Cappadocia is usually remembered for its extraordinary rock formations — but what stayed with me most was the light, and the faces of the people.
I was reminded of this recently when a colleague from Turkey gave me a thoughtful gift: a bottle of wine from Cappadocia, along with the wish that one day I should travel there.
The thing is — I already have.
It was many years ago, but some images return with surprising clarity. The light, above all. It was unexpectedly soft for August — the kind of light that makes you pause and start holding on to moments.
Of course, I photographed the rocks. It is difficult not to, in a place where the landscape looks as if someone had been patiently sculpting it for thousands of years. But just as often I found myself drawn to smaller things: a narrow road between houses, a shadow on a wall, the glance of someone passing by.
And the people.
I still remember the faces of the locals — calm, open, and beautiful in a very natural way. There was something about them that made the place feel even more real.
At the time, Cappadocia felt surprisingly quiet. Even though it had long been a destination for travelers from around the world, that particular summer it seemed as if everything moved a little more slowly — conversations, footsteps, thoughts.
There is one more thing many people associate with Cappadocia: the hot-air balloons drifting above the valleys at dawn.
I never saw them.
And I will probably never see them up close, because flying in one is simply not for me. Perhaps that is why the place stayed with me in a slightly different way — through light, stillness, and people rather than postcard views.
Zeynep — thank you for the inspiration.
And Cappadocia… who knows. Perhaps one day I will return.
