It was almost perfect

But all in all, getting to Istanbul and then to Antalya airport, and then to Cirali, went remarkably smoothly. Mom got me to Dulles on time, I flew to NY on time, the big overseas plane left kind of on time. And although there were no back-of-the seats TVs (just the overhead in the aisle) and no radio stations, I did have 2 seats to myself and the food was good and Aunty Ambien and her sister Bloody Mary let me sleep for good chunks at a time.

I got to Istanbul, bought my visa, and met Tim on time. There was a last minute panic when I discovered that I'd left my jacket somewhere, and while he was gone trying to find it, our plane started to board. Crisis averted though, as he heard the announcement and ran down just in time for us to catch the last bus out to the plane.

I'm pretty sure Tim is going down as an unknown hero in some other American's family lore, too. We were struggling with the cash machines in the Antalya airport, as were an older guy and son. We figured it out and by using various cards managed to get all the cash we needed (there are no ATMs or banks in Cirali, the town we're in). The 2 guys were also trying to figure it out, and arguing about the exchange rate. When I looked up they were gone, but their machine was beeping. They'd run off and left the card in it! Tim grabbed the card before the machine could suck it in, asked around, and went down the hall to hand it over to the police. He noticed a security guard engaged in a fruitless argument with a frantic American who was trying to get back in to the airport (once you exit on the back side, you can't return). It was the card guy! Tim walked up to the argue-ers, looked at the guy and said "What’s your name?" The guy looked real confused for a minute, and then said "Garfinkle." "Here's your card," Tim said, and handed it over. He said Garfinkle looked stunned. So stunned he didn't even say thanks. Instead he said "I'm really tired" and walked away.

There were a few other hiccups. The rental car I arranged to pick up in Antalya airport never showed- we were left on the curbside searching for someone -anyone - with a placard that said SULLIVAN or any permutation. While we were scratching our heads, a guy from National practically jogged by. I grabbed him and asked if her know anything about Elit Car Rentals. He said no, looked at the price quote I printed off from my correspondence with the company, and offered us the same car for $6 more. So now we're driving his car.

We had some vague directions and a crappy map from the National guy and set out. It's a pretty easy 2 hour drive to Cirali from Antalya, along a 2 and sometimes 4-lane highway that curves dramatically around the coast. Craggy steep, southern New Mexico style mountains march right down to the sea and the road cuts through passes and under these brush-dotted mountains, usually with a sparkling jewel of Mediterranean visible to the left.

After an hour or so we stopped in a seaside town for a bite to eat. It was the main beach drag, with hotels all along the right and a concrete promenade above the beach on the left. We stopped at a place that looked quick-the Bufe Cafe. Run by a single old man. There was a big menu board out front listing, among others Izmir Sandvic. The picture looked like a hoagie roll with either shrimp or human fingers dangling out of it, along with something that might have been a tomato or a blood clot. Figuring that Turkey has progressed beyond severing the fingers of thieves, we chanced it. Mostly because we had no idea what the other offerings could be. Because the Turkish language apparently is some mutant form of Klingon, with way too many consonants and SHH and CCCHHH noises in it.

Your background in Romance linguistics doesn't give you a ghost of a chance here, and despite the fact that Turks in the service industry must meet lots of English speakers, they stare at your in a puzzled, almost frightened manner when you insist on speaking it. The old guy also had a bar with an enormous juicer and a pyramid of the biggest pomegranates I've ever seen, along with some oranges. So, hoping that I wasn't miming some form of "Please copulate with me," I gestured that I would like a glass of juice mixed from the two.
He gestured for us to sit in his garden, a tiny slice of grass by the highway with Lilliputian stools and table with woven reed tops, next to a sign that said something like "Doggie Toilet," for it had a smiling beagle squatting over a cheerful yellow puddle, with a happy word balloon coming out of his muzzle. Eventually, about 20 minutes later, the old guy tottered over with an orange Fanta, two Izmir Sandvics, and a glass of gorgeous deep-pink frothy juice. And since he did not ask me to sneak behind the oleander bush with him, I guessed that he understood my request for pomorangeagranate juice. It's my new favorite.
And happily there were no human fingers in the sandwich. It was a long split hot dog, some slices of hard, smoked salami-like sausage, a little melted cheese, dill pickles, and lots of mayo and ketchup. Repeat: The juice was amazing.
At the turnoff for Cirali the world changed. No more trucks, tour busses, and VWs whizzing by, honking insanely. Just a two lane paved/gravel road that wove back and forth down to the coast, from the top of a very tall mountain to sea level. After 7 km, we entered the “town.” It’s not so much a town as a couple of “paved” roads lined with various hostelries, mostly very modest and some downright scary looking. Like "bungalows” made of painted plywood and about 12 by 14 feet by 8 or 10. Fortunately, Hotel Bellerophon, where we’re staying, is a step above. We’re in a cute little green wooden house. It’s weathered; the porch floorboard are a little buckled and creaky. But it’s got a big comfy bed, lots of pillows, and linens that smell line-dried. The bathroom is perfectly OK, and if you can overlook the legions of dead ants coming thru the wooden walls (they must be poisoned as they come through the cracks), it would be totally charming. As it is, it’s mostly charming, with jasmine, oleander, orange and lemon trees, and a few scruffy roses with summer’s last bloom still clinging on.
It suffers slightly from being next to the absolutely charming Arcardia, a similar bungalow type place done on an infinitely nicer scale. I remember looking at it online and thinking it was a bit too expensive but now I’m just hatefully jealous.
We arrived around 3 and fell into the bed and the world went away. Around 7 we woke up for dinner-served on white linen tablecloths on wicker tables under some lovely trees at the beginning of the very wide beach line. There was soup, grilled lamb chops, lots of veggies, and rice pudding for dessert. We killed a bottle of white wine, stumbled back to bed, and didn’t wake up til 4 a.m., when the resident rooster started making his rounds. He didn’t do a great job though, because we fell back to sleep until 9:30 in the morning.
I think we saw the beach. But it might have been a dream.