Descending the steps from the Hittite fortress, I sink back down into the quagmire of medieval streets. The strains of a keyboard reverberate around the half timbered walls and corrugated iron rooftops. Following the sounds, the tiny street opens out into a small dusty square filled with plastic garden chairs occupied by dozens of locals.
A gaggle of children in jeans are dancing exuberantly in the Turkish style around a boy of about twelve; dressed in extravagant silks he wouldn't look out of place as an Ottoman Prince, or the star of my local pantomime. In the corner my pied-piper wears a toothless grin and carries on hammering his ancient keyboard.
I find myself seated at a makeshift table being presented with a steaming lamb stew served on top of the delicious, greasy, salty rice which comes second only to the kebab as a staple of Turkish cuisine. The throng presses in around me, everyone eager to know how their food will go down with this strange intruder. In Turkey, the only answer to that question seems to be raise your palm skywards and open your fingers with a flourish, as might be expected from any good Italian chef.
I pass their culinary test, and am pressed back into the centre of the dusty square and expectantly coached in the dance I'd observed on arrival. Arms raised high, fingers clicking and hips swaying awkwardly; I feel relieved to be the only foreigner in town.
A minute later and I'm being hustled into a convoy of cars, minibuses and one rusty tricycle. Egged on, I lean out of the window issuing forth a newly learned, but never forgotten noise; built up in the back of the throat and released in a semi-scream. After our lap of the town I return to the square, and try to enquire the cause of the celebrations. The man with the largest moustache and the garage full of lamb stew beckons over the Ottoman Prince in answer. He points just below the young boy’s waist, and says the only English words I hear all day: “snip snip”.
