Day 12-B

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Children and sailors. There were a few cisterns, a few churches built in the “Lesbian” style (i.e. from the island of Lesbos, where they carved rectangles into the walls to make the masonry look more expensive than it was), and a few gorgeous view[s] of the ocean. It was to die for. We then climbed back down to eat lunch and swim for a while before the real intense hike awaiting us in the afternoon to the ghost towns hidden in the mountains. So back in 192[3], Greece and Turkey decided to do a population exchange and get all the Greek-speaking people in Turkey to Greece and vice versa. So a village of Greek-speakers was rounded up and sent to Greece. They people were under the impression that they would be coming back soon, so they left their town infrastructure totally intact. Now, once they were gone for a few years, the Turks found the town and began to recycle windows, roofs, and walls by taking them from the town and putting them in their own homes far away. I had a few polaroids I would have like to put in here, but Lola [the polaroid] was having some difficulties because she was banging around Jarret’s bag for too long. The hike was optional for those of us with failing joints or health or energy, but about 10 of us went on the extremely steep, thorny 3-hour trip up the mountain, through the ghost town, to a small settlement for ice cream and clothing, and back down. It was beautiful and picturesque and full of adventure, but Lola was sick so I have no photographic evidence of it. The one really neat aspect of the ghost town about which I’d like to write a short story was that one family had left their portraits on the walls because they “knew” they were coming back. So there were some kitchen utensils, fully-functional cupboards, and their wedding and family portraits. It’s such a puzzling mint trip into hope versus despair, knowledge versus belief, the importance or unimportance of physical objects and memories – I think too much is my problem. I think in terms of poetry and short stories and plays. Maybe someone will pay me for them someday. I’d actually love to hide in the ghost town or the nomadic goatherd’s settlement for a few months and just write everything and anything. I could talk to so many people and just…hide…hide and write. Anyways, we made it back to the boat sore and highly cut and bruised for a barbeque dinner and conversation about life and love and fate.

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A photo from the internet of what the ghost towns look like today

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