Hanging with the cats in Istanbul

Istanbul – April 13 (Friday, just quietly)

There is some magical and innervating about waking up in a new city. A new set of sounds creeps into your consciousness as you surface from sleep and the light emerges from a new direction with a different intensity and glow.

The view from our hotel

Add to that the most basic pleasure known to man – the satisfaction of a good night’s sleep, especially after 24+ hours of travel, three flights, two stopovers, endless patience-straining queues with only power naps to keep you going – and the supreme excitement that comes from this being Day 1 of the most anticipated trip we’ve made in years, and that makes for a pretty exciting wake-up.

With two mosques within cooee of our hotel overlooking the Marmara Sea in the old part of Istanbul, I anticipated the early morning call to prayer featuring in my slumber, but instead the first sounds have been the low throb of fishing boats busying about the nearby port, seagulls squabbling for first rights over any tidbits they bring, and the increasingly loud hum of traffic, plus a couple of early trains.

But the silhouette of the Blue Mosque’s minarets and a half moon hanging in pinky yellow mist of the sky was a visual treat.

We finally arrived at the hotel at about 7pm last night with pretty, new, pink visa stickers stamped in our passports (90 days for 15 Euro; travel memories = priceless). Apart from being herded with a few too many hundred people into an airline passenger equivalent of a cattle holding pen at Dubai airport (seriously; there was barely room to stand), the journey was uneventful. Or at least it was until we were put at the mercy of the driver of the hotel transit bus, who instructed us in the ways of Turkish traffic. Or Istanbul late-rushhour traffic, at least.

Basically, road lanes are there for herding people out of your path – don’t feel you need to submit to their white-line rules personally; the horn is for warning people that you are about to hit them and they should move (especially cyclists and pedestrians); the speed limit is designed to slow all other traffic on the road so you can pass it; drive on the right unless it is easier to get past cars on narrow laneways by using the pavement of any other ingenious solution. There are a lot of laneways on the way to this hotel.

But, like everyone else we’ve met so far, he was incredibly friendly and helpful.

It’s funny how the body reacts to adrenalin. From being dead on my feet and barely able to stay awake while watching the same suitcases go round and round on the baggage conveyor belt, while our backpacks and the bags of a couple of hundred other passengers were apparently being held at a secret location somewhere in the bowels of the airport (why does that always happen? Who do those unclaimed bags belong to?), by the time we’d been reminded by our driver that life is a precarious thing and every moment should be enjoyed as if it was your last, we checked into our cosy but cute room with Juliet balcony overlooking the silky blue Marmara Sea (with only a sports complex, railway line and four-lane highway between us and its tranquil shores) then headed out to explore the town. 

The immediate laneways are cobbled spaces that barely fend off the encroaching push from the jumble of homes that various builders with mixed ideas on architecture have crammed into the available space over the years. Most are 2-3 storey terraces, with an array of balconies and different-shaped overhangs eking out as much extra space as they can for their residents to live in. Doorways can be half-sunken below street level or in need of a makeshift step to be reached, a foot or two above the pavement. Occasionally a grape vine or geranium is given space to grow where a half-brick is missing from the roadway or a pot can be squeezed onto a tiny balcony or entranceway.

A few doors or curtains were left open, offering a glimpse into comfy couches lining narrow corridors or women and children sharing the evening cooking duties.

A couple of homeless men were sharing out the few cigarettes they had as we walked into a nearby park with water fountains in its centre, surrounded by fenced-off lawn and threats to those who thought they might make a good bathing pool.

But John says I need to mention the cats. They are everywhere: White, marmalade, ginger and semi-siamese, but few blacks or tabbies, they seem to emerge from the shadows and dumpsters at night and take over the streets. Some are a bit mangy and skinny but, on the whole, they look fairly healthy and probably have pet people somewhere rather than being purely feral. Not so many birds (quelle surprise?) – few grey and black ravens/crows, sparrows, thrushes and seagulls so far.

So we discovered we’re within easy walking distance of the fish markets and restaurants by the waterfront, plus another pedestrian area dedicated to restaurants and cafes, all decked out in colourful strings of lights and with a gathering of wandering minstrels on every other café table or serenading dining tourists. A lot of guys sitting around smoking hookahs, and a few wandering around offering hookahs to diners. We met Cesar, who has an uncle in Holland (and can nearly say Acht en Tachtig prachtig grachten without losing his teeth), and had a puff of his apple tobacco mix, which was surprisingly mellow and tasty. The area reminded us of Carlton’s Lygon street with all the spruikers out to lure in passing trade – most of the diners appear to be tourists – and all with the multi-lingual charm down pat: “you want eat? Come my restaurant – best fresh fish, good and cheap – you from England? Sweden? Germany? America? Best price! Not tonight? – maybe tomorrow – ask for Ali – here’s my card.”

As well as this little area (complete with ice-cream making display – it looked like dough, truly) nearly all the ‘main’ streets (over 3m wide) have little shops selling sweets, offering to patch or stretch your shoes, fix you a bowl of beans and rice, sell you some soggy looking vegetables or cut your hair (boys only). In fact we barely saw any women out who weren’t tourists, and I was glad to be part of a couple.

The fish all looked fairly fresh tho, so we may eat there tonight – turbot and gurnard were expensive ($50 a kilo) but locally caught stuff from Black or Marmara seas (mackerel, silver bream, sea bass, sardines, and a huge ‘el’ fish (? Phonetic name – about 2m long and silver like a bonito but fatter)) is pretty cheap – 15Lira per kilo ($8-9 or 5-6 UK pounds).

Pix to come when I can find software to edit on this (new to me) netbook. Paint doesn't seem capable of such basic functions as reducing file size.

Right – off to explore some more today – we have two more nights here and heaps to see.

Stay well and stay tuned.

Jane and John

PS did I tell you how much I love my backpack? Feels like home having that back on.