RMD

It’s a running joke amongst my friends. No matter where I travel, I’d run into someone I know. Just some random thing that happens to me. I did not run into anyone I knew, on this trip, but I did run into to someone that I should’ve known.

The well planned photo shoot was a bust, so I ditched my favorite Camilla dress for some sweats and sneakers and decided to visit the Open Air Museum.

The Open Air Museum of Goreme is a mass collection of historical monasteries and cave churches. Within some of those churches exist the finest specimens of ancient Byzantine frescoes. Most of the churches date from 10th to 12th centuries.

I was prepared to take the fifteen minute hike to the museum, but the hotel driver insisted on taking me. “I’ll drive you there and you can walk back,” he insisted. He dropped me off at the entrance, gave me directions on how to return to the hotel, and drove off.

I will post more photos on the Open Air Museum, in a separate post. But for now, I stick to the story.

As I toured the open air museum, climbing and descending stairs, entering and exiting ancient caves, churches and tombs, I took note of the large number of people. ‘Where did all of these people come from?’

Bus loads of people, mainly from China, pulled into the parking area. Hundreds converged into the park and separated into groups. Each group leader carried a long stick with a flag, a teddy bear, or some type of identifying item attached and held high, so members of their group could locate them, from a distance.

The Chinese tourists were the most dominant group in the park. I came across a group that were very animated and friendly. While I was taking selfies, a few members of the group photo bombed me, and then proceed to take out their own cameras and pose with me, while their friends snapped their own cameras.

I wasn’t quite sure why they wanted me in their pictures, but I was okay with it. It was fun. I just shrugged it off as, “Traveling While Black,” -when random people, who rarely come in contact with African people openly show their amusement and curiosity. So, if you see my face on some random page and say, “That looks like Yvette… Yeah, it’s me.

Generally, when people of African descent are in a place where we’re clearly the minority, we’ll take notice of another person of color. When we cross paths, we would often acknowledge each other with a mutual exchange of some sort, a smile, a verbal greeting, a head nod, or a combination of all three.

As I meandered through the museum. I caught a glimpse of a tall, very attractive Black man and an equally attractive Black woman, strolling through the museum. My eye caught them few more times, while I entered and exited various caves. Strangely, a noticed few Asian young men taking selfies with the gentleman. ‘Him too?’ I thought. ‘I had that same experience an hour ago, in an episode of  Traveling While Black’

I looked at the beautiful man and the first thing I thought of was the Turkish name for man, Adam.

The next time I saw the black couple, I noticed something I didn’t see before, a film crew. As they walked toward me,  I approached one of the crew members and asked, “What are you filming?” If he responded, I didn’t hear him. I shrugged off the shade and walked up to, what I assumed was the person in charge (I’ll call him the producer). I asked him the same question. I also complained to him regarding the guy not answering my question. The director said, “I wasn’t that he didn’t want to answer you, he doesn’t understand English.” ‘Oh.

The producer asked where I was from. I answered, “the US.” He asked if I ever watched Nigerian films.“Not really,” I quickly responded. The producer explained to me that the tall good looking gentleman was the most famous actor, in Nigeria. “Oh, nice” I responded. As I spoke to the producer, the couple approached me.

I introduced myself and asked them their names. The woman spoke, first, “His name is Richard Mofe-Damijo, but if you google RMD, it’ll come up.” The RMD introduced the woman as, Sandra Ankobiah. “She’s known as the Queen of Travel.” he said. “Very nice to meet you both,” I said.

We talked our love for travel, our Cappadocian hotels and the local food. I talked about my Nigerian friends and asked if he knew them. “Maybe,” he said. I spoke about wanting to visit Nigeria, for this trip, but I needed to do more research. “I want to travel to all of the places that matches my DNA. Nigeria is on my list, because I’m nineteen percent,” I said “What about the other percentages?” asked Sandra (QOT) “The most would be the Congo, thirty-three percent,” I answered. “Oh, that’s interesting,” she continued, “when Richard first saw you, he said, you’re from The Congo,” Sandra confessed. ‘Wow,’  I thought. ‘That’s impressive.’

We chatted a little while longer. I looked over and saw the film crew on pause. “Take a photo with me?” I asked. “Sure,” Richard complied. I asked them if they were a couple. Richard laughed. Sandra scoffed. ‘I have to work on my Nigerian pop culture,’ I thought.  I walked alongside them and chatted for a little while longer, and then said my goodbyes. I turned to address Richard, “I’ve never seen your movies, but consider me a fan.”

 

Film crew captures Richard Mofe-Damijo RMD and Sandra Ankobiah strolling through Open Air Museum

Richard Mofe-Damijo RMD

I was very impressed with the RMD, not necessarily with his work (never seen his films), but how he presented himself as a person, a man. In that huge park, amongst hundreds of people, Richard stood in the midst of the crowd. I didn’t see his celebrity. I saw a man who knows his place, in the universe. I saw a man that exudes confidence, a man who’s pleasant and approachable. His celebrity didn’t seem get in his way. He appeared to have a genuine love for life and a genuine interest in others. I’m sure he loves his profession, but it doesn’t define who he is.

When I decided to make Turkey a destination, I downloaded a Turkish language app. One of the first Turkish words I learned was the word for man, Adam

Like me, the young men may not have been responding to Richard’s celebrity, when they embraced him and took selfies with him. They probably were unaware of his movie stardom. When Richard walked through the park, he was radiant and regal. His majestic presence couldn’t be denied. He exuded strength, confidence, kindness, compassion and love. Maybe, those young men ultimately recognized and accepted Richard as a direct descendant of the first human being that walked the earth, the father of the human race…Adam

 

No Balloons

sterday was great! I enjoyed every moment of the hot air balloon ride. It was less like flying, and more like floating. Afterwards, I grabbed some lunch and hung out on the hotel terrace. Tomorrow is the big day. I must get what I came here for.

It was 6:30 am. I woke up a little late. I got dressed and hurried over to the terrace, to claim a coveted spot. There were tripods, cameras, video gear all around. Women posed in their beautiful dresses, carefully selected to complement the backdrop of balloons. But, wait… Where ARE the balloons?

The sign in the lobby read, ‘Balloon Ride Cancelled.’  It was too windy for the balloons to fly. That’s what the man from the office said. ‘Maybe I can get a glimpse of the balloons tomorrow, before my 6:40 airport departure,’ I thought. “What about tomorrow?” I asked. He shook his head. “Probably not.”

The show must go on. I still had the terrace and the dress. Two out of three, not bad. No need for the heavy camera gear, though. I’ll go light. Armed with my IPhone and my point and shoot, I took some selfies. I’ll consider this a dress rehearsal. I will return and try again. I don’t feel any disappointment. In fact, I feel lucky that I got more than a photo, more than I could ever anticipate. I got to fly.

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Balloons

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First, let me say this. I have a fear of heights. Now, let’s go back to the photo.

My reason for flying to Cappadocia was to reproduce that iconic photo. Instead of some random black girl posing on the terrace, with a sky full of colorful hot air balls, it would be ME! Yvette, the spectator, who feared heights, arranged the trip. She had no desire to fly. Never even considered it. It was just about the photograph.

My plan was clear, check into the hotel, hang out for the night, wake up before sunrise, put on my favorite Camilla dress (I packed for the occasion), get my three cameras tripod-ready to shoot, climb the terrace and pose. I booked a three day stay at the hotel. I had two, possibly three, opportunities to pull this off.

But then, the front desk receptionist asked a question. “Is hot air ballooning in your plans?” Without hesitation, Participator Yvette, decided to speak up. “Yes, of course.”  Yvette, the participator, showed up and changed the well thought out plans of the spectator. ‘Now, I had only two remaining chances for my photo op.’

People come from all over the world, to get that perfectly staged photograph, but it comes with some risks. Unpredictable winds and inclement weather, make the flight too risky. If Cappadocia experiences heavy winds or bad weather, it’s probably the worst news these far away travelers could possibly hear.

I heard some chatter about the possibility of mother not cooperating. The Australian couple, who checked in right before me, shared their concerns about the morning being too windy. “I’m afraid of the possibility of missing it. We only have three days,” the woman said. “We’ll see.”

“The phone, in my suite, rang at 5:30 am. It was the wake up call I’ve been anticipating. I was already awake and in the shower. “Butterfly Balloon Company will arrive soon for a 5:50 am pick up,” said the voice on the other end.

I hardly slept. I quickly dressed and joined about fourteen other hotel guests, in the lobby. The balloon company arrived and loaded us in a minivan. We were transported, about a quarter mile to their headquarters, for processing. More people, from neighboring hotels, arrived. We were all assigned a mini bus, identified by the pilot’s name, to transport us to the launch site. Each bus carried sixteen passengers, the exact number of the balloon’s maximum capacity. My balloon pilot’s name was Mustafa.

The crew at Butterfly Balloon headquarters served a continental breakfast. It was not a meal I desired. I sat at a table, with a cup of black coffee, instead. ‘What if I have to go to the bathroom.’ I slid the coffee cup away. “Okay, everybody go to your assigned van!” shouted the organizer.

After a short drive to our launching location, we exited the minivan. At sunrise, sixteen of us climbed into Mustafa’s air balloon and ascended. It was an incredible experience, no words could explain, so I’ll show you.

Nomad

After that impressive dinner, at Ayselin Mutfağı, I decided to walk around a bit. I stopped at another nearby restaurant and purchased four pieces of baklava, to go. I never eat it at home, but I can’t get enough of it here.

 

It started to get chilly, so I decided to head back. I turned into a path heading toward my hotel. After about twenty yards, it came to a dead end. ‘This is not the way.’ This empty path, void of any other pedestrians, ended at some unfamiliar private property. ‘I’ll go back to the main street and restart,’ I thought.

The next attempt, ended abruptly. ”Another dead end?’ There was no one around to ask for directions. I tried not to panic. ‘I’ll use my gps.’ At that moment, my phone pinged. It was my partner, checking on my whereabouts. I looked down at my phone. ‘Damn!’ I had very little battery life left. I texted back, “I’m lost!” I took a photo of the dark alley that swallowed up any remaining street light and pressed, “Send.”

 

By the time I received his, “Use your gps,” text, I was well on my way. I barely had a enough of a phone charge, to get back to the opening of the correct pathway.

Later, I realized my mistake. Earlier, when I exited the path and crossed the main street, I didn’t realize that it wasn’t just one street. There were three main streets downtown, intersecting into a perfect triangle.

Now, for the climb up…fifteen minutes. It wasn’t a graceful climb. The passage was dark and empty, so no one was there to witness my struggle up the uphill.

As I labored over the last fifty or so meters, I was slightly startled by someone sitting, in a dark alley, in front of a restaurant. He was reclining, with his legs crossed, in an unusually low antique chair. Behind him was a backdrop of colorful bicycle wheels, artistically displayed on a concrete wall. The light, from inside the brightly lit restaurant, shone through the doorway and illuminated his face.

His name was Mustafa, a good-looking man with dark eyes and dark (almost kinky) curly hair. (Later, I witnessed, one of his rowdy Russian patrons, with probably too much to drink, ruffle his curls and pointed to me and said, “same hair.) He sat with his legs crossed, smoking an “earthy” cigarette.

 

We greeted each other. He asked where I was from. I told him. I asked where he was from. “I’m a nomad, a gypsy.” he replied. “I pick up and go, but I’ll be here for awhile, because this is my restaurant.” I could definitely relate to a nomadic lifestyle. I don’t live it, but that’s how I love to travel.

He invited me to sit down. I sat in the doorway and we continued a light exchange. He walked inside and grabbed a pillow, for me to sit on. “You shouldn’t sit on cold concrete,” he said. My grandmother use to always say that, but she would finish up her statement by saying, “You’re going to get piles!” She never quite explained, to me, what piles were.

He asked me how or why I was there. I told him it was my birthday trip. He asked, “When is your birthday.” I told him, “October 18th? No way!” he shouted. “What?” I asked. He laughed, “That’s MY birthday!” “No way, I don’t believe you.” I shouted laughingly.

He shouted something, in Turkish, to the cook upstairs. “I asked him to bring my passport. I’ll show you.”

Backdrop of bicycle wheels

 

 

The Greek-Belgian visitor on the right.

 

He was born October 18, exactly thirteen years after me. The more we spoke, the more, I realized that we had a lot in common. ‘What are the chances?’

We were joined by a passerby. Out of the darkness of the path, came a gentleman, born in Greece, and raised in Belgium. Because of his heavy accent, I could quite get his name. I should’ve asked him to write it down. The pathway stranger was a fifty-six year old man (not born on October 18th), who found himself downsized from his long term job. He told us about HIS wanderings since his dismissal, including s twenty-six kilometer walk through Cappadocia. He too, was traveling like a nomad.

It was getting cold, so Mustafa invited us both upstairs, to his terrace restaurant, for a glass of homemade wine. ‘More climbing?’

The restaurant was very eclectic, lots of antiques repurposed into beautiful functional furniture. Mustafa’s three-story, corner restaurant had custom-made windows, that collapsed and folded into what looked like a stack of vertical blinds. The stack slid out if the way, into one section of the window. This allowed the outdoors, in and gave us a breathtaking view of Cappadocia.

“I make my own wine,” Mustafa said, as he poured two glasses of wine. “It’s organic. No chemicals” The red wine had an amazing bouquet. ‘Mmmm. Rich, full-bodied taste, it held its full flavor. No sour aftertaste. Delicious!’ “This wine is better than the best California wine I’ve ever tasted.” I offered. He didn’t take that as a compliment. I tried to explain to him that some California reds are second to none. He didn’t buy it. “I’m a perfectionist,” he said. Somehow, I already knew that. “This is the best wine I ever tasted,” I corrected. He smiled, “That’s better.”

 

Mustafa asked, “What do you have in your bag?” “Baklava,” I answered. “I love baklava. It’s my favorite. I love it!” he responded. How could I say no to that? He ate three out of four pieces. The three of us talked about everything: politics, jobs, traveling, relationships, church (or mosque) and state, and our love for good food.

Mustafa’s partner was the cook. The restaurant’s menu was a collection recipes, handed down from Mustafa’s grandmother. His chef duplicated these dishes, from a small kitchen behind the counter, to Mustafa’s high standards, of course.

Mustafa is a nature guy. He grows things, makes wine, nurtures animals, cooks delectable meals, and creates functional art, out of junk. “Sometimes I’ll go out and spend the night in a cave,” he said. And…he sleeps in caves.

I hope he’s still there, when I return someday. I would love to see what new thing he created, and get a chance to finally taste his grandmother’s recipes. I’m sure, his food is as perfect as his wine.

Meeting Mustafa was serendipitous. I recognized a lot of myself through him, some of it I use to struggle to accept. After conversing with him, he made it clear, that he has some of those same struggles, too. “You’ll get over it, give it time. Just tell yourself, Fuck It, nobody cares and move on.” I said.

If I was a Turkish male, born on October 18th, thirteen years after the year of my birth, i could be Mustafa. I could be a wandering soul, nurturer of plants and animals, a builder and creator of art, a winemaker, and an occasional cave dweller.

I don’t like to apply labels to myself. I think it puts limitations on me. But, I think I’ll borrow his, because suits my traveling style, perfectly. I am a (traveling) Nomad.

Best Bite

After settling into the beautiful Sultan Cave Suites, I decided to go for a walk, to check out the landscape of the town. The hotels, in Göreme, were built over ancient rock, cave dwellings, used as housing for centuries, by the local residents. Because of this unusual construction, direct paths to desired destinations are not always possible.

During check in, the front desk clerk mentioned a back pathway that was considered a faster, more direct route to the main streets. Downtown had plenty of restaurants, bakeries, stores, rug shops, jewelry shops, etc. At that moment, I was only interested in food.

It was after 8 pm. The path was already dark, when I set out. Another hotel guest, looking as lost as I felt, joined me for the walk down the path. There were only a few other people on the path. Without too much incident, we spilled out onto the main street. ‘Not bad.’ It was only a short ten minute walk…downhill.

I crossed the street and the search for a vegan-friendly restaurant began. I began peeking inside of some establishments, glancing at a few menus, all in search of that perfect first bite.

I decided on Ayselin Mutfağı, a modest-looking terrace restaurant, overlooking the main street. The server greeted me and handed me a menu. I hesitantly asked for vegan options. The waiter/owner/chef gently took the menu out of my grip and said, “Trust me.”

He brought me a rich vegan stew with white beans and rice, and garnished with a wedge of lemon. ‘Lemon?’ I thought. Earlier, I saw a woman squeezing lemon into her soup, tasted it and asked for another wedge. ‘When in Turkey…’

The food was better than delicious. The fresh spices blended into a combination of robust flavors, unfamiliar to me. ‘Bravo, chef!’ I thanked my server and promised to return. Sometimes, it pays to just sit back and let others do what they do best.

Unfortunately, my first Goreme bite ended up being the best meal I’ve eaten, during my entire stay in Cappadocia. I’ve sampled other (some more fancy, some not) restaurants, but they all left me feeling disappointed in the lack of love they put into their meal. I felt they treated their vegetables plates (vegan food) as a backdrop to their meat dishes and not commit to it being the main feature.

Ayselin Mutfağı gave me more than I wanted, in a meal. Because of my beginners luck, my level of expectation was raised to the highest level. I misread this rare gem of a restaurant, by perceiving it as just the standard. This sent me out there, searching for more. I didn’t find better, because I already had the best.

By not returning for another meal, I gambled and lost out on some terrific food. Ultimately, I will live up to my promise and return to Ayselin Mutfağı, for another meal.

Sultan Cave Suites

I loved my hotel so much, I had to give it its own page.

Hello Cappadocia

It all started with a photo. Once I decided on making Istanbul a destination, I started researching Turkish culture and history. I scanned the internet, watched a few Turkish films, and even downloaded a Turkish language app. As I cruised the internet, I came across a beautiful photo a black girl, sitting on a terrace, covered with colorful rugs and tribal-like patterned cushions. The terrace sat high above a rocky desert. The most amazing thing about the photo was the background. Dozens of colorful hot air balloons filled the morning sky. ‘Where is this place?’ I asked myself. ‘I want to go there a take a photo like that.’ The place was called Cappadocia.

I took an hour flight east, from Istanbul, and landed back in time, in a magical place.

 

 

 

 

Istanbul, Day Two

I was supposed to conquer Istanbul in two, three days, tops. Oh boy, was I mistaken. Istanbul is an 8000 year old city. That was very naive and ambitious of me to even entertain the thought that I could even scratch the surface, within a few days. I must return.

More pics…

 

 

 

Istanbul, in the Light

After an early morning visit to the hamam, I headed for Taksim Square. This was what it looked like once the lights came on.

Hagia Sophia

The Salaah

One of the things I’ll miss, is the ritualistic melodic sounds of this obligatory prayer permeating the air. Five times a day, a live voice, no recording, recites Salaah, which means a connection between the human and their God (Allah). Seemingly, unaffected by the call to prayer, people continued the events of their day, in the city that never stops.

I know very little about the Muslim religion, so I copied and pasted the following information off of a Islamic website.

“Five times a day a Muslim is bound to perform the Salaah, the fixed ritual of the Islamic prayer or worship. He should properly go to the nearest mosque to offer his prayers together with the whole congregation. Each of the five periods is preceded by the adhaan (or azaan – ezan as it is more commonly called). The muezzin (mu’adh-dhin in Arabic) calls out on each occasion:

Allaahu Akbar (four times – “Allah is Most Great”).
Ash’hadu an laa ilaaha illallaah (twice – “I bear witness that there is no god but Allah”).
Ash’hadu anna Muhammadan-rasulullaah (twice – “I bear witness that Muhammad is the Messenger of Allah”).
Haya ‘alas-salaah (twice – “Come to prayer”).
Haya ‘alal falaah (twice – “Come to the good;’).
Allaahu Akbar (twice – “Allah is Most Great”).
Laa ilaaha illallaah (once – “There is no god but Allah”).”