August 25, 1996

In one sense we expected what came after the border into Turkey; drivers like in Greece who will do anything, death defying or otherwise, to gain a car length. In Greece we'd driven with one wheel in the breakdown lane. It was either that or be flashed at, honked at, yelled at and possibly flattened as we were passed at speeds two or sometimes three times our own. Speed limit signs are apparently mere formality. But we still worried that the minute we ignored one, we'd be hailed by the police; they were everywhere. Here in Turkey the speeds aren't nearly as insane but the intentions are - pass and fill in whenever possible. (There shall be no unsightly gaps in traffic).

We're on our way to Istanbul. From the Greek border near Alexandroupoli that's 240 kilometers of hugging the right lane. So far our cautious nature has kept us within the speed limit. That strategy got us all of seventy kilometers before a waving police arm brought us to a stop. "Do you suppose he thinks we were going too slow?" The officers (two of them) spoke only Turkish. I considered opening my visitor information pamphlet to the Turkish language page but I doubted the words there would be of much help. Instead we fell back on trusty old charades.

One officer asked where we were going. He pointed down the road and queried, "Istanbul?"

"Do you suppose the city has been closed?" John asked me. "Yes, Istanbul," we both said, addressing the officer.

That one word was like magic. A big grin appeared on his face. "Istanbul," he called to a man in a suit waiting across the road. Then he pointed to our back seat. "Istanbul," he cried again. The suit ran forward and reached for our door handle.

"Police Chef," the officer said. The man in the suit flashed his badge.

An interesting situation. It called for some quick thinking. I wasn't interested in giving a stranger, badge wielding or otherwise, a lift into Istanbul. "No, no. I mean yes Istanbul, no not now." I pulled out the map. "First we go here." I pointed randomly to somewhere along the coast. "Ok, ok," the men all sang. "No, not ok," I said. "We're going to be here..." I pointed again at the map, "For hours." I pointed to my watch and held up three fingers. "At least three hours." That seemed to do the trick. The men all nodded; the man in the suit ran back across the street and the two officers waved us on. As we pulled away, I saw in the rear view mirror that they had already flagged down another car.

A little more than an hour later, true to my word, we pulled over at a beach (somewhere along the coast) and had lunch. We were glad that we weren't sharing it with the Police 'Chef'. We only stayed there one hour but the sun and the breeze and the gentle crashing of the waves certainly did their best to convince us to stay longer. No, we weren't going to be beach bums again just yet. We had a definite travel strategy in mind and, when we have a plan, we tend to stick with it; unless of course we change our minds.

Recently we did just that. We changed our route from Greece to Turkey. But then to imply that we've changed our plans is incorrect. Our modus operandi since we began this trip is change. For us, not to make a change would be the real change. Continually changing would be to remain constant. I'm sure the ancient Greek Philosophers would agree.

So now it is Turkey. A new border, new scenery, new money, new people. By crossing one river posted by guards at either end, we have changed scenery from the Greek red-roofed villages to dry parched fields and ocean front property lined with cement apartment buildings. We have changed from Greek drachma to Turkish lira; we have changed from meeting the friendly Greeks to meeting the more than hospitable Turks. With all this change it's a wonder we feel we've moved at all.