You can peel an orange, but you can't peel a blue

The morning on the West coast of Turkey is chilly, but even the November sun has the power to the day up quickly. Doused in Bob Ross's bright autumn palette, the trees and bushes flank the ever green-grey olive trees weighed down by their load of green, red and black specks. The numerous hotels are currently hosting only the owners and their family, some of them carrying out small chores on the terrain. The delivery of the bread truck arriving at the seaside restaurant consist of only two loafs.

What's a male beer called in Israel? A He Brew. The sun is back, the fun is back. Red in the face is the way to go. And I've seen my first dead horse on the side of the road. Another thing that caught my eye are the numerous stray caps, possibly because of this particularly windy patch. But when I have the wind in my back its only a annoying me when I'm standing still.

For a while it looked like it was done with fruit picked on the way, and even the olive trees were not going to be of help, as it turned out that they need to be prepared. I discussed this nuisance with my fellow travellers. One started of hopefully: "My parents make them... but since I avoid spending time with them I don't have an idea." The other one topped this by declaring: "my father told me once... but I didn't listen". My idea to look it up online was frustrated by the lack of internet in the breezy olive orchard where we had set up camp, so we peeled another wild tangerine and looked out over the Aegean Sea.