I am lying motionless in the Mevlana theme room of the Villa Aşina Hotel, a few kilometers outside the Turkish village of Datça. The air conditioner above the bed blows mercifully over the sizzling surface of my skin, already baked a rosy red in less than a day and a half.
The first day on the beach here I slathered myself with 35 SPF sunscreen, thinking that would keep me safe. Instead, you would have thought that I had smeared my body with cocoa butter and fallen asleep in the tanning bed. The next day I bumped the SPF up to 50. Surely SPF 50 (50!) would protect the pastiest of pasty white skin.
This might be true, most places on Earth. But not, apparently, here on the surface of the planet Mercury.
By mid afternoon of Day Two I have retreated from the beach back to the air-conditioned shelter of my mauve-colored theme room. I lie on the bed in a semi-delirious state with heat radiating off my back. I don't want to move, despite the waffle pattern being imprinted into the side of my beet-red face by the itchy textured bedspread.
My mind wanders. With my head turned sideways, I stare at a framed inscription on the wall of my room, labeled "The Seven Advice of the Mevlana."
Advice Number 1:
In generosity and helping others,
be like a river.
Okay, be like a river. Got it.
Advice Number 2:
In compassion and grace, be like sun.
Ugh. Please don't mention the sun.
I continue down the list as the air conditioner hums on the wall behind me. At last, I reach the final advice:
"Either exist as you are, or be as you look."
In my delirium, this otherwise nonsensical wisdom becomes clear to me. Yes, I see now. With my beet-red back and my waffle-coned face, I am not a pretty sight. Yet I exist as I am, not as I look. For I am not a pasty white-skinned American tourist trapped in his air conditioned hotel room on the coast of Turkey. Oh no.
I will rise above the adversity of my affliction.
I am a super hero.
I am Sunstroke Boy.
* * *
Datça is a village of about 14,000 in southwest Turkey, located on a narrow peninsula that features the Mediterranean Sea on one side, and the Aegean on the other. A perfect spot for people who want to stare at a different beautiful and idyllic body of water on alternate days of the week.
Of course there are tourists in Datça, mostly Turks from other parts of the country, with a few Americans, Brits and other Europeans sprinkled in. But unless you are arriving by yacht (unfortunately not my personal mode of transportation), Datça is not particularly easy to get to.
The village is a three-hour drive along a twisty mountain road from the nearest airport in Dalaman, Turkey. So if you want to spend a few days on a secluded rocky cove with crystal clear water overlooking a Greek island in the distance -- you know, if you're a freak that's into that sort of thing -- then you have to work for it a little bit.
Truly, I can't say enough about the water. The sea is unbelievably clear, cool, and beautiful. Upon sight of the coast it takes a certain amount of restraint not to immediately tear off your clothes and run naked into the sea. In fact I'm sure this would happen more often than it does, if there wasn't the surprisingly unpleasant matter of the sun.
My God, the sun.
Yes, it is the middle of summer and I realize that it is supposed to be hot. But not this hot. The locals say it has never been so hot. In addition to no clouds and a scorching sun, for three days a steady wind has been blowing in from the south, coming right off of the desert on the Arabian Peninsula.
In most parts of the planet, a summer breeze makes things cooler. But here, for the moment at least, the opposite is true. Instead, the wind is blazing, like a giant hand-held blow dryer with the switch set to "frizz."
With this heat lamp/hair dryer combo, the midday temperature each day has been coming in right around 40 degrees. Yes, this sounds like a typical summer day in San Francisco, until you realize that we're talking about 40 degrees Celsius. That's 104 to you and me, my American friends, and I don't care where you live: 104 is frickin' hot.
But from my balcony at the Villa Aşina I can see the turquoise water of the Mediterranean, with the Greek island of Symi in the distance. Of course I'm going to the beach. I have a hat. I have sunscreen.
Hell, upon arrival my skin is probably white enough to reflect the sun all together, like one of those heat visors you fold across the dashboard of your car. I'll be fine.
The first day it's not even 10:30 in the morning before I retreat back into the shade for the rest of the day. Day Two is even more abbreviated than that.
It's not until an alter ego is invented in my Fortress of Solitude (otherwise known as the Mevlana Room) that I am prepared to challenge the sun again on Day Three.
* * *
Sunstroke Boy emerges from his air-conditioned sanctuary on the third day prepared to save the world, or, at the very least, get to the beach after breakfast. To accomplish this feat, he is wearing his Cloak of Invincibility, which might be mistaken for a stretched-out and faded T-shirt, bought years ago on sale at The Gap.
Protected by the cloak (along with a straw hat from Hawaii and a pair of Turkish sunglasses found in the back-seat pouch on the flight in from Istanbul), Sunstroke Boy strides out into hot wind and early morning sun. Distracted by the view of the sea in the distance, Sunstroke Boy promptly walks into a poolside chaise lounge, bashing his shin into its heavy wooden frame.
Apparently the cloak of invincibility may work against sunburn, but is no protection against painful klutz-related injuries.
His shin is now bleeding, inches below another cut apparently inflicted the day before. Sunstroke Boy can't remember where the previous injury came from. He briefly considers wearing shin guards, or at the very least compiling a bruise journal.
Undeterred, Sunstroke Boy leaves the hotel area and strides down the concrete stairs leading to the stony cove below. A cheap snorkel and scuba mask had been purchased the previous day. He walks over the hot stones on the beach into the water, wearing the mask, snorkel, and Cloak of Invincibility.
If you added a pair of Water Wings or a Dora the Explorer life preserver, Sunstroke Boy would look exactly like an overly protected 3-year-old, standing in a backyard wading pool.
But Sunstroke Boy can not be defeated by mere shame and ridicule. Wearing the cloak into the water he snorkles away from the cove along the coast, between the rocks, and through the amazing crystal clear water.
Sunstroke Boy paddles his way toward two large off-shore rocks, apparently split in two a millenium ago. He swims through the three-foot space between the rocks, watching a large school of sardines. The water is so clear Sunstroke Boy can see straight to the sea bottom, a good 50 feet below.
Sunstroke Boy climbs up on the rock, finds a perch a few feet off the water, takes off the mask and snorkel, and dives in. He climbs back up, ventures to a spot a few feet higher, and dives off again.
On the third climb up on the volcanic rock, Sunstroke Boy sees blood running from a gash in his left knee, to match the pair of cuts on the shin. Another 3-inch cut runs horizontally along the back of his right calf as well.
No one explained to Sunstroke Boy that coral and volcanic rock tend to be sharp. Caution and common sense are not among his super powers.
Emerging from the water on his return to the beach cove, a Turkish family sitting nearby looks up and stares at the legs of Sunstroke Boy.
Perhaps they are wondering if our super hero just swam through some barbed wire.
* * *
As you might suspect, Sunstroke Boy is not the most successful of super heroes. He tends to curtail his activities in the summer, unless shrouded in the fog of northern California. Cries of "Help! Save me, Sunstroke Boy!" too often are answered with a response of "Listen, I'll get back to you around eight thirty when the sun goes down. Until then, I'll be sipping a cool beverage and fighting evil over here in the shade."
Understandably, this has led many of those in distress -- or those just looking for someone to hang out at the beach with -- to turn to other super heroes with a little more crime-fighting flexibility, and better tans.
Sunstroke Boy doesn't take it personally. He still gets around, albeit on a limited basis during the middle of July.
But he knows his limitations. If you need someone to help you drink a frosty beer in the shade on the veranda, he's your man. For the Fourth of July barbecue or the all-day inner tube float down the Guadalupe, it's probably best to call somebody else.
* * *
Delirium returns later that evening in the air conditioned sanctuary of the Mevlana Room. From my standard, face-down position on the waffle-iron bedspread, I turn my head sideways and stare at the photos of the famed Whirling Dervishes of the Mevlana Lodge that decorate the wall.
Again my mind wanders. I contemplate how the dervishes can twirl like that for a full hour during their Sama ceremony without getting dizzy.
Or, more importantly, without throwing up.
I wonder if dervishes can take themselves out of the evening's Sama line up, like a baseball player with an unexpected pre-game groin pull.
"Sorry, my brothers, but I can not whirl today. I was weak, and just succumbed to the MacDonald's strawberry shake/sausage biscuit combo."
I assume a weak stomach would be a major drawback for aspiring mevlana. Surely a propensity to vomit would at the very least bump you down to the minor league of dervishes. A spirited but much less awe-inspiring demonstration of faith.
The Hurling Dervishes.
The sun has baked my brain past delirium, straight into blasphemy.
I roll over, look down at the cuts and bruises on my legs and feet, and contemplate tomorrow's climb on another rock.
Fear not, Sunstroke Boy, for you are not alone. Tomorrow, you snorkel through coral, step over sea urchins, and jump off of sharp volcanic rocks as one with yet another alter ego.
Again, I will exist as I am, but not as I look.
Once again I will rise above the adversity of my affliction.
I am yet another super hero.
I am Sunstroke Boy. As well as Hemophiliac Man.
* * *
I walk out to the pool side of the Villa Aşina late on the afternoon of Day Four. Mercifully, the scalding sun has disappeared behind the back of the hotel for the day, leaving the chaise recliners in the safety of the shade.
There is no bar at the Villa Aşina. But I have learned that if you ask, they will make any drink you want, and bring it out to you on a little silver tray. After settling into the chaise lounge, I signal to one of the Turkish college kids working around the pool side.
Can you make me a gin and tonic? I ask in Turkish. Yes, he can.
With ice, I specify. Buzlu. Çok buzlu. Lots of ice.
There might be something better in life than sipping a gin and tonic after a long day in the sun, while you lie on a chaise lounge in the shade poolside on a cliff overlooking the Mediterranean. But at this particular moment, I could not possibly tell you what it could be.
I take another sip, and say a silent prayer for limes, tonic water, Mr. Gordon's distillery, and the invention of the ice cube.
My skin is still red, and cuts and bruises cover my legs. But I'm no longer feeling any pain. Maybe time does heal all wounds. But a gin and tonic with ice does a pretty good job of that, too.
Yes, I think I'll have another, and not move until dinner.
Sunstroke Boy can always save the world tomorrow, sometime after breakfast.
I should have known something was up at the Lufthansa gate at DFW Airport when they mentioned the word "family."
"You wouldn't mind switching seats, would you?" the suspiciously cheerful gate agent asks as I'm about to board my flight back to Istanbul by way of Frankfurt. "We're trying to seat a family together."
Both my original seat and the one being offered were on the aisle, so why would I possibly care? And yet ...
Even while my lips are saying "Sure, no problem," a silent alarm has begun to ring somewhere in the back of my brain. Families, families ... Families often involve children don't they?
I simply wasn't quick enough to ask, "Now, there won't be any screaming babies in this section, will there?" Not that she would have told me. But at least later I could have taken comfort in the fact that I had done everything in my power to save myself.
* * *
Before anyone starts in on me, let me just say right off that I like children. Really. I know this may be hard to believe, coming from someone who has neither kids nor a desire to acquire any in this particular lifetime.
But truly, I am not "anti-child." I am, however, pretty staunchly "anti-child screaming on an airplane." Particularly so, if I'm anywhere on that airplane. And feverently so, if I'm trapped on that airplane for a 10-plus hour intercontintental flight.
Whenever this happens I can't help but feel that some kind of human rights violation is taking place. No, not the human rights of the child; the human rights of me. If there isn't some kind of international law in place covering this, there ought to be.
If you fly with any frequency at all you know exactly what I'm talking about. Don't act like it doesn't bother you, as everyone tries to do as the three-year-old bangs on the tray table behind them, or the three-month-old wails across seven contiguous time zones.
You can smile tolerantly and deliver a disingenuous "oh, he's fine," to the parent if you want. But I know you hate it as much as I do. It couldn't be more irritating if a mime in a Ronald McDonald costume blowing an air horn walked up and down the aisle and passed out religious pamphlets.
See, that we would complain about. But when a baby three feet away screams for eight hours, the typical response is look away, reach for the in-flight magazine, and spend the next several hours fighting the urge to go hang oneself.
No more, I say. I think we've suffered enough.
* * *
I spot the trouble in Row 25 of Lufthansa Flight 439 as soon as I board the plane. In the middle of the row sits a frazzled looking young woman and three (count 'em, three!) little girls, all I'm guessing to be under the age of 5. The youngest might be 2. Coloring books have already been distributed and are currently in use.
Mom is positioned on the aisle closest to where I'll be sitting, with the three girls on her left. Dad sits across the aisle on the far end of the row. He occasionally looks up from the book he's already pretending to read, waving to the wife and kids across the aisle like he's on the other side of the plexiglas at the San Diego Zoo.
I can already tell that for the duration of the trip mom is pretty much on her own.
Distracted by this potential trouble, I initially fail to notice a second two-year-old seated on another mom's lap three rows back. She's already in her jammies, I'll find out later. This was apparent wishful thinking on her mom's part that jammies would be needed for when the child goes to sleep.
But sleep is not on the agenda for Jammy Girl -- nor in anyone in the vicinity -- on this particular flight to Germany.
Meanwhile, the two-year-old in my row already has squirmed out her seat and under her mother's legs before the plane even leaves the gate. The polite German flight attendants gently insist that the child be belted in somewhere before the plane takes off. When Mom tries to corral the little girl and hold her on her lap, the first screaming of the evening begins.
As instructed in the safety video, I turn around in my seat to look for the closest emergency exit. But it's too late.
The girl three feet away continues to squirm and scream as the plane lifts off. I look at my watch. Only nine hours and fifty eight minutes left to go.
* * *
No, of course it's not the kids' fault. I know toddlers cry because they are stuck in a boring and restrictive environment and told they can't move until they reach the next available continent. Who wouldn't be cranky?
And the babies? We're told babies cry because they are tired and/or hungry, but I suspect they just scream because they know they can get away with it. I'm not a certified child-care expert, so please don't quote me.
Listen, I completely understand; half the time I'm on a plane I feel like screaming, too. And that's before I find out that the only in-flight movie features Adam Sandler in drag playing his own twin sister.
But where are all these children going, exactly? I can understand a Disney-bound plane to Orlando, but Dallas to Frankfurt? Is there a giant Weiner World amusment park somewhere in Germany I'm not aware of? Are they all off to an important meeting of 3-year-old investors at the headquarters of Deutsche Bank?
I want to grab the parents by the shoulders and demand answers: Why in God's name are you transporting three children under the age of five from Texas to Germany? Why are you doing this to them?
More importantly, why are you doing this to us?
* * *
An hour and a half into the flight, the area around Row 25 already looks like a dysfunctional day care center on the verge of being closed down by the state. Broken crayons and the crumbs of half-eaten cookies are crushed into the carpet. Discarded blankets, pillows, a sippy cup, and miscellaneous toys have been kicked under the seats and into the aisle.
The two-year-old in Row 25 has been emitting blood-curdling wails on about 20-minute intervals. Mom has interpreted each of these screams as a desire for food. If she's right, all I can say is this is one hungry two-year-old.
Of course it's a liquid diet at Mom's Cafe, and there's only one beverage on the menu. In order to breast-feed the child as modestly as possible, mom for about the fourth time now drapes herself with a tent-like contraption, and then, lovingly, shoves the child's head underneath.
Dinner!
This doesn't exactly end the screams, but it does seem to muffle them for a few minutes.
There seems to be a lot of kicking and thrashing around during feeding time, but for obvious reasons I don't want to watch too closely what's happening under the Big Top. At the far end of the aisle Dad continues to pretend to read his book, oblivious to the elaborate tent-feeding ritual going on nearby.
Meanwhile, the pajama-clad two-year-old from three rows back has developed a wanderlust that her mother shows no interest in discouraging. She seems particularly fascinated by what's going on behind the curtain leading to business class (hey, who isn't?), along with the drink selections of every passenger seated on the aisle within toddling radius.
When I'm not looking, the little girl wanders by and decides for reasons only she could tell you to reach up and tug on the cocktail napkin at the edge of my tray. I look up just in time to grab my moving glass and prevent Jammy Baby from dumping a gin and tonic on her head.
Lucky for her I had opted for booze and passed on another cup of scalding-hot coffee.
If mom three rows back notices any of this, she's content not to say anything. At least she's not screaming, I'm sure mom is thinking. Apparently for this reason alone she thinks it's best that children be allowed to roam without constraint, like free-range chicken.
True enough, the child is not currently screaming. That, of course, is being saved for the upcoming non-existent bedtime.
* * *
The stereophonic screams of the two-year-olds start somewhere over Nova Scotia and continue all the way to continental Europe. As sleep has become an unobtainable fantasy, I have plenty of time to stare at the back of my seat and contemplate the issue currently confronting me.
I realize there are many inconveniences, irritations, and indignities of life that you just have to deal with when you venture out into public. People answering their cell phones in movie theaters, schizophrenic panhandlers, gaseous seatmates on crowded subway cars ... Yes, given the time there's a long list of things I can sit here and bitch about regarding our interaction with the rest of humanity.
But unlike most of these things, I have a solution to this particular problem. I'm not saying I can get the financial backing, or if the idea would withstand a constitutional challenge. But hear me out before you pass judgment.
What the world clearly needs -- more than peace, economic stability, or a cure for the canker sore -- is an adults-only airline. As a working concept, let's call it Air Sanity.
Okay, to fly our airline you don't have to be an actual voting-age adult; it's not like we're inducting people into the army or distributing porn. We can set the age at, say, 14. But anyone under that age is not allowed on board, accompanied or not. If you are a parent and you absolutely, positively must travel with the kids, you can fly any airline on the planet, except this one. Sorry.
The only people screaming on our flights will be drunks and those with above-average personality disorders.
Everything else about our airline is exactly the same as any other: Same crappy food, bad movies, and surly flight attendants. Our seats are still jammed together to challenge your pain threshold, and all departure times are approximate.
But there are no blood-curdling screams. No running in the aisles. No kicking on the backs of chairs for six continuous hours.
No kids.
Is this practice discriminatory? Absolutely. Would it eliminate a large segment of the consumer market? I'm sure that it would.
But Air Sanity would get my money over the Screaming Baby Express for every single booking. I haven't done the marketing research, but I personally would pay a premium for the ticket, and I'm pretty sure I am not alone.
I'm telling you, there is money to be made here. If you are a billionaire looking to invest, call me.
* * *
I've always wondered why it is that when a two-year-old cries out, it comes with such intensity that the immediate reaction of anyone within a 50-foot radius is that a murder is currently in progress. It's not a cry that says "You know what? I'm hungry and/or tired, and this has made me somewhat irritable." To me, crying always sounds more like "Help me! I'm being dropped off at the Manson Family Day Care Center!"
Yes, these are the sounds that accompany me, in stereo, all the way to Germany.
Maybe 10 minutes before the plane lands, both screaming two-year-olds finally fall asleep. When the wheels touch down in Frankfurt, I am exhausted and disoriented, like a sleep-deprived guinea pig in an undergrad psych experiment.
Where am I, again? The flight attendant on the intercom is saying something about a flughafen. In my semi-delirious state I deduce that either I've arrived at an airport in Germany or I've suffered some kind of a stroke.
As the plane taxis to the gate I look around my seat, trying to remember where I put that ... you know, that thing that I have to give to the, um, guy in order to get on another plane to go to that ... that place where I need to go. Boarding Pass! Yes, I need my connecting flight boarding pass. Where the hell is it? Come to think of it, where are my shoes? I'll probably need those, too ...
I look again at my watch. The connecting flight to Istanbul will not leave for another four and half hours. My kingdom for an airport nap room.
Meanwhile the father of the family in Row 25 is now standing across the aisle, tucking in his shirtails and hoisting up his pants after an apparent good night's sleep. Mom is folding up the feeding tent, and helping the girls shove the coloring books and belongings into their Little Princess backpacks. Dad puts his hand on his hips and smiles proudly as he looks down at his family. Then he looks up and makes a general announcement.
"I hope you were able to tune us out last night!" he says cheerfully to no one in particular. It seems intended as an excuse, an apology, and a plea for forgiveness all rolled into one. Given that the guy did nothing to help his wife and slept through the whole thing regardless, I'm not about to say anything to alleviate his guilt.
Dad's announcement at first is greeted by complete silence. Finally an elderly woman who had been sitting one row up clears her throat.
"Oh, well ... we have grandchildren," she says.
I'm not exactly sure what that means, and no further explanation is offered. But that's the best response Dad's going to get from this particular group of air travelers.
"We have grandchildren." In other words: Yes, we understand how this works; over the course of 10 hours babies and small children confined in a small area tend to scream. But no, you moron, we were not able to tune it out. And no, we're not particularly happy about it.
I don't think any further market research is really necessary. I leave the plane disoriented, but content in the knowledge that Air Sanity customer list continues to grow.
Advice Number 1:
Datça is a village of about 14,000 in southwest Turkey, located on a narrow peninsula that features the Mediterranean Sea on one side, and the Aegean on the other. A perfect spot for people who want to stare at a different beautiful and idyllic body of water on alternate days of the week.
I wonder if dervishes can take themselves out of the evening's Sama line up, like a baseball player with an unexpected pre-game groin pull. 
