The Road to Ephesus

article

by Barbara Stoner

Long ago, Philip of Macedon, father of Alexander the Great, tried to take the city of Byzantium by digging under the walls on a dark night. As the night progressed, the Crescent Moon appeared, and by its light the watchmen on the walls were able to see Philip's men digging below. They sounded the alarm, and the city was saved. The Crescent Moon was the symbol of the goddess Artemis, and henceforth, she became the city's guardian. When the city became Constantinople and embraced Christianity, the star was added as a symbol of the Virgin Mary.

Another story tells that when Mehmet the Conqueror took Constantinople in 1448, a reflection of the Moon occulting a star appeared in pools of blood after the battle. He kept the symbols of the city, appropriating them for the new city of Istanbul.

When Barbara Stoner invaded the city on the last day of February in 2004, she quickly found herself sitting on a curb in the Beyoglu under Galata Tower, nursing a severely sprained right ankle and casting baleful glances at the pile of old banana peels that had been her downfall. I felt curiously akin to Phillip of Macedon.

Meanwhile, behind me, two Turks had dragged a stool out of their shop and were insisting that I sit on it. When I resisted leaving the comfy curb, they became very insistent and explained to my sister that they feared I might get sick through my -- excuse me -- rear. Turks apparently believe that sitting on cold stone makes one ill. You can even get -- excuse me -- diarrhea.

As I sat on that curb, I could almost hear the thought way back somewhere in my head saying all was lost, the trip was ruined, I was toast. I banished the thought. I had places to go, goddesses to find. If Artemis was putting me to a test, I was going to pass it. I hobbled down the hill with my sister and found a cab.

The day had begun auspiciously enough the morning before when I boarded a plane from Seattle for Chicago to meet my sister and travel on to Istanbul. My sister, Joan, is married to a Turk. One family adage for years was that Joan only bought imports, and married them as well. Her first husband was German. But the Turk, Mete, was a keeper. He is a professor of civil engineering at Purdue University, and goes around the world after earthquakes to tell folks why their buildings fell down. My take on it is, "You had an earthquake; your house fell down." Mete tells me there is more to the story. But Mete isn't with us on this trip. It is Joan and I, two sisters off on an adventure.

I spend one day in my sister's genuine old Turkish apartment, filled with an assortment of old family furniture and found antiques. My ankle has reduced in size from that of a Persian prune (a peach) to that of an Armenian prune (an apricot), and Joan has bought me a new red cane, replacing the red-handled mop with which I have been hobbling about the apartment. We have only one more day in Istanbul.

Aya Sofia, the Great Church, was built by Justinian between 532 and 537 A.D. It incorporates eight pillars taken from the Artemesian, the temple to Artemis at Ephesus, which was one of the wonders of the ancient world. It was converted to a mosque by Mehmet the Conqueror on the very day he conquered Istanbul in 1453. Today it is a museum.

I caress a pillar, black stone beneath my hand, polished by more than 2000 years of hands. The marble ripples like a living thing, flexing the muscle that upholds the dome. A golden mihrab along one wall indicates the direction of Mecca. High above, clerestory windows light a mosaic of the Madonna and Child. There are layers upon layers of belief in this building. I want to press my forehead to one of the ancient pillars and mind meld. Aya Sofia, Sancta Sophia, Holy Wisdom. She is here.

Within hobbling distance of the Great Church is the Blue Mosque, the Mavi Cami (in Turkish, "c" is pronounced "j"). So Joan and I process across the boulevard in the rain to the Mavi "Jahmee." Just as we enter the courtyard, the Muslim call to prayer arises from all six minarets, and from the hundreds if not thousands of other minarets in this city of 12 million people. The effect is amazing. Powerful energy filled the air. Allahu akbar. Allah is great. I turn around and look back toward Aya Sofia, lifting my face to the rain, and remember that this is the city of Artemis. For the moment, it all becomes one. Bismillah.

Next we land in Izmir, the modern city that once was Smyrna, whose initial settlements date back to the third century B.C. Heading south along Turkish highways that could be just outside Madison, Wisconsin, for all I can tell, it finally hits me that those trees dotting the hillsides are figs and olives, and the blue that is sometimes visible in the distance is the Aegean Sea. Troy is north of here. My sister's village lies just beyond the ancient city of Priene, once a seaside port, now perched high among the hills as the seacoast retreated.

Eski (old) Doganbey (Doe-ahn-bay) is the tiny village in which we will live for the next two weeks. It was once filled with Turkish Muslims and Greek Orthodox peoples, living and working side by side, until the Treaty of Lausanne in 1923, which sent the Greeks to Greece and brought many Greek-speaking Muslims to Turkey. Then the town was abandoned, and the new population built a new Doganbey down the mountain, nearer the sea. Now, as we drive up the gravel road, there is sunlight and shadow on the hills, covered with the grey green of Athena's olives and bare fig trees. My sister's house is restored, as are many others, but between them are old stone houses with black windows, the blind eyes of a deserted village.

Canan (Jahnan) is my sister's name in Turkish. She calls me Selene. Jet lag has finally caught us, and we are up all night burning decorations. After burning the logs her man of all jobs Mehmet left for us, we try keeping the fire going by burning all the dried flowers she had put up for Christmas when they were last here. It feels like a ritual, burning the Yule log or killing the Yule King to make way for Maia.

Spring is coming to these hills. The sun rises on a bright blue morning. Canan goes to town on business, so I put on my hiking boots, gingerly stuffing my right foot into a nearly unlaced boot once again, and leaning on the jaunty red cane, I set out to explore the village. The sun is warm on old stone, and even the empty holes look inviting. An abandoned mosque rears a single minaret into a clear blue sky. Black cattle graze on the hillsides above the town, and I must be careful to close the gates when I come to them so the cows don' t wander off. Men are working on the foundations of one old house perched on the side of a steep gully, but they are the only people I see until, rounding a corner past the mosque, a small woman hustles toward me with a big smile.

She is Birsel, wife of the artist Ahmet, and after some hasty sign language, I follow her into one old house that apparently is her absent husband's studio, filled with scenes similar to those I have just witnessed outside. She invites me for tea. "Chai? Chai?" She speaks no English. I speak negligible Turkish. "Evet, evet," I say. "Yes, yes." We go back outside under the trees where she sets up a small table, complete with tablecloth, and plugs an electric teapot into an outlet hanging from a low-growing limb. I take it this is an afternoon ritual. Conversation is completely impossible, so we just sip tea and smile at each other. Understanding dawns for a moment, when she offers me lumps of sugar. "Bir? Iki?" "One? Two?" Ah! I understand. "Iki," I say, and then proudly begin to count to ten in Turkish. She joins me. "Sekiz, Dokuz, On!" "Eight, nine, ten!" we finish triumphantly, then smile at each other again, once more at a loss for words.

A deus ex machina, a god from the machine, saves the day, as it always did in the ancient Greek plays. This time it takes the form of a young Turkish god -- um -- zoologist, who helps run the local museum and speaks a spattering of English, arriving for tea with his co-worker, a lovely young Turkish anthropologist. Soon after, Mehmet arrives to escort me home. Apparently he considers me a responsibility in Canan's absence, and needs to be certain I am safely home when she returns.

Crested larks the color of roadside dust fly at our approach on the drive to Didyma the next day, site of an Oracle of Apollo and my first official ruin. My sister goes shopping (her idea of cultural exploration) while I pay the Oracle a little visit. The priestesses are long gone, and we can now go where ancient visitors never could. The holy places are open to the skies. I find a seashell, no doubt an offering from some other wanderer, and put it in my pocket, leaving a penny in return. I sit on the sun-warmed steps awhile, pick a daisy, leave a piece of chocolate. Lord of Light.

We spend a day marketing for greens in Soke and having tea and Noah's Ark pudding with Mehmet's family in the village down the mountain. Noah's Ark pudding (Mount Ararat lies in the northeast corner of the country) contains a little bit of everything from barley to raisins to nuts. One of his daughters tells us that her mother's family is from Bulgaria, her father's from Salonika. Her mother, Zahide (Zah-hee-day), is one of the most striking women I have ever seen, her face lined from years of working in the cotton fields, but strong with piercing blue eyes and a somewhat sardonic smile playing about her lips. I finally memorize an entire sentence for Mehmet. "Tesekkur ederim bir iyi kahvalti icin." "Thank you for a very good breakfast."

Today we drive to Lake Bafa and beyond, to Heracleia under Latmos, passing hills of olive orchards spread with wildflowers. On the way, we stop at Euromos, a wayside Temple of Zeus. I wander about, plucking a black olive from the tree to taste, spitting out the bitter fruit. Olives must be processed before becoming edible. I trek gingerly up the hill into the orchard, looking for a sense of old times. Olives were a gift of Athena. They won the city of Athens for her, topping Poseidon's gift of horses. Leaning on my red cane, I look back toward the no longer visible sea, and wish for a horse.

Mt. Latmos is crowned with storm clouds, but the air remains free of rain as we drive the winding road to Heracleia, past elephant-sized boulders, saddled donkeys, an old woman with a load of firewood on her back, and Turkish cowboys bringing the cows home. Tea is served in a small, charming pension, with the tall stone wall of a temple to Athena visible beyond a whitewashed house in the distance. I beg silent forgiveness for being unable to come any closer to her. I wish I hadn't spit out the olive. I beg forgiveness for that as well. My foot is swollen and sore.

The following day, Canan and I drive to Miletus, another ancient city, but I can only scan the theatre with my binoculars from the car window. A stork's nest tops a slightly less ancient mosque nearby. Our next stop is the hospital in Soke, from which I emerge with a walking cast for a hairline fracture and orders for two days of bed rest. I comply.

At long last comes a bright shining day, and I am finally on the road to Ephesus. The highway to Selcuk (Seljuk) lies over the hills to Kusadasi (Kushadasuh), where new houses are stacked like bee hives, and cypresses rise like exclamation points through the olive trees. Canan leaves me at the gate, while she drives to Izmir to shop for roof tiles. The Marble Way stretches from the great theatre -- still used for concerts -- past the sign of the brothel to the Library of Celsus and the Augustine Gate. I go no further, for the way leads uphill and covers more ground than my new white cast can handle for one day. Ephesus is an entire city laid out in foundation blocks and crumbled walls. The Library façade rears two stories high, but its interior is roofless. German and Hungarian tourists help me up the steps, and I rest inside for nearly an hour, reading.

The Artemesian is not in the city. It lies further down the road, on the outskirts of Selcuk. I take a taxi to the museum, where I am to meet Canan. Here, finally, I find my goddess. There is one beautiful room dedicated to the Artemisian and to Artemis herself with two ancient images of her. The Great Artemis. The Beautiful Artemis. This is not Artemis -- Diana, the huntress. This is Artemis the goddess of fertility. She is festooned with breasts, symbols of abundance, of fecundity. A small replica of the great Artemisian is in the center of the room, with a tiny replica of one of the images placed where worshippers would have visited her long ago. When my sister arrives, we drive around to the gates of the Artemisian, but they are locked for the night. I have one more chance.

Three days later, our time as villagers on the Aegean is over. Oz the architect's husband comes to bid us goodbye, as do Mehmet and Zahide and Oslem, their eldest daughter. Hassan the leprechaun (a Turk who looks more Irish you will never see) comes up the road from where his sheep were grazing. Even Serkan, the young zoologist god, comes to see us away.

Before leaving, we drive back over the hills to the Artemesian, which is open that beautiful blue afternoon. Antipater of Sidon, after many journeys, wrote, "But when I saw the sacred house of Artemis that towers to the clouds, the [other Wonders] were placed in the shade, for the Sun himself has never looked upon its equal outside Olympus." Now a few towering pillars stand in stagnant water. A swan graces a pool formed from part of the foundation. Women vendors assail our car with postcards. I think about walking down, dabbling my fingers in the water, doing obeisance of some sort, but my cast might get wet, my sister is drumming her fingers on the steering wheel, and more "priestesses" are approaching me with postcards. I bow my head and we drive away.