Threshold

Turkey: a land of walnuts, pistachios, apricots, watermelons, and pomegranates. Of inviting roadside samovars billowing with steam. Of baklava that is best enjoyed upside down. Of old men playing backgammon under the shade of leafy fig trees, and old women amusing themselves with tea leaf prognostication. Of crowded bazaars suffused with the intoxicating aroma of candies, spices, and carpets. Of Turks, Kurds, Arabs, and their complicated history. Of good roads, and bad roads. Of kindness and ancient hospitality. A global crossroads where people speak a soft, chimeric tongue, and a salubrious climate covers the land in a warm patina like that of an aged bronze coffee cup.

Getting into Turkey was a watershed moment. As the only presently viable gateway to Asia, it was imperative that I make it across the Bosporus - but as the dickhead had not put the bike in my name, I was to be denied entry - according to the law. I fretted, and wondered if I should try to cross in the afternoon because of the hungry judge effect; justices are demonstrably more lenient after lunch. I decided not to bother with that, and when the border agent demanded my Croatian residency card, with increasing exasperation each time I feigned confusion, she eventually just told me to get out of her sight and proceed. Playing the dumb American is usually a very effective tactic - though it comes more naturally to some.

After picking up insurance for $5/month (30x cheaper than the dickhead’s policy) I reached the final check, where the agent just kept shouting “Captain, I can't see! Captain, I can't see!” Unless he thought this was a meeting of the Blind Poet’s Society (which would be understandable), I had no idea what the problem was. He became increasingly irate with each utterance, and eventually I gathered that he just needed me to move forward to see my license plate. What a strange man.

Finally, I was out of the EU, beyond the jurisdiction of the dickhead, and the real adventure could begin. If Europe had been my training wheels, and Mexico was a scraped knee, then Turkey was to be a broken arm, or a dislocated shoulder, or a concussion, or, like, a really bad bruise or something.