Travel Photography, Writing and Photoblog from Matt Feldman

Iam no fan of organized bus tours, led by the half-interested guide, with too-brief stops at too few places. So in the face of a thousand brochures for package tour operators, I set out on my own on regular bus service to Selcuk. Stashing my backpack at the bus depot, I set out to walk the 3 km back to my intended destination: Ephesus. The path to the city is a well-kept, palm-lined sidewalk. And although it's empty today, people have been traveling this route for more than four thousand years.

Dated to 2000 BC, the ancient city of Ephesus is considered to be the best preserved Roman city on the Mediterranean. Although the historians fail to mention it, I'm certain that souvenir sales were just as prominent in ancient times, too.

With grand promenades, a theater for 25,000, baths with indoor plumbing, gymnasiums, temples and the largest library in the ancient world, Ephesus is an extraordinary, massive place. And while the temperature is easily over 38^oC (100^oF) for my visit, my frustration comes not from the heat but from the disappointing lack of information. I failed to buy the $20 guidebook at the entrance to the city and with only my Lonely Planet book for assistance, the details of virtually all the sights are unknown. The sparse plaques and panels offer only a bare skeleton of information, but the site still astounds.

The cooling spray of a farmer's hose (I never thought I'd have to plead for someone to blast me with water) made my return to Selcuk tolerable. But along the sidewalk, halfway between Ephesus and Selcuk, a tiny, brown sign caught my eye: "Wonder of Ancient World" it said, pointing to a overgrown driveway leading away from the highway. I followed the road as it opened to a large pool of shallow, stagnant water. A few columns rose from the water, one crowned by a large bird's nest. A large sign proclaimed this the site of the Temple of Artemis, one of the Seven Wonders of the World.

Legendary for its 127 columns and sprawling dimensions, the Temple of Artemis was built about 8 BC and lasted only a few hundred years. As a large bird swoops back into its nest above the green water and overgrown weeds on the street with the nearly-invisible sign, its hard to imagine this site on par with the other Wonders like the Egyptian pyramids or the Colossus of Rhodes. But maybe that's just because I didn't buy this guidebook, either.

Back in Selcuk, a working-class town devoid of much decoration or fanfare, I await my next bus while taking photos of kids playing in the streets. After a quick meal at a neighborhood eatery, my next stop is Pamukkale.

I arrive close to midnight and wind my way through the narrow streets to a nearly deserted hostel. After a massive kabob dinner, I hope to get a preview of the reason for visiting Pamukkale. Founded about 200 BC, the city's primary attraction was the tectonic and geothermal activity that produced low mountains with cascading thermal baths. But rather than just the usual minerals, the water flowing forth from these hills lends the town of Pamukkale its namesake — the Cotton Castle. So rich in calcium, the water running down the mountain has coated everything with a solid, white mineral crust. It's almost 25^oC tonight, but as I approach the park entrance, it looks like snow has been falling for a whole season.

Cast in blue and green floodlights, there are about 50 people walking around the tide pools and waterfalls. A security guard watches over the crowd, blowing his whistle when bathers cross into geologically sensitive areas. It's hard to see everything on the mountainside — the park is large and crescent-shaped, spanning over 1 km and rising about 100 m. I wander around the surreal landscape and stare into the black, unlit void, wondering what else the park will reveal in tomorrow's light.

My morning return, which now requires me to pay a $5 entrance fee, is instantly worth the trip. In the bright sun, the calcium-encrusted escarpment is one of the most intriguing natural things I have ever seen. It's like a paradoxically frozen landscape in 35^oC weather. Kids splash in natural pools worn into the land by falling water. People relax and soak and walk the length of the park. Water tumbles over the calcium deposits and adds imperceptible layers to the curiously shaped crusts. And at the top of the gently sloping hill, the ruins of the ancient city that began Pamukkale's fame. Atop the upper tier of benches in the ancient amphitheater, like the King of the Cotton Castle, I look down on the ancient city, the fields of archeological rubble, the pools and the calcium-encrusted hills. Onward.

I came to Ayvalik, Turkey, for a photo. A photo, more specifically, of the incredible beach with its coloured umbrellas and food and mountainous Greek isles on the horizon. This is the image on the cover of my guidebook, and I'm clearly poaching their idea. But without access to the rooftops of beachside buildings, that will be the only version I have. But I did get a great day on the sand and a few more spent relaxing and reading in a fun and quirky pension, with cool people and great views of the city.

It's awful. Really. So impossible looking is this, well, thing, that seeing it in person has served to shatter the mythical tales of its triumphant use.The legendary Trojan Horse is probably the most ridiculous looking thing I have ever seen.

If this working model is anything like the actual horse — and they say it is accurate — that was left at the gates to the ancient city, with dozens of warriors inside, waiting to be wheeled into the city before unleashing their conquering fury, then the residents of Troy deserved to be defeated. Some call it a tragedy of a fallen city. Or the triumph of creativity. But I call it Societal Darwinism, because nobody with half a brain should have ever wheeled such an absurd-looking contraption into their fortress without first looking inside.

Epic equines aside, the rest of the sights of Truva, or Ancient Troy, are interesting if also supremely un-detailed. Those of us who didn't spring for yet another $20 guidebook (or the even more expensive personal guided tour) are left to wander, gaze and wonder what all of it meant. Walking around the ruins, which is actually the remains of eight consecutive cities built atop one another over hundreds of years, leaves more questions than answers. Why are some walls built with these interesting contours and ledges? What do some oddly shaped buildings represent? What has been found in the ongoing archeological excavation? So many questions and so few answers from the sparse signs and posted information.

I leave on the last shuttle of the day back to the city, where buses, ferries and more buses would bring me through Izmir, and its bizarre bus station, toward the city that spans 2 continents.

Spoiled by Morocco. Again. In Istanbul, I was hoping for, and indeed expecting, a city teetering on the edge. Straddling Europe and Asia, on the edge of the Middle East (Turkey's neighbor to the east is Iraq), I expected crazy. I expected a wild mix of cultures and historical eras and food and a frenetic pace consistent with a vast city of 12 million. I was hoping for a bigger, wilder Marrakesh — another city balanced on a rickety scooter with a struggling two-stroke engine, careening through the geopolitical and social trials and tribulations of the present while balancing enormous baggage of the past.

The reality of present-day Istanbul, however, is wholly different. It is a city almost indistinguishable from any other modern, cosmopolitan European capital. Porsche's and Benz's on the streets, open air cafes and clubs and restaurants, friendly and diverse people, a modern and comprehensive metro system. Fabulous kebabs and fruits and vegetables and spices and a traditional ice cream that is positively addictive. It certainly feels and sounds different — Turkey is a Muslim country, after all — but a different kind of different.

Istanbul's future as a modern technocracy is here. Even the market, the legendary Bazaar, was a modern place completely removed from the mind-boggling insanity of past experiences. The streets were paved. The lights were fluorescent. The roof wasn't thatched. There were no careening donkeys loaded with whole apartments worth of goods. And the merchants, unfortunately, were entirely uninterested in playing the bargaining game.

Beautiful weather meant a Bosporous River cruise, wandering the oldest parts of the city, sampling the fabulous variety of desserts and snacks, and seeing a few of the prominent attractions of the Sultanahmet area, the heart of old Istanbul.

Istanbul is a European capital that has arrived in the present, ready to meet and join the West while refusing to abandon its traditions and rich past. But the rate of change driven by the engine of democracy is still an unknown quantity. And the country's anticipated role in sparking positive reform in the broader Muslim world, however, is another story. It certainly feels as through Turkey has the fuel to go the distance, but it's a long road ahead. I'm coming back, so I'd better get a few kebabs for the trip.