The story of a short day of destruction, empanadas, hopelessness, and the influence of discovery.Enjoy your reading,Kerimcan

Ruta is the logbook of a man who spends his life mostly on the road and takes pictures instead of taking notes.

Ruta

The story of a short day of destruction, empanadas, hopelessness, and the influence of discovery.

☀️ A morning in Buenos Aires

This week on Ruta, a man is bored while driving in Norway, a memory from the depths of his mind resurfaces, and a Viking rings church bells to write poetry.<h2 fr-original-style="" style="margin: 0px; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.85); font-weight: 500; padding: 0px; box-sizing: border-box;">Today on Ruta's route:</h2>🔔 Poet, Bell Ringer, Viking🎒 While we’re thereEnjoy your reading,Kerimcan

A memory stretching from Oslo to Rome

🔔 Poet, Bell-ringer, Viking

This week, one volcano leads Ruta to another. With a feel of a trip to the center of the earth, our adventure includes melted marshmallows, a fog that just won't clear, black rocks, and raining stones in rural Guatemala.<h2 fr-original-style="" style="margin: 0px; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.85); font-weight: 500; padding: 0px; box-sizing: border-box;">Today on Ruta’s Route:</h2>☕ Brewed by lava: Pacaya Volcano💃 While we’re thereEnjoy,<a fr-original-style="" href="https://link.aposto.com/click?uri=aHR0cHM6Ly9saW5rLmFwb3N0by5jb20vY2xpY2s/c291cmNlPXdlYiZwdWJsaXNoZXI9NjFhYWNkMDNmMmI4YTUwMDA2M2IxYjg1Jm5ld3NsZXR0ZXI9NjFhYWQxMGU0NDlkZTUwMDA2N2FiYTI3Jmlzc3VlPTYyYzdkZTJiYTBhM2I4MDAwNmEwNjgzMyZzdWJzY3JpYmVyPXVuZGVmaW5lZCZ1cmw9aHR0cHMlMjUzQSUyNTJGJTI1MkZ3d3cuaW5zdGFncmFtLmNvbSUyNTJGa2Nha2R1bWFuJTI1MkYlMjUzRnV0bV9zb3VyY2UlMjUzRGFwb3N0bw==" style="color: rgb(9, 9, 9); text-decoration: none; background-color: transparent; outline: none; cursor: pointer; transition: color 0.3s ease 0s; touch-action: manipulation; user-select: auto; box-sizing: border-box;" target="_blank">Kerimcan</a>

Melting marshmallow, unceasing fog, black rocks and raining stones in rural Guatemala… Ruta’s route points to the active volcano of Pacaya.

☕ Brewed by lava: Pacaya Volcano

This week, Ruta goes to the west end of the world, to Vancouver Islands. A story that reaches from Istanbul to the Pacific, starring beautiful beaches, Hıdrellez (the old-Turkish celebration of spring), cheddar sausages, and endless pathways.<h2 fr-original-style="" style="margin: 0px; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.85); font-weight: 500; padding: 0px; box-sizing: border-box;">This week on Ruta’s Route:</h2>🥾 Bonfire on the Juan de Fuca Trail 🏄‍♀️ &nbsp;While we’re thereEnjoy,<a fr-original-style="" href="https://www.instagram.com/kcakduman/?utm_source=aposto&utm_source=aposto" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: rgb(9, 9, 9); text-decoration: none; background-color: transparent; outline: none; cursor: pointer; transition: color 0.3s ease 0s; touch-action: manipulation; user-select: auto; box-sizing: border-box;" target="_blank">Kerimcan</a>

A long hike in Vancouver Islands

🥾 Bonfire on the Juan de Fuca Trail

This week Ruta is spending a night in the desert. There are spies, desert thoughts, creative names the Berbers give their camels, and galaxies hovering above us.<img src="https://s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/images.aposto.com/2022/6/3/1658929972416.jpeg" style="display: block; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px; border-style: none; position: relative; cursor: pointer; padding: 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box;" width="550" ratio="1.00" fr-original-style="display: block; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px;" fr-original-class="fr-draggable">At the Sahara<hr fr-original-style="" style="height: 0px; overflow: visible; border-bottom: none; clear: both; user-select: none; break-after: page; box-sizing: border-box;"><h2 fr-original-style="" style="margin: 0px; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.85); font-weight: 500; padding: 0px; box-sizing: border-box;">Today on the Route of Ruta:</h2>🐫 A desert night in Morocco🌵 While we're thereEnjoy,<a fr-original-style="" href="https://link.aposto.com/click?uri=aHR0cHM6Ly9saW5rLmFwb3N0by5jb20vY2xpY2s/c291cmNlPXdlYiZwdWJsaXNoZXI9NjFhYWNkMDNmMmI4YTUwMDA2M2IxYjg1Jm5ld3NsZXR0ZXI9NjFhYWQxMGU0NDlkZTUwMDA2N2FiYTI3Jmlzc3VlPTYyNWVhZDI2YWFkNjMyMDAwNjZkZDU4OCZzdWJzY3JpYmVyPXVuZGVmaW5lZCZ1cmw9aHR0cHMlMjUzQSUyNTJGJTI1MkZ3d3cuaW5zdGFncmFtLmNvbSUyNTJGa2Nha2R1bWFuJTI1MkY=" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: rgb(9, 9, 9); text-decoration: none; background-color: transparent; outline: none; cursor: pointer; transition: color 0.3s ease 0s; touch-action: manipulation; user-select: auto; box-sizing: border-box;" target="_blank">Kerimcan</a>

This week Ruta is spending a night in the desert. There are spies, desert thoughts, creative names the Berbers give their camels, and galaxies hovering above us.

A desert night in Morocco

Hello!It’s that time of the week when we teleport somewhere else just by looking at a photo.This time, the destination is the former capital of Japan, Kyoto.Enjoy your reading.

An extraordinary journey in extraordinary times.

Kyoto, the former capital of the Empire of the Sun

Hello,In this issue of Ruta, we run into horses in one of the biggest cities of the world and celebrate the Mexican Revolution.Viva Zapata!

Familiar scents, celebration, and the irony of traveling to escape routines but taking refuge in them on the road.

An adventurous breakfast in Mexico

Hello,In this newsletter, Ruta is caught in a hailstorm while searching for the Mediterranean blue. Being in the right place at the right time; people and caterpillars; the road works of the Lycian Senate and a thought-provoking hiking trail.Enjoy your reading,&nbsp;<a fr-original-style="" href="https://www.instagram.com/kcakduman/" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: rgb(9, 9, 9); text-decoration: none; background-color: transparent; outline: none; cursor: pointer; transition: color 0.3s ease 0s; touch-action: manipulation; user-select: auto; box-sizing: border-box;" target="_blank">Kerimcan</a>

Ruta gets caught in a hailstorm while searching for the Mediterranean blue. It travels the Lycian Way, visiting the road works of the Lycian Senate and a thought-provoking hiking trail.

In search of the Mediterranean blue: Lycian Way

Hello,Ruta is on the road to Tokat this week. A Roman latrine encountered on a map; the fertile Yeşilırmak River; erased urban memory; 2 million pygmy bats, and the wind blowing gently along with Lake Almus is on the menu.<h2 fr-original-style="" style="margin: 0px; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.85); font-weight: 500; padding: 0px; box-sizing: border-box;">On Ruta's route in this issue:</h2>🏞 Encounters on the roads of Tokat🥙 Things to discover while you're thereEnjoy your reading,<a fr-original-style="" href="https://link.aposto.com/click?uri=aHR0cHM6Ly9saW5rLmFwb3N0by5jb20vY2xpY2s/c291cmNlPXdlYiZwdWJsaXNoZXI9NjFhYWNkMDNmMmI4YTUwMDA2M2IxYjg1Jm5ld3NsZXR0ZXI9NjFhYWQxMGU0NDlkZTUwMDA2N2FiYTI3Jmlzc3VlPTYyNjdjNzE3NjcwZDQ4MDAwN2Q3YTBlNCZzdWJzY3JpYmVyPXVuZGVmaW5lZCZ1cmw9aHR0cHMlMjUzQSUyNTJGJTI1MkZ3d3cuaW5zdGFncmFtLmNvbSUyNTJGa2Nha2R1bWFuJTI1MkY=" rel="noopener noreferrer" style="color: rgb(9, 9, 9); text-decoration: none; background-color: transparent; outline: none; cursor: pointer; transition: color 0.3s ease 0s; touch-action: manipulation; user-select: auto; box-sizing: border-box;" target="_blank">Kerimcan</a>

 A Roman latrine, the fertile Yeşilırmak River, erased urban memory, 2 million pygmy bats, and the wind blowing gently along with Lake Almus.

Encounters on the roads of Tokat

Hello!In this issue, Ruta is not on an abandoned planet or in a dystopian movie, but in Tuz Lake&nbsp;("Salt Lake" in Turkish.)&nbsp;We are having an experience about the preciousness and eeriness of solitude, the very important effects of the sun on living things, and the infinite choice that nothingness gives to human beings.Enjoy your reading!Kerimcan

In this issue, the route takes us to Tuz Lake, and we enjoy a surreal experience reminiscent of a dystopian movie.

Tuz Lake Alone

Travel

In Buenos Aires, where I can never sleep well and wake up in the morning to the hot and humid weather, I take to the streets hoping to find a cool corner. I search for a secluded corner in the shady streets of the Palermo neighborhood where I am staying. I dream that maybe I will find a café or a bar that I haven't discovered in the neighborhood I've been wandering for days, and I'll crouch in the corner, work a little and watch Argentinian people. As I take 2 steps, I’m already starting to sweat. I decide that someone should tell the Argentinians that the weather in Buenos Aires, which means "good weather," is not that nice in summer.As I eat my empanada, the South American pastry, at the buffet I go to every morning, I think about my first visit to the city. Why do I love this city so much? In fact, considering the misfortunes that befell me from the very first minute, Baires, as the locals abbreviate it, could even be considered inauspicious for me. However, this city, which sometimes gives the impression that time stopped there 20-30 years ago, made me feel good every day I was there, and quickly became my favorite city on the continent.<img src="https://s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/images.aposto.com/2022/7/2/1660032695678.jpeg" style="display: block; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px; border-style: none; position: relative; cursor: pointer; padding: 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box;" width="550" ratio="1.34" fr-original-style="display: block; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px;" fr-original-class="fr-draggable">In the streets of Baires, the wall of the house where Borges spent his childhood<hr fr-original-style="" style="height: 0px; overflow: visible; border-bottom: none; clear: both; user-select: none; break-after: page; box-sizing: border-box;">Why is Buenos Aires so beloved?Is it the Mediterraneanness brought by Italian immigrants who flooded the city in the early 1900s, is it the nostalgic feel, or my good friends who live here? This city makes me dream of retiring as an urban elderly who moves slowly in the streets, wakes up late in the mornings, reads newspapers, and sips wine in cafés in the afternoons. I wouldn’t miss musicals or plays, and wouldn’t eat before 9 pm.After the thoughts pass through my head like lightning, I remember getting lost and drifting through the streets that inspired a genius like Jorge Francisco Isidoro Luis Borges&nbsp;Acevedo. I visualize spending a day following his footsteps, discovering his childhood home a few blocks away, walking up and down the street trying to step on the same places he did. Then the rain starts, and I walk through the majestic buildings on the city's wide Libertador Avenue and arrive at the National Library.I want both to escape the rain and to enter the library where Borges was once the director and breathe in its air. As soon as I enter through the door, the curious gaze of the attendant turns to me. My broken Spanish meets his broken English. We get along.When I turn my head, I realize I hit the jackpot: Borges' handwritten texts are on display in the exhibition hall. I rush to the elevator and enter the exhibition hall, a little wet and a little sweaty. The air conditioner is blaring, I feel cold.I approach the glass cases: long A4 pages are written in Spanish. My eyes are not on the texts. I get excited when I see the familiar signature just below the texts. It's as if I'm seeing a rare creature I've been watching in documentaries for years. It is as if Borges, in whose labyrinths I have gotten lost, in whose pampas I have wandered, is in front of me.<img src="https://s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/images.aposto.com/2022/7/2/1660032880091.jpeg" style="display: block; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px; border-style: none; position: relative; cursor: pointer; padding: 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box;" width="550" ratio="1.34" fr-original-style="display: block; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px;" fr-original-class="fr-draggable">Kerimcan in front of Borges' house<hr fr-original-style="" style="height: 0px; overflow: visible; border-bottom: none; clear: both; user-select: none; break-after: page; box-sizing: border-box;">Where is the childhood home of Borges?As I eat my empanada, I feel as if I am reliving this wonderful day. Despite the heat, a thrill runs through me. I finish my last bite and decide to go back to the beginning of this route, to the house where Borges spent his childhood. As I walk through the streets of Palermo like a preying lion, I move quickly toward a single target without caring about anything else around. I arrive at the same street I arrived on exactly 2 years ago. The street is the same, the address is the same.I walk up and down about 3-4 times from the spot where the old two-story red brick house should be. But the house I know so well is nowhere in sight. "Have I come to a parallel street?" I wonder, and then I remember that the name of the street is Borges. "There must be a mistake," I say, and go back home.A few hours later, I turn on the computer and start checking the address on Google. I can't believe my eyes about 15 minutes later when I see that the building was demolished shortly after my visit and a modern apartment building was built in its place.<img src="https://s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/images.aposto.com/2022/7/2/1660032904742.jpeg" style="display: block; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px; border-style: none; position: relative; cursor: pointer; padding: 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box;" width="550" ratio="1.52" fr-original-style="display: block; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px;" fr-original-class="fr-draggable">🕵️ After the Google search<hr fr-original-style="" style="height: 0px; overflow: visible; border-bottom: none; clear: both; user-select: none; break-after: page; box-sizing: border-box;">I feel like I have lost one of the pieces of my connection with the city. It hurts me that the home of the man who took me away from the world and took me to other places with his words no longer exists. Maybe I can't digest the fact that the destructiveness of the world is confronting me in one of my favorite cities. It annoys me that the rapid transformation I experienced in Istanbul is repeated on the other side of the world. Maybe I am not ready for the destruction of my hopes for change.I think about the fact that the legacy of this man who whipped me up with the exquisite paragraph he wrote at the beginning of his&nbsp;Atlas describing his travels is not being taken care of. I decide to leave the house and go to El Ateneo Grand Splendid, the most beautiful bookstore in the world, where I always feel good. I wander around the shelves of El Ataneo, which resembles Borges' description of paradise consisting of a giant library, and collect a few books. Then I sit on one of the wooden chairs of the café that used to be a theater stage.I try to calm my nerves by immersing myself in books about Patagonia, the southernmost part of South America. Despite everything, the beauty of discovery haunts me. One progresses as one discovers not only the beautiful but also the wrong. "Maybe Borges made me realize this today," I think - the lines Borges wrote in Atlas come to mind:<blockquote fr-original-style="color: rgb(9, 9, 9); border-color: rgb(255, 206, 20); border-width: 4px; font-style: italic; padding-left: 10px;" style="color: rgb(9, 9, 9); border-color: rgb(255, 206, 20); border-width: 4px; font-style: italic; padding-left: 10px; margin: 0px 0px 1em; border-left-style: solid; box-sizing: border-box;">“To discover the unknown is not a prerogative of Sinbad, of Eric the Red, or of Copernicus. Each and every man is a discoverer. He begins by discovering bitterness, saltiness, concavity, smoothness, harshness, the seven colours of the rainbow and the twenty-some letters of the alphabet; he goes on to visages, maps, animals and stars. He ends with doubt, or with faith, and the almost total certainty of his own ignorance.”</blockquote>

On the roads of Norway, where driving is quite boring, we continue on our way through beautiful towns that all look alike after a certain point. Uğur rests his eyes, tired from the day. I count the cars coming from the opposite lane in order to pay attention to the road and get rid of the monotony. But after a point, I get frustrated with the purchasing power of the country. Seeing cars that aren’t Teslas or Volvos becomes bewildering after a point.In one of the towns, a white, well-maintained, cute church catches my eye and a memory from my student days in Rome resurfaces in my mind.***In the extremely hot summer of 2007, after walking every street I could in Rome, I was staring blankly at the ceiling, wondering what to eat for dinner. The door of the hostel's dimly lit room suddenly opened. In walked a guy with what people would call a "clean face,” glowing and healthy skin, long blond hair, blue eyes, black tight pants, a crisp shirt, old Walkman headphones in his ears, looking very cool and probably from Northern Europe. Since I still haven't found a tasty solution to my primary concern, feeding myself, I'm looking for the right time to dump the dust I've gathered in the Roman Forum and go to the shower. Because the showers are the cleanest in the afternoon due to the midday cleaning in hostels. When I return, our bright young man is lying on the bottom floor of his bunk listening to music. I greet him based on the unwritten hostel rule #37 ("immediately get to know the people you share a room with, mingle, if you get along, get drunk together and do all kinds of shenanigans in the city.")&nbsp;Since he is a civilized person, he takes off his headphones and we start chatting.The first question people ask in hostels usually is "Where are you from?" As a man who respects rules and regulations, I start with this question. My guesses are right. After our friend, who I learned was Norwegian, answered a few questions and made pleasant conversation, I thought of asking what profession this Viking was engaged in. Because you can generate endless questions based on a person's profession and prolong the conversation. He answers my question with a haughty expression,&nbsp;"I write poetry." I realize that the conversation will get more and more interesting and I start to dig a little more into this young man's life. He says that he is an amateur and that he has never published a book. As a Mediterranean person, I am not satisfied with this answer at all. Because a poet, by our country's standards, would be happy if he got three cents in his pocket. He can't even go to the neighborhood grocery store because of debts, let alone come to Italy from Norway. As these thoughts swirled in my head for the fraction of a second, the curious Mediterranean auntie in me prevailed and I immediately asked the real question:&nbsp;"So, dear Viking, what do you do for a living?" I regretted it when the answer came. It turned out that our dear friend earned his living by ringing bells in a church in a quiet and peaceful town outside Oslo. Faced with this answer, of course, I can't react in a healthy manner. First of all, I think he said something wrong or that I misunderstood.<img src="https://s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/images.aposto.com/2022/7/1/1659968290583.jpeg" style="display: block; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px; border-style: none; position: relative; cursor: pointer; padding: 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box;" ratio="0.75" width="550" fr-original-style="display: block; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px;" fr-original-class="fr-draggable">&nbsp;☁️ A village in the Norwegian countryside<hr fr-original-style="" style="height: 0px; overflow: visible; border-bottom: none; clear: both; user-select: none; break-after: page; box-sizing: border-box;">As far as I know, Norway is not a place where there are many devout Christians. In fact, it is known that the rate of atheism and agnosticism is quite high in society. I ask our dear bell-ringer friend about his working hours. Our lucky friend replies, "Only on Sunday mornings because the congregation is not big." Probably realizing that I was getting angry with him because of the way I was looking at him, he added, "I also play on Saturdays if there is a wedding or something like that." I try to make it make sense.All joking aside, this is how I meet the reality of Norway, and the hipster Norwegian who listens to medieval music in his hostel room, lives in a church where he writes poetry in peace, and carries the fashion of the 60s to the streets of Rome in his tight pants and leather shoes in the summer heat. I don't remember his name or have a photo of him. But he shows me how people survive in the world and how differently they can choose to live. I remember how surprised I was at such a life when I was young.<img src="https://s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/images.aposto.com/2022/7/1/1659968431809.jpeg" style="display: block; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px; border-style: none; position: relative; cursor: pointer; padding: 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box;" ratio="0.75" width="550" fr-original-style="display: block; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px;" fr-original-class="fr-draggable">🤳 Kerimcan in Oslo<hr fr-original-style="" style="height: 0px; overflow: visible; border-bottom: none; clear: both; user-select: none; break-after: page; box-sizing: border-box;">I am in a land where people are allowed to dream, and to chase those dreams. I am trying to understand Norway, where a man who works as a bell-ringer while pursuing his dream of becoming a poet, can exist, how a society can move into the future if oil revenues are used properly, and how a peaceful country based on trust can be created.Meanwhile, the gas light of the car comes on. I enter the first gas station. We hand over our crowns to pay for the gas at the cashier inside. The gas station attendant says with great ease that the nearest bank is 30 kilometers away and therefore he cannot accept cash. We look at each other, amazed, and laugh. We are in Norway and every day we are confronted with civilizational saturation and well-situatedness like this.

Three in the morning. We dive into a dark forest in the Guatemalan countryside and start walking. The path is covered with fine, black, volcanic sand.The guide is in the front, Burak is behind him and I am at the very back of the line. I follow their steps and soon, my boot is filled with sand. There is no point in stopping to clean it, the same thing will happen in 5 minutes.There is so much fog that when I turn on my head lamp, it is as if there is a white wall in front of me. From time to time I think, "Is there a veil over my eyes?"&nbsp;We climb for about 1.5 hours with a visibility of 2 meters. I think about my story of learning about Pacaya Volcano. It all started the night I climbed Acentenango Volcano&nbsp;to see Fuego Volcano,&nbsp;which erupts every 15 minutes. After watching Fuego spewing flames all night long, I came down and saw a poster with a picture of flowing lava and I was struck by it. The answer to the question "What is this place?" was Pacaya. While my legs are still aching from the climb, the question "Should I go to yet another volcano?"&nbsp;starts to circulate in my head. In bed, in the restaurant, on the streets of Antigua, I am always faced with the same dilemma. Is it worth it, or should I let it go because I have already seen the most beautiful one?<img src="https://s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/images.aposto.com/2022/7/5/1659711567575.jpeg" style="display: block; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px; border-style: none; position: relative; cursor: pointer; padding: 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box;" width="550" ratio="1.51" fr-original-style="display: block; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px;" fr-original-class="fr-draggable">Fuego Volcano<hr fr-original-style="" style="height: 0px; overflow: visible; border-bottom: none; clear: both; user-select: none; break-after: page; box-sizing: border-box;">I finally decide to head for Pacaya at sunrise the next morning. They say there won't be much lava flow as there has been no activity lately. However, this news does not have much effect on a seeker of wonders whose curiosity is tickled. Worst case scenario, I will curse my legs that will ache even more and my knees that will hurt. For the last half hour, the ground turns from sand to rock. Hopping between sharp and black rocks, we follow the guide without knowing where we are headed. In the distance, we see another team with flashlights, it feels like we are meeting on a deserted planet. It looks as if they have landed their spaceship in the wrong place and are walking in a single file to the meeting place in dense fog. We are space cowboys in a surreal movie, trying to survive on a desolate and hostile planet.We move a little more on the rocks in the fog and stop at some point. If we don't stop, the risk of splitting our heads and eyes increases with every step. The rocks are sharp, it's dark, the lanterns can barely illuminate one step ahead of us because of the fog and we are still barely awake.Our guide takes out a pack of marshmallows from his bag. He puts them on sticks and inserts them into the crevice between the rock we are standing on and the rock next to us. After 1 minute, we start eating the fried marshmallow. The melted marshmallow gets all over my beard and mustache. I'm trying to clean them up. "This adventure is turning into a pointless one," I think in my mind. The fog that surrounds us, the dark sky, the fudge cooking between the rocks and the drowsiness combine to make it hard for me to comprehend what is happening around us.<img src="https://s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/images.aposto.com/2022/7/5/1659711660258.jpeg" style="display: block; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px; border-style: none; position: relative; cursor: pointer; padding: 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box;" width="550" ratio="0.80" fr-original-style="display: block; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px;" fr-original-class="fr-draggable">Marshmallow all over Kerimcan's beard<hr fr-original-style="" style="height: 0px; overflow: visible; border-bottom: none; clear: both; user-select: none; break-after: page; box-sizing: border-box;">After a while, the guide places a pot in the crevice and starts boiling water. I look for the source of the dark orange lava flowing around us, but there are black rocks only a few meters away. I put my hand into the crevice, it is hot as an oven. Our guide laughs and says, "Don't look around, it's just below us." He points to a small cavity a little further ahead. Through the hole, I see lava flowing beneath me.The rocks on which we jumped and then sat and rested are actually freshly frozen lava. We continue to rest just above that region that is boiling from inside the earth. As the first sun rays of the day reach the earth, I sip on a cup of coffee that is brewed by lava. The fog and my sleep lighten slightly, I become aware of my surroundings... What I see cannot be real!<img src="https://s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/images.aposto.com/2022/7/5/1659711772353.jpeg" style="display: block; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px; border-style: none; position: relative; cursor: pointer; padding: 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box;" width="550" ratio="0.80" fr-original-style="display: block; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px;" fr-original-class="fr-draggable">Lava seen through holes, Pacaya Volcano<hr fr-original-style="" style="height: 0px; overflow: visible; border-bottom: none; clear: both; user-select: none; break-after: page; box-sizing: border-box;">I'm sitting on top of an active volcano, on top of lava that is still hot underneath and that has only cooled down a week ago... I finish my coffee. I look at the sun rising through the fog and take a deep breath. I want to walk around. Our guide asks us to check the ground with a light step. Since no one wants to take the risk of returning from the volcano with one foot left, we start walking on the black rocks with timid steps like gazelles. From time to time we look down through the holes we find and watch the flowing lava. The lava has a meditative power. Just as the first humans worshipped fire, the lava immerses itself in the depths and makes us watch it. We are actually facing the ancestor of that ancient god. It is the fire that created the world and started life.After the sun rises, noises start coming from the crater of the volcano right above us. After listening to the rumblings coming from Fuego every 15 minutes 2 nights ago, we don't care much about it. But soon the noises started to intensify and small pieces started to fall a few hundred meters away from us, our guide tells us to quickly pack up and take off. After a while, a small athletic race starts on the rocks that we naively control before we take a step. Meanwhile, the activity in the crater is increasing.<img src="https://s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/images.aposto.com/2022/7/5/1659711828238.jpeg" style="display: block; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px; border-style: none; position: relative; cursor: pointer; padding: 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box;" width="550" ratio="0.80" fr-original-style="display: block; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px;" fr-original-class="fr-draggable">The ground of Pacaya<hr fr-original-style="" style="height: 0px; overflow: visible; border-bottom: none; clear: both; user-select: none; break-after: page; box-sizing: border-box;">Soon we come to a safe area. Everyone takes a breath. We watch Pacaya for a while, with rocks and lava fragments flying out of it. The slight tension in all of us gives way to joy. I look around me, I am happy and trying to digest what I am experiencing. There is a single tree up ahead, planted like a monument. I go to it and rest in its shade.I thank the world for making me feel like a character in a Jules Verne book.

Brewed by lava: Pacaya Volcano

While Mehmet the 2nd's giant cannons pounded the thick walls of Constantinople, inside the city walls was Emmanouíl Phokás, brooding about what to do. After the Eastern Roman Empire disappeared into the dust of history, he decided to pack his bags and settle in Kefalonia. His children grew up here, his family expanded and he had a grandson, Ioánnis.Back then, the Mediterranean was not big enough for this grandson who learned all the virtues of seafaring at an early age. In order to explore distant seas, he became a protégé in Spain, one of the two greatest maritime powers of the time. He took the name Juan de Fuca and quickly established his own fleet. Atlas and India were not far enough, he went all the way to the Pacific Ocean. One day, he landed on an island. Centuries later, those islands became known as the Vancouver Islands, and the land he set foot in and embarked on a long exploration with his crew became known as Juan de Fuca Trail.As I was preparing our bags for the Juan de Fuca Trail, which Onur and Renata had been insisting we hike since the day we met in Canada, this story was on my mind. I think about the idea of a Greek sailor, whose roots go centuries back to Istanbul, walking in the places he once visited under Spanish patronage. On the other hand, we are in a hurry to figure out how to pack the tens of pieces we have lined up on the floor of the house.<img src="https://s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/images.aposto.com/2022/7/3/1659527170228.jpeg" style="display: block; float: none; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px; border-style: none; position: relative; cursor: pointer; padding: 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box;" ratio="1.34" width="550" fr-original-style="display: block; float: none; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px;" fr-original-class="fr-draggable">The 47-kilometer-long Juan de Fuca trail is a road that mainly passes through the forest and connects to the coast. Although some parts are closed during the day due to the tide, there is no risk of landslides since we are hiking in the spring. But there is another risk that spring brings. Black bears have awakened from their winter-long beauty sleep and there might be mountain lions, or pumas, although it's very rare. For this reason, we carry a bear spray with all our camping equipment. Although if a bear comes, we will either wet ourselves or die of a heart attack, but we still take precautions. "The remedy for the bear is spray, for the puma it’s fighting," Onur warns us as we get ready.One of the most important parts of preparation is food shopping. Since it would be too heavy to carry canned or packaged foods, we prefer dry foods that are specifically prepared for such hikes and can be cooked with only a little bit of hot water. The best thing about going on this type of hike in Canada is the abundance of water resources. It is possible to get clean water from all sources with a small water filter.In the morning, we fill our bags, get in the car, and head towards China Beach, the starting point of Juan de Fuca. On the way, when we stop to buy nuts from a giant supermarket, I can't resist the sausages filled with cheddar and convince Renata and Onur that I will carry them. After 2 hours, we park the car at China Beach. We have a 9-kilometer trail of medium difficulty ahead of us on the first day until we reach Bear Beach. We dive into the forest and start hiking. There is no exit from the trail until 29 kilometers in.<img src="https://s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/images.aposto.com/2022/7/3/1659528223784.jpeg" style="display: block; float: none; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px; border-style: none; position: relative; cursor: pointer; padding: 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box;" ratio="1.50" width="550" fr-original-style="display: block; float: none; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px;" fr-original-class="fr-draggable">First, we reach Mystic Beach, which marks the end of the first two kilometers. We speed up to reach Bear Beach before it gets dark. Even though Onur and I want to stop to take photos of every ray of light or every view we see, Renata takes on the role of troop leader and keeps us on the road. For kilometers, we go up and down on the slightly muddy ground, occasionally slipping. During our breaks, we get strength from the energy gels we have with us. Before sunset, Bear Beach appears at the end of the slope. Although Onur has walked Juan de Fuca before, he is as excited as we are. We finish the first day without any injuries, falls, or bear encounters.When we get to the beach, the first thing we do is figure out where to set up our tents. We calculate the tide. Then we separate our food for that evening and hang the other food on a high branch of a tree in the distance. Normally, there are lockers for food in Canadian National Parks that bears cannot open, but we are too lazy to look for them, so we do it the natural way.Now it's time to make a fire. While Onur takes care of that, I go out to collect firewood. It's a gorgeous sunset. We start watching the sunset when we light the fire and stack the wood. At that moment, the fatigue, the difficult slopes, the stumbles, staggering tree roots, and the fallen logs we had to jump over turn into beautiful memories.<img src="https://s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/images.aposto.com/2022/7/3/1659527613730.jpeg" style="display: block; float: none; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px; border-style: none; position: relative; cursor: pointer; padding: 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box;" ratio="0.67" width="550" fr-original-style="display: block; float: none; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px;" fr-original-class="fr-draggable">When the sun goes down, we start preparing dinner. The sausages we put on sticks start to roast on the fire and we make pasta with them. The playlist that Onur and I spent 3.5 hours preparing before we set off is playing in the background. We translate our favorite Turkish songs for Renata. It's times like these that make me understand the magic of fire and why hunter-gatherer societies worship fire. I almost can't take my eyes off it. We go to bed early because we are tired from the first day and because we will walk the hardest part of the trail the next morning.We wake up early in the morning. After a breakfast of oatmeal and dried sausage, Onur surprises us and takes out a coffee pot and Turkish coffee from his bag. We say, "If today is the hardest, then we shouldn't start walking on this deserted coast of the Pacific without drinking Turkish coffee," and put the coffee pot on the fire. Then we pack the tents, replenish our water stocks and set off.On the second day, our goal is to reach China Beach, 13 km away. There is a climbing and descending trail ahead of us. We plan to complete it in 9 hours. The first part, which is relatively easy in the cool morning, gets harder as the midday heat sets in. The slopes get steeper and the bags get heavier. Moreover, the track becomes increasingly muddy. From time to time we get ankle-deep in mud. As the sun is high in the sky, we find a spot under the shade and take a lunch break.The carbohydrates and energy gummies get the team back on our feet. We continue walking on muddy roads. While Onur and Renata rest for a short while, I start walking alone. The forest takes me in. I get lost in a magnificent symphony. The birds chirping, the sublimity of the forest, and the sunlight seeping through leaves and branches start to carry me. Suddenly the bag on my back, the kilometers I have walked since morning, and the sweat on my body lose their significance. It is as if I am not walking but floating.After a while, Onur and Renata catch me with a smile on my face. We continue on the road together. The last kilometers are quite difficult for all of us. That's why we resort to music. Finally, the sunny China Beach appears as Pink Floyd plays in the background. When we reach the beach, a crispy grin settles on our faces with the completion of the day that we felt would never end. We realize that there is no endless road. They all have an end as long as you stay on the path. We leave the bags and wander around the beach pointlessly.<img src="https://s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/images.aposto.com/2022/7/3/1659528262009.jpeg" style="display: block; float: none; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px; border-style: none; position: relative; cursor: pointer; padding: 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box;" ratio="1.50" width="550" fr-original-style="display: block; float: none; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px;" fr-original-class="fr-draggable">Then we find a campsite and pitch our tents. We arrive at the beach earlier than expected, in about 8 hours, so there is still time for the sun to set. So, we set up the tents without hurrying and collect wood for the fire. This time we put the food on top of a big rock in the distance. After soaking our feet in the icy Pacific waters, we light the fire. The sun is setting fast. We prepare dinner.As a luxury service of the hike, we drink Turkish coffee after dinner and feed the fire. Because that evening is Hıdrellez, the old Turkish tradition of celebrating the spring. We tell Renata about Hıdrellez and the effects of shaman culture in our daily lives. On the other hand, I take out the small flask that I had saved for this evening from the bag. We raise a toast to our loved ones we left thousands of kilometers away, who have become stars and are watching us from above, and offer our wishes to Hızır. We look at the dome of the sky above us and remember our smallness in the universe. We jump over the fire as it’s done for Hıdrellez before going to bed and putting out the fire. Before entering the tent, I look at the stars for one last time.

Bonfire on the Juan de Fuca Trail

It's late afternoon, we are on the winding roads of Morocco that are long enough for us to lose track of time. The North African sun is nearing the end of its shift. We are entering a town of two-story buildings with brown and yellow tones. It is as if suddenly the hustle and bustle that dominates Morocco disappear as calmness descends upon us.The city of Merzouga has a gate that looks like a filter. We have nothing to do in the city - we are heading to the Sahara, the largest desert in the world. We continue on from the city center and after a short journey, we reach the area in the desert where we will camp. We leave our stuff in the tents and head out. We are late for the most important appointment of the day, we realize that we have overstayed our last break. With quick steps that become 2-3 times more tiring than usual, we climb a sand dune and watch an exquisite sunset. We are surrounded by the perfection of nothingness.The weather suddenly turns cold and we retreat to the tents, tired. After a mediocre dinner of touristy tricks, the team of desert explorers is ready for duty with only one missing member - Sinan asks to be excused from duty due to fatigue. With&nbsp;Cihan and Burak, we walk to a sand dune near our camp. Darkness over us is gigantesque and that darkness reveals an uncountable number of stars. We sit somewhere between the stars and the sand, mesmerized.<img src="https://s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/images.aposto.com/2022/6/3/1658933879709.jpeg" style="display: block; float: none; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px; border-style: none; position: relative; cursor: pointer; padding: 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box;" ratio="0.80" width="550" fr-original-style="display: block; float: none; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px;" fr-original-class="fr-draggable">The perfection of nothingness<hr fr-original-style="" style="height: 0px; overflow: visible; border-bottom: none; clear: both; user-select: none; break-after: page; box-sizing: border-box;"><h2 fr-original-style="" style="margin: 0px; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.85); font-weight: 500; padding: 0px; box-sizing: border-box;">Desert chatter</h2>We are deeply moved when we look at the stars today, even with the advanced power of observation and space science, what must have the ancient peoples felt? Did they realize that our existence is as significant as a grain of sand from the desert they were standing on? We talk about the strong relationship that ancient societies formed with the desert. At some point, we realize that we are entering a bottomless subject like infinite space.Limitless spaces lead to endless topics. "Is finding the meaning of life as difficult as searching for one grain of sand in the desert? Or is life about enjoying all the grains of sand?" We leave philosophical questions behind, we are too old to spend the night in the desert with questions we can't answer. The subject turns to a middle-aged woman we met at dinner who told us that she had been staying alone for weeks in this makeshift camp in the desert. We have fun fabricating stories about how she might be a secret service agent. We take photographs of the stars. We walk up to the sand dunes that are surrounding us and watch desert laborers nibbling on grass, the camels. At some point, one gets used to seeing in the dark - just as one gets used to the desert cold at night.<img src="https://s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/images.aposto.com/2022/6/3/1658933897927.jpeg" style="display: block; float: none; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px; border-style: none; position: relative; cursor: pointer; padding: 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box;" ratio="0.80" width="550" fr-original-style="display: block; float: none; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px;" fr-original-class="fr-draggable">After dark<hr fr-original-style="" style="height: 0px; overflow: visible; border-bottom: none; clear: both; user-select: none; break-after: page; box-sizing: border-box;">I am reminded of Saint Exupéry's Little Prince:<blockquote fr-original-style="color: rgb(9, 9, 9); border-color: rgb(255, 206, 20); border-width: 4px; font-style: italic; padding-left: 10px;" style="color: rgb(9, 9, 9); border-color: rgb(255, 206, 20); border-width: 4px; font-style: italic; padding-left: 10px; margin: 0px 0px 1em; border-left-style: solid; box-sizing: border-box;">&nbsp;"I wonder,” he said, “whether the stars are set alight in heaven so that one day each one of us may find his own again..."</blockquote>I look at the stars but they seem so far away. Therefore, I contemplate, "We can all take a dune each and squat here." Plus, the view changes every day.The endless dilemma of travel appears once more.&nbsp;The clash between the need for sleep that comes with the tiredness of the whole day, and the feeling that I can't miss anything in my limited time here. After enjoying the night in the desert a little more, we return to our tents.A few hours later, I wake up to the bitter sound of the alarm. The ice-cold doesn't seem appealing from under the blanket. But I use my same old mantra to get myself up: "When else are you going to watch the sunrise in the desert?"I wear the warmest clothes I have. I climb a dune that's close to the camp. The team quietly gathers. An employee of the camp that's walking a camel comes up to us. We are waiting for the coquettish sun to finally come up from behind the hill. The people who froze all night to snap photos of the stars and chit-chat are desperately waiting for the sun and its heat. The morning frost is so chilling that I consider hugging the ruminating camel sitting next to us to warm up. While I am waiting, I ask the young Berber questions to pass the time:<blockquote fr-original-style="color: rgb(9, 9, 9); border-color: rgb(255, 206, 20); border-width: 4px; font-style: italic; padding-left: 10px;" style="color: rgb(9, 9, 9); border-color: rgb(255, 206, 20); border-width: 4px; font-style: italic; padding-left: 10px; margin: 0px 0px 1em; border-left-style: solid; box-sizing: border-box;">- What is the name of the camel?- Camel</blockquote><img src="https://s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/images.aposto.com/2022/6/3/1658933927354.jpeg" style="display: block; float: none; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px; border-style: none; position: relative; cursor: pointer; padding: 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box;" ratio="0.80" width="550" fr-original-style="display: block; float: none; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px;" fr-original-class="fr-draggable">A journey in the desert<hr fr-original-style="" style="height: 0px; overflow: visible; border-bottom: none; clear: both; user-select: none; break-after: page; box-sizing: border-box;">The conversation doesn't hold in the face of such certainty. The sun finally rises. Our bones warm up.&nbsp;I understand the relationship that people who live in the desert have with the sun. Bedouin employee takes the camel to graze on grass. We go for breakfast. In a little while, the weather is hot enough to walk around in shorts.As we leave Merzouga behind, I jot down in my notebook:<blockquote fr-original-style="color: rgb(9, 9, 9); border-color: rgb(255, 206, 20); border-width: 4px; font-style: italic; padding-left: 10px;" style="color: rgb(9, 9, 9); border-color: rgb(255, 206, 20); border-width: 4px; font-style: italic; padding-left: 10px; margin: 0px 0px 1em; border-left-style: solid; box-sizing: border-box;">The desert leaves behind an unerasable feeling. You remember your nothingness. The peace of non-humanity, together with the broad horizon of the desert makes you realize you are no different than the sand you step on.</blockquote>

Travel at extraordinary times leads to extraordinary moments. Traveling across continents in March 2020, when the world was struggling with an unknown virus, was ambitious enough, but traveling to Japan set the bar even higher. The first wave of the Covid-19 virus spreading from Asia was just entering Japan, and tourists were starting to leave the country. As a person who doesn't like to break plans, I decided to make this trip not only in opposition to the virus but also to the fear hanging in the air. Masks and disinfectants suddenly became my companions. A new system of travel was being established.After Osaka&nbsp;and&nbsp;Hiroshima, I set my sights on Kyoto. The first thing I noticed in the country was that the streets famous for their crowds were deserted. It was not only the crowds of tourists that disappeared, the Japanese, already known as a timid and cautious nation, preferred to stay at home. Since they hadn't started working from home yet, they established a routine from home to work and from work to home without socializing. What could be described as a shortcoming for a first-time visitor to the country became an advantage since this was my second time in Japan. I didn't have to wait for seats in restaurants, I didn't have to wait in long lines, I traveled on quiet trains and wandered peacefully around places I wouldn't normally get to see empty.To take advantage of the situation, I take a morning in Kyoto to visit the Arashiyama bamboo forest.&nbsp;To cement my status as a privileged tourist, I enter a kimono rental shop before going in. The process is quite elaborate. Even with help, it takes a lot of time and effort to put on the kimono. Finally, I am back on the streets in a red and navy-blue kimono, but there is a small problem: I am not used to walking in flip-flop clogs. As I get closer to the bamboo forest, I get used to walking in a kimono and flip-flops. I slow down a bit and start to take smaller steps. The outfit forces me to calm down. It allows me to stop walking like I'm rushing and enjoy the journey.<img src="https://s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/images.aposto.com/2022/6/4/1658996042905.jpeg" style="display: block; float: none; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px; border-style: none; position: relative; cursor: pointer; padding: 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box;" ratio="0.75" width="550" fr-original-style="display: block; float: none; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px;" fr-original-class="fr-draggable">As I calmly move into the forest, two Japanese women in kimonos appear in front of me. They walk with graceful steps. Apart from the electronic gadgets on us, we’re just like the people in Kyoto hundreds of years ago. I follow them into the forest. The tall bamboos are even greener because of the morning rain.I walk calmly through the mystical forest and enjoy nature. The Japanese concept of shinrin-yoku&nbsp;comes to mind. This concept, which can be briefly translated as forest bathing, actually means healing spiritually and physically by integrating with nature and connecting with it. At that moment, my shrinking steps and the empty forest do just that. I am isolated from the chaotic world, unaware that the whole world is about to change. Somehow, I am cleansed of any disturbances. My mind floats in a peaceful space. Even though the process takes a very short time, I come back down to earth with great energy. I wander a little more in the forest, watching a few tourists and the Japanese people.Everyone will have many stories to tell about the virus. &nbsp;Mine comes from an unexpected place. The virus introduces me to the healing power of taking refuge in nature. With small and calm steps, I begin to make my way back from the forest. I say goodbye to the giant bamboos and thank them for the fairytale moment. On the way, I think about the evolution of an ordinary tourist visit into an extraordinary personal experience. Time to go back through the time tunnel. Each layer I take off in the booth of the kimono rental shop represents a century that brings me to the present. As I tie my shoes, I land in the present, and when I step outside, it's pouring. The wonderland I fell into one morning in Kyoto is coming to an end. I take out my umbrella and step onto the sidewalk to find a new adventure.<img src="https://s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/images.aposto.com/2022/6/4/1658996276707.jpeg" style="display: block; float: none; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px; border-style: none; position: relative; cursor: pointer; padding: 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box;" ratio="0.80" width="550" fr-original-style="display: block; float: none; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px;" fr-original-class="fr-draggable">

A morning in Kyoto

I am not yet fully awake. I take the elevator down to go to the buffet near my hostel which doesn’t serve breakfast. The lobby is populated by people trying to get stuff done on their computers, young travelers asking about rewarding experiences to the receptionist, the woman whom I decide is the manager of the hostel from watching her ordering people around for the last couple of days. Even though the individuals change, the roles remain the same, a morning just like any other… I nod to the fellow patrons who have extended their trips like I have as I see myself out. Chaotic Mexico City has its own unique air and scent. The traffic on the main avenue where I am is quite calm. I think the avenue that is usually filled with claxon noises and a sea of exhaust has not yet started its day.As I leave the hostel, I take a look around as if I am trying to decide on something important. In fact, I know where I’m going, what I’m eating. I will eat a hot cheese and meat sandwich and drink some juice at the buffet that’s about 400 meters away, and get coffee from the cheap place. I like creating routines in the cities where I stay for a while. It enforces my bond with the city. At the same time, I love the irony that I was traveling to escape my routines in the first place. The grass is always greener.I smell something familiar on the way to the buffet. It’s a smell I am familiar with from Istanbul, but I can’t quite place it. I sit down on a sidewalk stool at the buffet and my brain starts working as I take my first few sips of juice. I notice two people dressed as cowboys a few stools away, with horses right behind them. As I start to wonder what they are doing in the middle of the city, I see hundreds of horsemen touring the avenue. I then name that familiar smell, horse feces,&nbsp;a smell that I remember from the Prince’s Islands of Istanbul.<img src="https://s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/images.aposto.com/2022/6/3/1658920314567.jpeg" style="display: block; float: none; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px; border-style: none; position: relative; cursor: pointer; padding: 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box;" ratio="0.80" width="550" fr-original-style="display: block; float: none; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px;" fr-original-class="fr-draggable">I quickly devour my sandwich and start wandering around the avenue. I learn that on the third week of November, people come from all over Mexico to the capital to celebrate the revolution and that they are waiting for the parade in the biggest plaza of the city. Men and women are dressed in beautiful local clothing. From in between the most beautiful, well-kept horses, a young man calls out to me as I wander among the horsemen. We start a conversation with my broken Spanish and his broken English. This is how I meet Angel, whom I learned came from the&nbsp;Tlaxcala region. He tells me that they came to celebrate the revolution as a family and introduces me to his whole family. Then he asks if I want a ride and puts me on his horse. All of a sudden, I find myself riding around the streets of the capital among the traditionally dressed Mexicans. After a while, Angel hands over the horse's bridle to me and disappears. We are left alone with “Turbo”, with whom I wander back and forth on the street. Meanwhile, other horsemen from other regions come along and we take pictures together. They seem happy about a "gringo" plunging into the middle of the revolution celebration on horseback.<img src="https://s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/images.aposto.com/2022/6/3/1658920346431.jpeg" style="display: block; float: none; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px; border-style: none; position: relative; cursor: pointer; padding: 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box;" ratio="0.80" width="550" fr-original-style="display: block; float: none; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px;" fr-original-class="fr-draggable">In a little bit, Angel returns with an opened cardboard juice box and hands it to the horse. "Vodka," he says, laughing when he notices me trying to figure out what it is. "A good morning," I say to myself. When traveling, a person doesn’t know they will remember a moment for a lifetime while it’s still happening. But this moment is the opposite because everyone would know that they will remember the moment they drank vodka with traces of fruit juice among Mexicans in traditional clothes celebrating the revolution in Mexico City – on a horse. As we sip more vodka, we start shouting Viva Zapata. There is a sense that if I continue drinking and riding for a little longer, I might receive honorary citizenship. After a while, I look at my watch and realize that I have a meeting to catch. It's time for me to come back from being Lucky Luke to my real life. I say goodbye to Angel and his family, stroking Turbo's head and thanking him. While I was thinking I woke up to an ordinary morning, I mingle with people trying to catch up on the streets of the giant metropolis with a smile on my face with this strange memory presented to me by Mexico City.<img src="https://s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/images.aposto.com/2022/6/3/1658920361324.jpeg" style="display: block; float: none; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px; border-style: none; position: relative; cursor: pointer; padding: 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box;" ratio="0.80" width="550" fr-original-style="display: block; float: none; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px;" fr-original-class="fr-draggable">

We are sheltering in a minibus stop on the road from Fethiye to Ölüdeniz. According to the Mediterranean climate, the weather should be around 18-22°C,&nbsp;partly cloudy and clear in early April. The weather that breaks in the afternoon proves how accurate it was that we kept postponing the start of the Lycian Way hike for an hour each time due to the laziness brought on by the sunny weather in the morning. Laziness sometimes prevents lightning from striking one's head, enjoying the balcony of the pension increases one's chances of survival.Hailstones fall from the sky as if they would break the ceiling of the bus stop where we take shelter. Usually, we could walk to the motel in Ölüdeniz, but now, it doesn't seem like a wise decision. The hail that shakes the bus stop falls diagonally and sometimes parallel to the ground with the effect of the wind.<img src="https://s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/images.aposto.com/2022/6/2/1658219646922.jpeg" style="display: block; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px; border-style: none; position: relative; cursor: pointer; padding: 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box;" width="550" ratio="0.80" fr-original-style="display: block; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px;" fr-original-class="fr-draggable">A bird's eye view of the Mediterranean<hr fr-original-style="" style="height: 0px; overflow: visible; border-bottom: none; clear: both; user-select: none; break-after: page; box-sizing: border-box;">When no one comes around for a while, I stretch out my arm from inside the stop and start hitchhiking. Since the tourism season has not started yet, there are few vehicles on the road. Luckily, after about 5 minutes, a pickup truck takes pity on us and stops and says it can take us to our hotel in Ölüdeniz (literally&nbsp;the Dead Sea).&nbsp;When we arrive in Ölüdeniz, we cannot believe the view we see. The sidewalks are white as snow by the hail. Streets with poor infrastructure have flooded with this sudden rainfall. "We are one of the very few people in the world who can see snowy sidewalks in Ölüdeniz in April," we think as we look through fogged windows.As we enter the hotel and dry off, we talk among ourselves about the importance of being in the right place at the right time. Realizing our helplessness in the face of nature, we list the alternatives of what would happen if we came across such weather in the middle of the course. It is a good lesson that we pay only by getting wet.The morning after the evening, we dry our clothes with the air conditioner and blow dryer, the Mediterranean climate is back. The gray clouds shrouding the blue sky are gone, and the sun is not overhead. In all seriousness, it is working overtime to warm us to the bone. The turquoise waters of Ölüdeniz gently meet the beach. We return to the point where we were caught in the flood the day before.<img src="https://s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/images.aposto.com/2022/6/2/1658219773543.jpeg" style="display: block; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px; border-style: none; position: relative; cursor: pointer; padding: 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box;" width="550" ratio="0.80" fr-original-style="display: block; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px;" fr-original-class="fr-draggable">On the road<hr fr-original-style="" style="height: 0px; overflow: visible; border-bottom: none; clear: both; user-select: none; break-after: page; box-sizing: border-box;"><h2 fr-original-style="" style="margin: 0px; color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.85); font-weight: 500; padding: 0px; box-sizing: border-box;">Now it's time to enter the racetrack</h2>Like every hiker, we take photos in front of the Lycian Way sign. There are puddles of yesterday's hail in the shadows on the left and right. The dirt road is still not softened because it is early in the morning, but it is hard because it has been covered by the frost of the night. After a while, the ascent begins. We ascend to the foothills of Babadağ through ancient roads cut between the rocks almost 2000 years ago. As we ascend, more hail accumulates on the ground. It is as if we are not on the Lycian Way but a high mountain hike.To rest, we occasionally turn back and look at the view of Ölüdeniz in the distance. "A place where the most beautiful shades of blue in the world can fit into a single frame," is how I can describe the view. The unique dark blue of the Mediterranean Sea was broken by sand and pebbles into the most beautiful shades of turquoise and light blue. After ascending, we take a long break. The snow and ice are now on the Ölüdeniz side.&nbsp;"We are the rare people who walk the Lycian Way in snow,"&nbsp;we laugh.Illegal structures: Apart from the exquisite view we climb up and encounter, another thing that greets us is the illegal buildings. There are large and small constructions in the region, which do not have a building permit. "Only in this geography," I think, "could such a bunch of dugouts be erected on one of the most beautiful hiking routes in the world."As I walk, I think of harmful caterpillars with cocoons on the red pines. We are like those caterpillars that dry up the tree they burrow into and move on to the next one, somehow harming all the creatures in nature that are infected by them. They look like a part of nature from the outside, but they do a lot of harm like us.For lunch, we reach a Yoruk village on the way. A simple but delicious pancake is accompanied by a pomegranate juice that rockets our energy. We spend time watching the goats in the village. The price of the deluge the day before is to finish the 2-day trail in one day. Small for the 535 km Lycian Way but an enormous distance for us. Passing through nature, illegal constructions, and villages, the road finally descends to Faralya. In between, we come across carob trees.<img src="https://s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/images.aposto.com/2022/6/2/1658219889447.jpeg" style="display: block; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px; border-style: none; position: relative; cursor: pointer; padding: 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box;" width="550" ratio="0.80" fr-original-style="display: block; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px;" fr-original-class="fr-draggable">Blue of the Mediterranean &nbsp;<hr fr-original-style="" style="height: 0px; overflow: visible; border-bottom: none; clear: both; user-select: none; break-after: page; box-sizing: border-box;">We end the approximately 19-kilometer walk at Aktaş Beach. Our knees ache, and the muscles in our legs are tense. We both know there is only one solution. We leave the weight of the entire path to the buoyancy of the water and throw ourselves into the blue arms of the Mediterranean. I evaluate the day in the slightly chilling coolness of the April sea.On the Lycian Way, at first, you think, "Why am I walking on this mountain slope?" Then one realizes that the real struggle is not with the slopes, the sun, the wind, or the rain, but with themself. They see their limits and enjoy pushing those limits. As we walk, the road digests the human, and the human digests the road. The labor in every step makes that path even more memorable.Walking teaches that every road has an end if one perseveres and sets out on it and that the joy of arriving is in the ordeal of the road. Then, while thinking about these things, one realizes that the trail is over, and the kilometers that grew in one's eyes have melted away. I thank the Lycian senate for bringing us this unique work.I think of a poet's lines that are very much identified with the Lycian Way:<blockquote fr-original-style="color: rgb(9, 9, 9); border-color: rgb(255, 206, 20); border-width: 4px; font-style: italic; padding-left: 10px;" style="color: rgb(9, 9, 9); border-color: rgb(255, 206, 20); border-width: 4px; font-style: italic; padding-left: 10px; margin: 0px 0px 1em; border-left-style: solid; box-sizing: border-box;">Don't be sad if you can't find me,You will find my things.The stones I cut,The paths I have opened,You will find the statues I carved.And you will see,Thousands of years away,Our fingertips will touch.</blockquote>

Lycian Way

<blockquote fr-original-style="color: rgb(9, 9, 9); border-color: rgb(255, 206, 20); border-width: 4px; font-style: italic; padding-left: 10px;" style="color: rgb(9, 9, 9); border-color: rgb(255, 206, 20); border-width: 4px; font-style: italic; padding-left: 10px; margin: 0px 0px 1em; border-left-style: solid; box-sizing: border-box;">Trucks carry melons andI would always think herI was free like a little house sparrowwhile we were at home in Niksar</blockquote>Cahit KülebiI'm riding in the rattling van and have no idea where I'm going. More like I have no idea what I'm going to do. From the moment the idea of going to Tokat enters my life, Cahit Külebi's quatrain that I heard in a Yaşar Kurt song is spinning in my head.I arrive in Tokat around noon, and the first thing I do is dive into the old streets. I'm looking for the Roman Sık Dişini Helası, which I had seen on the map and said, "I must see this place."&nbsp;Meanwhile, I come across the last crumbs of history left in the center of Tokat. I encounter a city that has taken its share of the de-identification of Anatolian cities in recent years. A standardization that attributes thousands of years of history only to the castle and the few artifacts left in the town and erects the same buildings everywhere is there wherever I go. I find the latrine. It is under renovation. I rejoice that at least it hasn't been demolished.The weather is hot. I walk through the narrow streets, watching the shadows. In the old neighborhood that has survived the urban transformation, the smell of peppers hanging on the window bars spreads through the avenue. A gentle breeze blows the skirts of the tulle at the doorway.<img src="https://s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/images.aposto.com/2022/6/1/1658146867954.jpeg" style="display: block; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px; border-style: none; position: relative; cursor: pointer; padding: 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box;" width="550" ratio="1.14" fr-original-style="display: block; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px;" fr-original-class="fr-draggable">🌶 Peppers hung on window bars<hr fr-original-style="" style="height: 0px; overflow: visible; border-bottom: none; clear: both; user-select: none; break-after: page; box-sizing: border-box;">I start walking towards the castle. There is an unbearable pleasure in seeing a city from the top. Rather than making you feel like a victorious commander, you understand how the city has developed and how it relates to the surrounding geography. Of course, there is also the feeling of spaciousness that comes with being up high - a feeling that slightly overwhelms the feeling you get when you arrive in a city you don't know, where there is no one you know.After getting a rough idea of the city center, I head towards Ballıca Cave, which is at the top of the list of things to see while in Tokat. In the taxi I take, we leave the city with conversations about Tokat's problems, rural-urban migration, and what were once mulberry fields.The cave is big and more magnificent than I expected. One of the most exciting parts of traveling in Anatolia is that there is always something to discover. It is still possible to come across a little-known castle, an unrecognized valley, an unknown monastery or village.I spend 1.5 hours in Ballıca, home to 2 million pygmy bats. To be honest, the fact that I went to Tokat in the middle of the summer has a big impact here. One cools off a bit about a hundred meters underground. When the taxi driver waiting outside finishes his tea, we set off to return to the city.The sun is about to set - I look at the valley fed by the fertile waters of Yeşilırmak from the hill. With the sun turning golden, it looks magnificent. I stop the taxi and look at the orchards and vineyards that stretch to the horizon on an exciting green scale. "It's beautiful here," the taxi driver says proudly, lighting a cigarette. I sincerely thank the old people who didn't let the railroad pass through Tokat because it would spoil their gardens.<img src="https://s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/images.aposto.com/2022/6/1/1658146983617.jpeg" style="display: block; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px; border-style: none; position: relative; cursor: pointer; padding: 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box;" width="550" ratio="1.51" fr-original-style="display: block; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px;" fr-original-class="fr-draggable">&nbsp;A view that makes you say, "It's beautiful here"<hr fr-original-style="" style="height: 0px; overflow: visible; border-bottom: none; clear: both; user-select: none; break-after: page; box-sizing: border-box;">The next day I receive a message on Twitter from someone I don't know. Normally, I see those messages late and miss the opportunity to meet people. But the message from a young academic living in Tokat catches my attention. I make plans to meet him. I don't have a great plan other than walking down Cumhuriyet Street.As soon as I meet Çağatay Hoca, the conversation gets deepened. Here is a social scientist who answers my questions to the fullest. We talk about the movie Vavien, Tokat's past, and urban culture. During the conversation, we decide to go to Lake Almus, get in the car, and drive on winding roads to the small town. We visit a few shopkeepers and join the conversations. Thanks to Çağatay, my Tokat adventure deepens. I am happy to see that the rapid transformation of the city's texture is not reflected in the people that much.We sit in a shabby restaurant on the banks of Almus. The wind is blowing, I order an ice-cold beer, and fish caught in the lake. Like all pleasant summer afternoons spent by the water, there is an air that makes you feel like you will never die. As Külebi says, I feel like a&nbsp;"small and free sparrow."<img src="https://s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/images.aposto.com/2022/6/1/1658147034140.jpeg" style="display: block; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px; border-style: none; position: relative; cursor: pointer; padding: 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box;" width="550" ratio="0.80" fr-original-style="display: block; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px;" fr-original-class="fr-draggable">🌳 Colours of Tokat<hr fr-original-style="" style="height: 0px; overflow: visible; border-bottom: none; clear: both; user-select: none; break-after: page; box-sizing: border-box;">The conversation comes back to the same thing: untapped potentials and untapped opportunities. The classic scenario in every Anatolian city applies here too: a city whose momentum is reversed by one or two wrong decisions. Erosion is not only in the soil. When it happens in societies, all that is left is an unhappy, tasteless, monochromatic surface. It is perhaps the biggest problem of Tokat, which is losing its multiculturalism gradually.The line from Vavien, which had been shot in Erbaa, Tokat, comes to mind:<blockquote fr-original-style="color: rgb(9, 9, 9); border-color: rgb(255, 206, 20); border-width: 4px; font-style: italic; padding-left: 10px;" style="color: rgb(9, 9, 9); border-color: rgb(255, 206, 20); border-width: 4px; font-style: italic; padding-left: 10px; margin: 0px 0px 1em; border-left-style: solid; box-sizing: border-box;">You keep it inside, and it's not a good thing. Don't keep it to yourself. It is the main cause of all the major diseases in the world, keeping it to yourself. If you want to talk, talk. If you want to cry, say, "let me go out, let me walk around," whatever. Do what you want to do, but don't keep it inside!</blockquote>We are like this as a country because we keep it to ourselves, I think. We would feel relieved if we could talk, but it's like some people poured concrete over our chins. We are waiting for someone to come and break it. Until that happens, we miss all the seasons. If we talk, share, begin asking questions, and spill our guts, we will be relieved. Stuckness is slowly killing not only us but also cities like cancer.

On the roads of Tokat

I am at the edge of a long white line that dazzles me despite my sunglasses. I have to decide, whether I will continue, and if the ground is still wet mud I will sink with the vehicle, or I will continue down the road. I take the risk and move timidly on the white line. Now, I get out of the vehicle and check how I am doing. The Tuz Lake shines in front of me in all its majesty. The area I enter is not exactly a lake, I am in a region within the basin where the ground is covered with a layer of salt but the mud at the bottom remains moist year-round. Anyway, if I enter the essential part of the lake, I have to say goodbye to the vehicle. I drive for a while drawing various geometric shapes in an empty area.After a while, I go even further and try to choose a place to camp. That's when I realize how difficult it is to decide on a place to camp in a place where there is nothing. I don't know where to stop because everywhere is the same. Finally, I end this senseless struggle and pitch my tent somewhere. I leave with my vehicle, tent, and camping chair in a deserted, empty area. I have such a significant thing to do - nothing. I sit and watch the emptiness. I stare at the misty image of the evaporation of the waters of the Tuz Lake up ahead. Until sunset, I look at nothing in nothingness and enjoy doing nothing. I talk to myself and have fun from time to time.<img src="https://s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/images.aposto.com/2022/6/0/1658693196648.jpeg" style="display: block; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px; border-style: none; position: relative; cursor: pointer; padding: 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box;" width="550" ratio="1.51" fr-original-style="display: block; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px;" fr-original-class="fr-draggable"><hr fr-original-style="" style="height: 0px; overflow: visible; border-bottom: none; clear: both; user-select: none; break-after: page; box-sizing: border-box;">As the sun approaches the horizon and gets closer to completing its shift, the colors disperse between shades of pink, yellow and red. I am in a sunset ceremony that crowns my solitude. Hakan Günday's lines come to my mind. "The only true freedom of man is his loneliness." He was so right. We are ourselves when we are alone. These isolated places are so attractive because they allow us to stay with ourselves, face the truth and be mentally free. What you would only have with you may be your great success, maybe your greatest fear, maybe your deepest hidden wounds, or your greatest happiness. The most significant thing was to learn how to face them.The burden of nothingness increased as the darkness of the night rise. The wind in the open field increased with the departure of the sun. With the wind constantly hitting the outer canvas of the tent, the fabric rubbed against the salt and made an eerie rustle as if someone was stepping on it. I was spending a very eerie night in Tuz Lake, where I had come to find peace. In the Apollo 11 mission, as Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin's lunar module moved to the lunar floor, Michael Collins alone in the command module takes a tour of the moon's dark side. He is said to be the loneliest man on Earth since Adam. I was in a position to empathize with Michael Collins, to put it in a slightly exaggerated way.<img src="https://s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/images.aposto.com/2022/6/0/1658693239124.png" style="display: block; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px; border-style: none; position: relative; cursor: pointer; padding: 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box;" width="550" ratio="1.50" fr-original-style="display: block; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px;" fr-original-class="fr-draggable"><hr fr-original-style="" style="height: 0px; overflow: visible; border-bottom: none; clear: both; user-select: none; break-after: page; box-sizing: border-box;">The eerie night was made pleasant by the rising of the Milky Way. Since most of the surrounding settlements were far away, their lights did not prevent me from seeing the stars. I could gaze at the firmament in all its splendor without any interruption. Now, I would play a guessing game about where the planes passing overhead were going without the use of technology and write scenarios for the passengers on board. The emptiness and nothingness made my mind work. I was enjoying the richness of isolation, and when I wanted to use my head torch to do something, I was confronted with insects that came out of the salt I didn't know how they lived. So I enjoyed the darkness as much as the wind allowed.I don't realize the luxury I have. There is an uninterrupted natural silence. This absolute silence, which many people travel the world to find, only dawns on me later. Like going from a city with bad air to the forest and breathing, my ears breathe here. The noises I am constantly exposed to in daily life are absent here. Long gone are the taxi horn in the street in the middle of the night, the siren of a police car, and the loud music of the next-door neighbor. To do justice to the silence and avoid the wind, after a while I go into my tent and let myself fall asleep.<img src="https://s3.eu-central-1.amazonaws.com/images.aposto.com/2022/6/0/1658693279879.jpeg" style="display: block; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px; border-style: none; position: relative; cursor: pointer; padding: 0px 1px; box-sizing: border-box;" width="550" ratio="0.75" fr-original-style="display: block; vertical-align: top; margin: 5px auto; text-align: center; width: 100%; max-width: 550px;" fr-original-class="fr-draggable"><hr fr-original-style="" style="height: 0px; overflow: visible; border-bottom: none; clear: both; user-select: none; break-after: page; box-sizing: border-box;">When I open my eyes in the morning, the sun has not yet started its shift. When I unzip the tent, the frost of dawn hits me in the face. The entire surface is frozen and even drier. The colors behind the distant mountains tell me that the sun is slowly preparing for its mission. I quickly brew my coffee on my camping stove and go outside. I take a walk with a view that never changes. I feel like I'm in a dead place. There is no sign of life in the salt I walk on, except for the occasional insect. Even I feel half alive due to the effect of sleep and cold. Soon the sun starts to show itself behind the hills. It takes its place in the sky with a poetic softness.With the arrival of its light, it begins to revitalize the environment. At that moment I am reminded of the sun's power to bring life back to life. Just by showing itself, it fills me with peace and the joy of living. It is not for nothing that societies throughout history have ascribed sanctity to that fiery ball. The rising of the sun is also a warning. A reminder that it will soon be very hot due to the main effect of the whiteness. As all good things come to an end, it's time to pack up. I leave my home in the middle of nowhere and say goodbye to Tuz Lake to set sail for new adventures.

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