I stand on the curb outside our hotel, hands in my pockets, and watch the traffic. There are a few cars, a few more trucks, and much greasy smoke. One passenger bus rumbles through. Blue letters proclaim its line: Ağrı Dağı. It is the Turkish label for the mountain associated with Noah’s “Ararat.” Stoney faces peer back at me through the passing glass. There is no romance in this modern highway, I decide. I have become the tourist site.