Backpacking in Arabia

We’d been steadily heading East, but then we took a giant leap back West. It couldn't be helped. Worldwide flights are almost always cheapest out of London. So we landed in Blighty, and it was raining, as was expected. I still wasn't feeling very well, and because of this I had booked a hotel (Chris had wanted to sleep at the airport, yeah right). Our hotel was located in Bayswater, just near Hyde Park. The weather didn't allow us to do much. We sought out food then retired to our cushy room. What then followed was an arguement that lasted half the night, and in the morning we grumpily made our way to Heathrow where we boarded our plane to Dubai.

I had never flown Emirates before, but I’d heard good things. I got the impression that Emirates is aspiring to be what Pan Am was back in the day. The flight attendants all looked the same with their scarved hats (I don't know what else to call them) and their bright red lipstick. They had taken up a whole seated section at the gate, and yes they were quite the attraction, smiling for pictures and just generally looking attractive. The crew walked past us, greeting everyone with hearty smiles. This wasn't Easyjet, that whole get em on and get em off again attitude, this was an experience, as if flying were a novelty. My flight with Emirates was the only time I've flown where I didn't want the journey to end. With the multitude of hot moist towels being passed around and blockbuster movies on my personal screen, I was set to keep flying for at least another two days.

Dubai has that unmistakably rich feel to it, even at the airport. The clocks were Rolex and everything seemed plated in gold. There were sheik-like figures with flowing robes and women covered from head to toe in black. You could smell the money from under their simple garments, and more that that, a sort of power. I felt I had to mind my P's and Q's, no wardrobe malfunction stories were to happen on this leg of the journey. I kept myself covered the best I could. I had heard that Dubai is fairly liberal, but only compared to the rest of the Arab world. Perhaps a bare shoulder could be tolerated here and there. But this certainly wasn't Vegas.

We arrived at night, and the heat was shockingly powerful, radiating up from the streets in sweat-producing waves. Chris and I decided to go for a walk. According to our map, the harbor was just down the street, a little stroll away. The lighted spear of the Burj Khalifa (the world's tallest building) seemed within walking distance. Either Chris and I were wildly optimistic, or the heat was producing mirages. Nothing was close by. Nothing. It soon became clear that Dubai was a city that was designed with a vehicle in mind. The sidewalks were dark and, frankly, quite scary. The busy streets were hard to cross, even with a crosswalk. The only people we saw sharing the sidewalk with us were migrant workers. It was clear we weren't in Europe anymore.

It was a major relief to return to our hotel room. It wasn't the best hotel on the planet (the whole time I was there I felt a mild distain from the men, me being female and all), but it least it had air conditioning and a TV. We had ventured out, we had tried not to be lazy-asses, but Dubai was working against us.

A New Kind of Hot

Two steps out of our hotel and we were overcome by the heat. The sweat was coming out of us so hard and fast I was thinking we would just shrivel up like a piece of tar on the sidewalk. It was obvious that in order to get any place we had to take a taxi. We were still under the delusion that everything was nearby. We grabbed a taxi to visit the Burj al-Arab, that magnificent structure that everyone thinks of when they think of Dubai, the giant sail against the blue sea. Well, it took nearly 45 mintues to get there by cab, and when we got there, we couldn't go any further than a gate. Along with other tourists, we stuck our cameras through to take a picture. It hardly seemed fair.

It became apparant that we had to go someplace as standing outside in the sun was suicide. There was a resort relatively nearby, meaning we could walk to it, which we did, but it was a long slog under that toxic sun. The resort was a kind of oasis when we finally reached it. It was mainly shops and restaurants. The only part we were interested in reaching (the beach) was off-limits to us. I was slowly starting to feel disenchanted with Dubai. I had heard about all these cool sights and attractions, but they were out of reach to mere backpackers like us. We could feel the fun being had in Dubai, but the fun was behind high, guarded walls, and only for those with money to spend. We were ever aware of our travel budget, and we had made a silent agreement that we weren't going to be living large in Dubai. We had the whole of Asia ahead of us, and even though Dubai wasn't particularly expensive (it's a lot cheaper than the West) we weren't going to be spending our money here. Luckily, I'm married to a simple-pleasures type guy. He just wanted to get back to the pool at the hotel.

And so ended our sightseeing in Dubai. We found a bus stop (which was enclosed and air-conditioned) and hopped on the next bus that was heading in the direction of our hotel. We were clearly the only Westerners on this bus. This mode of transportation had evidently been set up for the migrant workers. They were all familiar with the process of riding the bus; it involved some kind of travel card (that wasn't available anywhere we could see). We wanted to give the driver money, but he said he couldn't take it. We sat there awkwardly, wondering if we were going to get away with a free ride. In the end the driver dumped us several stops down from where we needed to be and asked for a small sum of money. We had done well considering.

The walk back to the hotel was probably the hottest walk of my life. Dubai is a relatively new city, plus it's in a desert, so there weren't many trees offering shade.  We dipped in and out of places just to get a blast of air conditioning here and there. When we reached the hotel I think I fell through the door and hugged the floor. I was so grateful to be out of that sun and heat.

Chris and I spent the remainder of our stay alternating between our room and the hotel pool. The pool was on the rooftop and offered a fantastic view of the city skyline. It was a bit run down, true, but it was enough to accomodate these backpackers. My standards had changed anyway by this time. I was just happy not to be in discomfort.

We did venture out from time to time, and this was to find food. We came across several indoor malls near our hotel. Malls are the thing in Dubai. I have a feeling that most residents live their whole lives inside air-conditioned walls. I don't blame them. I've never been such a fan of AC in my whole life. Anyway, the food was really good in Dubai, thanks to the migrant workers (I have no idea what the food of Arabia is like). We had the best Indian food at a food court in one of the malls. I'm talking full Indian fare served to us in a stylish way. It cost mere pennies. Finally we were finding pleasure here in the desert. And then we stumbled across the Metro. So such public transportation did exist in Dubai! We may have discovered it on the late side, but at least we had found a way back to the airport that didn't require us hailing a taxi. This was money saved and a real triumph for us.

We had retained our backpacker mode, even in the most challenging of places. And Dubai hadn't softened us. We didn't go running back to the West. Rather we realized that we were in this for the long haul. Asia was ahead, and Asia was going to be hard. Perhaps Dubai had been that middle ground between Europe and Asia to rerev our engines.

Perhaps one day I'll return to Dubai, but I doubt it. Las Vegas does the attraction thing better. Nevertheless I was glad to be able to visit Arabia, just to say I've been. Without the attractions (which aren't particulary accessible) Dubai is a rather soul-less city. Chris and I experienced the other side of it, the every day side, with the concrete blocks and the migrant workers. Even the Burj Khalifa seemed like a mirage in the thick haze. Three days in Arabia. It was enough.

The Edge of Europe (Part II)

Five days in Istanbul felt leisurely after our frantic hopscotch through Europe. We had the whole city to explore, and then some. One of our favourite spots was Galata Bridge, where the fishermen lined up with their poles. Down below, running the length of the bridge on both sides, were seafood restaurants. I loved my fish sandwiches, perhaps the cheapest meal in Istanbul. I could live off that stuff.

We visited the Grand Bazaar more than once, though we failed to purchase anything. I was looking for skirts, as I was steadily shedding my European wardrobe. Out with the jeans, in with the flowy skirts. We were told that the Grand Bazaar was ridiculously expensive, and indeed it was. And the vendors weren't overeager to sell. Most just sat by their shops, watching the world pass by. The one time I tried to haggle for skirts the vendor wasn't having it. He wasn't budging from his price. What was going on? I thought haggling at the Grand Bazaar was one of the great joys in Istanbul. But the vendors made little to no effort with us. I remember my sister and I being ambushed by charming young vendors back in the day. But then again, my sister and I had been young and fairly cute sixteen years ago. Now it was me and Chris, on the tubby side of 35—we weren't quite the catch. But still it was fun moving through the labyrinth, fighting the flow of traffic.

The masses of people are really something, especially after coming from European cities. They're like forces of nature, moving you up or down stream like a river. When we came to some of the passages near the Golden Horn, it was astounding how many people were about. And the number of shops set up for these masses was just as impressive. There are shops crammed in corners of every available space, selling the most obscure items. For instance, we were walking through an underpass, and we passed by an electric drill shop. Just electric drills. Was it placed there for an impulse buy, or were there really people who needed such a thing and thought “Hey, that underpass near the Galata Bridge”? This is just one example. There are socks being sold on street corners, underwear, toothbrushes. Again—impulse buys? I was just happy to find some kleenex. My sinus infection was still in full swing.

Chris and I found one of the most charming sections of the old town right down the street from our hostel, a whole neighbourhood of trendy bars and rooftop restaurants and cafes offering sheesha (hubble bubble pipes). It was an amazing discovery for us and we hung out there most nights. The first night we were lured onto a rooftop terrace with a fantastic view of the Bosphorus. Candles were lit and it was a romantic atmophere. Supermoon was peering out between the clouds. A storm threatened, but somehow skirted around us. Somewhere towards the end of our meal we noticed something happening at a terrace just a few buildings away. People were setting off sparklers and shouting down to our terrace. Then the next thing we knew, music started playing and the guy at a table next to ours got down on one knee. It was the first proposal I've witnessed before (other than my own). Perfect setting, perfect night. At that point I couldn't fault Istanbul for anything. It just kept giving out those magic moments.

The Mavi Guesthouse

Our hostel was starting to feel like home, although I wasn’t adapting to having so many people sleep next to me. Also we weren't allowed to flush toilet paper so the garbage can was piling over. Also the electricity had the tendency to go out at the most inopportune times (as well as running water). Also there was this funny smell that wouldn't go away... But I guess even the quirks added character to the place.

Some boarders seemed to have been there forever. Indeed, two of them lived there: the girl that checked us in, and a massive Swiss girl whose alarm went off every morning at an ungodly hour, and went off every twenty minutes following. Her alarm was some Rush-sounding song, though it wasn't any Rush I've ever heard, something about taking the power back or some crap. By the end of our stay I was ready to throw her phone out the tent flap. There was also some strange character who stayed in his bunk the entire time. He had sheets hung around his bed for privacy, and it didn't matter the time of day or night, he was inside his little tent on his laptop. We couldn't imagine why someone would travel to Istanbul just to sit inside a bunk. Weirdo. Another weirdo was Klaus, the older guy who had let us in on the first day. His story changed from day to day. First he was only there for a couple of nights. Then we found out he had been there for about a month. He was German and incredibly moody. He always seemed a little drunk to me, having that slow blink quality. He was depressed a lot. There was some story about his uncle losing his house. Then he was continually disappointed with the guests at the hostel; we had failed him in so many ways. Then one morning I come down the stairs to see Klaus sitting ontop of a bunk bed, staring straight ahead and moping. I asked what was wrong, and he said he had fallen out of his bunk and hurt his foot. How does one fall out of a top bunk? Moreover, what was he still doing on the top bunk if he had hurt himself so bad? I couldn't figure him out. But he's one of those people who I find amusing, and tried not to take his moods to heart. Under it all he seemed like a really decent guy.

Ali was the owner. And the girls just loved him. He seemed to go out drinking with the young backpacking crowd every night and the girls are all like “We love Ali.” I tell you, Ali doesn't have it too bad. He's not much to look at, but because he can get anyone into a club or restaurant he's doing alright with the ladies. On the night we went out with hostel crowd, we saw Ali kissing the drunk girls right on their lips. Yikes. At least he didn't try that with me.

We ate our breakfast on the street right outside (a decent breakfast too I must say), and on this occassion Chris and I got to overhear many a conversation. It was mostly this American named Richard who dominated every conversation. He was (sorry for the cliche) a loud and obnoxious know-it-all. He knew everything about everything. He overtalked people and scared pigeons away with his authoritative booming voice. I didn't like Richard, and I avoided him, until I couldn't. We took a day trip out to the Prince's Islands one day, and no sooner had Chris and I boarded the ferry, we hear a “Hey there.” He was already seated, and the seats around him were empty, so we did the polite thing and sat down. Richard talked for two straight hours, the time it took to reach the islands. His voice grated on me at first, but then I grew interested in his conversation. He kind of grew on me in those two hours. We decided to stick together the rest of the day and hired bikes. This know-it-all American broke his chain about twenty minutes into our journey, leaving him to look rather foolish as he walked his bike back to the shop. The guy renting out bikes took one look at the broken chain and asked accusingly “Did you change gear while going uphill?” Richard confessed, bless him, and was downgraded to a substandard model of bike as punishment. We watched him sweat around the island (Richard was a rather big guy) as there were many steep hills. On the ferry ride back he was quiet as a mouse. I could tell he was wiped out. But we went out with him for sheesha that night, and I have to say, the next morning when we found out Richard was gone, packed up and heading West, I kind of missed him. His was a big absence in the guesthouse.

One night Ali threw a BBQ out on the street. We each contributed money towards it. Our meal consisted of BBQ chicken and kofta, rice, and a tomato and cucumber salad. It was a bonding experience for everyone at the hostel. I had to sit next to Klaus who was in one of his moods again. He said his foot was hurting him too much to get up and serve himself, so I went and did it for him. But then he leapt up to get a bottle of wine. Yes, I still wonder if Klaus was drunk the entire time he was there. We found out that he was trying to get under the good graces of Ali, as he wanted to live there for free. I wonder how that worked out.

Ending on a Low

A group of us had gone out for some sheesha, which meant sitting around in a circle and passing around a pipe. This felt more naughty than it actually was. It was a mild form of tobacco we were smoking, flavoured with apple. It was incredibly mellow, and felt almost cleansing when breathed in, like steam. I did get a little light headed, but nothing major. If anything the cheap red wine had made me feel ill. And I thought maybe it was due to that when I woke up sick the next morning.

It's not a good feeling when you wake up with the feeling that someone kicked you in the stomach. It's really not good when you're sharing a dorm room with twenty people and the bathroom is right there and you have to be mindful of certain noises. I must have gone to the bathroom three times within the hour. This was definately not good.

It was no hangover. This was the stuff of food poisoning. I wondered about the BBQ from the night before and how well the chicken had been cooked. I laid in bed and tried to make that funny smell that permeated the room go away (I believe the smell was due to the leaking washing machine, which they had put towels around to soak up the water. The water had turned stagnant and foul smelling.)

I tried to buck up. Last day in Istanbul. Chris and I headed out into the streets, and the heat was already opressive. We considered going to the Grand Bazaar again, but I couldn't get any further than the Blue Mosque. We sat in the park awhile. I didn't want to move, my head was spinning. We finally decided to visit the Underground Cistern, a great way to cool off. The Underground Cistern is Roman in design with the massive columns. The Medusa heads, which support two of the columns, are always a pleasure to gaze at, one sideways and the other upsidedown. The Cistern was dark and dank, and really lovely for my spinning head. That was my last stop for the day. I retired to the hostel where I climbed into a high bunk and slept the rest of the day.

Between fits of sleep I was cognizant of people coming and going. At one point I heard Chris' voice and realized that he was talking to someone. I looked down to see that the figure who had hidden in his tent bunk for five days had emerged. He was bent over working on a bike (the bike that had sat inside the bathroom and that I had been using as a towel rack). It turned out that this guy was no weirdo. Rather he was on a long journey and he had been resting up. So far he had cycled to Istanbul from Paris, which was his first stretch across the globe. He had made it across Europe which was unbelievable. Even more unbelievable is that he was heading into Iran, then Central Asia—areas deemed dangerous to Westerners. I was impressed. I wonder right now how far he's gotten. Almost two months on, is he still in Turkey, or has he crossed into Iran? I wish him luck.

Poor Chris was left to himself while I dozed in my upper bunk. I was delighted when Klaus made an appearance and invited Chris to join him in a visit to a hammam. Chris had been wanting to get a good scrub down so he went. He came back with some strange tales, mostly about Klaus, but he did seem to have a shine to him. He had been bathed Turkish-style. Not a particle of dead skin was left on his body.

I finally climbed down from my bunk to go sit outside on the street. The sun was setting and the air was cooler. Two dogs arrived—the two best mates we had seen on our first morning—and tried attacking a cat that was curled up on a chair. To distract them Chris and I went running down the street, and the four of us ended up playing together. We had gotten to know these dogs throughout our stay. One dog had a collar, and the other was tagged (a tagged ear meant that the dog was a stray, but had received vaccinations and was fixed). We thought it was sweet how a wild dog and a domestic dog had paired up like that. It was like something out of a Disney movie.

Our time in Istanbul had come to an end. We spent one last night in our foul-smelling dorm room and woke early to a catch a minibus to the airport. Chris had stepped in the stagnant pool of water by the washing machine, and the smell clung to his socks. So even though we had left Mavi Guesthouse, Mavi Guesthouse hadn't quite left us. The smell stayed with us all the way to London.

 

The Edge of Europe (Part I)

I read not long ago that the Orient Express was still in service, running a route through Europe, starting in Paris and ending in Istanbul. The name itself evokes the old elegant world of travel when people dressed their best and regarded the journey as the adventure. The dark, lavish private cabins, carpeted throughout, a dining car with fancy lamps and polished silver, porters at your beck and call. I know this train must still exist, and I thought about it as we headed towards Istanbul, imagining that we were taking that iconic journey—after all, we had started out in Paris, and we had gone by train the entire way. But our train was far from the Orient Express, and I'm not even talking about the decor. For one thing, it didn't even reach Istanbul.

We had been sleeping nicely, even with the knowledge there’d be the inevitable border crossing at 2:00 am, but that would merely be a knocking at the door. We were snug in our cabin; I was even wearing my jammies. A knock did come at our door, as expected, but it was the ticket man, and he had woken us to deliver some news. Indeed the border was near. But we were to get dressed and collect our luggage, on top of that strip our beds and hand back our sheets. Thank you very much. Chris and I just looked at each other. What did he just say? We listened to the conversation as he spoke with the people in the cabin next door. I heard a girl ask “We're taking a bus?” and the ticket man answered in the affirmative.

It seemed entirely unfair that we had to get dressed and heave our bags on our backs and leave our comfy sleeper, especially when we had been looking so forward to ending our train journey in Istanbul (it was all part of the symbolism of crossing Europe). But fair or not we had to leave the train. We were at the Turkish border and had to purchase our visas. We were first in line and had the privilege of watching the immigration official finish his game of Solitaire before he turned to serve us. They weren't accepting Bulgarian currency, and there was no ATM around to dispense Turkish lira. Thankfully I had an emergency stash of American bills on me, just enough to pay for our visas. We got our passports stamped without much hassle and went to go find the blessed bus to take us to Istanbul. It was 2:00 in the morning, but there was a group of kids playing soccer in the parking lot. Who knows where they had come from and why they were there; didn't matter, we boarded our bus (which was a nice bus thankfully) and settled in for a three-hour journey.

I slept on and off, not as well as I had on the train. Someone was snoring exceptionally loud. Chris said “That fucker sounds like Sea Biscuit,” which was funny, but didn't help us sleep. Somewhere along the way I must have drifted off because when I opened my eyes we were in civilization. Massive civilization. The sun hadn't risen, but the sky was more gray than black. I saw hills of concrete rippling across the landscape in the pre-dawn light. We could have been passing through another city, but instinctively I knew we were in Istanbul. I had been here before. I remembered Istanbul from the greatest trip of life, back when I was just nineteen. I had waited a long time to return, but here we were. It was like revisiting an old friend.

Byzantium

We pulled into the station much earlier than expected. It was just after 5:00. I think everyone on board was a little shocked to be dropped off so suddenly. There was a bit of confusion. What was open at this early hour? The station was empty. I had to use the bathrom but it cost lira which we didn't have. We went on the search for an ATM, heading into a city that was still very much asleep.

I was somewhat familiar with the old section of the city. I knew we had to get to Sultanhamet where the Blue Mosque and Aya Sofia were, the two standout monuments in that area. Our hostel would be nearby.  We had no map so I kept my eye out for minarets. Two young girls were trailing after us, as they didn't know where to go and were trusting us to take them to someplace interesting. I spotted an unmistakable minaret down a street and I knew we were near. Sure enough, our path suddenly widened and Aya Sofia, that hulk of Byzantine glory, was before us. The girls tottled off and Chris and I rounded the structure, which was now glowing gold in the new morning light. There was nobody about. I remembered from before how packed this whole area was by day, a loud chaotic mix of tourists and hawkers. To stand there and have the place to ourselves was really something. It was a perfect return to Istanbul.

We followed a path behind Aya Sofia, and to our delight we saw two dogs romping around under one of the massive minarets. I don't think I've ever witnessed two other creatures having so much fun. They paid no heed to us as we walked by, they were too busy playing tag (or whatever game dogs play) with such obvious grins on their faces, it was impossible not to feel their joy. You could tell that they were best mates.

Our hostel was easy to find. It was about a stone's throw from Aya Sofia (That may be an exageration, as I don't think I could lob a stone that far. Maybe somebody could though, possibly someone who could throw stones really far). Anyway, it was close, suprisingly close. None of our other hostels have been close to anything, except maybe a tram stop. I knew from the reviews of Mavi Guesthouse that the place was pretty rough, but it was the cheapest place in town, and it had a rooftop dorm which sounded intriguing.

The street was quiet. We stood infront of the guesthouse not knowing what to do. The door was locked and we didn't know if we should go about waking anybody. Thankfully a face peered down at us from the rooftop. We assumed it was the owner. Who else would be up at this hour? A minute later he opened the door for us and let us in, ushering us into the reception room. He told us we could help ourselves to drinks, which was very kind of him, but he wasn't doing much in way of registering us. He sat down across from us and told us that there had been a huge party the night before, which may have explained his demeanor. He looked to be either drunk or hungover, for his words were coming out slowly, and he kept sighing and shaking his head, as if this was all too much for him to handle. Chris and I sat there all expectant, all ready to be checked in, but the guy wasn't remotely interested in doing such a thing. Finally he revealed to us that he wasn't the owner. He was just a guest.

It was going on 6:00 and a girl walked into the room. She spotted us and froze, her eyes swiveling back and forth between us and our new friend. “Hello,” she said, more of a question than a greeting. I thought she was sort of being rude, but the way she kept looking at our strange friend I got the feeling that we shouldn't have been let in by him. She went into action to register us, supplying us with two rooftop beds. We left that awkward scene and followed a spiral staircase upward. I'm sure we must have made a ton of noise. The staircase was incredibly creaky and we kept clanging upwards. We came to a very strange room near the top, a room loaded with an incredible number of bunk beds, and what looked like giant tent flaps instead of a wall. It may have been our dorm, but it wasn't a rooftop, so we kept climbing higher. We arrived at the rooftop and realized there were no beds, just bean bags. So apparantly our room had been that strange place below. We put our bags down and plonked down on some bean bags, taking in the view.

Some hotels may boast having some kind of view. But I've never seen any view to equal the one from the top of Mavi Guesthouse. Aya Sofia was right there. Like, right there. The greatest monument from the Byzantine age was right at our doorstep. It was kind of hard to believe, and I kept my eye on it just in case it might disappear. Just down from it we could make out the spindly appendages of the Blue Mosque, and if we swiveled around, we could take in the Bosphurus, that straight of water that divides Europe and Asia. We sunk into our bean bags and reflected on how lucky we were in that moment.

It was the end and the beginning for us. First of all it was the end of our stretch across Europe. We really had completed it now, no question. Although it couldn't be determined if it was actually the end of Europe or the beginning of Asia. It was perhaps a bit of both. Like Istanbul in many ways, it was a crossroads place for us. It was to be our home for five days, the longest we had yet to spend in one place.

Turkish Hospitality

We started our stay in Turkey with a nap. We couldn't help it, our night's sleep had been interupted. It was hard choosing bunk beds. Not that there weren't enough of them, but because none of them seemed ideal. It was a bit random, these beds. Some were two high, and some were three. They weren't lining the room as in the other dorm rooms we had stayed, but were scattered about as if tornado had set them down there. Chris and I chose two bottom bunks that were pushed together. They were almost in the center of the room which assured us that we would have no privacy whatsoever. Chris' bed was nearest to the bathroom and the lockers. Mine was open to about six other bunks; six other people I'd be sharing sleep with in very close proximity. It was almost like communal living. But anyway, it didn't matter. We were in Istanbul with that fabulous view outside. We curled up in our new bunks and fell asleep.

I was awakened by a blanket being placed ontop of me. It startled me a bit, but I looked up to see an older woman there. She looked as startled as me. She hadn't meant to awaken me. It occurred to me that I must have looked cold so she was covering me up. It was such a thoughtful gesture, almost motherly. She said something in Turkish, and I smiled at her and fell back asleep.

Hunger prompted us to rise. We followed the path around Aya Sofia and came to the main square, and sure enough it was noisy and crammed full of people. There were a few hawkers, but it wasn't as bad as I remembered. Back in 1996 this was the square where I bought a flute and a scarf and a guidebook and maybe something else. Back then I was quite the target, every hawker from miles around running towards me. They were like pigeons, you feed one and a suddenly a dozen flock around. But now, years older and with Chris by my side, it wasn't the same experience. We were able to walk through the square without much hassle.

We found food in the form of kebab and had our first Turkish meal. The prices weren't as cheap as I remember, but compared to Western Europe they weren't bad. It was nice to finally order food and not have to sit in a park or on a curb to eat it. It was also nice to be welcomed into every restaurant we passed. This was somewhat of a big deal to me, as I felt we had been snubbed quite often in Europe, or had been made to feel as if we were a nuissance. Here there was no such feeling. Here we felt as if we were a prize that every restauranteer was trying to gain. Which restaurant would we bless our presence with?

Turkish people are perhaps the most charming, hospitable people in the world. I know that they have enormous competition, and I know that a few right assholes must exist among their numbers, but compared to the countries we had been to thus far, they blew everyone else away (especially the “We speak French” lady in Montpellier). We didn't feel like we were in danger of being scammed or were afraid to ask for directions in exchange for money or a visit to their uncle's souvenir shop. The people seemed genuine.

The one time I saw Chris being hassled was when I came back from the bathroom at the kebab place. This guy couldn't speak English but he kept saying “Money, money” and gesturing. Chris was digging through his pockets for some change, and when he presented a few coins the guy shook his head and repeated “Money” then bent down as if pantomiming. Chris had an epiphany and in a flourish of gestures assured the guy “No, money not mine.”  He explained to me that a few minutes before he had seen the guy pick a lira note up off the street, and now he was asking if that money was his. His honesty and his eagerness to communicate was touching.

A real example of hospitality was when Chris and I ventured over the Galata Bridge to the more modern part of the city. There was a baklava shop that had drawn me in. I couldn't believe how many different types there were. I asked the young guy behind the counter if I could have one, and he got out a box to fill. “Oh no,” I said, “Just one.” The guy didn't know what to do, and it occured to me that they only sold baklava by the box. However the owner came over and told the guy to give me the piece for no charge, “My gift,” he said, touching his hand to his heart. See, this is the kind of stuff I'm talking about. Of course everyone's out for a profit, but Turks must have gotten the memo that friendliness works better than agressiveness. And believe me, Chris and I have been to a few countries in our time that haven't discovered that little secret. Like in Morocco, Chris and I found ourselves not able to trust anyone and avoided eye contact with anyone trying to sell something. It made walking through the souks most unpleasant. In Turkey, they were genuinely happy to have you, even if you were just looking.

Magic

There's something almost fairy-tale like about Istanbul. The skyline is like no other. The Golden Horn is perhaps the most inspiring place on earth for me. It's the mixture of mosques and towers and turrets and the bustle of the markets and the cry of the seagulls. There's an aura about the place, and for me it has to do with the layers of history. It feels like Byzantium. It also feels like Constantinople. It's a city you can envision in any age. And that to me is magic.

Chris and I took the obligatory boat ride on the Bosphorus. As we pulled away from shore I was surprised how much I remembered. I pointed sites out to Chris, palaces and such along the water, amazed at how much of Istanbul has remained in my brain. I'm not like this with most cities. In Paris I still couldn't point you in the direction of the Eiffel Tower, even though I've been there three times.

We enjoyed our little cruise, passing underneath one of the bridges that span the Bosphorus, thus connecting Europe to Asia. The weather wasn't the best, it was hazy out in the open water. But pulling back into the Golden Horn is the stuff of poetry. Isn't there some poem by Yeats called “Sailing to Byzantium”? Something like that. It is a pretty amazing experience, approaching the city from the water. It's one of those travel experiences you just have to do. And more than that, grab a fresh fish sandwich right off the pier, straight from a fishing boat. They grill the fish in front of you, slap it on a roll with some onions, and add a squeeze of lemon. You can't get any fresher fish. Superb.

As night set in Chris and I wandered over to the Blue Mosque. During the day there's a line around the courtyard to get in. In the evening it's peaceful and spectacurlary beautiful all lit up. Chris and I slipped out of our shoes, I wrapped a scarf over my head (which they provided at the entrance) and we entered and stood below the giant dome. Visitors could only go so far, but we could look over the prayer area. There were several worshippers there, touching their heads to the carpet in submission. There was a quiet hum about the place, and dare I say—it felt very peaceful. Now I don't advocate any religion, or even religion in general. I find when you dig into the roots of any religion, any religion, you'll always come back to the main tree from which its branches grow. In other words, yes, they're all the same. Variations of a theme. It's the fundamentalism within particular religions, the whole black and white mentality that borders on fanatisism, is what gives any religion bad PR. But I get the draw of Islam. I think there's a certain beauty, even mysticism to it. I'll never be a muslim, but I can appreciate it on some level.

We hung out in the square, caught between the Blue Mosque and Aya Sofia. Overhead was a full moon. Supermoon I believe they were calling it, or it would be the next night, at its fullest.

Back at the hostel I enjoyed one last moment with Istanbul before falling asleep. I heard something click on in the distance, and from the tent flaps of our dorm, prayer call came wafting in. I climbed the steps up to the rooftop, and found myself all alone. How could this be? It didn't matter. Prayer call sounded from the minarets of the Blue Mosque. It alone wailed over trees and buildings, until another one kicked in, and then it was a duet. And then the Aya Sofia prayer call sounded, and that was about as strong as thunder, blasting straight towards the Mavi Guesthouse. Soon there were three prayer calls trying hard to outwail each other. It was like a competition. I was caught between all three, pulled by one, then the other, then the other. Then one by one they faded away, and the city was relatively quiet. I looked behind me and there was the moon, and sure enough it looked like Supermoon, shining over the Bosphorus. What I said before—magic.

 

A Taste of Russia

It was another overnight train for us. It would be two in a row—Bucharest to Sofia, then Sofia to Istanbul, with only a few hours inbetween. I knew that this would be rough, this last push to Istanbul.  We had no time to spare as our Interrail tickets were soon to expire.

We left Bucharest late at night. We were hoping for the best seen as how we hadn't secured a sleeper. We had been told that the train was in transit from Moscow to Sofia. This had made me groan as I envisioned carriages chock-full of Russians swilling vodka and singing loudly (and badly). But when the train pulled into the Gara de Nord, it seemed that everyone disembarked. The carriages were empty so we had our pick of the lot. This may sound exciting, as we had the choice to sit in the 1st class carriage; but then we saw the 1st class carriage. Hurtful to the eyes, it was painted in a garrish pink, and instead of cabins, there were glass dividers. Seats were three across, but laid out in a peculiar way so you couldn't lay across them (as we were hoping to do). There were a few others that had joined us in this carriage; a young Bulgarian guy, and a couple that spoke something unfamiliar. We talked briefly with the Bulgarian, who was very friendly. We asked him if Sofia was a nice place and he just laughed. He said it was nothing like Bucharest. Well we had really liked Bucharest. We had no idea what to expect in Bulgaria, but if this 1st class was anything to go by...

I knew nothing about Bulgaria. I still don't to be quite honest. It's the poorest country in the EU. Maybe the elusive packs of dogs and wild kids were to be found on this leg of the journey?

Our ticket man was not the nicest guy in the world. He stared at our Interrail tickets for a good minute or two with an almost comical look on his face. I wondered if he was drunk. Thank goodness he was followed up with a tiny little lady who spoke a bit of English. She turned out to be our motherly figure in the carriage as I felt she was keeping watch over us. The ticket man handed our tickets back with a snort and moved on down the carriage.

Chris and I settled in the best we could. It was already nearing midnight so we sought out some sleeping arrangements. I curled up the best I could in the space I had, using my travel pillow and my fleece to prop me up. The others in the carriage laid out sleeping bags and stretched out on the floor. Chris followed suit. He was more horizontal than me, but I couldn't bear the thought of laying on that dirty floor. No, I'd be sticking to the dirty seats, thank you very much.

We asked for the lights to be turned off, and mercifully the tiny train lady flicked them off. What followed was a brief period of rest. And then we came to the border. The lights were blaring overhead again as we waited for passport control to come through. Now nothing is good in the middle of the night when you're awoken from sleep. Nothing is good when you're in the middle of nowhere and you don't speak the language and you don't know what's going on. It's much worse when you have your passport taken from you. The officer came through, looked at Chris' passport and handed it back to him, then he looked at mine, and took off with it. I was a bit concerned but figured he'd be right back. Seen as how I'm not an EU resident I need my passport stamped at some borders. Normally the officials would carry their stamp thingies, but this guy didn't. I sat patiently, slumped against a divider, waiting for my passport to be returned. The minutes ticked by. Chris and I stuck our heads out the train windows trying to catch a glimpse of the official. No sign from the building. Nothing stirred, and we were getting worried. I went to the section of the carriage where the ticket man sat, but he was curled up asleep. At least the little lady was there and she told me I'd get my passport back, no worries. Well, almost an hour had gone by. There was another guy who had gotten his passport taken away too and he was pacing back and forth just like we were. And then something dreadful happened—the train started to roll forward. Chris and I sprang towards the door. “My passport! My passport!” I shouted. I couldn't believe the train was leaving without my passport. I flew into the compartment where the ticket man was. He was now sitting up (maybe thanks to my shouting). His shirt was undone and he was rubbing his fat belly. He was so gross. But he said something to the effect that the officer was on the train. Sure enough, a minute later the officer passed through, handing my passport back without a word. I glared at him and said, “You really scared me.” He just shrugged and continued on.

There was no sleeping after that episode. My heart was still racing, and I felt as unsafe as ever in that dirty carriage. They had left all the doors open as the train had sat on the tracks for more than an hour. Who knows what kind of criminals could have boarded. Anyway, the lights were left on they were blaringly bright. It was a long night.

At the next stop the pig got off and a new ticket man got on. This one was a perv, according to Chris. He was just creepy, the way he would stand in the carriage and stare at me or the other girl as we did mundane things like bend over and tie our shoes. Ick. The overnight train to Bulgaria, first class or any class—I do not recommend it.

Little Russia

Bulgaria is gorgeous. The countryside I mean. Our train snaked through some outstanding landscape. Mountains, lakes, rivers, gorges—why couldn't we stop and camp here? It was the kind of train journey (despite the train) that someone would pay to take just for the scenery. We had several hours of this before the train came to the end of its journey in Sofia.

The station in Sofia is straight out of the Soviet-era. It is dark, dingy, and marked with strange emblems on the wall. We couldn't read any signs as everything was in Cyrillic. I told Chris, “We're in Russia.” Having been to Russia, I could say that if it wasn't Russia, it was at least its little sister.

Drop-dead hungry, we were astonished to find a McDonalds in the station (no mistaking that emblem). True, this McDonalds only served hot dogs and toasties, but it was enough for us. We sat down on wooden bench and wondered what we were going to do for the remainder of the day.

Having no map we decided to wing it and explore Sofia on our own, letting the streets take us wherever. Thankfully the streets led us into the centre where we happened upon an outdoor market. We aquired some bottles of beer and Bacardi breezers and went to sit in a park. We drank and read our books under the shadow of a Turkish-style minaret. We could now feel how East we were. Holding our bags close to us, we laid back and took a nap. It was an odd nap, as booze naps sometimes are. We woke up disorientated. We staggered out of the park and back onto the streets of Sofia.

We walked some more, but didn't come across anything spectacular. Sofia is a non-descript city, other than it feels very Russian with its cement Soviet-style buildings and tram lines. It wasn't at all dirty, but it did feel old. It felt stagnant, as if it hadn't changed in decades.

We encountered a very nice guy who was collecting donations for a children's charity. We had already given to his collegue down the street so we weren't prepared to hear his spiel, but he was willing to talk to us about the state of his country. He said it had gotten so bad, not necessarily the poverty, but the indifference in people to help others. In his line of work, he experienced it a lot. He was very well-spoken and genuine about his concern. He wasn't after us for a donation, he just wanted to talk with Westerners. His charity was geared towards helping young boys to stay off the streets, whether through activities or through education. We wished him well, and he told us to remember Bulgaria. I feel slightly guilty, as I haven't remembered Bulgaria as much as I should have. Bulgaria was something near what I was expecting Romania to be like. Romania had picked itself off the ground in the time since the fall of Communism. Bulgaria was still struggling. Perhaps when we get settled, I can look up charities there and see where I can help, as this guy has continued to live inside of my head.

The End of the Line

We had purchased overnight train tickets to Istanbul, securing sleepers. We had done it, the tickets were in our hands. Amazingly, we had kept to our grueling schedule. Now let me explain that the European itinerary was my doing (Chris was responsible for other things). I spent many an hour pouring over maps and checking hostels and campsites. I had to look up train schedules and see the best connections and try to find the most feasible routes. I love doing these kinds of things so it was no hardship. I did wonder how realistic it was to cross Europe by train in a month. The itinerary allowed virtually no rest days and had us slogging our bags across different cities either every day or every other day, sometimes in the dawn's early light. It wasn't meant to be easy. But remarkably, it was. Looking back it was a piece of cake. Sure there was that time Chris had to push me through some wire mesh fence and I lost my glasses, or that time we had to share a train cabin with a drunk crazy bag lady, or when we had to camp out in the rain—but none of those things mattered now that we were on our way to Istanbul, our final destination.

We sat in our sleeper and watched as the last of Bulgaria flew by outside our window. The window was cracked so we could listen to the steady clickity clack of the track. We were experiencing that deep contentment you feel when you've completed something. Whatever happens on the rest of our journey, we accomplished our push across Europe. Unless something happened at the border, we were homefree.

One little note on Interrail: it was well worth the money. Chris and I had purchased tickets to be used every day for a month. Considering the price of individual train journeys in Europe, we got more than our money's worth. The trains we traveled differed in quality, but that was part of the experience. It was never boring.  It was a great way to travel with locals too, as many times we were the only tourists on board. We heard a slew of different languages spoken and witnessed locals going about their everyday lives. I feel we learned a lot from this whole experience and would reccommend it to everyone. Europe—so many fascinating countries and cultures living in close proximity to one another. Chris and I are already thinking about when we can do it all over again. 

A Place Neither Here Nor There

Once upon a time in a bedroom somewhere in Northern Illinois, USA, a young girl poured over National Geographic magazines in her spare time (this girl, to be noted, was a bit strange). What fascinated her the most were articles from the early 90s when the Soviet Union and its satellite states were opened up to a shocked world. The pollution, the poverty, the crumbling infastructure, the mass of social problems. She loved it. She couldn't read enough about this part of the world.

Okay, so the young girl was me and it was particularly Russia that I fell in love with. Why exactly? All things considered, it's probably the bleakest place on earth. But perhaps that was the essence of my draw to it (I'm strange like that).  I never doubted I'd visit Russia. However the former Soviet Bloc countries I knew virtually nothing about. I never really thought I'd get to see any of them. They were lost under a sheet of acid rain.

Romania did intrigue me. I'll never forget those National Geographic pictures. Naked kids swimming in rivers near massive sewage pipes, a forest of smokestacks belching in the near distance. Everything lay under a cover of soot and utter filth. And then there were pictures of the orphanages and the mental institutions, where every individual had sunken cheeks and huge haunting eyes. How could this place exist, while I was sat here in my bedroom? I wanted to know.

People that say the world is getting worse perhaps need to check out photos of old National Geographic magazines. In my personal opinion, the world hasn't gotten worse. On the whole it's gotten a lot better as concerns the general quality of life. Why am I rambling on about all this? Because Romania came to a shock to me, in the best way possible.

In Romania, our train passed through stations with names I recognized. It was as if a giant paint roller had rolled across the whole landscape (even if it was just the landscape that had existed in my head). I'm quite sure the countryside has always been charming and pristine—but the cities? The cities weren't much different to any of the cities we had seen in the West. There were modern buildings and people bustling about in fashionable clothes. There weren't packs of dogs or wild kids crouching in underpasses. The streets were clean and the sky was actually blue! Romania, as the rest of Eastern Europe, had picked itself up from the gutter. This dark hole of humanity that I had read about ages ago had new life. Fortunately, the Romanians are eager to share with foreigners their history, and it's easy to see the pride they exude. For good reason. Romania is country with so many layers of history, and it's making history still with its inclusion in the EU.

In other words, Romania made quite an impression on me. And by the way (since I'm rambling freely here) what has happened to the great Soviet athlete; the serious, do-or-die athlete, such as the kind that performed in the Olympics? You know the kind—the one with the engineering of a nuclear submarine, the one that started training from the age of 2, the one that the whole Soviet Union hung their hopes upon to show the world their superiority, the one with a life story of tragedy and dedication (shown in an emotional segment before their Olympic performance), the one that riviled any wholesome smiley-faced American athlete, the one with the Gorbechev-looking coach barking instructions in Russian from the sidelines? I miss that kind of athlete. Russia can neither fund nor train athletes like that anymore, and many that were once trained in the USSR have moved to America or Western Europe. Those that remained in the former Soviet Union have grown soft. They don't have the same drive behind them that they once had. Romania used to dominate in the world of women's gymnastics. What happened there? They were an emabarassment in the last Olympics, and Russia was no better. An era is over, and now China is emerging. Well anyway, that was my ode to the Soviet athlete. Now I'll get on with my travels.

Dracula Country

I'm not a vampire fan. In fact I've never seen Twilight. I did read Braham Stoker's Dracula last year, but other than the beginning and other brief patches of excitement throughout, it was a long and boring read. I don't think vampires are sexy, in fact I think they are utter twats. That said, I do have a thing for Vlad.

I always thought the guy was a bit heavy on torture; afterall his last name was The Impaler. But considering the times, he wasn't as bad as some. Maybe he did ramrod poles up his ememies arses, sticking them out in a field to die slow painful deaths, but were the English any better with their hang-draw-quartering methods? Torture was widespread back in those days, and what Vlad did put into practice he learned from the Turks who had imprisoned him as a child. The Romanians hail him as a hero for keeping the Ottoman Empire at bay.

We stayed in Bran, just down the road from Dracula's Castle. Of course the castle had nothing to do with the real person, it just looked sort of creepy. The tourist section of town was built up around the myth of the vampire, almost a themepark of sorts, complete with a haunted house and a guy walking around in a vampire suit.  My only real memory of the town was the food (my first experience with shwarma—a sandwich wrap of sorts, very kebab-like) and the dog that came to visit us in the park. We threw this poor stray bits of our sandwich. Everytime we made a move he flinched. We could tell he had been through some hard times. Poor Shindig (Chris' name for any scruffy dog we come across).

Our accommodation for the night in Bran was a campervan. We were supposed to be sharing a bungalow-style tent, but were given the keys to a van instead. Our campsite was called Vampire Camping and was just down the road from the castle. This may sound scary (or just tacky), the kind of place that might attract weirdos, but it was nothing of the sort. The setting was gorgeous, tucked in a mountain valley, surrounded by wooden peasant houses and enormous stacks of hay. It was quaint and thoroughly charming. Even when night set in and it turned dark and windy, I journeyed to the outhouse all on my own without a thought of running into the undead.

In reality, Bran has little to do with the actual Dracula (son of the dragon). He may have visited there once upon a time, even spending the night in the famed castle, but he was centered elsewhere. Later we were to see the ruins of his residence, not in Transylvannia, but in the capital city of Bucharest.

The City of False Dreams

The first thing that occured to me when we arrived in Bucharest was “Why are they speaking French?” They had named their main station Gara de Nord. It wasn't perfect French, but it was pretty damn close. I also noticed by signs that I could read or make out fairly few of them, which is extraordinary after visiting countries like Slovakia and Hungary where I couldn't make heads or tails of the language. I learned later, through a guide, that Romanian is one of the Romance languages, along with French, Spanish, Italian and Portuguese. For some reason this really excited me. I can add Romanian to languages I can vaguely understand.

Bucharest is not an Eastern city; it doesn't have that Communist feel to it. It's not on par with the big Western cities, though it certainly aspires to be. I guess it lays somewhere in between. The nightlife is brilliant. Chris and I were to find that out after checking into our hostel, the Green Frog. The old town was in walking distance so we headed out. The streets were crammed with young people drinking and socializing. We were spoiled for choice in where to go, the drinks all seemed reasonably cheap. We decided on an Irish bar where we ordered nachos and I treated myself a margarita (Chris had his usual beer). I don't know what I expected Bucharest to be, but it certainly wasn't this. I was thinking street children huffing on glue, or gangs of gypsies looking to rob and murder us. We were told that Bucharest is quite safe, and we certainly felt it as we walked the dark streets back to the hostel.

A gypsy woman woke us the next morning, calling loudly as she walked down the street. She repeated the same phrase over and over again in a harsh drawnout tone. Looking out the window, I couldn't tell if she was selling something or putting a curse on the community. It was rather weird, but nobody seemed to mind her. She circled the block, so everytime we managed to fall back asleep, she woke us up again. Finally we just got out of bed and went to breakfast.

The group of young people at are hostel were international, hailing from Spain, France, Croatia, Italy, Germany, and who knows where else. Their common language was English, which they all freely spoke (I love how most Europeans are multi-lingual. Makes me feel lingually lazy). They were a friendly bunch, all sitting around on the terrace talking. The Green Frog was a comfortable place where people could come and go like it was their home. I wish we would have spent more time in Bucharest, for this was a good base.

Our overnight train to Bulgaria was upon us. We had tried to book sleepers, as our last experience had been a good one. The lady at the ticket office told us there were none available. This did not bode well, especially heading into Bulgaria. We just hoped for the best and spent our last day in Bucharest trying to soak up the city.

We headed to the most unmissable site in all of Bucharest—the Palace of the People. If you look at a map of the city, the palace takes up the space of about three city blocks. It's the second largest building in the world, the Pentagon being the first. If you've seen the Pentagon, which is on the outskirts of Washington D.C., you can hopefully imagine the scale of this building, smack dab in the middle of city. Also think about how many people work in the Pentagon. I have no idea, but it must be in the thousands. The Palace of the People, despite its name, was built only for two—namely Nicolai Ceaucescu and his wife.

Say what you want about the cruelty of Vlad; he didn't have anything on Ceaucescu. Vlad fought for his people, Ceaucescu fought only for himself. Ceaucescu was a dictator and a megalomaniac. What he built he built soley for his own glory. He had a whole section of Bucharest torn down so he could build his palace. His own people he threw out on the street. He forbid birth control, so starving families that couldn't afford more children had to hand them over to orphanages, or simply put them out on the street. The countless dogs that roam the city—Ceaucescu's responsible for them as well, for when he knocked down whole neighborhoods, the peoples' pets had no place to go. A country that was dirt poor and starving, Ceaucescu took money from the people to build his mansion, so he could live in luxury. It was no wonder that his people turned against him in the end.

Chris and I approached the Palace from the grand boulevard (Boulevard of the People or something like that), the Champs Elysees of Bucharest. Interesting, that. We learned that Ceaucescu actually had fashioned this boulevard after Paris. The street is not only wide, but impressively long, in fact, an inch longer than Paris' Champ Elysees. Ceaucescu just had to make it that much more spectacular. There's a park with fountains in the middle, and from there you can see the full-on view of the Palace. The Palace looks like it's just right there, a short walk away. It's deceptive, for as you start walking, the Palace doesn't get any bigger, and it feels like walking on a treadmill. Indeed, the Palace is so big that it feels nearer than it actually is. It's quite a walk down that boulevard. Chris and I were sweating.

If the outside of the Palace is impressive, the inside is awesome; and I do mean leaving us in awe. Ceaucescu spared no expense. We were given figures from our tour guide, all kinds of numbers and measurements; I certainly couldn't relate them here. But believe me when I say that there is a lot of marble, gold, and crystal in this Palace. The scale of it all is hard to fathom. We had entered at what we thought was the ground level. After taking flight after flight of stairs upward, enough to make us have to catch our breath, we came to a massive entryway. We had walked several floors up just to get to the ground floor. That wasn't what was impressive. What was impressive that high overhead there were skylights, giving the impression that it was daylight. But it turned out to be a trick; electric lighting. There were 15 more floors over our heads, and not only that, there were 15 more below. I really don't know how to impress this upon you—this place is massive.

We saw very little of the Palace, a mere fraction of its rooms. Most of what we saw is used as conference rooms, as the government uses the Palace for their headquarters. But even they don't use the Palace to its full capacity, not even close. Even in the corridors where we stood, every third or forth chandelier was lit. If the building was lit to it's full capicity, the electrical bill would be astronomical. There is more electricity in the Palace than there is in all the rest of Bucharest. It's like an entire city. And half of the Palace can't even be seen, for half of it is underground. Who knew what Ceaucescu had in mind for those floors. We didn't take that tour, but according to Top Gear, one of the floors is used as a racetrack.

The climax of the tour brought us out onto the balcony. This is the spot Ceaucescu envisioned appearing to his people. Standing there looking out over the boulevard and the grand buildings he had built there, I could see his dream. However he never got to appear on his balcony. He never even got to live in his Palace. He was killed before he got the chance.

Later in the day, Chris and I met for a walking tour of Bucharest. And this is where we got more of the story of Ceaucescu. We visited his original quarters, where the dictator had stood from a different balcony, appearing a massive crowd. At first the crowd had been receptive, cheering for him. But it took one negative shout from the back of the crowd to kick things off. Started by a group of university students, the mood of the crowd turned, and soon they were demanding his blood. Ceaucescu and his wife sought the protection of the army, but the army and turned on them as well. They escaped in a helicopter, but were soon captured, brought to trial on Christmas Day, and killed that very day. Lesson to be learned—it doesn't pay to be a dictator. His beautiful palace only stands for his greed and vanity. Our tour guide told us that he wished people would mark the opera house as the main monument of Bucharest, for that should represent the culture of the city more than the Palace. I understand his point.

Our walking tour took us all around Bucharest, lasting several hours. Our guide was a young Romanian guy who spoke perfect English. And he was honest with the history of his city; he didn't try to sugarcoat anything. He brought out both the negative and the postive, and we felt we got a very informative, well-rounded tour. It was the perfect ending to our time in Romania.

Chris and I collected our bags from the hostel and made our way through the dark streets to the train station. On the way we passed several prostitutes in the street flagging down cars. That was a bit of a surprise, especially after seeing the grand sights of Bucharest. But like the gypsy lady who had walked down our street earlier that day, they were every part of the landscape of Bucharest.

Oh by the way, you know that part about Ceaucescu and the balcony? Even though he never got to realize his dream of standing on the balcony of the Palace, waving to the adoring crowds below, someone else did. Who was the first figure to appear to appear on the famed balcony? No one other than Michael Jackson. And as the crowds were cheering and waving their hands and banners around, Michael opened up his mouth and shouted into a mic, “I'M SO GLAD TO BE IN BUDAPEST!” D'oh. Wrong city there MJ. Ceaucescu wouldn't have approved.

 

Pushing East

We had had trouble securing accomodation in Budapest. Perhaps because it was the weekend and we had put it off. We couldn't find any hostels. We had booked a room on Laterooms.com but they came back and said they were full and would refund us. Out of some kind of desperation, I booked an apartment on some other site. It was called City Apartments; there were only two apartments, and there was the exclamation “Only 1 room left!” which sounded fishy in itself. What kind of establishment only has two apartments to rent out for the night? It was different than anything we had done before.

Right before we left the hostel in Bratislava I noticed I had gotten an email, but it didn't say from whom. It read that they had accidently overbooked, but they had another place where we could stay. I assumed it was from the first place who had overbooked us. I returned the email anyway asking who it was from. What was the chance that two hotels in Budapest had overbooked us? When we left the hostel we no longer had wifi so I couldn't receive any more emails. We'd just show up at the place and see what happened.

Well it turned out to be a bugger finding the place. It was an extremely hot day and we were sweating already with our packs. All we had was an address, but for the life of us we couldn't find where we were. We asked two different guides, and they each pointed us in different directions. We walked in circles until we found the street we were looking for. We then found the right address and it belonged to a door that was boarded up and looked like it hadn't been used in years. We then came to the inside of a building, like some kind of bazaar, only a really old one where all the shops had been boarded up. We did find a door with apartment numbers, but there was nothing to indicate that City Apartments was located there. This was definately the address, but not a soul was around.

We were so confused we didn't know what to do. I couldn't get any wifi so I had no numbers or references to go by. Chris and I went outside to sit and stare at each other in confusion. No, we weren't mistaken. This was the address they had given. While Chris sat there, conferring with his GPS, I went back into the building. It was spooky, this building having an old abandoned feel to it. But then this young guy comes out of nowhere and asks what I'm looking for. When I say City Apartments, he tells me “They are full. There's another hotel we find for you.” Just like the email I had recieved. I was pissed off, as this place was hard enough to find already. He handed me a phone and some guy who couldn't speak English very well was telling me about another hotel. The whole thing was just so fishy, I didn't trust the guy on the phone or the guy who’d handed it to me. I went outside to tell Chris we should go. Who were these guys? Why was this guy just hanging around in this abandoned building and seem to have all this information? I figured it was a scam of some kind, and worried that I had given out my credit card info to them on the website.

Chris listened calmly to the information, but didn't seem as worked up as I was. He thanked the guy and got me to walk away. By that time we didn't know what to do. We found the email I had received and from there we got the details of the hotel they had supposedly found for us. It was nowhere near where we were. Chris smelled a scam as well, and in the end I think he was right. City Apartments (if they exist at all) is in the centre, right by the river with all the sights around. The other hotel, we discovered as we walked along, was in a much worse section of town. Everyone who books a room for City Apartments must get the same email. By the time they show up at the other place they're too tired to find another hotel, as was the case with us. I can't even remember the name of the place where we ended up, but it was two women in charge and they couldn't speak English very well. Our names were on a piece of paper, funnily enough, so they were expecting us. I was livid, but my anger would have been lost on them as they looked confused enough. I did ask the girl about the other apartment, and she said she knew nothing about it. Yeah right.

Our room for the night was a Soviet-style apartment: a bedroom, a kitchen and a bathroom. Everything was falling apart, in fact when Chris went to flush the toilet the whole chain and top part came off. It was pretty dire, so much so I had to end up laughing at the whole thing. As we were leaving there was a group of backpackers looking confused as they stepped into the lobby. No doubt they had been directed there as well. In fact everyone we saw in that place looked confused, nobody quite sure if they had been scammed or not.

Buda and Pest

The good news about Budapest is that it is a lovely city. Two cities in fact, one across the river from each other (I don't know which is which). There are impressive bridges crossing the Danube, and wonderful promenades on either side. I'm happy to say that the Danube here is the stuff of waltzes.

We found the city to be surprisingly pricey. After walking around, we settled down for pizza in an outdoor restaurant in a square. We had the entertainment of a saxophonist that was seranading us with all sorts of tunes, some that we haven't heard since the early 90s, such as the Tarzan song. It was so cheesy that it was actually pretty good. The guy looked just like Eugene Levy and was wearing red pants.

Having had a tiring day, we walked back to the hotel. It took us nearly 45 minutes, and was quite scary at times as Budapest has a slightly dangerous feel to it. It seemed everyone on the street was a shady character. The hostels I saw advertized led down dark alleyways to boarded up buildings. Maybe we hadn't done too bad with our accommodation. Sure, it was in a bad area, but nobody harassed us and we got back alright. We put bags against our door as a warning if someone tried to get in. It was that kind of setting. But in the end, we came out ok.

Bathtime

We had another overnight train so we had an entire day to kill in Budapest. Chris had suggested we go to a Hungarian spa. He had been before when he was in Budapest years ago for a stag do. The spas in Hungary are famous as there are many natural hot springs. We decided to check one out.

It was a long slog of a walk. One thing was certain, we were getting our exercise in Budapest. I could feel the weight coming off me. The spa was about an hour and a half away on foot. We were relieved when we reached it as we were sweating under the hot sun. We were ready to get wet.

We couldn't understand anything once we entered the spa. It was a spa for Hungarians. There weren't any tourists around. We couldn't figure out where to go, as we had rented a locker and we needed to change. There were imposing looking figures walking around in Speedos and beastly women in bathing caps. Everyone looked serious and nobody looked like they were having a good time. We came to a pool that looked like something from the Soviet age. Everything was slightly rusty and rundown. I loved it. There wasn't an ounce of Western tourism.

We finally figured out the locker situation, and for the first time on our trip we donned our swim suits. After checking the place out we found the central attraction, the hot springs spa. It was like a massive jaccuzi. Everyone just sat around the edges, water bubbling up in certain areas. As Chris and I settled in, we really began to look around. Our spa companions were mostly older people, and every last one of them looked serious and scowly. The men wore bathing caps, just like the women, and the standard pair of black Speedos. The women were massive apple-shaped creatures with mustaches. Chris and I agreed that this was the first time we had felt completely at ease in swim suits in public.

The spa was like a little play area. Bubbles would arrise in different areas at different times. The bubble areas were the most vied for spots, and it seemed like the grannies knew where to go before anyone else. There was a flow of water at the far end of the pool with bursts of water that would jettison you through. This was the funnest part for me. I'd grab hold to a side and see how long I could stay before I was swept away. Of course I'd have Hungarian hordes coming straight at me so many times I'd get scared and let go.

There was very little laughter at the spa. Even though Chris and I were having a blast in the bubbles, the old people would scowl at us. There were these little beds you could lie in, and the bubbles would come up and massage you. Anyway, the bubbles had this weird effect on my swim suit, making it balloon out in the belly. If I rolled over, my bottom would balloon out. Chris and I thought this was hilarious, but the women next to us gave us fierce scowls. For the locals, this was clearly serious business for them. This wasn't for their amusement, this was for health reasons. Indeed the whole placed reeked of rotten egg, so there must have been some regenerative minerals in the water.

There were other areas we could visit. There were saunas, both dry and steam. The dry was pretty good, I could take the heat. The people we shared it with were there for serious business as well. Nobody talked. They just sat around like they were there for a doctor's visit. Every once and awhile a real health fanatic would start doing callestetics from a bench up high. Seeing somebody do serious stretches in a Speedo is funny stuff. After sitting in the sauna, you had the option to dip yourself in freezing cold water. There was even ice on hand if you wanted to make it colder. Chris opted to take the dip whereas I did not. I did try out the stone-walking area, where you walk around barefoot on tiny rocks. Maybe it was supposed to massage your feet or toughen up your soles; I really don't know. It hurt like the dickens. The other sauna we visited (very briefly) was the steam bath. This one was unbearable. It hit you once you walked through the door. I couldn't breathe, it was so intense. There were other people in there, making grunting noises from the pain. Again there were callestetic guys doing stretches like they were warming up for a marathon. Everything was done with such seriousness, it was hard not to laugh. We could only stay in the steam bath for so long til we couldn't take it a second longer. Once out the door we would stand in a cold shower, finally able to breathe again. And then we'd do it all over again. I have no idea how good this is for one's health. It was an interesting experience, but I didn't feel any healthier for it.

Sandcastle Paradise

After the spa we walked along the left bank of the Danube, in Buda I believe. We climbed up a hill and came to the old town, a section of the city we had completely missed the day before. Then we came to the attraction that I had seen in pictures way back when I used to pour through travel guides—the Castle. Actually I don't know for sure what the Castle is called. Maybe it's just the Castle. It's comprised of several towers that are sculpted just like sand castles. These are the highest points in the city and offer the best views of Budapest. It's entirely free to walk among the towers. I imagined my nieces and how they would love to be there. It really is like a giant sandcastle that you can climb and wander around. I've never seen any place quite like it.

There was a nice breeze up on that hill. We found a park next to the Castle and took a snooze on the grass. After the spa it was just what we needed. We whiled away the afternoon on the top of the city. Then we had to climb down; we had to get ready to catch our train.

We were a little concerned after our horrific train ride into Munich. We had booked sleepers to Romania, so at least we'd be lying horizonal for most of the journey. We were still concerned about safety, as Eastern Europe is supposed to be a scary, dangerous place with bands of wild youths and such. We bought some alcohol for the ride, a Bacardi Breezer or two to help us relax and get to sleep. There was uncertainty, as we had been scammed at the very start of Budapest, and it can really put you on edge. We collected our bags from the hotel and made our way through the dark to the train station. We only hoped for the best as the Wild East was ahead of us.

The Overnight Train to Transylvania

We presented our tickets to a man standing outside our designated train carriage. He was an older gentleman, the keeper of the car it turned out. He showed us our cabin, informing us we had the top bunks. Thankfully he told us we could sleep on the bottom, indicating that no one else would be sharing the cabin with us. We settled in, and for the first time in a long time on a train, we felt pretty good. The cabin was a nice one, with a small table against the wall. We could sit on the bottom bunks and eat our snacks and drink our Breezers.

Before the train took off, the gentlemen came to visit us, bringing us our bedsheets. He told us that we would get a visit from passport control in the night, but other than that he had our tickets so we could sleep. Then he showed us how the door to the cabin locked. I was surprised. I had heard horror stories about taking trains through Eastern Europe and the lack of security. However we felt safe under the watchful eye of this gentleman. Once he left we locked the door and pulled the curtains shut, and the train rolled forward. It was dark so we couldn't see much outside, but we cracked the window open and felt the breeze on our faces. The clack clack clack of the track summoned us to sleep, and soon we were changing into our pajamas. Chris took a lower bunk and I took the middle bunk on the opposite side. It was surprisingly comfy, and with the train rolling this way and that along the track, I was off to sleep in no time.

Deep in a dream, a heard someone say to me “Hello.” It was loud enough to wake me. I opened my eyes and saw someone standing right in front of me. A man's face was level to my own. I gasped and was about to scream when Chris put out is hand to comfort me. He apologized for scaring me, he was just on his way out to go to the bathroom, but I was still shaken. Waking up like that on a train is frightening, especially with preconceived notions that scary individuals are about. I told Chris next time he must wake me, don't stand infront of me and say “hello.” It's just weird. Funnily enough, he did this to me again on the overnight train in Thailand. I think he enjoys doing it.

Despite the scare from Chris, and a bang on our door at 2:00 in the morning (most border crossings happened at this time) I slept pretty solidly through the night. In the morning we awoke to the Transylvanian landscape outside our window. Almost all other passangers in our car had disembarked already. It was just us and the elderly gentleman who stood in the hallway enjoying the view. The sun was shining and it was a new day. I couldn't believe we had really made it this far. I couldn't believe we had actually made it to Romania.