“Where are you from?”
The most popular question in any tourist destination is nothing more than a clever hook to snag potential customers. Propriety urges us to answer this innocent-enough question, but once they get you talking, savvy shop owners have you squarely in their crosshairs. Before you know it you’re trying on a pair of shoes, you’ve agreed to a cup of tea, and someone is putting their Instagram details into your phone.
Clare is quick-witted enough to deflect this baited question with a whimsical quip, “From our planet earth,” and then flashes one of her cloudless-blue-sky smiles–capable of crashing even the snarkiest retort–before spinning forward once more, all the while never breaking her comfortable stride. Fortunately for me–as long as I match her pace, keep my head forward, and don’t speak a word–I can slip by safely within the bubble of her social force-field.
But my father, bless his soul, isn’t renowned for his finesse. Not only will he stop outright to answer the question, but then he’ll pick up an item of no interest and ask–thinking he’s making small talk–“How much?” That’s my cue to lamely pull the phone from my pocket and feign an important call, “See you outside Pop,” and join Clare who is deftly evading any association with us at all. Ten minutes later my dad emerges from the shop with a bag in hand…at least now he has an alibi for the next encounter, “I’ve already got one,” he can explain to the shop owner and hold up his bag as evidence.
I’ve been calling my father Pop since high school, but it wasn’t until he showed up in a neon-orange button-down shirt that we started calling him Popsicle. Besides hi-viz colors, he loves wearing articles of clothing that declare locations he’s been too: “South Africa” in bold letters across his ball cap; a volunteer T-shirt from “Niger” that doesn’t make any sense; another done in blocky university athletic style lettering: ALASKA–well at least this one makes it easier to answer the most popular question from above. But perhaps my favorite is some company hat with “Sidney” written on it that my dad insists is from Australia…just don’t tell anyone from Sydney.
Anyway, he loves displaying physical evidence of the places he’s been, and considering that he’s been to more countries than probably anyone else I know–Clare included–such makes for a homogeneously diverse wardrobe. But even worse than unapologetically touristy T-shirts, we have photographic evidence of Popsicle sporting socks under strappy Teva-like sandals, which as far as Clare is concerned, is the ultimate American crime!
Besides being a sucker for prowling hagglers and showing disdain for even the barest level of fashion, my father loves to ask restaurant staff complicated political questions after hearing them use only the most rudimentary English. “Pop, just because they can take our food order, doesn’t mean they can converse,” I have to continually remind him, “especially about the legacy of 13th-century Ottoman architecture.” So when he did finally pay for the company of a Turk who does speak English, Pop made sure to get his money’s worth. He tipped him well, but I’ve never seen a tour guide sit down in a quiet corner to nurse a big bottle of water after finishing a job.
No doubt I’m giving my old man a hard time, and it doesn’t help that he fits so many of the American tourist stereotypes, but the blade does cut both ways. He may be a trifle loud, gaudy, and at times obtuse, but what he lacks in tact he makes up for with enthusiasm. No matter the ripples he may cause along the way, he fails to leave an encounter without all parties feeling in some way more buoyant.
For example, he finds his way onto a Turkish construction site of a new apartment block and gets a personal tour from the owner, all the while stirring smiles from the workers via hand-gestured compliments of their craftsmanship. He follows up asking how the mother of our hotel-worker is after over-hearing about a heart attack and receives a heartfelt hug upon our departure. He ungrudgingly buys a carpet from the infamous “carpet seller” that every tour ends with. He gives his hired driver some suggestions about how to better serve foreign tourists and ends up being invited over for dinner and introduced to the family. He gathers a greater crowd than any other exhibit at the museum enthralling the visiting school children with pantomimed stories of moose and bear in Alaska.
No matter where he goes, my father leaves an impression. Sure, not everyone likes him, and yes I may find myself rolling my eyes in his company and doing my best to avert an overly excited American from hogging all the attention, but at the end of the day my father meets more locals and has more interesting interactions in one month than Clare and I will have in a year. He may not have much European chic, but he’s got spades in American charisma.
So, you may be wondering, how did we keep this Alaskan Popsicle from melting in the Mediterranean crucible? Well for starters, we didn’t entertain the idea of a visit until October, at which point the fangs of the summer sun have sufficiently receded but not yet disappeared. What began as a conversation about a two-week visit, turned into a four-week land, sea, and air extravaganza. Ten days cruising the Turkish coastline aboard Champagne; four nights in our homeport of Kas to change gears and recharge; then a fourteen day road trip culminating in a sunrise hot-air balloon ride over Cappadocia and concluding at the airport in Antalya, with plenty of interesting stops along the way.
Some of the highlights include: Finally flying Champagne’s spinnaker for the first time ever, which was an ardent desire of my dad, who has fond memories of spinnaker sailing in his long-ago past. Dancing with just-met friends atop 2000-year-old rubble while watching the sun dissolve into the sea. Preparing a four-course meal aboard, but with all ingredients (including cold beer) “delivered” to our boatside from various enterprising local watercraft hawking their wares. Viewing countless ancient statues carved from marble, and then seeing the same marble being quarried today. Staying in an advertised “ski lodge” that appeared to be decorated for a visit from the Queen circa 1958. Visiting the tomb of Sufi-founder Rumi, and watching the devotional twirling of the whirling dervishes. Hiking about the magical Fairy Chimneys found scattered throughout Cappadocia and then crawling our way through the region’s famed underground cities, some of which could house 20,000 people in abodes dugout 60m (200ft) below the surface. Introducing my father to doner durums–meat wraps–that can be found throughout Turkey at a cost of $1.50. Receiving compliments from my father because I’m not afraid to ignore traffic lanes and “drive like a local.”
Although at times taxing, our fears about spending so much time together prove unfounded. Not only was Pop easy to please and eager for adventure, but we managed to accomplish the whole itinerary with few hiccups and plenty of laughs. Perhaps most telling of all, Clare has even suggested with eager anticipation, “Alright Popsicle, where are we meeting up next year!?” Of course we are among the lucky minority, and with travel being a luxury now more than ever, we’re doing our best to savour the flavour.
