By the time we arrive in Ephesus, all traces of the tension caused by Kusadisi have vanished, enough so that we drop our guard when we arrive. 
      The best way to see Ephesus, we’ve been told, is to take a taxi from the parking lot up to the top, rather than walk uphill for three kilometres. The sun is hot enough that we feel as if we’re being licked by flames and we take the suggestion to heart.
      But the heart of the van driver who offers to take us to the top of the small mountain for free, is another story. At first, he tells us that he works for the government and that the service is free, but partway along he informs us that we must stop at the rug weaving school before he can drive us the rest of the way. While we are there, he says, we can also visit the Ephesus Museum, which is right next store. He will wait for us, and drive us to the top of the mountain when we are ready.
      “I work on commission,” he says, “And you must look at the rug weaving school. You don’t have to buy anything if you don’t want, but we must stop there.”
      I may have been born at night, but it wasn’t last night, and I can generally recognize a con as soon as it starts to unreel. This one pulled me along a little further than usual, but there it is. 
      When I look at my daughter, Julia, she gives me the smile she’s used since adolescence that means, “I get it.” Mina wears the same look, and our new friend, Wendy, leans over and whispers, “Play along.”
      “Can we stop at the museum, first?” she asks the driver. “I need something to drink, and I read there’s a cafe inside.”
      “There is fine restaurant at the rug weaving school,” he says, brightly. “I will treat you there. Whatever you like to drink.”
      “No,” says Wendy, just as brightly, “I want to see the museum, first.” She looks at Mina, “What about the rest of you?”
      “I’d like to see the museum, first, too,” Mina says. “Ive heard they have a recreation of the Temple of Artemis, and I’d love to see it.”
      “Would they have a clean bathroom at the museum?” asks Julia.
      “Yes. Very clean, at restaurant, too,” responds the driver.
      “I think we’ll go to the museum, first,” I say, giving the three women a meaningful glance. “We want to keep everyone happy.”
      The driver has no choice but to agree, and drops us in front of the museum, explaining that he’ll have to park next door at the rug weaving school, and that we should meet him there when we’re ready.
      Without a word being said, we all know what we’re about to do.
      But, first, there’s a museum to see.
      We are really not interested in spending much time looking at isolated pieces when there’s an entire city of ruins to explore, but regardless of our intent, the statues capture us and begin the transport from the frazzle of our experience so far in Turkey, to the stunning art and culture of another time.

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