Midnight Express

The women on our couchette looked straight out of Halloween Eve … long, eggplant dyed hair, small beady eyes, long hairs sprouting from her upper lip next to a large mole with more hair protruding, and on her chin, whiskers spreading down towards her neck. She was dressed in a long black dress and from time to time, would lower her voice to a whisper to chat with the other older ladies sitting in the seats next to me.

She was the perfect Halloween witch.

I had boarded the train from Sophia to Belgrade early, at least what I thought was early, but by the time I arrived to my couchette, there was only one seat remaining, excluding my faded green window seat.

I sat down and surveyed the scene.

Two French guys who later told me they had an inter-rail pass and were exploring the continent, and two older women, the witch and another, more regular looking woman.

The two ladies spoke in hushed tones, occasionally closing the door to our car, trapping in the smoke-filled air of our non-smoking room, to talk about something they clearly did not want anyone else to hear.

This was going to be a long trip from Sophia to Belgrade.

I could feel it.

That, and the nice Serbian gent in the couchette next to me told me.

“These trains run two hours late. Always. I don’t know why you would choose to take a train in Eastern Europe. They are shit.”

I looked around. Windows covered in spray paint. Fake wooden paneling. My couchette’s light didn’t even function. And the toilets … I don’t think they had been flushed since the 70s.

But, it was my place of rest for the night.

If I could do that.

I was concerned at first by the lack of air con (naturally), but as soon as the train started from Sophia, causing sparks to fly from the wires above, I was struck with the late summer breeze catching my face.

I’m no stranger to overnight trains. I often take them since it is more cost-effective than taking a day train and then sleeping in a hostel. I had taken one from Budapest to Brasov, from Cluj to Prague, from Prague to Berlin. I hadn’t slept beautifully, but I had slept.

This train might be a different story.

Instead of just sitting in the car, I decided to get out … even in the dark, the Bulgarian countryside seemed peaceful, serene.

I crossed the narrow corridor to the open window and stuck my head out, getting whipped in the face with the cool wind.

In front of me, homes whizzed by. Small dirt roads holding cars came and went next to the tracks. Lights from the little train-track towns twinkled. I could just make out mountains behind a slightly glowing dark night with only a crescent moon to illuminate the scenery.

At passport control, I was first greeted by Bulgarian immigration, asking me how long I was in Bulgaria. One officer directed his flash light towards my backpack, stowed above the witch lady’s head.

“Do you have anything to declare?”

I almost laughed.

Sure, a bunch of clothes, a tiny bottle of absinthe I always forget I have that I have been carting around since May when I stopped in Prague …

“No,” I said.

Then, it was time for Serbian customs.

Again, they directed a light towards my belongings, this time my bag containing my laptop.

“Who’s is this?” Another uniformed officer asked.

“It’s mine.”

Please don’t make me take it down and open it.

“No problem.”

“Ah, your accent is your passport,” said one of the French guys.

At first, I didn’t know what to make of it, and then I understood.

They didn’t ask me any further questions.

They never do.

As soon as I open my mouth, they leave me alone.

The witch lookalike wasn’t so lucky.

A woman officer looked at her plastic bag, likely carting her belongings, and emptied it on the seat, taking out each article of clothing, one-by-one.

After immigration, we stopped at the border, a train stop where, inside and in our car, people were being penned until the inspector gave the all-clear.

One girl ran off the train and into the arms of her beloved, embracing, kissing, loving.

Outside, families waited expectantly for people they knew to disembark from the train.

I wanted someone to be waiting on that platform for me.

Instead, I just sat and watched, marveling at the interaction of people, and how it doesn’t change based on what country someone is in. Yeah, that love thing is universal.

I kept my head out of the train window for a long time, watching people, listening to the crickets, trying to let sleep take over my body.

By the time we left the border, so had the older women in my car.

The two French guys had made friends with someone in another couchette.

I had the car to myself.

I kicked my flips off and stretched out on the soft and dirty seats and threw my caridgan over my torso and eyes.

Come on, sleep. Let’s do this.

I laid there for a few minutes and thought to myself.

Music would help.

I dug through my purse for my iPod. It wasn’t there.

Oh, shit.

I dug through my messenger bag.

It wasn’t there.

Oh, shitty shit shit.

I looked through my purse again, dumping its contents on the seat.

Wallet. Knee brace. Tickets. Food. Camera. Phone.

No damn iPod.

Gone.

Now, normal D would have freaked. Cried. My music!

But, the only thought running thorugh my head was “Thank God I still have my laptop.” Now, losing that would be catastrophic.

So, I came to grips quickly that my soundtrack for my trip would now solely be the one in my head, and again closed my eyes.

This time I slept.

At some point in the night, a girl came into the couchette and took court across the seats from me. And then, later, around 3:30 a.m., an older gentleman came in, slapping my naked ankle to get me to move my feet so he could sit down.

Three hours later, we arrived to Belgrade.

Leg One of my 26-hour journey from Veliko Tarnovo, Bulgaria to Budva, Montenegro: Complete.

Hanging in VK

Veliko Tarnovo is an easy place to get sucked in. Well, more specifically, Nomads Hostel IN VK is an easy place to get sucked in.

It’s a lovely hostel. The owners are amazing. The travelers who stay there are nice.

I ended up staying in the little town for five days.

The first full day, Abby and I went to the fortress and walked around for about an hour. Of course, it was ridiculously hot, so after that we decided we would eat. And drink.

“It’s our last meal,” I said, feeling suddenly very lonely and sad Abby was leaving to catch her flight in Istanbul in only a few hours.

Over a lunch of “diet pizza” and rakia, we sat and talked about the future.

I didn’t want Abby to leave. I was just starting to feel better. Now, I wanted to go out. But, it was too late.

As we sat at the train stop a in the early evening, I was sad. I had felt like such crap during Abby’s trip that I didn’t get to enjoy the company as much as I would have liked.

When she got on the two-car overnight train to Istanbul, we said our “see you soons” and then she was off.

For four more days, I stayed at the hostel, venturing out daily to explore, take photos and breathe in the fresh (and hot) mountain air.

The afternoon’s at the hostel included snacks of organic, home-grown sprouts, rose flavored water, homemade rakia and stories of life in the town.

I knew I had to leave and weighed my options. Belgrade? Pristina? I didn’t know.

Soon, I grew antsy and finally made an impulsive decision.

I wanted to go back to the Adriatic.

Attempting culture

Growing up in America, I was taught that during thunderstorms, to seek shelter. Don’t stand under trees. Don’t stand under anything metal.

In Veliko Tarnovo, that little juicy bit of warning was completely unheeded.

Abby, our new Italian friend and I had learned “Carmina Burana” was being performed at the Tsarevets fortress for 15 LV so we decided to go and get some culture.

It had been a beautiful and sunny day in the little mountain town. But, as we ate dinner, clouds began to spill over the mountains surrounding us.

Ominous black clouds.

“I am really excited to see the ballet,” Abby said. She had grown up seeing ballets and this experience was a unique opportunity to catch a performance under the open sky in a fortress that was hundreds of years old.

It had such a romantic allure.

We purchased our tickets at the gate to the fortress.

I looked over the mountains to the black clouds hovering above the peaks.

“What happens if it rains?” I asked the girl who handed us our tickets.

“If the performance is rescheduled, you can go tomorrow night or if it is canceled, you can get your money back.”

OK.

We began to walk up the stone path towards the fortress towering above us on the hill.

Then, I felt it.

A big, fat drop of rain.

Damn.

We kept moving towards the hill.

Another drop. And another.

As soon as we reached the venue, for the second time in two weeks, the skies opened and let loose all of the water it had been storing.

Accompanied by wind, thunder and lightening.

We were on top of a hill. We were waiting for the show. We weren’t going to back down from the storm.

Instead, we looked for shelter. Under a tall metal umbrella crowded with people underneath.

This isn’t good. This isn’t safe.

But, we had no choice.

For 45 minutes, the storm wailed, pounding us with sideways rain, assaulting our ears with thunder over our heads and inching away at our lives as lightening struck around us.

Then, it stopped.

Maybe the show will go on.

An announcement came over the speakers in Bulgarian.

Nope. Not happening.

Everyone sighed as they moved from under the umbrella and began to inch their way back down the stone path towards town.

More rain.

Thankfully, no thunderstorm.

The three of us walked back towards Nomad’s Hostel and decided to go and get some drinks.

We found a bar with a covered terrace overlooking the city, our hostel 160 steps below, and warmed up with some rakia.

I had never tasted the strong liquor before.

Instantly, it’s sweet flavor trickled down my throat, warming every part of me.
We sat for a couple of hours, sipping our drinks and chatting.

Then, exhaustion crept in and I went home to dry off and to sleep in our dorm room.

I crawled into bed and let the rakia and the sleep do their thing as I looked forward to the next day and exploring the charming town of Veliko Tarnovo.

Leaving the Black Sea

After nearly 10 days seaside, Abby and I boarded a bus to Bulgaria’s interior — the can’t-miss-town of Veliko Tarnovo. It’s not big. It’s not glitzy. But, it is breathtaking.

Little stone homes line old cobblestone streets. Stairs climb up the hillside, leading people to the main street packed with stores and delicious (and inexpensive) Bulgarian restaurants.

Abby and I arrived in the afternoon to VK and were immediately captivated.

“I wish I didn’t have to go back to Istanbul tomorrow,” she sighed as we arrived to the city. I didn’t want her to go, either.

We were picked up by the owner of Nomads Hostel, Georgi, and he drove us the quick distance to our hostel, a gorgeous and quaint home on the Gurko, a historic street, and overlooking the gorge which splits the city.

It was serene.

We entered the hostel and dropped our bags in our dorm room. With air-con.

It was a unique hostel — not only did our dorm have a bathroom en-suite, it also had bunk beds stacked three high. Different. And cool.

As we walked through the hostel, we learned it was one of Bularia’s green hostels.

From there, we made plans for the evening — a cultural experience …


Hot hot hostels

“Hello, girls, hello,” Dave, the owner of Flag Varna Hostel said, ushering us into the property.

“Hi,” Abby and I chimed in unison. We were happy to have arrived to Varna.

Immediately, I liked the city.

It was a real city, not a town sprung up around an 8 km stretch of beach with the sole purpose to provide a debacherous holiday.

The hostel?

Not so much.

We climbed four flights of stairs to get to Flag and were greeted with a blast of heat, causing the sweat to drip even more ferociously down my face, my back, my legs, my neck.

“Girls, I am getting inspected today, quickly, leave your bags and go to the beach.”

We dropped our bags and grabbed our laptops.

“Quickly, girls. Quickly. Yes. Please. Quickly.”

We rushed.

“OK,” Dave said, shoving a map in Abby’s hands. “Here is the beach. Walk that way and you will get there. The others are at the beach. Come back at 5 and I will check you in. OK. Now, girls, quickly.”

We smiled, slightly charmed at his anxiety and exited towards the beach.

We had no suits, so instead we landed at Happy, a restaurant near the water with free wifi, and ate sushi, drank some beer and took in the scenery.

Unlike Sunny Beach, Varna had nice shops and restaurants lining the main drag.

Normal people glided by.

Gone were the flyer-pushers (most of them).

Gone was the circus.

Varna greeted us with calm streets, sunny skies and blue water.

After we had our fill of internet (trust, it can be done), we headed towards the shops and then back to Flag.

When we were back inside, I finally got my first good glimpse of the hostel.

And of Dave.

On the door into the hostel, there were two clear signs displayed.

“No guns.”

“No prostitutes.”

Right.

We got inside.

“Hello, girls, hello,” Dave said, opening the door and ushering us in.

I looked at him.

He was a character — an ex-Pat from the UK.

Blonde hair dyed blonder from the sun set against a red face. He wore a plaid button down shirt, not buttoned, exposing his sunburned belly, and red and white flowered shorts. On his feet, socks with holes in the heels and sandals.

“Girls,” he began. “I am overbooked. I am putting you in an apartment down the street. You can come here for wireless, breakfast and to hang out.”

I looked around. Where, exactly, would we hang out? The common room was merely a kitchen area with one circular table and a few chairs. There was a fan, which was nice.

Dave poured Abby and I each a beer, having two for himself, and conversed with us, asking us where we were from, what we did, and then made fun of us (in a playful way) for being American girls. He dubbed us the “Spice Girls.”

A few minutes later, he led us to the apartment, about five minutes from the hostel.

An apartment.

Thoughts of relaxation and privacy sprung to my mind.

We were getting a deal.

Then, we entered.

“OK, girls,” Dave directed. “This way.”

I looked up. Stairs. Lots and lots of stairs. Suddenly, I felt the weight of my backpack. The aching between my shoulders from the paragliding incident a few weeks earlier.

“Is there an elevator?” I asked, hopeful.

“No, this is Bulgaria,” Dave chuckled at my question.

We climbed, and climbed and climbed.

Finally, we arrived to the apartment. In front of us, in the main room, were four mattresses laid across the floor.

“This way,” he directed.

Huffing and puffing (at least I was), we entered in, stepping over the mattresses and sleep sofa to a ladder.

“Up here.”

You’ve got to be kidding me.

We hauled our bags upstairs and were blasted with heat.

This was not what I imagined.

He left us and I stood there. Sweating.

Oh my god. There is no way I can ever sleep in here.

The heat was stifling.

The windows Dave swore created a nice breeze was really only one window. Downstairs.

Up in the loft, there were three tiny little windows, capable of producing no sort of cooling.

This isn’t going to work.

“We’ll just have to drink so we can sleep tonight,” Abby suggested. A fine idea.

Only, I had started to feel sick again.

My mind crept back to my final days with Chris. He had, as he described it, “felt crook.” And now, I too felt “crook.” My throat felt thick, my head heavy.

Shit. Sick. Again.

At 7, we went back to Flag to meet the group for dinner at a restaurant.

We weaved through the old roads, passing Roman ruins and ending up at a very traditional Bulgarian restaurant where they served one of our table’s meals first, and then the others.

I had one beer.

By my second beer, Sick was back, taking over. I passed my remaining beer (alcohol kills Sick germs, right?) and food to the hungry English guys who were watching their budget, like a good momma hen.

After dinner, our group went to the beach and a game of “I Never” broke out.

Well, at least with the boys. As soon as  they turned it into a game of sexual conquests, the girls fell quiet.

Finally, the people in our apartment — the English guys, the Czech girl, Abby and I, decided to end the night and walked back to our place.

It was hot.

Gross hot.

Abby had to run a cold shower to cool off.

Me? I felt like crap so I closed my eyes quickly.

The next day, we were up early.

“I can’t stay here more,” I announced.

We went to another Happy location where I found a hostel nearby and then went there to talk to them. Yo-Ho Hostel. No air-con. But, up less flights of stairs. And, a hostel. With big windows to circulate air. Not an apartment.

We reserved a dorm, went to break Dave the bad news that our last night in the inferno apartment would be tonight, and headed to the beach.

For three days, Abby and I had a routine. Work in the morning, head to the beach and read, rest, dinner. She was a trooper, powering through my feeling like crap the entire time we were together. I felt awful, but unlike the other times I was sick during my travels, I moved. I sunned. I tried my best to feel OK.

It didn’t always work and unfortunately Abby didn’t get to have a Healthy D on the majority of her trip.

Until we headed to our next stop, Veliko Tarnovo, a quiet and beautiful mountain town in Bulgaria.

The Jersey – Sunny Beach – Shore

Bulgaria.

In my mind, I pictured a quaint Eastern European country thriving with culture and history.

Then, Abby and I went to Sunny Beach.

On the bus from Istanbul to Bulgaria,where they served ice cream(!),  I conjured up images of the country in my head … cobblestone streets, little villages tucked into mountains, historical cities boasting pre- and post-Communist architecture, little bars with terraces covered in branded umbrellas.

It seemed as if we were going to get just that.

Then, we arrived to Sunny Beach.

The anti-Bulgaria.

It took a while for us to notice, but as soon as Abby and I ventured from 415 Hostel (a great find, by the way, complete with pool), we were smacked in the face with it.

At first, I was struck by its small-town beach vibe.

Little restaurants lining the main road. Men, burnt by the Black Sea sun, with opened shirts, women gallivanting around in little bikini tops and short shorts.

Beachy.

Then, we got to the main pedestrian drag.

It was Ocean City, Maryland on crack. Actually, it reminded us more of MTVs “The Jersey Shore.”

The carnival-like atmospheere permeated the air. Hot, young thangs passing flyers to laser parties, foam parties, parties, parties, parties.
Chinese Food. Pizza. McDonalds.

Rides.

Girls clad in too-tight dresses with five-inch heels (how the stumbled around after being drunk, I don’t know. I would have bit it, easy). Men, in muscle-bearing T-shirts, cuffed jeans, spiky hair, on the prowl for their night’s conquest.

We heard Bulgarian, but more often, we heard Russian, Swedish, Danish.
We walked down the street, eyes-wide, smiles on our faces.

What the hell did we stumble into?

Then, there was the beach.

Lounge chairs and umbrellas lined the sand as far as the eye could see, giving way to the bluish waters of the Black Sea a few meters from the restaurants.

When we arrived in Sunny Beach, I had been traveling for nearly five months and was getting burnt out. But Abby … she had just arrived and had lived in a small town of 3,000. She instantly loved Sunny Beach and the very alive scene.

Each night, a group from the hostel would go out. I went out twice. Both times calling it a night before the alcohol could even produce a buzz in my bloodstream.

I would retreat to our private room, write, read and enjoy a little solitude and knowing the only person who would walk through the door and wake me up would be my friend, versus a stranger.

My time there was relaxing. While Abby went out, I stayed in. Thinking. Sometimes too much. By day, we would hit the beach or the pool, armed with books, and soak up the sun.

In total, Abby and I stayed four nights in Sunny Beach. By the fourth night, we were both beat, opting for a delicious dinner at an Indian restaurant, and then a night of reading, internet-ing and sleep.

The next day, we boarded another bus and headed to Varna, another beach city.

As we got on the bus, I said a silent prayer, hoping that Varna would be a little less Jersey Shore, and a little more Bethany Beach.

The Jungle Princess joins the Adventure

The first time I met Abby was in Las Vegas about four years ago. She was an editor and I was a publicist, so we had a few lunches and swam in some of the same circles of the Las Vegas social scene.

I never imagined the next time I would see her would be in Istanbul.

But, it was.

She and I had stayed in close contact the past year … sharing our thoughts about travel, our mutual support of the travel blogging world, and had talked about possibly doing a meet-up somewhere in my adventures.

When she found out her time living in Costa Rica was coming to a close, she messaged me asking where I was.

And, then everything came together.

Three weeks later, she was jetting from her pueblo to the bustling city of Istanbul.

The night Abby arrived in Istanbul also happened to be Chris’ last night of his travels.

“We’ve got to celebrate your last night,” I announced to Chris.

So, Claire, Chris and I headed to Sultanahmed to find a shisha bar and get some drinks. Our first stop was The Sultan Hostel, where Claire was staying, for some large Effes, and then on to Top Deck to enjoy some shisha.

I didn’t think we would be out late.

But, we were.

As we sipped on way too sugar-y alcoholic concoctions, the three of us laughed the night away.

“I think Abby’s hotel is nearby …” I said, and then asked Sasha, the owner of the bar, where her hotel was.

“It’s right there,” he said, pointing around the corner. He grabbed me and guided me to the hotel, where I quickly penned a note to Abby, telling her to drop her bags and come and meet me … even if it meant she had to jump from three flights to a cab to a hotel at 1 a.m.

We sat on the outdoor cushions for another hour, each time a cab pulled up I would crane my neck to see if it was Abby arriving.

Then, a white van pulled up on the street and a girl with long, wavy light hair got out, I immediately knew.

Abby!

I jumped the rail and bounded to her.

“Hi!!” I squealed, grabbing her, so happy to see a familiar face and to have a friend from home in Turkey.

We ran to her room, dropped her bags, and then went back to Top Deck for a few more cocktails, closing the place down early in the morning.

For the next few days, Abby and I would grab our laptops, do some writing and then tour the city, hitting the Grand Bazaar and wandering, eating and drinking wine.

I had been in Istanbul nearly two weeks total by the time we headed to Bulgaria … I was ready to go and be somewhere new and to create new (and happy) memories.

We teetered on where we would go after Istanbul, deciding on Sunny Beach, which was rated as one of Bulgaria’s top beach destinations.

At 7 a.m. on a Friday morning, after two days of wandering Istanbul together, we met in the rug shop below Harmony, loaded our belongings into a cab and headed to the bus station (a massive cluster unlike anything I had ever seen before), and boarded a bus to Sunny Beach, Bulgaria.

Downpours

Chris had it all planned out.

We would take the ferry to a little town, then a bus to another little town and then – BAM! – Black Sea.

I hadn’t been to the Black Sea yet and was excited to check it off of my list of “Seas I Have Swam In.”

Claire met Claire and I at Harmony in the morning and we headed down to the Bosphours to catch the ferry.

“Oooh, there’s Asia, there’s Europe,” I said as we straddled the middle in the water. “This is so neat!”

The three of us stood outside on the boat’s deck for the entire boat trip, snapping photos from time to time and enjoying the breeze on our faces.

Once we got off the boat, we stopped in the town for lunch. A mouthwatering sampling of fresh-caught fish washed down with ice cold Effes.

Then, we caught the bus to the beach.

It was packed, so Chris and I sat on the stairs in the back of the bus, holding on for dear life as it sped through the windy roads.

Death by bus. Not nearly as glamorous as death by paragliding.

Once a seat opened up, I abandoned the step for a safer resting place.

When we finally made it to the beach town, I was ready to close my eyes and enjoy the sun.

But first, I had to get in the water.

Like the Mediterranean, it was too warm to be refreshing.

And it was dirty.

Trash lined the beach, bottles floated in the water. It wasn’t a peaceful and serene place to unwind, but it was a beach so it suited my needs of sun and water.

Claire, Chris and I hung out in the Black Sea for a little and then I retreated back to our towels to take a nap.

I laid there, closed my eyes and breathed in.

The Black Sea.

That’s three seas in three weeks.

Not bad, D.

I woke up to dark skies. A serious storm was brewing.

Time to go.

We got back on the bus and headed to town.

“Here, this is the last stop,” we were informed by another passenger. So, we exited the bus.

As soon as we did, the sky opened on us. A downpour topped off with claps of thunder and flashes of lightening.

“Wait,” I said, spinning around. “This isn’t where we got on.”

And, it wasn’t.

Thanks, ill-informed bus person.

The shops, the streets, none of it looked familiar as I squinted at the scenery before us.

“Where are we?”

The three of us stood in the rain, clothes sticking to us, trying to figure out where we were and how to get back to the stop we knew so we could take another bus back to Istanbul.

“Let’s go this way,” Chris instructed, so we waded through puddles and began walking.

I couldn’t help but laugh. I had wanted a good thunderstorm. And, I had gotten one. It was just poor timing.

After about 10 minutes of rain soaking our bodies and wandering towards what we hoped was a bus stop, a bus passed us and stopped, letting us hop on as we rode 30 seconds to the bus stop we needed to get to.

“We were going the right way,” Chris said, smiling.

I looked at our group. Soaked to the bone.

We dried off a little bit on the hour ride back to Istanbul. But, as soon as we got off the bus in Taksim, there was another storm and once again, we were soaked.

It wasn’t until after dinner (Pizza Hut awesomeness), did the rain finally stop and we finally dried off.

We got back to our hostel tan and dry. And, after all, isn’t that what I wanted?

A love affair with Air-Con

I lived in the desert for four summers. The sweltering hot, Las Vegas desert.

When people would tell me it was worse on the East Coast, that at least it was not humid, I would always retort: “You may not think it is bad, but try blowing a hair dryer on your face non-stop for a summer. Then, tell me the desert heat is bareable.”

The only way I survived those brutal summers in Las Vegas was with my trusty, beloved air-con. I stayed inside until the sun crept low into the sky (and even then, outside was hothothot). If I had to go outside, it would only be to get me from Point A to Point B. Both of which blasted me with a cool shot of artificially cool air the moment I stepped inside.

Sweet, cool air.

After returning from the cooler Goreme in the Cappidocia region of Turkey, I was blasted with heat. The uncomfortable kind where sweat pours out of the body and pools.

I arrived back to Harmony Hostel (Canan, the girl who runs the hostel had e-mailed me earlier in the week telling me Harmony was my “second home, please come back,” so I did).

Chris, one of favorite Aussies and Romanian travel buddy, greeted me upstairs as soon as I arrived back following a 10 hour bus ride from Cappidocia to Istanbul.

It was so good to see him. A familiar face from the start of my travels.

“Hi,” he said, going to hug me.

I stepped back a bit.

“Chris, I am disgusting,” I said, covered in sweat.

He hugged me anyway.

We caught up that night, over a beer and some lentil soup (why I had hot soup is beyond me), then I retreated to my bed.

Holy shit. There was absolutely no air.

I laid down.

Stifling heat. Dripping sweat. I can’t sleep like this.

The last time I stayed at Harmony, I had a fan blowing in my face, making the summer heat bearable. But this time, no fan. No breeze. Just stale, hostel air creeping into every pore of my body, boiling water within me and oozing it out.

I tossed. I turned. I used the top sheet to wipe off the wet. I woke up at 7 a.m. when the sun came up and the heat, once again, blistered into the room.

I climbed up to the rooftop terrace, hoping to catch a break.

Instead, I was greeted with a big, blue backpack and three messages from Scotty on my Facebook.

Essentially, he was leaving Turkey and heading for greener pastures. He left his pack at my hostel and asked me to keep an eye on it, saying he would be by soon to come and hang out with me.

An hour later, I was greeted to his smiling face and big, blue eyes.

“Hi honey!” We both cooed. Granted, we had just seen each other last night, but we were so groggy, so tired, so achy from the bus ride … it seemed like light years since the evening before.

We sat online for an hour, trying to figure out when he would leave Istanbul and where he would go in the meantime.

“I just want a shower and cool,” I informed him.

“Come with me!” He said, eyes sparkling. “I’m getting a hotel room with air-con and a shower!!”

Sold.

We went and talked to Chris, who was taking it easy that day, and I was lured quickly to his hotel, a tram ride and a walk away.

During that 10 minute walk, carrying his day pack, I broke out once again in dripping sweat.

Gross.

We finally arrived to his room and the first thing we did was turn on the air-con.

“You shower, I am going to sort out my plane ticket out of here,” he instructed.

He didn’t have to tell me twice.

I got in the shower and just let the cold water rush over me, cooling me back to a normal temperature.

Then, Claire met me in the room and we both basked in the cool breeze the air-con was emitting, eventually both passing out for a catnap.

The next night in the hostel wasn’t so bad. I had an entire day to cool down. And then, the following night, Canan informed me I was sleeping in her room — with air-con. And, to make things even better, the next three nights, I was moved to a different room, where I took control of the AC remote and slept cool … sometimes too cool … but blissfully happy in my non-sweaty state.

Fairytale land

Napping is a beautiful thing. When I wake-up from a nap I feel refreshed. Revived. Renewed.

I woke up mid-afternoon in Goreme and quickly emerged from the damp cave to take in my surroundings.

Scotty sat outside at picnic bench, working on paper work.

A few minutes later, Claire emerged from her bed, too.

Claire and I had been reunited in Olympos on our last night.

“I’m on your bus,” she said as we sat in the tree house bar.

I was thrilled.

She and I bonded over the gross stories of Murat and decided to hang out in Goreme for three days, along with Scotty.

We didn’t do much in those three days. We ate. We lounged at the pool. We walked around town.

But, mostly we marveled at the sheer beauty of the town.

Goreme isn’t big. In fact, it has a distinct small town feel. It has Old Man Alley, where old men (of course) sit at a cafe and stare at you as you walk by.

Like they’ve seen you naked.

Everyone at the shops knows everyone else at the shops. They tell you were to go (because they get a nice kickback), they give you “good deals.” Restaurants are abundant and delicious, specializing  in clay pot meals where they cook the food in terracotta pots all day and then bring it to your table and crack it open, displaying a mix of veggies and meat in a delicious sauce. They serve amazing homemade wine.

There are locals and then there are tourists of all kinds, all in town to see one thing — the cave homes and fairy chimneys of the land.

The homes and chimneys jut out of the ground, big hunks of light-colored rocks, some with windows, some with doors, some housing entire hotels.

They are freaks of nature in the coolest sense possible.

I loved it.

At sunset, the tall caves would echo the sky, turning pink and purple and orange as night grew closer.

I wanted to take tours, to go on the hot air balloon ride, but instead, I just relaxed. Money was a bit tight, so I was OK with hearing every one’s reviews of the tours and experiences they had at night as we sat around enjoying the delicious barbecue.

On my last night in Goreme, I went out with Scotty, Claire and another Fez tour guide. We went to a cave bar and sat around, listening to “We Don’t Speak No Americano” and “Waka Waka.”

After we were done, we ran into a local Scotty knew and hitched a ride in a pimped out van to the desert next to the city.

For about 20 minutes, I just looked up.

The stars were like Koygeicz, sparkling in the vast black sky.

It was a good way to end my time on the Fez tour.

I was ready to go back to Istanbul the next day and to have my reunion with one of my favorite mates from Down Under, Chris.