As luck and work would have it, however, on Thursday, July 19th, I landed in the hills of Central Anatolia. Ankara, political and artificial capital and eternal home to late ruler Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, was slowly falling prey to the dark. The long cab ride to the hotel didn't give me much to hope for. The mausoleum, unmistakably recognizable from the sky, even to the untrained eye, wasn't enough to make me look forward to my stay there.
I was excited, though. I wasn't there to be a tourist. I knew was about to be witness to a crucial moment in Turkey's politics.
So there I am, checking in the hotel and trying to get my laptop to function. It's 2 a.m. and I'm finally getting somewhere. I'm up early the next day to get some work done. In typical teacher's daughter fashion, I order a "Traditional Turkish Breakfast." Turkish tea (blacker and stronger than the blackest and strongest of English teas), fried eggs, bread, tomatoes, olives (olives!) and this smell... Oh sweet Baby Jesus... The smell of the goat cheese on my tray... It's more than my sleep-deprived organism and sensitive stomach can bear. As I stumble to the bathroom and shove my head down the toilet, I vow to stick to the pancakes. So much for open-mindedness.
Around noon, the city is relatively quiet under the scorching sun. As I step out for a quick break, a beautiful, sweet and almost chilling melody fills the air. It's the muezzin, calling for prayer. What a voice. Years since I had heard that. I was so little I don't even know how I could even have kept that memory. For the rest of my stay in Ankara, I'd stop and listen, every time.
I make time to visit the Mosque. At the entrance, I realize I left my scarf in the hotel room. I curse my forgetfulness and sneak in, hoping to observe and not get caught. It's about 30 seconds before the guard spots me. He walks towards me, gesturing, and drags me to a small cupboard. He chooses a pink, flowery scarf and wraps it around my head. There, woman. Now go. I go.
The Mosque is beautiful, the light flows in from all sides and the air is cool. The carpet is thick and soft under my feet. On the surrounding balconies, women are praying in small groups. Men are sitting in the main space, solitary and thoughtful. The serenity is palpable, it's all so inviting, I feel like spending the rest of the afternoon there.
But Atatürk awaits. His remains lie at the top of a hill, on military ground. Talk about worship... I won't go into it, but it does look like he both threw Turkey into modernity and traumatized it. He even "invented" a whole new alphabet...
He's been dead for 70 years, but his über-secularism is still causing mayhem in this Muslim country. He thought religion held the country back. As he put it himself:
The army still believes that it is its duty to preserve the secular principles of the Founder. In a public statement that eventually led the government to dissolve, it opposed Prime Minister Erdogan's choice for a president: a man whose wife wears a scarf in public. In a country where the military holds such political power, these early general elections turned out to be a true exercise in democracy.
And so the people spoke: they gave full legitimacy to a religion-friendly government who also made Turkey's economy one of the most attractive among emerging markets. Foreign investors applauded, civilians sang and danced as the military wavered from this giant slap in the face. A retired officer, interviewed by BBC World, called the event a "backward step."
All of this is fascinating, but have I mentioned my hamman experience? Not wanting to miss out, I let a young woman bathe me. I lay on the marble while she scrubbed me from head to toes, then soaped me up, washed my hair and rinsed me with warm water for the enormous marble sinks. She then took me to a room full of beds and I relaxed to the sound of a fountain and ate juicy pears to quench my thirst. Probably the most sensual half hour of my existence.
At Ankara's citadel, otherwise known as Ulus Kale, I bought two small kilims. I was incredibly proud of myself, until I decided to show them off and compare them to the one my colleague had bought in Istanbul. His contact there had a whole collection, all made by his grandmother, for her dowry. When she ran out of cotton, she went on with wool. It had so many colors and different threads. Mine, next to his, looked pathetic and soulless. Humiliation overcome, they are now bravely decorating my floors.
We left the hotel for the airport at 4 a.m. on Tuesday, July 24th, after a quiet evening at the bar. The barmaid, at our old timer's request, learnt how to make a Silver Bullet (Bombay Sapphire, a twist of lemon, an olive, three drops of dry Vermouth). She was also kind enough to recommend a nearby Turkish restaurant and sent us on our way with the sweetest of instructions.
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