Turkey is slightly ridiculous. I mean, how can a country have so much going for it and, at the same time, manage to keep it such a big secret? I am convinced that only the most savvy world travelers know about Cappadocia, for example. And I would like to send out a big ol’ “God love ya’” to guide books like Lonely Planet, without which the tourism industry might just wither and die a desperate death altogether. Feel free to prove me wrong by telling me you’ve been here, are planning to come here, or want to one day come here.

I mentioned in one of my posts about my last vacation that Turks could use some courses in self-promotion. The same theme resonated on this trip. My boyfriend once joked to me: “Turn Istanbul over to the Dutch for a few years and see what they do to it.” Of course, I am not suggesting that we turn Cappadocia over to a foreign occupying force, but maybe you get the idea.

I am living in a country that is one of the cradles of civilization. It is a place steeped in ancient history, rich in natural wonder. It is an anthropologist’s dream. It is a geologist’s dream. It is a historian’s dream. It is a photographer’s dream. I could spend the next twenty minutes listing the many types of people who could lose themselves entirely in my adopted homeland. So for me, the utterly baffling question is: where are the tourists?
I consider it a blasphemy that people fly all the way to Turkey only to go to Istanbul or beach resorts down south. I get even crazier when I hear that tourists spend nearly their whole visit to Istanbul wandering around Sultanahmet, getting swindled on everything from phone cards to carpets to a bottle of water.

Apologies for the rant, people, but it struck me on this most recent trip that there ought to be a whole hell of a lot more tourists than there were wherever we went. I, like many people, just want what’s best for Turkey, and tourism dollars and a more positive image in the eyes of the world’s citizens seem like steps in the right direction.

I think I am ranting more to avoid discussing the drive to Ürgüp.

I usually prefer driving instead of flying because I like to watch the landscape go by. For me, I get a better feel for where it is I am going if I get to see how it all unfolds to that point. To drive eastward towards Anatolia helps one to understand how one country can suffer so many divides, mostly socio-economical. If I were in an airplane, I never would have seen the gypsy caravans out in the fields or the village women plowing the crops in their flowered pants and headscarves. I would not have seen the small mosques erected next to gas stations along the highway, providing truckers with convenient places of worship. I would have seen the endless golden fields of wheat, but I wouldn’t have seen the farmer trying to fix his thrashing machine. I might even have recognized the gypsum quarries by the huge mounds surrounded by cliffs mauled by heavy machinery, but I would not have seen the minerals sparkling under the sunlight, the landscape bleached and harsh.

For miles and miles and hours and hours, it was sky, sun, clouds, wheat, patch of green, wheat, patch of green, ad nauseum. And the road is mostly straight truckin’ which tends to lead to serious road hypnosis. Every once in awhile, you pass through a blink-and-you’ll miss it kind of town, but unless there’s petrol to be buying or urinating to be doing or sustenance to be seeking, there’s no reason to stop. You plug on and, if you’re like me, your eyelids just drop closed after about three hours. Then I lose consciousness like I was whacked over the head with a blunt object and wake up a half hour later drooling all over the seatbelt, which is about as attractive as it sounds.

We arrived in Ürgüp well before sunset, which was beneficial for many reasons. For one, it made it much easier for us to find the hotel we had booked for the night. Number two, it made us see that we would be getting out of there as soon as possible.

My boyfriend was very saddened by the state of affairs in Ürgüp. Apparently, back in the not-too-distant day, Ürgüp was still a very back-packer friendly kind of place. It was a viable city in the Cappadocia region. I myself had read articles online about nice bars and pubs open late at night, and even a winery with a nice garden out back in which to sample their goods.
What we found instead was one of those Places That Time Forgot.

Turkey is full of these tiny little backwater towns as you move away from the major cities. The scenario is generally that most of the menfolk are sitting in front of shops and coffee shops on little stools, drinking tea, playing backgammon, or just gossiping. You will be hard-pressed to find a woman walking around in towns like this. I don’t even feel comfortable enough to get out of the car to get a soda in these places. It’s the kind of place where you feel eyes on you, where you feel unwelcome. No one is being outrightly hostile, but they don’t have to.

The general impression we had walking through Ürgüp was plain enough: they didn’t want us. They don’t want your tourist dollars. They don’t want to see you in jeans or shorts. They don’t want you to buy batteries from their store. Just go home and leave them be. We decided that we would honor our hotel reservation. After all, the hotel, Elkep Evi, was extremely cool. Our cave suite was huge and even had a minibar and a gorgeous bathroom. But we would not give Ürgüp any more of our money than necessary. We actually drove to a neighboring city to have dinner and returned only when it was time to hit the sack.

Ürgüp is close enough to the major Cappadocian tourist sites that there is no reason why it shouldn’t have been rocking in July. There are only so many hotels in the neighboring major city and Ürgüp could easily assume the task of handling overflow, and it once served such a purpose. It has the same surrounding breath-taking scenery. It just doesn’t have the desire. And that’s just too bad for them, if you ask me.