September 10, 1996

The drive back up to Cappadocia was less turbulent than it had been in the opposite direction. The storm we had endured three days earlier had passed and our full attention was no longer on keeping the van from being swept off the road by wild wind gusts. The scenery, seen without rain and hail streaked windows, was striking. The sky reflected the beauty of the mountains. Whisked into the small clouds above were streaks of blue and green and translucent pink, as if the sky had been turned into mother of pearl.

The further we drove into Western Turkey, the more relaxed we became, but at the same time we missed the atmosphere of the East: the waves, the smiles, the handshakes, the salutes. We drove back to the Paris campground where we had stayed before and because six days of driving had worn us out, we spent the rest of the day doing nothing.