My interest in Turkey began, oddly enough, on a trek through Wales. While staying in Chepstow, at the First Hurdle Bed and Breakfast, I spent hours chatting with proprietors and world travelers Yvonne and Bob Westwood. Yvonne’s tales and photos of Turkey’s white-clad, whirling dervishes, mosaic-filled mosques and spiraling minarets left me wide-eyed and breathless. Photo books and essays about the Eurasian country further fueled my fascination with this exotic land. Forget Tintern Abbey, Snowdon and Cardigan Bay. I wanted to head home and start planning my own journey to Turkey. Since that fateful stay in Chepstow, I’ve made two trips to Turkey. In spite of its refusal to own up to the Armenian genocide and its periodically feudal attitudes toward women, I remain as enthralled as I was a decade ago on that rainy afternoon in Wales. What initially captivated me were the breathtaking sites. Istanbul’s chaotic Grand Bazaar, Topkapi Palace, Blue Mosque and Hagia Sofia. The eerie, chimney-topped landscape of Cappadocia. The terraced, outdoor mineral pools and chalk white stalactites of Pamukkale. The mountainside Lycian sarcophogi or “rock tombs” and underwater city near Fethiye. The chimera — or flaming earth — of Olympos. Gallipoli. Antalya. Ankara. Amazing places that heretofore I had only encountered in books I now experienced firsthand. Driving …