Now that I look back on how I helped gang up on him, I am slightly ashamed of the arrogance I showed, surrounding a man who was in all likelihood a perfectly reasonable and accommodating hotel manager, speaking to him in a language foreign to him but native to me, thinking I would use my physical height and my easy command of English to intimidate him into turning on a jacuzzi that wouldn’t have been warm until the next day anyway.
The next morning, having survived the hardship of being unable to soak in a tub of hot bubbly water, I woke up, pulled back the curtains, and stepped out onto the balcony into the blindingly bright sunlight reflecting off the calm waters of the Aegean Sea. In college we had been force-fed Greek classics for an entire year, so I had read many stories featuring the Aegean, but since we had driven into Ayvalik at night, this was the first time I had ever actually seen it. For the longest time I simply stood there on the balcony, squinting into the brilliant reflection coming off a sea I had imagined for years, but figured I would never lay eyes on.
After scarfing down a traditional Turkish breakfast of cucumbers, tomatoes, olives, and white cheese, the four of us climbed back into Holger’s car and drove over to the memorably-named Seytan Sofrasi (meaning “Satan’s Dinner Table”), a hill just outside of Ayvalik that offers a spectacular 360-degree view of the entire region, a view stretching up and down the coast, out over the sea, and back into the mountains behind.
At Satan’s Dinner Table we took dozens of photos and drank more tea than people on a long road trip should, and then we hopped back in the car and headed south towards Kusadasi (meaning “Bird Island”), another seaside town further down the coast.
Kusadasi is a small tourist town most famous for its proximity to the ruins of Ephesus and the final resting place of the Virgin Mary. We had taken our time on the drive down though, so we would have to wait until the next day to see those things. In the meantime we wandered around Kusadasi in the quickly disappearing daylight.
I was struck by the closeness of the Greek islands. There are places along the Aegean coastline where Greece and Turkey are so close to each other I could practically stand on the Turkish mainland, pick up a rock, throw it really hard, and watch it land on Greek soil.
Many times in the years that followed I witnessed Turkey’s unique brand of prickly, thin-skinned national pride. Whenever I’d have trouble relating to it, I’d remind myself that there are places along the coastline where even a novice swimmer can dog paddle the distance between Greece and Turkey, and I would understand the Turks’ prickly defensiveness. No one wants his mortal enemy living in the house next door where he can stand over his kitchen sink and stare into your bedroom.
…
[This is an excerpt from the chapter “Scandals, Romans, and jacuzzis” in A Tight Wide-open Space.]