Morning reflections at Pamukkale: the calcified passage of time
It's a crisp, sunny morning in Pamukkale. I've been up since 7am, watching the sun slowly illuminate the white terraces from my hotel balcony. The thermometer reads 7°C – not exactly warm, but the brilliant sunshine makes it feel less chilly than yesterday.
I've been thinking a lot about time this morning. Perhaps it's the ancient geological formations surrounding me, or maybe it's because I'm now 185 days into my journey with 315 days remaining. The mathematical precision of that midpoint feels significant somehow.
After a quick breakfast at the hotel (the Turkish bread here is exceptional), I walked down to a small café near the entrance to the terraces. I arrived at 9:50, ten minutes before they officially opened, but the owner waved me in with a smile. We had a brief conversation about the weather forecast – apparently, we're in for several days of sunshine after yesterday's intermittent rain.
"Much better for photographs," he told me, pouring çay into a small glass. "The terraces need sun to show their true beauty."
He was right. I spent yesterday exploring the travertine formations and Hierapolis ruins, but today they look completely different under the clear blue sky. The calcium deposits gleam brilliantly white, creating that postcard-perfect scene Pamukkale is famous for.
The passage of time, written in stone
I've spent the last hour sitting on a bench overlooking the terraces, watching early-morning visitors carefully navigate the white pools. There's something mesmerizing about these formations – each terrace built up molecule by molecule over thousands of years. What appears solid and permanent is actually in constant, imperceptible flux.
It reminds me of my own journey. Day by day, experience by experience, I'm being shaped in ways I can't always perceive. The changes are gradual, almost invisible in the moment, but over time, they accumulate into something substantial.
Yesterday at the archaeological museum, I read about how the ancient Romans believed in the healing properties of these thermal waters. They built Hierapolis as a health center, with people traveling great distances to bathe in the mineral-rich springs. Some things don't change – we're still drawn to places that promise transformation, still seeking waters that might heal whatever ails us.
I've been checking items off my Pamukkale list: the travertine terraces, Hierapolis and its magnificent theater, the archaeological museum. Yesterday afternoon, I finally visited Cleopatra's Pool, where you can swim among submerged ancient columns. The entrance fee (200 lira) felt steep, but the experience of floating in warm, mineral-rich water while surrounded by fallen marble columns was unlike anything else on my journey so far.
Today is my last full day here before catching tomorrow's bus to Antalya. I'm not quite sure how to spend it yet. Part of me wants to revisit the terraces at sunset, when they say the white calcium takes on a golden glow. Another part feels the need to simply sit and absorb this place, to let its quiet lessons sink in before moving on.
Looking ahead
I've already booked my bus ticket to Antalya for tomorrow morning. The coastal city promises to be quite different from the inland landscapes I've been exploring. According to the forecast, it should be considerably warmer there – temperatures in the mid-teens rather than single digits.
As I finish my second glass of çay, I realize I've been counting again. Days traveled: 185. Days remaining: 315. Ancient columns at Hierapolis: 14 still standing in the main colonnade. Steps to climb the theater: 127 (I counted yesterday). It's a habit I can't seem to break, this need to quantify everything around me.
Perhaps that's why I find Pamukkale so compelling – it defies easy quantification. How do you count the billions of calcium deposits that form these terraces? How do you measure the imperceptible growth that happens day by day, until suddenly you look back and everything has changed?
I should probably head back to the hotel soon to organize my things for tomorrow's departure. But for now, I'm content to sit here a little longer, watching the play of light on white calcium, contemplating the slow, patient work of time.
!The brilliant white terraces of Pamukkale under morning sunlight
The morning sun transforms Pamukkale's terraces into a landscape that seems almost unreal in its beauty – like walking through a dream made solid.