Standing in timeless silence at Gerdekkaya Anıtı, Çukurca / Seyitgazi, Eskişehir. This remarkable Phrygian rock-cut tomb, carved into the mountain centuries ago, tells a story of ancient civilizations in the heart of Turkey.

This chapter of our Silk Road journey, overlanding Turkey (map), continues directly from Sofia, Bulgaria to Turkey – Silk Road Overland, that subtle continental moment where Europe slowly loosens its grip and Anatolia leans in, folds its arms and says, “Fine. Now let’s talk Istanbul, Bursa, Koza Han and the greater Anatolia properly.”

Türkiye was not new to us. We had visited Istanbul and Pamukkale-Hierapolis by airplane earlier, as well as crossed the Bosporus westwards overland, tracing the Black Sea coast from Georgia and slipping into Greece, a route we documented in Overlanding Asia to Europe – Georgia to Greece. That earlier crossing left us with one of the most durable souvenirs we have ever acquired on the road: a Turkish HGS toll tag, purchased from a PTT (pronounced paa-taa-taa) office in Arhavi, still clinging loyally to Shehzadi’s windscreen like a Ottoman visa that refuses to acknowledge time.

This time, however, the intent was different. We were not passing through Turkey as a logistical necessity. We were returning to it deliberately, retracing routes that humanity itself has rehearsed for thousands of years. Anatolia does not appreciate haste. It has waited out empires far more confident than us. The landscape here feels like it's judging your timeline against its own geological clock, where millennia are measured in volcanic eruptions and civilizations are just temporary tenants.

Türkiye is not a country that exists merely as a destination. It exists as a process. Roads here are not shortcuts; they are habits, worn into the land by repetition so persistent that geography itself gave up resisting. Long before borders, passports and laminated vehicle documents, people crossed Anatolia because there was no other sensible option. If you wanted to move between Europe, the Caucasus, the Middle East and Central Asia, this land quietly stood in your way and said, “Through here.”

This is the first of two long chapters covering our Turkey overland segment of our quad-continental journey. Like the Silk Road, it unfolds slowly, layering meaning rather than racing for conclusions. Think of it as a conversation with the landscape rather than a checklist of sites - a dialogue conducted in kilometers, tea breaks and the occasional wrong turn that reveals something more interesting than the planned route.

Kapitan Andreevo to Kapıkule: Where Waiting Is a Tradition

The Kapitan Andreevo–Kapıkule border crossing (Bulgaria➡️Turkey) on the E-80/AH-1 Trans-Eurasian (Lisbon to Tokyo) Motorway is a place where time develops a personality. Trucks idle for hours, drivers brew tea with the calm confidence of people who know resistance is pointless and paperwork circulates with the seriousness of a religious ritual. It feels intensely modern, mildly absurd and deeply bureaucratic until you remember that this corridor has been active, contested and exploited for more than two millennia.

Waiting in line at the Kapitan Andreevo-Kapıkule border crossing. This is the main road link between Bulgaria and Türkiye and queues are common, especially in the summer! This crossing handles approximately 10,000 vehicles daily, transforming border control into a study in organized patience.

Thrace: The Geography That Decides Outcomes

This is Thrace, the great hinge between the Balkans and Anatolia. Ancient Thracians unsettled Greek historians with their warrior cults, ecstatic rituals and enthusiastic relationship with violence. Herodotus admired them cautiously, from a safe literary distance. Orpheus, the mythical musician who could charm animals, trees and briefly negotiate with the underworld, was said to be Thracian. That alone should tell you this region was never interested in being reasonable.

Persian armies marched through here on their westward expansions. Alexander passed in the opposite direction, convinced destiny had personally scheduled him. Romans paved the route and called it order. The Ottomans turned it into their western artery. Today’s truck queues are simply caravans with diesel engines, better suspension and fewer camels. The logic has not changed. Only the fuel has. It's oddly comforting to know that even with modern passports and vehicle papers, you're still participating in a ritual that would feel familiar to a Roman merchant or Ottoman spice trader.

European Türkiye is often dismissed as a prelude to Istanbul, a stretch of road you endure before the “real” destination. This is historically illiterate. Thrace has always been fertile, strategic and impossible to ignore. Control Thrace and you control access between Europe and Asia. Fail to control it and someone else will.

Ancient burial mounds rise quietly from agricultural fields, easily mistaken for natural hills unless you know what you are looking at. Rivers like the Meriç have shifted courses repeatedly, drowning armies, redrawing borders and ignoring political agreements with impressive consistency. Thrace does not perform. It persists. It's the geographic equivalent of that friend who doesn't need to talk to dominate the room - the landmass just sits there, knowing everyone will eventually need to deal with it.

Arnavutköy: Istanbul’s Functional Backbone

We based ourselves in Arnavutköy, at the Med Airport Hotel near Istanbul Havalimani Airport (IST). Not the postcard Arnavutköy along the Bosphorus with its wooden mansions and seafood restaurants, but the other one. The working one. The name itself, meaning “Albanian village,” is a reminder that Ottoman Istanbul was never ethnically tidy. The empire relocated populations strategically, balancing loyalty, labor and control centuries before anyone invented demographic charts.

A view over the rooftops of Istanbul's modern Arnavutköy district, showcasing the impressive, six-minaret Taşoluk Yeşil Camii (Taşoluk Green Mosque) at sunset. This area is a developing residential and commercial hub located just a short distance from the Istanbul International Airport (IST). The mosque's modern design contrasts beautifully with traditional Ottoman architecture, representing Turkey's fascinating blend of historical reverence and contemporary ambition. 🇹🇷

Historically, areas like Arnavutköy fed and serviced the imperial capital. Fish, grain, labor, carts, boats and muscle flowed inward from these margins. Great cities do not survive on monuments. They survive on logistics. The fish markets and bakeries of old Arnavutköy were arguably more essential to Istanbul's survival than the Topkapi Palace's gold leaf.

Chasing golden hour in Arnavutköy! 🌅✨ There is something truly magical about watching the sun set over this historic Istanbul neighborhood near the airport (not the other Arnavutköy on the Bosporus). From the quiet residential streets to the distant city skyline, the colors tonight were absolutely breathtaking. 🇹🇷🏙️

Today, Arnavutköy exists in permanent transition. Minarets rise beside apartment blocks. Tea houses occupy corners while construction cranes loom overhead. Jets roar continuously from Istanbul Airport, continuing a two-thousand-year tradition of this area being about movement rather than permanence. The soundtrack is prayer calls, aircraft engines and concrete mixers negotiating the future. It's like living inside a time-lapse photograph of urbanization, where you can literally watch history being written in steel and glass.

Istanbul: Accumulation as Survival Strategy

Exploring Istanbul again, largely by public transport, felt like stepping back into a familiar but carefully unstable dream. We had already spent serious time here during a previous journey, documented in Istanbul, Turkey. This visit was not about monuments. It was about observing how layers coexist without cancelling each other out.

Byzantium began as a Greek trading colony. Constantine rebuilt it as Constantinople, betting that geography would outlast belief systems. For over a thousand years it served as the heart of Eastern Christianity. Emperors ruled believing the city was divinely protected. Relics were paraded along walls during sieges. Icons were believed to intervene militarily. Medieval faith was not subtle.

The stunning Apartment of the Crown Prince (Twin Kiosk) at Topkapi Palace. The 17th-century Iznik tiles and intricate gilded woodwork make this one of the most beautiful rooms in Istanbul. This room served as the private chambers for Ottoman princes, where they were educated in statecraft while literally surrounded by the empire's artistic wealth. Each tile tells a story, each geometric pattern conceals mathematical precision and the overall effect is overwhelming in the best possible way.

When the Ottomans captured the city in 1453, they did not erase it. They absorbed it. Hagia Sophia retained its bones. Roman cisterns continued feeding Islamic fountains. Sacred space remained sacred; it merely changed vocabulary. Istanbul does not demolish history. It edits it. There are some interesting unusual projections of Hagia Sophia's dome here.

Greek myth insisted on staying. The Bosporus was guarded by the Symplegades, the Clashing Rocks that crushed careless ships. Passage here was always dangerous and transformative. Today you cross by tram, ferry, or bridge, possibly eating a simit, while two empires argue politely beneath your feet. It's telling that Istanbul's most enduring symbol isn't a building but a body of water that refuses to stay still.

The Bosporus: Water That Refuses Neutrality

Crossing the 15 July Martyrs Bridge (Bosphorus Bridge) returned us to Asia. The Bosporus appears calm until you pay attention. Surface currents flow one way, deeper currents another, as if the strait itself cannot agree with itself. Persian kings bridged it with boats to demonstrate dominance. Ottomans chained it shut when necessary. Whoever controlled this water controlled the flow of history.

The moment the Silk Road got real. 🌍 Crossing the 15 July Martyrs Bridge (Bosphorus Bridge) from Arnavutköy, leaving Europe in the rearview mirror as Shehzadi officially enters Asia. There’s no feeling quite like driving over the Bosphorus - watching the Istanbul skyline fade as the road to Bursa and beyond opens up. One bridge, two continents and a whole lot of adventure ahead! 🚐🇹🇷

Today you stick an HGS tag on your windshield and drive on. Same water. Same stakes. Less incense, more traffic. There's something democratizing about modern infrastructure - the same water that Xerxes crossed with a pontoon bridge now carries commuters in Hyundais, yet the strategic importance remains unchanged.

The Great Shortcut: Crossing the Gulf of İzmit

After conquering the 15 July Martyrs Bridge, the journey toward Bursa takes a turn for the truly gargantuan as we approach the Osmangazi Bridge on the silk-smooth O-5 "Otoyol" motorway. Spanning the Gulf of İzmit like a silver harp for a titan, this bridge is a structural marvel that makes us realize Shehzadi is essentially a ladybug on a clothesline. Named after the founder of the Ottoman Empire, it’s a fitting tribute to the man who first looked at these shores and thought, "I should definitely own all of this." Architecturally, it’s one of the longest suspension bridges in the world, featuring massive steel pylons and a deck that feels like it’s floating on air.

Conquering the Gulf of İzmit! 🌉 Shaving hours off our route to Bursa by gliding across the Osmangazi Bridge. It’s a strange sensation to be suspended hundreds of feet above the Sea of Marmara in Shehzadi - our full-size American pickup, but the view of the Turkish coastline is worth every white-knuckled moment. From Bosphorus spirits to engineering giants - the Silk Road just keeps getting bigger! 🚐💨

As we glide across the Sea of Marmara, we are sailing high above waters steeped in more mythology than a Greek tragedy. This is the realm of the Argonauts; local lore suggests that Jason and his crew sailed through these very waters on their quest for the Golden Fleece, likely battling the same fierce winds that occasionally make Shehzadi lean like she’s trying to take a nap mid-drive. Beneath her tires lies the ancient Propontis, where Poseidon presumably spends his time judging her fuel economy. By the time we reach the southern shore, we have bypassed a ninety-minute crawl around the gulf in just six minutes of suspension-bridge bliss, arriving in the shadow of Mount Uludağ - the Bithynian Olympus - just in time for some world-class silk shopping.

Bursa: Learning How to Rule

South of the Sea of Marmara lies Bursa, the first Ottoman capital and one of the great Silk Road nodes. Before Constantinople, before imperial confidence, this is where the Ottomans practiced governance. Mosques doubled as schools, kitchens and hospitals. Authority here came bundled with responsibility. Power required administration.

We drove Shehzadi, our giant American pickup, through the incredibly narrow and congested streets of Old Town Bursa and found a parking spot at Otoprakçı Hacı, just a short walk from our destination of Koza Han.

Watch: We Took Our Full-Size American Truck Into Bursa's Old Bazaar in Turkey. Why Did We Do This?! 😅 (YouTube)

We walked along Bursa's T1 tram line that carries the famous "Silkworm" trams. While the "Silkworm" tram is a sleek piece of local engineering designed to conquer steep hills, its tracks are essentially a series of precision-engineered traps waiting to eat bicycle tires for breakfast. This domestically-produced marvel glides along a 1,435 mm standard gauge, leaving behind a groove that is - with almost suspicious accuracy - exactly the width of a standard road bike wheel.

A vivid reminder for cyclists outside Koza Han: watch out for those Bursa tram tracks! This sign warns of the "tire-trap" effect on the T1 line. The Turkish text on the sign, "DEĞERLİ BİSİKLET KULLANICILARI RAYLARDAN UZAK DURUNUZ," translates to: "Dear bicycle users, please stay away from the rails." This is the urban equivalent of nature's warning colors - bright orange telling you exactly what happens when steel meets rubber at the wrong angle.

If you are on a bicycle and don't cross these rails at a sharp 90-degree angle, the tram line will gladly seize your bike and initiate an unscheduled launch of your body toward the nearest silk shop. Essentially, unless you want to become the latest piece of street art on the T1 line, treat these tracks like a sleeping predator: cross them decisively, or prepare to find out just how aerodynamic you aren't. It's a perfect metaphor for travel in Turkey: beautiful infrastructure that demands your full attention.

Koza Han: Silk, Stone and Very Serious Tea

Koza Han, built in 1491 under Sultan Bayezid II, is not just a historic caravanserai. It is Bursa explaining, calmly and without diagrams, how global trade actually worked before spreadsheets. The name comes from koza, meaning silk cocoon, which tells you exactly what paid the bills here. This was the financial engine room of Ottoman Bursa, plugged directly into Silk Road circuits stretching from Iran, Central Asia and China to the Mediterranean.

Stepping through history! 🚪✨ We've officially made it to the grand entrance of Koza Han, the heart of the silk trade in Bursa since 1491. The intricate stonework on this gate is absolutely stunning and leads you right into a world of silk, history and incredible Turkish tea. This entrance has witnessed everything from silk caravans arriving from the East to modern tourists searching for the perfect scarf - a perfect architectural handshake between centuries.

The han is entered through massive stone gates that feel defensive for a reason. These were not decorative arches. They were controlled access points designed to keep goods, money and occasionally merchants themselves safe. Heavy wooden doors once closed at night, sealing the complex like a vault. If you missed curfew, you slept outside with your regrets. Security wasn't an afterthought here - it was built into the architecture from the ground up, which explains why the building has survived wars, earthquakes and economic shifts for over five centuries.

Finding a moment of peace at the historic Koza Han in Bursa, Turkey. 🇹🇷 Once the final stop on the Silk Road for silk caravans, this 15th-century caravanserai is now the perfect place to enjoy a traditional Turkish tea or coffee under the shade of ancient plane trees. Whether you're shopping for silk scarves or just soaking in the Ottoman architecture, it's a must-visit spot in the city. The courtyard's acoustics are particularly fascinating - stone surfaces that once amplified the sounds of commerce now soften the chatter of tourists and tea drinkers.

Inside, Koza Han opens into a two-level rectangular courtyard, a design perfected by Seljuk and Ottoman architects who understood airflow, light and crowd control centuries before anyone said "urban planning." The ground floor is lined with vaulted arcades opening into shops, while the upper floor contains small rooms once used as offices, storage spaces and merchant lodging. Traders lived above their inventory. Work-life balance, Ottoman edition. The design was so effective that the temperature inside remains comfortable even during Bursa's hottest summers, proving that ancient architects understood passive cooling better than many modern builders.

At the heart of the historic Koza Han in Bursa lies this beautiful, raised stone masjid. 🕌 Built in 1491, this unique structure sits directly above an ablution fountain, serving as the architectural centerpiece of the silk market's courtyard. It's the perfect spot to enjoy a traditional Turkish coffee while soaking in centuries of Silk Road history. The elevated position isn't just symbolic - it literally lifts prayer above the commerce below, a brilliant architectural statement about priorities in Ottoman society.

At the center of the courtyard stands a small, elevated mescit (prayer pavilion), a masjid reached by steps, with a fountain below for ablutions. This structure is not decorative filler. It is a statement. Trade was important, but prayer was non-negotiable. Business paused five times a day and the architecture made sure everyone remembered that priorities existed. It's a physical manifestation of the Ottoman worldview: commerce and faith weren't separate spheres but integrated aspects of a well-ordered society.

Inside the historic Koza Han in Bursa, where centuries of silk trading meet modern daily life. A perfect spot for tea and textile shopping. The repetitive arches create a hypnotic rhythm that guides you through the space, while the alternating brick and stone patterns aren't just decorative - they're structural genius that has withstood earthquakes for over 500 years.

It is impossible to miss the atmospheric interior corridors of Koza Han. The architectural style showcases the classic Ottoman vaulted ceilings with alternating red brick and white stone patterns, typical of the late 15th-century construction. The repetitive pointed arches and cross-vaulted ceilings provide natural cooling and structural strength. Shop displays are filled with colorful silk scarves and fabrics, continuing the tradition that made Bursa the terminus of the Silk Road. Restaurants and cafes make this market a social hub. Stairs leading downward typically lead to the main courtyard where the famous fountain and masjid are located.

You can't visit Bursa without exploring its legendary silk heritage! 🧣✨ Inside the historic Koza Han, you'll find shops filled with world-renowned Bursa silk and luxurious cashmere. From intricate traditional patterns to designs inspired by famous art, these scarves are more than just accessories - they are a piece of Silk Road history. 🇹🇷 The sheen of Bursa silk comes from the region's unique climate and water quality, which affects how the silk fibers absorb dye, creating colors that literally seem to glow from within.

The upper level also features a series of archival displays of informational photographs with plaques showcasing the traditional silk cocoon trade that defined the city for centuries.

A glimpse into history at Koza Han, Bursa, showing the traditional silk cocoon market where farmers once brought their annual harvest in large burlap sacks. Each sack contained approximately 50-60 kilograms of raw silk cocoons, representing months of careful silkworm cultivation. The weighing and bargaining that happened in this courtyard determined the economic fate of entire villages for the coming year - a high-stakes agricultural stock exchange with centuries of tradition behind every transaction.

The photograph above, for example, captures a historical scene from the annual silk cocoon market, typically held in July. The sacks, which are large burlap bags, are filled with raw silk cocoons (koza) brought by local farmers to be weighed and sold. Merchants and farmers would gather in this very courtyard to bargain over the quality and weight of the cocoons, which were then processed into the world-famous Bursa silk. This wasn't just commerce - it was a carefully regulated system with official inspectors ensuring quality standards, essentially creating one of history's first commodity quality control systems.

Today, the surrounding shops still sell what Koza Han has always specialized in: silk. Scarves, shawls, ties and fabric bolts shimmer softly in shop windows, many produced using techniques Bursa has refined since the 14th century. You will also find finely worked silver jewelry, hand-painted ceramics, textiles and gifts that manage to be traditional without feeling dusty. This is not souvenir junk. This is continuity. Each silk thread connects to centuries of expertise and the fact that you can still buy high-quality silk here isn't tourism - it's the survival of a craft that refused to die.

Beyond its world-famous silk, Koza Han is a treasure trove of Turkish craftsmanship! 🏺✨ From the intricate patterns of hand-painted Iznik ceramics to the delicate glimmer of handcrafted silver jewelry, every corner of this historic 15th-century caravanserai offers a piece of Ottoman heritage to take home. Whether you're hunting for high-quality textiles or unique artisanal gifts, shopping here is like walking through a living museum of Turkish artistry. 🧿🎁 The Iznik pottery in particular follows designs unchanged since the 16th century, using the same quartz-based clay that gives it that distinctive translucent quality.

One of Koza Han's quiet tricks is its internal passageways. Slip through an arched corridor and you emerge directly into the surrounding historic bazaar district. No transition. No warning. One moment you are in a serene courtyard sipping tea, the next you are in a living economic organism that has not stopped moving for six hundred years. It's architectural magic - the building doesn't just contain commerce; it actively feeds it into the surrounding city like a heart pumping blood through veins.

Just steps outside the historic Koza Han, we found ourselves in the heart of the bustling Bursa Grand Bazaar! 🍎🧿 The energy here is incredible, with stall after stall of the freshest local produce, from sun-ripened melons to mountains of olives. It is a true sensory explosion and a must-see for anyone wanting to experience the authentic daily life of Bursa. 🇹🇷✨ Notice how the market naturally organizes itself - fruits here, vegetables there, fish around the corner - following patterns established when Bursa was feeding an empire rather than just a city.

Outside, the Bursa Grand Bazaar area thrives exactly as intended. Narrow streets pulse with shops selling spices, copperware, textiles, knives, sweets and tools. This commercial zone grew organically around Koza Han because silk attracts everything else. Money moves. Services follow. Cities adjust. What began as a specialized silk market naturally spawned everything a silk trader might need: food, lodging, transport, banking and entertainment. It's urban economics in its purest form - demand creates its own infrastructure.

Exploring the vibrant sights and smells of the Bursa Grand Bazaar! 🐟🌊 Just a stone's throw from Koza Han, we stumbled upon this incredible fresh fish stall. From local catches to traditional seafood displays, this part of the market is where the real energy of Bursa's daily life happens. There's nothing like the atmosphere of a historic Turkish bazaar to make you feel like a local! 🇹🇷✨ The fish here likely came from the Sea of Marmara just hours before, continuing a supply chain that has operated since Byzantine times.

What makes Koza Han special is not that it survived. It is that it never stopped working. The building still performs its original function: enabling trade, conversation, negotiation and long tea breaks that begin as business meetings and end as philosophy seminars. Empires collapse. Markets adapt. Koza Han keeps selling silk and serving tea, quietly unimpressed by modernity. In a world where buildings are often preserved as sterile museums, this one continues to earn its keep, which might be the ultimate form of architectural respect.

Found the perfect photo op! 📸✨ We are standing at the iconic #BURSA sign in Orhangazi Square, right in the heart of the city's historic district. This lively square is the bridge between the stunning Bursa Grand Mosque and the silk treasures of Koza Han. It's the best spot to take a break, watch the local life go by and snap a classic travel memory. 🇹🇷🙌 The square is named for Orhan Gazi, the Ottoman ruler who captured Bursa in 1326 and established it as the empire's first capital, making this ground zero for Ottoman history.

Orhangazi Square sits right in the middle of Bursa doing what it has always done best: watching history walk past without getting excited. Named after Orhan Gazi, the second Ottoman sultan and the man who turned Bursa into the empire's first capital in 1326, the square is framed by mosques, bazaars and a steady flow of people who are either shopping, praying, or very seriously looking for tea. It's the perfect vantage point to observe Bursa's unique rhythm - a city that manages to be both deeply historical and completely functional at the same time.

Exploring the historic north entrance of Koza Han in Bursa, Turkey - the legendary 15th-century silk market and a must-visit stop for #VagabondCouple. This view captures the building's remarkable preservation and continued relevance. The stonework here shows the wear of centuries, not as damage but as a record of countless footsteps - merchants, tourists, locals - all drawn to this economic magnet for over 500 years.

This is not a place for grand speeches or dramatic selfies. It is a working square, designed for movement, trade and daily life, exactly as the early Ottomans intended. Empires were built here between errands and Bursa never forgot that power works better when it stays practical. The square's unpretentious nature is its greatest strength - it refuses to be a museum piece and insists on remaining what it always was: a place where people get things done.

A brick and stone arched North entrance to Koza Han in Bursa, Turkey, with gold lettering reading "KOZA HAN" above the doorway and a small bridge leading into a corridor lined with silk shops and the caravanserai's upper level. This entrance bridge isn't just decorative - it marks the transition from the public bazaar to the specialized silk market, a physical representation of moving from general commerce to the specific luxury trade that made Bursa wealthy.

Nearby, the Bursa Ulu Cami (Bursa Grand Mosque) anchors the city spiritually. Its twenty domes and vast interior feel restrained rather than triumphant. Built after a military victory, it does not celebrate conquest. It teaches humility. You enter and your voice lowers automatically, even if no one asks you to. The mosque's architectural modesty is deceptive - its twenty domes represent the twenty separate businesses that funded its construction, a beautiful example of community investment in sacred space that predates modern crowdfunding by six centuries.

Across the Anatolian Plateau: Geography as Editor

The D200 and E90 carried us onto the Anatolian plateau, a landmass that has shaped history precisely by refusing to be bypassed. The Hittites built one of the world's earliest empires here, complete with treaties, archives and legal systems. The Phrygians carved belief directly into stone. The Lydians invented coinage nearby, mercifully ending the goat-exchange economy. This plateau isn't just land - it's a geological stage where humanity has been performing the drama of civilization for millennia, with the landscape itself as both audience and critic.

Later came Turkic migrations from Central Asia, bringing horse culture, sky symbolism and shamanic memory. Islam arrived and adapted rather than erased. Sacred trees still receive ribbons. Evil eye charms still hang from mirrors. Anatolia does not delete cultures. It compresses them. It's like geological strata for civilizations - each layer visible, each contributing to the whole, none completely overwritten by what came after.

Eskişehir: Seyitgazi and the Phrygian Stone Memory

Finding a peaceful retreat at Midas Han, a beautiful boutique hotel in the heart of the Phrygian Valley near Eskişehir. The perfect base for exploring the legends of King Midas! While this building looks like a historic caravanserai, it is actually a charming modern boutique hotel and research center established in 2012. It was built using traditional stone-and-timber techniques to blend seamlessly into the ancient landscape of the Han district. Unlike the bustling Koza Han we visited in Bursa, this "Han" offers a quiet, rural escape focused on archaeology and nature. It's a perfect example of how traditional architecture can serve modern purposes while respecting historical context.

From Bursa, we drove east into the Phrygian Valley towards Eskişehir. Staying near Seyitgazi placed us deep within the Phrygian heartland. At Midas Han in the village of Çukurca, history felt properly aligned, though it must be noted that it actually is a modern boutique hotel and research center, not an ancient structure itself. The hotel's modern construction using traditional techniques creates a fascinating dialogue with the ancient landscape - it's not trying to be ancient, but to continue the conversation ancient builders started.

Shehzadi exploring the rustic charm of Çukurca village, where ancient Phrygian history meets crumbling Ottoman-era architecture like this weathered house. The abandoned structures tell a story of rural migration patterns - as younger generations move to cities for opportunity, these traditional stone houses stand as beautiful, melancholic monuments to changing ways of life. Yet their materials will likely be reclaimed by the landscape, continuing the cycle of use and reuse that defines Anatolia.

The Phrygian Valley is essentially nature's way of showing off what happens when you leave volcanic ash out in the rain for a few million years without a lid. Geologically, the landscape is dominated by volcanic tuff - a compressed "cake" of ash and lava ejected by Mount Erciyes and other nearby ancient volcanoes of the Central Anatolian plateau, which was then painstakingly sculpted by the relentless erosion of wind and water into towering, lumpy pillars. This soft stone proved to be both a blessing and a curse - easy to carve but vulnerable to erosion, creating landscapes that change on both human and geological timescales.

Nature's own monuments! 🌲 These towering volcanic rock formations define the landscape of the Phrygian Valley, hiding ancient secrets and rock-cut treasures around every corner. This photo illustrates why the area is so perfect for overlanding and hiking - it's a massive natural playground where the line between "natural rock" and "ancient architecture" is often beautifully blurred. The lone pine tree growing from the peak demonstrates nature's tenacity, finding purchase in what seems like solid stone, much like the Phrygian civilization thrived in this challenging landscape.

Geographically, you are standing on the Phrygian Plateau, a high-altitude playground sometimes reaching 1,300 meters (4,265 feet) above sea-level, where the soft rock was so easy to carve that the ancient Phrygians treated it like the world's largest block of feta cheese, hollowing out entire cities and monumental tombs with nothing but a dream and a chisel. The elevation isn't just scenic - it creates a unique microclimate that supported agriculture while providing defensive advantages, explaining why so many civilizations chose this challenging terrain.

Trekking through time on the Phrygian Way! 🥾 This paved path leads us past ancient rock-cut dwellings and wild volcanic formations (like Dimmuborgir) that have stood for millennia. The pathway itself represents modern Turkey's impressive commitment to preserving and sharing its archaeological heritage - making ancient sites accessible without compromising their integrity. It's a perfect marriage of ancient landscape and thoughtful modern stewardship.

While the vertical ridges and "fairy chimneys" look like something out of a high-budget sci-fi film, they are actually the result of differential weathering, where harder rock caps protect the softer tuff beneath, creating natural high-rises that make modern urban planning look unimaginative. It is a stunning, windswept wilderness where you can't tell if a hole in the cliff is a natural cave or a 2,500-year-old studio apartment, but either way, the rent is free and the geological foundation is rock solid - literally. This ambiguity between natural and human-made is the valley's greatest charm - you're constantly playing archaeological detective.

Standing tall among the Phrygian legends! 🌼 We found this impressive Mullein plant reaching for the sky near the ancient rock-cut tombs. Nature always finds a way to stand out in this volcanic landscape. Mullein (Verbascum) has been used for centuries in traditional medicine - its soft leaves as natural bandages, its stalks as torches and its flowers in herbal remedies. It's a perfect symbol for the Phrygian Valley: tough, useful, beautiful in its own way and deeply connected to human history.

The Phrygian Valley is essentially a high-altitude botanical beauty pageant where the Mullein plant (Verbascum) takes home the crown for "Most Likely to be Mistaken for a Roman Candle." This sturdy biennial is the ultimate survivalist, sprouting velvet-soft leaves that were historically used as everything from primitive insoles to lamp wicks, earning it the nickname "King's Taper". While the Mullein stands tall in the nutrient-poor volcanic tuff, the rest of the valley's flora is a resilient mix of wild thyme and sage that smells significantly better than the goats frequently seen wandering through the ancient ruins. Geographically, the valley's high-altitude steppe climate means the fauna consists largely of stoic livestock and the occasional elusive fox, all of whom seem entirely unimpressed by the 3,000-year-old rock-cut real estate surrounding them. It's a landscape where the plants are as tough as the history and the only thing growing faster than the wildflowers is the realization that a Mullein stalk is nature's own selfie stick - provided you don't mind a few curious local bees joining the shot.

Located near Çukurca, Gerdekkaya Anıtı is the Phrygian Valley's way of proving that even in the 3rd century BC, people really liked a grand entrance. Despite its name translating to "Wedding Rock", this is actually a massive monumental tomb, which makes it a slightly awkward venue for a reception unless you're a fan of eternal commitment. The name likely comes from local folklore that saw the tomb's impressive facade and decided it deserved a romantic story, because "ancient burial chamber" doesn't have quite the same tourist appeal.

Road trip goals in the Phrygian Valley! 🛻 We've parked Shehzadi up at the massive Gerdekkaya Anıtı, a monumental rock-cut tomb near Eskişehir that looks more like a Greek temple than a burial site. The contrast between our modern American truck and this 2,300-year-old Phrygian monument creates a fascinating timeline in a single frame - from ancient rock carving to modern engineering, both designed for journeying through challenging landscapes. Shehzadi looks right at home amid this geological drama.

Carved directly into a towering volcanic rock, it features a majestic porch held up by two Doric columns that look remarkably like a Greek temple - proving that the Phrygians were fans of "international style" long before it was cool. This architectural borrowing wasn't just aesthetic - it signaled political and cultural connections with the Hellenistic world, a statement in stone that said, "We're part of the broader Mediterranean conversation."

Standing in awe before the Gerdekkaya Anıtı in the Phrygian Valley! This massive rock-cut tomb from the Hellenistic period features a stunning facade that makes you feel like you've stepped back into ancient history. The scale is deliberately impressive - this wasn't just a burial place but a statement of power and permanence. The triangular pediment above the columns mimics Greek temple architecture but adapts it to the local volcanic stone, creating a unique fusion style that's distinctly Phrygian while acknowledging broader Mediterranean influences.

While the exterior screams "architectural prestige," the interior is a bit more minimalist, consisting of two burial chambers that were reused by the Romans and Byzantines, who clearly recognized a good piece of real estate when they saw one. It's the ultimate "fixer-upper" that has remained in the same family of civilizations for over 2,000 years, offering great views, a solid stone foundation and absolutely zero neighbors to complain about the noise. This reuse speaks volumes about practical ancient attitudes toward sacred space - if the architecture works and the location is good, why not adapt it?

Stepping inside the ancient silence of Gerdekkaya Anıtı. These rock-cut burial chambers have stood for over 2,000 years, reused by Phrygians, Romans and Byzantines alike. The interior consists of two separate burial rooms. This photo captures the precision of the rectangular graves carved into the solid stone floor. While the exterior architecture is inspired by Hellenistic Greek styles from the 3rd or 2nd century BC, these rooms were actively used and repurposed by later Roman and Byzantine inhabitants. Standing in these hollowed-out spaces offers a stark, minimalist contrast to the grand Doric columns on the outside. It's a powerful reminder of the Phrygian Valley's deep layers of human history - where every civilization left its mark, often literally carving over what came before, creating a palimpsest of belief and burial practices.

The Gerdekkaya Anıtı rises deliberately high above the landscape. In Anatolia, elevation has always equaled sanctity. Rock-cut monuments were built to last longer than belief systems. Memory here was engineered into the terrain. By placing important structures high up, ancient builders connected them to the sky, made them visible from miles away and literally elevated their significance - a practice that continues with minarets and cell towers today.

The ruins of Doğanlı Kale cling to natural rock formations, defensive without arrogance. Fortifications here were less about domination and more about survival. Anatolia punishes hubris. At Kırkgöz Kayalıkları, the landscape appears unfinished, as if geology paused mid-sentence. These places remind you that human structures here are temporary tenants in a geological timescale - the rocks were here long before us and will remain long after.

Seyitgazi is located about 32 km (20 miles) north of the archaeological site known as Yazılıkaya (the "Inscribed Rock"), which is synonymous with Midas City. Historically, one of the major trade routes leading to this ancient religious center passed directly through Seyitgazi. King Midas was not merely a mythological lesson in greed. He was a powerful ruler controlling resources and trade routes. The golden touch myth reads like a Bronze Age economic warning about the dangers of valuing wealth over everything else - a story that feels remarkably contemporary.

While the Phrygians ran their government from Gordion, they saved their best spiritual energy for Yazılıkaya, another high-altitude volcanic plateau where the "City of Midas" served as the empire's premier religious headquarters. Sometime around the 8th or 7th century BC, local artisans decided to treat the region's soft volcanic tuff like a giant block of architectural play-dough, carving a massive 17-meter facade covered in geometric patterns designed to mimic the wooden beams of the era.

Beholding the legendary Midas Monument at Yazılıkaya! 🏛️ This massive 17-meter rock-cut facade is the crown jewel of the Phrygian Valley and a testament to the grand religious spirit of King Midas's people. The geometric patterns aren't random - they represent the wooden architecture of Phrygian temples, frozen in stone for eternity. This monument wasn't just carved; it was a deliberate act of permanence, taking architecture that would normally rot and transforming it into something that would outlast civilizations.

For centuries, early explorers looked at the bold Old Phrygian inscription naming "Midas" and assumed they had found the king's final resting place; however, it turns out the monument was actually a grand sanctuary for the goddess Cybele, proving that even 2,800 years ago, people knew the value of a high-quality "brand name" endorsement. Essentially, it is the world's most impressive rock-cut religious retreat, proving that if you have enough soft stone and a very long chisel, you don't need a permit to build the ancient world's most confusing "tomb" that isn't actually a tomb. The Midas connection, whether literal or symbolic, shows how ancient rulers understood the power of association - attaching your name to something magnificent ensures you'll be remembered.

If you ever feel like your DIY home renovation project is taking too long, just remember the Phrygians. They decided that instead of building a temple with bricks, they would simply find the largest rock in the province and subtract everything that wasn't a temple. The result is a 55-foot-tall "inscribed rock" that has survived 2,800 years without a single coat of weather-sealant. It's the ultimate architectural statement: "We're here, we love Cybele and we aren't moving - mostly because the building weighs several thousand tons." It's subtraction as creation, removal as monument-building and it represents a fundamentally different relationship with materials than we have today.

Cruising the high Anatolian plateau on our way to the capital! 🚐 Turkey's D200/E90 highway offers some of the most vast, cinematic landscapes we've encountered on the Silk Road so far (excluding stunning Turkmenistan). This stretch between Eskişehir and Ankara is pure overlanding bliss - wide open roads and the promise of ancient history waiting at the end of the line. Next stop: navigating Shehzadi into the heart of Ankara's Old Town! 🇹🇷 This shot is from the Sivrihisar region. We are crossing the ancient Phrygian highlands at an elevation of roughly 3,281 feet, just before the final push into the capital. The road itself follows ancient trade routes, proving that even with modern engineering, geography still dictates where humans build their pathways.

We get back into Shehzadi and point her 385 hp twin turbos to our next destination: Ankara. Leaving the Phrygian Valley feels like emerging from a time capsule - the transition from ancient rock-cut monuments to modern highway is abrupt but somehow appropriate in Turkey, where past and present constantly negotiate their relationship.

Ankara: A Capital Chosen, Not Inherited

Leaving the Eskişehir area behind, we began our quest toward the capital on the E90/D200, a road so straight it almost convinces you the world is flat - or at least that the Turkish engineers had a very long ruler and a singular vision. As we cruised along this high-speed stretch of the Silk Road, the landscape offered a minimalist masterpiece of rolling hills and the occasional ambitious gas station, while Shehzadi purred with the confidence of a vehicle that knows it's headed toward a historical epicenter. The highway itself feels like a statement of modern Turkey - efficient, purposeful, connecting ancient sites with contemporary needs.

After a marathon cruise along the E90 from Eskişehir, Shehzadi finally earns a well-deserved rest in the heart of Ankara's old town. We've tucked her away at Emektar Otopark, perfectly positioned between the historical whispers of the Suluhan Caravanserai and the vibrant chaos of the local bazaar. Finding parking for a full-size American truck in ancient urban centers is always an adventure, but Ankara's blend of old and new accommodates even our Texas-sized traveling companion with surprising grace.

The transition from the rural outskirts into the organized chaos of Ankara's urban sprawl was a masterclass in defensive driving, but we emerged victorious from the traffic. We navigated the winding, ancient and tight veins of the old town, dodging pedestrians and stray cats with equal grace - a process that felt remarkably like trying to thread a needle with a sledgehammer, until we finally reached our destination. With a sigh of relief and a final flourish of the steering wheel, we tucked Shehzadi into her temporary home at the Emektar Autopark, conveniently perched near the bustling Suluhan caravanserai and bazaar, ready to trade our tires for some serious market-wandering. Driving in ancient cities always feels like a negotiation between centuries - your modern vehicle making polite requests of medieval street layouts.

Ankara confuses travelers expecting imperial drama. Ancient Ancyra was a Galatian stronghold, founded by Celtic tribes who migrated astonishing distances into Anatolia. Romans ruled here. Seljuks fortified it. Ottomans passed through without lingering. This layered history makes Ankara fascinating - it's not a city that peaked in one era but accumulated importance through multiple civilizations, each adding their chapter without completely erasing what came before.

Then Atatürk chose it as the capital of a new republic. Central, defensible, connected by rail and free from imperial nostalgia, Ankara represented intent rather than inheritance. It was not a rejection of history, but a refusal to be imprisoned by it. The choice was profoundly modern - selecting a capital based on strategic and symbolic considerations rather than historical momentum, creating a city that looks forward while acknowledging what lies beneath.

The portal to the past. Stepping through the massive stone gate of Suluhan to trade the modern streets of Ankara for 16th-century commerce! 🚪✨ This threshold marks more than just an architectural transition - it's a journey from Turkey's modern capital to its mercantile past. The stone arch has witnessed everything from camel caravans to smartphone-wielding tourists, serving as a constant in a city that has transformed around it. The wear on the threshold stones tells a story of countless crossings.

Suluhan

At Suluhan Caravanserai, in the Ulus district of Ankara near Hacı Bayram mosque, trade once flowed relentlessly. The surrounding ancient bazaars still pulse with commerce. Governments change. Buying and selling continues with impressive indifference. Suluhan represents commercial continuity - while political power shifted from Ottoman sultans to republican parliament, the business of business kept humming along in these same stone corridors.

Arches, history and a mosque on stilts. 🕌 Standing in the center of Suluhan Caravanserai, you can almost hear the echoes of 16th-century camel caravans - even if they've been replaced by shoppers hunting for the perfect turquoise bead. A true masterpiece of Ottoman efficiency in the heart of Ankara! 🚐✨ The elevated mosque isn't just architectural flair - it creates a sacred space literally above the commerce, a physical representation of spiritual priorities in daily life. The symmetry of the arches creates a rhythm that guides your eye through the space, demonstrating Ottoman mastery of both form and function.

Suluhan (also known as Hasan Pasha Han) is not just a market; it is a 16th-century survival pod that has successfully ignored five hundred years of urban planning. Built between 1508 and 1511 by the regional governor, Hasan Pasha, it was designed as a "city-within-a-city" for the weary Silk Road traveler. The architecture is a two-story exercise in Ottoman logic: the ground floor was originally intended for the heavy lifting - camels, cargo and the loud, aromatic logistics of medieval trade - while the upper level offered small, vaulted rooms where merchants could sleep, calculate their profits and presumably complain about the price of hay. This vertical division of function shows sophisticated understanding of both security and efficiency - valuables and people upstairs, animals and goods below.

Walking the vaulted corridors of history. 🏰 These upper-level galleries at Suluhan once housed weary Silk Road merchants; today, they're packed with a staggering array of beads and treasures. It's the perfect place to get lost in the geometry of the arches - and maybe find a few souvenirs we definitely don't have room for in Shehzadi! 🚐✨ The repetition of arches creates a hypnotic effect, drawing you deeper into the space while providing structural stability that has survived centuries of use. Each small doorway once led to a merchant's temporary home and office, a modular system that could accommodate different group sizes and merchandise types.

The undeniable architectural centerpiece of the courtyard is the Köşkmescidi (the pavilion mosque). While most caravanserai courtyards are content with a simple fountain, Suluhan, like Bursa's Koza Han, doubles down with an elevated stone masjid perched directly over the central ablution fountain. It is a mosque on stilts - a masterclass in multi-purpose spatial efficiency. Reached by a set of narrow stone stairs, this "island of calm" allows for prayer to occur literally above the noise of the bazaar. This architectural choice speaks volumes about Ottoman values: commerce was important, but faith required separation and elevation, even if only a few feet and a set of stairs.

A bird's-eye view of the "Wedding-Industrial Complex" in full bloom! 💐 From the upper gallery of Suluhan, the courtyard transforms into a colorful mosaic of flower stalls and craft supplies. It's a spectacular vantage point to watch the daily rhythm of Ankara's most industrious bazaar unfold beneath the ancient stone arches. 🚐✨ This perspective reveals the caravanserai's brilliant design - the central open space allows light and air to reach all levels while creating a natural gathering point. The flowers represent a beautiful continuity: where once traders sold spices and silk, now merchants provide the materials for celebrations, continuing the tradition of supplying what society values most.

Today, the 102 rooms that once sheltered silk traders have been repurposed for a different kind of commerce. Suluhan has transitioned from an international trade hub to the undisputed headquarters of Ankara's "Wedding-Industrial Complex." If you need three thousand artificial marigolds, a mountain of turquoise beads, or a decorative birdcage for a bridal shower, Suluhan will not only provide them but will do so with the calm intensity of a place that has seen empires rise and fall while never running out of ribbon. This adaptation is profoundly Turkish - honoring the building's commercial purpose while updating its merchandise for contemporary needs.

The heart of the Han. 🏛️ Standing in the center of Suluhan, the symmetry of the Ottoman arches creates a perfect frame for the bustling market life. It's a rare spot where the ancient Silk Road architecture feels completely alive, serving as the city's vibrant center for artisans and traders just as it did five centuries ago. 🚐✨ The stone pavement underfoot has been worn smooth by generations of footsteps - merchants, travelers, shoppers - all participating in the eternal human dance of exchange. The space works so well because it was designed by people who understood both commerce and community.

In the 16th century, this structure was a statement that faith was the anchor of trade. Today, it remains an architectural island in a sea of shoppers negotiating the price of sequins. It serves as a reminder that while the cargo has changed from spices to wedding favors, the human need for a quiet moment (and a very good cup of tea) remains the one constant in the Anatolian landscape. Suluhan proves that great architecture adapts - it provides what each generation needs while retaining its essential character, becoming not a fossil but a living participant in the city's evolution.

Where This Road Leads Next

After leaving the chaotic charm of Ankara behind, we pointed Shehzadi south on the O-21, another "Otoyol" highway so smooth and modern it felt like we had accidentally slipped into a futuristic simulation of Anatolia. For a while, the drive is a masterclass in "Zen and the Art of Maintaining Cruise Control," as the landscape stretches out in vast, shimmering panes of gold and beige. This modern highway represents Turkey's ambitious infrastructure development, creating transportation corridors that would make Roman engineers nod in approval while probably questioning the lack of mile markers in Latin.

Cappadocia: Survival Made Architectural

Then comes the D-300, the road that officially invites you into the heart of the "Land of Beautiful Horses." As you bank toward Nevşehir, Cappadocia's geology starts to get weird - in the best possible way. The ground begins to buckle and ripple, as if the earth couldn't quite decide whether it wanted to be a mountain range or a giant pile of melted marshmallows. The transition is geological theater, with the landscape becoming increasingly dramatic until you realize you're not just entering a region but crossing into what feels like a different planet with remarkably good road maintenance.

Driving into the Nevşehir area is less like entering a city and more like entering a geological fever dream. You go from standard-issue Turkish asphalt to a world where the houses are carved into the cliffs and the "skyline" consists of stone chimneys that look like they were designed by a very ambitious group of gnomes. We spent half the drive dodging the gaze of ancient cave dwellings and the other half marveling at the fact that Shehzadi, despite her size, fits surprisingly well into a landscape that looks like it was built for a different species. By the time the first fairy chimneys of Cappadocia appeared on the horizon, we realized the road hadn't just taken us across the map; it had taken us into a different geological era entirely - one where "solid ground" is merely a suggestion for a doorway. Cappadocia doesn't reveal itself gradually - it announces its otherworldliness with geological fanfare.

Checking into the stone age, but with better linens. 🛌✨ After the long haul from Ankara, we've traded the asphalt for the ancient tuff of Ennar Cave House in Cappadocia. There is something deeply satisfying about parking Shehzadi beneath a cliff that's been providing shelter for centuries. It's quiet, it's cool and it's the ultimate overlander's retreat. 🚐🇹🇷 The cave hotel represents intelligent adaptation - using what the landscape provides rather than fighting against it, creating comfort through subtraction rather than addition. Waking up in solid rock feels both primal and luxurious.

Staying at Ennar Cave House felt less like novelty and more like continuity. Cave living here is not themed. It is historical common sense. Thick walls regulate temperature naturally. Silence arrives easily. Modern luxury often turns out to be ancient practicality with electricity. The cave rooms maintain a constant temperature year-round - cool in Cappadocia's hot summers, warm in its cold winters - proving that sometimes the oldest solutions are the most sophisticated. It's humbling to realize you're sleeping in architecture that requires zero energy for climate control.

This stretch of Türkiye reinforced a simple truth. History does not move in straight lines. It overlaps, coils and occasionally doubles back. Empires rise, collapse and leave useful infrastructure behind. Roads remain. What appears as a modern highway often follows a Roman road that followed a Hittite path that followed animal migration routes. Each layer adds to rather than replaces what came before, creating a rich archaeological lasagna of human movement.

In the next chapter, we go deeper into our cave hotel and from there into Cappadocia's valleys and underground cities. We ride a balloon and stand beneath the monumental Sultan Han Caravanserai where we witness the controlled mathematics of the Mevlevi Whirling Dervishes, where motion becomes prayer and time politely steps aside. Cappadocia promises geological wonders above ground and human ingenuity below, with hot air balloons connecting the two in the most dramatic morning commute imaginable.

Turkey does not explain itself quickly. It expects effort. But follow its roads long enough and it tells you everything. Sometimes in tea glasses. Sometimes carved into cliffs. Usually with very good timing. The country reveals itself in layers - geological, historical, cultural - each requiring its own pace of understanding. You can't rush Turkey any more than you can rush geology; both operate on timescales that politely ignore human impatience.

Next episode: coming soon.

Keep wandering,

- #VagabondCouple and Shehzadi