Waking at five in the morning

I don’t set an alarm. I wake around half past five on my own, summer or winter. My body has memorised this hour; when I look at the valley from my window the sky is not yet blue — it is indigo, a shade somewhere between black and violet that has no proper name.

I sit at the edge of the bed for two minutes. Rushing is wrong; something breaks if you rush. Feet on the floor, letting the room come back to me slowly. The stone outside is cold, the room inside is still warm.

Tea, bag, door

In the kitchen I heat water. Rize tea, not in the cup but in a small glass pot. I want it steeped, because there won’t be a second cup out there. Before the tea I rinse my face with cold water; the eyes need that to finish waking.

The bag was packed the night before: body, two lenses, a spare battery, a pack of tissues, tea in a thermos. I don’t want to think about any of this in the morning. The morning is only for walking.

I close the door quietly. Göreme is asleep, most houses still dark. Only the baker is up; the smell of fresh bread drifts down the lane. I have never managed to put that smell into a photograph — but it is there, every morning.

The valley road

Twelve minutes by car. The road is narrow, winding, empty. I keep the radio off; at this hour there should be no news and no music, only quiet. Rabbits cross in the headlights sometimes. Once a fox.

Closer to the valley the sky is no longer indigo but grey-pink. The launch field is still empty. Crews arrive, baskets laid flat on the ground like bears in heavy coats. A quiet commotion — phones, hi-vis vests, crackling radios.

This moment is my favourite. The burners haven’t fired. Nobody is shouting. Only preparation. A man crouches on the ground checking a burner; beside him a woman blows on her tea. This frame doesn’t get photographed; it shouldn’t be. It’s only for standing and looking.

The first flame

Then the first burner lights. That sound — hhhhvvvoom — breaks the balloon’s silence. The orange flame climbs and the canopy lights from the inside, a lantern against the sky.

My client arrives here. A little nervous, up too early. I lead her to a quiet corner; I don’t touch her hair, I don’t fix her dress. I let her adjust to the morning on her own.

For the first ten minutes I say nothing. I only photograph. The real frames come after her body has accepted the cold, the sound, the light. The moment she softens — that’s the one.

The sun

When the sun crests the horizon a blade of light drops into the valley and paints everything. The balloons are already up. My client lets her hair catch the wind. My exposure is locked; now I’m only choosing the moment.

Waking at five — that isn’t the hard part. The hard part is the two minutes at the edge of the bed at half past five, not rushing. If you don’t live those two minutes correctly, the day gives you nothing. I learned this over years.

The drive home is quiet. The sun is high now. The phone begins to buzz. But the morning was mine — that window, alone, before the balloons caught fire.