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  • This is where.

    A little place on a long, lonely stretch of Turkish coast that has jumped out of time.
    Or perhaps it has never been inside time, not time as I know it.

    Our neighbors, goatherds, provide the honey, the fruit, the milk and the carob syrup on our table. We smile, speak our few words of Turkish, wave as we amble by, goats tinkling music back at us. The air smells of wild sage and thyme, oregano and rosemary muddled by their hooves. Heat feathers through the dust while déja vu plays about my edges.

    Later, as I watch a lone fisherwoman steer her boat through the impossibly turquoise water, I swear I can hear the Ancient Lycians, they who followed a matriarchal order, they who called these rugged shores home, they who vanished. They are whispering about

    this being out of time,
    this being the end of the road.
  • Even Alexander the Great, with his fancy, formidable armies, couldn't get past here, not over land. He had to turn around. Find another way.

    Odysseus ran into some kind of sea-monster, siren-singing, rock-smashing trouble just out there in the sea, not far out. He stayed for years.

    At least that's how the stories go around here.
    We hear the stories from the owner of the place we're staying at, a wandering Irishman, could be a Celt from some other time.
    He tells the tales as though he lived them himself. Perhaps he has.

    Bits and pieces of history tumble from the hillsides.
  • Just down the path spills another story, another time, in a jumble of tents -- hippies who found their way here in the sixties and never made it out.
    Even their dogs are mellow.
    Their roosters.

    In the evening the muezzin calls the dozen villagers to prayer,
    the drummer calls the dozen hippies to dance,
    the sea calls the rest of us to story.


    I could stay here, at the end of this road, for a thousand years.
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