Turkish inter-city buses will deliver you to your destination, but the gently winding potholed roads will lull you into a doze and warp your views of the countryside, reality smudged around the edges, odd details jumping out.
In mountain passes, you will wonder if you are seeing sheep or scattered rockfall. You will pass queues of cows, tumbledown houses topped with satellite dishes, green fields, yellow fields, pink fields. You will challenge yourself to name wildflowers colors in Turkish, but despite the abundance of subjects, this game will be very short. You will attempt to make conversation with your assigned seatmate, always carefully chosen to be female, and to explain in awkward, uninflected strings of Turkish words why and where you are traveling. You will lapse into silence.
You will pass goslings watched over by women, geese herded by men; children, roadside, waving bunches of wild greens for sale. A man selling a fresh caught fish, and a few hundred meters down the road, a boy selling a smaller fresh-caught fish. Mosques and untethered horses and old weathered snow patches. You will count white-painted or stone-brown minarets. You could make it into a game, with a friend, but you are traveling solo, so your reward is uncontested access to the hazelnuts and dried apricots bought for the journey.
You will pass alien fields of craggy black lava stones extending into an early-morning mist. You will pass fields of Martian-red poppies as Mt. Ararat towers in the distance. Half asleep, you will be startled by a white minaret needle in scaffolding that you mistake for a rocket about to launch.