... in Istanbul

The Adventures of the Anonymous Two in Istanbul

 

Husband had needed to finish some matters off for work prior to our departure so we didn’t get to bed until after midnight. Consequently the 5.30am alarm was particularly unwelcome. We were pleased of the early start however when we hit traffic queuing for the M25.

Once safely scanned and screened through the airport process we went in search of breakfast, and decided on the Gordon Ramsay plane food venue. The breakfast was superb, and served extremely promptly – it was almost as though they knew we didn’t have all day.

Before long it was time to board the plane. In the queue was a Turkish woman setting a spectacular sight, holding a small china cup and saucer from which she was drinking tea. Yes, all the while standing in the queue to board the plane. I could already tell that I was going to like Istanbul.

Unfortunately the passenger behind us on the plane chatted incessantly. This could be a long flight! What’s more, he seemed to know everyone on the plane, so as he bored off one listener, they were soon replaced by another.

To distract us from him, British Airways kindly arranged for some spectacularly poor and rude service. Their Highlife magazine referred to the drinks which were available. This included a Belgian beer, and Chinese beer and London Pride – a British beer, available on British Airways. Husband asked for London Pride. ‘That’s only available to club class passengers’ replied the air hostess, without the slightest attempt at apology, explanation or smile. ‘That’s not what your magazine says’ he replied. Whereupon she asked us to prove this. In the meantime he opted for a non-British drink, aboard British Airways. Perhaps smiles and politeness were also only available to club class passengers.

When Husband found the page, and did ‘prove’ it, she merely sneered back at him ‘well I’ll let my manager know’. I suspected she wouldn’t.

We were not the only ones on the receiving end of her wrath. After the pre landing request to put seats up and stow trays away another passenger actually had a word with one of the other trolley dollys to suggest that this woman could have made this request in a more civil manner, rather than the Nazi like ‘do as I say immediately’ manner in which the instruction was actually delivered. Something had clearly gone awry in British Airways recruitment process.

I could feel a complaint coming on.

We were served lunch on the flight, which alleged to be chicken and pasta. Husband had the equivalent of a whole breast of chicken in his plastic dish. After several minutes of eating and digging, I unearthed a piece of chicken slightly larger than the size of a pea. Whatever chicken delivery system they use back at the factory is clearly a little uneven in its allocation. Despite the absence of the chicken in the chicken and pasta, it was surprisingly edible.

The flight passed quickly and we landed half an hour early in temperatures of 28 degrees. We bought our visa and then went through passport control. We knew that there was a train or tram from the airport straight into town, and determined to use public transport we successfully obtained the Istanbul equivalent of an oyster card and boarded the metro, changing at Zeytinburnu on to the tram into the city. The tram route passed through the old city walls on the way. Our stop was Universite Laleli from which it should have been a short walk to the hotel. But we managed to turn off the main road too soon and then drop down the hill too far. Husband all the while was pulling the suitcase behind him. In many cities, this would have been frustrating but not too much of an issue. Here it was a little more frustrating for him. The pavements were narrow, frequently blocked with wares and stalls selling fruit or cooked sweetcorn, uneven – and included steps. The road was narrow, crammed with vehicles parked on either side, leaving little space for those in motion to pass along, resulting streets being nose to tail full of traffic. And some the area we walked along had a road that was in the process of being dug up or re-laid. You could still walk along it, but it was dust and rubble. Add into the mix men and boys pulling wide carts behind them laden with goods, occasionally knocking down street stalls as they passed and you start to get the picture. There were amazing smells of grilled meats and, bizarrely, soap. It was wonderful chaos. Referring to the map was of little help as it didn’t show all the streets. Seeing another hotel I went in and asked for directions. Unfortunately Husband dropped a relatively offensive fart in the revolving door which we then wafted into their foyer as we entered. Suitably informed, we found the hotel soon after.

We tried to learn some basic Turkish phrases, like please, thank you and hello and asked the hotel porter to tell us how to pronounce these phrases. But it was a difficult language. We think that if you say takishu idirim you will have thanked someone.

We retired to the hotel bar, a terrace on the top floor with stunning views over the city, to the sea and across to Asia. We watched the boats crossing the water as the sun slowly set in a blaze of colour and the moon rose behind the minarets. We drank beer and accidentally ate pistachio shells from the bowl of nuts that had been put on the table. This is not to be recommended. They are hard, and with a good chomp break into a multitude of tiny fragments of hardness that take some time to clear from your mouth. Sounds from the streets below rose up to us, horns beeping, strains of jazz, the muffled hubbub of people going about their daily business and calling out to one another, and the ever present of tantalising smell of food – meats and spices. Then the minarets sprang into life one after another, for the evening call to prayer, the sound echoing around the tight maze of narrow streets below us.

We out into town in search for dinner. There were street traders aplenty. A girl leapt out in front of us with tissues to sell, her eyes gleaming and a wide smile on her face. There vast number of incredible shoes shops and scarf shops with decorative silk and cashmere goods. We went into one shop as Husband was interested in getting a cream scarf. The sales assistant tied a scarf onto Husband, and also arranged a shawl very nicely on me. Husband bartered his way down and finally purchased a scarf. The sales assistant said he would have given us apple tea, but there were close to closing, so insisted we come back on another day to have tea with him.

Shopping done, we then went in search of dinner and found a take away venue with tables outside. We had pide, kebab and apple tea – surrounded by a lot of stray cats. They walked along the awnings above the shop fronts, and weaved their way around the tables, picking up any scraps of found they could find. A small, cute one befriended us. Partly because we fed it bits of kebab which it caught and ate in seconds, swallowing the lumps of meat almost before they hit the ground, ensuring it got the food and was ready to run, not having the luxury of taking time to eat.

We went back to the hotel for bed, and slept well. Breakfast the next day was a rather random array of food options ranging from olives to carrot cake. Traditional Turkish breakfast seemed to consist of soup and bread.

We had planned out day, which started – after a short tram ride – at the Blue Mosque.

Unfortunately it was closed until the afternoon. I hadn’t been sure from our guide book when it was open as the information said it closed during prayer times, but didn’t bother to clarify when prayer times were. We looked at the ancient columns in the At Meydani Hippodrome. It was originally a chariot racecourse with an amphitheatre that could hold 100,000 people. The amphitheatre was destroyed in the fourth crusade and plundered by the Ottomans for the Sultanahmet mosque. An Egyptian obelisk still survives in the square which we admired before setting off the hill.

I wasn’t entirely sure if we were on the correct road as the map was vague. The streets were cobbled, and higgledy piggeldy as they wound their way down the hill towards the sea. The pavements were inadequate – narrow and in poor condition so most people walked in the road resulting in the frequent sound of car horns. However, the overriding atmosphere was still one of calm rather than frenetic rush and hurry and frustration.

We had meant to find Kucuk Ayasofya Camii, and we did, but entirely by accident. There was a small cloistered courtyard outside and in the areas under cover it had been set up like a living room with a desk, leather chairs and book cases. In the central grass area ducks and cats wandered freely. The mosque is almost certainly the oldest church in Istanbul, starting as a Christian church commissioned by Emperor Justinian in AD 527 and converted to a mosque in the early 16^th century.

 

Inside the mosque we climbed to a higher platform as non-Muslims were not allowed to the upper level. I liked the absence of health and safety. The only thing that stopped you falling from this platform to the mosque floor below was a 1 foot high wall around the raised area. The mosque was quiet, peaceful.

We walked back up the hill taking a slightly different route so that we passed Sokullu Melmet and back to At Meydani. The Spice Road market had started which include various goods and beauty products from key places along the spice route.

We walked towards Ayasofya Camii (Haghia Sophia) for which we struggled to find the entrance. In our search, we did find the 5 mausoleums. To be honest, one was rather like another and soon it became wearisome having to continually take your shoes off so we started to merely peer in from the outside. The officious security women did get rather upset at Husband. He had left his shoes outside, but on the entrance step which was by all accounts just an unacceptable. Our circumnavigation of Haghia Sophia also took us past a freshly squeezed juice vendor from which we procured some spectacularly tasty orange juice.

As we completed our circumnavigation of Haghia Sophia and came back to where we had started, we saw a long queue, indicating the entrance. Given the length of the queue we decided to go to the cisterns across the road.

The cisterns, dating back to AD532, were an incredible, vast, dimly lit underground chamber. It was primarily built to supply water to the Great Palace in the reign of Emperor Justinian, but fell into disrepair after the Ottoman conquest. A multitude of columns held up the vaulted ceiling. The columns themselves all varied, indicating that they had been plundered from other, earlier buildings. Walkways had been constructed through them, over the water in which a rich supply of fish now lived. Occasional drips of water fell from the ceiling onto us. The cistern was warm, almost humid because of the dampness in the atmosphere. At the far end we saw the two pillars which had heads of medusa as their base. The one head was on its side and the other was upside down. This is not unusual for images of medusa. It was considered risky to have her head the correct way up in case she looked at anyone and exerted her powers.

Leaving the warm, dripping darkness of the cistern we re-joined the queue for Haghia Sophia. Originally a Christian church commissioned by Emperor Justinian in AD 532 it was, for a long time, the largest religious building in the world. When Constantinople fell to the Turks in 1453 it became a mosque and was converted to a museum in 1934. It was huge. The Islamic faction of Istanbul wishes to convert it back into a mosque. The walls and pillars are patterned and decorated marble, and the ceilings were covered with ornate mosaics. The decorative gold mosaics were, in many areas crumbling.

The marble floor was worn. The main prayer area was a vast space, behind which was the famed weeping column. According to rumour or legend there was a hole in the column, and if you put your finger into it you could feel the dampness of the magical weeping column and benefit from its healing powers. There was a particular thumb twist movement that seemed to be the generally accepted method. The column was indeed moist although it was hard to know if this was because of the huge number of warm people had recently put their thumb into it.

I waited my turn, and made my wish. Followed by Husband. We probably both hoped for the same healing power. We both knew I was waiting for the results of a biopsy to confirm whether or not I had breast cancer. (in the event the power of the column to grant wishes failed on this occasion).

We took the long, wide, winding path to the upper gallery. It was paved with hunks of stone that were now so worn and shiny that making upward progress was actually rather challenging. You slid backwards with every step.

After leaving the mosque we walked towards Topkapi palace, hunting for lunch on the way. We found a small café, nestled on a number of levels against the wall in a quiet, steep cobbled street. Wooden benches with cushions and woven throws with small wooden tables on which sat hookah pipes. At one table some middle aged female tourists were enjoying a pipe, and from the rising sound of their giggles, were clearly a little ‘high’. On another, a young couple smoked and played backgammon.

Curiously the restaurant was actually a few minutes away in the main road. This was just an alternative seating area, outside. We had kebab for lunch, closely attended to by stray cats. We tried liver kebab – and won’t be trying it again. One of the cats was a bit more aggressive than the others, snapping at them to scare them aware, and reaching up onto the table to grab meat off the plate. One of the cats was small and well behaved. We wanted to reward that one, but needed to time the scrap drop carefully to avoid the nasty cat coming and snatching it. Eating under the constant watchful gaze of cats was very similar to being at home.

We continued on towards Topkapi. A number of street artists we past were during Spiro graph pictures. While the initial reaction was bemusement or mild mockery at these grown men playing with a child’s toy, this quickly turned to respect. From recollection, it’s actually quite difficult to complete one of the darned things without slipping – usually on the last one or two spins. These chaps were actually managing to complete the things.

Topkapi was a large, disparate palace. It was constructed in 1461 and lived in by the sultans until 1856. A number of buildings were littered among well laid gardens. We saw an exhibition of the sultan’s jewellery which included some substantially sized stones and ornate pieces, including crystal water jugs. Everything was studded with emeralds.  There were also exhibits of daggers and thrones made from gold and ebony and one that had been taken from India. Also on display were various orders from other countries, including one from the UK – the order of the garter. We saw some frankly ridiculous clothes – arms as long as the whole dress, trousers with huge pointed behinds.

The palace occupied a site at the top of the hill, with views over to Asia and across the Bosphorous.

The sultan’s kiosk building was a beautifully ornate wooden building with views over the games field below. The kiosk had shoe lockers and low level sumptuous seating all around. The Baghdad room was surprisingly warm (given that it was a small, stand along building) and was decorated with mother of pearl tiles, and again surrounded by low seating. It seemed that the sultan spent his time moving from building to building and sitting down. Presumably surrounded by dignitaries or women from his harem.

There was a small square pool with a canopied overhang into it which was being used as a posing area by some of the tourists. As one girl stood there, while her boyfriend was the other side of the pool, focusing the camera on her, a bird on the canopy poo’d on her. Husband wondered if the sultan had held pool parties.

The circumcision room was conveniently wall to wall tiled – presumably to make it easier to wipe down afterwards.

The sword and armour exhibition had weapons in there which it was difficult to imagine any man actually being able to wield. One of the swords was about 7 foot long. The decorative counsel room was interesting from the perspective that there was nowhere to sit down.

Deciding not to pay extra to see the harem, we walked back towards the Blue Mosque. This had been built as a mosque and was completed in 1616 whereupon it immediately became the focus of religions activity in the city.

From the outside it is a tumble of domes, cascading away from the top of the main central dome. We joined the long queue and managed to get in during the short period of time that it was open between prayers. It was huge and smelled of feet – a downside of getting everyone to take their shoes off. The large circular lights hung from long chains that fell from the dome to just above the heads of the men at prayer. The large domes were adorned with blue mosaics and words of prayer. We came out as the minarets burst into their evening call to prayer, starting the conversational call with other minarets.

With the planned tourist events for the day now complete, we attended to chores – buying an adaptor plug. We do possess several of these and I was reasonably sure that one lived, relatively permanently, in the suitcase. I was mistaken. Consequently we had nothing to charge up phones with. Fortunately, we soon found one, and could then attend to finding a beer. Despite being an increasingly Islamic area and a number of food outlets did not serve alcohol, it was still relatively easy to find places where you could get beer. We found a bar that looked promising. The man who had the job of ushering in patrons proudly announced the availability of beer. When we expressed our delight at this, he laughed. I wondered what opinion he must of western people, and our need to alcohol.

An American couple next to us recommended a hotel next to the Four Seasons hotel. I decided quickly that any restaurant near to such a hotel was definitely not the venue we were after. We wanted something more likely to be attended by local people, rather than created for the tourist market. Husband was of the same mind.

A number of times in the day people had asked where we were from, and generally seemed to think we were Germans. We weren’t offended by this but were curious as to why. It was certainly preferable to being mistaken for Americans.

On the walk back to the hotel we passed a number of sweet shops piled high with sweet sticky items, intricately created. Before long, we were tempted and bought a selection.

En route we wandered through the Grand Bazaar or Kapali Carsi (covered market). It was narrow, rammed full with colour from ceramics, fabrics and lights. The labyrinth of pathways and vaulted arcades were crammed with people. It was utter mayhem. We deliberately didn’t linger too long as we would visit for longer the next day.

We happened across a small, quiet cemetery just off the main road. The tomb stones were small carved solitary pillars, of varying heights. The cemetery was sombre and peaceful. I’m not sure whether our discovery of it caused a sudden interest, but within a few minutes there were a number of people there.

Just beyond the cemetery was a small dark alley which beckoned to us. At the end was a covered area within which were a multitude of low tables and shares, packed with Turkish men smoking hookah pipes. The canisters of hot coals were piled on racks to one side. The air was filled with the aromatic smoke, the sound of bubbling water and hum of conversation. With the fading light, and haze from the smoke it was hard to see across the space and the men in there appeared as hazy outlines.

That evening we decided to go for a bit of an explore and walked down the steep hill from our hotel, towards the sea. We went through vibrant residential areas. Men sat on door steps smoking while children played in the street. The shops were bustling with people buying food and the main roads were crammed with cars, creating traffic mayhem. We got down near the coast and walked along the railway line towards an industrial feeling storage or loading area before turning back. It was a steep climb back.

For dinner we had kebab off a street vendor and came back to the hotel to eat it – followed by the sticky things we had bought earlier. For all their variation in appearance, and apparent inclusion of pistachio, they all tasted the same. Of sugar. That was it. We concluded that they were must more pleasing to look at than to consume.

The following morning we woke to the sunshine streaming in through the windows. Husband suggested a birthday treat. Fuck, I said. I had completely forgotten as a result of all the medical concerns currently ongoing. I felt terrible.

Today we had planned as bazaar day – Grand Bazaar and then the Spice Bazaar. The Grand Bazaar covers a vast area. It was built after the Ottoman conquest as the city’s main market and is perhaps the world’s oldest shopping mall. I dare say that it is nigh on impossible to walk through every alleyway it comprises and on first entering the market, there is an initial concern that before long you will get comprehensively lost.

On exploration it is clear that the market does have an element of organisation to it – there is the jewellery section, the lighting area, textiles zone, ceramic quarter, carpets, and board games and so on. Goods were piled from floor to ceiling. Everywhere there was noise and colour, and rising smell of incense which escaped from some of the shop. The alleyways through the market varied from large thoroughfares to small winding routes only a few feet wide. And it was not flat – the walkways discernibly went up and down slight slopes. We looked at some of the board games – the boards were inlaid with mother of pearl and different woods and were works of art in themselves. There was no hard sell from the vendors. They were happy to show you the goods, talk and offer you a cup of tea before giving you their card in case you wanted to return. The cards were useful as they marked the shop location – and therefore indicated where we were.

 

The jewellery shops had vast displays of intricate and delicate gold mesh necklaces and amulets. In the antiques area we found a shop selling ivory pornographic figurines.

 

We bought some souvenir items and then sat on the low stools at a café to have an apple tea as we watched the market hubbub around us.

We passed a central water fountain and headed towards one of the ways out. Seeing a WC sign, I went to make use of the facilities. It was in a quiet but beautifully ornate building. Plants seemed to be growing in the damp from the walls on the ladies and I could hear birdsong but all in all, for a hole in the ground facility, it wasn’t too bad. However, if all public facilities were holes in the ground it was becoming clear why mosques, with their plush carpets, insisted on no shoes.

We had come out of the Grand Bazaar into a street heaving with people. Shops on either side were selling clothes, fabrics and shoes and their goods spilled forth onto the street. The clothes were stunning, almost over the top with decoration and lace, while others stocked the more sensible attire acceptable to Muslims. There were bridal wear shops, and then a bridal bed outlet.

Men tried to make their way through the packed streets, hunched over carrying huge bound loads on their backs. Another pushed his way through the crowd behind a trolley laden with hot bread. There was noise and colour everywhere.

 

This road led conveniently to the old, crumbling building which housed the spice market which was built in 1663 for the sultan’s mother and was intended to provide income for the charitable foundations of the nearby Yeni Mosque. The source of the income was the import duties levied on the spices as they passed through Egypt (which was at that time part of the Ottoman Empire) and is why the Turks still call it the Egyptian Bazaar. The smell was almost overpowering, a heady mix of saffron, coriander, ginger, paprika and tamarind, intermingling every type of spice as well as tea and the sweet sickliness of Turkish delight. More amazing than the smells were the colours. Bright reds and yellows of the spices, garlics and dried tomatoes hung from the ceiling. And the Turkish delights were rich reds wrapped up in pistachio green. The piles of teas looked more like pot pourri, so filled were they will flowers.

The practice of the sellers was to call out in English asking where you were from. When we responded with ‘England’ this was usually met with ‘Lovely jubbly’ or Manchester United’ or ‘David Beckham’. If these really were the 3 biggest exports from England, it seemed a terrible shame. Sometimes we would get ‘my cousin lives there. One man asked where in England we lived. Portsmouth, we replied. He asked where. Husband said it was unlikely that the man would know it. But, curiously, he had gone to school at a college only two miles from our house.

 

We bought an enormous amount of different coloured Turkish delight from a chap who alleged it was also his birthday that day. And some apple tea as we had been enjoying drinking it. Some of the apple tea served to us had been quite sweet. I’m not sure how much sugar needs to be added. When I used the tea at home it was incredibly sour. Even a healthy couple of spoons of sugar did little to redeem it. There was clearly an art to this which we had not been furnished with.

 

We left the heady aroma of the spice market and went to see the New Mosque, which was somehow nice than the Blue Mosque, and then went onto the lower level of the Galata Bridge. It was extremely touristy round this part of the Bosphorous. Tourist river cruise ships perpetually called out in broken English for new punters. Crowds thronged along the waterfront while along the river edge were dozens of fisherman. The fisherman filled every inch of the upper level of the bridge.

From the lower level you walked beneath a canopy of their lines, and needed to be careful when they cast off that the swinging hook did not catch you as it was lowered into the water below. Vast cruise ships moored along the other side of the river spilled out hundreds of English and American tourists. Some locals asked if we were from the ships – God no. I have never liked the concept of these giant edifices parking themselves in the middle of other beautiful places. Fine, take a cruise. But the ship itself should not sully the vision of the Bosphorous. Or Grand Canal in Venice. What seemed more of a tragedy was that the ship was there for one night only. These people had a day in Istanbul before being ferried to somewhere new. Did they even know where they were or where they had been? In one day you could hardly hope to absorb the calm mayhem of this stunning city, appreciate its sights and smells.

The lower level of the bridge was largely filled with food outlets. We stopped at one where, for 6 you could get good fast food – a grilled mackerel shoved into a large hunk of salad filled baguette, and a glass of beer. It was delicious, and we sat in the sun, watching the activity on the river surrounded by the sound of boats, people, fisherman and the perpetual microphoned call for tourist river trips. Then there was the click of speakers being turned on, and the call to prayer rang out from nearby New Mosque, whose domes gleamed in the sun shine next to the river. The prayer calls tried to compete with the loud boat trip cries, and added to the general noise.

 

 

The waitress clearing the tables at the mackerel bar threw any food scraps over the side, into the river. It seemed a curious circle – fish for mackerel, through remains into the water which other mackerel will eat, before being caught and served.

When I went to loo I noticed a small hole in the floor, through which I could see the water. I wondered whether the flushed waste went anywhere sensible, or just straight down into the Bosphorous. If so, it didn’t seem to harm the marine life. As we crossed the bridge I could see jelly fish in the water.

As we walked past the restaurants on the bridge, their staff would try to encourage us inside. One man told us he was Henry from Croydon. When we explained we had just eaten he asked us to come back tomorrow.

There was a fish market on the other side. Numerous stalls with vast arrays of incredibly fresh fish – their bright red gills pulled out to as evidence – and which were regularly splashed with water by the welly clad market men to keep them cool and shining, while others stood behind the display of fish gutting them. The dead fish on display were large and succulent and a number of the stalls had large buckets of water in which alive fish swam round in monotonous circles. On one stall meaty whitebait were being deep fried and sold.

Although we had just eaten, Husband was tempted. The man saw our interest and gave us each a whitebait as we passed. They were the size of tinned sardines and lightly battered. Husband bought a portion and we stood by the river to eat them.
 

We took the funicular up to Tunel and then rode on the vintage tram up to Taksim Square. This travelled through the otherwise pedestrianised very busy fashionable shopping area. Their equivalent of Oxford Street. It had entirely different feel to the other areas of Istanbul we had seen – a wide, well laid street. Busy, but well ordered. The street food amounted to little more than candy floss and roasted chestnuts rather than the grilled sweetcorn and fresh fruit which were common sites elsewhere.

As the tram set off a handful of urchins grabbed hold of the bars on the open doorway in order to ride along for free, clinging to the outside. The bubbles from a street bubble blowing man wafted in through the open windows, popping as they touched the wood panelled interior. The tram stopped at the halfway point to allow another tram to come down the hill. There was only one track, with this single cross over point. I could see riot police gathered, although it was unclear why. Everything was calm and peaceful, and the riots of a couple of months ago that had centred around Taksim Square were now a thing of the past.

When we arrived at Taksim Square there was no sign of the recent troubles. We looked at the monument honouring previous struggles and then meandered back down the hill. Fortunately the organised, western feel of Istiklal Canddosi was very skin deep. As soon as you stepped off into a side alley, the crammed shop fronts with their merchandise filling the already small space available in the  narrow, cobbled winding walkways, filled with life and smells were ever present. One shop had embedded the lucky eye tokens in the cement outside his doorway. A food shop had amazing produce displayed – walnuts the size of snooker balls (for snooker, read Husband).

The main street was filled with the smell of roast chestnuts and occasional sound of the tram’s bell to clear the track of pedestrians as it undertook its return journey – along with a small boy hiding on the back of the tram, perched on the buffers and holding onto the side bars, his back to the vehicle and a cheeky smile displayed to all the watching crowd.

We continued down the increasing steep hill to the Galata Tower. This seemed to be a musical area. Street musicians became more frequent and a number of the shops sold instruments. Husband thought he could hear the strains of someone playing a very complex drum beat – and then discovered that actually it was the sound of a man pulling a trolley over the cobbles. A very good cello player entertained the long the queue for the Tower. I asked Husband if there would many steps. He looked at me with a puzzled face, saying that he doubted there would be a lift. When we finally got in, we realised why the queue was so long and slow moving. There was a lift – which only took a few people at a time.

There was a narrow outside walkway around the top which was crammed. Despite attempts to encourage people to travel in one direction around the top, traffic moved in both directions. As there was only space for two people to pass each other if no one was already taking that space up by standing at the edge, looking at the view, this did result in a bit of a log jam and for a few minutes the entire walkway became impassable.

The views across the city were stunning. The sun was starting to set and we could see the domes and minarets of many of the mosques. It also made you realise how hilly Istanbul was, seeing these mosques rising high above the city.

Having seen enough and been satisfactorily crushed, we headed back down and walked back to the bridge. The cobbled streets fell away to river with increasing determination, and where very uneven so there was a perpetual risk of being tripped up, and taking a nose dive down the road. A large crowd was gathered on the bridge and river front, looking into the water. We squeezed our way in between them to see what the interest was. A fully clothed man bobbed about in the water while men on the lower part of the bridge tried to reach in and grab him. Eventually he was pulled out and I heard someone say that this happened a lot. Perhaps he was a bit wobbly from a hookah pipe.

 

Excitement over, we crossed back and walked past the station to get to a tram stop. Husband was delighted to happen across an old steam train displayed outside the station. Before getting the tram we popped into a bar for a quick drink. When I needed to facilities I was told they were upstairs. On the top floor was a small room filled with men smoking. They looked at me, quietly and with blank faces.  I could see a door ahead and went in. As I came out I realised that in my hurried panic that I had selected one of two available doors – and had selected the gents rather than the ladies. The men still looked at me. My mortification complete, I hurried back downstairs.

Back at the hotel, the staff had put decorative towels, a flower and balloons on the bed for Husband’s birthday.
 

That evening we headed down to Kumkapi in search of dinner, back down the steep winding roads. This time we zigged and zagged a bit differently and found ourselves in an area with a central fountain from which streets led off. Fairy lights were draped like a canopy overhead. It was lively, bright and vibrant, but somehow too touristy, too predictable. We crossed over the road towards the harbour and found a fish market. Despite the darkness and late hour, they were still trading, still pouring water over their red gilled produce. Behind the market were a handful of quiet, harbour front restaurants. Some were very simple, serving grilled or fried fish from the market. We went to Dogan restaurant. A very helpful wine waiter assisted with our wine choice. The menu was primarily fish. For starter I had a fish skewer and Husband had a whole, grilled calamari. It was nice to have the body of it, not already cut up into rings. The battered and fried tentacles were on the plate, partially as decoration, partially as a test. Husband ate them. This instantly won us the respect of the waiter.

For main course we had sea bass. Locals and regulars at the restaurant would then be taken to the fish market to pick their fish. Our waiter selected one from the market on our behalf and when it was served, he opened and filleted it. It was delicious and extremely filling. Probably the freshest fish I have ever eaten in a restaurant. It wasn’t even in their kitchens 20 minutes ago.

It was accompanied by a scrumptious salad which included slices of spicy radish, which were the size of the tennis balls.

A band promenaded along the walkway outside, which overlooked the harbour, playing tunes to the diners in the water front restaurants. Traders also came along, trying to sell their wares. One was selling ties, which seemed peculiar.

Husband finished his meal off with a glass of raki. I didn’t have any, having previously had a very bad experience with the drink in my 20’s which resulted in my being dangerously drunk.

It was an excellent birthday dinner for Husband. We wandered around the fish market before leaving. There were some very shiny silver fish, big flat fish covered in carbuncles sitting over dozens of small squid. We saw a small boat chugging out of the harbour, a fishing trawler perhaps, going out to re-stock the market. The lighthouse on the corner of the harbour blinked in the darkness and we could hear the lap of waves from the incoming tide.

As we climbed back up the steep cobbled roads to the hotel we realised that this was one of the first meals we had had without attendant cats. Which was odd given that cats like fish. Which made me wonder how fish had ever become a food choice for a cat – given that fish tend to live in water and cats generally aren’t keen on getting wet. Perhaps the stray cats were regularly showered with water from the market men as they kept the fish wet, and this risk put them off lingering near the fish markets.

It rained in the night but was clear the next morning. We took the tram to the port. As it was a Sunday Husband had been hopeful that we would get a seat. The tram was packed and worse than a rush hour London tube train. You really had to want to get on. We saw a couple with a pram and I looked at them in sympathy. There was no way they could board. There quite simply wasn’t the room. We giggled recalling Husband’s earlier seat hopes.

Finally arriving at the ferry port – and able to use our Istanbul kart for the trip – we joined the huddle of people waiting for the ferry to Harem. We were the only white people there. Tourists don’t go to Harem. They take the loudly advertised cruise boats up the river. We wanted to travel from Europe to Asia. And back again. Because we could. And that meant going to the entirely residential area of Harem, across the water. A rusty ferry appeared. The ramp was lowered from which cars and pedestrians spilled before the ramp had even touched the ground. I liked the complete absence of health and safety. Nobody was hurt, nobody fell in. People made a choice and took care to make sure that that choice didn’t hurt or harm them. It seemed to work. The boat was not tied up to the shore and there were no men in fluorescent jackets directing people or trying to keep pedestrians and vehicles apart. The group of passengers we were among surged forward to board the ferry before it had finished offloading passengers from its incoming journey.

 

On board we sat outside to see the view back to Istanbul, Topkapi, the Blue Mosque and Haghia Sophia marked out on the skyline in an instantly recognisable image of the city. We had a coffee and before long, arrived at Harem. There was an option to quite simply turn round and take the boat back again. But as we were here, we decided to have a bit of a look round. We climbed the hill towards the town. There was a large building, surrounded by a wall and a sign indicating that taking photos was banned. Along the wall, nestled in the trees was a small booth with what looked like an armed guard inside. It was very unclear what this building was, but they seemed intent on enforcing their demand for secrecy. We were probably already looking suspicious as the only tourists in town.

Next to the secret zone was a large mosque – empty and quiet. A Turkish man walking through the grounds beamed at us, seemingly delighted that some English people had come to visit his home town, and indicated that we were welcome to view the mosque. Obligatory shoes off, head covered we went in.

We wandered on, through the sleepy town. Then the weather started to come in. We found a small café to shelter in with a coffee, on the hill overlooking the harbour from where we could watch for the return of the ferry. The sound of boat horns from the harbour rose up to us and where the only sound in the peace and quiet of the town. I made the huge mistake of swilling the small coffee cup. The bottom half of Turkish coffee is sludge, and consequently I managed to make the last couple of drinkable mouthfuls similar to mud.

The café was next to some steps which led back down the hill and to the harbour, which we arrived at in perfect time to catch the ferry back. At the Harem harbour, Turkish boys were sitting in the luggage space of waiting coaches in order to shelter from the rain.

The boat back was considerably fuller. In the stunning, clean light you get when there are dark clouds, rain and sun, the Maiden Tower and small sailing boats looked resplendent, gleaming against an ominous background.

One man in a tiny boat nipped between the larger ferries crossing the water. I’m not entirely sure how he wasn’t mown down or overcome by the swell from the larger vessels.

I had wanted to eat a grilled sweetcorn before we left, and once back to Istanbul we found a street vendor and bought one. He also did boiled sweetcorn, but as we have those at home I wanted to try the different version. It was interesting but not worth repeating, dry, difficult to eat and largely tasteless. But we had given it a go, and that was the main thing.

Once we had given up on the sweetcorn we parked ourselves in a bar on the lower level of Galata Bridge and watched the perpetually busy river. Boats were constantly on the go and there was never any clear right of way to any particular vessel or direction of travel. As we watched the world go by we also concluded that Istanbul has an above average number of people of below average height. The locals were friendly, and generally speaking, they recognised you. We had passed the man who Husband bought his scarf from a few times, and each time he said hello and engaged in conversation. When we saw Henry from Croydon on the bridge, Husband walked up to him and said ‘hello Henry from Croydon’. Henry – if that is indeed who he was – seemed genuinely surprised and perturbed.

One of the restaurants on the bridge had hookah pipes. We decided to have lunch there. Husband had a mixed fish platter – which was served with olive paste and barbeque chilli, before trying the hookah pipe. He decided on apple flavour. It had an interesting taste and fabulous smell. We had our own little plastic mouth pieces, and the waiter kept needing to come over and keep it alight, despite its hot coals being regularly refreshed. I had a couple of puffs but felt a bit foggy. Husband smoked it more, and then suddenly turned pale and queasy. After a trip to loo he felt a little better, but decided not to smoke any more. We left the bridge and walked along the river front a little. There was a bit of a melee on the front, and it seemed to be caused by a huge crowd buying up the mackerel sandwiches which were being grilled and issued from a couple of very ornate boats moored along the river front. They bounced around in the busy water perilously, and in a way which caused mild sea sickness just to watch. We moved through the throng of people towards the spice market and back towards the Grand Bazaar – which is closed on Sundays, so the road up to it was considerably quieter and emptier than when we had passed that way after visiting the Bazaar.

Most of the roads in Istanbul have no road markings, no central white lines. We did see one road with a small central divide constructed from low level concrete blocks and another had occasional metal posts. However, given the general traffic chaos that we had witnessed, preventing cars from moving from one side of the road to the other was only likely to compound any traffic issues that arose. What’s more, these central barriers had no impact on which side of the road vehicles chose to travel down.

I felt a little unwell that evening so it was late before we ventured out for dinner. We went for an initial wander, aiming for Beyazit Medani square which was apparently a happening part of town. Not at this time of night, and we also realised that we had walked past this square every day without feeling drawn to its activities. We now started to appreciate that our map – in fact none of the maps – showed you where anything was, or even all the streets. Rather, they provided an impression of where things were, the general gist of how the city was laid out. We decided to head back down to the lights and music area of Kumkapi. A man who bore an uncanny resemblance to a former CEO of mine wandered around with his oud, looking lost and alone, trying to find a restaurant to play at but a group of more entertaining musicians had stolen the show. They sat down next the diners and played, encouraging much joining in and dancing.

The street was filled with the smell of apple smoke and food. We ambled back, trying to find some fast food for dinner but at this hour it was difficult. One man asked us to come back tomorrow. We say yes, but were due to leave tomorrow. The vendors of Istanbul have great belief in the power of tomorrow.

The following day we woke to the sound of heavy rain and an ominously dark sky, but it soon cleared and we sat on hot sun on the hotel roof terrace for breakfast.

As it was our final day we didn’t venture far. We walked to the viaduct via another mosque where some filming was taking place. There were a lot of extras – ancient Turkish men dressed in traditional costume. Adjacent to the mosque was a quiet courtyard in which were stalls selling pots, carpets and stools. Although it was unclear to whom.

 

The viaduct was ancient old crumbling structure – with a significant sized dual carriageway now running through its arches.

From there was directed ourselves towards Suleyman. The vagueness of the map did help us in this task. Perhaps the map makers had tried and failed to make order out of the chaos that is Istanbul. The result was that we tried to follow the map to get somewhere, then made our own way back which tended to be considerably faster and more direct. The buildings on the way up to Suleyman were interesting – a number of them were wooden Ottoman style structures in varying states of repair - or rather disrepair. One that particularly amused us was where the ground floor was a well turned out shop, while the first floor was derelict and in ruins. Here and there among the muddle of streets snatches of the old viaduct could be seen as it made its way across the city.

Suleyman mosque was huge, and rose high over the city. Next to it was the mausoleum for Suleyman the Magnificent alongside his wife I had now packed my headscarf so sat outside and admired the view while Husband went in to have a look.

Outside the mosque there was a small market – selling pashminas, among other things, so I could have dressed myself appropriately to visit the mosque. There was also a very persistent old man sitting on a low stool insisting he clean our shoes. Admittedly, after a few days of walking around, they were a little grubby. Eventually, after knocking down his charge, we gave in.

Now really just needing to kill some time before heading back to the airport we returned to the hotel, checked out and went to the Sultanamet area for lunch and our last couple of hours in Istanbul. The menu included Sultan’s lamb and Sultan’s favourite. I wondered if a baby sultan was a sultana. Street sweepers went along the road, undertaking their thankless and slightly pointless task with good grace. A tram stopped and the guard swept rubbish off the tram into the street for the street sweep man to deal with. It was a crazy process but it seemed to work.

As we had noticed on our first day, cars and bikes drove along the tram way to skip the perpetual traffic jams – although at random intervals police cars would also drive the tram route in an attempt to prevent this practice. Everything about Istanbul just worked – even where logic suggested that it shouldn’t. It had been all that we had hoped for and more.

On the flight back British Airways did not redeem themselves. Again, we had a crew of the most unsmiling and unfriendly people that it was possible to muster. When the drinks were being served I felt something down my back. It was unexpected and gave me a start, so I looked up in surprise. The aggressive male steward glared at me and snarled ‘it’s only water’. That wasn’t really the point. Naturally, being a British Airways employee no apology was forthcoming. I concluded that after this trip I was happy to add British Airways to the list of airlines with whom I will never travel again. Despite all the travel I have done and the vast number of flight operators I have used, that list only has two names on it – BA being the second. I did complain when we returned home. However I didn’t have the flight number and without that, British Airways would not consider or respond to the concerns raised. I did point out that the flight number was slightly irrelevant as the thrust of the complaint related d a misleading statement in their magazine – which is present on all their flights, rather than to a flight specific incident. I did though make reference to that fact that all the employees that we had encountered had been unfriendly and rude. This response made no difference. No flight number, no complaint acknowledgement. Which was silly – because if they had had the decency to reply to me I might not have felt the need to publish in full the details of what a shocking service they are proud to provide.

I couldn’t be bothered to hunt down the flight numbers and pursue the matter. Shortly after we got back I received confirmation that I had breast cancer and consequently other matters took priority. I was pleased that we had delayed getting the results in order to have the holiday. The hospital staff had told us to go and have a good time, so in a way, it had been just what the doctor ordered.

 

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