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.
Yvette Travels 
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