This dude is the man.

"The Face"

We first saw him about four days ago. Stewart, Kris, Kara and I were walking through one of the shortcuts that connects our street to the Knez Mihajlova, when the large, trench-coated creature passed right by us, briefcase in tow.

"OH MY GOD!"

"What??"

"Did you see that guy's face????"

"What??"

"I've never seen anything like it before in my life!"

"What??"

"His face! It was like .... gooooooooooeeeeeeeewwwwwwww!" I did my best to stretch an imaginary mug upwards and downwards -- slowly, forcefully, permanently.

It was like I had seen a ghost. Stewart, too, had seen it. He was also beside himself in disbelief. The others were totally lost, and confused, as to why I was flipping out on the crowded streets of Belgrade.

It's been a hard go for The Face to find work since filming wrapped on "Dick Tracy."

It was like a cartoon. Like someone had grabbed hold of his forehead and his chin and just PULLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLED, until voila. Done.

We didn't have a camera. I always have a camera. But not this week -- damnit! I've been waiting for a package to arrive at the doorstep of the Three Black Catz since I left Sarajevo, one that will finally give me a charger for the replacement my mom gave me in a (very) one-sided trade while we were in Bosnia. I resigned myself to the fact that I would just have to orally describe the sight of The Face for the rest of my life, knowing that no one would believe me.

And then, we saw him again.

In my three trips to Belgrade, I have gotten progressively lazier and lazier. I have seen less and less of the sun per day, each time. My radius of exploration has steadily shrunk: From Kalemegdan-to-Zemun, to Kalemegdan-to-Ada, to Kalemegdan-to-sometimes-Ada. It's the Hole. The One Black Hole Hostel. Stewart calls it "the nexus of the universe." Not only does Mladen's place suck you into the orbit of Beograd; it sucks you into the orbit of its own walls. Kris, for example -- who arrived 46 days ago -- hasn't gone outside since Saturday night.

(Wait, let me correct that. I just asked Stewart -- who isn't exactly Mr. Active himself -- if Kris left the hostel at all yesterday. He took a sip of his tea, pondered the question for about two seconds, and responded: "We bought cheese.")

That's why buying the football was such a great thing. The most useful purchase since my one pair of pants. The football has given my life in Belgrade a new purpose. A reason to breathe fresh air, to put on my shoes, to go outside. Stewart and I -- and whoever else we can rally to get motivated -- go to toss it around at the Kalemegdan every day. And on two of those days, we crossed paths with The Face as a result.

"Stewart, Stewart! The Face! I just saw it again!"

"Where! Where!"

Once again, we were just outside of the hostel when it happened.

If ever I trip on acid, this is not what I want to see.

"Dude, you've got your camera -- we've got to get this on film."

"Oh, for sure," he said in his Big Sur accent. And he started to walk -- fast.

The first attempt failed. Stewart's camera choked -- the shutter just didn't comply fast enough. He was pulling the old "My friend is right behind you" trick to disguise his true intentions, which is pretty believable, but only once.

Definitely not twice, though. Especially when you've crossed the street, and for the second time in 20 seconds, you see a tourist punk walk right past you, turn, point a camera in your direction, and shoot.

The Face, I think, knew what was up. Check that. The Face definitely knew what was up.

"Dude, he was not happy about that," Stewart said when he ran back across the street. Rob and I had gotten stuck on the other side, and we had watched the whole thing while laughing, the football in my hands.

I took a quick glance at the LCD screen. Money.

"Great success!"

And we were off to the Kalemegdan, where we met Vlade Divac. And once again, Stewart's camera came through in the clutch.

In between my second and third trips to Belgrade, my Australian brate, Kris, met two bona fide Serbian celebrities: Dragana and Daliborka, girls he grew to know and love through a television screen, over the course of a entire month at the One Black Hole Hostel known as the Three Black Catz.

Partying in the V.I.P. room of Underground with two cast members from "Veliki Brat," the Serbian "Big Brother." Big freaking deal. I met Vlade Divac today.

eBay, please, for the love of God, sell me that jersey

Not that Vlade Divac.

This Vlade Divac.

Shorter than I imagined.

I love that they have the "he my cousin" phenomenon in Serbia, as well. Just like in America, wherever this is a professional athlete, there is a Redwood of a family tree in tow.

Let me guess who your cousin is.

This is Prijepolje, a small town in the southwestern pocket of Serbia, and where I spent this past Christmas day. It is the birthplace of both Vlade Divac's.

In such a small place, the gene pool is about as diverse as a Kappa Sig bid day rally at UVa. And so, naturally, there are a lot of families with the last name Divac.

And equally as natural, a lot of people will pull the Reggie Jackson-Gary Sheffield/Vince Carter-TMac "he my cousin" thing.

What shocked me in Prijepolje was that Vlade isn't even that beloved by his own people -- at least the ones who feel as if he has "abandoned" the city in which his roots lay. In the rest of Serbia, I have yet to meet a single person who dislikes Divac; in Prijepolje, I had a hard time meeting one who liked him.

But then I met today's Vlade, who immediately let me know who he was, once he spotted the football we were tossing at the Kalemegdan and began to talk with us about Tom Brady.

"I think that many people in Prijepolje do not like him because he, how do you say, success in America."

"So it's jealousy?"

"Yes, jealousy, that is what I think."

Who in America ever knew what it was exactly that Vlade was chunking up in the air as a celebration to every single 3?

Whatever it is, I can at least say that I know him.

This is from the archives, but it is classic. Almost as good as the picture I used to have on my cell phone of a Buddhist monk chatting it up on his cell phone.


After a long and arduous hajj to Mecca, what better way to replenish the umma than a Whopper with cheese in the Istanbul airport?



"Yo, Hasan. Check out that freak not dressed in white."



"I don't know about you, but I think these prayer rugs are way more comfortable than padded seats."



"Personally, I think Bush is just an a-hole."

"I feel you, man. Totally."

Old Serbia.

The Ford Taurus of "Rump Yugoslavia."

After leaving Turkey, and spending a week back in Sarajevo, I am back in Belgrade.

Again.

And back at the Three Black Catz.

Again.

My total time spent in Serbia now is running somewhere along five weeks, maybe more. Remember that time I was supposed to be in Syria by the end of September?

Seven and a half months. It's a long time to be away from home. Especially away from home, alone. My goal was to amass a small arsenal of stories and conversation-starters for when I returned. I'd say I've done that. But because of my Cardinal Rule -- that I never forgo an experience so that I can write about a past experience -- about half of the the insanity has gone unrecorded, both on the blog and in my journal.

This is a sad casualty of trying to overflow the bucket. Some of the water is going to get spilled, inevitably dried and forgotten.

But it's overcast outside. And I never did write about my week in the south of Serbia, from Vranje, to Leposavić, to Sjenica, to Nova Varoš . All are part of what is referred to as "Old Serbia." It happened a month ago. But better late than never.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Vranje.
Serbian Thanksgiving.

"Sveti Nikola? Like Saint Nicholas? That's awesome -- I'm missing Christmas as it is, so this 'Slava of Santa Claus' can just be a substitute!"

Hold up, hold up. Where are the elves again?

Shouldn't have said that. Mladen's little brother Miomir looked a little offended.

"Nei, nei, nei. Sveti Nikola is not Santa Claus." He was shaking his finger. "It's not the same person."

"Yeah, it is," I argued. "Sveti Nikola is Saint Nick is Santa Claus ... it's the same guy."

In America, that is true. Not in Serbia. Here, the saint we envision as a fat, human ATM machine is a trim, holy protector of sailors. He is to be revered, not milked dry. For the Milenković family, a Slava (think Thanksgiving with religious, rather than national overtones) is a time to come together and break bread in honor of this man, their patron saint.

The only other non-Serb in the room, Vincent, could see that it wasn't smart to enter the fray. So I tried to do damage control before I went too far.

"I mean, I think that's who it is." Backtracking. "Maybe I'm wrong." Covering.

I had only been a guest in Mladen's family home in Vranje, a small town in the southeastern pocket of Serbia, near the Bulgarian and Macedonian borders, for about 15 minutes. Already I was stepping on toes.

Cyrillic 101: B = V, P = R, Њ = NYUH

This was the first day of his three-day Slava, and I hadn't even technically been "invited." I had been self-invited, like always:

"Mladen, when is your Slava, man? I am really trying to go to one of these 'Serbian Thanksgivings' while I'm in Serbia. You better bring me to yours."

And it worked.

To Mladen, my friend and owner of my Balkan home sweet home, the Three Black Catz, that kind of stuff is no big deal. To hell with protocol -- Sure, come to my intimate family Slava celebration. I won't even ask my parents if it's okay. Don't worry about the fact that our flat is smaller than the hostel ... I'm sure they would love to have you barge in. It's no problem that you're a non-Orthodox tourist who is viewing this as a chance to get a free meal or two and take some cool photos.

Really? So you won't mind if I invite Vincent, too.

Ho ho hope you don't mind about the self-invites!

The more the merrier, just like merry old Sveti Nikola would want!

The food was DAAAAAANK, by the way.

"During this Slava, we are fasting," Miomir explained, just after we finished saying the coolest prayer of all time, which consisted of the entire table standing up, putting our hands on a frisbee-shaped piece of bread, playing ring-around-the-rosie with it while saying something in Serbian, and then all tearing off a chunk, simultaneously.

"Fasting, as in.... what?" From what I could see, we were feasting.

"As in no meat."

Turns out it was a vegetarian Slava, which is somehow different from the "real" deal -- think pork pork pork, pork pa pork pork pork. But I wasn't complaining. I'm an omnivore. There wasn't a square inch of table cloth visible, so much food waiting to be eaten. And all of it -- all of it -- was incredible.

What was not incredible, though, were my French skills.

This got me into trouble.

To know why, we've got to back up a few days. Back to Belgrade, Part 2.

"I got you a present."

Zoka knew I was going to be missing "normal" December 25 Christmas, which was only a week away at that point. And as my personal teacher in all things Serbia, someone responsible for a huge amount of my knowledge of her country's history, she wanted to give me something to remember her by.

It was an antique pin. One I had yet to see among the hordes of stands operated by old Serbian men along the pedestrian paths of the Kalemegdan. Against the backdrop of an old Yugoslavian flag -- a red star plastered atop three horizontal stripes of blue, white and red -- were six words: "Druže Tito, Mi Ti Se Kunemo."

"This is very rare," Zoka said. "It means 'Comrade Tito, we give an oath to you.'"

It was the best Christmas present I could ask for.

What better complement to a Communist era hat pin than a Communist era hat? That very night, I made Zoka -- a girl who makes a living in the fashion industry -- come with me to make sure I bought an old man hat that looked good. Instead, I had to settle for one that fit.

Rather than leaving the store with one of those awesome, plaid tweed hats with the bill that flips up in back, I was forced to go with a floppy, camel-colored sailor hat, like the ones they hand out for free to the first 5,000 fans at a Padres game -- the only difference was that this one was made of felt. Such is life for a kid with a melon the size of Kevin Mench.

But at least I had a new hat for my new hat pin that I loved so much.

A few days later, I left with Mladen and Vincent for Vranje.

Mladen's dad, Miroslav, can't speak English; and I can't speak Serbian. But we can communicate, somewhat, in the language of the Frogs.

Hey Miroslav, comment dit-on en anglais, "Merde!"

Somewhat.

During the course of the dinner, the topic of Milošević and Tito came up. In very basic, yet flawless French, Mladen's dad spoke of them both with a twinkle in his eye. Most Serbian men of his generation do.

Without asking to be excused, I got up from the table. This was a perfect chance for me to impress. I walked into the hallway to open my backpack. Stuffed into the top compartment, wrinkled and unwrapped, was my new felt hat. It had clearly been worn before. It was clearly mine. I pulled it out, admiring Zoka's gift. Druže Tito, We Pledge An Oath To You. Mladen's dad was going to love seeing this blast from the past.

What came next was like a scene from a Ben Stiller movie.

Coming back into the dining room, I dropped the hat in front of Miroslav, who was seated at the head of the table. I made sure to point out the reason.

"Druže Tito, mi ti se kunemo!" he exclaimed to the table. His next words were quieter, more for his own ears, almost. "Josip Broz." He smiled. The good old days. Comrade Tito.

While he was busy admiring the relic of Yugoslavia -- rotating the hat, rubbing the face of the pin -- I whispered a question into Vincent's ear.

"How do you say 'gift' in French?" (Vincent is from Québec City).

"'Cadeau.'"

I turned to Miroslav.

"C'est un cadeau..."

This is a gift...

But then I blanked.

My mind began to race in search of the words. "C'est un cadeau," it said. "C'est un cadeau..." Miroslav was holding the hat, looking directly into my eyes. I wanted to say, "from my friend to me." But nothing was coming to me. This was really basic stuff! Where were the words??

It was only a second. Two, at the max. But my hesitation was fatal.

"Un cadeau!" he exclaimed. "Pour moi??"

A gift! For me??

Miroslav was delighted. What a thoughtful gesture from Mladen's American friend!

"Merci beaucoup! J'aime les chapeaux!"

Thankyou very much! I love hats!

What had just happened here??

Mais.... mais.... mais......

I was paralyzed. My mouth, slightly agape from the initial shock, turned to stone. My eyes froze. I looked like I had been constipated for a week. Still, I had to pretend like nothing was amiss.

I looked at mon ami, Vincent. He wouldn't take his eyes off of the plate in front of him. If he had done so, he would've spit out a mouthful of ayvar.

"Stupide americain...."

Miroslav got up from the table, beaming. The smile was ear to ear. He disappeared into the bathroom, clutching his new cadeau.

"That is not what you meant to say, is it?" Vincent cracked, whispering, smiling.

"What the f**k??????" I whispered back.

"I'm not gonna say anything." He could barely hold it in.

Miroslav's dad came back moments later, holding a stack of chapeaux five or six deep.

He was wearing his new hat, which was about two sizes too big for him. No matter. He loves hats, remember? Putting down the stack, he began to check himself out in the mirror. Profile shots, straight on, flipping the brim -- looking good, Miroslav. Looking good.

Vincent still wouldn't look at me.

Mladen's dad was on a roll. He took off my hat, and began to model for us with the rest of them. Each time he'd change one, we'd have to guess which country he had gotten it from. England! France! Germany! It was a really fun game .... for everyone but me.

Who put those lights up? The Bob?

After dinner, Mladen announced that he was taking Vincent and I for a walk around town. As we got our jackets and shoes on, I noticed the hat sitting on the table in the entryway. The pin was staring me right in the face, mocking me. Miroslav was in the other room -- I briefly considered snatching it right there, and just leaving him the hat, but decided against it. "It will be there when I get back," I thought to myself. "I'll just snag it then." He would never notice.

When we got outside, it was dark. It was raining. My head, now hatless, was cold.

Vincent was clearly aware of what had just happened, but Mladen didn't appear to be so. I debated over whether or not to tell him, knowing exactly what sort of reaction he would have:

"What is the problem? It is your hat. Just tell him, 'That is not for you. It is mine.' What is the problem?"

Osama bin Mladen.

No respect for protocol, remember? I decided against bringing him up to date. The hat was a non-issue; it was losing the pin that really bothered me. But even if it had been a Patriots Super Bowl ring, the amount of awkwardness required to get it back by using Mladen as an intermediary was not even close to being worth it.

I'd just have to snatch it myself, or not snatch it at all.

Gypsy town in Vranje.

When we came back, about two hours later, everyone was asleep. The lights were off. And the hat had disappeared from the table.

Miroslav was playing hard ball.

The next day, I woke up, and immediately started to plan strategy. I had to get this thing back -- it was a gift from Zoka, not something I had bought on the street, after all. It had sentimental value. Damn Vincent. Where was the help, Frenchie? I thought we were brates.

"Blame French Canada!" the it's-not-my-fault side of my brain grumbled.

This, is Serbia. Old Serbia.

It wasn't until the sun set that I made my move.

Once again, it was like a movie.

I was trying to make my way westwards across Old Serbia to Nova Varoš, and Mladen had arranged for his brother-in-law, Miljan, to give me a ride to his home in Leposavić, a small town in a Serbian enclave of Kosovo. Miljan was leaving after dinner that night. The clock was ticking.

Everyone was around the table, enjoying another feast -- err, fast. The bedroom was vacant. I needed to pack my bag, anyway, but the No. 1 priority was to find that hat. I'd remove the pin, Miroslav would have his new chapeau, and everyone would be happy.

I shut the door behind me -- no lock. This had to be fast.

The very first cabinet that I opened gave me what I was looking for, except for one thing.

The pin was nowhere to be found.

I couldn't believe my eyes. It was the hat, the same exact freaking hat. Tan, felt, floppy, old man style. Same size, same brand. It was the hat. Had Miroslav known that I'd try to go covert on him and take back my Druže Tito?

I had been outsmarted. Absolutely outplayed. Those crafty Serbs...

Less than three seconds after I hurriedly put the hat back in its place, I heard the doorknob begin to turn. It was Miroslav, coming in to make sure I was getting packed okay. If the pin had been in there, and I had spent the every few seconds required to get it out, I would have been caught red-handed.

I left with Miljan that night having been defeated by a more worthy opponent. But it was worth the trade. A free night's sleep, four free meals and a really cultural experience were memories much more valuable than any old man hat, or any old man hat pin. Besides, like Zoka said when I told her what had happened, "I guess he needed it more than you did." I suppose so.

Besides, everyone did end up happy in the end. The first thing Zoka did when I saw her this time in Belgrade, my third visit to the city, was give me a gift.

Against a backdrop of a silhouette of the former Yugoslavia, read the words: "Druže Tito, Mi Ti Se Kunemo."

The End.

My Old Serbian family.

I love how all family pictures are the same, from Serbia to Texas.

Wasn't the guy in the gray the one who played Borat in ping pong?

Time warp.

Bosnia-Hercegovina is completely and utterly different from Texas.

BiH is small; it's poor; it's home to a large Muslim population; it has very few fat people; and the police are allowed to pull you over for no reason at all, just because they feel like it (hmm, sounds like Serbia!).

It even has mountains.

We're talking about two different worlds.

Two different worlds, though, that spin around in the same solar system.

Bosnia is also pretty similar to Texas -- as it is similar to every other independent nation in the world, for that matter -- in one category: The existence of the "What did you just say to my girlfriend?" guy.

We all know him, don't we? And we all know his super tough, "What! What!" sidekick friends that come attached as part of the "Look how tough I am" package deal.

The other night -- my first one back in Sarajevo, after leaving for Travnik nearly three months ago -- I came face-to-face with one of these entourages.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A cafana is simply the Balkans' answer to the Texas dive bar: No matter which one you go to, you're certain to find a healthy serving of dirty old men, hot girls, pot-bellied young guys and dark-lipsticked cougars; cheap beer, dirty toilets, overflowing ash trays and authentic ambience. All to the tune of some good ole Bosnian folk music -- which, in this country, is the equivalent to Texas country.

You're also certain to find the "What did you just say to my girlfriend" guy and his "What! What!" meat head friends -- in every dive bar; in every cafana.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I didn't even do anything wrong. I was falsely accused. Let's get that straight right away.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The group I was with had posted up in the corner, right beside the entrance to the girls' bathroom. There was a chair next to the entrance. We had been drinking pivo for two or three hours.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Skila's friend had pulled the same joke about five times in a row, and it was only getting funnier with time ... and with pivo.

"Pola marka!"

About fifty euro cents: That's all he was asking for as an entrance fee to the ladies room. Toilet paper doesn't grow on trees, after all. Rolling eyes and a dismissive failure to obey was the standard response from each girl -- Skila's friend didn't even have any toilet paper to sell.

My legs get tired when I stand all night. I'm sure yours do as well. So when Skila's friend got up, I sat down.

And unlike your average Texan, I came into office ready to raise taxes.

Toilet paper is a need, after all, not a want. Unless a girl is ready to drip dry, she going to pay whatever I tell her to pay.

"Jedna marka!" That's what I demanded -- an entire mark, twice the price.

"One mark?! Damn, you are pretty greedy," everyone around me joked. I, too, didn't even really have toilet paper to give. (But not because I didn't try to take the joke to the next level. At one point, I got up and made a move to grab a roll from the guys' bathroom, but was informed of the futility of my efforts. "Where do you think you are?" Skila's friend asked, intercepting me on the way. "This is Bosnia. There's no toilet paper in that bathroom, man.")

It was all fun and games until the hot blonde girl came up. Those types are always trouble.

"Jedna marka!" I yelled, angrily putting up my hand for her to stop. She laughed; she kept walking. End of story.

Right?

Wrong.

"No no no no," my friends said. "You need to say something else next time. You need to say 'Pušenje, ili jedna marka!'"

Pušenje..... pušenje.... pušenje...

I had seen that word before.

"Is that the word for 'smoking'?" I knew I had seen it before -- every cigarette pack in the Balkans uses it in its warning label.

"Yes," someone answered. "But it also means 'sucking.'"

"I am not gonna tell a girl 'sucking or one mark'!!" This was Bosnia, after all. That hot blonde girl probably had a surly Bosnian boyfriend.

And I didn't say it. Nothing of the sort. All I did was ask what "pušenje" really meant. But that girl -- she was trouble, all right.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Turns out she did have a surly Bosnian boyfriend. And, big surprise, that dude had two "What! What!" sidekicks. All of them like to fight. Kind of like guys who go to dive bars in Texas.

She had laughed when I demanded she pay a mark for entrance, but wasn't laughing when she went back to her table, after finishing her business. And she wasn't telling the truth about what had happened on her way to the bathroom, either.

Turns out that she accused me of actually taking the bait Skila's friend laid before me. That I had actually told her that the only way she'd get any toilet paper was either some pušenje ili jedna marka. And that brings us to the situation I found myself in just a few minutes later, sitting in the same chair, clueless, as three drunk Bosnians towered over me, clearly talking smack in a language I don't understand.

"Bosnian Bosnian Bosnian Bosnian!" the main guy, standing in the middle, growled. "Bosnian!"

I was quite confused.

"Bosnian Bosnian pušenje Bosnian!"

Uh oh.... I heard the keyword. "Pušenje" -- I was no longer confused about what this guy was talking about.

Just play dumb, Bayless.

"You want a cigarette?" I asked, eyes as innocent as could be. "Pušenje? Kako se kaje? Smoking?" I put my fingers to my lips and made like I was taking a drag. "Da?" Just keep pretending you don't understand, Bayless. Everything will work out.

"Nema!" the leader yelled. "Bosnian! Bosnian Bosnian Bosnian!" He was really getting angry, and his friends were licking their chops. Gulp. "Još jedno, brate! Još jedno!" I knew what that meant: "One more time, dude! Say it one more time!"

This was quickly becoming not so funny.

The whole time, as I sat there, surrounded by the surly boyfriend and his tough guy sidekicks, all I could think of was my dad. "Someday," The Bob loved to say to his smartass son throughout his childhood, "your mouth is gonna get you in trouble. Someone isn't gonna think you're too cute, and they're gonna kick your ass."

And here it was. The prophecy was being fulfilled. And the irony was that this time, I really had not said anything to provoke this kind of reaction.

Oh, sweet irony.

I don't know what Skila and his friend said to calm these dudes down, but it was along the lines of, "He is American/he doesn't speak Bosnian/he doesn't understand what you're saying/he didn't say that to your girlfriend."

Their little pow-wow looked familiar -- it's the same kind of chest-puffing expo you find at a Texas dive bar when someone "looks" at someone else the wrong way.

Lots of scowls, lots of pointing, lots of bravado.

Lots of playing dumb, on my part.

"Cigarette? Pušenje? You want to smoke?" I continued to ask.

Finally, the trio of tough guys had enough. They proved their point -- that they were bigtime -- and they left. And I continued to sit there, dumbfounded at the turn of events, telling myself that I would never make another joke in the Balkans as long as I lived.

After this, you won't see anymore of Istanbul until I return.



And I will return.



It's right in between the Balkans and the Middle East, after all.

Istanbul in photos.

The Hippodrome.

Friends in Turkey are much friendlier to one another.

Somewhere between Asia and Europe.

Fifteen million people. Welcome to Istanbul.

Ayasofya.

Garland.

"Dude, I don't even CARE, man. I'll, like, ride on the front, man. All of these people KNOW I'm a badass, yeah, yeah." (five seconds later, they are shoo'ed away)

The Cistern.

Cappadocia.
"The Land of Beautiful Horses"

First off, I haven't seen any horses yet, so I don't understand how this area of central Anatolia got its name.

If I was naming it way back when, I probably would have gone with "The Land God Made When He Was Bored At The Beach." It honestly looks like somebody dug a hole in the sand, hit water, grabbed about 50,000 huge handfuls of the gooey stuff and just threw them haphazardly all over the place.


The coolest thing about these rock formations, which were actually made about three bagillion years ago after a series of volcanic eruptions, is that people saw them and thought, "Looks like a good place to live, what do you think?"

And then they started to dig, until the area had more apartment complexes (though all made of rock) than an American college town.

Cappadocia is The Flintstones' neighborhood, brought to life.

Between a rock and a hard on -- I think they call this part of Cappadocia "Fertility Valley" for a reason.

If this was America, the snow-covered wagon would be just for show. But in Turkey, they actually have roadside signs that explicitly forbid villagers from taking these types of vehicles onto a four-lane highway. (And I've seen people disobey).

People here used to rely on pottery-making and stock-breeding for survival. Now, they rely on good ole' tourism!

After Fred and Wilma moved out, but before the first roadside t-shirt shack was ever opened -- actually, before the first nomadic Turk even arrived from Central Asia less than a thousand years ago -- there was a large Christian community that lived in Cappadocia's caves.

Of course, they weren't very social. Hermits, monks, the works. Basically, the kinds of people who like to live in caves, and wear hair shirts, and all that jazz.

Included in that jazz was painting pictures of some chick saint who prayed that God make her less attractive to the opposite sex, so that she would not have to deal with distractions of the flesh.

St. Herm

She got her wish.

(Although, I still think I've seen Bosnian and Serbian women, in the present day, who have more facial hair than that).

And of course, an ancient Christian community wouldn't be ancient Christian community without a shot of St. George, slaying the dragon, again.

This poor dragon has been killed, and killed, and killed so many times, I almost feel bad for him.

And my personal favorite, Constantine and his mother Helena, who miraculously found the true cross.

"I SWEAR this is the real thing, Constantine. Seriously. You've just gotta trust me on this one."

I see some cracks in that story.


The travel agent my dad used to book the trip he, Garland and my mom took to come visit me in Turkey said that Cappadocia was a no-go. "There's too much snow this time of year," and because of that, "you won't be able to get there."

I hope that woman doesn't get Employee of the Month.

Yeah, there's snow. But it ain't exactly what Colorado has been seeing this month. And as a result of that misstatement, The Bob and Garland missed out on one of the most beautiful spots on earth -- they flew home yesterday, and left my mother with me for another week.

But still, my mom and I had booked a flight to go to Sarajevo on the 5th, and here we are. The reason we were able to change course like that is simple: The giant silver spoon that was lodged into my mouth at birth.

It is very important to me that everyone get cleared up real quick on one thing: I am paying for this trip, with the money that I earned and saved. (I am quick to point out this fact to those who shake their heads at my descriptions of seven months on the road, and tell me how "lucky" I am that my parents are "letting me do this"). But it is also very important that everyone understand something else: Only big Bob has the kind of cash flow that could allow me to just decide to fly to Cappadocia, no questions asked, just because my mom really wanted to see it.

The Bob, who wanted to come here more than anyone in the family, made my mom promise that she wouldn't call him and say it was the best thing she's ever done. So she emailed, instead.

And while I wouldn't go so far as to say it is the best thing I've ever done (maybe if I was backpacking through these kinds of rock formations and sleeping in a tent, it would be), it has been pretty damn cool.


Thanks, Dad!


And if it makes you feel any better, Mom's back prevented her from going too deep into some of the caves, and from walking down some of the more slippery slopes. So you wouldn't have been able to see all of it.


This one's for you, Kath.

The Turkish Evil Eye. If you've been to Turkey, you know.

The Ancient City of Ephes...ooohhhh, look, a cat!
Some guided tours just struggle to captivate the minds of the A.D.D. Generation

Hey, Ankara, ever heard of Rustoleum?

"That was back when you were six," my mom said the other night at dinner, looking across the table at the-little-girl-who-is-slowly-developing-womanly-curves named Garland.

Louise -- or "Mamalou," as that aforementioned budding flower and her friends have taken to calling my mother, deciding that any wife of The Bob needs a nickname -- was telling a story about something Garland and I had done around 1996 or '97, just after we had moved into our new house on Garnet. The Bob -- the one bankrolling the lamb kebabs on our plates, in our mouths and in our stomachs -- was sick, lying in bed at the hotel.

"And Bayless was..." eyebrows scrunched, eyes aiming upwards, my mom pretended to be hard at work doing mental math.

"Also six."

Whammo!

"It's hard to believe you're 16 now," she said as the laughter died down. "And hard to believe that Bayless is..."

She caught herself before finishing the sentence: Another dramatic pause. Looked at me; looked at Garland; looked at the situation objectively. Based on the events that had taken place that afternoon at Pergamon, it was clear that another sarcastic joke was on the way.

"Still six."

On fire, Mom. Absolutely en fuego.

My mom had not been too impressed by her 22-year-old son's inability to concentrate that day. I had been way more focused on the timing of my attacks on Garland's heels -- and unbuckled knees that needed buckling -- than on stories about the ancient Greeks and Romans who had lived in Anatolia. My performance was very sixish, true, which hadn't been a very good display of maturity for our sixtyish tour guide, Eti.

I suspect that The Bob and my....

Ooohhhh, wait. Look at that cat!!!

How can you not be drawn to the cute little kitties? Look, it's licking its paw, but it looks like it's singing into a microphone!! As Garland and her cheerleader friends would say, "Awwwwwwwww!"

Sorry.

Back to what I was saying: I have a hard time concentrating sometimes.

But what am I supposed to do? As the last undiagnosed member of the A.D.D. Club left in America, a third day of all-day guided tours was just too much to ask. Without being allowed to wander, my mind cannot absorb that much information. So wander it had done.

And wander it would do some more. Round 4 -- Ephesus -- was on tap for the next day.

I'm still six?? Sorry, but Garland didn't perform much better during Round 4.

And if you thought my performance at Pergamon was bad, think again.

I remember Eti telling us right off the bat that Ephesus, an incredibly important Greco-Roman metropolis of old, was famous for seven "first's." As in, it was the first in the world at seven remarkable things.

Let's see what I can pull out of the bag*...

• street lights
• temples dedicated to Roman emperors
• hot water in homes

*keep in mind that you must attach the word "allegedly" to all of these bullet points


And I'm spent.

I was just way too interested in the "Wes Petticrew" stray cats who "run s**t" in Ephesus to focus on anything else.

You can't stop them. You can only hope to contain them.

"You're in about 20 photo albums now."

My mother had just watched in amusement as half the horde of Japanese tourists behind us snapped away at the frame of me petting one of the Wes cats. They couldn't get enough. Forget about the ancient sculptures and rich history which was literally at their fingertips; the Japanese tourists wanted photos of some random white kid and a stray cat.

That's why I love the Japanese: We see eye to eye.

(But only if the sun is pointed into mine, and I'm not wearing sunglasses).

The Japanese are the only other people on earth who share my fascination with stray cats, and they take only slightly more photos-per-second than me.

Take today in Cappadocia, for example. Sitting in a roadside tourist tea shop with my mom and our new guide Oktay, a bus load of them pulls up. Their guide comes inside, alone, and immediately starts venting his frustration in Turkish. None of the people he was leading have followed him in. Oktay's translation told me why.

"He says he just can't understand how all of them can take so many pictures of cats."

I looked over at the Japanese-speaking Turk. He looked pretty annoyed as he drank his çay, shaking his head in bewilderment.

"Allll day," Oktay continued.

I glanced outside: At least ten Japanese, each with a big smile on their face, like always, snapping away at two cats who looked as confused as the baffled guide sitting to my left.

"From all different angles!" he concluded.

I could publish a book of all the Japanese tourist group shots I have accumulated this trip: Rhere's Raldo? By Bayress Parsrey

I can understand why Eti got a little annoyed with me.

"It was like she was our teacher," Garland said in retrospect, referring to the infamous "The longer you take to take a picture, the later we eat" comment. "Like she was punishing us or something."

Cats, Japanese, and then Garland's tumbling -- Eti was facing some stiff competition for my attention span, and I don't think she appreciated it very much.

Is that a logo for a jam band, or a warning of the incredibly violent death that awaits anyone unlucky enough to slip from the edge of the theater walls?

"The things a little sister will do for you," The Bob said after his youngest daughter, a star JV cheerleader who should be a star varsity cheerleader for our alma mater, tried to imitate the pose of the "Shakedown Street"/"You're going to die if you slip" warning sign posted on each side of the stage.

The left leg could be a little straighter, Garland.

And I haven't even gotten to the potty humor from Ephesus.

Pergamon, Turkey.

Alexander the Great. One of Alexander the Great's generals, who receives it when his boss dies. Inherited by Rome when somebody else important dies, later on.

And that's about all I've got for you.

I wish I could tell you more about this ancient city, but I honestly just can't remember anything else.


Though he got sick and couldn't even make it out of his bed that day at the Izmir hotel, my dad had already thrown down the cash for a nice tour guide named Eti to make the drive to Pergamon and show us the ropes.

Unfortunately for Eti, I come from the A.D.D. generation.


She lost me at 'hello.'


"As you can see, the barrel vaults to your right are typical Greek architecture. The Romans, who invented mortar only much later, were able to pick up on Byzantine ..."

Attention ..... "building styles, and really..." .... is .... " improve upon...." .... drifting ... "their lack of..." ....

Wooooooow, look at the colors!

...away.


I do wonder, though. When was it, exactly, that human beings officially began to suck at building stuff?


I doubt many people will be visiting Southside Place, USA 2,000 years from now, to marvel at ancient American architecture.

That is, of course, unless the metal roof from 3764 Garnet survives the nuclear holocaust that takes place between now and then.

Happy New Year.






Iyi yillar is Turkish for "Most Overrated Holiday E-ver."