A trip to a foreign country brings pleasures and surprises. By John B. Amos

LIKE SO MANY Americans, I am geographically illiter- ate. I take no pride in saying so, but the plain truth is: I don't know much about other places. I'm pretty much a homebody, and as such, I've never pushed myself to learn. I know the basics--the 50 states, the seven continents, the Atlantic and Pacific oceans--but beyond that, my knowledge is kind of shaky. Along with classical music, geography remains one of the great gaping holes in my own education.

But I'm trying. And gradually, I'm learning.

Let's talk Turkey.

Had you asked me six months ago to tell you everything I know about Turkey, you'd probably have gotten a blank stare in response. Or, even worse, you might have gotten a collection of rank stereotypes and misperceptions--something along the lines of, "It's one of those really dangerous Middle East countries where they all wear turbans, carry sabers, ride camels and hate Americans."

Ask me the same question today, and I could do better. A trip down the western coast of Turkey, paid for by a school that takes the education of its students and faculty seriously, has dispelled all stereotypes and opened my eyes. In 10 short days, I fell in love with the place. I'd go back tomorrow if I could.

Here are some lasting images. I write them now as remembrances in case I don't get the chance to go back:

Removing my shoes as I step into Istanbul's Blue Mosque, which reminds me that some people in the world still cherish the idea of sacred space.

Cruising the Bosporus, the narrow strait that divides two continents, thinking about our guide's comment that Turkey is a "schizophrenic" country-- its identity split between Europe and Asia.

Gazing out the hotel window at 2 in the morning, mesmerized by the half moon that hangs over the Bosporus.

Laughing at the shop owner in the Grand Bazaar who calls out, "Hey, American man, come into my shop and buy something you do not need."

Hearing the call to prayer from a 15th-century Muslim mosque as I stand amid the ruins of a sixth-century Christian church.

Weeping at seeing the mosaics in the Church of St. Savior in Chora, overwhelmed by the thought that we skeptical moderns have barely a clue as to the faith that produced such work.

Watching Aegean blue turn to "wine-dark seas" at sunset.

I saw things on this trip I never believed I'd see. And I thought thoughts I never thought I'd think. But most unexpected was that I returned home having made a new Turkish friend. So, let me tell you a bit about Yahya.

Yahya Kemal Cinar is 48 years old, and for the past 16 years has worked as a guide for tourist groups visiting Turkey. It's hard to imagine anyone better suited to his job.

The man is a teacher extraordinaire.

For 10 days, his lectures cut a swath across 4,000 years of history and half a dozen cultures. He spoke with ease on topics ranging from Greek and Roman architecture to World War I battle strategies at Gallipoli to religious practices of the Ottoman Turks. His knowledge of dates was encyclopedic. His ability to give background and context to historical events was beyond impressive. When I asked how he knew so much about so much, he simply commented, "There's always something more to learn."

And he was equally well-versed in current events. A brief note from my journal gives a sense of his love and concern for modern Turkey: "Yahya spoke today with great passion about Turkey's relationship with the United States, about America's role in the world, and about Turkey's ambivalence at the prospect of joining the European Union. His pride in his country is palpable. I wish Americans were as informed about their own country as this man is about his."

Though he has no children of his own, Yahya is a natural with high school students. A wink, a wry smile and a penchant for silliness are his tools for connecting with kids. He'd make an outstanding classroom teacher, but my sense is that he'd feel frustrated and confined. His real genius is bringing history alive on the road. The classroom would cramp his style.

I doubt that I'll ever get back to Turkey. So for now, I can only pass along Yahya's parting message: "Tell your friends back home to come to Turkey."

And so I have.

John B. Amos is a lifelong resident of the town of Orange. He teaches English at St. Anne's-Belfield School in Charlottesville. He can be contacted at

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Source: fredericksburg.com

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