The most common greeting of a guest to modern Turkey is not merhaba, “hello.” It is “guest free internet wireless.” In cave-dwelling hotels, smoky bus stations and wasp-ridden cafes, I have been well and truly soaked in a rich brew of free broadband.

This is among the many ways that Turkey is distinctly awesome. They have become all the more evident during my errant journeys down from the shining emerald of the Black Sea coast, into the stony seam of the Valley of the Kings, humbling in its ancient structures and natural awe.

Coasting into town on an early bus, I had a lunch involving sinfully good eggplant infested with nuggets of gummy lamb. It wasn’t so bad, as the main course was the view - a perspective of the town of Amasya and its dominating mountain castle that stretched the horizons and the mind alike.

I made for the Pontic tombs after lunch finally gave up bothering me, stomping through a haze of wasps and construction dust to reach the scenic riverfront of Amasya. The promenade there is as precious and crisp as a tea set, with statues of famous historical and literary figures central to the town - Strabo, Mehmet II, and Ferhat and Sirin.

Those Pontic rulers who drew me here - the Greeks who died in a last defiant stand against Rome’s domination - go unnamed, but not unnoticed. Their mark is the cthonic terror that rears over the valley: The forty-one towers, eight layers of wall and hundreds of feet of sheer basalt slopes that make up the Citadel.

Stomping around the tombs, I saw the remains of the Citadel everywhere. Vestigial clots of worked stone, tilting turrets and inexplicable gates rear up amidst a dusty waste of a mountainside. And most remarkable of all the ruins were the tombs themselves - crafted caverns that look like Kong-sized sarcophagi, built to house the remains of the ferocious sovereigns of Pontus.

The next day was more of the Amasyan same: Tacky food, wall-to-wall charm, crazed wasps, cyclopean structures and long, dusty walks. As ever, liberal quantities of Turkish hospitality abounded - directions were given, fares waived, and the daily event of an enthused Turk delivering a loud and teary-eyed declaration of affection for America.

This time, I made it up to the Citadel itself. It proved a vertiginous maze of soaring stone and deadly drops; amazement lives vivid in the air up there. I was as astounded by the perspective from the mountain as I was by the notion that not only had people built the Citadel on that sharp peak, but someone had managed to storm and demolish it.

At the height of the Citadel, I meditated on all that surrounded me - the fantastic environs, the arduous and wild road behind, and the hard, shining horizon ahead. This was a good moment, all the more savory for the promise of greater moments to come.

First came the challenge of getting down. The guidebook describes it as a “fifteen minute walk to the Citadel,” and it is, if you’re measuring from the public toilets 95% of the way up from the town. I ambled down the trail, mind teeming with visions of my book’s heroes stalking up its dry pine groves, and hit the river in no time. There I rewarded myself with some Turka Cola - suspiciously like RC Cola - and a cab ride to the hotel.

At the hotel, I learned that the buses out of town were all booked the next day - a necessary nine hour trip to the south had just hit a wall. Then I endured a dinner of flat yogurt, warm grease and some of the less charming parts of a lamb. Wasps circled and the tea was poor, but I went to sleep eager for waking. The strangeness and stresses of the next day promised this much:

It would certainly be an adventure.