Sense and Sensibility in Safranbolu and Amasra

When you stop to think about it (and we too seldom do), perception is a funny and deeply flawed thing. The very same five senses that secure our survival and seem to give us an accurate measure of the world are also the organs of our everyday prejudice and bias. The eye is also a blinder. The ear is also a muffle. The tongue that gives us so much gastronomic pleasure is also the gatekeeper that stops us from enjoying every taste that nature has to offer. Technically, of course, what actually impairs us is the complicated bundle of experience, influence, and preference that serves as middleman between our senses and our brains, but I would argue that in most humans these interpretations are so instantaneous and automatic, so ingrained and unexamined, that distinguishing perception from preconception becomes a moot point. Despite all the advances in physics and psychology that tell us everything--literally everything--is relative, as a species we still too often cling to the comfort of certainty. Not only the certainty that our subjective reality has an objective Truth, but that we have a natural right to impose it upon others or judge those who perceive another.

On a recent road trip north to the Black Sea, with Lizzie's parents Mike and Julie Paulette gamely in tow, our senses were treated to the full Monty. We stopped first in Safranbolu, a Unesco World Heritage site and one of the only urban areas left in Turkey where the Ottoman architecture and lifestyle hasn't been paved over with concrete and progress. One could liken it to Colonial Williamsburg, but a close examination of the differences provides a good example of what I alluded to above. Whereas Williamsburg is a prettified and whitewashed simulacrum of history, staged with actors and props, Safranbolu is a living breathing town, with all the texture and grit that entails. To Western sensibilities, it might seem a little cluttered and claustrophobic, a little imposing and precarious, especially if you arrive in a not-so-mini van on a rainy day in late October. The streets are narrow and extremely difficult to navigate, as are the cupboard-size bathrooms in the period-accurate hotels. A deep gorge cuts through the town, and some of the tourist shops are propped over its mouth with foolhardy nonchalance. Nighttime lighting is sparse, stray animals are everywhere, almost no English is spoken anywhere, and finding the "attractions" requires an intrepid foot and a keen eye.

Flipped on their heads, all of those descriptors are actually what makes Safranbolu so worth the trip. That full sensory wash--the acrid smoke of the fires that heat the hamam hanging heavy over the valley; the closeness of the quarters, outside and in; the creaking floors and wood-grain gloom; the patina of humanity in every handhewn inch, every perilous step up or down the sloped stone streets--all of it is exactly what makes visiting this 700-year-old town so transportive and charming. Nothing is spoonfed or sanitized. Even finding the Kaymakamlar House Museum (a gorgeous Ottoman mansion, complete with heirloom kilims and creepy mannequins) felt like a mini adventure. The townspeople are welcoming without any of the pandering or tourist baiting so common to other postcard destinations. We met a master locksmith who showed off his work (highly prized and featured in historic renovations all over Turkey) without ever once trying to interest us in a sale. Our meal that night at Imren Lokum Konak (good wine, an incredible köfte stew, a regional type of mantı) was among the best I've ever had in Turkey, but it was served simply, in a building you might never find if the affable but no-nonsense owner of your hotel doesn't happen to recommend it. Once a key stop along the caravan route, and famous all over the Ottoman empire for the quality of its namesake spice, Safranbolu certainly left a colorful, full-flavored impression.

Much the same can be said for Amasra, a small port town on the Black Sea about an hour and a half north of Safranbolu. The road there led us over a series of mountain passes and river valleys with enough fall splendor to rival anything in New England or Virginia, and then down a 12 degree incline into town that felt more like falling than driving. Our trusty GPS tried to send us down a narrow back alley en route to our pension, but our preconceptions once again got the better of us until Şennur, our gracious and indefatigable innkeeper assured us that it was in fact the way to go.

As in Safranbolu, nothing in Amasra (besides perhaps Şennur) makes an overt effort to impress or be anything other than what it is. Its charms--fresh fish, pretty views, a picturesque Roman bridge and citadel--are either enough for you or they are not. It's no skin off their backs if you expected Cape Cod or the Riviera, or you are disappointed by a Rabbit Island with no visible rabbits. During our walk around the citadel, we came across a friendly little man in his seventies who was happy and proud to give us an impromptu tour of the Byzantine ramparts and point out all the decorative architectural fragments used more practically in walls and arches. He had no self consciousness about walking us through his cluttered yard, where both the trash and the chickens lived free range. Nor was he doing it for a handout. When I tried to slip a ten lira note into a handshake, he pulled back and refused it, only accepting when Lizzie made it clear how much we appreciated his local perspective.

The morning we were leaving Amasra turned out to be Republic Day, a national holiday akin to our 4th of July. There was to be a parade through the central square later that morning, and after we checked out we found our little back alley parking lot was blocked by several fire engines. With no choice but to stick around, we milled around the edges of the crowd and listened to too many speeches we couldn't understand until the girls grew bored and restless. (Truth and Reality are most certainly relative, but one universal fact is that parades always take too long to start.) I walked Callie and Ella around town again and by the time we got back the parade was finally ready to begin. Police cars and fire engines filed out after all the civic groups on foot, then a contingent of construction equipment, and finally some utility vehicles. Bringing up the rear was a lowly street sweeper who must not have been paying much attention because no sooner had he begun to move when he smashed into the vehicle in front of him and shattered his oversized windshield. I have little doubt that in America this accident would have caused a small scene, with heckling spectators, police reports, official condemnation. Here in Amasra, however, the embarrassed driver just backed up enough to turn around. Then he turned on his brushes and cleaned it up. Because, after all, that's what street sweepers do.