The Pull of an Idyll as Years Pass By

The first house to appear also happened to be the only one available. It was, in fact, inexpensive, but also clean-looking and appealing, with vines and purple flowers covering the front of its facade. It was in the town of Datca. I located the eponymous peninsula on a map, and was immediately intrigued; it is where the Mediterranean and the Aegean come together, and I conjured romantic visions of swimming in alternate seas each day. After consulting several guidebooks to Turkey, I became more interested — no guidebook devoted more than a page, and some only a paragraph, to the area. Its nonpresence convinced me that this house was our destiny. At least for a month or so.

To get there, we flew to Istanbul, and then took a Turkish Airlines flight to Dalaman — a more developed area where many vacationers land for the short drive east toward cruises, boat charters or plush beachfront hotels. From there we rented a car and drove two and a half hours west on increasingly shaky roads, which, once dusk arrived, became gravel paths cutting through olive plantations. We arrived at the rental house late at night.

In the light of day, Datca seemed simple and charming and a bit raw. There are about 10,000 residents in the town, located on a gentle hill rising from the waterfront. Most of the houses face the harbor, dotted with small fishing boats. Most of the streets have no signs, save for the main one — Iskele Caddesi — which runs adjacent to the harbor. This road is lined with small grocery stores, bakeries and rug shops. But the loveliest part of Datca is one block away from the main street — the promenade that runs along the water.

There, restaurants at beach level face the sea and the boats bobbing in the bay. At night, couples and families stroll the promenade in search of dinner; many of the restaurants provide outside seating, and all of them serve fresh fish. For dessert, several outdoor stands sell ice cream by the scoop.

To judge from appearances, Datca might have seen better days — large hotels were closed, while small ones along the beachfront seemed to be surviving. Many of the houses had “For Sale” signs in their windows. There was something peaceful, though, about being in a town no longer in its heyday; that we didn’t encounter any other Americans during the month we spent there made it feel even more of an anachronism.

I would spend the mornings writing, and in the midafternoon my husband and I would seek out a new beach where we could read and swim. Sometimes the only other creatures we encountered in the small private coves were a family of goats. In the evenings, we’d dine on the promenade before returning to the house to work. A few times a week, we’d walk to the outdoor market, where we’d buy cheese, olives, fresh pomegranates and ruby red cherries. I quickly began to fall in love with the smoky sunsets, the stray cats, the quiet lapping of the tide on the beach, the outdoor games of chess I observed, the recording of the call to prayer that filled the town.

On our last day in the house, we decided to explore the northern part of the peninsula, and in particular Knidos, with its ancient Hellenic-period amphitheater — now a casually kept archaeological site. I had read a few sentences about it in a guidebook, but we had been too lulled into our daily rituals to venture there earlier. The drive took 45 minutes, winding through the town of Yakakoy. Mules walked on the side of the road, and elderly women sat on small chairs or tree stumps and sold nuts and honey to the occasional passing car. The road threaded up a bald mountain, the rocks white, until it reached a peak, and suddenly there it was: the wide, glimmering ocean and a stunning harbor. We made the curvy descent down to Knidos.