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Sunday, October 20th – Istanbul
Today is the first grey sky day I had had in Istanbul. I should not be surprised since it was cloudy throughout my trip across northern Greece, but I was beginning to think it would always be sunny in Turkey. I would like to remember it that way. I have had my breakfast in the hostel, which consisted of a form of porridge, coffee, toast and an apple. I have set off through the neighbourhood looking for Ilio and new attractions to check out. If I don’t find Ilio I will go into the Topkapi Palace or maybe the Hagia Sophia.
Today, it suddenly occurs to me when I see the campaign flags hanging over the street, is election day. Not that it means much to me but I make a mental note to check the news later tonight. I make my way to the third hill of Constantinople which is crowned by the famous Suleymaniye Mosque, which was perhaps the most important mosque in the city other than the Hagia Sophia when it was finished in 1558. That was fifty years before construction on the Blue Mosque started.
The Suleymaniye Mosque is striking in the late afternoon when it is silhouetted on top of the hill above the Karkaroy ferry docks. It is even more magnificent inside, and more magnificent than any building in Toronto or Vancouver, the only two cities I have ever lived it. Unfortunately, it is in Istanbul where it is subordinate to several more extraordinary buildings and so it doesn't receive the attention and praise it deserves. Even I am feeling inundated by seeing the splendours of the Dolmabahce Palace and Sultan Ahmed Mosque in the past two days so I am reluctant to linger too long inside. The northern edge of the Golden Horn is a district called Eminonu. It is grittier and less touristy than Sultanahmet. It feels more authentic, what I expected urban Turkey to feel like. It is spitting rain a little as I make my way down to the ferry
docks opposite Karkaroy just east of the Galata Bridge. A row of fishermen, some in rain gear, are dipping their lines into the choppy grey water near the ferries. Iridescent streaks of oil from the boats are floating on the surface, along with various kinds of flotsam. I wouldn't fish caught here if my life depended on it. Perhaps they are just fishing for fun, but in this hard-edged city people do whatever is necessary to make a living and to keep their heads above water.
A line of yellow cabs are waiting for passengers off the next ferry to disembark. In spite of the axis and waiting boats, and in spite of the traffic behind me and on the nearby Galata Bridge, it is rather peaceful here. The cloudy weather, the chill off the water and the smell of the brine reminds me of my childhood on the cool, rainy British Columbia coast.
I make my way up to the Hippodrome again, and this time see Ilio in his blue jacket and toque sitting on a bench. He is excited to see me but I have no good news to give him. All I can do is keep him company. I buy him lunch at the same café I took him to when I first met him three days ago. He likes the sandwiches there. I know he doesn't like taking handouts but I can tell by the way he eats that he is hungry.
When we finish eating, he suggests we stroll around Gulhane Park, the manicured grounds that surround the base of the hill that Topkapi Palace occupies at the tip of the Horn. After an hour it begins to sprinkle rain so we separate. He waits it out under a tree and I head back to Eminonu.
As the rain suddenly increases, I duck into the first public I can find, which turns out to be an indoor spice market. The market place is alive with colour and smells but not terribly crowded at this hour of the day. It is fun to see but there, a colourful refuge from the rain, but there is nothing here I want to buy. As soon as the rain lets up, I make my way back up to Sultanahmet.
I see a cyclist riding through the traffic with his bike loaded heavily with panniers and camping equipment. I catch his attention and wave him over. I guess correctly that he is looking for the youth hostel and I offer to lead him there. He walks his bike beside me as we talk. His name is Coen. He's a tall, lanky, blond Dutch boy in his late 20s, a bit goofy in a sweet way, the type of guy who is immediately likable.
I am doing a cycling tour myself, I tell him. He lights up and asks me where I am from and where I have been so far. "Oh, are you the crazy Canadian who cycled through Croatia during the war?" he asks after I start describing my trip. My jaw drops for the second time in less than a day. It is the same question Derek, the Australian, asked me last night. How the hell do you know, I ask him? It turns out that the same Hugo and Hans passed through the town of Alexandria in the northern Greece when Coen and his cycling partner Vincent were stuck there. They spotted their Dutch compatriots and joined them for a night. Of course, they told Vincent and Coen all about me. Apparently, not all publicists charge for their services.
Vincent is still in Alexandria waiting for a bicycle part to come from Amsterdam. He has been waiting impatiently there for 10 days. Coen had been waiting there with him but there isn't much to see in Alexandria. After a few days they began to grate on each other's nerves so they agreed that Coen should push onto Istanbul and Vincent would meet him here in a few days once his bike is repaired. That was two days ago.
Coen checks in to my room in the dorm and we eat dinner in the cafeteria. He tells me that he and Vincent are on their way to India by bicycle. Their girlfriends are meeting them in New Delhi on New Year’s. (My heart winces a bit in disappointment over this last tid bit of news.). He wants to know where I am going, but I still haven’t figured that out yet. “You should come with me and Vincent,” he suggests while munching down his dinner. “You can meet Vincent when he gets here, and we can decide then.” He stops mid-chew a couple seconds later when he realizes that he forgot to ask, “Would you like that?” Coen is so sincere he could never be less than transparent. He’s so sweet I could eat him. “Of course, that could be fun. We’ll have to see how we get along over the next few days.”
The thought of possibly traveling together crossed my mind soon after I met Coen. We cyclists are a society unto ourselves and we are drawn together naturally. And I have been secretly dreading traveling solo again since learning that Mike won’t be rejoining me for the rest of my trip. I would not feel safe traveling on bicycle alone outside of Europe. My heart is very grateful for his casual offer. Hopefully Vincent will like me, and more importantly, that I will like him.
I won’t pretend to be straight if I am going to travel with them for more than a couple days, so I tell Coen I am gay. Coen, like most Dutch guys, is totally unfazed. The daily weather would more likely shock him than my news. He changes the subject to ask what I have seen of Istanbul so far. I tell him what I’ve done and what I would still like to see, such as the Hagia Sophia and the Topkapi Palace. Coen is on a tight budget and isn’t sure he wants to spend much money on high priced admission prices. But we converse for three hours for free and I convince him to join at the pudding shop for a late evening dessert. He isn’t shy or cautious about being good friends at all.
PHOTO 1: the Suleymaniye Mosque
PHOTO 2: interior of the Suleymaniye Mosque
PHOTO 3: the ferry docks and Galata Bridge, Eminonu
PHOTO 4: fishermen near the ferry docks
PHOTO 5: Gulhane Park
PHOTO 6: the spice bazaar
PHOTO 7: kiosk at the spice market
PHOTO 8: election signs in Istanbul
PHOTO 9: yellow taxis (always lots of them) and Suleymaniye Mosque
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