On an ordinary July evening last year, as I frantically paced up and down the aisle right outside my father’s hospital room trying to get him some urgent medical attention, I was well-aware of how quickly he was fading. A little later my fears were confirmed, the doctor said: Stay here, he may not make it through the night.
That my father survived that night, and many more uncertain and uneasy nights after that, is what makes making it to Turkey even more significant. We are determined to make the most of all that’s left of his life, and ours.
As we land in Istanbul, I am taken in by the sun, and the nip in the air and our patient 20-year-old wheelchair assistant; the men here all appear rather charming and agreeable.
We move quickly onward to Cappadocia where we spend a cold and quiet night in a cave. The feta and beet salad is a highlight, as is walking past hotels arched into many giant caves.
I realize, in the midst of it all, I have forgotten to pluck my eyebrows back home, and send myself packing to the nearest and only ‘Berber’ in town. We speak in broken English me frantically asking him for a lady attendant, he pointing out a sign: Men and Women, Eyebrows and Moustaches.
In the end, in the middle of Cappadocia, I have my eyebrows plucked by a rather adept man from Ankara. To him this is as usual, as to me it is unusual…
In all these years, so little has changed. I continue to keep the family entertained.:-)