The noise of the huge souk that fills much of Kusadisi nearly drives us out of town. It is one of Dante’s rings of hell come to earth.



      The outdoor restaurant where we have dinner is in the midst of the noise and confusion, and is across from a tattoo parlor providing a view of English tourists squealing as they have ugly cartoons permanently engraved on their skin. The food is terrible, and the maitre d’ is in our face until we finally, firmly, and rudely tell him to go away.
      Luckily, our hotel has a quiet courtyard, and at breakfast we meet Wendy, an American ex-journalist who is travelling alone. She tells us that her dinner was so bad that when the waiter asked her how she enjoyed her food, she told him she’d rather eat glass.
      She will be driving to Ephesus that morning. She invites us to share the journey and we gratefully accept.
      Getting out of Kusadisi is difficult, but Wendy is a good driver, the car is comfortable, and we somehow manage to follow the directions given us by the hotel manager. Once we’re on the highway, it all becomes easier.

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