Let’s talk about Antiochia Ad Cragum
It’s a pointy, craggy, stabby, dusty, hot, humid, dry, wondrous city waiting to be explored.
Due to its situation of being in Turkey, it was wholly ignored during the waves of Ancient Greek excavations carried out by the grand European powers during the last century, and hence, excavating Antiochia is much like walking one field over from a depleted gold mine, kicking up some dirt, and finding the soil gleaming with riches that generations of miners had not bothered to check for.
Of course there were some very good reasons this field was unsurveyed for so long, as I’m fairly certain that if you took this land of Rough Cilicia and evenly distributed all of its murderous creatures and plants across the globe, you would be greeted with thorny impalement upon every other step in all the lands from Alaska to Antarctica as well as a substantially increased chance of casually incurred death by poison in any quarters within which you would choose to dwell.
And for the several hours spent on site every day, it’s impossible to ignore the horrid paradox of arid landscape and humid air created by the mountains to the east that funnel the moisture of clouds into the air while keeping all water off of the parched landscape.
(For those playing along at home, my nose has had no idea what to do with this environment and has been bouncing between threats of nosebleed and mucusless contentment since arrival.)
And yet, for all that this place ought rightfully be an uninhabitable wasteland, people will always make due. Its inhabitants are jolly and good of nature, crops of banana trees thrive, and greenhouses filled with plants that can’t quite handle the climate dot the landscape. Five times each day, the call to prayer echoes across Cilicia’s slopes, reminding all, Islamically learned or no, that they’re part of a greater community striving through each and every day. The music is lively to say the least, and the food served would border on excess were it not for the sheer replenishment needed by the end of each day. And always within walking distance is the Mediterranean, which calms and soothes with its sheer dignitas as it enters one’s line of sight.
And that’s what really defines this murderous wasteland that for a month is our home: it may be a bit rough around the edges, and through the middle, and down to its core, really, but it’s no less one more sparkling tessera upon this mosaic built up by every bit of humanity to ever infringe upon the Mediterranean, a mosaic so much greater than the sum of its parts, but which would be nothing if not for every little Antiochia that makes it something a little bit more.