When you think of Turkey what comes to mind? Prison? Constantinople? East Meets West? The toilets? Well. . .it sure seems more like P-R-I-D-E.I’ve never seen so many flags at once. Even after 9/11.

Turkey flies their red and white with side-of-a-building-sized gestures and in the strangest spots. Everywhere. Which, to be honest, makes everywhere feel just a little bit more festive. As if you might run into a pageant, parade, or cotton candy stand around the next corner.Thing is, I’m trying to picture, say, New York like this. A flag at Macys. Dozens more from East side apartment balconies. Stars and stripes down the Empire State Building. Strung in tiny triangles from telephone poles in the village. In the back window of taxis along fifth avenue. It’s probably Old Navy’s attempt to make the flag a fashion statement and the lack of support for the current administration, but this vision seems both impossible and cheesy. And American gets so much shit for being patriotic—especially from the Brits! We’ve got nothing on Turkey!

But the flags are only a beginning. Turks actually “scurry” to find someone who speaks English for us. They walk us to where we want to go. Invite us back to their place for beers. Carry our bags. Pay for our tickets. Give us extra tea. They are the most hospitable people we’ve ever encountered and we get thefeeling it’s because they are proud. They want us to leave their country andspread the love. Who are we to say no?

The most common site on the Syrian street. . .

Snowflakes in stone at the cathedralic ruins of St. Simeon, an eccentric monk who, after seeking seclusion and then attracting unwanted visitors to leer and peer, climbed and lived atop ever-higher pillars for years on end.

Smiling Syrian children waving at us from the back of a pickup truck. . .

The sheep run EXTREMELY fast in Syria. . .

We are now in Syria.Although there were stories or interrogations and bright overhead lights, none of that happened. But we had our own initiation–we were taken “hostage” by an overly hospitable border family for 36 hours in what we’ve come to call the Will of the Collective.It all started when “the girls” put us on a dolmush (a minibus) headed for Reyhanle, a Syrian-Turkey border town, with instructions that the family of their friend, Guler, would help us get on a bus to Syria. In Reyhanle, we were intercepted by a guy who we could only assume was the right one. Hussein led us away from the bus stop to his home, where we were served breakfast of bread, olives, jam, cheese and tea in a carpet picnic with the rest of his family staring in awe. It was 9:00 AM. Two hours later we learned that we would be sleeping there and tomorrow we’d go to Syria.

Mmmmhmmmm.

But this kindness killing was nothing new. And these days we were choosing the shabby, often neglected door marked “Time” over the hundreds of fancy French double doors marked “Money”. So it was okay.

Sort of.

The rest of the day, we were treated like a mix of celebrity, toddler and Christmas toy–never left alone. We were explained how to wash our hands, taught to dip our bread in our cheese and told that we definitely wanted another cup of tea. Hussein repeated to us in VERY minimal English, roughly every seven minutes (I say roughly because it felt like every four seconds), these three messages: 1) that we were all one–that Hussein’s father was our father, his sisters were our sisters, his brother our brother 2) that we would go tomorrow to Syria and 3) that all of us would chat via Windows Instant Messenger so we could continue these fulfilling conversations beyond today.

There was a village tour, a bread-making demonstration and a lot of Arabic music before it became apparent that I was to hang out in the girl’s bedroom with Fatmah, 25 and Selva, 19, and somehow find conversation even though neither of them spoke any English. Michael’s place was on the couch next to brother Ali, Hussein and their father or in the computer room, using the translation software to have very caveman-like conversations. That night I stayed with the girls and I’m still not sure where Michael slept. The next morning when we hugged in a relieved embrace, the show of affection was a spectacle. Luckily, they all thought it was really funny instead of really disrespecting.We finally made it across the border that day. Although the three men’s presence (there was no bus, we were forced to hire a taxi) helped hurry the border patrol along with their tapping fingers and Arabic jabber, we had no idea what they were explaining about our visit, our visa, anything–and we didn’t like that one bit. How, we thought, could it be possible that getting by in a foreign country could be so much more stressful WITH help than WITHOUT?But mostly, we are puzzled by what seemed, regardless of culture, a complete lack of respect for our own schedule or preferences. We were never asked if we wanted to stay over. We were told. And a few days ago, the hotel clerk, Ahmed, a nice guy who we’d become friends with over the past few nights of wine and conversation, did not invite us to his home to meet his family for dinner, he told us we would be going.Let’s be clear. I am very appreciative of this hospitality. But I’m still curious about its roots.In both Turkey and Syria, the dinner table is one big appetizer platter. Almost all food is communal. One or two water glasses serve a group of seven. Bedrooms, due to energy costs and space, are divided only between sexes. The idea of privacy. . .of the individual. . .is missing. These people assume that because we have no friends or family, we will be grateful for the “comfort” of a group. No matter what.

It is simply the Will of the Collective.

“We have fish. Very nice fish. I can cook for you with corn, wheat corn.”Fish sounds dreamy but is usually way beyond our budget. We exchange concerned glances.”How much?”"I make whole meal for $12 together. We have very nice wine here in Anamure.”"How much?”Ten lira for you”(Alcohol is a big splurge for us. It’s been a long time since we’ve had a beer. We don’t say anything.)”We have breakfast here in morning.”"How much?”"Ummm, 3.5 Lira”(We consider. We just bargained the pension for 20 lira, down from 30, because we skipped breakfast and heat. Now he wants 7 lira for breakfast?)”You are American?”"Evet. Ben Americaleem,” we say in Turkish.”Because usually America my best customers, spend lots of money, (he pantomimes throwing money into the air). Where are you from? Homeless part of America?”"No,” we say, looking at each other and realizing just how cheap we’ve become. “We’re from Denver.”

Here’s what we had for lunch today in the souk (winding market).

It’s called Fuul and it’s a mix of beans, yogurt, oil, chickpeas and fresh coriander with sweet raw onion. Community water glass and pita bread included. Cost:30 Syrian Pounds (65 cents)

Other Syrian costs. . . .

Hotel Room: $10/night

Kikkoman Soy Sauce for Cooking: $1.50

Falafel & Egg Wrap: 50 cents

Small Bottle of Water: 30 cents

Hour of Internet: 95 cents

Syrian Times Newspaper (English): 10 cents

Large, Squeezed While You Watch Grenadine, Banana & Orange Juice: $1

Sheraton Christmas Lunch Buffet with Alcohol: $57 (Thanks Mom and Dad)