Greece to Turkey
Greece
Two happy weeks drifted by in Greece, I travelled from the very North - the Albanian border - all the way to the very South - Monemvasia. I had intended a sojourn to the islands but the price shock of arriving from the third world to the first put me right off. A cup of coffee i ordered in a cafe in Thessalonika was followed with a bill for €5.50!!!! Plus during Easter week the restaurants - even the cheapest - were in full take-the-piss mode. One nite i went to a cheap place in Nafplio with a Canadian traveller. We ordered one reasonably priced main course each. The bill arrived in Greek and had seven items on it. I handed it back with a smile as it couldn't possibly be ours. Oh yes it was. Then what, i wanted to know, are all these items?:
1. Bottled water - which we hadn't opened;
2. Bread - which we hadn't ordered;
3. Cover charge - for the privilege of sitting down to buy their food, and not mentioned on the menu;
4. Service charge, 15% - also not on the menu; and
5. Present for Easter - beg pardon? Present? I only (don't even) buy presents for friends and family. Yes, at Easter every restaurant adds an additional service charge as a present for its staff. But its Tuesday and Easter isn't until the weekend. It applies for the week before and after Easter. Chuffing hell.
Mainland Greece offers many interesting visits. The ancient Greek theatre at Epidauros being a highlight. In remarkable condition it can still seemingly host up to 15,000 spectators. The acoustics are pretty unbelievable. From the nosebleed seats you can hear clearly somebody tear a piece of paper or flick a coin whilst standing on the stage below. But imagine 15,000 people going to the theatre? What a nite out that must have been. Stop at the restaurant, gorge on the fresh meat and fruit, lash into the vino, quick stop for a leak and then off to watch a play in the company of a crowd bigger than most of Wigan Athletic's home attendances!
In Athens i visited the usual hot spots. The Acropolis is so iconic as to be unmissable and remains evocative even though saddled with photo-wrecking scaffolding. The city itself is a little drab and choked with grey traffic. I stayed in a "happening" backpacker joint with prices to water the eyes. One of the more interesting characters i met there was a Canadian who planned on cycling to London. A former military man, the dude had once been one of those silly looking blokes who stand outside Buckingham Palace in the red coats and tall, black woolly hats.
Contrary to everything i thought i knew about the universe he told me that they were allowed to move. Health and safety regulations required it. So every ten to fifteen minutes or so they can move their legs and arms and generally shake all over like dogs coming out of water. Then they resume the stoney, po-faced posture of before. Generally they try to do this when no one is watching. Reminds me of the old KitKat tv advertisement with the photographer waiting for the pandas to emerge from their cave at the zoo.
Also he tells me that to lay a finger on one of the guards is a serious offence known as assaulting the Queen's guard. And if any bother breaks out they press a little button and this brings squads of armed policemen running to jump on whatever pest is causing them trouble. The biggest pests? Old ladies apparently enjoyed poking the guards to see if they will move or laugh. And worst of all? One day a family of four arrived - Mom, Dad, boy and girl. Mom, boy and girl stood beside Canadian guard for photo. Then group turned away and walked off. The little boy who had trailed behind his parents suddenly turned, ran back to our guard and kicked him directly in the knackers before running away laughing. Tough job!!
And thats about all i have to say about Greece. From the far South in Monemvasia i trekked back up North as far as Thessalonika and caught the nite train to Istanbul.
Istanbul
Istanbul is a gradual introduction to the East and to Anatolia. Large swathes of the city centre are practically given over as tourist zones. It is definitely Turkey but its not that far removed from Greece. The place is generally quite Western. Same stores - Prada, Rolex, Gucci - same clothes, same music. Though the food is different from Western Europe, its practically the same fare as you find in Athens. I counted at least five Starbucks. The prices are much kinder, tho not as low as i had hoped.
Istanbul is a giant of a city. Walking from tourist central Sultanahmet to Beyazoglu takes a couple of hours and you are still very much in the city's centre. There are estimated to be sixteen million people plus living in this sprawling former Imperial capital. Once the capital of the Eastern Roman Empire, then the Byzantine Empire and until World War I the Ottoman Empire. As you might expect the various imperial ruins are everywhere and make this a fantastic place to get lost or to simply stroll about aimlessly. Walking through a random working class residential area you can easily turn a corner and discover the crumbling remains of a once grand Ottoman mosque, a luxurious hamam or the still intact lengths of ancient Roman aqueducts. There is something new to be found here everyday.
The city is bisected by two great waterways - the Bosphourus and Golden Horn. These wide expanses of roiling water are continually traversed by passenger ferries and the vast convoys of international shipping passing to and from the Black Sea. In his book Istanbul, Orhan Pamuk recalls as a child, lying in bed as enormous Soviet battleships slid through the darkness outside at the height of the Cold War. This is a city of living memories.
The length of the upper level of Gelata is lined on both sides by fishermen dangling lines into the busy waters below. Every few minutes they sweep up their hooks and drop a few more small fish into buckets of water. On the lower level of the bridge below them are a number of cheap balik (fish) restaurants where you can sit with a fish sandwich and a beer for four lira. The fishing lines dipping into the water a few feet in front of your chair. In the evenings small fishing boats moor along the quays. Fresh mackerel is grilled on the open decks, the aroma diffusing into the passing crowds of hawkers, shoe-shine boys, shoppers and tourists. You can buy roasted chestnuts, corn on the cob or cheap kebabs. But by far the best is as fresh mackerel in a baguette with lettuce, tomato, onion and liberally sprinkling with lemon juice, straight from the grill on the fishing boats. A cheap glass of fresh OJ will not be far away either.
Shine your shoes mister?
Speaking of shoeshine boys. There is a neat little scam that a few of them have running down by the bridge. It works a little like this. Walking along Gelata Bridge, nostrils full of the sea, eyes on the fishermen, ears focused on the honking of the passing ferries, you might barely register the shoeshine man approaching the crowd. Slung over his shoulder is his shine-box and accouterments, his head tilted back, eyes away in the distance, swimming in their own thoughts. Every inch a man on his way home from work. As he passes you by a brush falls onto the footpath from the shine-box, its owner walking on in his own world, seemingly oblivious to his loss. The tourist instinctively bends over and picks up the brush, without much thought and calls loudly after the shine man. As though the brush were made of solid gold the guy is overjoyed at recovering it, he is effusive with his thank yous, wants to his saviour's name and where he is from. The shine man insists on shaking hands and dropping to one knee proposes a free shoeshine as a reward. Those who succumb to this insistence will be pressured for a fee on completion of the shine. Those who protest that the shine was a reward for returning the brush are told, yes a present for you and a present for me. By the Olympic standards observed by Moroccan touts and tricksters this is pretty low key, low value stuff. But i seen it happen more than once.
Jazz music
During my marathon stay in Istanbul i had plenty of time to target a suitable watering hole for viewing of Champions League matches. I found a reasonably pleasant bar-restaurant in Sultanahmet. Mostly it was a restaurant with a bar counter at one end. Music filled the air even when the football was shown on the two large-screen tvs. The commentary would in any event have been in Turkish. On the plus side they showed two matches simultaneously and served decent beer with a huge selection of free salted and roasted nuts. From my frequent excursions there for football i became well known to the staff.
One particular evening, as i watched a match, i noticed a large staff gathering behind the bar counter where i was sat. The barman, three waiters and the manager were in rowdy conference. I was thoroughly zoned into the game when the manager turned from the huddle and called my name. I looked over and he shouted at me "Is this jazz music?" What was coming over the speakers was pop music. Pop music with some faint jazz instrumentation. I responded no, but he persisted. "This is jazz music, right?" Well, not really i said. He looked bemused. I wanted to get back to the football and finally agreed that it was jazzeeee. Jazzeee music.
I thought no more of this until the following evening. Another huddle was grouped behind the bar. Instructions were issued by the boss and the pop music was cut. Blues came streaming into the restaurant. Again the manager turned to me, all eyes behind the bar turned to me, and he said "Is this jazz music?" "Blues" i responded. "But it is jazz, yes?" "Eh, no. Its definitely blues" said i standing my ground on solid foundation. "But it is like jazz music" he persisted. Football calling me, i agreed that "Yes, i guess you could say that" and yielded to his persistence. It was not like jazz music. "See" the manager said turning back to the staff.
A few moments later the manager returned to his post outside the entrance attempting to peel tourists off the streets into his restaurant. I called Tariq, the barman, over and asked what the hell all this fuss was about jazz music? Tariq explained that the management felt that the customers don't like pop music. Management had read somewhere that rich people liked jazz music. So even though they are not really sure what that is, they reckon that if they play jazz music the rich people will come to the restaurant in droves. I turned to an almost empty restaurant and offered that the ploy was working a treat. Tariq just nodded toward the manager and rolled his eyes. Rich people out there beware, the restaurateurs of Istanbul have you in their sights!
Visas
My initial plan was to spend three or four, no more than five days in Istanbul and move on. This unfortunately ended up being two weeks. And while Istanbul is more than distracting for one can tire of it after a time! The principal roadblock was my desire to get a Syrian visa and the various mishaps along this road. Many i admit were of my own failing.
On day one of my ordeal I tracked down the address of the Syrian Embassy and confirmed its opening hours. The next day I went looking for it but there was a thunderous downpour and by the time i managed to find it, the embassy was closed. The next day I went there earlier and found an almighty scrum inside the visa office. I tried to queue patiently, but this only resulted in being elbowed further back the queue. When i finally got to the window i was informed that they would not consider my application without a letter of introduction from the Irish Embassy.
So now i tracked down the Irish consulate and made an appointment to go there the next morning. The Consul was a lovely fellow from Ballycotton, Co. Cork. I was, he informed me part of his half-dozen club. That's how many requests he gets for letters to the Syrian Embassy every year. By the time i had procured same letter the Syrian Embassy was closed for the weekend and i had to wait till Monday. On Sunday nite, with an end to the trauma in sight I somehow set my alarm incorrectly and arrived at the embassy the next morning at 11:05. Five minutes after it closed! Mounting frustration.
On Monday nite i employed great deliberation in the setting of my alarm clock. The next morning i arrived at the Syrian Embassy at 8:45 am to discover an A4 size sheet of printer paper sellotaped roughly over the brass plaque outside. It stated that the embassy would be closed for the day!! I dropped to me knew on the side of street and released a primeval scream of frustration that drew a curious Turkish fellow out of his office next door. Yes, i was ok i assured him. Pay no attention to the fact that i am kneeling on the pavement screaming. Yes, i said i have noticed that the Embassy is closed. Maybe open tomorrow he attempted to reassure. Maybe? Tomorrow. Dear, sweet, divine, effing..... argh.
Finally the embassy did issue me with a visa the next day and i was free to leave Istanbul. Which was just as well because i was beginning to think that if i had to stay any longer i would need to start looking for a job and an apartment. On the way back to my hostel, with something of an air of triumph lifting my spirits i popped into the Kyrgyzstan embassy to see what tortures they might like to put me through. Do you have US$90? Yes i do. Grand, here's your visa. Simple as that. Lovely, lovely Kyrgystan.
And finally i was released from Istanbul..
Two happy weeks drifted by in Greece, I travelled from the very North - the Albanian border - all the way to the very South - Monemvasia. I had intended a sojourn to the islands but the price shock of arriving from the third world to the first put me right off. A cup of coffee i ordered in a cafe in Thessalonika was followed with a bill for €5.50!!!! Plus during Easter week the restaurants - even the cheapest - were in full take-the-piss mode. One nite i went to a cheap place in Nafplio with a Canadian traveller. We ordered one reasonably priced main course each. The bill arrived in Greek and had seven items on it. I handed it back with a smile as it couldn't possibly be ours. Oh yes it was. Then what, i wanted to know, are all these items?:
1. Bottled water - which we hadn't opened;
2. Bread - which we hadn't ordered;
3. Cover charge - for the privilege of sitting down to buy their food, and not mentioned on the menu;
4. Service charge, 15% - also not on the menu; and
5. Present for Easter - beg pardon? Present? I only (don't even) buy presents for friends and family. Yes, at Easter every restaurant adds an additional service charge as a present for its staff. But its Tuesday and Easter isn't until the weekend. It applies for the week before and after Easter. Chuffing hell.
Mainland Greece offers many interesting visits. The ancient Greek theatre at Epidauros being a highlight. In remarkable condition it can still seemingly host up to 15,000 spectators. The acoustics are pretty unbelievable. From the nosebleed seats you can hear clearly somebody tear a piece of paper or flick a coin whilst standing on the stage below. But imagine 15,000 people going to the theatre? What a nite out that must have been. Stop at the restaurant, gorge on the fresh meat and fruit, lash into the vino, quick stop for a leak and then off to watch a play in the company of a crowd bigger than most of Wigan Athletic's home attendances!
In Athens i visited the usual hot spots. The Acropolis is so iconic as to be unmissable and remains evocative even though saddled with photo-wrecking scaffolding. The city itself is a little drab and choked with grey traffic. I stayed in a "happening" backpacker joint with prices to water the eyes. One of the more interesting characters i met there was a Canadian who planned on cycling to London. A former military man, the dude had once been one of those silly looking blokes who stand outside Buckingham Palace in the red coats and tall, black woolly hats.
Contrary to everything i thought i knew about the universe he told me that they were allowed to move. Health and safety regulations required it. So every ten to fifteen minutes or so they can move their legs and arms and generally shake all over like dogs coming out of water. Then they resume the stoney, po-faced posture of before. Generally they try to do this when no one is watching. Reminds me of the old KitKat tv advertisement with the photographer waiting for the pandas to emerge from their cave at the zoo.
Also he tells me that to lay a finger on one of the guards is a serious offence known as assaulting the Queen's guard. And if any bother breaks out they press a little button and this brings squads of armed policemen running to jump on whatever pest is causing them trouble. The biggest pests? Old ladies apparently enjoyed poking the guards to see if they will move or laugh. And worst of all? One day a family of four arrived - Mom, Dad, boy and girl. Mom, boy and girl stood beside Canadian guard for photo. Then group turned away and walked off. The little boy who had trailed behind his parents suddenly turned, ran back to our guard and kicked him directly in the knackers before running away laughing. Tough job!!
And thats about all i have to say about Greece. From the far South in Monemvasia i trekked back up North as far as Thessalonika and caught the nite train to Istanbul.
Istanbul
Istanbul is a gradual introduction to the East and to Anatolia. Large swathes of the city centre are practically given over as tourist zones. It is definitely Turkey but its not that far removed from Greece. The place is generally quite Western. Same stores - Prada, Rolex, Gucci - same clothes, same music. Though the food is different from Western Europe, its practically the same fare as you find in Athens. I counted at least five Starbucks. The prices are much kinder, tho not as low as i had hoped.
Istanbul is a giant of a city. Walking from tourist central Sultanahmet to Beyazoglu takes a couple of hours and you are still very much in the city's centre. There are estimated to be sixteen million people plus living in this sprawling former Imperial capital. Once the capital of the Eastern Roman Empire, then the Byzantine Empire and until World War I the Ottoman Empire. As you might expect the various imperial ruins are everywhere and make this a fantastic place to get lost or to simply stroll about aimlessly. Walking through a random working class residential area you can easily turn a corner and discover the crumbling remains of a once grand Ottoman mosque, a luxurious hamam or the still intact lengths of ancient Roman aqueducts. There is something new to be found here everyday.
The city is bisected by two great waterways - the Bosphourus and Golden Horn. These wide expanses of roiling water are continually traversed by passenger ferries and the vast convoys of international shipping passing to and from the Black Sea. In his book Istanbul, Orhan Pamuk recalls as a child, lying in bed as enormous Soviet battleships slid through the darkness outside at the height of the Cold War. This is a city of living memories.
Gelata Bridge
One of the nicest things to do in Istanbul is to head down to Gelata Bridge. This pedestrian and motor bridge across the Golden Horn links the two main parts of the city. Along the its quays passenger ferries line up to take commuters to and from their jobs in the city centre. Many steam up and down the Bosphorous all day delivering people to the picturesque towns along the waterside. A cheap tourist excursion is to buy a commuter ticket on one of these ferries. You can travel up the Bosphorous to the mouth of the Black Sea. Disembarking in a quiet little town, a steep twenty minute stroll up to the ruins of a castle is rewarded with some smashing views of the Bosphorous and the ships slipping into and out of the Black Sea.
The length of the upper level of Gelata is lined on both sides by fishermen dangling lines into the busy waters below. Every few minutes they sweep up their hooks and drop a few more small fish into buckets of water. On the lower level of the bridge below them are a number of cheap balik (fish) restaurants where you can sit with a fish sandwich and a beer for four lira. The fishing lines dipping into the water a few feet in front of your chair. In the evenings small fishing boats moor along the quays. Fresh mackerel is grilled on the open decks, the aroma diffusing into the passing crowds of hawkers, shoe-shine boys, shoppers and tourists. You can buy roasted chestnuts, corn on the cob or cheap kebabs. But by far the best is as fresh mackerel in a baguette with lettuce, tomato, onion and liberally sprinkling with lemon juice, straight from the grill on the fishing boats. A cheap glass of fresh OJ will not be far away either.
Shine your shoes mister?
Speaking of shoeshine boys. There is a neat little scam that a few of them have running down by the bridge. It works a little like this. Walking along Gelata Bridge, nostrils full of the sea, eyes on the fishermen, ears focused on the honking of the passing ferries, you might barely register the shoeshine man approaching the crowd. Slung over his shoulder is his shine-box and accouterments, his head tilted back, eyes away in the distance, swimming in their own thoughts. Every inch a man on his way home from work. As he passes you by a brush falls onto the footpath from the shine-box, its owner walking on in his own world, seemingly oblivious to his loss. The tourist instinctively bends over and picks up the brush, without much thought and calls loudly after the shine man. As though the brush were made of solid gold the guy is overjoyed at recovering it, he is effusive with his thank yous, wants to his saviour's name and where he is from. The shine man insists on shaking hands and dropping to one knee proposes a free shoeshine as a reward. Those who succumb to this insistence will be pressured for a fee on completion of the shine. Those who protest that the shine was a reward for returning the brush are told, yes a present for you and a present for me. By the Olympic standards observed by Moroccan touts and tricksters this is pretty low key, low value stuff. But i seen it happen more than once.
Jazz music
During my marathon stay in Istanbul i had plenty of time to target a suitable watering hole for viewing of Champions League matches. I found a reasonably pleasant bar-restaurant in Sultanahmet. Mostly it was a restaurant with a bar counter at one end. Music filled the air even when the football was shown on the two large-screen tvs. The commentary would in any event have been in Turkish. On the plus side they showed two matches simultaneously and served decent beer with a huge selection of free salted and roasted nuts. From my frequent excursions there for football i became well known to the staff.
One particular evening, as i watched a match, i noticed a large staff gathering behind the bar counter where i was sat. The barman, three waiters and the manager were in rowdy conference. I was thoroughly zoned into the game when the manager turned from the huddle and called my name. I looked over and he shouted at me "Is this jazz music?" What was coming over the speakers was pop music. Pop music with some faint jazz instrumentation. I responded no, but he persisted. "This is jazz music, right?" Well, not really i said. He looked bemused. I wanted to get back to the football and finally agreed that it was jazzeeee. Jazzeee music.
I thought no more of this until the following evening. Another huddle was grouped behind the bar. Instructions were issued by the boss and the pop music was cut. Blues came streaming into the restaurant. Again the manager turned to me, all eyes behind the bar turned to me, and he said "Is this jazz music?" "Blues" i responded. "But it is jazz, yes?" "Eh, no. Its definitely blues" said i standing my ground on solid foundation. "But it is like jazz music" he persisted. Football calling me, i agreed that "Yes, i guess you could say that" and yielded to his persistence. It was not like jazz music. "See" the manager said turning back to the staff.
A few moments later the manager returned to his post outside the entrance attempting to peel tourists off the streets into his restaurant. I called Tariq, the barman, over and asked what the hell all this fuss was about jazz music? Tariq explained that the management felt that the customers don't like pop music. Management had read somewhere that rich people liked jazz music. So even though they are not really sure what that is, they reckon that if they play jazz music the rich people will come to the restaurant in droves. I turned to an almost empty restaurant and offered that the ploy was working a treat. Tariq just nodded toward the manager and rolled his eyes. Rich people out there beware, the restaurateurs of Istanbul have you in their sights!
Visas
My initial plan was to spend three or four, no more than five days in Istanbul and move on. This unfortunately ended up being two weeks. And while Istanbul is more than distracting for one can tire of it after a time! The principal roadblock was my desire to get a Syrian visa and the various mishaps along this road. Many i admit were of my own failing.
On day one of my ordeal I tracked down the address of the Syrian Embassy and confirmed its opening hours. The next day I went looking for it but there was a thunderous downpour and by the time i managed to find it, the embassy was closed. The next day I went there earlier and found an almighty scrum inside the visa office. I tried to queue patiently, but this only resulted in being elbowed further back the queue. When i finally got to the window i was informed that they would not consider my application without a letter of introduction from the Irish Embassy.
So now i tracked down the Irish consulate and made an appointment to go there the next morning. The Consul was a lovely fellow from Ballycotton, Co. Cork. I was, he informed me part of his half-dozen club. That's how many requests he gets for letters to the Syrian Embassy every year. By the time i had procured same letter the Syrian Embassy was closed for the weekend and i had to wait till Monday. On Sunday nite, with an end to the trauma in sight I somehow set my alarm incorrectly and arrived at the embassy the next morning at 11:05. Five minutes after it closed! Mounting frustration.
On Monday nite i employed great deliberation in the setting of my alarm clock. The next morning i arrived at the Syrian Embassy at 8:45 am to discover an A4 size sheet of printer paper sellotaped roughly over the brass plaque outside. It stated that the embassy would be closed for the day!! I dropped to me knew on the side of street and released a primeval scream of frustration that drew a curious Turkish fellow out of his office next door. Yes, i was ok i assured him. Pay no attention to the fact that i am kneeling on the pavement screaming. Yes, i said i have noticed that the Embassy is closed. Maybe open tomorrow he attempted to reassure. Maybe? Tomorrow. Dear, sweet, divine, effing..... argh.
Finally the embassy did issue me with a visa the next day and i was free to leave Istanbul. Which was just as well because i was beginning to think that if i had to stay any longer i would need to start looking for a job and an apartment. On the way back to my hostel, with something of an air of triumph lifting my spirits i popped into the Kyrgyzstan embassy to see what tortures they might like to put me through. Do you have US$90? Yes i do. Grand, here's your visa. Simple as that. Lovely, lovely Kyrgystan.
And finally i was released from Istanbul..
posted by Supertramp | 4:41 AM
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