“It’s not the end of the world,” I kept reminding myself as I wandered passed darkened storefronts and deserted streets. Little Uchisar was covered in a mist that refused to budge, the roads slick with rain that wouldn’t stop, the air chilly through the seven layers of clothing I had scrounged from my suitcase to ward off the September cold. I traveled all the way to Cappadocia to cross an item off of my bucket list, in the most spectacular place I could imagine. For years I had dreamed of floating away in a hot air balloon, mysterious fairy chimneys stretching out to the horizon below, while the sky changed colors with the rising sun. When the day finally arrived, the weather refused to cooperate. The authorities grounded all flights. I was trying not to wallow in disappointment. And failing. Suddenly, the melodic adhan echoed against squat buildings, summoning believers to pray. I changed direction, hoping to get some peace and perspective at the mosque, when I heard an eager voice inviting me into his store. “Later, perhaps,” I mumbled, without any intention of coming back. Shopping was the last thing on my mind. Fate intervened. An hour after I prayed, I found myself approaching the same corner. I tried to sneak by but old Ali had spotted me. He graciously invited me in, ignoring my protestations that I didn’t want to buy anything. He seemed unperturbed and led me through his store, chatting mindlessly, flicking lights on and off as we made our way through a maze of inter-leading rooms, each one brimming with secrets. Strings of beads glinted in the light, piles of thick carpets filled the shelves, ceramic ornaments covered every surface. Colorful jewels filled glass cases, dainty bracelets dangled from hooks, traditional clothing was pinned to the walls. But his pride and joy clearly lay in the basement. Glass shelves groaned under the weight of elaborate vases and stone frames adorned every available inch of wall-space. The frames were covered in beautiful calligraphy- mostly verses of the Quran interspersed with delicate flowers and curly motifs. I was still taking it all in, when he plunged the room into darkness. Everything was cast in a neon green light. The etchings on the pottery glowed in the dark! My eyes were still adjusting, when he conjured tulip-shaped cups of steaming tea, as if by magic. My tongue contended with the strange flavor of warm pomegranate, while I gazed around at the frames. With unexpected solemnity, Ali asked me to recite the verses aloud. Startled, I started reading. He fervently continued the recital where I left off. He looked sadly over all the frames, admitting that he could not read Arabic script, but had memorized the verses nonetheless. Part of Ataturk’s ‘reforms,’ he told me, was to outlaw Arabic. Hence when Ali was younger, he had been taught the Quran through transliterations. He sat among these verses every day, marveling at their beauty, but was unable to identify which was which. As the evening progressed, the conversation turned to his family, religion, politics, the places he hoped to see, the process of creating the art that surrounded us. He asked about my family, what brought me to Turkey, what life was like in South Africa. When I reluctantly stood up to leave, I realized that I had been there for hours, my troubles long forgotten. Two days later, the weather cleared enough for my hot air balloon ride. I stood on a vast field at dawn, surrounded by distant peaks, watching the flames erupt and listening to the accompanying blasts of air as the balloons were inflated. One by one, balloons drifted away, disappearing behind fantastic rock formations. I climbed into the basket. Finally, it was my turn to float off into the heavens. The experience was surreal, beyond anything my imagination had conjured. I felt free, at peace, blessed. In the end, though, when I think back to my time in Uchisar, it is kind Ali’s face in a pomegranate haze that is immediately evoked in my memories, eventually followed by recollections of the balloon ride that I had dreamed about for years…