I have smoked a narghile, which in Iran is called a quylan. A proper one. In Tehran. And it was good. But let me take a step back to a few days ago, when we reached a little-used border post between Turkey and Iran. Approaching from Turkey through low green hills we passed flocks of sheep guarded by proper Anatolian sheepdogs, huge, with thick grey coats and black muzzles (the dogs that is, not the sheep). I had my long, loose shirt and headscarf ready. I was, needless to say, excited. And hopeful. And a bit uncertain. How would we be treated by the border officials? Would Iranians be pleased to meet an American or angry? And would my outfit pass muster?

I needn’t have worried. The border was empty of traffic when we arrived. Within minutes we were unencumbered of our passports by a border policeman in a crisp pale-green uniform with only a modest amount of gold braid, who invited us to occupy two of the three chairs in the passport control area while he disappeared into a side room. As officials came and went from that room, we waited. I was unusually patient, primarily because I feared the consequences of asking questions. Eventually we were invited to fill in a health form, which asked us to check off whether we were experiencing any diarrhea or vomiting. Some while after that we were invited into the side room and presented with a blue ink pad on which we were asked to press our fingers and leave two sets of fingerprints on a piece of paper. A strip of gauze was proffered to wipe off our blue finger tips.

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The toast last night was “Here’s to bitumen! May it stay in its proper place!” And we raised a glass of fine Chablis, thoughtfully provided to us by Paul and Stuart Foley who, when not stocking our little car fridge with Snickers, Toblerone and Cuban cigars, take superb care of Brunhilde when she’s in dry dock.

The reason for the toast was an unfortunate strip of oozing, gooey black pitch newly laid on the dirt road which led to our modest lodge at 6,000 feet altitude on the windswept Turkish steppe. Poor Brunhilde’s nether regions are now coated with the black, sticky stuff and there’s nothing we can do about it. Except to drink wine, that is.

The road up till then had been an ideal sweep of tarmac over high, bare dry hills, through modest villages, with swatches of green now and then showing where a stream provided enough water along the valley bottom for fields and gardens to be planted. So it was a shame to end the drive feeling both relief that we’d finally arrived and dismay at the condition of our car.
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Central Anatolia’s a pretty special place, and the area we’ve driven around is called Cappadocia, which is pronounced like this: Kapadokya. Among many marvels, Cappadocia is a wine region, with some delightful whites.

I will report back later on the whether there’s any truth in that. For now I can tell you that Raki is not a bad beverage, so long as you find liquid licorice appealing. And that there are various qualities of Raki, which I have only 3 days left to investigate. Travel’s a chore, but it’s one I happily shoulder.

If I were an early Christian living on lovely, grassy, rolling hills in Cappadocia, and needed a place to hide 5,000 of my family and best friends from the Mongol hordes invading from the East, where would I go? Downward, of course, into the soft limestone beneath my callused feet.
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Tuesday 8:00 a.m. Sitting on a plastic stool in a narrow alley still wet from a pre-dawn street cleaning, I sip strong sweet tea from a tiny curvaceous glass. I chose this place despite the cafes around because it is simply a 6×8 room with a young man standing at a 2-burner hotplate. On one burner is a tin kettle with heating water, on the other is a tin kettle with steeping leaves. The brew is so strong only half a glass is poured for me, with hot water topping it up and 2 lumps of sugar placed in the deep red and gold saucer that keeps the glass from sliding onto the cobbles. My first Turkish tea.

A leafy courtyard nearby smells rank from the urine of too many cats, who stalk, preen and lounge under the shade of an old tree. Begonias bloom in chipped garden pots. They are all well-fed. In Istanbul, felines rule. Only two street dogs seem to have escaped what must have been a general massacre some time ago.
Men, unshaven, sit on low stools, elbows resting on knees, in one hand may be a cigarette, in the other a small glass of tea or tiny cup of coffee. They stare at the ground, perhaps contemplating an upcoming visit with a razor. Cafes blink the night’s crust from their sleepy doorways. A faint whiff of salt air from the Bosphorus. I’ve found a modest grocery with one wall lined with deep bins of raw almonds, plump dried apricots and golden raisins the size of peanut M&Ms. They’ll make great road snacks.

Three days left before we take off for the east of Turkey. Brunhilde has arrived and is running well. Most important, for someone about to enter large expanses of desert in which she will have to wear long sleeves and cover her head with a scarf, Brunhilde’s air conditioning system purportedly has been fixed.

-Dina

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