Escar-go-go-go

France is sort of in limbo right now, with a caretaker government while trying to form a coalition and choose a prime minister.  But that's not the reason the university still hasn't sent me a schedule for the semester that starts in a few days. Maybe it's showmanship -- a dramatic unveiling of the awaited for hour of the most aMAZing, inCOMParable, FANTASTICAL lecture on possessive pronouns!

In the meantime, I'm just getting resettled in the house, meeting more of Jean-François's very nice friends, and wondering where the trillions of snails will go in winter.  They are legion.  They love to scoodge their way onto the van, and spawn on fence posts and grapevines.  The vast majority are content to hang out and digest by osmosis(?) the fennel flowers, but a few daring fellows cross the bike path at great peril.  They scoff at the speeding assassins pursuing them, goo-ing nonchalantly as looming beasts approach.  The snails traverse the gauntlet carefree, in their own sweet time.  Not a bad way to be.

Beautiful infestation

This year's vintage has notes of stone fruit and gastropod 

Bumper sticker: "My other car is a jalopy"

Good hair day

Bad hair day

Desperately trying to blend in and not be eaten like popcorn by a heron

Slow-Motion Whiplash

Junior year of college I studied one semester in Italy.  This was 20 years ago, in the early days of the internet, and so once I gathered all the necessary documents, I woke up early one morning to visit the embassy.  December, 6am, huddled in an extra coat for hours on a Midtown sidewalk waiting for office hours with an ever-lengthening line of fellow beseechers.  Luckily I had everything required, and didn't suffer an invented whim of the interviewer.  I surrendered my passport for a few weeks, then repeated the pre-dawn vigil to retrieve it, now graced with an iridescent green-gold student visa.

Fast-forward to now.  I want to improve my French, to build a full life, comprehend the culture, and communicate with élan.  I am formally and legally saying, "Hey France!  I like you a lot, let's hang out!"  For several months the response was, "Hmm, yeah.  Or maybe just fuck off?"

Bureaucracy in France is pretty notorious.  I get it, it's hard being so cool and sexy and smart, with everybody fawning over you all the time -- especially scads of overeager international students.  But did they have to resort to such tactics as:

- hiding the log-in page on the application website 

- requiring a resume and letter of intention written in French, when you are applying to learn French 

- requiring the signature of the mayor of the town where I'll live

- employing a smarmy for-profit third party to process the paperwork, with a useless and kafkaesque helpline with operators that neither confirm nor deny even the most basic information, so that eventually you break down and eat the cost of multiple visits to Chicago, and finally after twisting in the wind to breaking point you receive your visa the day before you are supposed to fly to France...

'Tis such stuff as green card marriages are made on.  But in the end, I made it.  I get to stay a whole year, during which I hope to continue trundling about with and consuming the contents of my cheese-filled rucksack on a more local level, and with an expert guide and partner.

Lots of nice fun things also happened, like beach picnic and fire

As we returned a final time to the Windy City, I yelled into the night, "Fuck you, Chicago!"

Also lots of progress framing Mike's house!

And a beautiful visit to the dunes

M!ch!gan

It turns out I was born to do menial labor.  Whether it's scooping 100 lbs. of cookie dough into balls, dicing case after case of bell peppers, shoveling four inches of dirt to level the future floor of a garage, or beating hundreds of nails into roof trusses, I derive great contentment chipping away at big, basic tasks.  I can't exactly say I achieved meditative zen this week, because it's been hot and humid to the point of chafing my eyes wiping away sweat.  But the Protestant-work-ethic gremlin that grumbles within me granted begrudging approval.

My brother is building a new house, and it's at a gratifyingly transformative stage.  Framing and sheathing progress daily -- the bare half-skeleton of two weeks ago is shaping up and all the rooms are recognizable.  A minimum of blood and a maximum of sweat keep work flowing.

Jean-François and I had a break from the heat in the UP (northern Michigan), or as I now think of it, Junior Alaska.  The forests and lakes and fishermen and accents can be quite similar, and if you squint you can imagine mountains in the background.  We went to the Les Cheneaux Islands, camped in a gorgeous bit of National Forest along the lakeshore, and kayaked among the myriad beguiling passages.  Jean-François was in awe of the veritable sea of fresh water, extending beyond the horizon.  He was charmed by spontaneous friendly conversations with strangers.  And he had his first ham steak in this majestic land between the woods and the water.

nature writing

We met the nicest most helpful kayak guide/local booster ever; she offered us her fire pit and wood, and sent her parents and friends to chat with us.

Michigan or Alaska?!

geometry and trees

Olympians

Olympos is a resonant name: it conjures the grand pantheon of the ancients; a mountain so high it scrapes the heavens; the athletic contest where muscley dudes were/are revered like gods; and that goofy stop-motion animation in "Clash of the Titans."  The internet tells me there were at least twenty places named Olympos in the classical world.  We went to the ruins of Olympos, member of the Lycean League (a strategic union of wealthy city-states), and its eponymous neighboring mountain.

The ruins mostly date from the Hellenistic era, and you can find the usual Roman settlement box set of buildings -- amphitheater, baths, temples -- and lots of tombs.  The city was built on both sides of a river in a steep valley leading to the sea, making for a greener, more sheltered landscape than other ruins we visited.  Some areas were cleared and buildings have been partially reconstructed; in other areas the forest has grown back, and we crept under branches and through vines to reach unexcavated, recently discovered structures.  This sort of jungle treasure hunt was a fun contrast to other sites where we baked under a cruel sun.

At this point in the trip, we were in a nice groove of taking our time and swimming in the afternoon, and we knew we wouldn't complete the entire trail.  I mapped out a final week of hiking to take us from the beach up to the top of Mt. Olympos (over 7,700 ft) and back to the sea, AND allowed us to be somewhat lazy.  (Somewhat.)  How, you ask?  The teleferik!

Yes, friends, there is a state of the art cable car that will whisk you to the top of this majestic mountain.  There you will find a Starbucks cafe, a novelty bungee-bounce trampoline, and a forest of selfie sticks.  Jean-François and I were the only hikers that morning among the chattering families and scores of Russian women all identically duck-faced with the same mediocre lip-enhancement plastic surgery.  (Medical tourism and aesthetic procedures are big business in Turkey.)  It was pea-soup foggy, so we began the descent into a spooky, desolate rockscape.  When we reached tree line, we met magnificent cedars -- cedars laden with 3-ft diameter limbs.  We wound around behind the ridge line and continued down dramatically pitched coniferous forest.

We reached what ended up being the most charming guesthouse of the hike, napped in exhaustion, and woke up to a delicious dinner.  The food was simple but good, and abundant, and the guy running the place was the epitome of hospitality.  We watched the pink light fade, and collapsed to sleep.

We hiked two more jaw-droppingly beautiful days in the mountains, passing only two small villages, one with absurdly large plane trees growing in a riverbed. After such bucolic environs it was a surprise to find a thoroughly developed tourist operation at the mouth of a deep canyon.  The course of the river had been landscaped into enormous stone-lined pools, with kitschy driftwood statues, cafes, and a small bird-only zoo.  In a bit of a stupor after hiking all day, we got an overpriced gin and tonic, sat on a glider where we could soak our tired feet in the cold water, and celebrated the end of our hike.

After a dinner featuring the largest portion of salmon ever (basically an entire fillet) and a solid night's sleep, we returned to the canyon to swim and poke around.  For a reasonable fee you can rent a wetsuit and helmet and make your way up the quarter-mile of astonishing water-worn stone.  It was a nice cherry on top of all the beautiful places we were able to go.

descending Mt. Olympos

Tourists? Equestrian club with paparazzi?

Jean-François gazing in awe

Umm, what?

Göynük Canyon

If we ever break up, he can use this for a Tinder photo.

pretty pretty

mountain refuge

Ents?

the final little mountain hostel

one of many detailed friezes at Perge

part of the impressive system of canals and fountains at Perge

Hot and Cold Turkey

From May 8, week 3 of hiking:

After the first few days, we realized/accepted that the weather would be hot as shit.  Water is heavy but essential, and sources can be far apart or run dry.  Jean-François possesses a camel-like metabolism and determination, but, of course, a human form.  I explained the concept of drinking games, with the aim of injecting some fun into the imperative to hydrate.  Perhaps fifty times a day, we round a bend or climb some rocks and a view of the sea is revealed.  "THE SEA!" cries the first to notice, as though we have been searching for it for months.  And we drink.

Another recurring game is saving turtles that insist upon crossing the road.  Hesitant little hemispheres -- they seem to sense the rumbling of trucks winding up the mountain roads and grow increasingly indecisive.  We've also spotted a few of their sea turtle cousins, floating tranquilly in the pellucid aquamarine.

I'm currently writing in the tent, perched above the sea.  This is our third night camping.  The first started well but was interrupted around midnight by hot, violent air.  50mph winds bellowed angrily, trying to rip apart the tent.  Finally at 5am I decided we might be blown away, and we packed up, found a sort of hippie-hobbit-bungalow, and waited out the storm.

The second time camping was great, except the increasing chill as the night went on (we were up at about 3,000ft).  I had thought we could get away without taking sleeping bags on this trip, but, sadly, no.  We shivered even as I arranged raincoats and travel towels over our huddled limbs.

Tonight, I hope, the third time's the charm.  A level spot, low wind, low altitude, layered up, and (fingers crossed) no animals will come to steal our trash.

*Note: It was indeed the perfect night of camping.

on the way to the best camp spot

St. Nicholas a.k.a. Santa Claus church, Demre

too charming a juice stand to pass up

I love this map for many reasons, but mostly because of the mix of cartoon illustrations and grafted on photos of actual animals 

poppies, ruins

Lycean tombs at Olimpos

Talk Turkey

There are many sobering statistics about the dire effects of climate change.  I would like to contribute the fact that I sweated through my shirt at 8am, not even going uphill.  It has been rather warmer than expected for springtime -- blazing sun, 85F by noon, and often we walk long into the afternoon.  Contributing to our struggle is the inclusion, pretty much everywhere we sleep, of a wonderful Turkish breakfast.  You don't just wake up and hit the trail when a beautiful array of tomato, cucumber, olives, cheeses, bread, butter, jam, honey, eggs, tea, and occasional guest stars such as homemade carob syrup or bee pollen or roasted chilis are set before you.  And neither Pixleys nor Frenchmen are fast eaters.

If the trail isn't so rugged as to require undivided attention, le lesson français commence.  I try to carry on conversation, whether about our surroundings, life experiences, specific points of grammar or theology -- all with the sophistication of a five-year-old who hasn't quite learned the past tense, frequently identifies "him" as "you," and misgenders your mom.

Lunch is a delight.  (Except the one time we had to eat in the sun by the side of the highway.)  The last week or so we've been following the coast.  We find a place to jump in the water, then sit in the shade and picnic.  It is magically cool; precious salts and minerals are replaced as we savor tinned sardines like cartoon alley cats; Jean-François utilizes his surgical precision with the knife to peel cucumbers and apples; and somehow the chocolate manages not to melt until out of the package.

A few days ago, we were isolated from any kind of market, and "had to" get lunch at a restaurant.  Situated on a long outstretched arm of dock next to ancient Lycean stone tombs, we sheltered from a strong wind as the old cook lit some branches in the open fireplace and started to grill chicken.

Yesterday we kayaked around ruins of old villages that were submerged after an earthquake, like, a thousand years ago.  But anyway, the lunch!  Perfect fresh cucumber-tomato-pepper salad, delicious roast eggplant with garlicky tomato sauce, crispy fries, chicken kabob, fresh orange juice, again adjacent to tombs and the turquoise sea.  There were even nice French honeymooners to talk with.

we did not fail the test of the divorce-canoe

the dock

the cook

TOMBS!

cool old stuff

the best part of waking up is an egg inside your cup

The Second Long Walk

When I first met Jean-François walking the Camino, I assumed our conversation would follow the usual pattern of hello-where-are-you-from-why-are-you-walking-have-a-nice-day.  But we started talking travel, and before long he was telling me about sailing in Greenland, backcountry skiing between alpine refuges, and medical missions in Afghanistan.  I don't usually read articles or books with titles like "Top 100 Places to Go" but when he told me he'd read about a hike in Turkey that's supposedly one of the most beautiful in the world, I thought, "Well, maybe he's onto something."

The Lycean Way winds around cliffy-mountain fingers that reach into the Mediterranean from Turkey's southwest coast.  There are Bronze Age ruins, Ancient Greek ruins, villages abandoned a hundred years ago after forced relocation, family farms perched on hilltops, luxury hotels with infinity pools, traditional guesthouses, terraced olive orchards currently dotted with red poppies and dandelions and various purple flowers, and the platonic ideal of beach tucked into every cove.

The route was pieced together by a British woman (enthusiastic hiker and Turkophile), linking old donkey trails with remains of Roman and medieval roads, and forging some rough connectors.  From Fethiye to Antalya is 540 km.  We're here for five weeks; the first week we've averaged 12 km per day -- because even when the gain is reasonable, the grade is often very steep, with scree and rocks of all sorts to navigate.

There were large populations of Turks in Greece and Greeks in Turkey; unfortunately, many lives were lost and entire villages abandoned in the early 1900s.

looking down down down from Faralya

Jean-François hiking into the mist

spring is in full swing

1,000 ft down and up, abruptly

baby goat tree

Patara ruins