Pastoral Dreamin'

Yuppie Nomad and I rented a car to get away from the tourist meccas of Bodrum and Marmaris – those festering hotspots for the crowds of too tiny bikinis draped over corpulent mounds of pink flesh.  It took us two days to cajole an automatic-transmission Fiat from a rental agency (we both can't drive stick), but on a beautiful (and I mean out of this world crazy cloud formations blue sky clear as heck air and mountains and meadows and sea breezes all around) morning, we set out: west, then south, then east then south then south south south.. into the heart of Hisanorolu Peninsula.

We drove carelessly/carefreely and, apart from a sketched map, with no destinations in mind (of course, we didn't know of many destinations to be had).  If life was a journey, well then this journey was to be life – at least for two days.

The land giveth aplenty.  Rich pine forests opened into bright shafts of sun-rays, then closed amid warm shadows.  The gray asphalt hugged mountain passes as we pushed the Fiat up and over, and sometimes, just on the horizon's edge were the round plates of windmills and stone towers, standing silent as sentries of a forgotten world... where we racked our brains and patience to get past the herds of cattle bent on grazing directly in our paths – the roads had a habit of disappearing into a tangle of dirt and grass and stone, severely testing our tiny wheels – and the goats and sheep, of course, bleated jargon from afar, on the rough and tumble slopes rounded by centuries of wind and civilizations.

We turned corners and dipped into valleys, cruised into villages and out of towns, inched up slopes and then rushed on down.. towards the afternoon, after a gentle rain, we rounded out to the coast.  On our left were the mountain walls, on our right the sea.  The coastal roads were good – and there were ample opportunities for Med-gazing.  On some turns, the road opened into half-moon bays were schooners had set anchor in the middle of their voyages towards Kas and Olympos...

On our left: yellows then oranges then crimson.

And with the setting sun, we turned into Selimiye, a fishing town where lanterns hung from wizened willows and Mehmet, the man with the gold teeth, all smiles, served us fresh mullet and sea-bream... where wooden boats floundered unfinished next to lapping waves, where bougainvilleas and roses darted along orange tiles before they rushed down the sides of walls painted white, where fresh honey was sieved, fresh jam was harvested, fresh bread was baked and fresh vegetables were uprooted from Oscar's garden to serve us breakfast...

where the sea was never silent and but oh-so-old, where women whose faces were lined by so many years they looked like dried prunes hauled hay-stacks on backs bent at ninety-degrees (and where they took over ten minutes to inch across a 4 feet street), where men puffed on pipes and doffed their hats and boys kicked soccer balls against cracked walls, where...

We stayed the night – in a room with fishing nets and life-savers, red and white.