Travels

Couple of grenades tossed into a Turkish cafe in Izmir – about two weeks from where I was on this jaunt. Ah. Where next? Fun times.

uilt on a fault line that stretches from Lebanon to southern Turkey, Kekova sunk ~600 years ago, and as we peered through a spyglass into the water (watch those waves! steer! and the cliffs!), shattered pottery, the rounded corners of a harbor and remains of foundations shimmered into view.

I spent the last two days on the beach: white pebbles trickling into a multi-hued sea.  In the mornings, I hitched a ride out with one of the pension boys to the shore, about two kilometers outside of town, set up my umbrella and beach chair and fall asleep to the sounds of Jump Little Children.

He looked at me (the kid).  "Hullo," I said. Ha ha ha said he. His grandmother, filling my entire eye-space, came out. I handed her a crumpled note.

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.

I pulled the handbrake and inched towards the edge of the bluff.  The Fiat stopped at the Gates of Knidos.