There are several reasons why that should be the case, the first being that not everyone realizes the newer airport exists, and the second that there are far fewer flights serving it. But probably the main reason -- and certainly the reason why I have yet to use it -- is that there are no shuttle bus services connecting with the flights to Nevşehir as there are with those to Kayseri, which means that you need either a very noble-minded friend to come and collect you, or deep enough pockets to pay the cost of a private transfer.Not that it makes a lot of difference which airport you use in terms of travel time, since the road linking Kayseri to Ürgüp, Avanos and Göreme has been upgraded to provide a swift and comfortable journey to the final destination. Something has certainly been lost now that we no longer approach Cappadocia along the lovely old road about which 19th and 20th-century writers used to wax lyrical, but the modern scenery might be less of a disappointment were it not for the sign-writers who persist in thinking that the countryside is improved by sprinkling it with outsized advertising hoardings.
I wish I could get inside the mindset of someone who thinks we need to be told about a private hospital on a giant hoarding stuck in erstwhile unspoilt countryside midway between Kayseri and Avanos, let alone the mindset of someone who thinks we need to hear about a kebap house when we’re something like 30 kilometers away from it. Sometimes I’m tempted to take out a pen and note down the names of all the offenders so that I can make sure never to frequent their establishments, but that wouldn’t make an awful lot of sense unless I also wrote to their owners and pointed out that I was boycotting their business in protest at the damage their signs were doing to the landscape.
The trouble is that writing those letters would require much more energy than I’m likely to be able to muster once the offending signs have disappeared from view and my blood has stopped boiling. But even if I could summon up the energy there would still be another hurdle to be overcome, which is that my Turkish is nowhere near good enough to write a letter of complaint that would generate anything other than mirth on the part of the recipient.
I’m ashamed to have to admit such a thing after 11 happy years in this country. Speaking Turkish? Not too bad. Understanding Turkish? Getting better all the time. Reading Turkish? Picking up nicely as long as the topics are history, architecture, food, animal welfare or any of my other personal interests. But writing Turkish? Still at first base, I’m embarrassed to admit. A young mother in the village recently intimated that she would like to take us expats under her wing and get our Turkish up to speed over this winter. Sadly, I doubt that that means I’ll be firing off bitingly effective “Disgusted of Tunbridge Wells” complaints letters any more effectively this time next year.
Pat Yale lives in a restored cave-house in Göreme in Cappadocia.
