Anna in Istanbul

Last Wednesday, five of us less-intrepid-than-we-probably-should-be took off for a minibreak on the Mediterranian. Little did we know, the respite would take place in tree houses that cling desperately to the side of a cliff face.

I am not an active person. In fact, I spend most of my time teetering between being catatonic and forcing my loved-ones to consider “pulling the plug”. I think a walk from 116th street to 96th is acceptable only in the severest of situations (riots, natural disasters, zombie attacks…and even then, don’t you DARE ask me to go any farther. I’ll take my chances right where I am, thankyouverymuch). So when Michael suggested we stay at the quaintly-named “George Hotel” that only had a 45 minute jaunt to a secluded beach, my first thought is “Well, finally! A chance to show how I, too, can be moderately active!”

Well, indeed.

We set out from Beşiktaş right after class. Stopping for pide and drinks, we inadvertently made the rest of the Metro-bus passengers wait for us to finish our meal before getting on the road (oh to be foreigners!). The minibus drove us out to an impossibly cramped bus station in the outskirts of the city where huge passengers buses swerved in and out of very small loading areas, avoiding people and hitting cars. We tried to avoid the crush of people, autos, and luggage by sitting on a far curb only to attract a small population of street dogs and mangy cats.

When we were finally on the road, the hours passed relatively quickly. Broken up by a string of surprisingly nice rest stops (no Jordanian/Syrian sketchiness here!), the 14 hours were over in no time and we arrived safely in Fetiye, the sad but accessible town closest to Butterfly Valley.

The Butterfly Valley (Kelebek Vallesi) is nestled between two sea-side mountains, just below the unbearably touristy Öludeniz on the Mediterranean. The pristine beach is only accessible by boat or by climbing down the breathtakingly huge cliffs, carved out over thousands of years by freshwater falls. Our lodging, George Hotel (www.georgehotel.net) sits high on the cliffs and is an essentially self-sustaining compound. Run by one family, the home serves as organic farm and hotel (with sleeping choices of tent space, tree houses, or bungalows). We opted for the tree houses (only those who repress their early childhood fantasies would choose otherwise!) The tree houses are essentially glorified platforms; four waist high walls, three higher cloth walls for a bit more privacy, and drooping grape vines in the place of a roof. Every morning and evening, the family serves home-cooked, organic, vegetarian meals made entirely from locally grown produce. Besides the few bugs, it couldn’t be more picturesque.

The first night, we sat around in the still-warm air, talking and listening to the Call to Prayer [adhan] as it played call-and-return with its own echo off the sides of the valley.

The following morning, we made our way to George Hotel’s very own path down to the beach. Marked only by a whiteboard sign with a few tips (“don’t wear sandals!” “falling rocks!” “certain death!” [the last one is not actually there. it should be]), the path immediately forces the hiker to get dirty. Following the red-spray painted dots on random rocks, we snaked our way down the cliff face, sometimes on hands and knees. At certain points on the hike, we encountered precariously tied ropes set up to help you repel down meters of foothole-less rocks. Perhaps most difficult was overcoming the desire to look at the view; gorgeous though it is, any distraction from keeping track of where my feet were would probably have been disastrous.

Between the mountain goats bleating and my own heart pounding in my ears, the sound of the lapping Mediterranean water was a welcome relief when we finally arrived. I pushed the thought of having to trek back up the cliff from my mind and enjoyed the blue waters and mist-covered islands in the distance.

The beach itself is populated by a small commune of young hippies (among whom I SWORE I saw my Gypsies). Every few hours, they all ran out to meet the supply boat that runs from the main beach to Butterfly Valley, carrying with it essentials like kegs of Efes beer and ketchup. Otherwise, like George Hotel, everything is grown in the valley itself. Sun-soaked, shirtless, tattooed, dread-locked, and altogether pirate-like people wander around; making jewelry, drinking, gardening, swimming, and generally living how I would love to if I didn’t have dreams of an economically-viable future.

I had a very strange moment while sitting down for a drink in a covered area of the beach. The five of us had been talking about the music blasting through the stereo–a strange mix of songs that carry with them the emotional baggage of an overly dramatic and active early imagination. I was laughing about the songs and how wonderfully complete we all felt in this strange place; saying, “God! This whole thing is perfect. It would just be complete if Tracy Chapman would come on.” I had barely spoken when suddenly I heard “Baby Can I Hold You” sung by none other than Ms. Chapman herself. Sibel and I looked at each other and immediately collapsed into an “oooooooo freeeaky….” giggle-fest.

We spent the rest of the four days moving from severe hiking-and-heat-induced discomfort and absolute relaxation. Michael, Taner, and Sibel went paragliding. We took a boat trip from island to island. Michael and I stepped on sea urchins. Alex and I got sunburned. It was beautiful. I’d describe it in more detail but it wouldn’t do the place justice. It is as close as I have come to a perfectly situated alternative world.

However, life is, in so many ways, overly dramatic.

As we sat on our bus heading home from this unreal respite, we got the news. The turkish movie playing throughout the bus was interrupted by a breaking news story about two bombs exploding in Istanbul. I listened intently and tried to translate as much as I could–our two Ameri-Turks were asleep. Alas, I couldn’t figure out all the details from the news so I turned on my phone and texted the Go-To-Girl-Of-Istanbul, Anne. Things were okay. To use the Army term, SNAFU (Situation Normal: All Fucked Up). I could sleep.

Sometimes I wish I could make these things up; these wild stories, strange coincidences, the backward and forward of static and dynamic life. As soon as the break was over, like a needy child, the world demanded attention again. I’m not saying that there is some Grandmaster making sure no one gets too comfortable and forgets about the drama of the world but, Goddamn! Sometimes it feels that way!

Nerd-ily enough, I spent most of my time on the beach blasting through “Fragments of Culture: The Everyday of Modern Turkey” edited by Dniz Kandiyoti and Ayşe Saktanber. A brilliant collection of academic essays, the book analyzes the socio-political landscape of Turkey through cultural anecdotes ranging from film stars, to fashion, to transgender politics, to satirical humor. For the life of me, I can’t get through books like this when I should be immersed in studying but somehow I loved reading it on vacation. I am a card-carrying nerd. I’ve accepted this fact.

In other news, it looks like Michael and my other favorite people are leaving soon for the states! I know I’m getting close to being on my own here but I’ll just forget about it and enjoy the wonderful company I have now.

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The best (read: most ridiculous but personal) result of this weekend actually came to me when I was dozing in and out of sleep in our tree house.

When I was a 5th grader in California, our entire grade took a trip up to the mountains for outdoor science camp. During one hike, our guide sat us down next to a bubbling stream. He told us to pick a spot somewhere along this picturesque landscape, some detail that we though was beautiful, and stare at it for one whole minute. “Take in every detail you can about this spot. The smell. The sound. The way the light hits it” he said. “Remember every detail and the next time you are upset or worried or too stressed out, remember the calm of this place and it will bring you some clarity.”

I picked my spot; a tree hanging over the water, roots exposed. I stared and stared and stared and tried to take it all in. Just as our 60 seconds ended, I turned my head to see my 5th grade teacher slouching over a rock 50 meters away, vomiting from altitude sickness.

From then on every time I tried to calm myself with that serene mountain-moment like the guide had suggested, the only thing that came to mind was seeing people in authority evacuating their lunches.

Thanks to Butterfly Valley, I think I’ve effectively replaced this memory with an image of natural beauty that can actually comfort me in times of crisis.