I expected to face many trials on this archaeological expedition– scorching heat, demanding physical labor, awkward farmer’s tans—but Turkish bees never crossed my mind. “Bees?” you may ask, “what’s so bad about bees? If you don’t bother them, they won’t bother you.” Well, that piece of conventional wisdom holds true most places, but not for breakfast at the dig site.
When we come to the table at six in the morning to break our fast, our enemy is already there, lying in wait, anticipating the moment a sleep-deprived student foolishly opens the lid of the jam for their bread, or wants the luxury of sugar for their çay (tea), or eats an egg too sluggishly. When the opportunity arises, when someone makes a mistake, they descend like locusts on that section of the table. There are no boundaries that the bees will not cross in order to get their fix.
And these are just your regular, run-of-the-mill wasps. Donkey bees redefine apiphobia. So named because of their long, ear-like appendages, donkey bees are easily three times as large and four times as vicious as the rest of the bees. We all would hope that legions of average-sized bees would take on their huge counterparts in a fight to the death (ideally ending in massive casualties on both sides), but even the regular bees know to fear their gigantic overlords, and the donkey bees do not deign to attack a species so low on the totem pole. Instead, we are left quaking in fear every time we want to dump a spoonful of sugar , or fleeing the war zone with bread and jam in tow, or accepting that defeat is inevitable and thus turning down some of the most delicious foods offered at breakfast. Still, if you survive these thirty minutes of terror, you know you can face anything a day at the acropolis throws at you.
