The Fez night bus of discomfort

“All aboard,” Scotty said, standing outside the Fez bus as a group of 16 of us loaded ourselves in.

It was 8 p.m. and we were leaving Olympos, headed to Goreme in the Cappidocia region of Turkey. The ride was going to be a long one — 10 hours — and get us in to our next city at 7 a.m.

No one was looking forward to the ride.

About an hour in to the trip Scotty nudged me.

“Look,” he said, gesturing to the driver’s console. “We have no gas.”

“What?”

I looked. The needle clung to empty.

“Well, that’s no good,” I said. “Maybe we should tell the driver to stop at the next station.”

“Yeah,” Scotty said.

We drove for an hour before we passed civilization again. The air-con was off.

Not a good sign.

Then, a few kilometers up, I saw the twinkling lights of a gas station.

“Oh, good,” we both said, sighing with relief.

We drove past it.

“Seriously?” I said, looking from Scotty to the driver.

There is no way in hell I am pushing this bus up the mountain.

“Oh my god,” Scotty breathed. “We have to stop.”

“Say something,” I urged, every second was precious since we were likely running only on fumes.

“I don’t speak Turkish!”

Instead, Scotty gestured to the driver, telling him we needed a bathroom break.

Anything to get him to stop.

Twenty minutes later, we were at the gas station.

“If he doesn’t fill up now …” I began.

Luckily, he did.

Before we got back on the bus, I popped a Tylenol PM. I needed to get some sleep. I still ached from falling.

But, for some reason, Fez doesn’t use nice buses. They are the most uncomfortable buses I have ever been in. Barely any cushion. Barely any leg room. No bathroom. Clearly, the money spent on the tour doesn’t go to taking care of the customer’s comfort.

For the remainder of the night drive I teetered between awake and asleep, adjusting and re-adjusting.

A few hours later, when the sun was rising over the desert, I was awake for good.

The scenes before me were beautiful. Orange sky touching sand, giving way to early-morning blue.

As we drove into Goreme, Scotty woke up the bus.

“That is the hot-air balloon ride you can go on,” he said, pointing out the window.

It was magnificent.

Hundreds of balloons, all different colors, floating at different heights, lingered in the sunrise over a valley of cave homes and fair chimneys jutting up from the ground.

Stunning.

At 7 a.m., we pulled into Shoestring, a cave hostel with a pool on the highest terrace.

After a quick breakfast, I dropped my bags in my room and crawled into bed, thankful the cave I was staying in had no windows.

The return of the Hair Snob

I ran my fingers through my hair.

It had grown a lot since I had it cut back in January.

And it felt gross. Fried.

“Arlene, this is disgusting,” I moaned, tugging at my sun-damaged locks. “I need to fix this or it will drive me nuts.”

Fortunately, Arlene’s pre-travel life included being a stylist.

We sat on a picnic bench in Kadir’s as I combed my overly-dry hair with my fingers, scowling at its quick descent into unhealthy.

“I give you good price,” she said, imitating the shop owners trying to hawk their goods. “Ten lire.”

“Sold.”

The next day, my last day in Olympos, I got my hair cut.

On the porch of a tree house.

My hair, which was spoiled rotten in my previous life, was wet around my shoulders as Arlene pulled out her stylist tools she brought on the road with her — a smock, scissors and a squirt bottle.

In the heat of the afternoon sun, she chopped and layered and spritzed my hair as passersby stopped, stared and questioned us in various languages as to what we were doing, then smiling and nodding once they figured it out.

“Well, we don’t have a hair dryer, so your hair has to dry before I can finish the cut,” she said, pulling off my black smock. “Let’s go take photos.”

The two of us walked around Kadir’s, snapping images of the tree huts, the towering rock faces behind the site and people. Then, we had lunch at the pizza hut.

“OK,” she said. “We can go and finish your hair.”

I produced a tiny flat iron — one I have only used on rare occasions since I started traveling, but kept it just in case.

She ran it through my hair quickly and then we were back outside on the porch and she provided the finishing touches to my hair.

“Finished,” she announced.

I got up, ran my fingers through it and was delighted. It no longer felt like a broom.

I looked in the mirror.

This is the best my hair has looked since I started traveling.

There were no fancy products in my hair. There was no blow-out and styling done. But, it was perfect for where I was.

Backpacker perfect.

Heat = Sea

Olympos was hot. Walking outside immediately caused sweat to pour from my body. Sitting in my room was an option, but only a kilometer or so away was the sea.

And, that was a better option.

Arlene and I strolled down the small road to the sea, dodging cars and trying to stay cool.

On the way, one of the shops sold frozen bottles of water, so we grabbed those up quickly.

After paying the entrance fee to the park, we continued our quest to the beach surrounded by Roman ruins.

Finally, there was an opening in the rocks and there, before us, was the vast blue Mediterranean — along with thousands of people, crowded on top of each other, fighting for their piece of the sand and sun.

We found a little spot and dropped our stuff, and then submerged ourselves in the water.

I expected it to feel refreshing, but instead was greeted to bath-water-warm sea.

Not great. But, it’s the sea. I can’t complain.

We swam and relaxed in the water for awhile, while around us was buzzing with life.

Men on little fishing boats dropped anchor in the water, producing beer from coolers. Women walked on the sand, selling grilled corn. Picnics popped up on towels. Couples laid leg-over-leg.

This place was alive.

Even if it was crowded, even if the water was warm, even if the sun beating down on us was nearly unbearable, the energy emitting from the people-covered beach was undeniable.

After a few hours, Arlene and I called it a day, heading back to Kadir’s and the free dinner, followed by drinks and the club.

Of course.

A BRIEF intermission: Month Six — Momma, I’m coming home

Today is Tuesday, Sept. 7. And, today begins the sixth month of my travels.

I have an announcement to make: I am going home. On September 20.

I had originally planned on extending my trip through early October and head back to Spain, however, plans have changed.

The past month has been one of the best months of traveling since I started my trip, and also one of the worst months.

I have met amazing people, been to amazing places and learned a lot about me. But, at the same time, a lot has been going on back home.

When I left, back in March, I had to say goodbye to everyone, some I knew I would see again, others I did not.

One such person was my grandmother.

And now, she is not doing well. I knew when I left there was a chance things could turn for the worst, but she was my biggest supporter, urging me to go, to write, to live my dream.

So, I did.

A few weeks ago, I got word from my mom that things we not looking good. Immediately, my heart broke. I didn’t want to be so far from home and lose someone I love so dearly.

Nor did I want to be so far from home with no one to wrap their arms around me, let me bury my head in their shoulder and sob.

Fortunately, the backpacker community has some amazing people. When I cried, people brought me toilet paper, wished me well, gave me hugs, told me I was making the right decision to stay (Grandma didn’t want me to come home) and tried their best to ensure I was OK.

I teetered for a week about extending my trip or going home. I decided this: I have LIVED the past six months of my life. I have LOVED the past six months of my life. I have found more of myself the past six months of my life than I have in the 30 years prior. I am ready to go home. To start this next chapter.

Yes, I am sad about not returning to Spain, but I know I will be back there soon. I am sad to not continue, but more than ever, right now I want to be with my family. My true support staff. I want to see my grandma. To tell her I love her and to be there with her.

I don’t want September 20 to come, but at the same time, I am looking forward to holding my mom’s hand, to sitting on the couch with my dad, to seeing my grandma in the nursing home and telling her “thank you” in person instead of via e-mail.

This won’t be the last “BRIEF intermission,” but it will be the last one from this adventure.

Stay tuned … there is more to come.

Summer camp for grownups

A few hours after my para-falling incident, the Fez Bus pulled into Kadir’s Tree Houses, the first “tree houses” to open in Olympos, Turkey. There had been a fire earlier in it’s history that devastated the site, but it had since been restored. And, subsequently during this time, other entrepreneurs followed the popular “tree house” theme and opened their own sites dotted with log homes down Olympos’ main road to the Mediterranean.

I walked off of the bus, ready to embrace a more calm and tranquil environment.

“You are going to get dirty here,” Scotty turned to me and said.

A gentle breeze kicked up, swirling red dirt on my skin.

Oh, yeah, I was.

I stopped and looked around at the entrance to Kadir’s. Tree huts painted with whimsical, hippie images on each cabin. A main tree hut with tables and benches on the first floor and upstairs, a bar in the center with views of the entire site.

Reception was hut. Another hut served pizza. And another was a night club.

Wow.

I walked with a few of the girls to our dorm.

“There is no air-con,” they announced.

I stood there, still in immense amounts of pain from plummeting earlier in the day.

No way in hell.

I walked to reception and asked for a private.

“We have one left,” the guy at reception informed me. “It is behind the night club so it is loud, but there is air-con.”

“Fine,” I said. I didn’t care about loud. All I cared about was not being in pain and getting some rest.

I dropped my bag in the room. A tiny wooden room with uneven wooden floorboards,  a single bed against a wooden wall,  a baby bathroom and a hose to shower, and a big, beautiful white air-con unit fastened to the wall above my bed.

One good thing about backpacking is that it makes you care a little less about where you rest your head. Train station. Bus station. Airport. Rickety room behind a night club with barely a shower.

It was perfect.

As soon as I stepped out the door and back into the blaring Turkey sun, I realized Kadir’s is a summer camp for adults.
Everywhere, people sat around, drinking, smoking, chatting on cushions in the middle of the site, in front of a smoldering fire pit.

At 8 p.m. every night, they served a delicious meal, and in the morning, the same, complete with an omlette station.

Once the sun set, the site came alive. Upstairs, the bar served up drinks and had a DJ until 11, when everyone was ushered down to the night club, a large, open air complex with wooden walls surrounding it and a fire pit in the middle.

I didn’t want to go there, but every night, something took over my mind, and as I was ready to crawl into bed, somehow I ended up there.

With Scotty and Arlene, a girl I had met earlier on the Fez Tour and had been reunited with in Olympos, and a few others, we would walk across the dirt to the club.

Each evening, we would become part of this amazing atmosphere, kicking off our flip flops and dancing together around the fire to “Waka” and “We Don’t Speak Americano.”

Bodies everywhere, fire crackling. It was primal. It was sexy. It was pulsing with passion.

Then, I would walk two paces to my room and crawl into bed, music still pumping loudly, permeating the walls.

But, I didn’t mind. It fit with the ambiance of the site. I would pass out quickly and wake up each morning feeling refreshed and alive.

Para-falling

I never thought my Bucket List would be my Death Wish. But, early Saturday morning in Fethiye, I nearly died.

I should have known better.

I had been talking about paragliding in Turkey since I started my trip. It seemed safe — you just run off a cliff and then float over the bluegreen gorgeous water and land on the soft sand.

I was wrong.

I had signed up the night before, after the Fez bus arrived to Fethiye from Koygeicz.

“I would like to go paragliding,” I announced to Scotty, who called and arranged for me, Corrine, Jeni and another girl from our trip, to take the jump early the next morning.

I went to sleep early that night, adrenaline and anxiety pumping through my blood.

Sleep was not fulfilling. In my dreams, I did not jump. It was rainy, which meant there would be no sailing down to earth from the sky.

Which was fine with me.

I almost had myself convinced I would not be jumping because of rain when my alarm went off at 5:30 a.m.

I got out of bed, tied my sneakers and headed down to meet the others.

The ride up to the sky center was scary enough. Piled into the back of a truck on benches, the four girls paired with four men who would jump in tandem with us, bounced and held on as we maneuvered dirt roads, clung perilously close to cliffs and finally reached the top.

“One of us could die,” Jeni exclaimed, bright smile on her face, totally joking at the sentiment.”

Foreshadowing.

I looked out at the peak above us. Dirt, rocks, more rocks, jagged edges, a road below, then a straight drop down the mountain.

Oh. My. God.

Strapped to instructors, people were walking, then running off a cliff 19,000 meters up … taking flight over the mountains and down into the vast sea below.

What was I doing?

Panic mixed with fear mixed with excitement coarsed through my blood, sending a multitude of different thoughts through my head.

“Here,” said the man who would jump with me. “This is your jumpsuit.”

My hands fumbled with the zippers, so he began to zip me up, then placed the helmet on my head, leading me to the ledge where other jumpers had gathered.

For a moment, I watched them. Walk walk walk walk, run run run run, fly fly fly fly.

You can do this, D.

He began to tell me what to do.

“When do I sit?” I asked him.

“Don’t think about sitting,” he ordered. “Listen to me and do what I tell you to do.”

Easy enough.

And then, it was our turn.

“Stand here,” he moved me to a rocky spot a little bit down the steep hill. He began strapping himself to me.

My heart raced.

“Wait …” I said, second thoughts charging through my mind, along with the hefty price tag for the jump.

“The wind is good right now …” he began.

“OK,” I said, closing my eyes. “Fine. Let’s just do this.”

And we were off.

A guy pulled me by a front strap down the mountain, walking at first and then breaking out into a run.

I felt wind catch the parachute.

And then all hell broke lose.

Suddenly, I was facing rock. Falling down … down … down.

There was one moment before we plummeted 20 feet that I thought we would actually take off. Then, I was looking at brown rock. 

Oh my god. We didn’t take off. We are falling. I am going to die.

And then, we bounced from sharp boulder to sharp boulder to sharp boulder.

I’m still alive … I’m not hurt …

And then more falling and bouncing …

We have to stop.

I put my feet out, tried to grasp something, anything to keep us from catapulting at the speed we were going down the cliff of rocks.

I am still alive … I’m not hurt …

Then, we went over the edge.

I died paragliding.

We fell about 10 feet and landed on our asses, my pilot still strapped to me. The road below had stopped us from going over the edge of the mountain.

My body began shaking uncontrollably, my first though being my pilot.

Was he alive? Did I kill him?

“Are you OK?” We asked each other simultaneously.

I broke out into tears.

“Yes,” we both said.

I was still breathing. I was alive. I was hurt. My body was in serious pain.

Check for bleeding.

I thought for a moment about the places that hurt the most — my legs — and lifted up my jump suit and my pant legs. Blood. Cuts. Skin peeled back. But, nothing that required stitches.

“Get this off of me,” I cried, trying to unhook the multiple harnesses strapping the pilot and I together.

I sat there for another moment, taking in the extent of my injuries, the enormity of what had just happened.

I looked above. There were about 20 men who had dropped what they were doing to help us.

The parachute was caught on rocks, some which had landed on top of the fabric after our fall.

“Go and sit over there,” the pilot instructed.

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” I repeated through a tear-soaked face.

As a group of people worked to free the chute, I sat on another rock, far from the scene and cried. Big, fat tears. Of pain. Of disappointment. Of anger.

What happened?

I knew, deep down, I had panicked. I had done something that had toppled both the pilot and I down a cliff. I had put myself in danger. I had put him in danger.

And now, I was beating myself up for it every which what way possible.

As others, those not affected by the terror they had just seen as we disappeared off the mountain, jumped and sailed away, I sat in silence, the only noise ever coming out of me were sobs.

After our accident scene had been contained, the pilot and I walked back up the hill.

I was mortified. I didn’t want to face any of these people who had just witnessed my body failing itself.

“You sat too soon,” said one pilot. “Two more steps … that was all you needed …”

Two steps. D. Two freaking steps. And, I couldn’t take those two steps off of the cliff.

I sat, causing the wind in the chute to pull down, causing us to fall down, down, down.

“Next time, don’t sit,” he said.

Next time?

“Are you ready to try again?”

Did he not just see me plummet 30 feet down a mountain and live to tell about it?

“Oh, no no no … I am not doing it again.”

“Are you sure?”

I nodded my head.

I got back into the truck and headed back down the mountain, every now and then breaking into tears.

When we got back to the office, Corinne and Jeni were there, waiting for me.

“You nearly died!” Corinne said. “Oh my god. We were so worried about you. All we knew was that you fell … ”

I burst into tears yet again.

On the way back to the hostel in Fethiye, Jeni relayed what she had seen of the accident.

“I saw you start, then I saw you sit, then the two of you fell over each other, fell down some rocks, and then … I saw you go over the edge, him go over the edge and then the chute disappear.”

“You nearly died,” Corinne repeated.

I got back to the hostel and saw Scotty.

“I’m so sorry for making the bus late,” I said to Scotty, once again sobbing.

“I’m just glad you are OK. All I knew was that you stopped, dropped and rolled!”

“I just need a hug,” I said, and he pulled me in and hugged me, making me feel safe for the first time that day.

“We are getting you drunk tonight,” he informed me before we boarded the bus.

The bus ride to Olympos was miserable. I sat in terrible pain, discovering new bruises nearly every moment. When we stopped in Kas to hit the beach, I opted for the bus.

I did a quick tally of my injuries: two cuts on my leg, bruises on both shins, a massive bruise on my thigh (my dad swore he saw Jesus in it) and a sore, sore back. For days, I could barely move without being in pain.

You are lucky to be alive, D.

In Olympos, everyone wanted to know the story. I was the exception to the rule — the girl who bit it when paragliding.

After my accident, I received detailed instructions from the USA: stay on the ground. Keep your feet on the ground. No jumping. No riding on motorbikes, ATVS, scooters, no nothing …

When we arrived to Kadir’s Tree Houses in Olympos, I upgraded myself to a private room with air-con so I could recover.

After ample drinks that evening, I felt better. Not recovered, but not in pain.

The next few days would be all about relaxing and being thankful Corinne could only say “You nearly died …”

Seeing stars

SCOTTY.

I had never been happier to see someone walk down the hill as I was to see Scotty.

“Hey there,” he said. I didn’t even let him finish introductions before I grabbed him, pulling him into a hug and expressing just how glad I was he was there

I quickly filled him in on what had happened in Kusadasi and he immediately promised me I would be safe now, taken care of.

That night, I finally got some sleep. The next morning, I caught the Fez bus and we headed to Koygeicz, a lake town near the Aegean Sea. But first, we had to stop at a leather factory for a fashion show, and a ceramics factory for a demo and tour.

Once we arrived to Tango Hostel, we got our rooms sorted and made plans for the evening — a boat cruise on the lake, followed by a stop at the mud bath and thermal bath, then a little night swimming.

It sounded great, especially after the week I had prior.

About 12 of us boarded the boat after nightfall, clad in our suits and ready for a fun night out.

The captain on the little wooden boat mixed up some punch which was passed around, and we headed off to the baths.

Corinne, another tour guide who was on the bus with Scotty, and I sat together and talked about our experiences in Turkey. It was nice to tell someone my story and not be in the midst of it still.

It took about an hour to get to the baths, which by day produce a carnival-like atmosphere, packed with people, but at night create a serene and lovely place to get clean.

“You have to walk past the stones in the mud pit and then dig in,” Scotty instructed us as we walked tentatively into the clay.

I could feel the tiny stones digging into my feet, the sea grass brushing against my ankles and shins.

“Dig in!” Scotty once again instructed.

I reached down into the wet slop and grabbed a chunk of clay.

“Now, smear it all over you!”

I did.

Gross.

After being thoroughly covered — from hair on my head to heels of my feet — I hopped out and sat on the bench, waiting for the mud to dry before washing it off of me.

About 20 minutes later, our group was jumping into the lake, a cloud of mud spreading like ink in the black waters.

The water lapped against me, cool, refreshing.

Then, we went into the thermal bath. It was similar to the one I went to in Budapest — it had the same sulfur smell — but tingled my skin more. Maybe because I was so clean from the mud?

The time passed midnight, and we all got back on the boat. On the way back to land, I stepped outside of the main seating area, onto the bow of the boat and looked up.

Stars.

The most magnificent sky I had seen in years.

The Milkyway stretched before me.

In that moment, I had such a deep appreciation for where I was. Who I was. What I was doing. The experiences I had the days leading up to this.

I was thankful to be there.

A final note on Kusadasi

A few days after departing Kusadasi, I thought everything was behind me. It pretty much was … until I was reunited with Claire in Olympos.

I was sitting at the treetop bar, enjoying my last evening in my adult summer camp surroundings when she sat next to me.

“Claire! Hi!” I squealed as she took a seat next to me.

She and I had been in touch during everything in Kusadasi. She knew what had happened.

“You won’t believe the message I got on Facebook,” she said.

“Oh god, is it about me?”

“Yup.”

“Can I see it? Will it make me mad?”

“Probably.” She opened her computer and logged into Facebook.

This is the message Murat wrote her (WARNING: strong language is used):

Also I explein you 1 more thing.
There is a 1 idiot bitch write a mesage to your wall about me and I hope you can guess.(diane)
I sended her from her 2. day and do you want to hear whats the real reason.
She dosent need a job she just want to her own room because she is looking for a people who will fuck her.
İn 2 days she finded 3 different people and you can guess who is the first man.(nathan).
Its not your problem but I just want to explein you because if anybody write a mesage about me maybe same time I need to say whats the real happened.

TAKE CARE.
BY

I closed the computer and closed that miserable chapter of my adventure and together, we burst into laughter.

The Story of Mustafa

The first night at the restaurant when I met Mustafa, I thought he was nice.

Ignorant, but nice.

He had joked with my group of friends, had given me a discount card, had been friendly and welcoming.

The perfect example of the famed Turkish hospitality.

I immediately liked him.

Then, he told me the story of how he had gone up to a customer and asked if her “melons” were real.

He told the story with such glee and asked me what I thought of it.

I thought the woman he talked like that to should have wound up her arm and socked him one. But, I said nothing.

Like I said, ignorant.

When I returned to the restaurant two days later to meet up with Ash, we chatted. A nice, friendly conversation where I was introduced to the (now annoying phrase) “I take you to sky.”

I smiled politely. I had no idea what he meant.

Ash had to explain it to me.

Sex.

Right.

Whenever I would see him, he would say that phrase to me. Smile spreading across his tanned, leathery skin, teeth blackened around the edges peaking from between his thin lips.

I thought he was just being a flirt. I can handle flirts.

I was wrong.

The next day, after I had been fired from Murat’s, he listened to me as I told my story through tears of what had happened … that I had been fired.

He brought my breakfast. Water. He offered his brother and Ash’s apartment for me to stay in for a week. He arranged a job for me.

His kindness was needed, and I appreciated every thing he was offering.

I didn’t know if I wanted to stay in town.

When Ash arrived to work, I told her what happened and we had all planned on going to the beach that afternoon.

Only, Mustafa informed Ash she had to stay and work. I didn’t want to go with him alone, but he had arranged so much for me … I didn’t want to be rude and insult him by not going.

As we wound our way around the mountain roads, we chatted. He asked me if I wanted to come and live here next year and work for the restaurant.

I didn’t.

He told me he had five kids. That he was 35. That he thought I was pretty.

Oh, god.

The closer we got to the beach, the more he was hitting on me. The more he said he wanted to “take me to sky.”

When we finally arrived to the sea, we drove onto the sand, passing families who had made  makeshift tents along the beach.

He parked and grabbed two beers and we began to walk.

“Let’s walk down a little,” he suggested.

Yeah, right.

“I like it here,” I told him.

“No, we keep going,” he told me.

“Mustafa, I have a bad knee. I am hungover. I don’t want to walk down further. I want to sit here.”

“The sand is good for your knee. I have a bad knee too, and my doctor told me sand is good.”

Busted, D.

I ignored that little piece of information and instead planted myself in the sand. He followed suit.

“Here,” he said, opening a beer and handing it to me.

“I don’t want to drink, I already told you that,” I said. When he had stopped at the store and asked if I wanted to drink, I had told him I wasn’t interested in tossing any back.

We sat in silence for a minute, then the heat started to get to me. I took off my dress and told him I was going in the water.

“No,” he said. “You stay here with me.”

Excuse me? Did he just order me to stay there with him?

I said nothing. We sat in silence again.

I am not staying in this town.

I began to formulate my exit from his arrangements. I looked out towards the sea and wished I could be free. Wished I could be enjoying my time at the Aegean Sea and not wishing I was somewhere, anywhere, other than there with a married man with five children who clearly had no problem cheating on his wife.

“Fine,” he conceded. “You want to go in the water, go in the water.”

“Thanks,” I said and huffed off.

For a few minutes, I just stood, knee-deep in the warm sea. Wishing myself to another place. Trying to work out in my head what I needed to do to get out of there.

He came into the water with me and walked past me, towards the gentle waves.

“Come swim,” he instructed me.

I shook my head “no.”

“I’m good here. This is perfect,” I explained.

He swam a bit, then began walking back towards me. Instead of stopping to talk to me, he stomped his legs like a child through the low surf, muttering to me “If you thought I was so dangerous, why did you even come here?”

For god’s sake. Was this really happening? Couldn’t we just be friends and hang out?

“I don’t think you are dangerous,” I began.

I just am not interested in your advances.

“You are different now, D,” he said, and walked back to his towel.

I looked around. I could just make out the cruise ship in Kusadasi’s harbor … a small speck in the distance.

We were far from home. And I had to do damage control.

“I’m sorry you think that, Mustafa,” I said, placing myself on the towel next to him. “We’re friends. I don’t think you are dangerous.”

Just annoying.

He rolled over, putting his back to me, throwing a proper grown-up hissy fit. He was a boy who was not getting his way. And, apparently, this didn’t happen to him a lot.

I looked at him, his tanned body curled into the fetal position, his dark wavy hair parted down the middle grazing the sand.

I give up.

We laid in silence for an hour, then he informed me it was time to go. We packed our stuff, still not speaking, and got into the car.

I decided to remain friendly with him. He hadn’t cornered me like Murat had, he just needed to know I wasn’t interested in him “taking me to sky” or anywhere else.

“You have a nice lil’ nap?” I asked as we got in the car.

“Yes,” he answered, turning the music up.

OK.

He sped around the turns in obvious rebellion to my request to slow down. On the way en route to the beach, I had asked him to drive slower and he had responded “of course, my love. You are precious cargo.”

I ignored it was we whipped around the mountain bends.

Then, we were slowing down. We were pulling into a field on the side of the road. Then, the car was off.

What the hell?

“D,” he said, turning to me, frozen in the passenger seat. “I need to sleep for a little.”

“What? We are 15 minutes from town,” I said, bewildered by what was happening.

He popped his seat back and looked at me. “Give me 30 minutes.”

“Fine,” I said, frustration running through me. “I’m getting out and will wake you in 30.”

I walked around the little field, across the street to the hotel.

I could always just hop a mini-bus.

After a few minutes, I walked back towards the car. It was gone. I didn’t even care.

I surveyed the scene for a moment, looking around to see who I could ask for some lire to get a lift back to town, and then his white car pulled up from behind some trees.

“My brother called, there is a big party in the restaurant, I need to go back.”

Good.

I returned to the hotel where I had my first confrontation with Murat, then went back to dinner with Nathan.

Mustafa had returned to normal, asking me when I would start work at his friend’s bar.

“Oh, Mustafa, I think I am not going to stay here,” I said.

“Fine. Do what you will.”

Ash came over and I told her what had happened.

“He likes you,” she informed me. “He wants to take you to sky.”

“Shit,” I responded. “Can you tell him I have a boyfriend and that I am not interested, please?”

“No problem, dude.”

The next night I met Ash at the restaurant.

“I told him the story about your boyfriend back home and how you are in love and things are rocky right now, but you would never cheat on him or be interested in anyone else,” she relayed.

Perfect.

“He doesn’t get it. He still wants to get with you.”

I threw my hands in the air.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” I exclaimed. In real life, attention like this doesn’t exist for me. But, in Kusadasi, the men just didn’t understand “not interested” means “not interested,” not “oooh, yeah, baby. I have a boyfriend. You have a wife and kids, but to hell with them. Let’s go get drunk and do the nasty.”

What a perception of Western women.

At that moment, Mustafa came to our table, all smiles.

“Let’s all go out tonight,” he said.

I exchanged a look with Ash that said “I am not going without you.”

“We can go out for a drink,” I responded, knowing Ash wouldn’t leave me.

That night, Ash, her boyfriend and I went out.

“When we get back to the restaurant, we are going home,” she said.

“I’m not going out alone with him,” I whispered. “No way in hell. A group is one thing, solo is just not going to happen. He doesn’t get it and I don’t know how to make myself more clear without being a bitch. And, he’s been really good to me, I don’t want to be a bitch. I just want to be his friend.”

She and I devised a plan to get me out of the remaining hours of the night with Mustafa. I would say I have a Skype interview with someone in Los Angeles and had to leave by one in the morning. It was midnight.

We got back to the restaurant and had an Effes, Mustafa sitting across from me.

“Where are we going?” he asked me as Ash and her man prepared to leave.

“We’re not,” I said.

“You promised, D.”

“I said I would go out, Mustafa. I went out. I didn’t realize you were working until 2, and I don’t want to stay out that late. Plus, I have to go back to my hotel in a few minutes to do an interview.”

“I could have gone out with three other girls tonight,” he said proudly. “But I had plans with you.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, rolling my cold mug between my hands, avoiding eye contact.

“Do your interview at the restaurant.”

“What? No, I can’t.”

“Why can’t you? We have a computer. Then, when you are done, we can go out.”

Seriously?

“No,” I stood strong. “This interview is important to me. I need to do it on my terms. In the privacy of my room.”

“Then when you are done, you come back here.”

“No,” I said slowly. “”When I am done, I am going to bed. It is late. I am tired.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Mustafa asked me. “You were different at the beach and you are different now. I am a sensitive guy. I like you.”

“Mustafa …” I began.

“Forget it. This is your holiday. You do what you want.”

He got up and walked to another table, sulking.

One of his staff came up to me and told me they would be walking me home instead of him.

“Great,” I said. “Let’s go now.”

See ya, manboy.

I walked into my hotel room and closed the door, deciding that moment I was ridding myself of the entire drama of the men in Kusadasi.

The next morning, Ash messaged me on Facebook.

“I quit the restaurant,” she wrote.

“Why?”

She launched into a story about how Mustafa wouldn’t speak to her and when she asked him why he told her she had turned me against him.

“Does he not get it?” I asked. “Why on earth would he think I want to be with him. He has no reason to think I am remotely interested in him.”

Ash left the restaurant and came to my hotel, where we drank away the afternoon and evening.

The next morning when the Fez Bus picked me up in front of Tourist Info and Scotty greeted me with a hug and kiss, one of Mustafa’s staff walked by me, shaking his head in disgust at me.

This time, I didn’t even care.

As we drove off, I looked out the window at the town that had held me captive for entirely too long.

“Don’t worry, D,” Scotty told me after we had talked at length about the hell I was living in Kusadasi. “You’re with me now.”

I smiled, leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes.

Running Scared

After a couple of hours at the beach, I went back to the hotel to shower and do some writing.

I tried to sneak back into the hotel, I didn’t want to see Murat’s beady little eyes glaring at me.

Fortunately, he was sleeping on the couch, so I didn’t have to talk to him.

Door locked, I took a quick shower (no hot water) and was getting dressed when I heard a knock at my door.

I froze.

“Yes?” I called.

“Hi.”

It was Murat. At my door.

I didn’t say anything. I had these images running through my mind of him coming in to my (empty) dorm room with his key … fear ripped through my body.

I said nothing. I dressed quietly, waiting to hear footsteps fade … the elevator door to open.

Nothing.

I had no idea what to do. All I knew was there was no way in hell I would let him come into the room. There was no one in the hotel that afternoon. No one would know anything.

Never in my life have I felt trapped, but I did that Sunday afternoon … wondering how long I needed to wait to emerge safely from my room and avoid the one man who actually inspired fear.

I toyed with getting my little Swiss Army knife out of my pack, but reasoned it was more dangerous to me than anyone else, so instead, decided I would have to exit my room quickly, squeezing through a barely opened door and quickly shutting it behind me so if he was still there, he couldn’t get in the room alone with me.

There was no way I would let him get into my room.

I opened the door just a crack. Silently.

He wasn’t there.

Swiftly, I moved from my room to the abandoned hall, clutching my laptop against my chest and stepping towards the elevator.

Then, Murat appeared in the doorway of the room across the hall.

He has been there the entire time. Waiting for me to exit my room.

I looked at him blankly, silently hating every part of his being.

“What?” I asked him.

“I owe you an apology,” he offered.

“OK.”

“I am sorry. I was stressed this morning. How are you?”

Was this an olive branch? Did I even give a shit?

“I’m great. I had a great day.”

“Can we talk on the terrace?”

“Fine,” I said, sighing.

There was nothing he could possibly say to me to make things OK. He had come to my room. Stalked my door. My guard was on high.

We got into the elevator.

He smiled at me. I responded with a smirk.

Then, he was on me. Trying to kiss me. I squirmed out of his grasp, his lips planting on my cheek.

You’ve got to be kidding me. He didn’t get it. He was relentless.

I said nothing. I was too angry to open my mouth. I didn’t trust what would come out. There have only been a few times in my life where I have been too stunned to talk — all similar situations like the one in the elevator, but even worse — and exited the elevator and walked out to the terrace.

I trailed behind him, seething, as we joined his family at a table.

“Tea? Coffee?” he asked, pretending the little event in the elevator had not happened.

“No,” I replied, not even looking his direction.

“So, I booked some tours today,” he began.

I looked at him, hatred spilling out of me.

Why on earth was he telling me this? I didn’t care.

He rambled on about booking tours as if I was still working for him. As if his apology meant everything was OK.

I said nothing the entire time we were on the terrace and left as soon as he got up.

When Nathan got back that night, I told him what had happened.

I told my parents what had happened. I told everyone I knew. And, everyone said the same thing:

“GET OUT OF THERE.”

After dinner at the restaurant, Ash and I walked over to a hotel down the street and I inquired about rooms for Tuesday and Wednesday, since I couldn’t get back on my bus tour until Thursday morning.

They had rooms. Even that night, if I wanted one.

I figured I would be OK spending one more night there. So long as there were people in my dorm room, I wasn’t worried.

I said goodbye to Ash and headed back up to the hotel.

I walked into the lobby, and there was Murat, at reception, staring blankly at the computer screen.

“I need to show you something on the computer,” he said as soon as I walked in.

Screw you.

“I am going upstairs to get my laptop. When I come down, you can.”

I went to my room. There were no other bags in there. I was the only person sleeping there.

Great.

I went back down to the lobby and opened up my computer. I didn’t have any intention of looking at his computer. I didn’t care. I thought he wanted my help with something.

Three more times has asked me to look at his computer. Well, the third was more of a demand: “Look at the computer and then finish what you are doing.”

Every time I told him I was busy, when I was done I would look.

I didn’t need to answer to him, to do anything for him. I was going against what he was used to — I was telling him no.

Finally, I stood up and went to the desk.

He turned the screen to me.

My heart sank.

There, on the screen was Claire’s Facebook page where I had written: “Guess who got fired? Long story. DO NOT WORK THERE.”

I knew he had tried to convince her to come back and work after she was done touring Turkey and I hadn’t wanted her to make the same mistake I did.

And, now, there was her Facebook page, with my message loud and proud, staring back at me from his account.

I was paralyzed.

“What is this? Why did you write this?” Murat questioned me, squinting eyes and lips curled in anger.

Why? Because you are the creepiest man alive and I think I actually hate you.

I had to answer quickly.

“It’s none of your business.”

“What is this?” He tried again, shoulders shrugging, arms lifted out, expecting me to launch into why I would write such a thing on this girl’s wall.

“It’s none of your business. It was a conversation between she and I.”

Facebook stalker.

“You stay at my hotel …” he began, looking at me with as much hatred as I had looked at him.

“Then I will leave,” I announced, grabbing my laptop and getting into the elevator in one swift move.

I raced into my room, threw everything into my bags. Panicked. He was angry. And, I was scared of his anger.

GO. GogogogogogoGO.

My heart beat in my throat as I rounded everything up, racing against a confrontation I was certain would happen in my room.

I went to the elevator to push the button down. But, right as my finger went to touch the button, it launched back down to the lobby.

He’s coming up here.

In my two euro flip flops, 15 kilo bag strapped to me, messenger bag and purse, I “ran” down the stairs, stopping at the bottom when I caught a glimpse of Murat … getting into the elevator and closing the door.

I froze, hiding behind the corner until I heard the door shut. Then, I booked it out of there as fast as I could, gathering people I had met along the way to walk with me to my new hotel.

The thing about this town is everyone is connected (and I will leave it at that … use your imagination), and that fact alone struck fear into every inch of my body.

I ran to the restaurant after I had checked in, telling Ash what had happened. She secured me an escort back to my hotel.

Never has the fight or flight kicked in so hard.

I looked around corners. I opened my room door and kept it open until I had checked my bathroom. I could just imagine Murat talking to the owner of this hotel, his “friend,” and getting a key and waiting for me like he had earlier in the day.

I checked my landline to make sure it was plugged in. I put my cell phone next to my bed. I told the hotel owner under no circumstances were any of his staff to tell anyone I was here, even if they asked for me by name.

That night, I slept with my backpack propped against the door, heart racing the entire night.

The following morning, I felt better. Until I turned on my computer. One of his staff members had created a Twitter account. I was the only person they were following.

For the second time in 24 hours, my heart sank. They had read everything I had written … I was in BIG TROUBLE.

Tears in my eyes, I deleted any reference (although I never mentioned anyone or anything by name) and blocked them from following me.

I went to my room and cried. Truly scared. I had pissed off the wrong person and I knew it.

Then, I did the one thing every parent dreads. I called home via Skype.

Sobbing, I told my dad what had happened. I gave him Murat’s name, the hotel’s name, the new hotel’s name. He tried to calm me down. Tried to talk me into going to the Greek Islands (which, thanks to Schengen, I couldn’t do). Tried to make sense of everything his very frightened daughter was telling him.

“Go to the police,” he urged. “Tell them what is going on.”

“It won’t matter,” I cried. “They won’t do anything. I am telling you, this town is all connected. They won’t care what some stupid girl is telling them. They will tell him I went to the police.”

I couldn’t come straight out and tell my parents, who were thousands and thousands of miles away what was really on my mind — I was scared for my life. For my safety.

As I talked with my parents, the hotel phone rang.

“Heellloooo,” I answered, trying to sound as un-American as possible.

“Hi,” said the owner’s brother, “Ash is here. Can she come up to see you?”

I told him that was fine and when she got to the door, I made sure it was her before I opened it.

“Hello love,” she said, standing at my door. Then, she took note of my tear-stained face. “I came to make sure you were OK.”

I sat on one of the single beds, and more tears flowed as I explained to her what had happened, how I was now being followed on Twitter, how they knew everything …

It took me nearly the entire day to return to a normal state of mind.

By nightfall, I was back at the restaurant, my little haven of safe. I was booked on the next Fez bus out of town, departing from tourist information, a separate pick-up from the one at the hotel. I had two more nights there. That was all.

In the next 48-hours I learned even more about the twisted world of Kusadasi, the role women are expected to play, that “no” doesn’t mean “no” at all and more.

I didn’t walk anywhere by myself. I didn’t, for one second, let my guard down. I always made sure I knew who was around me, where I was going, where I had been. I opened my door slowly in my hotel room, always peering into the bathroom and opening the closet before I shut the door and was inside.

On my final night in that little town, Ash and I had drinks. She came over early in the afternoon after quitting her job at the restaurant (that story is coming next, promise). She and I sat on the rooftop of Hotel Lima drinking rose and exchanging tales of our lives, then that night, we headed back towards my old hotel to roundup the Fez tour driver to let them know I was here and what had happened. I sent one of my new friends up to the hotel to grab the tour guide.

There was no way in hell I would go near that place.

Wouldn’t you know who walked down the hill to meet the two of us at the T-shirt shop?

SCOTTY.