Notes from a Dreamer Traveling Through Northern Turkey
My God, how bright she is! Colorful, full of contrast — and at the same time calm and self‑contained. Not loud, not overly temperamental, which is something you almost inevitably expect from an Eastern country. Mist over the port of Trabzon, soft humid coolness, mountains, air, roads stretching into the distance — hello, Turkey, the way almost no one back home ever imagines you.
There is no bustle here. Everything feels real, alive, with a modest, friendly half‑smile — no shouting, just respect in people’s eyes. How do you understand someone who speaks only Turkish when you don’t know a word of it yourself? With gestures, with expressions. And paradoxically, each of these moments becomes a genuine chance to fall in love with the country — because only this way can you look into its true eyes. And with that gaze, this astonishing land quietly draws you into its net — and never lets you go.
“What’s this?” I poke my finger at the display of a roadside eatery, where fragrant meat and vegetable dishes are steaming. “Что это? Qu’est‑ce que c’est? Was ist das?” In return I get nothing but a gentle shake of the head and a charming smile. The young cook explains something to me in Turkish, but it’s hopeless: how am I supposed to understand his melodious speech? I’m starving; the food is right here, steaming, fragrant, irresistible — but how do I reach it through the language barrier?
So I decide to rely on sound — on how pleasant the dish names seem. I point to the first one and look at the cook. He replies with a short word. It sounds harsh, unappetizing. I point to the next — another word: flat, emotionless. Somewhere in the middle of the list, in response to my poking, comes a cheerful “moussaka.” Sunny, playful, delicious‑sounding. A moment’s thought — “Perfect.” Go on then, chef, give me your moussaka; we’ll figure out what it is later.
And it turns out to be divine. Soon I have neither the strength nor the desire to analyze what it’s made of: my unsuspecting gastronomic mind is overwhelmed, my body ruled entirely by taste buds, and my brain, having surrendered control, lets me fall straight into nirvana. Something completely uncharacteristic of me begins to surface from the depths of my subconscious. For example, I suddenly catch myself wiping the plate clean with a piece of heavenly Turkish bread. I’ve never done anything like this — but there you go. And the funniest part is: I don’t feel the slightest embarrassment. Only one thought pulses in my head: “More moussaka! Keep the change!”
Such shocks await a traveler in any tiny restaurant or roadside diner along Turkey ’s Black Sea coast — from Trabzon all the way to Istanbul and beyond, toward the Bulgarian border.
I traveled by car, without a tour group, without organized checkpoints — a true wild wanderer. I deliberately avoided pretentious restaurants. Hotel breakfasts were dull and boring, saved only by warm Turkish flatbread and feta. Turkey is definitely not the place to waste time on standard European food, order Caesar salads, or buy hamburgers. The real joy here is the local flavor — distinctive, bright, and surprisingly harmonious. İskender kebab (better than moussaka!), grilled sea fish, or any other traditional Turkish dish — these are the things that stay with you forever. Along with tender pistachio nougat (not too sweet), churchkhela, Turkish coffee, and freshly squeezed orange juice. Ah, Turkey, Turkey! Why do you do this to me…
If before this trip my unconditional gastronomic favorite was Georgia, now there are two of them on that pedestal. Much as I love the Caucasus, I can no longer prefer it unconditionally over northern Turkey. And if someone offered me a choice — dinner in Kvareli or in Bolu — I’d spin in helpless indecision and, in the end, simply burst into tears at the impossibility of being in two places at once.
By the way, the best proof that Bolu is a truly hypnotic city is the complete absence of photos from there. I, who always travel with a camera around my neck, didn’t take a single picture! The same happened in Tbilisi. Having photographed all of Georgia, I mysteriously took no pictures in its capital — simply forgetting about the camera while listening, touching, inhaling, observing, remembering, and absorbing everything the old analog way: with the pores of my skin, the wings of my nostrils, a focused gaze, and the tips of my fingers.
To say that Turkey is heavenly beautiful would, of course, be an exaggeration. Its provincial towns are somewhat bright, somewhat messy, not shabby, and though not wealthy, they are distinctive, interesting — and free. This country has a face of its own — one you want to study endlessly, in every expression. It is bottomless. Infinite. Elusive. Airy. Its soil remembers the entire history of our civilization, from the ancient Greek Argonauts onward. It is simple and familiar, yet inexhaustible, inspiring — stretching ahead toward its warm sun and pulling you with it, trailing a weightless veil across your gaze. Its shimmer will not fade from my eyes. I spent enough time there to fall in love — and to fall out of love — but I never did. I only sank deeper into this love.
Someday I will return here, not as a tourist, but as a lovesick girl. I’ll come, feast to my heart’s content, and do what I love most: look at everything with wide‑open eyes and choose words for my impressions — the most beautiful, melodic, and precise ones.
Text by Yulia Zemtsova
Cover photo by Oben Kural
Translated from Russian by Sofia Zemtsova
