19-22 October 2019.
Turkey Brought to you by the Turkish People with Open Hearts.
213 miles with 11490 feet of climbing.
Turkey Brought to you by the Turkish People with Open Hearts.
213 miles with 11490 feet of climbing.
My stomach had been feeling "a bit off" as we sometimes say in English to describe a mild gastrointestinal discomfort. By the time I reached the Bulgaria-Turkey border that feeling had elevated to a genuine concern that I'd acquired some sort of infection with all of the usual implications, including anticipated return visits to some sort of bathroom, possibly the nearest bush. For this reason, I was even more disappointed than I otherwise would have been when a clerk on the Bulgarian side of the border refused to let me use the facilities unless I made a purchase. I like-wise refused his offer, a stubbornness that could have been disastrous if by chance I hadn't encountered a public bathroom within ball-throwing distance from the Bulgarian guard shacks.
I rolled my bike into the small, concrete structure that resembled a military bunker and slipped into one stall, then another, then the last, only to discover that none of them contained any toilet paper. I suspect there was a time when paper was offered, a service that concluded after the valuable paper was repeatedly stolen? I dug through my kit and found a few napkins, enough to perform the anticipated clean-up. Despite the discomfort in my stomach and other signs of impending high-energy expulsions, incubation by the foreign something had not yet, I would later discover, reached its peak. Before departing, I reluctantly filled my water bottles using the bathroom taps. The water smelled strongly of chlorine but a quick, eye and nose inspection didn't raise any other concerns. Nonetheless, the experience led to nostalgia involving French cemeteries, their taps and clean water, and other public resources I've routinely accessed to hydrate on my European bicycle tours.
The Bulgarian side of the border was complex, in structure and navigation, but nonetheless sleepy; barely "a creature was stirring" on my side of the darkened security glass. As I clipped out of my left pedal and set the same foot on the curb, a smiling, female border agent slid the window open that separated us and reached for my passport. The inspection took less than a minute, and then I was given permission to continue into an expansive, fairly complex no-man's land containing lanes designated for all types of vehicles and foot traffic that I struggled to interpret amidst a myriad of official-looking, concrete, steal, and glass buildings on either side. I made my way to the most obvious row of cars then paused briefly before slowly riding between the cars and a sidewalk that was busy with pedestrians.
My impression was many of these pedestrians had arrived by some sort of public transport. With all of the conflict in the Middle East in mind, it's likely that most of the foot traffic that I witnessed were displaced citizens from far-away lands now caught between two countries, in a no-man's land, wishing they could simply go home but in the meantime relieved to be through one border crossing even as their anxiety built for the next. If they were successful getting into Bulgaria, then they would also have the freedom to travel to anywhere in the European Union; a very satisfying second place conclusion, I suspect, for anyone fleeing from dangerous circumstances such as a bombed-out Syrian village.
Beyond the walkways and pedestrians, I passed under infrastructure, an enclosed walkway over the road, and then arrived to the last ten-or-so cars where just beyond I could easily see Turkish border agents processing the next vehicle. These men were armed much more than any previous agents I had encountered. Not quite geared-up for military combat but nonetheless each one of them was capable of inflicting an outrageous amount of damage to life and limb. The threat was enough to stop my questionable, car-hopping, forward progress. At this point, I settled-in and waited for each opportunity to move-up through the queue towards the guard shack. To the right of the guard shack, a complicated crowd of pedestrians, drivers, vehicles, and border agents were negotiating outcomes that, despite my inability to understand their languages, clearly hinted at unhappy conclusions for some individuals. I was taking all of this in and more, a data dump into my subconsciousness, the scene was complex and curious, an outlier in my border crossings to date on any continent, when a border agent approached and spoke to me with an outstretched hand reaching for my passport.
He'd come from the guard shack, obviously had noticed me in line and perhaps had taken pity on my position in the row of cars, under direct sunshine; or maybe he was just curious about the man on the bicycle that clearly had come from "the west." Regardless of his motivations, he made me feel comfortable right away, even as he announced in a loud, excited voice, to his co-workers back at the shack, "he's an American." Given all of the nonsense that American's are expected to believe back in the United States, about places and people beyond their borders, I instinctively felt a moment of concern following his announcement to anyone within hearing distance. However, by now sharing a small space with three guards and all of them smiling and joking, I was quickly coming down from a habit taught to me by my birth nation, to anticipate negative intentions and outcomes in the company of foreigners; especially foreigners in recent conflict, politically or otherwise, with the United States which Turkey was among at this time.
They asked for my story and listened with curiosity as I briefly described my tour from Scotland to their polished shoes; and where I intended to finish, in the middle of the Bosphorus. Pleased and impressed, they returned my stamped passport and visitor visa and then directed me, by voice and finger, to the exit. When I was reluctant to make my way through a complex matrix of negotiations, that I mentioned above, one of the guards took notice, assured me that was the way, and then guided me through the worst of it. Despite all of the "signs of danger" at this particular crossing, those dangers turned-out to be nothing more than a response of my American education. In reality, men in uniforms were focused on performing a difficult job in a complex region of the world, affected by war, famine, and political unrest. They meant me no harm and quickly made those intentions obvious even before my passport reached the first official hand. All that said, there is no doubt that I was relieved, moments later, to be free-rolling again, heading south into Turkey, as the last major, border-related concern of the tour slowly dissolved behind me.
The atmospheric high-point for my day came a few miles over the border, just under 1000 feet above sea level, about 72 miles into the days ride. On either side of a comfortable secondary road, a once continuous, but now broken, plateau extended in all directions, deeply cut by countless small streams. That was my impression anyway, a scenario like the Pocono Mountains in Pennsylvania, United States. A plateau penetrated by water and erosion over millennia will eventually give the false impression of an orogeny - earth processes, such as colliding plates, that lead to the formation of mountains.
I paused for a snack just off the main road on a rough, gravel two-track where I found a rock to sit on and a moment to come down from the uncertainty and energy of the most recent border crossing. My illness was temporarily forgotten at this point, food slowly glided in and there was very little response that I can recall that implied an unhappy digestive system. A familiar scrub-oak forest rose-up beyond the dirt edges of my temporary, gravel road oasis in a country that was otherwise as unknown to me as any nunatak - a monolith rising above an ice sheet such as the Starr Nunatak in Victoria Land, Antarctica. I was once again an explorer, similar to a young snow petrel in his formative years, searching the nuances of nunataks and glaciers where he would eventually, if he survived man's drift nets and other at-sea hazards, nurture the next generation.
Back in the hear-and-now, my daydreams of ice, snow, stone, and angelic petrels dissolved into partly cloudy skies, green forests, no wind to speak of, and a temperature somewhere around 70 degrees; enviable bicycling weather. From roughly 1000 feet above sea level, I descended for many miles to the large town of Lalapaşa. Beyond Lalapaşa, the land rolled gently in a series of modest climbs all the way, about 30 additional miles, to an isolated farm not far from the regions bustling, capital city, Kirklareli. The hills that dominated the landscape to Kirklareli made-up for their gentle slopes with unrelenting frequency, a never-ending series of gradual climbs and descents that drained a body and mind that was also gradually sliding deeper and deeper into a gastrointestinal infection. Between the towns of Dolhan and Kayalı, I pulled-off on a farm track feeling more exhausted than I had on any of my bicycle tours to date.
As I processed my here-and-now from the vantage of my bicycle shoes amidst a peaceful agricultural setting, I was convinced the physical challenges of the tour from Duncansby Head to this point in Turkey were the cause of my escalating fatigue. I wasn't completely discounting what felt like some sort of GI infection but symptoms of that illness and its severity, fortunately, wouldn't present themselves, and by doing so reveal the true source of my annihilation, until the evening. A contemporaneous video and image from my Motorola motox4 smart phone reveal a gaunt face and unusually sunken eyes, evidence that something certainly wasn't well with my body when I captured those media files.
Surrounded by expansive agricultural fields, and recently plowed, thick, nutrient rich soils on either side of my farm track, I sat on the ground, a rare decision, and slowly processed, one patient bite at a time, what I had remaining in my bags, hoping that some form of nutrient depletion was contributing to my nearly powerless state. Feeling a bit better but far from great, I eventually rode on from here to Kirklareli, capping-off 115 miles since departing Sliven, at a pace that I'd describe as a crawl. I remained for the most part neutral or positive during this significant physical and mental challenge, deploying mental discipline to avoid slipping into the dark side, a space ruled by "the hater" that lives within all of our psyches side-by-side with "you" and "me", the part that desires only love and to be loved. Tricks of the mind withstanding, resources within my body felt absolutely tapped when I crested the last hill and subsequently drifted, feeling as substantial as a ghost by this point, into Kirklareli. A quick grocery shop followed, including a brief interaction with a few youngsters from the town that were fascinated by my bicycle and light-touring gear. The brief departure from my bicycle saddle charged my depleted resources just enough to allow a more-or-less comfortable cycle a few miles north to a place that I will always affectionately remember as "the chicken farm."
Just before arriving to my destination, I stopped to photograph a blazing, neatly outlined red sun as it approached the western horizon. I had told my hosts, using Airbnb's messaging app shortly after booking, that I'd be bicycling 120 miles from Sliven that day to reach their farm. With that message in mind and the onset of twilight upon us, they were anticipating my arrival and a little concerned when I finally showed-up. Once off my bike, the temporary high that I experienced riding the last few miles from Kirklareli quickly dissipated and I found myself looking for a place to sit down, almost literally "to collapse". I started with a concrete ledge, part of the infrastructure adjacent to the driveway and the basement of the house, amidst gardens and recently harvested organic walnuts that were spread-out to dry on a blue tarp. My hosts, Ferit and Firdesz, retires that had raised their children at the farm, were excited to share their organic crops and healthy lifestyle with their most recent guest. Normally, an opportunity like this one would have been at the top of my wish list; but on this exceptional evening, I was not feeling well and symptoms were about to get much worse in the midst of their energy and kindness.
A minute or two after settling onto a cool, dusty, slab of concrete, I was quickly on my feet again and doing my best to stay close to Ferit's energized heals as he gave me a tour of the farm and the house before we settled onto an expansive balcony that overlooked the surrounding countryside. Agricultural fields spread in all directions, broken by typical farm infrastructure and a few homes such as the one I was staying at. Ferit's parcel was modest within this matrix but every inch was dedicated to some form of fruit, nut, or vegetable, in addition to a covey of chickens that free-ranged across the fenced-in property dutifully removing problematic bugs and depositing nutrient dense, organic fertilizer. Among fruits grown on the farm, Ferit cultivated several rows of grapes for wine making. He generously shared the fruits of that labor with his guests. Like the other crops that he nurtured, the grapes were grown without any chemicals, organic in all ways except an expensive stamp of approval from local and regional government agencies.
Whilst still in my sweaty bike kit and by now feeling the onset of fever symptoms, Ferit invited me to join him at the only table on the balcony where he spread-out his lighter and cigarette pack alongside a plastic, reused, water bottle containing wine that he recently transferred from a larger container, glass or wood I assume, stored in the wine cellar. He politely filled my glass and then offered me a cigarette! I accepted the former and declined the later. From this point, I reluctantly, because of my depreciating condition, took on the role of interpreter using a myriad of old-school techniques in the absence of Wi-Fi, the farm had none, or a functional SIM card, my Bosnia-purchased SIM hadn't worked since I rolled into Serbia. Neither of my hosts spoke much of my language and I spoke none of theirs.
During my tour of the farm and initial sips of wine, Firdesz had slipped into her kitchen where she was preparing my first Turkish, home-cooked, home-grown, organic meal of many that she would feed me over the next forty-eight hours. As this implies, I was not only staying at a bed & breakfast, I was staying at a bed, breakfast, mid-morning meal, lunch, mid-afternoon meal, and dinner facility and all for $12.00 a night; a scenario of considerable envy among hobbits and bike riders. The experience with Ferit and Firdesz was exceptional even for my wide-ranging experiences traveling by boot, boat, motorcycle, and bicycle. Nonetheless, it's a great anecdote because it captures all of the essences of an enriched, travel experience. With enrichment and its many benefits in mind, I recommend that any courageous traveler looking for something personal and tangible from their excursions should begin a relationship, if they haven't already, with apps such as Airbnb and Gîtes de France. Unique, genuine, and funky lodging opportunities await the curious explorer and for a fraction of the cost of staying in a sterile, concrete and steel fabricated hotel room.
Communication challenges are inevitable of course, when traveling in countries that don't share your native language. However, these challenges shouldn't be a concern or otherwise influence an itinerary especially in the modern age with all of its apps and other resources. I'll take a side-step from the porch and the wine, for a moment, to write about Google Translator and SIM cards. The following day, a rest day that I desperately needed it would turn-out, I used Google Translator's option to translate spoken word, for the first time, and it worked marvelously even when Ferit spoke quickly without any concern about how close or far he was from my smart phone’s microphone. As a programmer by trade, I was blown away by the apps ability to detect individual words and translate long strings of them spoken at normal conversation pace. This feature, along with Google Translator's option to translate written words, any that you can point your camera at such as descriptions of archeological relicts on display at a museum, are remarkable for their accuracy and efficiency. Each feature is a tremendous asset for any traveler that wants to get more out of their journey.
Paired with Google Translator and other convenient apps, an unlocked smart phone is exceptionally useful when traveling through foreign countries. It's not the standard talk and text features and their obvious benefits that I'm referring to, it's access to the unlimited resources of the internet including apps for locating inexpensive, last-minute lodging opportunities. I purchased a SIM card in Wales, on display at a grocery store, check-out line, which provided me with reliable talk, text, and data services all the way to Bosnia. Total cost was about forty dollars. In Bosnia, a non-EU member state, I purchased another SIM card for about five dollars that provided the same services to the Serbian border. From Serbia to Kirklareli, I made-do without an active SIM card, relying on cafes and other public Wi-Fi opportunities. This cheap alternative is actually not that inconvenient especially when paired with a GPS, like the Garmin 1030 that I was using, that relies on free, unlimited access to Earth-orbiting satellites (versus proprietary cell phone towers).
On my rest day at the chicken farm, Ferit kindly brought me to Kirklareli where I purchased my last SIM for the tour for about twenty dollars including all the talk, text, and data that I needed. As you can see, total cost for the suite of services enjoyed by American cell phone owners can easily be had for a fraction of the cost that thieves like ATT and Verizon would otherwise charge a naive client. My advice is give them the finger and instead take advantage of your unlocked cell phone; it's your property after all, by purchasing and installing cheap, reliable, local SIM cards. I also strongly advise that American smart phone owners have a close look at Google's Fi network and its advantages. For the last two years I've been paying about $28.00 per month for excellent service and coverage in the United States, talk, text, and data. The recurring and expensive nightmares that I experienced with ATT and later Verizon, and associated stress, are all but forgotten.
My experience with Ferit and Firdesz was a unique and fabulous opportunity to integrate into the fabric of Turkish culture thanks to their kindness, generosity, and openness. I genuinely enjoyed my initial visit with Ferit, on the open-air balcony as he smoked his favorite cigarettes at uncomfortable proximity, and the meal that was served by Firdesz, host extraordinaire, at the conclusion of it all. Nonetheless, my desire to get out of my bike kit, take a shower, and then assess what seemed to be going on with my system, a downslide into some form of illness, possibly serious, was on my mind. Unfortunately, at this point, a few minutes after dinner, a miscommunication led to a super cold shower. At the conclusion of that cold water submersion, I was physically shaking and unable to do anything about it other than seek a bed and blankets. By this point, it was early evening, dark but by no means regular bed time for adults. I'd also managed to keep how I was feeling for the most part a secret as I went through the check-in routine with Ferit and Firdesz including the wine social and evening meal. I don't know what they were thinking when I quickly disappeared into the bedroom but by this stage I was in very bad shape.
Still damp from my cold shower, I searched the cabinets for every blanket that I could find and spread them onto the bed. Then I climbed under and shivered, not quite violently but severely, for the next twenty minutes, perhaps more. I had no idea what was happening, other than I'd contracted a serious something that was leading to shivering and other symptoms of flu. About thirty minutes into my ordeal, I began to realize what was likely causing my issue, some form of gastrointestinal infection that sent me to the bathroom where I expelled more gas than a herd of cows chewing their cud whilst peacefully releasing methane, a primary contributor to ongoing climate change. Cows, cud, and methane aside, what exploded from my backside was not only unpleasant but it created a symphony that any culture could interpret in the absence of a translator especially through thin walls within an intimate, modest farm house. There was no hiding the fact that I was not feeling well at this point. I did my best to remove any sign of the incident from the shared bathroom and then crawled into my bed for a second time. However, it wasn't long before I was back on the throne and a second sonata was underway for the displeasure of anyone nearby. I repeated this pattern perhaps two more times before I felt able to rejoin the outside world, and from the privileged perspective of the airy balcony.
I have no idea what Ferit and Firdesz were thinking at this time but if I had to guess, based on their meticulous and family-inspired concern for all of my other needs, they must have been concerned and wishing they could comfort me in some way. In the meantime, I accepted all the tea, to minimize dehydration associated with my trips to the bathroom, which Firdesz offered. Eventually, the gas in my belly subsided and with it I was already feeling like the worst was behind me and hopeful that the next morning I'd wake feeling even better. With that hope in mind, I drifted into my bed, closed my eyes, and was quickly asleep. Normally, sleep like that would only be interrupted, many hours later, by morning sunlight and internal chemistry. However, the family dog had other plans that involved his proximate neighbor.
Sometime after midnight, the dog went on a barking spree directly below my open window that lasted for many minutes. That much I could have survived, but the barking subsequently repeated, in bursts of 5-15 minutes at a time, into the wee hours. When the sun rose I was a total wreck from lingering infection and far too little sleep. The experience also left me, understandably, short on patience. The next night, Ferit kindly moved the dog to the opposite side of the house which helped substantially, the dog still barked and I was occasionally wakened by this pointless disturbance but I did get much more sleep than the night before. By that second morning, the perfect bug- and dog-induced storm was beginning to transition to a new chapter, a story not yet revealed but somewhere beyond the chicken farm; and despite fond memories of a space and a couple, and a deep fatigue, I was ready to go there and bring to a close an extraordinary, personal journey and accomplishment.
By now, it was 21 October 2019, close to nine weeks since departing far-flung Duncansby Head at the northeast tip of Scotland. My goal was to reach Arnavutköy, a busy, complex, high-story and high-speed town that hosts Istanbul's new international airport. The purpose of this goal wasn't to arrive at the airport, instead it was to bypass as much of Istanbul as possible by approaching the city from the north, versus west or south, the following day. Before that final assault of Istanbul by bicycle got underway, I first had to ride from the chicken farm to my next hosts and the last few miles involved some complications that are worth sharing.
In between, the landscape was consistent with what I'd experienced from the border south of Lesovo, Bulgaria to Kirklareli. A repeating pattern of gently rolling hills, reminiscent of massive, peaceful swells rolling off the Pacific Ocean into the Drake Passage that I'd witnessed years ago on my way to King George Island, South Shetlands, Antarctica. The hills were mostly converted to agriculture, occasionally interrupted by modest villages. Among the larger towns that I cycled through, in Saray I bypassed an optional out-and-back to the nearby Black Sea, less than ten miles north of my west-east trajectory at this point on the tour. My legs were tapped and other resources for maintaining forward progress were similarly depleted. Nonetheless, I still occasionally wish that I had found the power to will myself onto that short detour. My hope of traveling by ferry boat from Istanbul to the Black Sea, at the conclusion of the tour, also never happened. Perhaps all of this was intended, by the universe and its quirky quantum physics, to get me to return to the Black Sea on a future adventure. If so then I'll certainly shelf any regrets that I might still be hanging onto when I get there.
From the top of a hill overlooking a deep valley and a long ascent to the outskirts of Arnavutköy, I could easily see the ancient city itself, Istanbul, looming on the southeastern horizon. At this juncture, fine weather, accomplishment, and the magic of the human mind to manage fatigue all gifted me the opportunity to experience a wave of gratitude. Whilst taking in the scene around me, I instinctively turned, without thinking, onto the soft shoulder on my right, dodged a few stones and human detritus such as discarded bottles, and then carefully coasted into a recently plowed field. The soil was soft-brown in color, similar to the creamy appearance of beach sand composed of pulverized granite; the norm where I grew up in eastern Massachusetts in the United States. Above the soil, the landscape descended in millions of beautiful lines that diverged and converged in a wonderful and playful dance all the way to a salt-water inlet that connects to the Sea of Marmara. The lines and the hills that they formed transitioned through a spectrum of browns revealing differences in soil minerals and nutrients. The colors, the symmetry, and the solitude were marvelous, easily enough to lodge this seemingly insignificant moment, on a hill among many and all of them unknown except to the farmers that plow them, deep into my central nervous system. There wasn't much as far as vegetation or structures built by man to impede the palatial vista and there was also no one to share it with, other than the steed that had carried me on a very long journey through no fewer than 28 mountain ranges and exactly thirteen countries in 62 days, so far, with only one serious mechanical issue, a broken derailleur in Switzerland, to this unanticipated moment.
I was surrounded by, proximally and as far as my eyes could see, what most people would describe as "nothing", implying the absence of "something" that travelers from developed nations typically list off when asked, "What did you see?" What we "see" being the standard, apparently, for measuring the value of a trip. I propose that we push out the margins of "seeing" to encompass moments like this one, alone in a field, rarely, if ever, visited by strangers. When I went in search of serendipity, years ago on my old Honda motorcycle, I learned that beyond "seeing" lay a plethora of opportunities that were often gifted to only the solo-traveler by the often devious but no less guiding and helpful universe. Now, by bicycle, I often describe what I'm doing as a celebration of the journey. In either case, I've learned that the dull moments between are opportunities so immense that they can and often do reach out and touch the Andromeda Galaxy.
What we "see", returning to the standard "western" measure of a trips success, is far too easy to accomplish and so a moment later the task is complete and we move on without growing from the experience despite our investment in time and resources, including the implications of fuel consumption for temperature-sensitive life on Planet Earth in the form of real, present, and ongoing effects of climate change. By pushing out the margins of our response to "What did you see?", travelers could begin to focus, instead, on what they "feel" and then subsequently explore and grow from those experiences. I agree that there is something very special about a visit to Rome's famous amphitheatre, but the same can be found in anonymous places, among people that perhaps have no story of significance that is valued by writers of history and travel guides.
The story worth relating from Arnavutköy got underway shortly after I finished my last bite of a döner not far from where I anticipated I would spend the night. As I've written elsewhere in this travelogue, the most difficult part of any day tends to be closing the last few miles or less, a miniscule gap, to a host. My night in Arnavutköy was a fabulous example of that phenomenon. Before dinner, with those challenges in mind, I had diligently scouted a way through nearby, bustling Arnavutköy that I intended to use to get to an address I also had stored on my GPS. As I prepared to climb onto the bike and close that miniscule gap, I checked my phone, with no concern in sight, for what I anticipated would be the last time before I was settling into my most recent booking. Then I read the latest messages and discovered that the host had moved properties and the new property was on the other side of town. I wasn't pleased, but being a seasoned observer when it comes to this sort of game I also didn't take much time for self-pity; instead, I went to work on the problem, starting with a rough fix to the new property on my GPS and then headed that way by now under a dark sky lit at ground level by a myriad of fast moving, city traffic on a complex grid of roads and other infrastructure.
I closed the first five miles without incident, stopping along the way to pick-up a second dinner which I stashed in one of my panniers before resuming the ongoing, mini-adventure. At about this point, my GPS requested that I turn-off one of the city's primary arteries and I obliged. Roads unaided by any form of street light followed as I rode into a variety of neighborhoods and then down a steep descent. At the bottom, I turned right and within about 25 feet came to a quick stop as a tall chain-link fence topped with razor sharp hoops of barbed wire resolved in my mind’s eye. The fence and the wire literally cut across the road; the scene was special, something unique for my adventures by boot, boat, motorcycle, and bicycle.
Beyond the fence was a neighborhood and the way that my GPS was shouting at me to follow. Nearby, I could easily hear the sounds of very unfriendly dogs. Eventually, following two or three similar cul-de-sacs, I arrived to a guard shack attended by a sleepy man that immediately waved me into the secure neighborhood. A few more turns, perhaps a quarter mile, and I was confused again. A stranger came to my aid, and then from the shadows of a nearby property, one of my hosts arrived as well. It was a privilege, of course, to have to overcome these challenges especially when I was worn down by nearly 112 miles, 6500 feet of climbing, and 10 hours of bicycle touring from the chicken farm. However, those privileges aside, I was nonetheless relieved when my host finally materialized; in large part because by this point I was well down the road as far as wondering if the whole booking had been a sham!
It certainly wasn't a sham; in fact the property was a palatial, recently constructed palace. My private room was on the second floor. On the ground level, an assemblage of young, Turkish hosts, the primary manager a flight attendant, took care of all of my needs and more. And as often happens, the evenings trials were quickly forgiven and forgotten as I settled into my usual routine, including images and accompanying captions uploaded to Instagram.
Knowing that I was within 40 miles of the Bosphorus, I took my time the next morning, departing at a few minutes past ten o'clock. My first concern was getting out of Arnavutköy, a city in appearance and character bifurcated by a multi-lane highway that appeared to allow bicycles but I wasn't willing to go there. Instead, I headed for what I assumed was a rough gravel road that followed a creek in the direction of Istanbul. In the company of more dogs than most people in the United States see in a year’s time, I cautiously made my way past them, all homeless, and a post-apocalyptic scene of mangled roadway, trash, and disturbed land on either side. The surface for most of this stretch from Arnavutköy to Pirinççi Köyü, about 10 miles, was indeed "rough" gravel.
At one juncture, the road seemingly ended, under a massive highway overpass, and I nearly reversed direction (turned around) before I discovered that the road continued beyond a berm of glass shards, dirt, and stone within the shadow of the bridge. At the other end of this dirt-surfaced adventure, a quirk of the quantum delivered a shop keeper selling all sorts of things including fresh tea from a structure built from tarps and other temporary (elsewhere but not here) construction material. Language didn't allow us to communicate much beyond comforting smiles, but that was enough to inspire me to sit down, briefly, and enjoy a wee cup, in a tall, clear, glass of the country's favorite hot beverage. The shop and keeper's juxtaposition relative to my transect of a wasteland a moment before was enough to get me to smile, in deep format, across both cheeks, as I processed one more opportunity to celebrate the journey even as I closed in on my ultimate goal.
I first came across homeless (stray) dogs on this tour shortly after crossing the border into Turkey, in the oak forests, much to my surprise, around Demirköy. Seemingly all were marked with a colored tag in one of their ears identifying that they'd been neutered. Their numbers steadily increased and reached a high point as I approached Istanbul, including the village of Pirinççi Köyü. There were so many by this point that I could easily look left and right and, at times, count a dozen or more. Most would watch me pass without any concern or desire; others were sleeping a few inches from their potential annihilation on the side of the road; some were stone-cold dead where they had slept for the last time; others, but there were very few of these thankfully, behaved in sound and other manners like they might give me some trouble. I dealt with the latter by riding directly at them with equal aggression and this was sufficient to get them to stand-down.
Beyond Pirinççi Köyü and a few more hills, I came upon a cyclist in Lycra. I'd not seen one for hundreds of miles, and so I turned around, closed the gap, and introduced myself. Jumping a few days ahead in my story, Erol subsequently traveled for 60 minutes into the city by public transport to help me find a box to fly my bicycle back to the United States. During that visit, he also guided me around parts of old Istanbul, including the spice market where he generously bought me a set of Turkish coffee cups and saucers; I added a pound of Turkish coffee. These are the only items that I flew home with from the tour.
Our meeting, Erol and I, on the roadside must be associated with such a small probability that its conclusion, among others, has inspired me then and since to contemplate just how exceptional the event was and wonder how it possibly occurred. For years, in my youth and beyond, I marveled at "chance" and all that this word implies, and this was enough to satisfy my curiosity. However, these days, as much as I still enjoy and often do think about rare encounters as functions of "chance", I've begun to recognize and accept an inevitability motivated by the weirdness of quantum physics, without any contribution by characters found in man's favorite creation stories. Perhaps if mankind persists long enough then Science will come to understand those mechanisms. In the meantime, I'm thrilled to have a friend from a place so different from where I was raised, and the wonderful perspective that his friendship provided on a part of a day that we enjoyed together in Istanbul.
Beyond Erol, I slipped through an unmarked, mostly unknown industrial gate into the famous city from antiquity, all that remained from this point was to transect the town, make my way south to one of many Bosphorus ferry boats, and then wait patiently for the boat to carry me to the conclusion of the European subcontinent. In my here-and-now, amidst industrial scenes that were quickly transitioning into an urban city-scape of high-rises and taxi cabs, I wasn't bragging inside or out about my success, seemingly so close but "yet so far", a cautionary, superstitious modus operandi that normally would have ensured smooth passage but in this case the universe paid my token of respect no notice and instead prepared to unleash one more unexpected challenge into the awareness spectrum of a bike and its rider.
Part-way into town, by this point on highway-like roads, multi-lane and dangerously fast, I smiled when I happened to notice and so turned towards an open gate through a tall, concrete barrier. How I noticed amidst whizzing traffic, this nearly hidden right turn onto a walk-way versus what I was anticipating, a road, is a product of weeks spent on a bike. However, my celebration was short lived. Just inside a guard at a guard shack, students quickly flowing past me in both directions, informed me that the campus was off limits.
When I built my track line through the city using RideWithGPS I hadn't noticed the campus, but I also would never have guessed that it was off limits. I was heavily burdened by this man's conclusion and reluctantly turned my back on a blissful scene, one of students, green lawns, and quiet streets, towards the gap in the concrete wall and the highway just beyond. About a third of a mile north, now freelancing (versus following a predetermined route) my way across an awful space for a bicycle, I came to a much larger gate and tried again, only to be turned-around with less kindness from the guards. I retreated to the sidewalk, by now deeply frustrated, and assembled what remained of my patience, a modest fragment, before continuing north on and off the roadway, constantly scanning for an opportunity to turn east towards the nearby Bosphorus.
A few miles from the second rendezvous with campus guards, I watched a taxi cab make a right onto what appeared to be a network of roads that were unprecluded by gates and men; I quickly followed his wheel. This brought me into an Istanbul neighborhood and a collection of shops where I stopped to refuel and linger in the relative comfort of local priorities in the absence of frenetic highways. At this point, looking out the glass windows of a small börek shop, it seemed I'd gotten past the problem. Beyond the shops and a much needed pause to regroup and come down, I confirmed my suspicion as I quickly descended to the west bank of the Bosphorus and took a right onto the road that parallels the famous strait between the Black Sea and the Sea of Marmara.
If I had known that the parallel road was going to be so reasonable then I would have approached it farther to the north, a lesson for anyone planning to bicycle into Istanbul. It's busy with cars, buses, and their kin, with tourists of every flavor on every corner, but it's also respectful of travelers with no obscene infrastructure to contend with such as a long tunnel or a section of highway. In fact, I quickly transitioned from a state of considerable stress to one of enviable peacefulness as I rode south along the Bosphorus towards the ferry terminal that I could see on my GPS. Occasionally, I paused in traffic, but most of the time I weaved through and around cars when they stopped as motorcycles and scooters often do across Europe.
When I reached the ferry terminal I turned left and glided into a small parking area. On my left was a long queue which I didn't understand; later I would discover that those folks were swiping their pre-paid city transport cards at the only machine available at the terminal. Out of ignorance and wishful thinking, I went directly to a small ticketing building containing one occupant. A moment later, perhaps 60 seconds, I was welcomed onboard one of about a dozen ferry boats that were lined-up at the pier. I stashed my bike at the front of the boat and prepared for the final leg of a trans-continental journey that I could easily see less than a mile offshore.
For the last time on my bicycle tour from Duncansby Head to the edge of the European subcontinent, I would be a passenger on a ferry boat amidst strangers representing an impressive suite of cultures and nations. However, I knew from experience on this tour and others, that the only difference between these proximate strangers and my friends elsewhere in the world was a smile; even a few spoken words were unnecessary to form the bond, the trust, and the mutual respect for life and prosperity that comes with friendship. I settled onto the port (left) side overlooking the bow and my bicycle that was leaning on the only resemblance of a forecastle from bygone days when sailboats and salty men plied the seas with tremendous courage and success in the absence of any of our modern conveniences.
In hindsight, the stress of the morning had been significant, the guards, the highways, and the associated cul-de-sacs had affected my peripheral nerves in a way that left them feeling a bit singed on their edges. Below my feet, in my mind’s eye, the deck of the ship easily shifted to an image of sand at the bottom of a deep well representing resources that I no longer had, all of them oxidized whilst crossing the highlands of Scotland, the Alps two times, and many lesser known but significant challenges between. As I imagined standing barefoot on that sandy bottom, I shifted my feet right and left, right and left, allowing them to dig several inches into the substrate until I found dampness, a depth where my feet touched what remained of my body's resources for propelling mind and body. I'd never taken myself down to this level, not annihilated in the sense that Edward Wilson and Captain Scott experienced as they lay unable to carry-on, awaiting their departure from the living, on a lonely ice shelf only eleven miles from a resupply depot. But my fatigue and depletion was very real and foremost on my mind as I began to absorb with what resources I had remaining an imminent arrival to a much visualized conclusion of an ambitious bicycle tour.
So there I was, standing in the sand, one hand occasionally on the rail of the ship, listening to the sounds of common black-headed gulls as they searched the passengers for opportunities to collect a snack, the familiar smell of salt water in my nostrils, air in comfortable motion touching the skin on my exposed face and hands below an overcast sky. The opportunity to reflect was exceptional. Among the insights from the tour that returned for further reflection, was the contribution that fear makes in decisions made by individuals and governments that affect other people on a level that none of us should have to defend: their ability to live their lives as we want to live our own, free of famine, war, and other forms of suffering, among friends, family, and peaceful strangers.
Where had my contemplation of fear come from on this tour? Sarajevo easily comes to mind. I had not yet read The Cellist of Sarajevo but still, I felt a tragedy when I was in that city equal to the novel that would later penetrate deep into my compassion for humanity. I had also nearly ridden into Kosovo on the tour, another example of a place where fear-motivated, brutal killing extinguished life even in the survivors. And it doesn't require much depth in education to recall the suffering of the Scots and the Irish under British priorities and politics; and Jews across Europe during WWII. In modern times, all of this madness continues providing an unbroken chain of tragedy backwards and forwards through recorded history. As I type, entire regions of people, such as the Kurds, because fear and danger have been associated with their presence, are fighting for their existence. Closer to my home, Mexican immigrants, the people that American's rely on, for example, to harvest crops that eventually make their way to air-conditioned grocery stores, have been labeled by the current US President as "killers" and "rapists." Cuban's are all socialists of course, implying something more vile than unhinged democracy that denies their citizens affordable healthcare, gun control so their children will not be shot dead at their school desks, and fair elections, among many other blatant discrepancies from so-called democratic standards. And even Canadian's, despite their exceptional hospitality and modesty among "developed" nations, have recently been the target of fear-based injustices.
As I rode my bicycle across Europe, I occasionally focused my thoughts on fear, its contribution to initiating war and other forms of conflict, but more often I thought about how simple it would be to change the program and these terrible outcomes. I want to conclude my Le Tour de Europe travelogue with one of the conclusions of those mental wanderings, a gift from a long bike tour, an epiphany as we sometimes describe an exceptional, often personal, revelation: if we begin to reframe our discussions away from fear then we will also move away from conflict among neighbors, neighborhoods, larger communities, and nations. Remove fear and we remove aggression. All we need to do is identify the sources that disseminate fear and then change the message that we're willing to tolerate from these sources.
As individuals, when a preacher stands on his Holy podium and delivers a message that encourages fear then we need to raise our voices in a way that initiates a peaceful revolution towards a different message. As individuals, when our governments disseminate fear to support their invasion or bombing of an often distant nation we need to rise-up in peaceful revolution and use our voices and our ballot boxes to move our communities towards change, to rewrite the program that directs us each day so that no part of it deploys fear. When we hear or even sense a fear-based argument we need to reject that argument and we need to share that priority in a way that initiates a peaceful revolution towards no more fear. Into this vacuum we can insert something beautiful, foremost we can insert love, hope, kinship, and prosperity for all of Planet Earth's living somethings, humanity and the biodiversity that sustains us.
Is there anything to actually fear when it comes to strangers? There is nothing to fear, there are only reasons to celebrate when we realize that each soul is a unique and beautiful expression of the quantum physics that made all of us possible. In the absence of manufactured, baseless fear, each of these beautiful expressions can be seen for what they truly are, friends that we've not yet met. When we do, through something as simple as a smile or a few spoken words, in the absence of fear we will experience a feeling of kinship, a bond, and we'll want to celebrate and nurture that feeling especially when we're far from home and their kindness is contributing to our experience, a common theme in my journeys by boot, boat, motorcycle, and bicycle.
Media channels, governments, and religious leaders (not all but many) are the primary disseminators of fear and in all cases that fear is underwritten but misconception in some cases and selfishness in others. As individuals we can and should ask them to change their message and conclusions so we can change our own. Fortunately, the solution that I just described couldn't be simpler despite the awful and complex conclusions that will affect mothers, children, and other victims of war until we recognize the role that fear plays in these perennial tragedies. Years ago, I told my first mentor, Mrs. Rebhan, about a quest that I was on to find a parsimonious solution to "save the world" from itself. I believe I've found the solution: remove fear from the discussion and humanity will move towards a new program, a new method of operating, and one that celebrates everything that we share as living beings on Planet Earth, and that's pretty much everything.
Here's a Facebook link to the last video from the tour from the middle of the Bosphorus Strait:
https://www.facebook.com/andre.breton.7/videos/10218205230536349/
Epilogue: If you've read this far then I want to say thank you from my heart for following my tour and / or reading parts or all of this travelogue. It's the 4th of March, 2020, and I'm excited to announce here for the first time that I'll be going on tour in the autumn of 2020, by bicycle of course, an adventure that I've coined Europe 360 - Barcelona to Barcelona By Bicycle. I hope many of you will follow that tour and perhaps consider giving a donation to the charity that I'll be working with, possibly more than one charity. This tour will be supported by kindred spirits, that's my hope anyway. A marketing campaign involving sponsors is underway with this tour and Le Tour de Europe spearheading that message. The message that I want to spread is the value of responsible living, a collection of diet and lifestyle choices that respect the needs of other human beings - friends, family, and strangers - as well as Planet Earth's life-giving biodiversity. I hope to accomplish this by helping individuals, like you, to feel good. because I believe that if a person feels good then they'll "do good" as my late friend and mentor David Anderson often reminded us to do each time he departed our company. In the meantime, go out and explore your village, or one nearby, or one far away, be an inspiration for positive change and be sure to celebrate the journey along the way!
I rolled my bike into the small, concrete structure that resembled a military bunker and slipped into one stall, then another, then the last, only to discover that none of them contained any toilet paper. I suspect there was a time when paper was offered, a service that concluded after the valuable paper was repeatedly stolen? I dug through my kit and found a few napkins, enough to perform the anticipated clean-up. Despite the discomfort in my stomach and other signs of impending high-energy expulsions, incubation by the foreign something had not yet, I would later discover, reached its peak. Before departing, I reluctantly filled my water bottles using the bathroom taps. The water smelled strongly of chlorine but a quick, eye and nose inspection didn't raise any other concerns. Nonetheless, the experience led to nostalgia involving French cemeteries, their taps and clean water, and other public resources I've routinely accessed to hydrate on my European bicycle tours.
The Bulgarian side of the border was complex, in structure and navigation, but nonetheless sleepy; barely "a creature was stirring" on my side of the darkened security glass. As I clipped out of my left pedal and set the same foot on the curb, a smiling, female border agent slid the window open that separated us and reached for my passport. The inspection took less than a minute, and then I was given permission to continue into an expansive, fairly complex no-man's land containing lanes designated for all types of vehicles and foot traffic that I struggled to interpret amidst a myriad of official-looking, concrete, steal, and glass buildings on either side. I made my way to the most obvious row of cars then paused briefly before slowly riding between the cars and a sidewalk that was busy with pedestrians.
My impression was many of these pedestrians had arrived by some sort of public transport. With all of the conflict in the Middle East in mind, it's likely that most of the foot traffic that I witnessed were displaced citizens from far-away lands now caught between two countries, in a no-man's land, wishing they could simply go home but in the meantime relieved to be through one border crossing even as their anxiety built for the next. If they were successful getting into Bulgaria, then they would also have the freedom to travel to anywhere in the European Union; a very satisfying second place conclusion, I suspect, for anyone fleeing from dangerous circumstances such as a bombed-out Syrian village.
Beyond the walkways and pedestrians, I passed under infrastructure, an enclosed walkway over the road, and then arrived to the last ten-or-so cars where just beyond I could easily see Turkish border agents processing the next vehicle. These men were armed much more than any previous agents I had encountered. Not quite geared-up for military combat but nonetheless each one of them was capable of inflicting an outrageous amount of damage to life and limb. The threat was enough to stop my questionable, car-hopping, forward progress. At this point, I settled-in and waited for each opportunity to move-up through the queue towards the guard shack. To the right of the guard shack, a complicated crowd of pedestrians, drivers, vehicles, and border agents were negotiating outcomes that, despite my inability to understand their languages, clearly hinted at unhappy conclusions for some individuals. I was taking all of this in and more, a data dump into my subconsciousness, the scene was complex and curious, an outlier in my border crossings to date on any continent, when a border agent approached and spoke to me with an outstretched hand reaching for my passport.
He'd come from the guard shack, obviously had noticed me in line and perhaps had taken pity on my position in the row of cars, under direct sunshine; or maybe he was just curious about the man on the bicycle that clearly had come from "the west." Regardless of his motivations, he made me feel comfortable right away, even as he announced in a loud, excited voice, to his co-workers back at the shack, "he's an American." Given all of the nonsense that American's are expected to believe back in the United States, about places and people beyond their borders, I instinctively felt a moment of concern following his announcement to anyone within hearing distance. However, by now sharing a small space with three guards and all of them smiling and joking, I was quickly coming down from a habit taught to me by my birth nation, to anticipate negative intentions and outcomes in the company of foreigners; especially foreigners in recent conflict, politically or otherwise, with the United States which Turkey was among at this time.
They asked for my story and listened with curiosity as I briefly described my tour from Scotland to their polished shoes; and where I intended to finish, in the middle of the Bosphorus. Pleased and impressed, they returned my stamped passport and visitor visa and then directed me, by voice and finger, to the exit. When I was reluctant to make my way through a complex matrix of negotiations, that I mentioned above, one of the guards took notice, assured me that was the way, and then guided me through the worst of it. Despite all of the "signs of danger" at this particular crossing, those dangers turned-out to be nothing more than a response of my American education. In reality, men in uniforms were focused on performing a difficult job in a complex region of the world, affected by war, famine, and political unrest. They meant me no harm and quickly made those intentions obvious even before my passport reached the first official hand. All that said, there is no doubt that I was relieved, moments later, to be free-rolling again, heading south into Turkey, as the last major, border-related concern of the tour slowly dissolved behind me.
The atmospheric high-point for my day came a few miles over the border, just under 1000 feet above sea level, about 72 miles into the days ride. On either side of a comfortable secondary road, a once continuous, but now broken, plateau extended in all directions, deeply cut by countless small streams. That was my impression anyway, a scenario like the Pocono Mountains in Pennsylvania, United States. A plateau penetrated by water and erosion over millennia will eventually give the false impression of an orogeny - earth processes, such as colliding plates, that lead to the formation of mountains.
I paused for a snack just off the main road on a rough, gravel two-track where I found a rock to sit on and a moment to come down from the uncertainty and energy of the most recent border crossing. My illness was temporarily forgotten at this point, food slowly glided in and there was very little response that I can recall that implied an unhappy digestive system. A familiar scrub-oak forest rose-up beyond the dirt edges of my temporary, gravel road oasis in a country that was otherwise as unknown to me as any nunatak - a monolith rising above an ice sheet such as the Starr Nunatak in Victoria Land, Antarctica. I was once again an explorer, similar to a young snow petrel in his formative years, searching the nuances of nunataks and glaciers where he would eventually, if he survived man's drift nets and other at-sea hazards, nurture the next generation.
Back in the hear-and-now, my daydreams of ice, snow, stone, and angelic petrels dissolved into partly cloudy skies, green forests, no wind to speak of, and a temperature somewhere around 70 degrees; enviable bicycling weather. From roughly 1000 feet above sea level, I descended for many miles to the large town of Lalapaşa. Beyond Lalapaşa, the land rolled gently in a series of modest climbs all the way, about 30 additional miles, to an isolated farm not far from the regions bustling, capital city, Kirklareli. The hills that dominated the landscape to Kirklareli made-up for their gentle slopes with unrelenting frequency, a never-ending series of gradual climbs and descents that drained a body and mind that was also gradually sliding deeper and deeper into a gastrointestinal infection. Between the towns of Dolhan and Kayalı, I pulled-off on a farm track feeling more exhausted than I had on any of my bicycle tours to date.
As I processed my here-and-now from the vantage of my bicycle shoes amidst a peaceful agricultural setting, I was convinced the physical challenges of the tour from Duncansby Head to this point in Turkey were the cause of my escalating fatigue. I wasn't completely discounting what felt like some sort of GI infection but symptoms of that illness and its severity, fortunately, wouldn't present themselves, and by doing so reveal the true source of my annihilation, until the evening. A contemporaneous video and image from my Motorola motox4 smart phone reveal a gaunt face and unusually sunken eyes, evidence that something certainly wasn't well with my body when I captured those media files.
Surrounded by expansive agricultural fields, and recently plowed, thick, nutrient rich soils on either side of my farm track, I sat on the ground, a rare decision, and slowly processed, one patient bite at a time, what I had remaining in my bags, hoping that some form of nutrient depletion was contributing to my nearly powerless state. Feeling a bit better but far from great, I eventually rode on from here to Kirklareli, capping-off 115 miles since departing Sliven, at a pace that I'd describe as a crawl. I remained for the most part neutral or positive during this significant physical and mental challenge, deploying mental discipline to avoid slipping into the dark side, a space ruled by "the hater" that lives within all of our psyches side-by-side with "you" and "me", the part that desires only love and to be loved. Tricks of the mind withstanding, resources within my body felt absolutely tapped when I crested the last hill and subsequently drifted, feeling as substantial as a ghost by this point, into Kirklareli. A quick grocery shop followed, including a brief interaction with a few youngsters from the town that were fascinated by my bicycle and light-touring gear. The brief departure from my bicycle saddle charged my depleted resources just enough to allow a more-or-less comfortable cycle a few miles north to a place that I will always affectionately remember as "the chicken farm."
Just before arriving to my destination, I stopped to photograph a blazing, neatly outlined red sun as it approached the western horizon. I had told my hosts, using Airbnb's messaging app shortly after booking, that I'd be bicycling 120 miles from Sliven that day to reach their farm. With that message in mind and the onset of twilight upon us, they were anticipating my arrival and a little concerned when I finally showed-up. Once off my bike, the temporary high that I experienced riding the last few miles from Kirklareli quickly dissipated and I found myself looking for a place to sit down, almost literally "to collapse". I started with a concrete ledge, part of the infrastructure adjacent to the driveway and the basement of the house, amidst gardens and recently harvested organic walnuts that were spread-out to dry on a blue tarp. My hosts, Ferit and Firdesz, retires that had raised their children at the farm, were excited to share their organic crops and healthy lifestyle with their most recent guest. Normally, an opportunity like this one would have been at the top of my wish list; but on this exceptional evening, I was not feeling well and symptoms were about to get much worse in the midst of their energy and kindness.
A minute or two after settling onto a cool, dusty, slab of concrete, I was quickly on my feet again and doing my best to stay close to Ferit's energized heals as he gave me a tour of the farm and the house before we settled onto an expansive balcony that overlooked the surrounding countryside. Agricultural fields spread in all directions, broken by typical farm infrastructure and a few homes such as the one I was staying at. Ferit's parcel was modest within this matrix but every inch was dedicated to some form of fruit, nut, or vegetable, in addition to a covey of chickens that free-ranged across the fenced-in property dutifully removing problematic bugs and depositing nutrient dense, organic fertilizer. Among fruits grown on the farm, Ferit cultivated several rows of grapes for wine making. He generously shared the fruits of that labor with his guests. Like the other crops that he nurtured, the grapes were grown without any chemicals, organic in all ways except an expensive stamp of approval from local and regional government agencies.
Whilst still in my sweaty bike kit and by now feeling the onset of fever symptoms, Ferit invited me to join him at the only table on the balcony where he spread-out his lighter and cigarette pack alongside a plastic, reused, water bottle containing wine that he recently transferred from a larger container, glass or wood I assume, stored in the wine cellar. He politely filled my glass and then offered me a cigarette! I accepted the former and declined the later. From this point, I reluctantly, because of my depreciating condition, took on the role of interpreter using a myriad of old-school techniques in the absence of Wi-Fi, the farm had none, or a functional SIM card, my Bosnia-purchased SIM hadn't worked since I rolled into Serbia. Neither of my hosts spoke much of my language and I spoke none of theirs.
During my tour of the farm and initial sips of wine, Firdesz had slipped into her kitchen where she was preparing my first Turkish, home-cooked, home-grown, organic meal of many that she would feed me over the next forty-eight hours. As this implies, I was not only staying at a bed & breakfast, I was staying at a bed, breakfast, mid-morning meal, lunch, mid-afternoon meal, and dinner facility and all for $12.00 a night; a scenario of considerable envy among hobbits and bike riders. The experience with Ferit and Firdesz was exceptional even for my wide-ranging experiences traveling by boot, boat, motorcycle, and bicycle. Nonetheless, it's a great anecdote because it captures all of the essences of an enriched, travel experience. With enrichment and its many benefits in mind, I recommend that any courageous traveler looking for something personal and tangible from their excursions should begin a relationship, if they haven't already, with apps such as Airbnb and Gîtes de France. Unique, genuine, and funky lodging opportunities await the curious explorer and for a fraction of the cost of staying in a sterile, concrete and steel fabricated hotel room.
Communication challenges are inevitable of course, when traveling in countries that don't share your native language. However, these challenges shouldn't be a concern or otherwise influence an itinerary especially in the modern age with all of its apps and other resources. I'll take a side-step from the porch and the wine, for a moment, to write about Google Translator and SIM cards. The following day, a rest day that I desperately needed it would turn-out, I used Google Translator's option to translate spoken word, for the first time, and it worked marvelously even when Ferit spoke quickly without any concern about how close or far he was from my smart phone’s microphone. As a programmer by trade, I was blown away by the apps ability to detect individual words and translate long strings of them spoken at normal conversation pace. This feature, along with Google Translator's option to translate written words, any that you can point your camera at such as descriptions of archeological relicts on display at a museum, are remarkable for their accuracy and efficiency. Each feature is a tremendous asset for any traveler that wants to get more out of their journey.
Paired with Google Translator and other convenient apps, an unlocked smart phone is exceptionally useful when traveling through foreign countries. It's not the standard talk and text features and their obvious benefits that I'm referring to, it's access to the unlimited resources of the internet including apps for locating inexpensive, last-minute lodging opportunities. I purchased a SIM card in Wales, on display at a grocery store, check-out line, which provided me with reliable talk, text, and data services all the way to Bosnia. Total cost was about forty dollars. In Bosnia, a non-EU member state, I purchased another SIM card for about five dollars that provided the same services to the Serbian border. From Serbia to Kirklareli, I made-do without an active SIM card, relying on cafes and other public Wi-Fi opportunities. This cheap alternative is actually not that inconvenient especially when paired with a GPS, like the Garmin 1030 that I was using, that relies on free, unlimited access to Earth-orbiting satellites (versus proprietary cell phone towers).
On my rest day at the chicken farm, Ferit kindly brought me to Kirklareli where I purchased my last SIM for the tour for about twenty dollars including all the talk, text, and data that I needed. As you can see, total cost for the suite of services enjoyed by American cell phone owners can easily be had for a fraction of the cost that thieves like ATT and Verizon would otherwise charge a naive client. My advice is give them the finger and instead take advantage of your unlocked cell phone; it's your property after all, by purchasing and installing cheap, reliable, local SIM cards. I also strongly advise that American smart phone owners have a close look at Google's Fi network and its advantages. For the last two years I've been paying about $28.00 per month for excellent service and coverage in the United States, talk, text, and data. The recurring and expensive nightmares that I experienced with ATT and later Verizon, and associated stress, are all but forgotten.
My experience with Ferit and Firdesz was a unique and fabulous opportunity to integrate into the fabric of Turkish culture thanks to their kindness, generosity, and openness. I genuinely enjoyed my initial visit with Ferit, on the open-air balcony as he smoked his favorite cigarettes at uncomfortable proximity, and the meal that was served by Firdesz, host extraordinaire, at the conclusion of it all. Nonetheless, my desire to get out of my bike kit, take a shower, and then assess what seemed to be going on with my system, a downslide into some form of illness, possibly serious, was on my mind. Unfortunately, at this point, a few minutes after dinner, a miscommunication led to a super cold shower. At the conclusion of that cold water submersion, I was physically shaking and unable to do anything about it other than seek a bed and blankets. By this point, it was early evening, dark but by no means regular bed time for adults. I'd also managed to keep how I was feeling for the most part a secret as I went through the check-in routine with Ferit and Firdesz including the wine social and evening meal. I don't know what they were thinking when I quickly disappeared into the bedroom but by this stage I was in very bad shape.
Still damp from my cold shower, I searched the cabinets for every blanket that I could find and spread them onto the bed. Then I climbed under and shivered, not quite violently but severely, for the next twenty minutes, perhaps more. I had no idea what was happening, other than I'd contracted a serious something that was leading to shivering and other symptoms of flu. About thirty minutes into my ordeal, I began to realize what was likely causing my issue, some form of gastrointestinal infection that sent me to the bathroom where I expelled more gas than a herd of cows chewing their cud whilst peacefully releasing methane, a primary contributor to ongoing climate change. Cows, cud, and methane aside, what exploded from my backside was not only unpleasant but it created a symphony that any culture could interpret in the absence of a translator especially through thin walls within an intimate, modest farm house. There was no hiding the fact that I was not feeling well at this point. I did my best to remove any sign of the incident from the shared bathroom and then crawled into my bed for a second time. However, it wasn't long before I was back on the throne and a second sonata was underway for the displeasure of anyone nearby. I repeated this pattern perhaps two more times before I felt able to rejoin the outside world, and from the privileged perspective of the airy balcony.
I have no idea what Ferit and Firdesz were thinking at this time but if I had to guess, based on their meticulous and family-inspired concern for all of my other needs, they must have been concerned and wishing they could comfort me in some way. In the meantime, I accepted all the tea, to minimize dehydration associated with my trips to the bathroom, which Firdesz offered. Eventually, the gas in my belly subsided and with it I was already feeling like the worst was behind me and hopeful that the next morning I'd wake feeling even better. With that hope in mind, I drifted into my bed, closed my eyes, and was quickly asleep. Normally, sleep like that would only be interrupted, many hours later, by morning sunlight and internal chemistry. However, the family dog had other plans that involved his proximate neighbor.
Sometime after midnight, the dog went on a barking spree directly below my open window that lasted for many minutes. That much I could have survived, but the barking subsequently repeated, in bursts of 5-15 minutes at a time, into the wee hours. When the sun rose I was a total wreck from lingering infection and far too little sleep. The experience also left me, understandably, short on patience. The next night, Ferit kindly moved the dog to the opposite side of the house which helped substantially, the dog still barked and I was occasionally wakened by this pointless disturbance but I did get much more sleep than the night before. By that second morning, the perfect bug- and dog-induced storm was beginning to transition to a new chapter, a story not yet revealed but somewhere beyond the chicken farm; and despite fond memories of a space and a couple, and a deep fatigue, I was ready to go there and bring to a close an extraordinary, personal journey and accomplishment.
By now, it was 21 October 2019, close to nine weeks since departing far-flung Duncansby Head at the northeast tip of Scotland. My goal was to reach Arnavutköy, a busy, complex, high-story and high-speed town that hosts Istanbul's new international airport. The purpose of this goal wasn't to arrive at the airport, instead it was to bypass as much of Istanbul as possible by approaching the city from the north, versus west or south, the following day. Before that final assault of Istanbul by bicycle got underway, I first had to ride from the chicken farm to my next hosts and the last few miles involved some complications that are worth sharing.
In between, the landscape was consistent with what I'd experienced from the border south of Lesovo, Bulgaria to Kirklareli. A repeating pattern of gently rolling hills, reminiscent of massive, peaceful swells rolling off the Pacific Ocean into the Drake Passage that I'd witnessed years ago on my way to King George Island, South Shetlands, Antarctica. The hills were mostly converted to agriculture, occasionally interrupted by modest villages. Among the larger towns that I cycled through, in Saray I bypassed an optional out-and-back to the nearby Black Sea, less than ten miles north of my west-east trajectory at this point on the tour. My legs were tapped and other resources for maintaining forward progress were similarly depleted. Nonetheless, I still occasionally wish that I had found the power to will myself onto that short detour. My hope of traveling by ferry boat from Istanbul to the Black Sea, at the conclusion of the tour, also never happened. Perhaps all of this was intended, by the universe and its quirky quantum physics, to get me to return to the Black Sea on a future adventure. If so then I'll certainly shelf any regrets that I might still be hanging onto when I get there.
From the top of a hill overlooking a deep valley and a long ascent to the outskirts of Arnavutköy, I could easily see the ancient city itself, Istanbul, looming on the southeastern horizon. At this juncture, fine weather, accomplishment, and the magic of the human mind to manage fatigue all gifted me the opportunity to experience a wave of gratitude. Whilst taking in the scene around me, I instinctively turned, without thinking, onto the soft shoulder on my right, dodged a few stones and human detritus such as discarded bottles, and then carefully coasted into a recently plowed field. The soil was soft-brown in color, similar to the creamy appearance of beach sand composed of pulverized granite; the norm where I grew up in eastern Massachusetts in the United States. Above the soil, the landscape descended in millions of beautiful lines that diverged and converged in a wonderful and playful dance all the way to a salt-water inlet that connects to the Sea of Marmara. The lines and the hills that they formed transitioned through a spectrum of browns revealing differences in soil minerals and nutrients. The colors, the symmetry, and the solitude were marvelous, easily enough to lodge this seemingly insignificant moment, on a hill among many and all of them unknown except to the farmers that plow them, deep into my central nervous system. There wasn't much as far as vegetation or structures built by man to impede the palatial vista and there was also no one to share it with, other than the steed that had carried me on a very long journey through no fewer than 28 mountain ranges and exactly thirteen countries in 62 days, so far, with only one serious mechanical issue, a broken derailleur in Switzerland, to this unanticipated moment.
I was surrounded by, proximally and as far as my eyes could see, what most people would describe as "nothing", implying the absence of "something" that travelers from developed nations typically list off when asked, "What did you see?" What we "see" being the standard, apparently, for measuring the value of a trip. I propose that we push out the margins of "seeing" to encompass moments like this one, alone in a field, rarely, if ever, visited by strangers. When I went in search of serendipity, years ago on my old Honda motorcycle, I learned that beyond "seeing" lay a plethora of opportunities that were often gifted to only the solo-traveler by the often devious but no less guiding and helpful universe. Now, by bicycle, I often describe what I'm doing as a celebration of the journey. In either case, I've learned that the dull moments between are opportunities so immense that they can and often do reach out and touch the Andromeda Galaxy.
What we "see", returning to the standard "western" measure of a trips success, is far too easy to accomplish and so a moment later the task is complete and we move on without growing from the experience despite our investment in time and resources, including the implications of fuel consumption for temperature-sensitive life on Planet Earth in the form of real, present, and ongoing effects of climate change. By pushing out the margins of our response to "What did you see?", travelers could begin to focus, instead, on what they "feel" and then subsequently explore and grow from those experiences. I agree that there is something very special about a visit to Rome's famous amphitheatre, but the same can be found in anonymous places, among people that perhaps have no story of significance that is valued by writers of history and travel guides.
The story worth relating from Arnavutköy got underway shortly after I finished my last bite of a döner not far from where I anticipated I would spend the night. As I've written elsewhere in this travelogue, the most difficult part of any day tends to be closing the last few miles or less, a miniscule gap, to a host. My night in Arnavutköy was a fabulous example of that phenomenon. Before dinner, with those challenges in mind, I had diligently scouted a way through nearby, bustling Arnavutköy that I intended to use to get to an address I also had stored on my GPS. As I prepared to climb onto the bike and close that miniscule gap, I checked my phone, with no concern in sight, for what I anticipated would be the last time before I was settling into my most recent booking. Then I read the latest messages and discovered that the host had moved properties and the new property was on the other side of town. I wasn't pleased, but being a seasoned observer when it comes to this sort of game I also didn't take much time for self-pity; instead, I went to work on the problem, starting with a rough fix to the new property on my GPS and then headed that way by now under a dark sky lit at ground level by a myriad of fast moving, city traffic on a complex grid of roads and other infrastructure.
I closed the first five miles without incident, stopping along the way to pick-up a second dinner which I stashed in one of my panniers before resuming the ongoing, mini-adventure. At about this point, my GPS requested that I turn-off one of the city's primary arteries and I obliged. Roads unaided by any form of street light followed as I rode into a variety of neighborhoods and then down a steep descent. At the bottom, I turned right and within about 25 feet came to a quick stop as a tall chain-link fence topped with razor sharp hoops of barbed wire resolved in my mind’s eye. The fence and the wire literally cut across the road; the scene was special, something unique for my adventures by boot, boat, motorcycle, and bicycle.
Beyond the fence was a neighborhood and the way that my GPS was shouting at me to follow. Nearby, I could easily hear the sounds of very unfriendly dogs. Eventually, following two or three similar cul-de-sacs, I arrived to a guard shack attended by a sleepy man that immediately waved me into the secure neighborhood. A few more turns, perhaps a quarter mile, and I was confused again. A stranger came to my aid, and then from the shadows of a nearby property, one of my hosts arrived as well. It was a privilege, of course, to have to overcome these challenges especially when I was worn down by nearly 112 miles, 6500 feet of climbing, and 10 hours of bicycle touring from the chicken farm. However, those privileges aside, I was nonetheless relieved when my host finally materialized; in large part because by this point I was well down the road as far as wondering if the whole booking had been a sham!
It certainly wasn't a sham; in fact the property was a palatial, recently constructed palace. My private room was on the second floor. On the ground level, an assemblage of young, Turkish hosts, the primary manager a flight attendant, took care of all of my needs and more. And as often happens, the evenings trials were quickly forgiven and forgotten as I settled into my usual routine, including images and accompanying captions uploaded to Instagram.
Knowing that I was within 40 miles of the Bosphorus, I took my time the next morning, departing at a few minutes past ten o'clock. My first concern was getting out of Arnavutköy, a city in appearance and character bifurcated by a multi-lane highway that appeared to allow bicycles but I wasn't willing to go there. Instead, I headed for what I assumed was a rough gravel road that followed a creek in the direction of Istanbul. In the company of more dogs than most people in the United States see in a year’s time, I cautiously made my way past them, all homeless, and a post-apocalyptic scene of mangled roadway, trash, and disturbed land on either side. The surface for most of this stretch from Arnavutköy to Pirinççi Köyü, about 10 miles, was indeed "rough" gravel.
At one juncture, the road seemingly ended, under a massive highway overpass, and I nearly reversed direction (turned around) before I discovered that the road continued beyond a berm of glass shards, dirt, and stone within the shadow of the bridge. At the other end of this dirt-surfaced adventure, a quirk of the quantum delivered a shop keeper selling all sorts of things including fresh tea from a structure built from tarps and other temporary (elsewhere but not here) construction material. Language didn't allow us to communicate much beyond comforting smiles, but that was enough to inspire me to sit down, briefly, and enjoy a wee cup, in a tall, clear, glass of the country's favorite hot beverage. The shop and keeper's juxtaposition relative to my transect of a wasteland a moment before was enough to get me to smile, in deep format, across both cheeks, as I processed one more opportunity to celebrate the journey even as I closed in on my ultimate goal.
I first came across homeless (stray) dogs on this tour shortly after crossing the border into Turkey, in the oak forests, much to my surprise, around Demirköy. Seemingly all were marked with a colored tag in one of their ears identifying that they'd been neutered. Their numbers steadily increased and reached a high point as I approached Istanbul, including the village of Pirinççi Köyü. There were so many by this point that I could easily look left and right and, at times, count a dozen or more. Most would watch me pass without any concern or desire; others were sleeping a few inches from their potential annihilation on the side of the road; some were stone-cold dead where they had slept for the last time; others, but there were very few of these thankfully, behaved in sound and other manners like they might give me some trouble. I dealt with the latter by riding directly at them with equal aggression and this was sufficient to get them to stand-down.
Beyond Pirinççi Köyü and a few more hills, I came upon a cyclist in Lycra. I'd not seen one for hundreds of miles, and so I turned around, closed the gap, and introduced myself. Jumping a few days ahead in my story, Erol subsequently traveled for 60 minutes into the city by public transport to help me find a box to fly my bicycle back to the United States. During that visit, he also guided me around parts of old Istanbul, including the spice market where he generously bought me a set of Turkish coffee cups and saucers; I added a pound of Turkish coffee. These are the only items that I flew home with from the tour.
Our meeting, Erol and I, on the roadside must be associated with such a small probability that its conclusion, among others, has inspired me then and since to contemplate just how exceptional the event was and wonder how it possibly occurred. For years, in my youth and beyond, I marveled at "chance" and all that this word implies, and this was enough to satisfy my curiosity. However, these days, as much as I still enjoy and often do think about rare encounters as functions of "chance", I've begun to recognize and accept an inevitability motivated by the weirdness of quantum physics, without any contribution by characters found in man's favorite creation stories. Perhaps if mankind persists long enough then Science will come to understand those mechanisms. In the meantime, I'm thrilled to have a friend from a place so different from where I was raised, and the wonderful perspective that his friendship provided on a part of a day that we enjoyed together in Istanbul.
Beyond Erol, I slipped through an unmarked, mostly unknown industrial gate into the famous city from antiquity, all that remained from this point was to transect the town, make my way south to one of many Bosphorus ferry boats, and then wait patiently for the boat to carry me to the conclusion of the European subcontinent. In my here-and-now, amidst industrial scenes that were quickly transitioning into an urban city-scape of high-rises and taxi cabs, I wasn't bragging inside or out about my success, seemingly so close but "yet so far", a cautionary, superstitious modus operandi that normally would have ensured smooth passage but in this case the universe paid my token of respect no notice and instead prepared to unleash one more unexpected challenge into the awareness spectrum of a bike and its rider.
Part-way into town, by this point on highway-like roads, multi-lane and dangerously fast, I smiled when I happened to notice and so turned towards an open gate through a tall, concrete barrier. How I noticed amidst whizzing traffic, this nearly hidden right turn onto a walk-way versus what I was anticipating, a road, is a product of weeks spent on a bike. However, my celebration was short lived. Just inside a guard at a guard shack, students quickly flowing past me in both directions, informed me that the campus was off limits.
When I built my track line through the city using RideWithGPS I hadn't noticed the campus, but I also would never have guessed that it was off limits. I was heavily burdened by this man's conclusion and reluctantly turned my back on a blissful scene, one of students, green lawns, and quiet streets, towards the gap in the concrete wall and the highway just beyond. About a third of a mile north, now freelancing (versus following a predetermined route) my way across an awful space for a bicycle, I came to a much larger gate and tried again, only to be turned-around with less kindness from the guards. I retreated to the sidewalk, by now deeply frustrated, and assembled what remained of my patience, a modest fragment, before continuing north on and off the roadway, constantly scanning for an opportunity to turn east towards the nearby Bosphorus.
A few miles from the second rendezvous with campus guards, I watched a taxi cab make a right onto what appeared to be a network of roads that were unprecluded by gates and men; I quickly followed his wheel. This brought me into an Istanbul neighborhood and a collection of shops where I stopped to refuel and linger in the relative comfort of local priorities in the absence of frenetic highways. At this point, looking out the glass windows of a small börek shop, it seemed I'd gotten past the problem. Beyond the shops and a much needed pause to regroup and come down, I confirmed my suspicion as I quickly descended to the west bank of the Bosphorus and took a right onto the road that parallels the famous strait between the Black Sea and the Sea of Marmara.
If I had known that the parallel road was going to be so reasonable then I would have approached it farther to the north, a lesson for anyone planning to bicycle into Istanbul. It's busy with cars, buses, and their kin, with tourists of every flavor on every corner, but it's also respectful of travelers with no obscene infrastructure to contend with such as a long tunnel or a section of highway. In fact, I quickly transitioned from a state of considerable stress to one of enviable peacefulness as I rode south along the Bosphorus towards the ferry terminal that I could see on my GPS. Occasionally, I paused in traffic, but most of the time I weaved through and around cars when they stopped as motorcycles and scooters often do across Europe.
When I reached the ferry terminal I turned left and glided into a small parking area. On my left was a long queue which I didn't understand; later I would discover that those folks were swiping their pre-paid city transport cards at the only machine available at the terminal. Out of ignorance and wishful thinking, I went directly to a small ticketing building containing one occupant. A moment later, perhaps 60 seconds, I was welcomed onboard one of about a dozen ferry boats that were lined-up at the pier. I stashed my bike at the front of the boat and prepared for the final leg of a trans-continental journey that I could easily see less than a mile offshore.
For the last time on my bicycle tour from Duncansby Head to the edge of the European subcontinent, I would be a passenger on a ferry boat amidst strangers representing an impressive suite of cultures and nations. However, I knew from experience on this tour and others, that the only difference between these proximate strangers and my friends elsewhere in the world was a smile; even a few spoken words were unnecessary to form the bond, the trust, and the mutual respect for life and prosperity that comes with friendship. I settled onto the port (left) side overlooking the bow and my bicycle that was leaning on the only resemblance of a forecastle from bygone days when sailboats and salty men plied the seas with tremendous courage and success in the absence of any of our modern conveniences.
In hindsight, the stress of the morning had been significant, the guards, the highways, and the associated cul-de-sacs had affected my peripheral nerves in a way that left them feeling a bit singed on their edges. Below my feet, in my mind’s eye, the deck of the ship easily shifted to an image of sand at the bottom of a deep well representing resources that I no longer had, all of them oxidized whilst crossing the highlands of Scotland, the Alps two times, and many lesser known but significant challenges between. As I imagined standing barefoot on that sandy bottom, I shifted my feet right and left, right and left, allowing them to dig several inches into the substrate until I found dampness, a depth where my feet touched what remained of my body's resources for propelling mind and body. I'd never taken myself down to this level, not annihilated in the sense that Edward Wilson and Captain Scott experienced as they lay unable to carry-on, awaiting their departure from the living, on a lonely ice shelf only eleven miles from a resupply depot. But my fatigue and depletion was very real and foremost on my mind as I began to absorb with what resources I had remaining an imminent arrival to a much visualized conclusion of an ambitious bicycle tour.
So there I was, standing in the sand, one hand occasionally on the rail of the ship, listening to the sounds of common black-headed gulls as they searched the passengers for opportunities to collect a snack, the familiar smell of salt water in my nostrils, air in comfortable motion touching the skin on my exposed face and hands below an overcast sky. The opportunity to reflect was exceptional. Among the insights from the tour that returned for further reflection, was the contribution that fear makes in decisions made by individuals and governments that affect other people on a level that none of us should have to defend: their ability to live their lives as we want to live our own, free of famine, war, and other forms of suffering, among friends, family, and peaceful strangers.
Where had my contemplation of fear come from on this tour? Sarajevo easily comes to mind. I had not yet read The Cellist of Sarajevo but still, I felt a tragedy when I was in that city equal to the novel that would later penetrate deep into my compassion for humanity. I had also nearly ridden into Kosovo on the tour, another example of a place where fear-motivated, brutal killing extinguished life even in the survivors. And it doesn't require much depth in education to recall the suffering of the Scots and the Irish under British priorities and politics; and Jews across Europe during WWII. In modern times, all of this madness continues providing an unbroken chain of tragedy backwards and forwards through recorded history. As I type, entire regions of people, such as the Kurds, because fear and danger have been associated with their presence, are fighting for their existence. Closer to my home, Mexican immigrants, the people that American's rely on, for example, to harvest crops that eventually make their way to air-conditioned grocery stores, have been labeled by the current US President as "killers" and "rapists." Cuban's are all socialists of course, implying something more vile than unhinged democracy that denies their citizens affordable healthcare, gun control so their children will not be shot dead at their school desks, and fair elections, among many other blatant discrepancies from so-called democratic standards. And even Canadian's, despite their exceptional hospitality and modesty among "developed" nations, have recently been the target of fear-based injustices.
As I rode my bicycle across Europe, I occasionally focused my thoughts on fear, its contribution to initiating war and other forms of conflict, but more often I thought about how simple it would be to change the program and these terrible outcomes. I want to conclude my Le Tour de Europe travelogue with one of the conclusions of those mental wanderings, a gift from a long bike tour, an epiphany as we sometimes describe an exceptional, often personal, revelation: if we begin to reframe our discussions away from fear then we will also move away from conflict among neighbors, neighborhoods, larger communities, and nations. Remove fear and we remove aggression. All we need to do is identify the sources that disseminate fear and then change the message that we're willing to tolerate from these sources.
As individuals, when a preacher stands on his Holy podium and delivers a message that encourages fear then we need to raise our voices in a way that initiates a peaceful revolution towards a different message. As individuals, when our governments disseminate fear to support their invasion or bombing of an often distant nation we need to rise-up in peaceful revolution and use our voices and our ballot boxes to move our communities towards change, to rewrite the program that directs us each day so that no part of it deploys fear. When we hear or even sense a fear-based argument we need to reject that argument and we need to share that priority in a way that initiates a peaceful revolution towards no more fear. Into this vacuum we can insert something beautiful, foremost we can insert love, hope, kinship, and prosperity for all of Planet Earth's living somethings, humanity and the biodiversity that sustains us.
Is there anything to actually fear when it comes to strangers? There is nothing to fear, there are only reasons to celebrate when we realize that each soul is a unique and beautiful expression of the quantum physics that made all of us possible. In the absence of manufactured, baseless fear, each of these beautiful expressions can be seen for what they truly are, friends that we've not yet met. When we do, through something as simple as a smile or a few spoken words, in the absence of fear we will experience a feeling of kinship, a bond, and we'll want to celebrate and nurture that feeling especially when we're far from home and their kindness is contributing to our experience, a common theme in my journeys by boot, boat, motorcycle, and bicycle.
Media channels, governments, and religious leaders (not all but many) are the primary disseminators of fear and in all cases that fear is underwritten but misconception in some cases and selfishness in others. As individuals we can and should ask them to change their message and conclusions so we can change our own. Fortunately, the solution that I just described couldn't be simpler despite the awful and complex conclusions that will affect mothers, children, and other victims of war until we recognize the role that fear plays in these perennial tragedies. Years ago, I told my first mentor, Mrs. Rebhan, about a quest that I was on to find a parsimonious solution to "save the world" from itself. I believe I've found the solution: remove fear from the discussion and humanity will move towards a new program, a new method of operating, and one that celebrates everything that we share as living beings on Planet Earth, and that's pretty much everything.
Here's a Facebook link to the last video from the tour from the middle of the Bosphorus Strait:
https://www.facebook.com/andre.breton.7/videos/10218205230536349/
Epilogue: If you've read this far then I want to say thank you from my heart for following my tour and / or reading parts or all of this travelogue. It's the 4th of March, 2020, and I'm excited to announce here for the first time that I'll be going on tour in the autumn of 2020, by bicycle of course, an adventure that I've coined Europe 360 - Barcelona to Barcelona By Bicycle. I hope many of you will follow that tour and perhaps consider giving a donation to the charity that I'll be working with, possibly more than one charity. This tour will be supported by kindred spirits, that's my hope anyway. A marketing campaign involving sponsors is underway with this tour and Le Tour de Europe spearheading that message. The message that I want to spread is the value of responsible living, a collection of diet and lifestyle choices that respect the needs of other human beings - friends, family, and strangers - as well as Planet Earth's life-giving biodiversity. I hope to accomplish this by helping individuals, like you, to feel good. because I believe that if a person feels good then they'll "do good" as my late friend and mentor David Anderson often reminded us to do each time he departed our company. In the meantime, go out and explore your village, or one nearby, or one far away, be an inspiration for positive change and be sure to celebrate the journey along the way!
Left, the farm track in Dolhan, Turkey where I sat on the ground overwhelmed by fatigue form a GI bug; right, my fabulous hosts, Ferit and Firdesz, from "the chicken farm" outside of Kirklareli, Turkey.
A section of atypical infrastructure for my journey from Scotland to Turkey. Most of the time, I was able to avoid "highways" such as this one. In these images, I'm within 25 miles from Arnavutköy.
Left, strangers that became friends at a restaurant where I purchased a second dinner; and, right, my kind and generous Turkish hosts for the evening (image taken the next morning) in a palatial palace in Arnavutköy, Turkey.
A portion of about 10 miles of rough road that I accessed to avoid the highway that enters the right image on a high bridge, top-middle. When these photos were taken I was about half-way between to the village of Pirinççi Köyü and Arnavutköy.
Above, Gear, mind, and body, all are exhausted after 63 days of touring by bicycle, 4392 miles from Duncansby Head, Scotland to Istanbul, Turkey. I'm on a jetty in Kadıköy, Istanbul, a neighborhood on the Asia-side of the Bosphorus. Despite a deeply fatigued mind, processing is already underway and I'm full of the positive emotions of a long and successful journey. Below, post-tour images from Istanbul, which I enjoyed with two generous, loving, and patient friends. Clarissa Knorr flew to town from Germany carrying all of the gear that I'd stripped fom my kit and shipped to her during the tour; Dirk Sollie flew in from Belgium.