successfully communicate with someone else in four languages (three of which I am terrible at) where any one would be a total failure. The most important phrase in Kurdish – “tu janna, min hashtetkem”. Or, “you’re beautiful, I love you.” I love Dohuk, for a multitude of ridiculous reasons, including that they are happy to change my Syrian pounds (refused everywhere in Turkey) and they have falafel (nonexistent in Turkey).

The next day I find another taxi service outfit with rides to Arbil (or Erbil, or Hawler, in Kurdish), the capital, and jump in an aging BMW which is to be my taxi only to realize it is identical to my car back home. I am a bit suspicious as we start making circles through town, passing by the taxi guys over and over again, but eventually we pickup one more on one of our passes and head off, into the desert. Which it does become – desert, leaving the mountains behind. This stretch of the trip takes us near Mosul, and I get progressively more worried as the signs on the freeway announcing the distance to said city slowly decrease. When we are about 10km away we veer off the freeway, following a convoy of like minded folks, taking a little shortcut through the desert in order to avoid a city which no one, apparently, has any desire to go through, or near. We wind through the sand, while each car is blinded by the cloud kicked up by the car in front of it, and so veers off to the side to get a clear view. Eventually our group is a half dozen or so cars parallel to each other, driving like some sort of army formation, trying to see through the collective dust-storm that we manage to create. And then we encounter the other group, headed the other way. The scene reminds me of the game Destruction Derby, or whatever it’s called, where cars mill about in a stadium trying to ram into each other until only one is left standing. Except here the objective is avoid any such collisions, and with 10m or so of visibility (less, once our driver attempts to use the cleaning fluid and creates a dusty smear all over the windshield) this is quite fun. Ok, we make it, and are soon enough back on the freeway and onwards to Arbil.

Which, to be honest, is my least favorite city, though I am not sure why. Other than the citadel in the middle (which, has potential), there really isn’t that much to do. The curiosity is the money chargers, who are all old men sitting on the side of the road, the entirety of their business sitting as stacks of thick (several inches thick) 10,000 and 20,000 Iraqi dinar notes rubber banded together on cardboard boxes. “Must be a safe country.” Wandering around that night (something I avoid my first night in Dohuk out of precaution) I run into an Iranian fellow, a tourist, who offers to share his hotel room with me and goes through great lengths to convince me that he can be trusted. Not to say that I don’t, but I’m not sad that I’ve already paid for my room for the night.

The next morning (moving fast) I opt for the bus out to Sulimani (or Sulymaniyah), quite far out to the East. Rather, the only option is the bus, which I’ve read passes through the suburbs of Kirkuk en route – a situation that any Western tourist would be wise to avoid. I am not quite sure if we ever do, but if we do, they are definitely the suburb suburbs, and things never feel too out of hand. I see, for the first time, pillars of fire erupting from the ground (ignited gas pumps? not sure what they actually are, other than it reminds me of the movie Jarhead). For me the highlight of Sulimani is the Amna Surak, or “Red House,” a former prison of Saddam Hussein where Kurdish fighters were tortured. Now converted into a museum, of sorts, which I manage to stumble on with the worst hand drawn map ever. It is closed when I arrive, but a young Kurdish soldier is happy to open it up for a tourist and give me a private tour. When we get to the room featuring a model of a guy, strung up by his hands, being tortured by electroshock, and featuring an audio recording of an actual torture session in the background, he lights up a cigarette and zones out as I stand there. Way out of my league.

I am told that to leave Sulimani I have to get to some place called the “Baghdad Garage”, which doesn’t sound like quite what I am looking for, but in addition to destinations such as Baghdad, Kirkuk, and Najaf (buses which I could have easily hoped on without question, as easy as that) is good old Arbil.

From Arbil back towards the border I seem to acquire a somewhat novice taxi driver, who doesn’t quite know where the “through the desert” shortcut is to avoid Mosul, and as we get closer and closer everyone else in the car seems to be freaking out – the only word I can understand is Mosul, which doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence. Eventually we wander around in the desert for awhile, stopping to ask for directions from random guys holding the ever present AK-47, do some circles, stop to buy some produce from a little shack, and are finally headed in the right direction. Shortly after which I manage to be involved in my first ever high speed car accident – no better place than Iraq? No one is hurt, though our factory new taxi is pretty messed up and the old guy’s car (his fault!) fares likewise. Pulled over in the median we, at one point, acquire no less than a dozen spectator cars, everyone stops and jumps out to see what the problem is, lend their assistance in the shouting match which has been occurring non stop between the two drivers, or otherwise just stand around and smoke.

Some random, who speaks English, tells me to stick with him, he is headed to Zakho (the border) and I can join his ride, when it arrives. At some point I find myself the object of curiosity of a group of five or six guys, one of which, after my typical “California” response of origin, pulls up his shirt to reveal massive scars on his chest and arms. “From American bomb,” he says, and suddenly I am in the situation Bryn was seriously afraid of – meeting that one guy whose dad, brother, or son was killed by some American bomb, and otherwise has the motivation to make your day unpleasant. To be honest, I’m not sure if he is serious, though in the end I suspect he is, but nothing develops of it – whatever I said in response must have been good enough.

An hour after the accident the police finally arrive, in the form of a pickup truck full of soldiers carrying automatic weapons. Perfect to resolve a dispute and figure out who was to blame. And, good timing for a sunset.

Shortly thereafter my ride actually materializes, and something gets said to the driver (along the lines of, this tourist just got in an accident, his ride is free) which gets passed from driver to driver for the rest of the night, and gets me, via 3 taxis, for free, back to the border. I catch the same service taxi back over, no problems on either side, and after agreeing to smuggle a few cartons of cigarettes (well, the “limit”, per person, so no harm done) for the driver, we also stop at the duty free store where I buy a few more cartons for the various guys using my passport. By 1am I am back in Silopi, and pretty happy about it, a little whirlwind tour over and done.

The quick pronunciation guide: ş is ’sh’, ç is ‘ch’, ı (i without a dot) is ‘uh’, ğ is silent (ish), ö and ü are supposed to be different, somehow, and v is a bit soft, almost ‘w’.

Our first stop in Turkey: Şanliurfa, where we find some budget accomodation sans incident and eat what is to be the first of many tavuk dürüm (chicken wrap from a kebab type spit), the most delicious thing ever created (after falalel, of course). The real name of the city is Urfa, the prefix makes it into “Glorious Urfa”, an official name change demanded by the inhabitants after neighboring Antep turned into Gaziantep, or “Heroic Antep.” The highlight here is the sacred carp (something to do with Abraham), which are constantly fed by tourists and are extremely fat. Killing one will apparently make you blind.

We make a quick trip down to Harran for a few more ruins and some nice bee-hive houses (not pictured). The next day we book it up towards Mt. Nemrut, a trek which turns into a bit of an ordeal. We make it, shortly after sunset, to Kahta, near the base of the mountain, and are intercepted short of the bus station by a zealous pension owner who has obviously been informed of our impending arrival. We refuse (on the principal of it all), but when we get to the station the market owner across the street starts shouting at us until we walk over – he has a friend as well. This one owns a pension in Karadut, a little village near the summit, and we are quick to agree to the 5 lira minibus transport (it is actually just the normal public minibus, which no one will tell us about, and the actual price is definitely lower) and a free ride up. We get in just after midnight – the only guests, a fact much lamented by the owners, and crash. The thing to do with Mt. Nemrut, naturally, is to watch the sunrise from the top, so we set the alarm for 5am and set out, about 15km one way. A minor wrong turn and some fields and prickly thorn hedges later (bastardly effective things) we are only about halfway up by the time we see the sun, oh well. It is still a nice hike, and we have the top to ourselves – the attraction is a bunch of giant heads, and a huge artifical peak which is actually the tumulus for some long dead king.

Having conquered Nemrut and returned all by 10am we head onwards to Diyarbakur, a trip which involves a curious 15 minute ferry ride across an obviously man made lake which has obliterated a portion of the road. Diyarbakur, the “bastion of Kurdish identity” in Turkey, has some cool basalt walls encircling the old city:

Which, the locals claim to be the second longest in the world (after the Great Wall of China). We have our doubts. Diyarbakur also features rock-throwing kids, which are an amusing image up until the point where rocks are flying towards your head. We’re tourists here. We meet a 19-year old guy who is quick to admit he wants to practice English, and after giving us a bit of a tour around the city invites us back to his place for dinner. Which is where I learn that Turkey, in the East at least, is nearly as conservative as Syria – when we arrive we wait for the mother and older sister to leave the living room, and don’t see them for the entire time we are there – guys and girls eat separately, though perhaps only with guests around. We eat, and talk, only with the guys, and get a crash course on the Kurdish situation in Turkey. The father is a proponent of the ‘federalist’ approach – he believes that Kurdistan can exist within the country of Turkey, if only they would be given more democratic representation. The son is adament that Kurdistan should be its own republic. Topics of militarism and the PKK are dangerous to talk about here, to say the least, and we avoid all but the briefest mention.

The next morning we are off to Mardin, which definitely makes it onto the Top 10 most beautiful towns of the trip. It is perched on the side of a hill overlooking the Mesopotamian Plains, and the view is quite something:

Unfortunately for us, Mardin is quite popular with Turkish tourists, and we have arrived on a weekend. That is to say, each and every hotel in the city (including ridiculously expensive ones we are ready to consider) are completely full. The one cheap option in town, Başak, proposes we sleep in reception. We counter with the roof. They agree. All in all, not a bad night on the roof – glad I have my sleeping bag. And, free is free.

Bryn agrees to accompany me to Silopi, deep in the Southeast of Turkey, on the border with Iraq. We’ve discussed the subject many a time over the past two weeks and I’ve more or less made up my mind, though he is still on the fence. After a last minute internet session he admits that he has decided not to go – not the best news, I would prefer not to be alone, but the decision is undeniably a personal one, and I admit I won’t attempt to persuade.

The one and only picture I take in Silopi, inside our pithole of a hotel. Not the most restful night of sleep I’ve ever had.

The next day I am on the bus en route to the Crac des Chevaliers, a nice little crusader castle, when everyone starts shouting and I turn around to see smoke boiling somewhere out of the back. When boiling water floods down the floor and out the door I decide it’s steam, and by the time we hurriedly evacuate I can barely see inside. My first broken down bus of the trip! We are assured that the company is sending another bus to pick us up, but even so, guys start bailing immediately, flagging down minibuses and disappearing by the twos and threes. I hold off, and after an hour a bus finally arrives, but only enough room for the women and children. I feel like I’m on the Titanic, even though I’m just sitting on the side of the road. By the time I finally make it to the Crac there is only an hour left, but perfect timing for what has to be the best castle/fortress of the trip.

With a inner and outer wall, moat, keep, towers, spiral staircases, and vaulted chambers, what more can you ask for?

I refuse to pay the exorbent price for a ride down the mountain to the highway, trying my luck instead at a free lift. The car that eventually stops is some ridiculously looking contraption with two guys in the front seat, who motion me into the back after asking where I’m from and seeming satisfied with California. I pop open the door to discover five (and one more on the front, on the lap) little kids staring at my curiously. They all crowd over to the other side, piling on top of eachother, while I have the entire other half to myself. They warm up to me quickly, as their father(s)(?) prod them into trying out their fledgling English on me. My ride to the highway (8km) turns into a ride all the way to Tartus (80km), where they assure me they are headed, but as soon as we get there they find the minibus station for me and head back the other way, to Homs, a hundred kilometers in the other direction. Syria is, above anything else, full of genuinely nice people.

This is probably one of the biggest differences as compared to Egypt or Jordan. There are tourists here, of course, but only some, and almost never big groups. The people seem entirely disinterested in extracting money from tourists, and are instead genuinely curious about who we are, where we’re from, what we think of Syria. And in my case, what Americans in general think of Syria. Only once does my American status leave me in limbo – a guy at the bus station in Lattakia asks where I’m from, and my California reply elicts a “America? America no good.” response, a shake of the head, and walking off. No one else ever said anything negative about America, though I suspect they may have a slightly different opinion when talking to other nationalities (i.e. my soon to be Canadian traveling buddy).

I make a quick jaunt out to Palmyra, way out in the desert, the gem of Syria’s roman heritage. The guidebook presents an ominous warning about the buses dropping tourists off outside of town at some hotel, friend of a friend, very Egyptian style. I can’t quite believe it when we roll to a stop and the driver motions the tourists off (myself and one other) while all the locals stare at us, waiting for us to get off the bus. The hotel manager is standing outside, waiting for us, and our bags are already unloaded. It is exactly as it was described to me, what a scam. I admit that Palmyra must be the one tourist trap in Syria. But I’m not staying the night, so I grab my bag, toss it back under the bus, and climb back on, asking for the otogar (bus station). I feel a bit sorry for the other chap, but he is beyond saving. Palmyra is worth it though, a beautiful setting for another few hundred Roman columns. I’ve seen quite enough Roman columns, I think, by this point.

My favorite part may be a dog who ran up to me and flopped down on top of my feet, and as soon as I started moving away he would jump up, run over, and flop down right in front of me again. I have video. I catch the last minibus out back towards civilization, running after it as it pulls away, and the driver tells me some price (150) but some other local helpfully informed me earlier that the correct price was 108 (a strange number I thought). I tell him the right amount and hand it to him – he just looks a bit flustered as all the other locals in the bus burst out laughing and clap me on the back. I get thumbs up from the back seat, and smiles all around. Well done.

From Lattakia I head across to Hama, famous for its huge waterwheels and the sound of their groaning, creaking revolutions.

In Hama I meet up with Bryn, of the Captain Bob Felucca Adventure, and we will travel together, on and off, for the next two months. After the Quest for the Perfect Falafel is successful in Hama we head up, the next day, to Aleppo, in northern Syria. Aleppo may not be quite as perfect as Damascus, but the Old Town is still beyond amazing.

We find the sketchiest neighborhood possible and wander around looking for the cheapest hotel – 3.5 euro a night. Unfortunately, we only get to stay two nights – that night we practice what will become our favorite activity in Syria, sitting on a bench. Doing so draws Syrians to you, curious, genuine, and just wanting to talk. We meet three guys studying at the University of Aleppo, and agree to meet them the next day at the medicine faculty cafe. Universities, we’ve decided, are generally a good place to see the most beautiful girls in any city.

The three guys are Kurdish, and the next few weeks of this trip I learn more than I could have ever imagined about Kurds, Kurdish culture, and the dream which is Kurdistan. This part of the world is more complicated than I ever would have thought – Kurds are a minority in North Syria, Eastern Turkey, Northern Iraq and Western Iran – all want their independence and all, in some way, are the targets of various levels of oppression. Our friends (whose names, strangely enough with Syria how it is, shouldn’t appear here) are Kurdish, and Syrian, but although officially we are in the Arab Republic of Syria, they are definitely not Arab. Though, as the neverending circle of friends continually grows we meet a great many of their friends, both Kurdish and Arab, and there are even Kurdish-Arab couples.

We are invited to stay with the ringleader, our host, in his apartment, and decide why not. We spend the next few days exploring Syria, meeting countless friends and attending all the best kinds of parties (lots of music making and dancing, not so much alcohol or anything else which is haram in Islam. Aleppo is the most conservative city in Syria, and already conservative place. The majority of women here wear the full black hejab, with only their eyes visible, if that. We ask jokingly how they eat ice cream when they buy it in the bazaar. Apparently this miracle takes place some how. We also decide that they must, for the most part, be wearing some crazy lingerie underneath their black gowns – they are always staring and shopping in lingerie stores).

And, I fall in love (the second time on this trip), but she is Syrian, rather devout Muslim (enough that shaking hands with a boy is a no-no), and has a boyfriend. Her name means “Innocence.” Still, it doesn’t stop her from sitting across the table from me, in her headscarf, and telling me how attractive she thinks I am. One of the more surreal conversations I’ve had. I don’t think it’s going to work out.

We join forces with a Mohammed (more or less, one out of every three guys in these parts is named Mohammed) from Sudan, and hit up the Umayyad Mosque of Aleppo, another gorgeous specimen. Things are quite different when you have a Syrian tour guide in tow.

That night we also make it to a hamam (bathhouse), a specialty in the Middle East, and the first for me on this trip. Bryn promises me that it is going to be one of the most homoerotic experiences of my life. He is, more or less, right. It is a bunch of Syrian guys in their underwear acting like kids, cannonballing into the pool, sweating in the steam room, and continually soaping up and rinsing off. I get a soapy massage from our host, the two of us in our underwear, laying on a marble slab. Bryn goes for the official massage (an all boys club) and I am glad, I think, that I pass.

The souq may even top that in Damascus – why not skin a camel and stick it on a hook attached to some ancient iron door in the bazaar? I’ll spare the picture of the head.

We are invited out to meet the family of our host, who live in Ein Al-Arab, a small village in Northeastern Syria. This village is on the Turkish border, and is most definitely Kurdish. There used to be a border crossing here, but it was closed by Turkey because members of the PKK (the Kurdish guerrilla/”terrorist” organization in Turkey) would cross here and get help from the villagers. I don’t think many tourists come here – when we are leaving the bus station in Aleppo the police are not at all happy that an American and a Canadian are headed out to Ein Al-Arab. The minibus driver continually recieves calls during the trip, which we later learn are from the police, checking on our progress. The driver insists on delivering us right to the door of the house we are staying at – he has been ordered to, so that he can report back to the secret police and tell them where we are. After meeting our hosts parents, two amazing and very welcoming people, we go out for a walk to the Syria/Turkey border – a railroad track a few hundred meters away.

The other side has been mined, by Turkey. A few weeks ago a kid from Ein Al-Arab playing in the field hit a landmine and lost a leg. There is no fence, and we step into Turkey with one foot, but our host refuses to cross the railroad tracks. What appear to be grain silos in the distance, flying Turkish flags, are undoubtedly military outposts. We see a sniper on one later, crossing into Turkey the next day. When we arrive back to the house we discover that the police have stopped by in our absence, and demanded to know what we are doing there, how we know the family, the host, where we met, etc. We agree on a story that is mostly truthful, in case they return. Although Bryn and I think this is quite nonsense, and want to go talk to the police (they avoid openly confronting us, the tourists) we are dissuaded by the family, who are already scared of possible repercussions of our visit. Not wanting to cause trouble, we defer, but still it is insisted that we stay with the family, despite the difficulties. The Syrian police think we are spies for the CIA. Or, more likely, pro-Kurdish supporters here somehow to aid the Kurdish cause or the PKK. They demand to be informed of when we leave and where we are going. We never quite spot them following us, though.

To cross the border into Turkey we go further East, to a town that is predominantly Arab. Along the way their are armed guards (normal looking guys in plain clothes, in an unmarked pickup truck on the side of the road, holding AK-47s and with pistols stuck in the back of their jeans) who obviously are expecting an American and Canadian to come this way, and happily check our passports before waving us on (closer and closer to leaving Syria and becoming someone else’s problem, we suspect). Near the border we are finally freed of any driver/police escort, and could have slipped anywhere, outside of this net of paranoia, but decide it is the appropriate time to be leaving. Turkey awaits.