Obviously, the church at Cape Jason has nothing to do with Jason himself. He lived (if he even existed) way before Jesus (if he even existed), and it’s unclear if he ever came here to this cape, this piece of earth that sticks out into the Black Sea as if the land had grown a tittie. But the church is here anyway, and it serves as a reminder that all of this region once had a slightly different faith.
Today the church doors are closed. Lizards play on its walls. There is some construction work going on behind it, but I don’t know what it is for. Every once in a while a tourist group appears, or a family, and they look around confusedly, take some pictures, and leave. I do the same.
I do find one small window in the church that has been left open, though. I have to stand on my toes to reach it, and when I do, the first thing I notice is an earthy smell coming from inside. It smells like rocks that have been exclusively among themselves for a long time. I see an empty space with some pillars in it. There are no decorations and no religious items anywhere. It seems as though the church has become an empty shell, just like the ones washed ashore by the sea.
All of this doesn’t matter, though. For this cape and this church have long been connected – however arbitrarily – to the name Jason. And so the tourists will keep coming, they will keep walking past the replicated greek columns near the entrance, they will keep reading the signs containing absurdly uninformative information, and they will keep thinking of one name: Jason.
I wonder what that person bearing the name Jason will look like in their minds. Jason Statham? Jason Bourne? Jason Momoa?
When I finally leave at around noon, I know that I’m late. It’s still a long way to Fatsa.