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.