No island is an island Find a place where to get lost

As well as all the things I came to love, I met Bozcaada by case. After a ten days trip in Istanbul, tired and dazed by the chaos of such a huge and fascinating city, me and my journey mates felt the desire of a deeper immersion in the spirit of Turkey. We wanted to visit a not much touristic island and asking advice to the owner of our hostel, we came to know of the existence of Bozcaada: in ancient times called Tenedos, according to the legend place where the Greeks hid themselves before of attacking Truva, Bozcaada is a small jewel. We travelled for a total of twelve very uncomfortable hours to reach it. Three hours on a bus and other seven on another one, where we were the only non Turkish and all the passengers were glancing at us in a not really friendly way. If in Istanbul it was normal to see foreigners from Europe, it was clear that in such area locals were not used to tourists. And they probably didn’t die by desire of meeting them. We crossed Canakkale and Truva, took a small ferry and finally docked in Bozcaada. First thing we saw was the harbor, with a couple of hotels and some small restaurants. We thought it was just the beginning, but actually that was also the end of the civil part of the island. Apart from the harbor life, there were two campings and few red-roofed houses, spread among the fields and the vineyards. She – I’m sorry, I know in English I should use “it” but to me Bozcaada as a female soul - is a sweet and virgin land which conjugates Greek and Turkish flavors, in such a harmonious way that it’s almost impossible to divide this two elements. Nobody talks a different language than Turkish, but this may be not an obstacle for the locals if they want to have a chat with some exotic foreigners. On the rusty shuttle we took to get to one of the two camping, we met an old man with no tooth but a great fancy of talking – what a pity he didn’t speak English and we didn’t speak Turkish, but he was so glad of telling us a lot of things we could not understand that there was no way to stop him. Happy like a baby, ancient like a rock, he seemed to embody the essence of the island.
Bozcaada is silent and shiny, yellow of sun and sunflowers, kissed by the Imbat wind. A true experience in a true island. White sand, scorching sun, cold showers and the most salty sea I’ve ever tasted with my lips. A true experience in a true island… which is lonely, independent and at the same time married to the heart of two different countries.