Salam

Nothing had prepared me for the subliminal meeting of the Karadeniz with the sky, as it curls over the edge of the horizon. The sky and endless matt pastel reflected in the near flawless surface of the water where the difference is only betrayed by the finest and most harmonious ripple. The pure and forgiving white of the sun providing for the tiny boats hauling by hand their catch, which could barely scratch the expanse.

Today we had found it difficult not to profit as we became aquainted with an entire valley of Turks to the west of Trabzon. Frequently someone would stop and pile us into their mini busses full of locals. The first driver returned our fair, the second refused it in the first place and the third bought us a drink under the mosque at the head of the sub tropical valley through which we had climbed. A simple "salam" leading to a somehow comprehensible mix of German, Dutch, English and Turkish, complete with body language, which in one case lead to a coffee with milk straight from Asan's own cow and a trip down the valley to share a beer with his brother in his lakeside restaurant where we would camp for the night.

By the time we had awoken to a huge traditional turkish spread and been taken for a row across Lake Sera, I had alost forgotten about the third most important pilgramidge site in christianity nestled somewhere above the city or the various other ancient monuments hidden somewhere amongst the appartments and bazzars which stretch for hundreds of kilometers along the smooth but irregular shoreline.