I had to laugh out loud as my fart broke the silence of the immaculately clean hotel bathroom. Last night my lodging came with access to a squat toilet shared with a dozen other rooms: an inch of foul standing water and of course no TP. The contrast was simply hilarious. I had slept with my clothes on because the sheets were so filthy and bedbugs such a likely concern. Now my king-sized bed came with five or six totally superfluous satin pillows and a box of chocolate-covered almonds perched atop. It was decadence totally beyond my budget, a choice I never would have made. But fate, I was forced to admit, has a great sense of humor.

If events had occurred according to plan, I would have been sleeping in a budget hostel in Aleppo, Syria. Instead I was refused access at the Turkey-Syria border for lack of the proper visa. Distraught, I went back to the main road and resolved to get to Mardin, some 70 kilometers away, where I was told there was an airport, from which I could fly to Jordan. Should have been simple enough.

I hitched a ride to Mardin. Then the litany of misfortunes began. I took a taxi to the airport outside of town only to find it completely closed. Soldiers at the entrance told us there were no more flights that day. I was forced to take a bus to Istanbul airport, which didn't leave until the following day. The taxi to the airport and then a hotel cost an excruciating 75 lira (~$60), and the hotel was completely full. Asking at another place down the street garnered the same result. It was a small city and I couldn't find any other hotels, full or otherwise. I had been traveling all day and was becoming truly exhausted.

I passed a police station and asked an officer standing outside if there were any hotels nearby, in terrible Turkish. He led me inside the station by the arm, and I began to feel very on edge. I've never been comfortable around law enforcement, and I had no idea what Turkish cops were like.

When I entered there were four officers lounging around who immediately flocked around me like curious schoolchildren. One grabbed me in a firm handshake and didn't let go, squeezing my hand occasionally as he introduced me, in broken English, to all the other officers. I had no idea what was going on or what they intended for me. I repeated my simple query, finger circling the air above my head to indicate proximity.

Ignoring me, the one who spoke the most English led me to a small, neat office and had me sit in a chair in front of an officer who, judging from the tiered chart over his desk, was the head honcho. In one corner of the sparsely decorated room was an aquarium containing many small fish and a single turtle. It was poking its head above the water, gulping for air. I knew how he felt.

The chief had headphones on and was unconcerned with me. The other officer sat down and regarded me with amicable but piercing blue eyes. We were served tea and he asked me about my travels. Then he asked for my passport. My heart sank. The friendly character of his voice changed when he saw my entry and exit stamps from when I traveled to Cizre, a Kurdish town close to the Iraq border.

Kurds have been petitioning for a sovereign state which includes part of southeastern Turkey for decades. The PKK is a Kurdish militia that, for Turks, is like al-Qaeda for Americans. Of course he wanted to know what the hell I was doing in Kurdistan, far from the typical tourist track.

I tried to explain that I wanted to learn, to study various cultures.

"Do you know PKK?"
"Yes," I responded carefully, "I know PKK."
"Did you see any PKK?"
"I don't know. I saw peshmerga [Kurdistan's legitimate military], but I don't know if I saw PKK."
"Do you mind if I photocopy this?"
Asking my permission was merely a polite gesture. "Of course not."

He left me to my tea and the silent chief. The turtle, still gasping for air, was pretty tough but that didn't change the fact that he was only amphibious.

"Well, if they lock me up at least I'll have a place to stay tonight," I thought.

The cop returned after an interminable moment, returned my passport and said, "Okay, we will help you."

I was escorted into a van, lights flashing, where two officers drove me some distance outside of town and up a steep hill to the nicest hotel I'd seen in Turkey: "Yay Grand Otel."

I have no idea what meaning "Yay" has for a Turkish speaker but I know what it meant for me at that moment.

Everyone in the massive marble lobby stopped what they were doing to stare at me as my heavily armed escort led me to reception, where I was given a 20-lira discount on a luxury suite. Kisses on the cheeks from both cops, dinner delivered to my room, and a private jacuzzi.

The complimentary breakfast in the morning was one of the finer meals I've enjoyed in my life. Stuffing what fruits and bread I could into my bag, I headed out into the desert sun, waving away the taxis ready to take me into town, walking down the highway with my thumb out.

"It's best to live simply," I thought, "but sometimes you just can't help but live a little."