Winter Wonderland

When we left the United States a bit over four months ago, I imagined we would be skiing somewhere in Europe in December. In fact, one of the suitcases that we have been lugging around is full of nothing but heavy winter clothes, gloves, ski pants and jackets. I never imagined that December would be a month of beaches and snorkeling rather than a month of snow and fireplaces.

We have been staying at Kas, a small port town on the coast just across from the Greek island of Kastellorizo. In normal times a ferry runs between them, but because of the pandemic we had to be content with watching the sunset over the small Greek island from across the water.

Within swimming distance to the Turkish mainland, Kastellorizo is a point of contention between the two countries as Turkey refuses to accept that it belongs to Greece. In recent months gallons of paint have been dumped over a mural of the Greek flag on the hillside of Kastellorizo and drones have flown over the island broadcasting the Turkish anthem. With a population of less than 500 people, an island like Kastellorizo should be a quiet backwater. Instead, it is a symbol of tensions between the two countries.

Most of Kas is built along the hillsides around ancient Lycians tombs carved out of the rock. Below us, by the waterside, there is a small old town of walking streets and restaurants, almost all sadly closed by government order with tables and chairs stacked away. A couple street cafes remain partially open. These are located in the perfect spot to people watch amid the bougainvillea and the marina. The owners eagerly wait out front, telling us they can still make food for take away. We look at the menu, but this somehow seems even sadder than the closed restaurants.

Some people sit between the fishermen on the rocks of the marina and drink beers together. Besides this, the town is quiet.

Kas is built over the ancient port of Antiphellos. The main roundabout in town circles around a 2400 year old tomb and the hills around town are carpeted in ancient rubble and ruins over which friendly dogs and cats wander.

One hundred years ago, before the exodus of Christians from Turkey to Greece, the region here supported a multi-religious society. The call to prayer from the town mosque reminds us that Kas is an Islamic town now, but one where it’s not a problem to find a bottle of Jameson’s or a block of bacon.

Unlike some Islamic countries where there are few dogs around, Kas is overrun with semi-strays. They almost always give a tail wag as we walk by and, appreciating getting some attention, sometimes follow us home and loiter on our porch.

One small point of contention during the multi-religious days in this region was the treatment of dogs. The Christians treated the street dogs poorly, sometimes killing them, because the strays would fight with their home-kept pet dogs. The Muslim did not keep dogs at home, but would feed the strays regularly and treat them with some kindness. Is it better to be a pampered pet locked indoors or a free beggar on the streets? That’s hard to say, but I notice bowls of dog food are left along the street and the dogs appear to be in better health here than in many places.

Yesterday we left Kas to move to Kalkan a few miles further north along the turquoise coast. We drove along a winding road that hugged the mountainside above the sea. The streets were eerily quiet. Besides a few loose rocks littering the way that had fallen from the mountain, the road was completely empty. There were no other cars anywhere.

Before we left, I messaged the owner of our apartment to ask him where to leave the keys. He answered with a cryptic message in Turkish that translated to: “You can’t go out the door.” I figured this was some kind of mistranslation of either “do” or “don’t” leave the keys in the door. Only later that day would I realize that Turkey had declared a complete weekend lock down, a curfew in effect until Monday morning, and he was trying to warn us. Instead, we found ourselves wandering around an empty country.

We stopped at an amazing beach where we had a picnic and a swim. At one point a group of police parked next to our car high above and hiked down to the beach. They looked at us strangely and left without saying anything. I quickly forgot about it as the water was perfectly refreshing on this hot day. It’s December, but the water here feels warmer than it did in Albania three months ago. Does that little bit of latitude make so much difference? Or was it snow melt runoff that cooled the seas then and is no longer melting now?

We continued on to Kalkan where we passed by no other vehicles but a police car with its lights flashing. Our new apartment is a spacious place in the hills built over a family house. The teenage son speaks English and asked us if we had any problems getting here. He was surprised when I told him we didn’t.

“I didn’t think you would make it here because of the lock down,” he said. That was the first I heard of it, but it explained why the roads and beaches were empty.

The rest of the family came out to greet us. All wore masks and stood ten feet away. “Welcome!” the father called out. The mother said something in Turkish and her son translated: “Help yourself to vegetables from the garden or eggs from the chickens.”

We will. But first we want to go for another swim. The sun is out and the water is warm. The beach is empty and waiting for us. Maybe we’ll be in a snowy place next year, but this year’s winter wonderland is one of golden sand and turquoise waters.