Easter Over Cappadocia

Don't look at me that way, blog.  I know I've been neglecting you.  I realize that three posts in the month of April was really pathetic, and that Easter was a long time ago, and that I've only given you a sticky toffee pudding to survive on for weeks on end. I went on holiday, you see. And then I fell off a bike and was busy growing new skin for a while. And then spring sprung, and I spent my evenings drinking spritzers in the sunshine instead of sitting at my computer.  And then I started my new job on Monday, and quit my new job on Wednesday, and went back to my old job on Thursday. And now I had a quiet weekend and a clean house and feel a little less shaken up, so it's finally time to share a wonderful adventure we had in Turkey with you.  It's worth the wait, I promise!

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The village of Göreme was still asleep when we were picked up at six am on Easter Sunday.  The bluish blush of dawn brightened the landscape only enough to see outlines as our van took the one twisty road out of town. Ten minutes later we rounded a particularly large rock, and my usual morning grogginess suddenly vanished at the breathtaking sight of forty hot air balloons silhouetted against the morning sky.  Some were already upright, others lay misshaped with their bellies still on the ground like colorful whales.



Cappadocia is a region in central Turkey known for its incredible rock formations - and for its hot-air balloons, much-beloved by visitors for the stunning views they afford of the volcanic valleys and cliffs eroded into other-worldly landscapes.   After a cup of steaming tea, we clambered awkwardly into the chest-high basket of our blue-and-pink checkered balloon.  I was so enthralled watching the preparations and take-offs of the other balloons that I barely noticed when ours left the ground.  There was no sensation of movement or force, just an occasional roar as our pilot fired the burners keeping us afloat, and then absolute silence as we drifted through the air like magic.







Balloons can't steer - they go where the wind takes them, so the flight path is different every day and you never know where you'll end up. Dawn is the best time for flying in Cappadocia, when cool air that settled in the rock valleys overnight begins to stir and flow like a many-fingered river. We were one of the first to leave the ground, and as we drifted over the sand-colored peaks and dark doorways of the nearby Göreme Open-Air Museum, the rising balloons followed us like a swarm of bright bumblebees.





It was particularly amazing to see the landscape change minute by minute as the sun rose and the shadows of the fairy chimneys (as the pointed rock formations are called) shift and brighten.  As we floated towards the town of Ortahisar, the texture of the land became more domesticated as farmers carved out small patches of arable volcanic soil among the curves of rock.







Ortahisar, too, was only beginning to awaken as the silent fleet drifted over its low houses, many of them hewn partially into the town's central rock fortress. Two women drinking tea together waved at us from a garden, and stray cats chased their breakfast into nooks and crevices.





All too soon our balloon touched down in a field and popped open its 'cap' to let out the hot air, while workers from the balloon company covered tangles of stray bushes with tarps to prevent the fragile silk ripping on the ground.



Our pilot Daria, who made up in bubbly personality what she lacked in English abilities ("I no speak English. I speak air."), nonetheless managed to proudly inform us that she was the first Turkish woman to become a balloon pilot twelve years ago and had to deal with a lot of grief from her male counterparts along the way.   She amazed us by landing the balloon squarely on a tiny truck trailer, and commanded the ground crew with unmistakable authority from her perch on the basket. Under her knees you can see the ubiquitous Turkish charm against the evil eye, found on everything from keychains to car bumpers to balloon baskets. 



A glass of celebratory champagne awaited us after the flight, as did the rest of our Easter Sunday exploring the beautiful cave churches of Cappadocia's ancient centers of Christian teaching.  But to float weightlessly in a crisp glass-clear sky, watching the sun rise over a fairy landscape, with Matt's arm close around me and my heart singing songs to the risen Christ - a more glorious morning can scarcely be imagined.