Medaba from Istanbul

Where does one even begin after their first 13 hours in Istanbul? I’m in my room right now, and yet, there are still streets crammed with people like SoHo on a Saturday in July and then some—though I’m about a perfect 20 minute stroll, literally right off the main street in New Istanbul (Istiklal Cadauk), from busy Beyoglu and famous Taksim Square. And to give you a better picture, before we go any further, I’ll describe exactly where I am in this truly astonishing place.

If you chose to look at a map (which I highly recommend), you’ll notice the city is split in two by the Bosphorus. I’m on the west side of it (European side); furthermore, you’ll notice there is a rather wide tributary that juts off the river and splits the western half—the Gold Horn. I’m staying on the southern part of the northern side of the river (if that makes sense), in a neighborhood known as Galata. To the north is “New Istanbul” (or so it has been recently coined) and it is unreal. Old mixes with new as boutiques, bars, clubs, and restaurants line the streets and vendors fill the corners. It is simply divine. Over and across the Galata Bridge is why I came; Old Istanbul, or Sultanahmet, is where the vast majority of historic sites lie. The Grand Bazaar district is also on the southern half. I chose to stay in Galata because it is right in the middle of old and new, perfectly juxtaposed in this (I’m running out of words) awesome city.

When I first started planning this trip, one of the dictionary.com words of the day that appeared in my gmail box was errant. More often than not, the words of the day are obscure and difficult to assimilate into ones daily vocabulary, and if I were not planning on running about to a far off corner of the world, errant, too, would be just as fucking random. However, I cannot find, nor create a more fitting word. Errant, in my own words, is to spend a day in Istanbul with all that you have to cover on your mind, and yet cover none of it because the scenes are so captivating, all the while misbehaving here and there; the streets so lively and full; the city undoubtedly surreal. Why have a plan on my first day—especially after only about 4 hours of sleep in the past 36 hours—when you’ve never been to a place? Get to know it while not knowing it first at all.

You might consider noting that I’m writing this blog at a rather obscene hour (04:13 local time, 21:13EST (I’m seven hours ahead)), but my brain just can’t stop spinning; words are running, sporadically, randomly, and thoughtlessly through my head. All I have been able to think about since I arrived in this historic metropolis is what the fuck I’m going to write about. And here, as I sit in my room, I still have no idea. It is simple going to spew from my fingertips.

I’ll quickly recap my departure from the City—New York City that is. ( Please note: “the City” will always and forever be New York City, no matter what.)

I left from JFK on Alitalia on what was supposed to be a fight that left at 18:00, to say the least it didn’t. We were stuck on the plane for just over an hour with no air conditioning…now, I can handle no air conditioning (I’m staying on the 4th floor here, its 85-90 and humid, with no AC), but on a plane with 290 people, it’s a bit rough. One of the engines would not start properly, hence the necessary delay. Needless to say, I got through it with no problems, as did the rest of the passengers. Thankfully it was a plane full of mostly Europeans who do not wastefully use as nearly as much AC as we devouring American’s do. Anywho.

The flight was fine. Of course there was one glitch. I booked my ticket through American Express Travel, and to my grand realization and stunning surprise, there was never an option when I booked my ticket about meal specifications. It dawned on me while I was checking in; I asked and she said it’s was too late and the best I could do was hope there was an extra one on board.

The plane was a Boeing 777 and holds 291 people, including crew. There were Four sections: first class, business, the frontal coach class and the rear coach class (no difference between the two coach classes). I was in row 34, so I got to board first. I asked every flight attendant I passed about a veg meal and their response was the same as the lady at the ticket widow: if you didn’t request it in advance, you’ll just have to wait a see. Well, wait and see I did. I got so jealous as all the other people with special meal requests got served first—as vegetarians, diabetics, and any other food specific person always does—I was pissed at myself and at American Express. Thankfully, the cabin stewards were all delightful and when they came around asking if I wanted “Chicken or Fish,” in their Italian-English, I finally had the chance to ask if there were any veg meals left. After everyone else was severed, finally I was too. And I’ll be dammed, it was a fabulous Indian Cuisine vegetarian meal (I would argue it was vegan).

Besides the meal escapade, my fucking seat would not stay in a locked position. Now, this was fine for me, but since it went back further then all other did, the woman behind me was a bit perturbed. After it happened a few times and I felt her evident, yet polite nudge, I turned back and said, “I’m so sorry, the seats broken.” It was annoying and relieving at the same time.

We landed in Milano with about 40 minutes for me to spare until my connecting flight to Istanbul took off. And it was the perfect amount of time. Back through security I went and by the time I found the gate, I only waited about 7 minutes before boarding. Almost three hours later, the Alitalia 737 touched down in Istanbul.

I was numb. Emotionless, really when we touched down. Why, I do not know. But it was probably a good thing that I was over tired so very awake and not to eager to get where I needed to go because a problem immediately arose once I arrived.

After grabbing my lone and quite small checked bag, towards the exit I went. I needed cash. I had spent the two previous days in the city all over the place, from banks to embassies and offices galore, trying to find Turkish Lira, but had no luck. To my delight, I spotted a CitiBank ATM. I did the ATM thing, insert card, type pin, choose account, how much, etc., and then was blatantly greeted with a not-so-positive message. “The issuing bank has denied your financial request.” Well, fuck you CitiBank. I traversed the globe with this ATM card and never once had a problem (well, until it got eaten in Brazil by the HSBC machine). Coincidently, I hesitantly tried the HSBC machine—no luck. Then both Turkish Bank ATM machines and got the same response each time. Thankfully, I had my Washington Mutual debit and had just deposited a very small amount of money which I was not planning on touching just before I left.

Well, it worked, and damit, I didn’t even tell WaMu I was going anywhere. I told Liberty Bank that I would be in Turkey and Greece at such and such times. I never once had a problem previously overseas with Liberty; I prefer using them because they refund all ATM transactions fees at the end of the month.

I withdrew 150YTL (Yeni (new) Turkish Lira) with my WaMu card. I was pointed to a shuttle service that would take me right to my hostel. Perfect. They set it up, I paid, waited about ten minutes, and then was off to my hostel in Galata with a driver that spoke maybe five English phrases—and that was just fine.

I checked in with home to make mummy and daddy happy, only to report my dangerous and dire financial inaccessibility. You see, it is better to withdraw from ATMs if you can because you get the best exchange rate as opposed to bringing cash and buying the local currency. So of course, I had a ten, a five, and probably about 17 ones which I purposely brought just in case. Nonetheless, they were virtually worthless; right along with my fucking Liberty Bank ATM card.

The drive into the city was sort of a blurr. I was tired, but wholeheartedly ignoring it. I talked to mom and dad, gave them the report and off to work they enthusiastically, though unfortunately went in order for me to have cash. Credit cards are easy to use, but you can’t get as good of a price if you’re paying with plastic when bargaining—so fuck it, I needed the paper damnit! Anyway, they had an hour before the bank opened, so I would be calling them back sooner rather than my planned later second phone call.

Like I said, the driver spoke only a few words in English; he said “Thank you very much,” for just about everything. I politely smiled and nodded as he went on in Turkish. He was able to point out and say what I was numbly viewing—the Sea of Marmara (to the south of Istanbul). It was beautiful though depressing. It was filled with cargo and oil tankers, some anchored, some sailing, but nonetheless, each ship hindering the should-be stunning and serene view. We kept driving.

It was beautiful all around us. The middle of this road (I’m guessing the main highway) was landscaped with geraniums and marigolds, brightly popping out below the many maple trees that filtered then scattered the sunlight from above. Still driving.

Finally, while I was still on the phone with my mother—who was excitedly and legitimately inquisitive already as to my adventures thus far—there it was: The Aya Sofya, or westernly known as the Haghia Sofia. This stunning mosque (though it was originally it was a place for Christians to worship) was emotionally moving from afar. I quickly told my mother I had to hang up the phone and that I’d call later because I needed a moment to take in the dreamed and picturesque view as tears trickled down my check. (Whatever, make fun all you want. Either way, it was my first time crying over a piece of art history, though I’m sure the Acropolis will bring floods). You see, my love for art history began in this corner of the world; first with the Greeks, their massive thrones and seemingly effortless sculpture (the Romans, too, but they mostly copied the Greeks and just furthered from their already perfected styles), then, slightly further more to the East in Turkey and Iraq. (Iraq was once home to more architectural structures and indeed feats than any other region in the world, though closely rivaled by Greece, Turkey, and Egypt. Today, well, I’m sure you can just imagine what is missing from their tarnished and tattered landscape.) For an adorer of late antiquity, this is unequivocally the place to be. And hey, here I am!

Anyway, back to the drive. It took maybe a half an hour to get to my hostel; through part of Sultanahmet and over the Galata Bridge, the driver skillfully weaved the van about the steep and truly chaotic streets. In getting to know the city more today, I learned that streets in Boston are brilliant compared to here, but at the same time—I’d take this place any day.

Down a steep slope we went that was barely wide enough room for the van, let alone the people walking and crowding around it. He asked a few people exactly where my place was, and we finally, and quite randomly, parked right in the middle of the street. Well, two streets actually, though neither separate nor together would they legitimately be considered a pathway for a vehicle in the West. He jumped out, and quickly stared walking in the direction of my place. It was a hike. I never realized Istanbul was an incredibly steep and hilly metropolis (nothing like San Francisco, though oddly reminiscent of Hong Kong Island (in some parts of it)). We walked what I would say was the distance of about five blocks and boom, there it was, he pointed out my place. Never, ever, ever would I have found it one my own. There was only a small sign on the doorbell saying the name of the place—The Chillout Galata Hostel.

And chill it is. Every inch of every paintable space is painted in a psychedelic yet geometric pattern; the walls, the stairs, the floors (though my room has carpet). There’s even this really creepy stenciled girl as you round the second floor stairs that reminds me of the crazy girl from the Ring. Creepy. But it’s a perfect place to stay. I’m on the forth floor with my own room. There’s a spiral staircase that takes me there, but it’s a breeze compared to the ones in Amsterdam. Everyone here, the staff (though they seem to live here, too) and guests are all quite nice and certainly fit in with the hippie ambiance.

I threw down my stuff; unpacked some stuff with hopes of getting some wrinkles to fade (oh, the trouble with linen!); washed up and hit the street, and thankfully I stayed on my feet. And there I went, errantly perusing about this beautiful place.

Passing by music shops and cafés, kebab stands and boutiques, taksi’s (taxi’s) and even the occasional tram, and of course, the thick masses of people, I made my way into the heart of New Istanbul. Of course, I was continuing to try ATM machines here and there, as I had yet to understand the problem with my card. Once I called mom and dad back at the shop, I learned of the problem. For some reason, the bank failed to tell me that Turkey blocks certain American banks. Why, I have no fucking clue, but I was livid. Especially since my WaMu card worked and I never told them I was going overseas—and christ, I even overdrew!

Well, regardless, we went through it all. I found an internet café in hopes of getting my WaMu account number so money could be wired into it from Liberty. Of course, finding your account number online or getting it over the phone is damn near impossible. After asking the WaMu rep on the phone, “Are you going to tell me that you are going to leave a customer stranded with no access to currecy, 4300 miles from the United States?” he managed a way to find help for me. Anyway, a story I’ve made too long already short, I got my account number, gave it to mom and hopfully she’ll be wiring me money.

[Note: my computer died at this point and I’m finishing up this entry at a great Koffehause on Tuesday.]

But it was the one and only American Express who truly saved my life. I called them up and they amazingly gave me a one-time use pin number for an ATM. In never would have called them had I not noticed a lone back with their logo…gotta love the AMEX. And I love their customer service even more. I can’t wait to cancel my Capital One, I couldn’t even get someone on the phone with those fucks.

Anyway, I had to have a beer. I ended up having a few, no big deal, I was in serious need of them. I ate the most amazing nachos ever along with my Turkish beer before continuing to peruse about the main street. After eating, I wanted to scope out some of the hot night spots the many travel books I’d read had talked about. So I continued on, finding myself on streets with no names and people, locals, running about. There are cats everywhere, too. Cats and kittens, all running around, looking for fun and looking for play. They’re all adorable and a mommy and a kitten are residence in my hostel. They are clean and cute. Anyway, I was starting to wear down and so I made my way back, errantly of course, to my place, for a quick nap. Yeah, I know, the fact that I even use the word nap is amazing, but I was very much in need.

After a brief snooze, I woke, put clothes on (had to sleep with nothing on—well, you could say I slept in the thick layer of sweat that coated my body and carried the sheet with me wherever I moved, but nonetheless, naked indeed.), and off I went, back the place I had discovered earlier.

BarBache was its name and it was about a 25 minute walk from my place. I started walking, not 100% as to how to get here, but I’d find my way, and yes, that I did. You’d think this place didn’t exist because of the area it was in, even the building. But it did, and in I went. It was empty when I got there—about 2230-2300. It’s the same in the City. It started to get crazy closer to 0:00, and my, it only got crazier. I started chattering on in my best non-existent Turkish in hopes of making some new friends.

I did. Two of them and my are they crazy fuckers. I ran out of money because I only bring a limited amount out with me at night, leaving my wallet and credit cards at home because I certainly don’t need to be pick-pocketed while dancing and drinking. Also, drinks were FAR more expensive than I thought, so I was making sure they poured properly, if you get my drift.

Of the two I met, only on spoke English. It’s funny. And they are crazy. Everyone in Turkey does an obscene amount of drugs, and depending on what bar you are at is what type of drug you’ll do. Not to worry, I was good. But they were rolling like crazy and wanted to get crazier. I was in for the fun and for the laughs, and laugh I did. I watched these two guys smoke fucking crack from a yogurt container—there’s a first time for everything. I just laughed and they laughed at me laughing. It was really a great experience.

Never once did I let me guard down nor did I feel nervous in their company; in fact, I felt much more secure than when I was alone. For being on the drugs they were, they were very tepid and polite and enjoyable. They were always looking out for me, putting their arm out so I wouldn’t cross the street too soon (which annoys the FUCK out of me—I survived Saigon, I can cross any street), and just constantly making sure I was enjoying myself. Once I explained that I really couldn’t do anything else, we agreed to meet the following night in Taksim Square at the McDonalds…eh, I know. Just the thought of meeting them there made me want to vomit, but it was easy for them and easy for me, so I was fine with it. And I knew I wouldn’t have to eat there, so whatever.

Well, I made my way back to my place for around just before the time I started writing this blog. The streets were still teaming with people—tons of them. Drunk and stumbling, loud and laughing, musicians and food vendors, police (way more than NYC) and people, strewn all about. For my first night, I couldn’t have imagined, created, fictionalized anything better—not one bit of it.

So much more has happened since then, but I’m not going to get into it quite yet. I’m fine and well and absolutely adoring Istanbul…and I’m not sure I’ll be leaving.

Of all the cities I’ve visited, Istanbul, but far, is New York City’s closest cousin—in every facet they can be related. An eastern rival, if you will. I’ve yet to find the perfect words for this place and I do hope I can find them before I leave—the people, the places, the culture, the goods, the food, the…everything.

So here I am; I went to the Aya Sofya (at about 0730 only to realize Istanbul doesn’t come alive—at all—on Sunday’s until at least 0900 or 1000) and realized I could die happy now, but I’ve got to make it to the Acropolis. Life is absolutely perfect and I wouldn’t want it any other way.

Until next time…