Stepping off the tour-bus, four leathery-faced, rough-hewn men with ear-to-ear grins met us with handfuls of shiny, garnet cherries. "Eat, eat!" they said with proud enthusiasm, pressing as much fruit into our hands as we could hold. After four days of being fed copious amounts of prepared food at every meal, fresh fruit was a delight, and we eagerly bit into the ripe little orbs.
The flood of flavor burst on my tongue: earth, sun and ruby sugar brought tears of pleasure to my eyes. "Oh, my God!" I exclaimed spontaneously, along with a half-dozen of my fellow travelers. These were no grocery-store cherries.
We were standing in Seyfullah Ungan's orchard in Izmir, Turkey, a region famous for its cherries. Tomorrow, the harvest festival would begin, but today, our hosts, skin as brown as the earth we were standing on, beckoned us with gestures and grins deeper into the orchard, pointing to the laden tree limbs full to breaking with the gorgeous red berries. One of the men plucked more cherries and pressed them into my hand, while Ungan ran to cut several small green plums from another tree nearby. "Eat, eat!" he insisted again, biting into a plum to show me how good it was. When I bit into one of the hard little orbs, I had to agree. The flavor was a cross between a kiwi fruit and a pomegranate, tart and sweet, unlike anything I'd ever tasted.
At the end of the day, all 18 of us were presented with five-pound boxes of perfect Turkish cherries, and though I managed to lose mine—bringing on friendly chiding—none of us were at a loss for a snack the rest of the 12-day trip.
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