We contemplated hitchiking to Antakya, near the Syrian border, but made it as far as Alanya, where we were driven by a man with a disconcerting quantity of raw chicken thawing in the back of his van.
Near dusk we opted to drink a beer on the beach before mutually conceding preference to the luxurious novelty of Turkish national bus transit.
We headed to the otogar, where we drank çay at an array of tables.
Upon our arrival in Antakya, we promptly resumed drinking çay as to push away the immediate issue of seeking a sleeping space.
We drank çay, encircled the altar in the church of St. Peter, and one day woke early enough to try the border for Syria.
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