We were approaching Akdamar. A small boat was crossing the lake and slowly approaching an island. Just 20 minutes of a lovely boat trip through the May blue, wind blow, and sun playing in the waters.
A legend claims a young man used to swim across these 3 km back and forth every night. His beacon was a lantern lit by his beloved Tamar. He swam to her and knew she loved him. One day, the light vanished. Tamar's father didn't just dimmed the light, he broke the hope. The young man was calling her, swimming to her, believing her. Even when he couldn't move anymore, he kept calling her name, "Ah, Tamar..."
The island still bears her name. Everyone who approaches its shores tries to catch a glimpse of light as a proof that miracles still happen.
Here they are, the very 3 km from the shore. The stage of an ancient tragedy, where the turquoise sea is the scaffolding, the emerald meadows at the foot are the backstage, and the snowy Artos is the backdrop worthy of a great drama.
The world is a theatre, and the people are actors, with their entrances and exits, passions, mistakes, hopes.
Sometimes they play with inspiration. More often hastily, out of character, like amateurs. But the sets are ever flawless.
This world may have a limp director, but the production designer is a genius.