Friday 9 December 2011
Tuesday 6 December 2011
Day of rest?
I have just spent the last 15 minutes locked in a cab on the side of a highway.
One of the perks of working at a Daily Newspaper is that you get to come in on a Sunday. Yes, I was positively joyful when I heard the news. Nevertheless, dressed in my day of rest best, I waited at the usual designated place in order to catch my shuttle to the office. Unfortunately, on a weekend, there ain't one. It's just they forgot to tell me. Which how I ended up horrendously lost, getting out of a bus in the area from which the term "middle of nowhere" was almost certainly derived, and getting into a taxi navigated by Lucifer himself.
Thus followed a nail-biting ride where on more than one occasion I had to swallow a mouthful of vomit in order to avoid sicking-up across his leathery interiors. Swerving between lorries, cars and taxis - all driven by people who had also been educated at the same school of "How to not slow down when driving. Ever. Even if it means certain and fiery death" - we slammed to a halt outside media HQ.
15 Liras the meter brazenly declared.
15 Liras is the price of travelling from the center of Istanbul to the airport. Our total journey time could have been calculated in nano seconds. I could tell he knew the price he was asking for was a ridiculous one, chuckling away to himself, shaking his head as if even he couldn't believe that he was daring to push it to quite this degree.
With situation rapidly losing its charm, I handed over 5 Liras: The actual fee. He locked all the doors.
At this point, my patience finally packed up and left the building. It's Sunday! Bloody Sunday! I started banging on the window as, in our respective languages, we proceeded to shout at each other for at least twice the period of time spent in transit. I suppose, in a perverted sense, just in terms of time spent inside the vehicle, I got my money's worth.
Eventually I gave in and handed over the cash before emerging, defeated, from his chariot of despair.
As he screeched away in a cloud of dust and ill-gotten pirate gains, I'm sure I heard the sounds of demonic laughter drifting back through the morning smog.
Nevertheless, and despite a less than perfect morning, as I embark on week three of "Project Turkey" on the whole I am feeling slightly brighter about the whole operation.
Dancing has been had, sites have been seen and friends are starting to trickle in. Yesterday afternoon was spent sipping traditional Sahlep on one of the city's many glorious terraces in Sultahnamet, an area of the city which is home to the biggest names of "old stuff to see in the Istanbul," including Topkapi palace and the beautiful Highia Sophia.*
From where we sat, wrapped in blankets watching the sun setting on the sea beyond the minarets, the call to prayer from the surrounding mosques filled the evening air.
And then I got it, the sensation which for me, and perhaps every traveller and would-be explorer, is the holy grail; the chill of excitement which only be achieved when you are far away from home, and comes from a sudden goose-pimpling realisation of possibility, of future unknown and adventure...
*It is also where, last week, a Libyan man calmly bought himself a couple of guns and decided to go on a shooting spree. As a result, foreigners will no longer be able to buy a deer hunting rifle over the counter when they come to visit on a tourist visa. EVEN IF they have a photocopy of the passport. Sorry about that. I know this will come as huge blow to many prospective visitors, my granny specifically.
One of the perks of working at a Daily Newspaper is that you get to come in on a Sunday. Yes, I was positively joyful when I heard the news. Nevertheless, dressed in my day of rest best, I waited at the usual designated place in order to catch my shuttle to the office. Unfortunately, on a weekend, there ain't one. It's just they forgot to tell me. Which how I ended up horrendously lost, getting out of a bus in the area from which the term "middle of nowhere" was almost certainly derived, and getting into a taxi navigated by Lucifer himself.
Thus followed a nail-biting ride where on more than one occasion I had to swallow a mouthful of vomit in order to avoid sicking-up across his leathery interiors. Swerving between lorries, cars and taxis - all driven by people who had also been educated at the same school of "How to not slow down when driving. Ever. Even if it means certain and fiery death" - we slammed to a halt outside media HQ.
15 Liras the meter brazenly declared.
15 Liras is the price of travelling from the center of Istanbul to the airport. Our total journey time could have been calculated in nano seconds. I could tell he knew the price he was asking for was a ridiculous one, chuckling away to himself, shaking his head as if even he couldn't believe that he was daring to push it to quite this degree.
With situation rapidly losing its charm, I handed over 5 Liras: The actual fee. He locked all the doors.
At this point, my patience finally packed up and left the building. It's Sunday! Bloody Sunday! I started banging on the window as, in our respective languages, we proceeded to shout at each other for at least twice the period of time spent in transit. I suppose, in a perverted sense, just in terms of time spent inside the vehicle, I got my money's worth.
Eventually I gave in and handed over the cash before emerging, defeated, from his chariot of despair.
As he screeched away in a cloud of dust and ill-gotten pirate gains, I'm sure I heard the sounds of demonic laughter drifting back through the morning smog.
Nevertheless, and despite a less than perfect morning, as I embark on week three of "Project Turkey" on the whole I am feeling slightly brighter about the whole operation.
Dancing has been had, sites have been seen and friends are starting to trickle in. Yesterday afternoon was spent sipping traditional Sahlep on one of the city's many glorious terraces in Sultahnamet, an area of the city which is home to the biggest names of "old stuff to see in the Istanbul," including Topkapi palace and the beautiful Highia Sophia.*
From where we sat, wrapped in blankets watching the sun setting on the sea beyond the minarets, the call to prayer from the surrounding mosques filled the evening air.
And then I got it, the sensation which for me, and perhaps every traveller and would-be explorer, is the holy grail; the chill of excitement which only be achieved when you are far away from home, and comes from a sudden goose-pimpling realisation of possibility, of future unknown and adventure...
*It is also where, last week, a Libyan man calmly bought himself a couple of guns and decided to go on a shooting spree. As a result, foreigners will no longer be able to buy a deer hunting rifle over the counter when they come to visit on a tourist visa. EVEN IF they have a photocopy of the passport. Sorry about that. I know this will come as huge blow to many prospective visitors, my granny specifically.
Welcome to Turkey-land
The general consensus is that Istanbul is amazing. "What? Wait. You're going to Istanbul? OH. MY. GOD. I am so freaking JEAL-OUS!''. You almost just have to whisper the word ''Constantinople'' in a room for people to start spontaneously orgasming all over the shop.
Presumably it is fairly un-PC to say, therefore, that for the moment at least, I'm not the biggest fan. I'm not sure quite what I was expecting, but I think it involved a few more turrets, more old men with no teeth sitting on carpets and rather less being cold.
There are some gems I've seen so far, indeed, and I fully expect -- and hope -- to look back on this post in a month's time and shake my head in shame at this naive version of myself. For the moment, however, I have decided to give myself a little bit of space to be a moaning and disillusioned Brit.
I moved here from London just over a week ago to work for an English-speaking daily newspaper here, based in the ''Media Towers'' located about 45 minutes into the city's boomburb. The publication has a large staff based between here and the capital city, Ankara, with a small number from the U.S. or the U.K. The best thing about the office so far, apart from the stunning view of some large industrial cranes and the airport, is the free gym.
On first impressions, it looked like a perfectly respectable example of a workplace fitness facility. Upon closer inspection, however, this stuff could have come out of the Ark. As I attempted to rev the treadmill -- last used by Noah himself -- into some semblance of life, an elderly man materialized behind me, hailing from roughly the same era.
From his rather frantic gestures, I gathered that he was keen to show me round. This quickly turned into him putting me through one of the most grueling workouts I have ever had. It is remarkable how much pointing and shouting will drive you into pushing yourself to extent that you emerge, an hour-and-a-half later, with your spine partially dislocated, limbs incapable of anything but the most basic of movements and a sense of absolute accomplishment.
At least if Istanbul doesn't win my heart I'll leave with a smashing six pack (and potentially an ancient Armenian body-builder).
Presumably it is fairly un-PC to say, therefore, that for the moment at least, I'm not the biggest fan. I'm not sure quite what I was expecting, but I think it involved a few more turrets, more old men with no teeth sitting on carpets and rather less being cold.
There are some gems I've seen so far, indeed, and I fully expect -- and hope -- to look back on this post in a month's time and shake my head in shame at this naive version of myself. For the moment, however, I have decided to give myself a little bit of space to be a moaning and disillusioned Brit.
I moved here from London just over a week ago to work for an English-speaking daily newspaper here, based in the ''Media Towers'' located about 45 minutes into the city's boomburb. The publication has a large staff based between here and the capital city, Ankara, with a small number from the U.S. or the U.K. The best thing about the office so far, apart from the stunning view of some large industrial cranes and the airport, is the free gym.
On first impressions, it looked like a perfectly respectable example of a workplace fitness facility. Upon closer inspection, however, this stuff could have come out of the Ark. As I attempted to rev the treadmill -- last used by Noah himself -- into some semblance of life, an elderly man materialized behind me, hailing from roughly the same era.
From his rather frantic gestures, I gathered that he was keen to show me round. This quickly turned into him putting me through one of the most grueling workouts I have ever had. It is remarkable how much pointing and shouting will drive you into pushing yourself to extent that you emerge, an hour-and-a-half later, with your spine partially dislocated, limbs incapable of anything but the most basic of movements and a sense of absolute accomplishment.
At least if Istanbul doesn't win my heart I'll leave with a smashing six pack (and potentially an ancient Armenian body-builder).
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