The last chapter of the Turkey itinerary is reserved for two landscapes with distinctly different spirits—one is a masterpiece of nature, the other a magnificent relic of ancient civilization.
First, we visited Pamukkale.
The name is beautiful, like something out of a fairy tale. Viewed from above, a gleaming white "waterfall" cascades down from the mountaintop, but what flows is not water, but solidified stone. The entire hillside is covered with white travertine terraces, layered and spreading out like frozen clouds or heaps of cotton piled along the mountainside.
Taking off my shoes, I stepped barefoot onto it. Surprisingly, it felt hard underfoot—the seemingly soft white terraces are actually solid travertine limestone deposits. The water is shallow, just covering the ankles, cool to the touch. Walking down the slope, pools of milky water wind downward; the larger ones resemble shallow ponds, the medium ones like bathtubs, and the smaller ones like teacups, their edges naturally curved like blooming white flowers.
The pool water is pale blue—probably the color created by travertine deposits blending with the sky’s light, glowing softly under the gentle sunlight. Strangely, after a few steps, the second and fourth pools are warm. Some people sit by the pools with their legs immersed, and some young people are fully submerged. The guide just mentioned that Cleopatra once visited here, bathing in these special therapeutic hot springs.
The beauty of Pamukkale is one that calms the heart. It is silent and serene, pure white and clear, slowly spreading under the sun.
From Pamukkale to Ephesus, from nature to history, it feels like turning a page and entering a new chapter.
Ephesus is a city that has slept for over a thousand years.
In the Bible, Ephesus was the longest missionary stronghold of Paul.
Strolling along Ephesus’s marble road, every step treads on the pulse of the Roman Empire. The ancient buildings along the way cast faint shadows in the soft sunlight, the stone surfaces warm, dust lightly swirling.
First, we arrived at the theater that could hold 25,000 people. Carved into the hillside, the semicircular stone steps rise layer upon layer, resembling a giant fan slowly unfolding. Standing at the center of the stage, your voice carries clearly to the highest seats—acoustic design from two thousand years ago, still precise today.
Sitting on the stone steps of the theater, sunlight slanting in, I heard that Apostle Paul once preached here, facing 25,000 Ephesians, sharing a foreign faith. The sound waves then must have been firmer, stronger, and more penetrating than my shout now. Suddenly, I understood that this empty theater itself is a wordless aria—the stone steps are the notes, the wind the lingering echo.
Passing through the arch of Hadrian’s Temple, past the ancient public toilet’s stone seats, through the once bustling marketplace, and the “red-light district” of that time... The most stunning is the Library of Celsus. Its two-story facade stands intact, with stone columns, floral decorations, and statue niches exquisitely preserved, unlike a ruin abandoned for a thousand years. It was the third largest library of the Roman Empire, housing over ten thousand scrolls. Standing before it, it’s hard to believe this city has been deserted for a millennium—as if at any moment, someone might push open the door, a scroll of parchment tucked under their arm.
Pamukkale and Ephesus—one white, one ochre; one a natural wonder, the other a human masterpiece; one soft as a dream, the other hard as iron. But they share one thing: both were forgotten by time and then rediscovered.
The waters of Pamukkale have flowed for ten thousand years and still flow. The marble roads of Ephesus have been walked on for two thousand years and still stand.
Under the blue sky, with cloud steps and stone pillars, Turkey has gifted its two most beautiful treasures for the final chapter of the journey. And I will keep this millennia-old romance and profound weight close to my heart.
—The End