July 3, 2011
Göreme, Turkey, is a magical town, carved right into the bizarre landscape. Between rocky valleys with formations that look like whipped strawberry cream, are expansive clusters of great golden stone spires. These natural formations, some reaching 5 stories in height, have been hollowed out, smattered with window-holes, and house everything from pigeon shit to hotel guests. Pleased to check "sleep in the coolest cave ever" off my bucket list, I picked a place that boasted a stunning view and had flushing toilets. Also, the owner agreed that the kitten Sander was trying to conceal in his shirt pocket could stay as well. We had accidentally adopted a flea-bitten street kitten twenty minutes prior, and had become rather attached. His royal cuteness was in need of a shampoo and a good meal, just like the rest of us. We drank Turkish tea and Feta slurped homemade kitten milk, while the cave-hostel owner explained that 'love' was the extra laundry ingredient that made his whites whiter. I sipped at my tea and reflected upon life's plentiful curiosities as Sander tried to teach the kitten to use an iPhone.
We spent the days hiking through bewitching hills, fresco covered caves, garden-filled valleys, while the temptations of cheap wine and good company (or was it the other way around) got the better of us in the evenings. The days stared late and ended late, like all good travel days do. Of serious note was the seriously good Turkish food in a cave run by Mustafa. Sander and I ventured in for dinner, and found no menus and no prices. "You can pay me whatever you have", he said "and I will cook for you until you say 'stop'". Unlike the name Mustafa, this style of service is decidedly unusual in Turkey. Needless to say, the plates kept coming even after we begged for mercy, and Mustafa only agreed to write us a 'bill' if we returned the following day for cooking lessons. Wishing there had been more hours of dedicated fasting between then and the time that Sander and I returned for lessons, I prepared myself for the 'one for the saucepan, one for me' style of Turkish cooking. We started by hitting the "big" weekly Wednesday market, which turned out to be about 20 vendor stalls hastily set up by the Post Office, most of which were brimming with delicious local fruits and veggies. The rest were dedicated to assorted toiletries and underwear your grandmother would be embarrassed to wear. Resisting the temptation to buy supplies for the making of a hilarious but functional emergency parachute, we left with armloads of fresh produce instead. Sander scribbled furious notes and I crushed the occasional garlic clove while Mustafa chopped, diced, sauteed, rolled, roasted, and baked our ingredients into a Turkish repast of epic proportions. With the help of some Australian girls who had impeccable timing, we finished all of the food that we'd managed to create, and limped away with bellies stuffed and arms full of leftovers. Cooking aside, I was feeling a little art-restless. Forgive me, friends and family, for saying that I could spend a lifetime moving; waking up in new and unfamiliar places. I've missed the company of several people, but haven't been homesick for an instant. I diagnosed myself with what I would call studiosick. A lack of place to spread out the tools of creation, (and an additional series of spaces where I make a mess of those same tools, even though I'm not supposed to) had left me feeling a little empty. Sketching only gets you so far when you're used to splattering paint, inadvertently staining household objects and pets, and using aerosols in improperly ventilated areas. Nearing our proposed final days in Göreme I met my savior by stumbling into the workshop/studio cave of a local leathercraftsman. His name is Kori and his cave was full of leather, jewelry, glasswork, and paintings. It turned out to be what can best be described as an artist collective; people coming and going, shoppers and artists, everyone welcome. I built them a massive bead loom from scrap lumber and borrowed nails (okay, so I pulled them out of old buildings), and Kori tutored me in the finer points of leather stamping and binding. In the two days I spent in the art-cave, I met a linonophobic cellist, a stone carver who specialized in headstones, a mute carpet weaver, and the town drunk who turned out to be an exceptionally talented painter. We drank tea, strung beads, sketched ideas, hammered leather, and chatted about art (except for the mute guy, obviously. He just watched). I left my misfit collective weaving dream catchers in the art-cave the following day, and Sander and I headed west - we are Bulgaria bound.
Slaughter.
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