Flying to Turkey

Every year, I hope to spend a month or so in Turkey - although a yabanci, I have been made to feel welcome in the village - I wake up, on my first day, before dawn, hearing  the crackle of speakers in the minaret, before the early morning cry for prayer - I can hear cockerels crowing lustily in the gardens below my house -

I get quickly dressed, and sit on the terrace with a coffee - I look down at the village, with its street of shops, workshops and tea gardens - berbers establishments the size of cupboards - the butchers shop with the strangely shaped joints of meat hanging from hooks in the window - gaffers driving venerable tractors - old ladies bent over double - I think - later, I will walk up to see Jane and Ken - I will swim in their pool - I will wait for the swallows - 

But flying out to Turkey is part of the fun - I love airports - I gaze fondly at the destination screens - if I had my way, I'd spend all my time, jumping on and off jets - Anne, of course, realizes this -

I'll spend the night before the flight in a hotel near Gatwick Airport - the place is like a Sci Fi transit camp - I'll drink a pint of iced Guinness - next morning, I'll sip cappuccino in an airport cafe, looking out at the beautiful jets -

When the jet races down the runway, just before it rises up into the chill air, I can feel my heart lurch in my chest with joy and terror -

In the air, I look out at fleets of clouds - at mountains far below, with their snow and cruel ridges - at coastlines, with  winding estuaries - once, I saw a mist over northern France, a thin white skin hiding valleys and towns -

Alain de Botton says the clouds usher in tranquility - below them, he says are the sites of our terrors and our griefs - 

If truth be told, I've gone off him a bit, now I know about his trust fund - but he's right, I think - in a jet, I'm removed from all cares - I'm like Damiel, in Wings of Desire - I long to live in colour -

Flying into Dalaman, I see Kocegyz, at the head of its gentle lake - a young woman in the seat next to me takes my photograph - I'm smiling, a little guardedly - the jet banks over arid mountains - I can see rows of orange trees - then we're landing, braking, engines in reverse thrust - a curvy stewardess tells a passenger sit down - 

When I get of the jet, I can feel the heat of the air - I am no longer living under washed out skies - everything I see is drenched with colour -