Via Prague

Ozlem wanted to go to the sea on Monday, but ugly rains and black skies drowned that idea. The following morning it was clear and sunny, and when we met in the center, Ozlem again had travel in mind. This time it was the mountains.
It was about time I got up there. I had been living in Bursa for nearly two months, and the wall of mountains that surround much of the city had just been a romantic backdrop, scenery. I've never been much of a Nature Boy -- give me busy streets, pavement, twighlit skylines and bridges -- but every now and then it's required; in this case, you don't come to Bursa without going to Uludag, or Olympos, as it was called by the Mysians who founded the city back in 202 B.C.
Plus, Ozlem and I needed it, a breath of fresh air. Earlier that morning we'd gone to my school, where Ozlem talked to my boss Ayda about my visa. I'd overstayed my three-month tourist visa, and now faced the prospect of having to leave the country. That was not the news either of us wanted to hear. Ozlem's brother knew somebody who worked for the consulate and was trying to do something for me on that end, but it didn't look promising. The school had already exhausted their efforts.
So with the year and decade, and perhapsmy stay in Turkey coming to an end, Ozlem wanted to go to Uludag. But it was more than that: the day was too fine, clear and sunny, just at the end of the year, to let anything get in the way.
We caught the bus at Heykel and rode to the foot of the mountain, where you catch the teleferik, or cable lift, up to the summit. After we got our tickets and sat waiting for the next lift, I was nervous. It's perhaps a sign of age that in recent years I've developed a more acute fear of heights than I used to have; for example, the flight from Prague to Istanbul I was a nervous wreck, when just five years ago I flew across the Atlantic from New York to Amsterdam and slept peacefully the whole way. It's hard to account for this newly found vertigo, or "fear of flying;" myself, I suspect that it could be after so many trips, the older you get the more you fear that sooner or later you're bound to crash.
But anyway, the next teleferik came and we got on. It was a small car with glass windows on all sides. Two Chinese women occupied a bench on one side, and on the other a Turkish couple. The rest of the car, half a dozen or so people, were also tourists. We began our ascent, the buildings and houses passed underneath, and the tops of trees almost brushing against the bottom of the lift, and the incline grew steeper, and before long we passed the first support marker, the car rising and falling slightly. As we climbed higher I felt the anxiety in me rising. Ozlem, sensing this, had me huddle close to her. "Look," she said, pointing back down the slope of the mountain. Already the city was far below, stretched out for miles in a vast valley. In the distance, through a slight mist, you could make out the curve of mountains further on. Ahead, up the slope, there were only trees now, most of them pine trees, but they looked like shrubs or sticks.
After about 15 minutes we arrived at the first junction. We got out and walked outside. There were only a few patches of snow at that altitude. Otherwise it was a wide meadow, still green and fresh. A couple of horses were tied up nearby, tended to by men who let tourists pose for pictures. "We used to go here when I was a child for picnics," Ozlem said. "In the summer. It was nice."
There was another teleferik to take to get to the next junction, further up the mountain. We caught it and for me it was another test of nerves. A couple of Turkish men teased me good-naturedly, seeing I was nervous. "Just relax," Ozlem said. "Look." I looked, and it was true it was marvelous, the ascent further up, the trees below, the surrounding panorama, and as we got closer for the first time the summit of Uludag, covered in snow, was visible.
We weren't going all the way up, Ozlem said, not today. Instead got off at the next junction.
It was cold when we got out, snow and ice covered much of the ground now, but it was also exhilarating, the air fresh and bracing. And being high up, you felt as though you were safely enscounced upon a cloud, the world's petty worries (such as visas) were all far below. As we walked down the road, we passed a couple of Turkish men who were ready to take people up to the summit in vans. I wanted a beer, to be honest, and nearby there was a restaurant and hotel, all wooden and rustic. We went inside and the interior was exactly what you'd expect: big and cozy, with two large round barbecues, and many long wood tables.
Ozlem asked the waiter for beer. He said they had beer but we had to order food. Neither of us had much money and the restaurant was a little bit expensive. We ordered two beers and a plate of french fries. The waiter brought us two bottles of Efes, and later the french fries, which were freshly cut.
A family, about eight or ten people and a couple of children, came in. Ozlem said they were speaking Arabic, and were probably tourists from Syria. When they sat down, the cook came over and lit the barbecue, scooping the hot coals from the other barbecue into it. As the barbecue heated up, strips of beef and lamb were put on, as well as liver, and onions and tomatoes. As the meat began to sizzle, I felt my stomach growl. Being high up in the mountains on a cold day makes you hungry; to that end, I watched the Arabic children at the next table; one of them, a boy with a black hood, stood like a sentinel at the barbecue, wistfully watching the meat as it sizzled.
With the beer and the cozy surroundings, we relaxed. We talked about my problem; there didn't seem to be any clear solution. We could married, we said, only half-jokingly. In that moment, I thought about it. Get married? Did I really want that, or was I just looking for a way to stay in the country? Ozlem looked at me from across the table and as always she looked sweet and caring, and I thought no, I really could marry her. She smiled. "You must solve your problem first," she said. "Then maybe we talk."
We were still feeling very good though. At the big table, kebabs of liver and onion were being served, and the lamb was ready. I ordered another beer and we finished the potatoes. Ozlem, seeing me longingly eye the sizzling lamb suggested we order kofte, Turkish meatballs. She said she could put it on her credit card maybe.
"No, let's go," I said. We paid for the beer and potatoes, and she went to the restroom. I went out to the front porch for a smoke and looked around at the snow-covered ground and the trees. Then Ozlem came out ("It was funny," she said, "I went to the toilet and there was an old man in the women's toilet washing himself") and we started to walk down the road. She told me there was a river further on that she wanted to show me. As we walked, we passed summer lodgings that were closed up and another hotel, and soon were all alone, surrounded only by trees. In the distance rose the white peak of Uludag, majestic and sunlit. Alongside the road a small stream of water flowed, but the still ponds were largely frozen, and we walked carefully looking for patches of ice.
We passed a couple who were having a winter picnic under a tree, their Jeep parked nearby. There were also two or three dogs who followed us at a distance for a little while then disappeared. The sun was still high, the sky cloudless. It seemed to get colder the further we went into the alpine forest and I asked Ozlem how far the river was. "Shut up," she said lightly. "It is not far."
And soon enough we were there. It wasn't really a river, more an alpine stream. It wound and twisted along over rocks, running here, frozen there, the sound of the water an isolated hum breaking the stillness of forest. We stopped and listened to the stream, and then took pictures, before starting back. I remember at that moment, watching Ozlem as she readied for me to take her picture, and after, looking up at Uludag, thinking about Olympos, about the ancient myth about those who tried to scale Olympos, and how the gods punished those who climbed to far. Could that explain my anxiety? In a flash, the past year, longer that, a decade really of big highs and big lows -- ambition, foolishness and recklessness over the past few years, all of them seemed to materialize, like silent judges, just out of sight in that silent forest. To sort of knock on wood, I said a quick prayer, and hoped if nothing else, the gods would at least look, if not after me, at least after Ozlem.
It was colder now and we walked quickly. Ozlem stopped and gathered some snow and threw a snowball at me. But she wasn't wearing gloves, neither of us were, and soon her hands were burning. I tried to rub them, but she shook my hand away -- the contact hurt -- but after a few minutes it was better and we fell into direct line with the sun and got warm. A cat, dirty and shy, suddenly appeared and Ozlem pointed it out. Her mobile rang. It was her brother, calling with an update on my visa problem. Not much new. "He asked where are you?" Ozlem said. "I told him, 'Heykel.' He is very jealous. If he knew I was on the mountain he would be angry."
We arrived at the station and went inside. It was still fifteen minutes to the next teleferik, so we ordered tea. A man brought it and had us sit down at a table in the souvenir shop. The shop had pictures of Ortaköy, other Istanbul landmarks, the inevitable Atatürk portraits, but also children's toys. We sat and drank the tea and looked at some Turkish newspapers that had been left lying there. Ozlem read our horoscopes. "It says you must think slowly," she read. "I must think about money."
I asked the proprietor if I could smoke. He showed me the balcony and opened the door, advising me to be careful walking down the steps. Outside the wires of the telefelik went down the slope. You couldn't see the next one coming yet. I looked out at the distance. It was quite lovely there, the blurry blue outline of moutains high and far away. I looked back and saw Ozlem looking at me through the window, and we smiled. Back inside it was warm, and while we waited we looked at some of the souvenirs. Ozlem played with some of the children's toys, a Pinnoccio puppet, a porcelain-eyed cat ... she asked if I wanted anything, but they were expensive. She put one of the tickets from the lift in my pocket instead.
When the next lift came, we got on and sat in the seat at the back. A Turkish man with his wife and young daughter got on, and there were two or three other Turkish children and their parents. The little girl and her mother shared the seat with us. But when the lift started down the slope, the tops of trees below us and the sky surrounding us, the little girl got up and went to the front and stood on the seat next to the other children and they looked out.
"Why are you afraid?" Ozlem asked, looking at me. "You see," she pointed to the children. "Child not afraid."
Actually it wasn't as bad for me on the way down. I found that if I just watched the tops of the trees it gave off an illusion of being the ground and helped block out the sensation of weightlessness which made me uneasy. Or I looked out at a fixed point in the distance, such as the slope of the distant mountains. Or I just looked at Ozlem.