Todd barefoot on the travertines | Photo by Lauren Girardin

Whoops. Forgot to include the previous post's photo slideshow - check out photos of Mount Nemrut and Cappadocia.

In the middle of the Sahara Desert, Todd and I got advice for our travels through Turkey, a place that at the moment seemed as far away as the stars in the black night sky. Sam, a chatty Chicagoan told us to "hike barefoot down Pamukale's travertines at sunset. All the tour groups will be gone and you'll have the place to yourself."

Two months later, Todd and I have spent the day with new friends Cara and Zac (read their blog) clambering around the salvage yard-like ancient ruins of Heiropolis, gleefully mocking bikini-clad tourists posing for photos on the steps of the Roman theatre, and enjoying a barefoot walk down the white travertines at sunset – just like Sam suggested.

Though we didn't have any travel suggestions from Sam for our next stops, we had the Turkey guide book she gave us when we parted ways in the Sahara. The book may not have told us that we'd find wild blackberries in Ephesus or kitchy propaganda in Ankara's Ataturk Museum, but it got us there.

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Tourists gather to photograph the sunrise on Mount Nemrut | Photo by Lauren Girardin

You make certain trade-offs when you go on an organized tour, such as the one that Todd and I took to the hard-to-reach Mount Nemrut and other areas in central Turkey. In exchange for the luxury of a mindless three days free of decision making, you're beholden to the tour schedule. You can only hope that the skies will be clear, your bowels will be in perfect working order, and that your tour companions will be interesting.

Although "interesting" may not be a quality to hope for in people you're stuck with for days on end.

Since the tour we're on was the only tour in town, we're in a van with twenty people that are a grab bag of the good, the bad, and the ugly types of tourist. If I was ever to write a novel, the people on the Mount Nemrut tour have given me a range of characters I couldn't have made up.

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Together in Cappadocia | Photo by Lauren Girardin

"You're still here?"

The question drifts out to us from a dim storefront as Todd and I walk around Göreme in search of dinner. Göreme's a small town so it's not hard for our faces to become familiar to someone who's set up shop on the street. It is our fourth and final night in Turkey's Cappadocia region and, as the question seems to imply, is a bit longer than most people stay.

Throughout our explorations of the Cappadocia landscape, we've been surrounded by ghost towns. We walk through empty, damp subterranean passageways that wind eight stories deep in the underground city of Derinkuyu. We pass by hundreds of crumbling cave houses carved into fairy chimneys, their tenants long gone. We forage amongst fruit left to rot on the vine at a small, isolated farm plot; a single tomato is just right for picking and, still warm from the sun, is the tastiest I've ever eaten.

Despite a pervasive sense of abandonment, there's an occasional sign of life.

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Prayer at the Blue Mosque, Istanbul | Photo by Lauren Girardin

Todd and I were worried because our first days in Turkey would coincide with the last days of the Muslim holy month, Ramazan (also called Ramadan). We've been warned that people will be cranky from hunger, nicotine withdrawal, and even dehydration, since the truly religious won't swallow anything during daylight hours, even their own spit. We've heard rumors that even if we can find food, it will be in hard-to-find speakeasy-style joints, or worse, in tourist restaurants.

But, since we're starting off in Istanbul – a sprawling, crowded, and increasingly Westernized city that literally straddles the line between Europe and Asia – we don't have to worry. Most restaurants are open all day, though long lines form for tables right before sunset (conveniently making it easy to figure out which restaurants are most popular with locals).

Better yet, our backpacker hostel is a few blocks from a nightly street fair that fills the Hippodrome, an open area just outside the Blue Mosque. The end of Ramazan is a family holiday and a lot of Turks have descended on Istanbul.

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Behind the Eiffel Tower, Paris | Photo by Lauren Girardin

Claude Wainstain is a sneaky man. He not only captivated me and Todd with his passionate storytelling, he had his wife Jacqueline hold us captive with a homemade dinner followed by fresh walnuts, French cheeses, toasted fava beans, pudding, and Nespresso coffee. Even if Claude's stories had bored us, our full stomachs would have prevented us from getting up from our seats at his kitchen table in St. Mandé, on the edge of Paris.

During our feast, Claude broke out a copy of his book, Judéopostale, in which he has collected stories of serendipity, coincidence, red tape, spirituality, and religion. His stories are far more interesting than you'd expect considering that each one is based on a Jewish-themed postage stamp.

Claude's best story is personal, as all great stories are.

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