Note: The Turkey Chronicles are an ongoing travel journal on a trip Sarah and I took to Turkey from 9/26/08 – 10/6/08. All the Chronicles are collected right here. For more pictures from the Turkey trip, please visit my Picasa web albums here.

Day 3, and it’s time to get the hell out of Istanbul. We hit the road at about 11:30 on our way down to Ankara, Turkey’s capital. We neglected to eat before we left. This seemed like a clever way to save some time when we were leaving. 7 hours later, it no longer seemed quite as clever.

We did stop once for corn. Cups of corn kernels are a hot snack in Turkey. You get a drinking cup. You fill it with corn. Throw on some spices. Eat. I had mine with mayonnaise and lemon juice. I know it sounds disgusting, but it was actually kind of, um, disgusting.

We rolled into Ankara around 4:30. We planned to stay in the apartment of one of Benton & Laura’s friends that night (Nick), but he was playing squash when we arrived. He worked for the British embassy, so of course he was playing squash.

To kill time, we went to Atatürk’s tomb. Atatürk was like the George Washington of modern Turkey, only a dictator. He was a military leader who became a leader of the national movement who became the first president of Turkey in 1923. He looked like he should be dressed in a cape and hosting Fearsome Flicks on some UHF station in 1976.

He ruled until the end of his life, but he wasn’t a Kim Jong Il type figure … the impression I got was that he was complex and had authoritarian leanings, but he also did a lot of good for the country. I’m sure there are some Kurds and Armenians who would disagree. Whatever the truth is, he sure is all over the place in Turkey. His picture is on all their money — every friggin’ bill and coin. Every restaurant and shop has a picture of him hanging on the wall, and posters of his face leer out at you from the sides of buildings, as if to say, “I may be gone, but I ain’t forgotten, BITCHES.”

(More after the break.)

We pulled into the long, winding parking lot, and got shuttled through the crowds to the top of the hill, thanks to Laura’s “Dip plates.” (Diplomats have special license plates on their cars that tells people, “I can do whatever I want.” It’s like an EZ-pass for life.)

Atatürk’s tomb is the megachurch of resting places. You walk up a long set of stairs and find yourself in a large square surrounded by buildings. The square is maybe half the size of a football field. Straight across from you is a giant building with ornate pillars.

Guards stand on either side of the building, stock still. Sometimes they stand in glass cases. They look like giant G.I. Joe dolls.

Sarah and I did our impression of the guards. I’m sure they thought it was delightful that cocky Americans were making a mockery of one of their most sacred national monuments. Luckily, the guards didn’t move a muscle to stop us. It must’ve been the Dip plates.

Atatürk’s tomb was inside the building. Actually, it was under the building. I thought we were going to get to see the actual guy, a la Lenin’s tomb, but no. The body is not on display. We had to make do with a granite slab that was meant to represent Atatürk.

Here’s what the whole complex looked like from above.

Head down the stairs from the main building and turn right, and you’ll find a long grass and stone-covered path that led to nowhere. We followed it anyway. Maybe that was the point; it’s not the destination that counts, it’s the path that leads you there. Which is a great lesson to internalize, because this path’s destination was pretty disappointing.

The Turkish flag: long may it wave.

We left the tomb with a renewed sense of life and purpose and love for our host country. Also, we were dying of hunger from the early morning decision to skip breakfast and eat only mayonnaise-covered corn along the way. So we got back in our car and took the secret Dip-plate exit out into Ankara.

Puffy Center break!

Our final stop before dinner was Nick’s apartment, to drop our stuff off. When we arrived, we had to wait because Nick was still playing squash. Apparently squash is a long freaking game. Sarah and I popped over to a convenience store to get some water. It was the first time we had to negotiate the country of Turkey without our interpreter, and it was terrifying.

When we were leaving the store, an elderly man ambled up to us and started talking to us in Turkish. He was wearing a sweet paisley tie and Cosby sweater combo. We indicated that it wasn’t our language of choice, and he said, “English?” “Yes,” we said. Turned out he’d lived in Kansas for awhile. He was a lieutenant-general in some sort of army. He loved America, but wasn’t so keen on the French. “Who is?” I asked. “Atatürk,” he whispered, and was promptly whisked away by Turkish authorities. No, not really.

By the time we got back to the car, Nick had arrived. We took our stuff in, dropped it off, and then headed out again for dinner.

We met Nick’s friend Sylvain at a tapas restaurant. Sylvain works for the French embassy. I informed him of the retired lieutenant general who didn’t like the French and he made a note of it on his Dip pad. No, not really.

(Nick is in the back, Sylvain is in the front.)

Dinner was delicious, because it was a Turkish meal, and Turkish meals are by default delicious. After dinner, we hit the town to look for a bar. Sadly, this place wasn’t open yet.

Ankara’s a cool city, kind of like the Portland to Istanbul’s New York. We ended up in a dart bar. This is what people look like in a bar.

At the bar, I had a fascinating conversation with Sylvain about how the world works. We were discussing all the shmoozing of foreign dignitaries that goes on when one works at an embassy. And how sometimes one country will decide to import their widgets from another country based on whichever relationship proves the most beneficial. And in many cases, the relationship that proves the most beneficial to the country actually happens to be the relationship that proves the most beneficial to the shmoozing dignitary.

“So it all comes down to who can deliver the best blowjob,” I surmised.

“Yes! Exactly!” Sylvain agreed, pounding his fist on the table. “It is all determined on blowjobs.”

We got properly liquored up and left the bar. This is what people look like when they’re plastered.

And this.

We ended the evening at Nick’s playing music. He played keyboard. I played guitar. The ladies played the drums. We created a song that should be immediately burned and never be heard by anyone, ever.

Two beers later, we passed out. This is what the world looked like to me at that time.