20 years ago today - Day 242

Thursday, October 31st - Istanbul

Halloween. Or at least it would be in North America. Here is just another hectic Thursday in the big city. As soon as the Iranian Consulate opens all three of us are waiting at their doors to claim or passports and Iranian visas. But no, they are still not ready. Vincent loses it a little, accusing the official of lying to us when he told us it would be ready today. The official argues back that he said to check today, but he says he didn’t make any promises. He asks why we are complaining when to get a visa for any of our countries would take at least a week.

He is probably right but I don’t know. Why would I apply for a visa for my own country? But we are not upset about the length of time, but that he did promise us they would be ready today. I heard him. I am beginning to feel the itch to move on, but I am in no big hurry to move on. I will stay wherever Vincent and Coen are, but I don’t have anyone flying to meet me in New Delhi in two months. Still, this incident brings back the bad taste in my mouth of the arrogant SNCF staff when our bicycles were lost in transport from Cerbere to Avignon (Days 61-5) for five days. Déjà poo.

Vincent wants to go shopping for something and call home from the PTT after we leave. He needs time to cool down. I walk Coen back. He has been quiet this morning. His eyes are read and his voice is weird. He is still sneezing and sniffling. “How are you feeling today?” I ask him. “Pretty tired,” his voice squawks. “I am glad I have a couple more days to recover before we leave.” He’s right. Tomorrow is the Islamic Sabbath so the consulate will not be open. I walk him back to the hostel and to his bed. I ask if there is anything I can get him, but he says no. He’s like an oversized kid when he is sick, the kind I take pity on. I’d stay here and cuddle with him if he wasn’t so straight - and contagious.

Vincent is back within an hour and finds me talking with other backpackers in the lounge. I suggest we walk down to the Galata bridge for something to do. He agrees. He needs to keep active to keep his mind off the visas. It is spitting rain here and there, but the sky in the west looks more promising. We are mostly silent as we make our way down to the harbour. As we pass the consulate again, I ask what we will do if the visas don’t come. They will, he says, but he doesn’t want to talk about it. I ask him if he would leave if it is raining. Definitely, he says – as soon as we get our visas. He tells me Coen will be OK. He always gets colds, but that he’s glad he’ll have a couple days to get over it.

The wind is up, which is not unusual along the Bosphorus, but it’s fairly chilly with the dampness of the ocean around us. The gulls, the boats are still reassuring to me. It occurs to me I might not see salt water again for months, once we leave.

Coen sleeps all afternoon, which I am sure he needs. When we return he is half-awake but prefers to eat in the hostel again. Vincent joins me in going out for pudding later, while Coen stays in and watches television in the lounge. Vincent tells me about his family, his girlfriend and work. It is great to learn more about him. He asks me more about myself and whether I ever get lonely when traveling.

I tell him I do, especially that I can’t find gay culture most places. I tell him that tonight I want to check out a Turkish gay bar before I leave, since it may be months before I will be in another gay bar. He surprises me by asking if he can come along. He is either curious about what they look like here or trying to protect me. I don’t mind his company in the last regard either, though I doubt I will be in any danger.

The bar in my Spartacus guide is located half a kilometre away. When we get there we find out there is the equivalent of a US$13 cover charge. It includes one drink, but that is more than half the cost of our four-hour Bosphorus cruise and Vincent will have nothing to do with it so he heads home.

I pay the fee and go inside. It is noisy with flashing lights but no one is on the dance floor. It is still early. For over half an hour I sit alone nursing my drink until two men in their late 20s just me. Their names are Mehmet and Derzan. Like most Turkish men, they are friendly and welcoming. I don’t really like this place as it is too noisy to talk well, and there seems to be a coldness, even a dis respectfulness the management holds for the patrons. I ask the Turks about it and they say it is a straight-owned place, only interested in making money off gays. I order another drink and am told it will cost $8, triple the cost of anywhere else. Mehmet says the prices are high so the owners can bribe the police not to raid them.

The police are like mafia here. Everything is based on bribes and extortions, especially when it is illegal to be gay in the first place. I imagine the police will lose a lot of their ‘income’ if homosexuality is decriminalized here. Mehmet and Derzan move on to meet friends of theirs and I leave. I am definitely not enjoying myself here and I’d sooner be in bed. If this is my last gay bar for several months, I won’t be missing much.


PHOTO 1: fish vendors on the Galata Bridge

20 years ago today - Day 241

Wednesday, October 30th - Istanbul

The Iranian Consulate opens at 10 am this morning. We hurry down to wait at the doors but, after waiting 20 minutes inside, we find out our visas are not ready. “Tomorrow” we are advised. What now, Coen asks. “Netsimukelut” Vincent shrugs. “We will just come back tomorrow.” I am not really as sure about his show of coolness as I catch a glimpse of disappointment in his face.

Our day is completely wide open, without plans. It is a cloudy day, best kept for indoor activities. Vincent wants to see the Blue Mosque, which both Coen and I have seen. I suggest to Coen I want to go shopping for a souvenir of Istanbul, since I have been here longer than any place I have visited in the eight months of my trip. Coen agrees to come with me.

I am not sure where I want to go but a clerk at the hostel has suggested I check out the Grand Bazaar on a side street a few blocks away, up the hill from the spice market. It is not the easiest place to find if you come at it the wrong way, as we seem to have done. The entrance we find is through a courtyard off the side of the mall and seems way too small to be the right place. Through the door though, it is a huge complex with dozens of corridors that go on forever. It is visually overwhelming. After half an hour Coen says he feels like going back to the hostel for a rest. He has been sniffling and occasionally sneezing.

Once on my own with no one to talk to, the constant stimulation of music, crowds and merchandise begins to tire me too. Too much stimulation always does that to me. I seek out the quieter corridors that dead end. In one of them I run into Jamal, a handsome young man who is looking after his father’s carpet shop. He smiles so sweetly that I stop to talk to him. He isn’t like the other sellers who constantly come after me, calling me friend and offering to take me into their shops to display their carpets. I suppose he would not be considered a good seller as he is not aggressive enough, but he certainly drew me in. For the moment, I am happy Coen has gone home.

Jamal is not in his element here, which is why I am drawn to him I suppose. He is grateful that I want to talk even, especially after I tell him I am not interested in carpets. I think he is sick of talking about them but he must ask as it is his job. I can tell he wants to know me, as pointless as that seems. He can’t meet me after work. He lives a forty minute bus ride away and works from 9 am to 11 pm when he isn’t studying to be a bookkeeper. He says lots of workers have to work long hours in Istanbul because wages are regulated nationally but the costs of living in Istanbul are much higher than the rest of the country.

He tells me I have beautiful eyes and I tell him he is very handsome, which makes him both beam and blush. I brush his hand in a discreet way and he locks fingers with me, glancing nervously to see if anyone is watching us. He lets me take his picture. I explain that I am looking for something I can carry with me while I cycle to India, and he is filled with animated interest. He suggests I check out the vests in his father’s other shop in the next corridor. I thank him and blow him a kiss as I leave. I am not sure if I have made his day or just made him lonelier. Sometimes life asks too much of us, right?

His father’s shop is on a busier corridor with more customers. I spot what I want on a rack of vests right away. I also pick up a ‘kafia’, one of those red and white patterned head and neck wraps that Yasser Arafat wears. It might get pretty cold in the mountains east of here. The father is a stout, balding man with a working class build. Jamal doesn’t look like him at all. His shop is busy and he cannot chat. I make my purchases and leave.

On my way back to the hostel I pass a ark skinned man with a brown bear on a leash. It looks like they have just stepped out of a circus. I stop out of curiosity. He asks if I would like to take a picture for a small price to pay for the bear’s food. Caught off guard, this seems like a good thing to do but later I realize he might be keeping the poor bear in cruel circumstances to make his living. Perhaps it is no different than having performing dogs and monkeys, but the bear did not seem to be enjoying being hauled around on a leash.

I am beginning to see the city as it is for its residents. Jamal’s taxing hours, the ticket and bagel vendors who can never marry because they cannot afford to keep a wife, the brown bear on a leash, his unemployed owner, Ilio’s life on the street, even the taxi drivers who beat and robbed him when he arrived in the city – life in this city is very hard for those who are not rich. Even though the election that has just passed has brought in a new party, it’s just another right-wing government that will cater to the rich and powerful.


PHOTO 1: courtyard entrance to the Grand Bazaar
PHOTO 2: the Grand Bazaar
PHOTO 3: Jamal
PHOTO 4: my new Turkish vest
PHOTO 5: bear on a leash, possibly drugged

20 years ago today - Day 240

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Tuesday, October 29th - Istanbul

Our hopes are still high that we will have our Iranian visas tomorrow. I can see that Coen is getting anxious to move on as we are losing time to get to India, though Vincent has seen a bit less of the city. In anticipation of possibly leaving in a two days, Vincent is eager to take a boat trip up the Bosphorus. We walked past the docks in Eminonu two days ago where we saw signs for the Bosphorus cruise. Coen is a little leery about spending a day and a half’s budget to go on it but with Vincent and I both wanting to, he decides to join us.

There are travel agent shops in Eminonu so we shop around. I would be the type to take the first or second package, not being much of a shopper, but Vincent and Coen have the shopper gene. Perhaps Vincent is doing it because of Coen’s concern for the cost. As the deadline approaches for the 1 pm sailing, the prices come down and Vincent lands us a deal for about half price. We are all excited about that.

We grab a fish fry lunch from the vendors on the Galata Bridge before boarding. I head for the top deck but Coen and Vincent spend most of the time on the lower deck. Coen has a sore throat and doesn’t want to worsen before we leave.

The boat is not crowded, being that this is the end of October. Here in the city centre, looking at Karkaroy and Beyoglu from across the water in Eminonu, the pollution is quite bad. It is a sunny day but the sky looks brown from the haze. Hopefully it will improve as we move up the Bosphorus towards the Black Sea.

It’s a bit chilly on the upper deck as we set off. The boat follows the western shore of the Bosphorus, past the Karakoy, the Mimar Sinan University and Dolmabahce
Palace. The is much better once we reach the Ortakoy Mosque and past beneath the Bosphorus Bridge towards Besiktas. This is familiar territory to me but totally new for Coen and Vincent. I go to visit them for a few minutes to see how they are doing. I point out some of the things I have seen. They seem to be enjoying this. Vincent doesn’t need to stay inside but he wants to keep Coen company. The loyalty of best friends always impresses me. I ask if they mind me staying on the upper deck. They don’t mind.

I pick out the pinkness of the Tezkereci Osman Camii, the first church I saw in Besiktas. We soon reach the point of land I had almost walked to two weeks ago and beyond that everything is new to me. I soon see in the distance that there is a second bridge over the Bosphorus that I did not know about, which I learn from a map inside is the Fatih Sultan Mehmet Bridge. Before it, on the European side, is a large series of medieval towers and fortifications extending from the waterside to the top of the hill, called Rumeli Hisari. It was built by a sultan around 1450AD and used to defeat Constantinople and bring an end to the last vestige of the Roman Empire.

The boat continues beyond the Fatih Sultan Mehmet Bridge for another hour. The great palaces and striking mosques are replaced but more wooded hills and suburbs along the steep banks on either side. There are many yalis built along the waterfront on the European side. They are packed together tightly like shoreline, elaborate townhouses for the rich. They are colourful.

Eventually the ship reaches the northern end of the Bosphorus, the entrance to the Black Sea. On opposite sides of the strait stand two lighthouses, built by the French in 1856 for guiding their ships to and from the Crimean War. The one of this side, the Rumeli Feneri Lighthouse, is quite tall and totally white.


The ship heads back to Eminonu farther from shore, moving faster, only coming closer on the bends to save on distance. We get a closer view of the Asian side at points, but there is not much to take pictures of. It is less developed in most parts, with fewer spectacular buildings. The European side has now fallen into shadow and the hilltops are silhouetted by the sun behind them. I put my camera away and join Coen and Vincent inside on the lower deck for the remainder of the cruise.

It is five by the time we disembark and 5:30 by the time we get back to the hostel. We have just enough time before the cafeteria opens for dinner. This evening we join into card games with a few other backpackers and spend the evening indoors.


PHOTO 1: view of Karkaroy from Eminonu
PHOTO 2: Mimar Sinan University by Karkaroy
PHOTO 3: Bosphorus side of the Dolmabahce Palace
PHOTO 4: the Bosphorus Bridge
PHOTO 5: Rumeli Hisari Fortress
PHOTO 6: yalis along the Bosphorus
PHOTO 7: populated hills of the northern Bosphorus
PHOTO 8: northern tip of Bosphorus, European side
PHOTO 9: Rumeli Feneri Lighthouse
PHOTO 10: Asian side on the Bosphorus on the way back

20 years ago today - Day 239

Monday, October 28th - Istanbul

With our passports submitted to the Iranian Consulate and our visas expected in two days, there are a lot of small errands I need to do today. I need a haircut and my bike needs to be cleaned and readied for the trip. Right after breakfast at the hostel, I take my bike out and clean it thoroughly. While doing so I realize the screw that holds the bottom of my front right pannier rack to my front fork has fallen out and that my brake pads are worn dangerously thin. I will also need to find a bike shop.

Coen has been to a local bike shop on Turkeli Caddesi so I get the directions from him. The shop is a reassuringly crowded, cluttered affair - usually a sign that the proprietor is more into bicycle repairs than marketing and up-selling. I ask him for a replacement screw which I have taken off the left rack to show him. He digs around through a box of renegade screws like a true mechanic while I poke around for a bit, looking for things I might have forgotten. When I return to the counter with spare inner tubes and patch kits, he has found a similar screw, a bit longer but with the same thread.

I am back at the hostel re-attaching both screws when Coen comes by to say that he and Vincent are going to spend the afternoon at Topkapi Palace. It is not a fine weather day but more of the attractions are inside anyway. I agree to meet them for dinner. They want to eat out tonight to sample a real Turkish restaurant.

I spend the afternoon doing small errands, including getting my haircut, making a trip to the pharmacy and writing postcards and buying stamps at the post office. I also call home at 5:30, which is 7:30 am in Toronto, to wish my father happy birthday. It's his 59th birthday. I catch him fresh out of the bathroom and preparing his breakfast. Mom is still in bed so I can't speak to her. Dad gets up early and goes to bed very early, and Mom does to opposite to give them time apart - probably to better sleep too, since they snore like competing lawn mowers.

Coen and Vincent are waiting for me to leave for dinner when I return from the post office. They have chosen a Turkish restaurant two blocks away that looks both authentic and reasonable. On our way there, two boys in their late teens pass us holding hands. They smile at us and check us out. "Do you think they are gay?" Coen asks me. Probably not, I answer. Gay men would be more discreet here as homosexuality is technically illegal. It is common, though not as common as in Egypt, for male friends, especially younger male friends to hold hands when they are together.

I have also picked up from talking with others at the hostel over the past week that a Turkish man is not allowed to marry until he can support a wife, so if he has a menial job, like the men I have seen selling bus and subway tickets, they can probably never marry. Sex before marriage is strictly taboo, with especially serious consequences for women who break the rules, so sometimes the only sex young unmarried or poor men can have is with other men. For that reason, homosexual sex is understood and quite common here although homosexuality itself is illegal. One experienced backpacker at the hostel, a handsome straight Swede in his late 20s, says this is the gayest country he has ever been in. I am not getting all attention he has been getting though.

The restaurant Vincent and Coen have chosen is a larger inside than it looks on the outside. It wraps around the back of the shops beside it. It serves Turkish food and some European foods like pizzas as it caters to the tourist market. That's not surprising because it is in Sultanahmet, the most active tourist area. A significant number of the clients seem to be tourists and the restaurant provides entertainment - a male Turkish dancer. Over half the tourists are women and they and I enjoy this. I tease the Dutch boys that the restaurant must have known I was coming. When he gyrates past our table, I tuck a dollar bill in waistband like the women have been doing. I have never done this in a straight bar in Toronto, and rarely in a gay club, but I am still testing their comfort levels with me as a gay man before we travel together. Coen smiles and blushes a lovely rose colour. Vincent just laughs in delight.


PHOTO 1: Turkish entertainer at the restaurant

20 years ago today - Day 238

Sunday, October 27th - Istanbul

This morning after breakfast Coen and Vincent pay admission to see the Hagia Sophia before we head off to pick up our passports from the Pakistani Consulate. Having seen both the Hagia Sophia and Topkapi Palace, I recommend that this would take less time to see, and the admission price is lower too. I wait for them at the Hippodrome around noon.

I hope to see Ilio, that poor lost soul, but he isn't around today. I hope he is OK. It is cloudy and cooler today; a clear sign that winter is coming. I wonder what he will do when winter arrives. Traveling has shown to me on this trip that health and security are never guaranteed, and that life itself is sometimes precarious. Hopefully, mine won't be threatened over the next four months.

Coen and Vincent return. I ask if they enjoyed it and they nod, but not enthusiastically. I suspect they are not museum-going guys but, like me, it's just something one must see when he is here. We walk down to Eminonu to catch a bus up to Taksim Square again to get to the consulate.

Our passports are ready, though they keep us waiting half an hour for them. Coen and Vincent are each charged US$35 for their visas but mine is free. They look at me questioningly. "Did you give someone a blow job?" Vincent asks. "Definitely not," I answer. "They would have charged me for that." He and Coen enjoy giving me gentle ribbing over my gayness, and I rather like it too.

With our new visas in our passports, we hurry back to Sultanahmet to arrive at the Iranian Consulate before 2 pm to submit our applications for our Iranian visas, leaving our passports with our applications. We are told they could be ready in as little as three days, but they made no promises.


The consulate is on the same street as a hamam a Turkish bath called Cagaloglu Kadinlar Hamami. Vincent had noticed it yesterday and seeing it again he asks if Coen and I would like to go in. We do, and it is a memorable experience.

We check our clothes into lockers, but beyond this it bears no resemblance to any gay bath house I have been in. As with other bathhouses, there is always the mystique and allure of naked men and steam - "Gorillas in the Mist" (the gay version) - but this also has the exotic feel of an ancient stone hamam. Although it isn't gay, it is more home-erotic than gay saunas. There's more touch involved, and there's no haughty, judgmental gym bunnies walking around constant cruising and getting off by rejecting every advance with a sense of jaded fatigue.

A central room with a high, domed ceiling has a circular stone platform used for massage and relaxation. We are each assigned young men in their late teens who massage our muscles in the central room after we have spent time in the sauna. I am lying on my front feeling so pampered. I am so used to associating saunas with sex, that when I have touch like this from a handsome lad I have to do my best not to sprout a boner.

After the massage, our boys lead us to one of the smaller side rooms where they scrub our backs and limbs ferociously to remove the dead skin. I suppose part of me loves being mauled, but it's a bit scary at times too. At some level, I think my young man is cleaning the dirty thoughts out of my imagination. He likes having control over an older man. He smiles a lot as he roughs me up. My skin is tingling and a tad raw by the time he is finished.

When the scrubbing is done he rinses me by pouring large pails of water over my head continuously. I have a fear of drowning and a fear of smothering. I turn my face away from the spray when I shower because I don't like water in my face. I try to brave so not to panic in front of my young man but after a few pails I lose my composure and stop his hands from dumping the next pail over me. My young man enjoys my reaction and treats it like a game. Vincent and Coen and laughing too, and Vincent is teasing me, asking me what is wrong. I smile at my young man with his dark eyes and ready smile, his sparse whiskers sprinkled like pioneer settlers on his otherwise smooth face. My cock starts to swell when he looks at me kindly, so I signal him to keep pouring before he notices. If he does, he doesn't let on.

I am very relaxed when I get out of there, and ready for a nap. I return to the hostel while Coen and Vincent do to do errands. As I am lying here, I am trying to remember the last time I was in a gay-oriented space. I guess it was in Budapest. That seems like an eon ago. Istanbul is the first place since leaving Hungary that has had a gay establishment, or least one that is listed. Spartacus Guide lists a couple clubs and a gay steam bath - not the one we visited. I want check them out before I leave because I have no notes from the guide for Asia and I not see another gay establishment until I am back in Canada.

I must have snoozed off. I am dreaming of the young masseur in the hamam, making love to me with his hands, but suddenly he is shaking my shoulder. No, it's Coen waking me for dinner. We make our way down to the cafeteria where Vincent is already eating.

I wonder if the Dutch boys get as lonely as I do on the road. They have girlfriends so they are probably not used to being without them, but then I have been traveling for more almost 8 months and they have been gone just a little over a month. I feel a bit awkward traveling with straight men because I'm not sure whether I should let my needs and feeling show. I have not had to live "under cover" for years. I suppose I should get used to it though since there will be little opportunity to be a gay man in Asia.

We go out this evening for drinks and desserts again. It feels like a tradition after three nights of it. I think the three of us are a good fit. I am looking forward to being on the road with them.


PHOTO 1: outside the Cagaloglu Kadinlar Hamam
PHOTO 2: the central massage room with domed ceiling
PHOTO 3: the scrub room
PHOTO 4: scene from the movie "Steam" ("Il Hamam" in Italian)

20 years ago today - Day 237

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Saturday, October 26th - Istanbul

I have a slight hangover from drinking at a local pub with Vincent and Coen last night. Actually, there were a few of us from the hostel, including a German named Frederick, a tall, blond, Aryan-looking, sweet-natured and dangerously handsome. "Ask him to give back your bicycle," I whisper to Vincent. "Shhh, be good!" he warns me. He enjoys that I engage him and remember the stories he tells me. Unlike Coen, he likes to tease and be teased.

So this morning we are off to the Pakistani Consulate after breakfast. This consulate is not in Sultanahmet but in Taksim Square, in a part of the Istanbul I have not yet been. The guide book says Taksim Square is the 'heart of modern Istanbul', but after learning of Ilio's plight and the number of poor here, not to mention the two largest right-wing parties sweeping the election last weekend (the final results came in yesterday), I am beginning to think it doesn't have a heart.

The bus ride to get to Taksim Square from the depot in Sultanahmet isn't long. It is probably only two kilometres away. It is a broad, open square with a circular, patterned lawn in the centre and a large monument honouring the creation of the post-Ottoman republic at the hub. There are shops, hotels and restaurants around the perimeter. The Pakistani Consulate is on a major street leading into the square.

It is a busy office. We are given applications for visas and we spend 15 minutes filling them in. Then we sit for an hour or more waiting in turn for someone to review them. We have to leave our passports with them, which always makes me nervous. We are instructed to pick them up tomorrow afternoon. It is around noon when we get out of there and back to Taksim Square.

The morning haze has cleared and it is bright and sunny again. There is Burger King on the square that holds some sort or allure for the Dutch boys so we eat there for lunch. The other choices are McDonald's and Pizza Hut. Taksim is proof that Turkey is oriented towards the West and not Asia. I don't mind the choice. In a few days, I may be craving Western culture so I should enjoy it while I can.


The trip to the Iranian Consulate will need to wait until we have our Pakistani visas so we have the afternoon free. After our fast food American lunch, we stroll around the square to see the monument. There is another tourist office on the square that provides us a map of local attractions. The main street of this district, Beyoglu, is Istiklal (Independence) Caddesi (Street). It is a major shopping street with sizeable crowds, so I keep an eye out so not to lose tract of the other two. Vincent stands out. He is wearing a colourful cycling top, not perhaps the best choice when applying for a visa to an ultra-conservative Islamic country, and his spiky blond hair is unusual. Coen stands out because he is tall, not because of his bland striped pullovers.

Istiklal Street is recommended in my guide, but I haven't been near it until now. It is lined with 19th century neo-classical and Beaux Arts-styled buildings, typical of most European cities, which rise four to six floors above the street. It looks very cosmopolitan. One of my favourite places along it is Cicek Pasaji, the Flower Passage. It's a 19th century mall lined with small, intimate restaurants and taverns. It would have been a much better place to have lunch.


Istiklal leads from Taksim down into the heart of Beyoglu, Galatasaray Square. The 500-year old Galatasaray High School is here. It bends here and continues south towards Karkaroy, where is ends near the base of the Galata Tower. This lower section has several churches and mosques, including the Catholic church, San Antonio di Padova, and the Neve Salom Synagogue at the very end.

Once we are here, we decide to pay admission and climb the Galata Tower, build by the Genoese in the 1300s when they had a trading colony opposite the Golden Horn. There's an elevator to the top but it is crowded with families and seniors so we take the stairs to the top, which is a good workout. The view from the top is worth it, even if we need to wait our turn to look out the window. I can see all the major landmarks on the Golden Horn from here, from Topkapi Palace and Gulhane Park on the left to the Eminonu ferry docks with Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque behind and the Galata Bridge and Suleymaniye Mosque closer on the right.

Sultanahmet looks quite close from the tower so Vincent and Coen want to walk. I know it is at least three kilometres but I am not tired. Crossing the Galata Bridge, we realize we will be late for dinner at the hostel at our present speed so we stop for a fish fry dinner on the lower deck. Now my two fast food dinner are attacking each other in my stomach. It's a fight to the death with occasional rude side effects.

I am ready for a nap when we arrive back to the hostel. I don't really sleep, but in two hours I am ready to join the Dutch boys for Turkish desserts and beer.


PHOTO 1: Taksim Square War Monument
PHOTO 2: Taksim Square from Burger King
PHOTO 3: flower market on Taksim Square
PHOTO 4: Turkish market near Taksim
PHOTO 5: Istiklal Street
PHOTO 6: streetcar on Istiklal
PHOTO 7: entrance to Cicek Pasaji, the Flower Passage
PHOTO 8: inside the Flower Passage
PHOTO 9: French Street, off of Istiklal
PHOTO 10: San Antonio di Padova Church
PHOTO 11: the Galata Tower
PHOTO 12: view of Sultanahmet, Eminonu and Galata Bridge from the tower

20 years ago today - Day 236

Friday, October 25th - Istanbul

Vincent isn’t wasting any time. Right after breakfast he went to the tourist information office and found the address and transit information to the Iranian Consulate. Coen went with him but they said there was no need for me to come with them. I am a bit uneasy about being left out, and aware I will always be a third wheel. But of course they share a past and a future when they return to Holland. It is only my loneliness talking.

I take the opportunity to clean my bike, which I haven’t done since Blageovgrad, Bulgaria. I am only half way through when they return. “We should leave soon,” Vincent tells me. “They close at 2 pm.”

Getting to the Consulate requires an hour or so. First we take a bus to Eminonu to catch a ferry across the Bosphorus to Sirkeci. The morning sky is cloudy. We pass an ancient, decorative lighthouse called Kir Kulesci, or the Maiden’s Tower, which is now a restaurant by guide book tells me. From there we catch a bus for half an hour along an artery on the Asia side. When we get there we find it isn’t open to the public. Apparently, this building is owned by the Iranian government and has some consulate functions but the consulate for applying for visas is in Sultanahmet, where we came from. The Iranian official at the door gives us the proper address.

Vincent isn’t amused at first, but soon he and Coen are laughing it off. “Well, at least we got our first taste of Asia,” Coen smiles at me. “Do you think we’ll make it in time to apply today?” I ask Vincent. “Netsimukelut,” he laughs.

On the way back, retracing our route, we tell stories about our travels so far. I share stories about the bristling anger between the Dutch and German travelers I have met. “I don’t think Dutch and Germans should travel together,” he says. “Sooner or later the German will say something disrespectful or careless and it will start an argument. Germans are always right in their minds so when they refuse to apologize, we always say ‘Give back my bicycle’ and that shuts them up.” “Give back my bicycle?” “When they ran out of gas in late 1944 they stole Dutch bicycles to return to Germany. We love to remind them of that, because they have never returned any of them.”

We make it back to the Iranian Consulate in Sultanahmet before it closes, just before, because they kept us waiting outside the gate for twenty minutes. When we did get it they gave each of us an application for a visa but we had to submit proof that we had a valid Pakistani visa to exit on the other side. This wasn’t going to be as straightforward as we had hoped. So Vincent leads us back to the busy Tourist Office to get information on the whereabouts of the Pakistani Consulate. It is near Taksim Square in Beyoglu, the district north of the Karkaroy ferry docks. There is a bus to Taksim from Sultanahmet, I tell them. Coen calls the Pakistani Consulate and finds out they open at 10am tomorrow morning. Their public hours are over for today.


Well, that was a whole day spent on nothing, I muse, but Coen and Vincent are more positive. This is nothing like the run around we got in Amsterdam, they told me. Yes, we are perhaps a small step closer. I hope tomorrow we will have the Pakistani visas, but today is already over. We wash up for dinner and head for the cafeteria.


PHOTO 1: The Maiden's Tower
PHOTO 2: the Iranian Consulate in Sultanahmet
PHOTO 3: the Suleyman Mosque at sunset from the Galata Bridge

20 years ago today - Day 235

Thursday, October 24th – Istanbul

Coen wakes up just when I do. We shower and then eat breakfast together, then set off towards Eminonu, much like yesterday but staying out of Gulhane Park this time so we can explore the streets. I take him through the big spice market. I met Coen four days ago now, just after leaving the here so it seems apt to bring him here. I tell him that. He is concerned that I will be bored because I have already seen it, but it looks more interesting to me this time, now that I am not trying to stay dry from the rain.

We continue westward to the ferries that leave to the district of Sirkeci on the Asian side. We consider a ride across the Bosphorus, but today is windy and grey, not the best day for it. We walk over the Galata Bridge to the edge of the neighbourhood on the other side, Karkaroy. There is a lower deck of the bridge half
the way across, where single fishermen fish and fish boats sell their catches. There are barbecues going and the smell of frying fish rises to our noses. We surrender to the smell and climb down to buy ourselves a fried fish lunch. Rats scurry along the inner edge of the lower deck looking for food. Young men walk around with platters of bagels on their heads, the bagels stacked in perfect pyramid fashion. I hesitate to buy one because it would ruin the shape of the pyramid.

I show Coen the spice market, which is near the ferry docks in Eminonu, as he hasn't seen it before.
We walk back through Eminonu and past the Suleymaniye Mosque, now silhouetted by the broken afternoon sun. We stop at a street pub a block from the post office to pass the hour before Vincent arrives. He passes us on his loading touring bike as he is heading to the post office to meet us. We wave him down and he circles back to where we are seated. Coen stands up and they give each other an A-frame hug and pats on the back.


Vincent glances at me, not sure why I am with Coen. Coen sees this and introduces us. He seems wary and a bit indifferent. “Ken is from Canada,” Coen offers. “Good,” Vincent nods briefly my way. “He has been cycling all over Europe for seven and a half month, including the Balkans,” he adds when Vincent shows no interest.” That’s nice,” Vincent nods, eager to move onto another topic. “Ken is the crazy Canadian who cycled through the war in Croatia!” Coen says more emphatically, while glancing at me to see if this upsets me.

But I am laughing, and Vincent is much more interested in me now, now that he is meeting the legend himself. We get into a conversation about his bike part that was being shipped (a hub) and how is ride from Alexandria to here was. He is glad to have arrived and not to have to deal with Istanbul traffic for a while. Coen drops the news that I might consider cycling to Asia with them and Vincent says, “Sure, why not.”

That’s it. I worried about it for four days and it’s over in a blink. We still have a few days to get to know each other before we set off. We will need visas for Pakistan, India and Iran before we leave. I learn that Vincent and Coen tried to get visas for Iran in Amsterdam before they left, but they were refused. “Won’t they also refuse you here then?” I ask, logically. “No, everyone tells us that it is easier to get them here.” I don’t understand why it would be, but travel means never having to say you understand. It is definitely worth the try. The visas for Pakistan and India are more straightforward, Vincent tells me. They just have to be bought.

“You aren’t worried about get visas for Iran,” I ask him. “No, netsimukelut,” he says. “What?” I ask. “Netsimukelut means ‘no problem, it’s a piece of cake’ in Dutch,” he says. I practice saying it over and over until my pronunciation improves. “That’s it’” he compliments me. I am enjoying his energy. Vincent is more directed and driven than Coen, which is why they probably make good traveling partners. I sense he is more competitive than Coen, but probably when he is challenged directly. If he was into arguing and combating, he probably wouldn’t be traveling with Coen.


PHOTO 1: Karkaroy, across the Galata Bridge
PHOTO 2: boy with bagels on his head
PHOTO 3: outside the spice market
PHOTO 4: inside the spice market
PHOTO 5: Eminonu, looking north towards the Galata Tower

20 years ago today - Day 234

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Wednesday, October 23rd – Istanbul, the Golden Horn

Coen doesn’t want to see the Hagia Sophia or the Dolmabahce Palace or anything else that costs a lot to get into. He is in the mood for walking today and since we want to stay together today we agree on a long walk around the eastern end of the Golden Horn, following the shore of the Bosphorus below the Topkapi Palace, Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque. It will be a long walk so we stop to buy some fruit and juice to share along the way.

We first head north to Gulhane Park that wraps around the west and north sides of the walled Topkapi Palace, where I had walked before with Ilio. The park is a pleasure to be in as it is cool and fresh with garden scents of rotting greenery. It is much more peaceful than the honking traffic in the business areas.

Coen isn’t into taking pictures. He wants to remember by memory only. I can appreciate how he feels. When I am taking pictures I get caught up on recording what I see instead of experiencing it. I take my camera though, because I know I will want to remember and show off where I have been.

We followed the manicured lawns and flower beds along the paved paths to the northernmost point of the park. The old city has the shape of a rhinoceros’s head facing east, ad this point is the tusk. From here we have breezy view of the Bosphorus, the ferries (only half a kilometre away) and the Galata Bridge and Tower. It feels very nautical here.

This is Kennedy Road. I presume Kennedy visited here during the Cold War. It is rather like Vancouver’s Marine Drive that bends around coastline of the city. From the point we follow it south, staying to the water side. At points, we can see the minarets of the Hagia Sofia and Blue Mosque peeking up from behind a hillside of trees. Boats of all sizes are entering and leaving the Bosphorus. Fishermen with their catfish poles line the rocks at the water’s edge, basking idly in the sun. They don’t seem to be catching anything, but perhaps that’s not the point of their afternoon.

There is a small but popular beach further along. There are a few women but this is a conservative country so they are mostly covered up. The men are much less so, to my pleasure and Coen’s disappointment. They gaze at us as we walk by. We must look like an off couple, lanky Coen being half a foot higher than me, hunched a little from a history of looking down at people, and me being shorter and skinnier. It’s obvious to me that several of the men are undressing us with their eyes. Coen doesn’t seem to notice. Perhaps only gay men feel comfortable looking each other in the eye. A couple of them are cute too, with those dark, handsome Turkish eyes and ready smiles from their hearts. The others just leer so I pretend not to notice them.

Beyond the beach is a hospital on the inland side. From here the Blue Mosque is more visible, but it’s a hundred metres above us and half a kilometre away. We walk past it and start to climb through unfamiliar streets to reach the part of Sultanahmet we know. We have picked a street that leads us very close to the youth hostel.

It is still early afternoon. Coen wants to check the post office and so I go with him to check for more mail. There is a letter from Vincent, saying we should look for him here at the post office around 5 pm tomorrow. He says he planned to leave Alexandria yesterday morning. He must have sent the letter right after Coen left. Anyway, it has both of us smiling. In a couple day we could be heading off into Asia, a world I have not prepared for since I never anticipated even ending up as far east as this city. I have a letter from David which I tuck into my bag to read later.

Coen likes to relax in sidewalk patios and pubs, so we find a pub with a closed in courtyard and proceed to drink the rest of the afternoon away. We are both feeling it as he hobble back to the youth hostel three hours later for their lifeless cafeteria meal. Turks have a reputation for interesting cuisine, much like France and Italy, but they are not good at cooking other people’s cuisines, which is what they try to do at the hostel. We brush our teeth to disguise the alcohol and then line up, doing our best not to appear drunk and we collect our food.

We spot other backpackers already eating and we join them at their table before we realize that Cindi is sitting with them. “O look what the cat dragged in,” she squawks. The other guys start making cat fight sounds, in anticipation of what is to come. “At I didn’t crawl out of a sewer,” I answer her, which earns me a raucous round of laughter.
The little part of her brain that functions cannot think of an appropriate retort, so she leaves in a snit. Her boyfriend Bert stays behind, shaking his head in disbelief.

We spend the rest of the evening chatting in the lounge with other backpackers. It was a group that kept changing as some left and others arrived. Bert left and returned later, discreetly revealing a chunk of hashish and a pipe he bought today. Coen and I join him for a couple secret puffs near the garbage pins at the back of the hostel. I haven’t smoked hash in years and this is strong stuff.

Before I get too stoned to speak and after I am too stoned to stop myself, I apologize to Bert for my cat fights with Cindi. “It’s her fault,” he shrugs it off. “She picks fights with everyone, especially me. But when she is fighting with you, she wants to be cuddled, so the last couple days have been good for me.”

“I guess she just reminds me of a vacuous cheerleader for some football team,” I blurt out, instantly horrified that I said it. But Burt just laughs. “She IS a cheerleader, and she’s proud of it. That’s how I met her. And speaking of stereotypes, she is great in bed too.” That gives Coen an uncontrollable grin from ear to ear, and he gets me grinning too. I am liking my time with them this evening. I hope Vincent is this much fun.


PHOTO 1: statue of Ataturk in Gulhane Park
PHOTO 2: in Gulhane Park
PHOTO 3: romance Turkish style
PHOTO 4: view of Karkaroy across the Galata Bridge
PHOTO 5: Kennedy Road
PHOTO 6: lighthouse and the Bosphorus
PHOTO 7: SE shore of the Horn with Blue Mosque up the hill
PHOTO 8: ruins along the south shore
PHOTO 9: climbing back into the city