Can’t We All Just Dance?

My Tour of Turkey

Apr 30, 2026

My wife Stephanie and I flew across the Atlantic to reach Istanbul for a tour of Turkey. I’d always wanted to see the Greek, Roman, Byzantine, and Ottoman historic sites, but, like a real amateur, I really hadn’t done my homework. I knew Istanbul was once Constantinople, that Troy once graced Turkey’s shores, and that it was now a mostly Muslim (though secular) country that bordered Iran. A real tourist would have been more prepared.

We left on that Tuesday in early April when Trump threatened to bomb Iran “back to the Stone Ages.” This would have firmly established him as a war crimes perpetrator up there with, well, you know who to include. Our trip wasn’t called off, and thankfully, Trump Taco’d. But that conflict (war) and his base comments stayed as a backdrop for our trip. We were white, American, and Christian (at least by heritage), and traveling through a Muslim country. We were deeply embarrassed by ours.

I want to share a few highlights:

Istanbul is a modern city of 15 million people that straddles the Bosphorus, with one side in Europe and the other in Asia. You see the dichotomy everywhere, with some women in headscarves and full burkas, while others wear Chanel, high heels, heavily applied makeup, and long, showy black hair. Alcohol is served everywhere, and I don’t think we saw anyone stop and pray when hearing the Mullah calls from the thousands of minarets. We toured the Hagia Sophia, once the seat of Orthodox Christianity but now a mosque. Across from it is the larger Blue Mosque, which we toured after all took off their shoes, and the women covered their heads, shoulders, and hair. Later that night, after having a few beers at an Irish pub (yes, there’s one in every city we toured), I was solicited by a prostitute. I declined. The next day, we visited the palace home of the final Sultans. Again, the mix of east and west, with rooms for prayer among grand ballrooms with English crystal chandeliers.

We flew south to the seaside town of Izmir. I guess I expected a promenade of beach restaurants, street food, and shops. What we entered was a modern, growing city with over three million residents. Our bus passed miles of shopping centers, auto dealerships, and the usual suburban claptrap. Were there similar cities in Iran? Mashhad is similar in size, and a quick street-view glance on Google Maps showed a shop window with a line of ten or so mannequins wearing the kind of kids’ clothes you’d find at a Pennys. Tehran, with ten million residents, is larger than NYC.

Throughout the next few days, we visited a handful of Roman archaeological sites. I’d seen well-preserved or rebuilt theaters in Sicily (the one in Taormina, up on the jagged hills, is spectacular), but in Turkey, there are like 150 (some found and preserved, others buried in hillsides). Unlike what you might assume from Hollywood (Gladiator), there weren’t as many bloodbath spectacles as you’d think. The Romans apparently liked theater, dance, music, song, and mimes. They took after the Greeks, who really liked their song, poetry, and dance. Some of these theaters, with their stunning acoustics, still host performances. At the Aspendos theater, I sat in the very top row of fifty. I could clearly hear Stephanie whisper, “I love you.” No, seriously.

At the ruins of Ephesus, a well-preserved tablet stood alongside a plaque with the translation. It was all about taxes and tariffs. Go figure.

At Pamukkale, I took a hot-air balloon ride above the hot springs that spilled over the hillside, creating thousands of calcium-encrusted pools, and above the Roman ruins of Hierapolis. You could see the courtyards, the theater, roads, gates, necropolis, and hot baths. A grid outline in the grass showed where most of the city still lay buried. Hieropolis was a Mecca for citizens across Roman Turkey, who swam in its hot, healing waters. At the hotel in Pamukkale, we did just that, Steph and I slathering fine-grit mud on each other.

The next morning, I read online that the Iranians had opened the Straits. The stock market climbed, and gas prices dropped. Apparently, the conflict could be measured in dollars.

In the seaside city of Antalya, we toured what remained of its Roman ruins, but mostly we walked the narrow streets, shopped, and drank beer. This was the Turkish Riviera, where people from all over Eastern Europe flocked in the shoulder seasons to escape their winters. Our guide mentioned that the top countries sending sun seekers were Russia and Ukraine. The two groups intermingled and drank vodka amicably while their countries tangled. I suppose folks in war-torn countries also need their vacations. Really need.

Then off to the city of Konya, where we toured a second-century AD mosque. I guess I wasn’t paying attention (amateur); I just saw the mosque as just another on the tour. What I didn’t realize until later was that it was the poet Rumi’s resting place. I’d read some of his writing in college but remembered zilch (I’m sure it was chock-full of warm, insightful passages). I looked him up on Wikipedia. Among other things, he believed in music and dance as a way to shed ego and get closer to God. Rumi’s son, in a continuation of his father’s work, spawned the Whirling Dervishes. Unlike what I watched on Raiders of the Lost Ark, the dance is a religious ceremony and not something to entertain tourists (I know, we witnessed the ceremony the next day. Not Vegas material, but culturally interesting nonetheless).

Trump now said that he’d blockade the Straits. The stock market took a slight downturn but was otherwise indifferent. Gas prices inched back up.

Cappadocia is just crazy—hard to imagine or describe (see photo below). Towers of soft sandstone or tufa are carved up into actual villages, with some towering ten or more stories. Christians once lived here, part of the Byzantine empire, and they carved whole monasteries and churches into the tufa. We toured a few, including one in the middle of nowhere, accessible only by jeep. Unlike Pompeii, where all the frescoes are preserved in a Naples museum, these artworks are still there and mostly intact. I say mostly because most of the disciples’ and Jesus’ faces had been scratched or chipped away by non-believers (it happens). Christians also excavated underground six-story villages, havens during Persian invasions—scary to tour, with long, four-foot-tall tunnels that require duckwalking.

On our final night in Cappadocia, we had a farewell dinner at a restaurant featuring a Turkish show. The food was the usual mezz platter, including hummus (thick garlic-yogurt dip), baba ghanoush (eggplant dip), muhammara (roasted pepper and walnut spread), and saksuka (fried eggplant in tomato sauce). Then a kabob of marinated chicken thighs, lemon rice, tzatziki, and grilled vegetables. All washed down with their version of Budweiser, Efes. The entertainment included folk dancers, followed by belly dancers. They brought up volunteers, including me, and, in a circle with hands held, we learned some smooth moves.

After that was a mimed skit about a bride who rejects a few suitors before finally discovering her true love, who was strong, handsome, and had a steady job (what more do you want?). Now, I mentioned that we saw few American tourists, and the others at the restaurant were all Turkish or Middle Eastern. They all knew where this mime was going—the Big Wedding Dance. The music was cranked, and all the younger people in the audience came to the center of the room to dance. Like a country line dance, they all knew the steps. The dancing went on for the next half hour, these kids having a blast. Shedding ego and getting closer to God.

None of us in our group participated. It wasn’t that we were prudish; I think it was more that we were outsiders, interlopers at a very cultural event. (Similar to what I feel when others country line dance.) Anyway, it was just fun to watch this other cultural group get their freak on.

I think we felt their energy, and on the bus ride back to the hotel, our tour leader, Michael, cranked up some American funk, and we all danced like teenagers—getting closer to God.