We landed at Artvin airport late, worn, and somewhere on the drive out our driver simply pulled over. Murtezz Kebap & Pide Sarayı — sarayı, palace — glowing orange against the dark, off a stretch of coast road with nothing much around it. We hadn’t picked it. It had just been decided for us. We were too tired to have an opinion, we just filed out.
Inside, it was warm and full and loud in the best way. We’d barely sat down before the table started filling — dish after dish, more than we knew what to do with, none of it held back. Someone set down little individual cups of ayran, one at each place, before we’d even worked out what it was. My first taste of Turkey, more or less, right there before the food had even arrived — cold, salty, strange at first, then completely right with everything that followed.
It turned out to be the first note of something we’d hear again and again on that trip. Everywhere we went after that first night, it was the same: we were treated like important guests, not just customers passing through. People went out of their way for us — real effort, real warmth, every single time. Turkish food earned every bit of its reputation on that trip, but it was the hospitality behind it that stayed with me just as much.
