Windy tracks lead east

15 October: on the train from Amasya to Sivas
The British built Turkey's railroads in the mid 19th century. The lines follow twisty paths through valleys, skirting the mountains--the Ottoman Empire didn't want to spend the money to tunnel through them. This makes for winding, bouncy rides. Trains are a slow and inconvenient way to get around Turkey, but I like them anyway.

I boarded the Samsun-Sivas Yolcu (Local) in Amasya a few hours ago, and I am hungry. I expected a well-stocked lokantı vagon, but to my surprise Yolcu services have no restaurants. I finished half a bar of chocolate I found in my bag two hours ago, and so now I must content myself with my books and the scenery.

This region is a muted place. The colors are simple: blue sky, gray clouds, yellow fields, black rails. Tractors break through with bursts of red, and the occasional train stations are painted an inappropriately-bright orange.

I've spent much of today watching Turkey pass out my window, which is etched, as always, with a crescent and star in the middle. We've squeaked through a series of towns with only a handful of buildings--many too small to warrant even a standard-issue orange concrete tren garı. The towns are little outposts in acres of fields, which earlier--back towards Samsun--were full of people harvesting turnips. The fields I see now, carved out of golden hills, are empty and waiting for winter.

The Yolcu runs twice a day. For many towns, it is the only reliable connection to the rest of the world. The few roads I have seen are not used by cars, but by farmers commuting to their fields via tractor. I sat near one family that got off at one of those tiny towns--they were picked up by a man on his tractor. The little girl (about three) sat on the driver's lap, the mother perched herself in front of the cab, and the father hung off the back.

I am the only foreigner on this train. I might have been the only foreigner in Amasya. While I was waiting for the train, a woman asked me, in German, if I spoke German. ''Alemanca yok.'' (No German.) She was surprised that I replied in Turkish, and asked about my family. I asked where she was going. She asked what I thought of Turkey. The conversation went on like that.

It seems that she wanted to practice her German, because she would speak first in that language, then repeat herself in Turkish. I was happy to have a real conversation and not make a fool of myself. My Turkish ran out just as my train arrived.

I admire (perhaps a little naively) the lives of the people I have seen from the train today. I hate fly-by cultural appreciation, but today I am guilty of just that. What happy people, waving to the train as it chugs by. Such well-built houses, and a beautiful place to live. Of course, I can't see the frigid winters of the hard times low crop prices bring through my window--I just see smiling faces and piles of turnips.

16 October: Sivas
I have whiled away my time in Sivas in one smoky tea house with my new friends. Ours is one of six on the second story of the city's main bazaar, which is built around an old Armenian mansion. (The Armenians, of course, are long gone. I'll get to that in a couple weeks.) Its walls are covered with carpets, slowly turning brown from the smoke, mostly from omnipresent cigarettes but also from nargiles. I have adjusted to the smoke, but not to the absence of women.

These tea houses are not for women. I asked, quite seriously, ''But where are all the girls?'' and the 15 or so young Turks watching a football match laughed. There are few places for men and women to spend time together in eastern Turkey. Sivas is reputed to be one of the more socially conservative places in Turkey, and men and women--even the most modern--do not mix much.

We talk about football, politics, girls--the same things they talk about for hours on end. I was asked endless questions about what I thought of Turkey, my opinion of American politics, what I am doing in Turkey, and finally, and crucially, to name Turkey's three big soccer teams. Easy: Ferenbahçe, Galatasaray, and Beşiktas. (This tea house was full of Beşiktas supporters: red, white, and black bracelets indicate their allegiance.) I guess that was my ticket to acceptance, because as soon as I passed their test, everyone became much friendlier.

We left the tea house around 11 p.m. and were back twelve hours later. In between, I slept on a couch at Hokay's flat and then ate breakfast at his sister's apartment--I get the feeling that this is pretty much how every day passes. I've become part of a group of three friends, all of whom are highly educated yet unemployed. This is common in Turkey, particularly the east. Tea costs about 30 cents a cup, so young men sip tea to pass the time.

The rain and cold weather I expected have arrived. Gray skies will probably be a regular feature of the rest of my trip--the sunny beaches of the Mediterranean feel a long way away. From here, I'll travel to Trabzon, a city on the Black Sea coast, and then make my way through mountain passes and small towns to Georgia and Armenia. My planning ends there--I'll look at my map and read my guide on the bus tomorrow.

P.S. Below you'll find a slideshow of my first few weeks in Turkey, and below that, an entry about how history is used for political purposes here. Çok güzel!