the big lap

Where do you vomit when you're five floors underground in an ancient city carved out of solid rock? I had a suspicion that this was one piece of knowledge the tour guide lacked and thus I was left to improvise....

We have arrived in Italy (a night in Milan then to Palermo) to the land of pizza, pasta, piazzas and gratuitous PDAs - which, for those not up with gossip-mag jargon, is the public face-sucking performance performed by young Italian couples - and we have left the land of big red flags. Unfortunately they were not the type of red rags that rouse the spirit of young socialists but the pure-and-simple nationalist white crescented flag of Turkey. As you fly into Istanbul they are one of the first things you notice and once you hit the ground they are everywhere. Hanging in shops, literally covering buildings and generally cluttering the landscape. The only thing to rival the ubiquity of the Turkish pennant is the likenesses of Mustafa Kemal who, in adopting the name Ataturk (literally "father Turk") is perhaps the worlds only self-dubbed founding father. And he is adored in a way that would make the Prophet jealous.

Sharing borders with Iran and Iraq to the east and Greece to the west, it is a country straddling two continents. Both politically and geographically on the edge of Europe, and with the Bospherous Strait connecting the Mediterranean to the Black Sea, running through Istanbul, Turkey maintains the same strategic significance today that motivated a particularly bloody invasion attempt by the ANZACs ın 1915. They also receive substantial financial and military aid from the US and (as is generally the case with countries close to the US) they have a fairly poor record on human rights. If you mention the Armenian genocide "there were deaths on both sides" and if you want to discuss the PKK you must first accept they are terrorists. After so many rave reviews, however, our familiarity with the food and our general inclination towards travelling, it is unsurprising that we enjoyed Turkey.

Turkey's people are predominantly Muslim although their country's relatively brief political history has been dominated by the fiercely secular militarism of Ataturk. There are plenty of moustaches around but not that many more than Australia and the same applies to hijabs. They also have a drinking culture (if a lack of quality beer) and Istanbul's entertainment and shopping district is full of trendy bars and cafes lining cobble-stoned lanes. And the call to prayer can prove an annoying alarm clock or mystical back drop as you explore the ancient Mosques and Churches.

The Turkish people, with very few exceptions, have been great and we regularly encountered people who were interesting, generous, approachable and polite. They seem to like Australians in a way that went beyond the normal sucking-up-to-a-tourist-who-might-buy/rent-their-goods/tour/hotel-room. Every second restaurant owner seems to have been (or be about to) visit Australia and the rest seem to have (or had had) Australian (or New Zealand) girlfriends. The frequent, and at times convincing attempts at ockerisms indicates that Turkey is well travelled by Australians, and while I might cringe at the re-enactment of our failed invasion each ANZAC day as young Australians languish in a mix of national pride and (I suspect) their own drunkeness, it actually seems to be quite the bonding point. It took a while to work out why.

The calamity that we know as Gallipoli plays a monumental part in the founding mythology of our respective countries. As the Ottoman Empire was self-destructing during the Great War, a young Mustafa Kemal (soon to become Ataturk) was bravely leading the Turkish people to victory on the front line. For Australia, the deaths at Gallipoli gave birth to the ideal of the Aussie Digger and marked a significant turning point in our relationship with England. With both countries freely able to blame the British, it is the glorified rules-of-engagement that are celebrated.

After catching up with Nick (an old school friend teaching English as a foreign language) we headed around the coast following an out-of-season tourist trail around the Mediteranean coast. We also visited the Greek island (from where Gita's Great grand parent emigrated) for a day that was picturesque despite the biting wind and rough boat ride, and had a mercifully brief and painfully cold swim at a pebble "beach" (because of a stupidly optimistic assertion that one could swim in the Mediterranean in March).

We then moved on to Cappadoccia, the heart of the country where rock formations are so phallic I would expect them to be censored rather than full of 11th Century churches. There was also a primo site for old geeks where the Sandpeople scene from Star Wars was shot.

We were rushing around the country ticking off tourist attractions and in an attempt to round off the cultural experiences, Nick, Gita and I decided to go to a Turkish Nights performance. Located in a cave outside of Goreme it was a gig aptly described by a fellow traveller as a cheesy but fun night. The dervishes whirled furiously, the belly dancer shimmied, the folk dancers pranced, the food was plentiful and the beer was dutifully brought to the table on request. Which is how I confronted something I fear more than six foot reptiles: audience participation. After dancing a public jig and pulling off a forward roll on a rock floor I had to calm my nerves which is how I ended up in an unbecoming state the following day, five floors below ground.

The solid rock was closing in, my stomach was churning and the only way out was back up the single-file flight-of-stairs which needed to be climbed in a crouch. The tour guide continued his explanation of the cruciform prayer rooms as I edged away from Nick's amused camaraderie and Gita's contemptuous glares.

The food in Turkey was great, I loved the pastries filled with cheese, the pides filled with cheese, the gozlemes filled with cheese and the often cheesy mezes (tapas or mezethes type dishes). Spinach was a great addition when it could be found but mostly, owing to a carbon-friendly practice of only eating what is in season, we missed out. I think mostly, however, I will miss the breakfasts, simple but delicious. Black tea, fetta, olives, bread and the type of delicious tomatoes you cant seem to buy in Australia. And, taking the remainder of my dignity along for the ride, that is pretty much what came wrenching from my guts and hurtled down a 900-year-old well. waiting, waiting...splash. Nick laughed while taking photos and offering water, Gita cursed and the tour guide stoically pushed on with his rehearsed lines.