Act Two, Scene Three : into goreme

in goreme the single mosque's prayer call echoes, then echoes again in the eroded valley. you can see how water has dripped and flowed for a thousand years.

arrived this morning after an easy midnight bus ride, though nothing guaranteed it to be easy.

from sundance they saw me off with brown bread, not white, and a mouth-watering spreadpaste made from walnuts, red pepper, hot pepper, black pepper, like, twelve cloves of garlic, and juice of a half lemon, blended til smooth, _so delicious. i been to the river, i been baptized -- you can take me to my hangin' ground.

left sundance later than i intended. luckily antalya was closer than i thought. found a ticket in the bus station where tour companies with their banner signs clamour for attention like flowers in the bee-keeper's field: departed from platform three. chided for putting my feet on the seat, meant i had to stay sitting straight forward and upright with no way to curl up and rest; still, slept most of the way. used halvah as a sleeping drug: so creamy and rich and heavy in the blood; ate it from the blade of my camping knife. woke to the crunchy plastic-on-plastic sound of the bus hitting something on the road and gasps from the people in the front seats. the driver and another man going down and out in front while the four-way flashers clicked; soon back on our way.

then into nevsehir, chilly and scrubby, as the sun rose. onto a smaller bus, stewarded there by travel agents with plenty to sell. hot air balloons over the valley.

arrived in goreme around 8:00 am. from there walked down the main street to Hard Rock Travel, next to Café Turca, to meet with jade, who will see me square; friend of a friend from burning man. potential today to leave many things behind. flocks of birds: I'll Fly Away.

goreme is alien landscape, turkish badlands. many of the hostels here make the promise of hot water, guaranteed. the signs done in capital lettering have capital i's with a dot overtop, a quirk of turkish alphabet (there are two variants of i, with and without the dot). there is a square where twice a week is a farmer's market. there is a music shop with guitars.

got set up in a hostel, the second in a room for five. my bags in one corner next to a red hard plastic suitcase tagged from air france. when i arrived: on a chair an open cosmetic bag with eyeliner pencils and a bottle of perfume; on the radiator an open make-up compact with severe colours, reds and blues and purples; a tube of "dentifrice blancheur" in the bathroom.

the room itself: stone brick walls; a wooden door with an iron latch; thin scuffed carpet, feels like stone underneath; translucent curtains; someone's watercolour riverscape hanging in an alcove cut into the wall. an infrared heater on a stand pointed down onto bed number four where la francaise's clothes lay folded. the walls, carpet grey; the wood of the door and windowframe crimson and peeling.

went for a wander to get food, first meal i will have to make for myself in i don't remember how long: bread, cheese, tomatoes, chocolate, apricots, squishy candy. the shopkeeper gave me a sweet carrot bar with nuts for desert. back at the hostel, coffee made in my travel mug with boiled water.

the sound of children outside my window, looks onto a road, a ditch, a stoneblock wall, a driveway with soccer, houses with solar water heaters. as i leave, the door frame low: i bonk my head.