'...to learn how to love and forget how to hate.'

I wish I hadn't given away my Turkish vocabulary cards so quickly without really remembering any of it. In Ankara, tourists are rare and the cosmopolitan scene is practically non-existent. Even the younger people hardly speak English. And so, I awkwardly smile my way through the Lamacun restaurant, the supermarket, and the baklava stand, and the rule is confirmed: The fewer foreign tourists there are, the friendlier and more patient the people are.

At the Istanbul departure station, I briefly meet Christian from the hostel in Sofia again, who has spent some more time in Bulgaria. He has just arrived in Istanbul by train as I was leaving. It's a flying changeover, a passing of the baton. I give him a few tips, my metro card with remaining credit, and a few Turkish vocabulary cards that a friendly Kadiköy hipster sold to me in his café. The name of the café, 'Dino', had intrigued me.

However, I had gotten pretty cozy in my Istanbul Prenzlauer Berg Kadiköy, chatting away with everyone in English and letting myself be chatted at in English. Now in Ankara, my standard Merhaba and the mumbling 'Teschekülehr' don’t get me far. After my stroll, I quickly return to the hotel and resolve to research a few basic words. No, Max cannot go out to play today; he has to learn vocabulary.

When I told locals in Istanbul that I was planning a one-day stopover in Ankara, I was only met with skeptical looks. Now, after an initial walk around the area, I understand why. Aside from the fortress and a few archaeological museums, there is nothing to see here. Everything that characterizes a capital besides political buildings—such as internationality, sights, and left-green-scented exiles from the surrounding area—has been outsourced from Ankara to Istanbul. But it is certainly not a Bonn. There are even more and larger Atatürk portraits and national flags than in Istanbul, and with an oversized TIE Fighter statue in the city park, Ankara feels like Erdoğan’s imperial playground. Portraits of the 'martyrs' for democracy who prevented the coup of 2016 hang everywhere. A car crushed by a tank stands in a glass showcase as a memorial in a square.
We have arrived in Nevsehir, one stop before my destination Göreme, known as the Mecca of all Instagram influencers and a backdrop for balloon rides at sunrise. Although I am neither an Instagirl nor a boyfriend and am not particularly keen on a balloon ride with that special type of tourists, Cappadocia is on the way and the scenery is worth hiking.

Here and now in the bus, however, it seems to concern none of my fellow travelers, as everyone except for me seems to want to get off in Nevsehir. I look in front of the bus and my backpack is lying outside on the ground. Huh? 'Göreme?', I look at the bus driver questioningly, who is unloading the last suitcases. 'Autobus!', he waves vaguely with his hand in the air. A gesture that could mean 'Istanbul', 'Hamburg', or 'over there around the corner.' I am completely confused. Should I change buses now, did I take the wrong bus, or have I made a mistake? But the ticket clearly states that Göreme is my station and there’s no mention of changing. I ask a younger Turkish man who sat in the same bus. He doesn’t understand much, but at least enough that he takes me to the information desk and briefly describes my problem. The staff member looks at my ticket and is as confused as I am. Should I feel relieved or nervous about that? He asks which bus it is about, and I point to the one that is just about to leave. We quickly run out, and he speaks to the four older bus drivers. 'Göreme?'. 'Göreme!'. 'Göreme.'. So it turns out I can still ride along and take a seat behind the four gentlemen in their typical bus driver uniforms (dark pants, white shirt, and tie). I strongly suspect that they didn't want to extend their off-duty trip for 'the one western tourist' who wanted to go beyond Nevsehir and used the language barrier as an excuse to avoid the half-hour detour. Well, I grant them the cheeky move, and thanks to the two helpful Turks, it ended well. One of the drivers offers me the rest of an unbearably sweet but ice-cold orange soda. 'Orange Juice!', he comments laughingly, more directed at his colleagues. Ah yes. In return, I offer them my Ankara metro card with remaining credit; one of them can apparently use it. 'Sir, Göreme. Have a good trip.' 'Tesekküler. Iyi aklamsar.' Have a nice evening, you sly boots.

I am picked up by minibus for the 'Green Tour'. The red and green tours are, alongside ballooning and balloon watching in Cappadocia, somewhat of the standard tourist to-dos. The green tour at least promises a hike, an inclusive lunch, and a rock monastery. So, I join in. Lastly, a German couple is picked up, whose conversation develops into a classic vacation dispute and provides me with some entertainment during the hour-long drive to the first sightseeing point. Apparently, he wants her to become more athletic. However, she has chronic health issues and doesn’t want to join the 3.5 km 'hike'. He boasts in Swabian dialect about how he grew up in the countryside, harvested hay at 4 in the morning, and how that has toughened him up. 'What if a war breaks out now.... darling, you need to become a bit more archaic.' She presents him with several reasons why becoming 'archaic' in her condition is not so easy. He ignores the signals, and the mood is already down in the basement before the first station, 'Underground City Kaymakli'. 'I didn’t mean it so seriously.'
Instinctively, I look for allies in spirit and find one in another solo traveler in the group, who reveals himself as a Scotsman with his accent. I speak to him on the minibus while we continue on to the next tour station: 'You're from Scotland, right? My favorite country!'. Darryn from near Glasgow seems relatively down-to-earth and inconspicuous for a solo traveler, just typically Scottish. But for someone around 30, he turns out to be incredibly well-traveled. South America, Africa, Southeast Asia, Tasmania, Australia, New Zealand—he has been around everywhere. 'Name any country, I've been there,' he could say if he wanted to show off. He doesn’t, as it comes out more through my inquiries. Additionally, he is a walking history encyclopedia, from whom I learn more about Byzantium and early Christianity than from our guide, who keeps his explanations of the sandstone-built churches quite general.
Morphing into Statler and Waldorf from The Muppet Show, Darryn and I self-deprecatingly differentiate ourselves as 'travelers' from the other selfie and photo fetishists.

Over the next two days, we trek through valleys with unique canyons and rock formations, in which we are nearly the only hikers, while the other tourists are busy with jeep safaris, quad tours, and rooftop parties or standing in line for hours for photos on pay-per-view viewing platforms. The much more impressive viewpoints are free to walk to, and we keep discovering small café oases, Byzantine churches, and multi-story rock dwellings, through which we climb like Indiana Jones in Raiders of the Lost Ark.

On the last day in Göreme, I wake up at 5 am to the sound of a flamethrower. Sleepily, I crawl out of my Airbnb bungalow. Directly above me, maybe 10 meters away, a balloon is flying. The previous days, all balloon flights had been cancelled due to wind. So, I hadn’t even had to consider booking the at least 100 Euro excursions. I quickly get dressed and walk up a hill. The sky at sunrise is filled with balloons, and on the hills of Göreme, people stand, watch, cheer, and wave to the balloonists. Small children stand next to their parents, rubbing their sleepy eyes and enjoying the colorful commotion above them. My cynicism from the last days evaporates, and I make peace with my fellow tourists. Let them do their ballooning, their pre-chewed tours, and their soulless overpriced restaurants with sunset rooftops. Then no one gets in the way of anyone, and everyone is happy in their habitat..