In June 1996, my husband and I took our two sons, then 8 and 10, on a family vacation to Turkey. We accepted the generous offer of my husband’s friend to use his summer home on the Aegean Sea. The house was a tiny villa just steps from the sea in an exclusive and gated community called Aktur, a natural harbor where whitewashed Mediterranean houses sloped down to the sea. A series of beaches laid along a horseshoe path, each with its own restaurant and waiters to bring us food and drink as we lazed in our chaise lounges. Near the top of the horseshoe was a marina manned by a guy who was available all day to take my kids out in a boat with inner tubes tied to the back – certainly their highlight of the entire trip. People watching on the beaches at Aktur was great – the women were all beautiful, and the men were all fat! Everyone wore tons of gold and spent large amounts of time talking on their cell phones. One neighbor, an elegant older Turkish businessman educated at Ohio State, was eagerly awaiting the imminent arrival of his son – a Harvard graduate and Wall Street broker.
Aktur is just a couple miles outside of the fairytale town of Bodrum, a popular beach resort. Its skyline dominated by the Crusader castle of St. Peter, Bodrum was founded about 1000 BC and in ancient times was known as Halicarnassus. It is the site of the ruins of the Mausoleum of Halicarnassus, one of the seven wonders of the Ancient World. The old city has narrow, winding streets and, at least in late June, a constant street party. Each night the Halicarnassus Disco did a light show off the wall of the 15th century castle while people danced in the street.
We rented a car and explored Bodrum and the many Roman and Greek ruins within a day’s drive, always returning in time for a swim and a ride behind the boat – keeping our boys happy. It may have been a fluke but it seemed that we had the whole amazing coastline to ourselves. There were maybe 10 other people in Ephesus while we explored the ruins. I have amazing pictures from our day at Ephesus capturing nobody but my family, including just us occupying the Library of Celus.
The Turkish people were warm and welcoming. While language was not much of a problem in Istanbul, along the Aegean Coast, we were fairly isolated because we spoke no Turkish, and most Turks spoke no English. It was a bit like traveling in a bubble and made us dependent on enjoying each other. One day we set out for the market town of Milas. I had read about a beautifully preserved tomb, the Gumuskesen, built sometime between the 1c and 2c BC, and believed to have been a replica of the great Halicarnassus mausoleum. The Halicarnassus mausoleum was in total ruin, with just a hint left at the foundation, but the tomb in Milas was almost perfect. Amazingly, there was even a roof. My travel book said that the tomb could be spotted from any place in Milas. That was faulty advice and we roamed the narrow streets filled with markets, sheep and chicken but could not find the great tomb. My husband felt anxious because we were clearly outsiders in an Islamic town which was unlike our experience in Aktur or Bodrum. But I was determined, so we finally stopped the car and I hopped out to ask a man standing in front of his shop for directions. I pointed to a picture in the tour book. He instantly understood what I wanted but he was at a loss for words to direct me. At that time, my 8-year-old son seemed especially young and vulnerable to me. But this man opened our car door and placed his 6-year-old son in our car with the understanding – communicated by gestures – that his son would take us to the tomb and then we would bring him back. The boy did not speak English, but he gestured the way to the tomb and pointed out other sights along the way that he thought should be of interest to us.
The Turkish coast is an inexpensive travel destination. In Bodrum and on the surrounding islands we saw plenty of poorly presented and poorly behaved tourists. In contrast, the Turkish people seemed so gentle and mannerly while making their living catering to an especially unattractive group of tourists. One day our charter boat stopped at Camel Island where I got pictures of my children riding on a camel. But what I remember most about Camel Island was a soccer game on the beach. A ball kicked hard hit an elderly Turkish lady trying to sell lacey cloth to tourists. The soccer players, grown men from England, thought this was the funniest thing that could have happened. None of them apologized to the woman. As a westerner, I was humiliated.
After 10 days in Bodrum we needed a laundry and spotted one on the road between Aktur and Bodrum. We retrieved our clean clothes a day later, however, we realized that every pair of socks was missing. We looked up the word sock in our phrase book and went back to the laundry. I walked in, as they stared at me, I said to them in Turkish “socks.” They smiled, said back to me “socks,” and handed me all our socks. It was truly one of my all-time great accomplishments!
After our stay in the little villa outside of Bodrum, we spent a week in Istanbul. We stayed in the city’s old section, just blocks from the Topkapi Palace, St. Sophia and the Blue Mosque. On the street across from the Hippodrome, we paused to buy our children drinks and a snack of bread. A striking young woman walked along dressed provocatively. She looked French, had long black hair, a miniskirt that just barely covered her butt, a clinging well-filled black top. Tall and beautiful, she wore platform shoes with neon green and yellow thigh high socks. She put on quite a show. We watched her and we also watched a Turkish shopkeeper watching her as he sat on his shop stoop. My husband turned to him and said in Turkish “socks.” He wiggled his eyebrows, and responded in Turkish, “Yes! Socks!”
In Istanbul, as an American family traveling with two young boys, we sensed that we stood out. At first, everywhere we went we were approached by rug salesmen trying to get us into their shops. After a couple of days, they realized we were probably out of money and a waste of their time, so they left us alone. A few days into our stay in Istanbul, we made our way to the Grand Bazaar, an ancient covered market about the size of the Pentagon. My husband wore an obnoxious t-shirt – blue with a big red Superman symbol. He insists that all his other shirts were dirty, but there is no denying that he did pack that shirt in his suitcase and then had the bad taste to wear it. If you were at the Bazaar that day you would remember to this day all the shouts from one end to the other – “Superman, Superman, come buy a rug from me” or “Superman, come shop here.” One rug dealer asked me, “Tell me, is he really Superman?” The next day, in another part of the city, a street kid about 13 and selling trinkets to the tourists, walked up to us and said to my husband, who was wearing a different shirt, “Ah, Superman! Today you are in your disguise?!”
When I think about Turkey, I think about smart and witty people. I think about history and culture. And I think about socks.
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