“Excuse me, how I can help you spend your money?”

One of the national mottos of Turkey, that and “It’s no problem.” Everything is no problem. Even if you’re at the wrong bus station, will miss your connector, spend the next 8 hours on a bus (we’ve spent about 30 hours on busses, even with a flight between places to avoid another 6 hour bus haul), the AC in your room doesn’t work, there is no pepto-bismol from here to Greece, and you've got Turkey trot (a.k.a. Montezuma’s Revenge, a.k.a. Delhi Belly), all of it is “no problem.” What else are you supposed to say in a place that seems constantly on the verge of tragedy? Here 40,000 people die in an earthquake, and it’s as if a minor storm passed through. Here people push their babies in carriages out into crosswalks and cars STILL do not stop, here where families have at least one relative who has been killed in some sort of car accident.

I grew up at drag strips, my father being a weekend racer himself, I’ve sat behind the wheel of his race car, raced it down the track, pushing 8 cylinders of a 400 big-block good ole American steel muscle car and yet our cab ride from Urgup to the airport was probably the most scared I’ve been in a car, including the time…well never mind. We are in a mini-van, no seat belts of course because in Turkey, to wear a seat belt is to commit a fashion faux paux, I suppose, the driver hacking up something from his throat, answering his phone, cursing (I think), all at 130 km per hour, FOR AN HOUR STRAIGHT. All of it down a Turkish highway (think ESPN Texas Rodeo Championship and you’ve got a good idea of what the van must have looked like from the outside), Diana turning green, me starting to fear that that the last kebob might climb its way out of my stomach and jump out the window to save itself (that selfish bastard!). And when we arrived at the airport with what? three minutes until our plane takes off, a line of what looked like Turkish refugees fleeing the country streaming out the door of the terminal (“It is no problem”), I fell out of the door of the van, kissed the ground, thanked Allah, and wondered what we would do if we missed the flight.

Alas, we did make the flight, it being late (of course), schedules here being like stop signs, optional, and we made our way to Selcuk and the site of Ephesus, the best preserved Roman city in Turkey (It is no problem). Not before of course a driver from our hotel picked us up and took us at 140 km per hour FOR AN HOUR STRAIGHT, at night, down a Turkish highway (near tragedy).

That’s pretty much the way this trip has been. The pattern is this: insanity (chaos and mayhem), amazement, insanity, amazement, and so on. The physical and mental toll this takes on the European/western traveler becomes evident by the wary, sullen look in their eyes at about day 10, and you can easily distinguish them from the new arrival, smiling, excited, chipper, and you can communicate with this wary westerner with a simple look, I’m with you brother, I understand. You don’t say anything to these newcomers and just let them enjoy the honeymoon. If they were to ask, just like every Turk will, How do you like Turkey, you simply reply, It’s great, so much to see here. And that is the truth. There IS so much to see here. So much incredible history, the seat of Western civilization for chrissakes.

But to travel here you must get used to the title of this post. If there is one thing Turkey is good at, it is separating you from your money. Why? One torched economy after another. Get this. Five years ago a beer here cost 1,000,000 Turkish lira. The government decided to cut some zeros from the currency, printed up a new stack, and poof, a beer instantly cost 1 lira (It is no problem). Five years later a beer here costs anywhere from 4 to 7 lira depending where you are (so about 3-6 American smackers). The price for the metro in Istanbul increased just in the time we were gone (9 days).

You must also get used to what appears to be a general decay here, dying cats (and dogs), constant pestering from carpet peddlers, shopkeepers, restaurant hawkers, being cut in front of in line, no traffic laws (well they are not followed) and therefore utter chaos on the roads, almost being killed EVERYTIME you try to cross the street; ketchup on your pizza; 4 star being a relative term; heat comparable only to the fires of the river Styx; garbage everywhere; Attaturk staring at you at every turn (on the money, on the walls, on statues); people dancing under a giant Turkish flag singing the national anthem while simultaneously throwing their cigarette butts and empty water bottles into the Aegean; Turkish optimism (being told it is 102 degrees when it is 108, or the road signs that say 7 km to somewhere when it is actually 10 km); cigarette smoke in restaurants, busses, hotel lobbies, airports (everywhere okay); and something else but I must run to the bathroom, sorry.

Righto, but with all of this is the incredible helpfulness of the common Turkish person, insisting on helping you find your way, carry your bag, etc. The amazing historical sites. The incredible food (be careful though). The beautiful singing lilting from the imams’ call to prayer from the ubiquitous mosque marinets.

Under the general tone (which can only be called tragic), and the general belief that Turkey may fall into the hands of the radical Islamists of Iran, there is the unrelenting Turkish hope. Turkish generosity. Turkish hospitality. This part will be missed.

But generally I am missing now the cool, crisp air of the Puget Sound. I want to wait in an orderly line, single file, everyone waiting their turn. I want things to work on schedule. I want to actually stop at a red light. Stay within the painted lines of the highway. Cross the street without losing a leg. Eat leafy greens. Drink water out of a tap. I miss you America. Soon we will be home.