Safranbolu, seven hours east of Istanbul.

Strolling down into Safranbolu from the pensiyon is a bit like dropping a marble into a huge bath tub. Bear with me, I've chosen this analogy and I'm going to stick with it.

Burrowing deeper into the warren of the old town's bazaar makes it harder and harder to find your way back up the cobbled streets to the main square and you slowly come to a stop, settling at the foot of the hillside town for a delicious sludgy coffee and some turkish delight, resigned to the fact that next attempt is only a few sips away.

You double, triple and quadruple back on yourself constantly in these windy side-streets. And just went you smell the first whiff of victory, liberation from the scented labyrinth and just as that familiarity of your surroundings becomes more and more solid you turn the next corner only to (re-)meet the confused eyes of the metal workers whom you saw not but two minutes ago.

Winding downhill in your flip-flops doesn't help either, and the constant strain on the cheap plastic between your tender toes as you try to grip the smooth cobbles is somewhat like being lowered feet first onto cheese wire.

I swear my feet are getting further forward in them.

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