“Fine. I may jam it up Rose’s butt, though.”
“Your call. Waste of a good ice cream, you ask me.”
A short drive took us out of the rain and back into the bright sun. The weather was just as variable as the landscape in Turkey, which could change two or three times a day, shifting from vast brown plains in the morning to rolling green hills with red soil in the afternoon. I found myself thinking one moment, “That plain looks like fields in the Midwest,” and the next, “Those cliffs remind me of Hawaii.” Every once in a while, we’d go through a small city that was a blend of modern shops, rows of tiny specialty stores, and covered-over marketplaces selling everything from pots and pans to prayer beads to cell phones. The clothing on the women changed too, as we headed north and west, and while I always saw plenty of them dressed in traditional baggy trousers, overshirts, and head scarves, as we neared the outskirts of Ankara, the capital, I saw fashions I couldn’t distinguish from home in New England.
We arrived at what I imagined would be the highlight of the day, on a par with the view at Mount Nemrut. If there’s anything in the world I love more than exploring sites, it’s going behind the scenes in a museum. Seeing things in their cases can be a treat, but getting to see them up close, with no Plexiglas separating you, is an extraordinary event.
We would be coming back to the museum tomorrow for a formal tour of the public collections, but Lale had studied with Dr. Saatchi and wanted to show off the prizes of the museum to us.
“Hey, Em. Calm down,” Brian said. “You look like you gotta pee.”
I realized I was bouncing around a little, and tried to chill out. My good mood lessened when I saw Lale take Dr. Saatchi aside and hand him the small object Rose had taken. He frowned and asked her several questions. He glanced at Rose, and then, after Lale said something else, glanced at me. I nodded. He continued with Lale in Turkish.
With a gesture that said the matter was over, he pocketed the clay disc. I was surprised when Lale led him over to me.
“Dr. Fielding, I am pleased to meet you. I used your paper on trade goods on early American sites to do something similar with trading centers in Asia Minor.”
A little shocked, I shook his hand. “I’m delighted it was useful to you.”
“Well, we have so many cultures, so much history in Turkey, we are happy to use whatever tools best give us a clear picture of the past.”
Brian nudged me; I raised one eyebrow and gave him a mock-serious frown. Yes, I was totally awesome; he shouldn’t ruin it by acting like this didn’t happen all the time. This was one situation where I didn’t mind bringing my profession into my vacation.
Lale explained that Dr. Saatchi would be showing us important artifacts from sites from all over Turkey, including finds from the Roman, Greek, Persian, and Hittite cultures. We’d be seeing things from as far back as the Assyrian and Babylonian cultures; southeastern Turkey, with the headwaters of the Tigris and Euphrates, had been part of Mesopotamia two millennia BCE.
He unveiled a tray of tiny treasures in glass and stone and clay. Their colors ranged from shiny black to bone white, including pale pink, brown tiger-stripes, deep blue, spotted green, and blood red.
First was a group of cylinder and stamp seals; with their tiny images and symbols, they looked like beads no longer than my fingertip. Alongside them were the impressions made by them on soft clay, showing how the marks would have appeared on wax.
“I saw on the news that a lot of those kinds of things were stolen from the museum in Baghdad during the war,” Eugene said. “They were worth thousands and thousands of dollars.”
Leave it to Eugene, I thought. He was right, though; there would be a small fortune in just a handful of the objects before us.
Some of the other pieces were similar to the one Rose had just handed over, simple discs that could be used in any number of games. Another object was a reconstructed bracelet, the beads restrung into a rainbow interspersed with gold.
“It looks like yours, Tiff!” Nicole exclaimed.
Tiffany held out her necklace, purchased from one of the many vendors we encountered at all of the sites. Although she might have found a similar souvenir anywhere in the world — little glass beads were, after all, just little glass beads — she was pleased.
Even more spectacular were the metallic objects on the next tray: coins and jewelry in silver, gold, and bronze. And one very small piece was possibly the most valuable on the whole table. A tiny bronze figure of a stylized horse, possibly a votive offering to one of the many gods in Anatolia, which made up most of what is modern Turkey.
“Every object, no matter its monetary value,” Dr. Saatchi said, “has a story to tell us, about the people who owned it, where it came from, and how it got here. That history—”
A klaxon sounded at near-deafening levels. Randy started; his flailing hand knocked into Brian, who had been taking a close-up of one of the coins.
Artifacts scattered from the velvet-covered table. Everyone automatically bent to gather them.
“Fire alarm!” Lale called out. “Please do not touch anything! Follow me out of the room. Be careful not to step on anything!”
A few people set the artifacts on the tray and we filed out and hurried down the hall to the main entrance. Constitutionally unable to pass a vendor or shop without stopping, Randy paused at the displays of the museum store. He began to pick through the piles of loose beads.
“Please, we must leave the building, Randy.” Lale was remarkably polite, considering. “We will return shortly, and the shop will still be open.”
Another group of tourists, presumably doing a walking tour of the city, paused nearby us outside the museum, while their guide explained the history and importance of the artifacts inside. The fire-alarm racket made the guide have to speak up, and she apparently made a joke: The group looked around and laughed. I certainly hoped they’d be going in tomorrow, as it seemed rather silly for them only to view the outside of the building.
Lale, ever alert to maximize the good in any situation, saw a woman cooking in the front of a tiny storefront restaurant. After introducing herself, she spoke rapidly to her in Turkish, then gestured for us all to gather round as waiters handed us all glass cups of tea on saucers with tiny spoons and two pieces of lump sugar.
“Mrs. Kaya has offered to do a demonstration of Turkish cooking for us while we wait to return to the museum.”
The tour group outside the museum had apparently seen our tea and were pressing in. I frowned when someone pushed a little too hard.
Get your own Mrs. Kaya, I thought. She’s ours.
“Jack, Harold, if you would like to gather round?” Lale said.
I stepped over to let Jack in, as Mrs. Kaya spoke rapid-fire Turkish to Lale, who translated for us. The older woman nipped off small pieces of dough with her fingertips, stretching them out flat, then she made a well with a deft gesture of her thumb. She filled the dough with a small pinch of what looked like ground beef and herbs, pinching the sides closed at the top, making a dumpling no larger than my thumbnail.
“This is manti,” Lale explained. “Although Mrs. Kaya uses lamb, you can use ground beef, and after they’re boiled, you top them with fresh yogurt and browned butter and chili powder. It is one of my favorite dishes from childhood.”
She spoke again to Mrs. Kaya, who dusted off her hand and brushed Lale’s cheek in an affectionate, grandmotherly gesture. Mrs. Kaya continued working, but called to one of her assistants. Soon we were all given spoons and were sampling the finished project.
Across the little knot of our group, I saw Brian jotting down notes without taking his eyes off Mrs. Kaya’s movements. She’d moved on to rolling up seasoned rice in grape leaves, with a series of motions that were so fluid they could only have been acquired after years of practice. The finished product was thinner than I expected, no thicker than a pen or a marker, and perfectly wrapped.