ISTANBUL 01/11/2012
I hate arriving to unknown cities at night. You cannot get your bearings properly and faces that during the day seem harmless, at night appear menacing. Happily, Ataturk airport is one of the most user-friendly air`ports which I have passed through. After having paid $40 for a turkish visa and safe in the thought that my rucksack was hopefully being put onto the wider bodied plane bound for Delhi, I sauntered through turkish immigration to make the most of a 20 hour stopover in Istanbul. Rows of waitng taxis and a 30 minute drive to my hotel in Sultanahamet, an old fashioned neighbourhood, dead centre of the city and at spitting distance from the Bosphorus. The small pension was modest but clean, with the shower just outside. Showered, I crawled into the double bed and slept fitfully until being awakened by the 7,30 morning prayers projected from the nearby mosque over its PA system. You can tell its a PA by the faint(sometimes not so faint) cackle before and after.As I had settled my bill with Nadir, the hostel owner I made my way into the sunshine and searched for an acceptable cafe for a succulent Turkish breakfast. It consisted of an omelette, several slices of ham, olives, cheese, fruit juice, gently grilled pains with butter and an assortment of jams, washed down with an excellant pot of coffee. All for 10 lira(about 4,50 euros). The rest of the morning was spent just strolling, trying to get the feel of the place by myself whilst avoiding the incessant carpet and excursion vendors. When the sun had reached the point where no shade for the walker was to be found I hopped onto a doubledecked, opentopped tourist bus which for 17euros would propel me around part of the city, taking in the sights and giving my feet a rest.Except for an elderly couple at the very front and a scrawny girl at the very back seat, the top deck was empty. Rather pleased at this dicovery I took a seat on the starboard side towards the middle back. From unseen speakers, the tour guide was warbling on in turkish and english the secrets and marvels of this ancient city whilst I just looked out and wondered if I would still remember delhi and whether it would have changed much. Ten minutes into the ride and scrawny girl came and sat next to me. Then without preambles." For verry littel monet I can faak ju", she announced. It was stilted, but understandable and direct. Did she expect me to curtail my excursion, or did she pretend to do it there ! I can still not contend myself with a simple "no thankyou", I always have to add something that can, in certain circumstances, actually complicate matters. So I released the clutch on my mouth, without having beforehand put my brain into gear and replied " thats awfully kind of you , but I already got fucked last night by the taxi driver for rather a lot of money". She gave me an understanding smile, gently squeezed my forearm and said "sorry. I not know". She moved off, obviously not understanding what I had meant and left me for the rest of the journey. The tour having finished and still getting over this brief encounter accompanied by a mal entendre all made me feel rather peckish. I found a quaint little table up a quiet, shaded alley, where I made the waiter`s day by just plonking myself on a chair without his opening his mouth and promply asked for a beer and the menu.
An hour later and I have consumed an excellant Beyti Sharma( and more beers) and decided that I have had enogh of the Ottoman capital and grab a taxi back to Ataturk airport. On arriving at Ataturk departures, the first thing I notice is that no sooner you enter through the sliding doors there is a scanned luggage check. No bars or lounges. This is strictly travellers only. Once you get past the one-way sliding doors you cannot get back out to get your last cigarette in(unless someone is coming in and you quickly slip out). As usual my steel toe capped boots cause more delay, but I would nt travel through india without them and Im fully prepared to undergo the inconvenience of taking them off to pass the metal detector. From then on it's the usual routine. Get your dutyfrees, try not to get too shitfaced and get the right plane at the right time. Trip uneventful and with a very acceptable flight meal, accompanied by an equally acceptable Shiraz; but served on such a small tray that only a practised gynaecologist could have eaten off without spilling anything.After several vodka/orange(complimentary) I watch George Clooney and Nicole Kidman save the world while I cruised over the Caspian sea. Touchdown seven and a half hours later, on time at 05,15 at Indira Ghandi international airport. Wll down turkish airlines who have been voted europes best airline and certainly the best I have travelled with in a long time.
I hate arriving to unknown cities at night. You cannot get your bearings properly and faces that during the day seem harmless, at night appear menacing. Happily, Ataturk airport is one of the most user-friendly air`ports which I have passed through. After having paid $40 for a turkish visa and safe in the thought that my rucksack was hopefully being put onto the wider bodied plane bound for Delhi, I sauntered through turkish immigration to make the most of a 20 hour stopover in Istanbul. Rows of waitng taxis and a 30 minute drive to my hotel in Sultanahamet, an old fashioned neighbourhood, dead centre of the city and at spitting distance from the Bosphorus. The small pension was modest but clean, with the shower just outside. Showered, I crawled into the double bed and slept fitfully until being awakened by the 7,30 morning prayers projected from the nearby mosque over its PA system. You can tell its a PA by the faint(sometimes not so faint) cackle before and after.As I had settled my bill with Nadir, the hostel owner I made my way into the sunshine and searched for an acceptable cafe for a succulent Turkish breakfast. It consisted of an omelette, several slices of ham, olives, cheese, fruit juice, gently grilled pains with butter and an assortment of jams, washed down with an excellant pot of coffee. All for 10 lira(about 4,50 euros). The rest of the morning was spent just strolling, trying to get the feel of the place by myself whilst avoiding the incessant carpet and excursion vendors. When the sun had reached the point where no shade for the walker was to be found I hopped onto a doubledecked, opentopped tourist bus which for 17euros would propel me around part of the city, taking in the sights and giving my feet a rest.Except for an elderly couple at the very front and a scrawny girl at the very back seat, the top deck was empty. Rather pleased at this dicovery I took a seat on the starboard side towards the middle back. From unseen speakers, the tour guide was warbling on in turkish and english the secrets and marvels of this ancient city whilst I just looked out and wondered if I would still remember delhi and whether it would have changed much. Ten minutes into the ride and scrawny girl came and sat next to me. Then without preambles." For verry littel monet I can faak ju", she announced. It was stilted, but understandable and direct. Did she expect me to curtail my excursion, or did she pretend to do it there ! I can still not contend myself with a simple "no thankyou", I always have to add something that can, in certain circumstances, actually complicate matters. So I released the clutch on my mouth, without having beforehand put my brain into gear and replied " thats awfully kind of you , but I already got fucked last night by the taxi driver for rather a lot of money". She gave me an understanding smile, gently squeezed my forearm and said "sorry. I not know". She moved off, obviously not understanding what I had meant and left me for the rest of the journey. The tour having finished and still getting over this brief encounter accompanied by a mal entendre all made me feel rather peckish. I found a quaint little table up a quiet, shaded alley, where I made the waiter`s day by just plonking myself on a chair without his opening his mouth and promply asked for a beer and the menu.
An hour later and I have consumed an excellant Beyti Sharma( and more beers) and decided that I have had enogh of the Ottoman capital and grab a taxi back to Ataturk airport. On arriving at Ataturk departures, the first thing I notice is that no sooner you enter through the sliding doors there is a scanned luggage check. No bars or lounges. This is strictly travellers only. Once you get past the one-way sliding doors you cannot get back out to get your last cigarette in(unless someone is coming in and you quickly slip out). As usual my steel toe capped boots cause more delay, but I would nt travel through india without them and Im fully prepared to undergo the inconvenience of taking them off to pass the metal detector. From then on it's the usual routine. Get your dutyfrees, try not to get too shitfaced and get the right plane at the right time. Trip uneventful and with a very acceptable flight meal, accompanied by an equally acceptable Shiraz; but served on such a small tray that only a practised gynaecologist could have eaten off without spilling anything.After several vodka/orange(complimentary) I watch George Clooney and Nicole Kidman save the world while I cruised over the Caspian sea. Touchdown seven and a half hours later, on time at 05,15 at Indira Ghandi international airport. Wll down turkish airlines who have been voted europes best airline and certainly the best I have travelled with in a long time.
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| Turkish breakfast / Desayuno Turco |
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| Beyti Sharma |
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| Saint Catherine's Church / Iglesia de Santa Catalina |
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| Fat man pretending to be Sultan Ahmedi / Tío gordo haciendo de el Sultán Ahmedi |
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| More Turkish scenes / Más escenas Turcas |
