''You are our guest''

The walk from the Sanlıurfa bus station to the city center is about one kilometer, not a bad distance to cover on foot. In the fading pink light of a southeastern evening, I walked past a dusty soccer pitch where boys played on small fields divided with white stones, the same color as the stone walls of a castle I could see on a hill to the south. I crossed a big road ringing the city like Frogger: one lane at a time, which hardly guarantees safety as Turkish drivers do not believe in lanes.

The road narrowed as it approached the city, squeezing through a series of cemeteries with handsome rock walls. They too matched the castle. All the headstones pointed one way--towards Mecca. Some were painted green, the color of Islam, and many bore seemingly impossible dates. 1322-1986. 1297-1950. Not so: those departed souls lived in two eras, the Ottoman with the Islamic calendar, and the Republican period with the Gregorian. Born in the former, died in the latter.

I found a hotel, left my bags, and walked back into Urfa's streets. The main avenue--Attaturk Caddesi, as usual--was lined with modern shops and banks, but the cobbled sidewalks, narrow alleys, and stately mosques betrayed a much greater history.

I stopped at a lokantı for dinner, where a shelf of goat skulls above the soup pot indicated the province of the floating morsels of meat. I passed on the soup and ordered two lamacun and ayran instead.

By now, the evening had ended and a full moon vaguely illuminated the streets, which were full of shopkeepers closing for the night and boys selling a few remaining simit (a type of Turkish bagel) from metal trays carefully balanced atop their heads. I wandered through the market and found a pastry shop, with a rack of cooling cookies out front. ''What are these?'' I asked the teenager behind the counter. He told me, and asked where I was from. America, I said, and asked how much for one. Smiling, he said, ''Free. Welcome to Urfa.''

I continued to the city's square, below the castle I had admired earlier. Gardens and great expanses of stone surrounded two ponds, full of holy carp: they say anyone who eats them will go blind. A boy asked me, in English, ''Mister, fish eatings you want?'' I bought some fish food and threw it to the already fat carp.

I walked back towards my hotel, stopping to drink a beer in a nearly abandoned bar. Drinkers are rare in Urfa. As usual, I went to bed early. Night life in southeastern Turkey is limited to endless tea and board games, and I can't do that every night.

I returned to the market the next day for lunch. I sat down on a diminutive square stool and ordered, ''one of those.'' The inevitable question came: yes, I am foreign. American. I speak a little Turkish. How? I took a class in America. (I am well-practiced with these words.)

A crowd of curious merchants was gathering, eager to see me and hear my broken Turkish. ''What is America like?'' the men asked me. ''Like Turkey,'' I said. (And really, it is.) ''But you are Christians and we are Muslims,'' they replied. ''Doesn't matter,'' I said. ''Bir dunya, bir millet.'' One world, one people. They liked that, and quickly agreed.

A man handed me a fresh date, and asked about my religion. This was getting complicated fast. I'll try to translate my response directly to English. I said something like:

''My religion? There is none. But there is a god, I believe. But which god? I don't know. Muslim god? Christian god? Jewish god? Hindu gods? Greek gods? I don't know. To know this... difficult.''

It was not difficult for this group: they explained that Allah is the only god, and then said a lot of complicated things I didn't understand. They kept repeating something, and indicated that I should say it with them. People often do this to help me pronounce hard words, but as I reached the end of the phrase, I realized what I had just said: ''There is no god but Allah and Muhammed is his prophet,'' in Arabic.

Technically, I had just become a Muslim. That's all you have to do: say those words and you're done. My friends laughed, and asked if I'd like to go to the mosque with them that afternoon. I thought I'd rather return to the bar.

I stood up and asked how much, but the man who had handed me ''one of those'' shook his head and said, ''free, and sit. Tea is coming.'' So I sat, protesting, but the other men chimed in, saying ''you are our guest and you will not pay.'' We drank tea, I asked about their families, I showed pictures of my family, and then I finally stood, shaking hands all around. The crowd I had attracted dispersed. As I walked on, mandarins, dates, and apples were quietly handed my way: sweet evidence of a town's goodwill.

The colors of this market were vibrant and far removed from the manufactured Ottomanism of the west. Fiberglass roofs hung over the alleys, lending a milky quality to the colors. Shiny olives--a dozen shades of gray, and another dozen green--waited for customers in 20 liter buckets. Men and women alike wore pale violet scarves, a color I had seen nowhere else in Turkey. Other men wore puşi, scarves of checkered red and white, creatively draped over their heads and shoulders. Grayish wool stood in huge, puffy stacks outside workshops, soon to be spun. Shoe shine men waited for customers, their hands stained brown by the polish. Golden tobacco sat in bags, and I watched men sample it by rolling a cigarette before ordering, ''yari kilo.''

A loop through the oldest part of town took me by gangs of kids eager to practice their ''hellowhatsyournamewhereareyoufrom.'' ''Hello! My name is Riley. I am from America. What are your names?'' I gave them pencils, and when I ran out, I dipped into my personal stash of pens. Eventually, I could only hand out smiles, which everyone returned.

Sometimes these crowds practice a different English word: ''money, money!'' But there would always be one or two kids, usually the smallest, who would shake their heads and say, with great dignity, ''no, no money.'' I listened to them.

I was sad to leave Urfa two days later. I could tell I was somewhere special: a place of unique beauty and kindness unmatched by anywhere I have ever been. The days after Urfa where disappointing, as nothing could match the spendor of Glorious Urfa. (The prefix ''Sanlı'' means glorious.)

I hopped from town to town, visiting ancient churches and mosques. I stopped at Hasankayf, a ruin that rivals Macchu Picchu's elegance. I was alone there. I drank tea and watched television beamed from Istanbul: difficult to believe it was the same country as the southeast. I met Kurdish men who sympathized with the PKK--they told me stories of torture and brothers lost forever in the mountains. I shared holy perfume brought from Mecca by old men. I played Turkish board games--still haven't won yet.

Winter is coming here and it's time to go to Cyprus. But I'll be back.