Friday, Oct. 15-- Touring day

In to Dikili to drop off laundry and find an internet cafe.  This presented a bit of a problem because although we had managed to master saying "Thank you" in Turkish in just three days, and had launched into an intensive course of "No" (Ha-yir), we had not yet gotten round to the fine points of "Where can we wash our clothes?"

Despite our limitations, we were successfull in both quests.  We found the laundry establishment by accosting passers by and pulling at our clothes and making washing motions with our hands.  V spent some time with a friendly woman who insisted on providing çay (chai tea in Turkish) as part of the negotiations.  We are willing to bet that few of you have demonstrated the kind of trust in humanity that it takes to hand over a bag containing 90% of your clothes and all but one pair of underwear to a complete stranger in a small shop whose equipment consisted of two hangers.

We were able to visit our laundry on odd days

Finding the internet cafe proved easier.  We stopped the first young person we saw and said "Internet?"  It was much better equipped than the laundry had been.  We were impressed by the number and speed of the computers, and both managed to finish our tasks before the çay had cooled.  Unfortuantely, my inbox was devoid of anything from family (damn kids) or friends (of which I am apparently devoid)--please forward your sighs and condolensces to the Comments box on this blog.  However, my disappointment was shortlived when I discovered that I could grow parts of my anatomy by several inches with an inexpensive potion, and that Kayak Anglers really wanted me as a subscriber.

Out to the highway to meet our Heidi who assured us that the owners of the store glowering at us through a window would not mind in the least that we were leaving out car in one of their three parking places for the whole day.

We zoomed through a now deserted Ayvalik and across a long causeway to the island community of çunda--this keyboard does not realize that 'ç' is a letter and therefore will not capitalize it.    For the second day in a row our friend had guided us to a tranche--being in a small town does not mean one cannot use big words--of real Turkish life.  In fact, this fishing village of less than 5,000 has a prestigious academic affiliation.

Sign at the çunda campus

The community was delightful and managed to redeem for us some of the peculiarities of Turkish life to which I have referred earler.  There were, for example, the ubiquitous herds of cats, yet these island denizens managed to become part of a living diorama that we found charming.  The feral felines have even become part of the local economy in both the security and recycling fields.  The former involves protecting the local fishing fleet, as pictured below.  The latter process consists of a waiter banging a spoon on a dish of left-overs then standing back to avoid being trampled by little fog feet.

Guard cat on fishing boat

They are a simple folk here on çunda, and, judging by the condition of their local cathedral, have not got much in the way of religion.  However, the human condition here is in good shape.  Like all the Turks we've met, save vulturous vendors, the island residents are gracious and generous.  This was well demonstrated by a local paper maker and her husband who invited us into their home for an impromptu history lesson and çay.

Heidi topped off our day by taking us back to her house.  It can only be described as an oasis, which she has single-handedly created over the course of two years.  The house is located in a Turkish version of a seaside, holiday community, which is a curious combination of great location and inconsistent construction.  But Heidi's house and particularly her garden stand out as proof of the potential of the place.

The verdant landscape of Heidi's garden

Then it was back to Zeytindali spa for more mint soup and disco dancing by our fellow vacationers.

The finishing touch--forgive me the pun--was put on this idyllic day by the large and efficient hands of the resident masseur, a man I suspect was once in the employ of the Soviet armed--Gadzooks! another pun--forces.  It should be pointed out that I have never had a massage in my life, and had no interest in changing that state.  However, being shamed by the generousity of the Turkish people, it would have seemed mean of me to reject the repeated requests of this massive manipulator of muscle.  Happy to report that the experience was not unpleasant, although I must admit some discomfort.  The last time male hands were this close to my ass was when I played centre for a few downs in peewee football.