This was supposed to make for a cute side-note paragraph in a post someday, but someone had other plans, if just to really, really mess with us.
Steve, Andrea and I get off our twelve-hour bus ride a little achy, a little sore, but the bus had just enough empty seats we each had our own window and aisle seats to stretch out on.
What do you assume when you see someone strolling down the street with a guitar? Artistic? Musically competent? How about a girl with a my-size backpack, long black skirt, and a saz? I’d unintentionally created this amazing alternate identity. Left and right, Turkish men call out. “Do you play?” “Play me something!” and lastly, “Take it out, I play song for you.” We laugh. If only they knew.
But Thursday, day one in Cappadocia, we’re wandering, sans saz, and shining like there is a halo above it, a DHL is in front of us. Phenomenal. We returned the next day on the way to the open air museum (lots of caves). And DHL is still there looking pretty, and looking pretty darn dead-bolted. Guess what Steve did that day.
On the way to the museum, Andrea stopped for coffee, and I believe to engage me so I’d buy coffee (I was far too cheap for that, ironic based on anyone that knows me + what is now on my back), the barista takes out the saz. Makes “you’re cute, kinda gross” faces at the postcard. I still don’t buy the coffee.
On our way back to the hostel, we ran into other hostel guests from Australia we’d talked to that morning. They didn’t remember our names, and we didn’t remember there’s, but Andrea and I had a great laugh as the boy, later identified as Derby, asked us “Did Steve enjoy himself?”
Because honestly, who’s going to forget the two idiot American girls running around town with a baglama. Nutty. And sometimes picturesque.
Saturday. Best day of our lives. We felt bad, but we left Steve behind.
Sunday, Steve and I return to DHL. I’m prepared to take a jumping photo in front of the door and send him on his way. At this point, the story has nothing – nothing – to do with the original intentions. This saz was worth the story.
But DHL is closed. Still. And I’m exhausted. I’m about to take a picture, say “Saw this saz, thought of you, gave it to someone else.”
Two men at the Turkish Delight store wave me over, with a “do you play.” Exasperated, I explain. Only one man speaks English, but suddenly the other is on the phone. “He’s calling his friend. If the owner is in Goreme, he will come and open DHL store for you.” Oh no, no, no that’s okay, that’s so unnecessary, no.
Steve has left my hands. Actually, non-English-speaking man is weighing Steve on the candy scale. His friend says he is asking DHL guy (who is 100km away) how much it would cost to mail – if I am leaving Cappadocia, I can leave it and they will mail for me. But no, that won’t be necessary. Andrea just arrived to tell us we have one more day in Cappadocia since bus tickets weren’t available. They say DHL will be open at 8:30, tomorrow.
Sure. That’s exactly what happened in Part Three.