The girl wore a long flowing skirt, gipsy-style. No bra of course, but a long crocheted vest layered on top of her blouse.
Her male friend’s long hair and beard teamed with worn jeans that flared out from below the knee into a large bell shape.
She gazed through the shop window of the small travel agency, and pointed her index finger at one of the posters.
“Yes, this is it, the Magic Buses. Starting out from Amsterdam, this one takes us across the Bosphorus, then Afghanistan
and on to India.” Contemplating, he blew a few times into his pan flute. “Well, yes. Or we could join our Danish friends,
they are driving the route via Damascus.”
A few weeks later, the duo visited the legendary Pudding Shop. The Turkish owner Karim served tea with plenty of sugar in tulip-shaped glasses and tangerines and green figs fresh from the market. With the grand view of the Blue Mosque and Hagia Sophia as a backdrop, a rock band played as fellow travelers scrutinized the bulletin board looking for notes and messages.
Then came early spring. With Kelim rugs and antique wooden treasures balancing on the roof, the vehicle raced through the untouched nature, stopping occasionally for a refreshing dip in a mountain spring.
Packed in the colorful bus, everyone joined the mustached driver who took the lead when singing. There were not many cars around, but horse carts decorated with little bells and men riding donkeys kicking both their legs. “This is the loveliest place I’ve been to in my entire life.” she said. “The sunshine, the hospitable nomad people, the golden mosque cupolas and the music. It is like a manifestation of love everywhere. I can really see us settling here for a few months before going to India.”