Anyone who knows me knows that I like to plan. I like to know what's going to happen and when, to a reasonable extent. That does not, by any means, exclude my future adventures. Like most people--albeit most people are quite a bit older than I when they do this--I have a bucket list that I started a few years ago and continues to grow and expand. Hot air ballooning is something that has always been on the top of my list, and I got to check it off in Turkey, much to my delight.
We left at before sunrise, awakened by the morning call to prayer (which, incidentally, this particular morning, happened to be at 4:15). Bundled in jackets, eyes puffy from lack of sleep, the group clambered into a van to be shuttled off to another valley of the Cappadocian region of Turkey.
Luckily, when we got to the location, they provided an ample amount of coffee, çay tea, and pastries for us to eat in order to attempt to wake ourselves up.
No amount of coffee, however, could have awakened me enough to prepare me for the next hour's events.
After hastily enjoying breakfast and trying to deny our tingling nerves, we all clambered into the massive baskets (they are larger than one would think--they hold 16 adults!). Not entirely sure of what to expect, I was thankful when a Turkish man who looked like he knew what he was doing handed me a slip of paper with what I hoped were helpful tips and instructions printed neatly on both sides in multiple languages.
Instead, what I found was the instructions on how to accommodate oneself for landing properly. Noting my creased brow and intent reading of the page, the man stated, in understandably broken English, "You must read these very carefully. I do not think today will be a problem since there is little wind, but you must be prepared for landing, especially in case the basket skids and bounces." I laughed halfheartedly, desperately hoping that this man was joking (I'd already suffered a rather detailed nightmare about having to land this darn basket in the middle of the ocean, which makes absolutely no sense but was still at the forefront of my mind). However, my now dear friend Hannah looked at me, eyes wide and solemn, and whispered, "He's not joking, Laura."
Needless to say, my mood became sober rather quickly with that realization and I sought to (at least temporarily) memorize every detail of that page, which I now clung to for dear life.
I luckily had nothing to worry about. We gracefully lifted off the ground and drifted lazily over the Turkish countryside for a wonderful hour, that is now easily one of my favorite memories from the trip and of my young adult life. We glided over the beautiful, haunting landscape, drifted dangerously close to massive rock formations, and soared high into the sky, the landscape stretching out beneath us, wonderfully out of our grasp.
One thing I will never forget from this wonderful morning, though, is when our pilot (is that the proper term?) got our attention, his eyes dancing with glee as his face split into a wide, devilish grin, and he asked us all a seemingly childish question: "And now we fly to the moon, no?" And with our eager consent, he sent us soaring into the heavens, letting us bask in the glory of the world far below us.
“Once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return.”
--Leonardo da Vinci
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