Cay Tales ...

Overcast morning. Grey sky and damp. Tired legs, lungs smarting from the cold morning air. Have completed the first 30 km, its time for a break, the map shows a village in 5 km. Rolling into town, the highway turns to high street, shops to my left the other side of a potholed dirt road. Jumping the curb, I steer carefully along the broken road, making my way past the market stalls, sleeping dogs and closed Lokantasi to the Cay room. A non descript place, nothing to signal its purpose but for the dozen or so men huddled around a wood stove.

Leaning my bike against a window frame I find an audience, backgammon and dominoes interupted to observe my ludricrous cycling attire - red windstopper, shorts over cycling shorts over neopreme cycling tights, red woolen skiing socks tugged halfway up my shins, a pair of snotty mittens, beanie hat and scarlet face. The locals are far smarter, suits for the elders not a hair out of place.

I enter, unable to find the counter, let alone a kettle, sitting down hoping for someone else to take the initiative whilst I enjoying the warmth. Not long passes, a round man, with a round face and a big bushy moustache turns to me, with a smile he raises his thumb to his mouth and tips his head back indicating a drink, then shouts 'Cay' (Chay). Within a few seconds a small round bottomed glass is presented filled with dark red tea. Cay. Two sugars minimum, strong stuff, Turks put British builders to shame, unflinchingly pouring 6,7,8 cubes of sugar into their glasses.
My first tea doesnt last long, as I warm my fingers on the empty glass another man sat opposite Bushy-Tache, raises his head for my attention 'Cay?', 'Tessurker Edderum' ... another Cay is found from nowhere, I still cant find the kettle.

The warmth of the stove has finally entered my shoes now, toes are revived and after a 3rd Cay Im ready for the bike. Approaching the apparent owner I reach for my wallet, 'Tamam' he tells me, crossing his hands signifying nothing he then points to the 3 gents who had suggested 'Cay' - Bushy-tache winks, then stands to shake my hand. Before I can leave, every hand is shaken, with smiles a few hugs and an overafectionate pat on the arse from the eldest boy.

Back on the bike, toes, fingers rejuvianted I peddle on, another 20-30 km until the next Cay stop.
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My record day for complimentary Cay, something I shouldnt really keep tabs on, but it can only highlight the fanstastic Turkish hospitality is 8 Cay, across 3 different Cay rooms. I entered one, not for Cay but to avoid a storm but was kept hostage by the locals until the rain stopped, was all set with the waterproofs but the owner bribed me with Chocolate, Cay and obligatary football conversation, consisting of little more than naming players, teams and managers followed by a thumbs up or down. My caffeine levels by the end of this day must have been well in excess of any professional cycling doping levels...
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Turel, a small town in Eastern Anatolia, where I was treated to fantastic hospilitality, not only by Mohammed, an ex welder who adopted Bonnie and I for a couple of days, but by an all seeing Cay room owner. Whereever we sat Cay followed, was never asked to pay, Internet Cafes, Restaurants, Shops and never found on the bill. It was only when we left the owner of the local Cay room introduced himself with a handshake.

Turel, Cay room, Mohammed second from the left

Kettle and stove