goreme has two poles: the bus station at one end and the mosque at the other. separating the two is about a five minute walk.
there are three lanes that run between the two ends. on the one side is the roadway with a median painted with flaking yellow paint. in the middle is a sitting area with picnic tables and wrought iron lamp posts, trees that aren't yet in bloom, and torn branches on the cobblestones, a sign perhaps of a difficult winter. the picnic area is flanked by pines and cedars. beyond, on the other side, is the brick walkway, with shops and carpet boutiques.
out either end of the main street you can see the desert badlands. the traffic lights at the bus station end flash yellow except during morning and evening rush hour when then cycle. little metal signs point the way to small hotels.
the buildings here are mostly stone, white stone with dust that sticks to my dark clothes, and pink granite for ornamentation, like in arches over doors. the stone bricks have quarrymarks that look like they were make with a fork, like on the top of a peanut butter cookie. on every roof is a satellite dish and a solar water heater. the power lines run low.
tourists walk with plastic bags of bread and fruits. i recognize the lithuanian girls from my hostel, wearing sunglasses now. an old man and woman walk hand in hand. a man rides by on a horse. the sound of rusty bells from a carriage running on wood wheels behind a donkey.
it is a tourist town. the cafes and restaurants have placards in front in english. one states, in caps, if you don't like, you don't <pay>. many restaurants with clay pots on display out front, for baking turkish dishes; the pots blackened and sometimes cracked.
each store has a bright plastic sign above the entrance, and often posters in the windows. camera shops will transfer memory cards to cd. drugstores advertise batteries. many shops sell inflatable neck pillows. most stores have postcards on racks out front. the deals get better further from the bus station; five postcards for one lira, then ten; further up, eleven. restaurants have shaded patios, tables with tablecloths, wicker chairs, potted plants. music coming from one.
outside the little food markets, coolers with bottled water, cartons of juice, bottles of Efes, tubs of ayran. blue plastic bins stacked with fruits and vegetables. 6's of 2L coke bottles in shrinkwrapped plastic. in the windows there are glass cases holding loaves of goldcrust bread. iceboxes hold ice cream treats under sliding glass tops; milk and chocolate pictured on the front. inside the markets, shelves of chocolate bars, cookies, tea, dish soap; deli counters with cheese and sausage.
construction: stacks of marble slabs, piles of broken brick. sometimes, the sound of rock pieces dumped down a chute into a dumpster below. the sound of hammers. a pile of mismatched granite blocks with paint on mismatched sides.
there are a few cars parked in both directions along one side of the main street. further up, the picnic area ends and a parking lot begins, mostly filled with white tourbuses. the sound of motorbikes and tractors.
at the edge of the town is the cemetary. trees grow out of sand. i hear a bird i have never heard before: fast chatterclucking.
often in the mornings it is rainey; often in the afternoons, sunny. today is such a day. i am in the hostel common area. the wind comes down the chimeny of the common area and bafs the styrofoam that has been cut and fitted to keep out the draft. from the kitchen i smell them cooking eggplants and sweet vegetables.
