Istanbul, the East meets West city that never sleeps. It promises a contagious infatuation to everyone who visits – and a bowel blasting bug to match. In hindsight Istanbul was a very mild introduction to the Middle East (ME) but we did face some preliminary culture shock as we met the stares of curious locals, hawkers of everything (un)imaginable, Turkish masseurs who knew no boundaries, and our first squatter toilets.
And then there was Tarkan (which really justifies a blog post all on its own) a Turkish Elvis-come-Ricky Martin pop god who happened to be performing a free concert the Saturday night we were in the city! It was the first concert I’ve attended that was attended by police armed with machine-guns and the only words I have to describe it are cold, wet, smoky, hairy, and awesome.
Bidding adieu to Istanbul we caught a night-bus/boat (complete with a squatter toilet, which I’m pretty sure was someone’s idea of a sick joke) to Selchuk where we were greeted with sunshine, smiles and 2 700 year-old ruins just waiting for us to discover them. We found a hostel (or, rather, one found us) dropped our bags and headed to Ephesus *insert Wikipedia definition here* where we wondered around taking cheesy photos and then taking an equally rewarding nap in the nose-bleed section of the amphitheater until being woken up by an Australian couple we had previously met in the Turkish bath (take note of this couple, they appear again later). We promptly went home and slept for another 14 hours.
The next day we found ourselves in Denizli, a Turkish town known for nothing but its proximity to Pamukkale and the birthplace of an Ebola-like virus that hit our bowels hard. From this point on in our Turkish travels we had to insure that we were no farther than 20 metres from a toilet (preferably the western variety) at any given time. We past the bug back and forth between the two of us for the following week (and I’m still suffering from it at the time of writing). We’ve tried a few goggled home remedies but none have proven to be a cure. The most useful advice we’ve found was to avoid dehydration by drinking obscene amounts of salt-sugar-lemon water which isn’t as bad as it sounds.
With a liters of lemon water replacing our lunch (which we were now too afraid to eat) we ventured forward in Turkey to Pamukkale where we traversed the travertines and once again bumped into the Australian couple. Turns out we had been stalking them for a reason, earlier that day, they had gotten engaged. We were the first ones they shared the news with and they invited us to celebrate with beers and hookah (much to our body’s dismay).
From Pammukale it was another night bus to Cappadocia, the cavernous province that is central Turkey. Aside from the landscape I will remember Cappadocia as the place where I failed horribly at pottery, melted my coat and spent the coldest day of my life wondering around caves. Sounds lovely, doesn’t it?
Guess what comes next? If you guessed ‘night bus’ you’re twenty-five percent right. In fact it involved four buses to get from Turkey to Syria, all involving transfers at ungodly hours. The highlight was a stop over in Keysari where we were met with an entire bus station of hospitality and passed a few hours chatting with locals, drinking tea and visiting the barber. Then it was transfer, transfer and transfer again... and pinch yourself, you ain't dreaming, you’re in Syria.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Friday, January 15, 2010
When turkey hands you lemon, make lemonade.
Imagine this: You're lying in bed enjoying the last few minutes of a sound night's sleep, in Winnipeg, or Ottawa or wherever you happen to be. It's early in the morning, your alarm hasn't gone off yet, and then an unfamiliar sound breaks the silence. LEMONS!!!! LEMONS!!!!!! BUY MY LEMONS!!!!! BUY MY FRESH YELLOW LEMONS!!!!
This is how I was woken up on my first morning in Istanbul. Of course he isn't actually yelling "lemons" he's yelling the Turkish equivalent which is entirely pronounceable to my native English speaking tongue, and of course I had no idea what was being yelled... in my naivety I thought it was the call to prayer. Well paint my face red (or yellow as the case may be)! Imagine my embarrassment when a man pushing a cart of lemons and yelling at the top of his lungs almost ran me down. Mystery solved!
The call to prayer is actually melodic and beautiful, as is the rest of Istanbul. The mosques and bazaars are a refreshing change from basilicas and doumos (douumoses? doumoie? I'll have to look into that one).
It's still cold and raining, but you have to make the best of it! Today Steve and I sat down and charted out our course through the Middle East but more on that later. Right now we're off for Schmidt (large turkish sesame seed bagels), and a turkish hammam, which is guaranteed to be warm!
This is how I was woken up on my first morning in Istanbul. Of course he isn't actually yelling "lemons" he's yelling the Turkish equivalent which is entirely pronounceable to my native English speaking tongue, and of course I had no idea what was being yelled... in my naivety I thought it was the call to prayer. Well paint my face red (or yellow as the case may be)! Imagine my embarrassment when a man pushing a cart of lemons and yelling at the top of his lungs almost ran me down. Mystery solved!
The call to prayer is actually melodic and beautiful, as is the rest of Istanbul. The mosques and bazaars are a refreshing change from basilicas and doumos (douumoses? doumoie? I'll have to look into that one).
It's still cold and raining, but you have to make the best of it! Today Steve and I sat down and charted out our course through the Middle East but more on that later. Right now we're off for Schmidt (large turkish sesame seed bagels), and a turkish hammam, which is guaranteed to be warm!
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
That's Amore!
Istanbul was Constantinople
Now it's Istanbul, not Constantinople
Been a long time gone, Constantinople
Now it's Turkish delight on a moonlit night
Every gal in Constantinople
Lives in Istanbul, not Constantinople
So if you've a date in Constantinople
She'll be waiting in Istanbul
Even old New York was once New Amsterdam
Why they changed it I can't say
People just liked it better that way
So take me back to Constantinople
No, you can't go back to Constantinople
Been a long time gone, Constantinople
Why did Constantinople get the works?
That's nobody's business but the Turks
Istanbul (Istanbul)
Istanbul (Istanbul)
Even old New York was once New Amsterdam
Why they changed it I can't say
People just liked it better that way
Istanbul was Constantinople
Now it's Istanbul, not Constantinople
Been a long time gone, Constantinople
Why did Constantinople get the works?
That's nobody's business but the Turks
So take me back to Constantinople
No, you can't go back to Constantinople
Been a long time gone, Constantinople
Why did Constantinople get the works?
That's nobody's business but the Turks
Istanbul
Now it's Istanbul, not Constantinople
Been a long time gone, Constantinople
Now it's Turkish delight on a moonlit night
Every gal in Constantinople
Lives in Istanbul, not Constantinople
So if you've a date in Constantinople
She'll be waiting in Istanbul
Even old New York was once New Amsterdam
Why they changed it I can't say
People just liked it better that way
So take me back to Constantinople
No, you can't go back to Constantinople
Been a long time gone, Constantinople
Why did Constantinople get the works?
That's nobody's business but the Turks
Istanbul (Istanbul)
Istanbul (Istanbul)
Even old New York was once New Amsterdam
Why they changed it I can't say
People just liked it better that way
Istanbul was Constantinople
Now it's Istanbul, not Constantinople
Been a long time gone, Constantinople
Why did Constantinople get the works?
That's nobody's business but the Turks
So take me back to Constantinople
No, you can't go back to Constantinople
Been a long time gone, Constantinople
Why did Constantinople get the works?
That's nobody's business but the Turks
Istanbul
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Pastrami is not a cheese.
One last day in Italy. One last visit to the Vatican. One last stroll past the Coliseum/Trevi Foutain/Pantheon/etc. One last gelato. One last cappuccino (actually Im quite certain that we will have another tomorrow morning). One last pizza. One last beer. One last night in Roma.
Tonight we will sleep in a room, with 10 other travelers, in a bunk bed built for two. We will slumber soundly as we dream of mosques, Saltans and grand bazars. Tomorrow begins a new chapter in the travel journal of Britt and Steve as we venture on to Turkey and towards the Middle East. The exact route is anything but certain and may or may not include Syria, Lebanon, Jordan, Isreal, and Egypt.
I will be the first to acknowledge that we are entirely, completely, 110% unprepared for this leg of our journey, I have yet to even open the ohhhh soooo essential guidebook (despite trying very hard to find one in English not Italian). But I am also 110% confident that we will figure it out (and if we dont, well, I have travel insurance for just that occasion). I am also 110% excited... to ride a camel, to wear a headscarf, to shop in the markets, to smell the smells, to see the sights... excited beyond all words and comprehension! So excited that I could pee, but I wont.
I am getting ahead of myself. Today has been a wonderful and SUNNY day in Rome filled with wonderful old sights and even more wonderful new friends.
But, for now we are going to say `arrivederci!` to Rome.
It really has been a slice.
p.s.
Prego.
Tonight we will sleep in a room, with 10 other travelers, in a bunk bed built for two. We will slumber soundly as we dream of mosques, Saltans and grand bazars. Tomorrow begins a new chapter in the travel journal of Britt and Steve as we venture on to Turkey and towards the Middle East. The exact route is anything but certain and may or may not include Syria, Lebanon, Jordan, Isreal, and Egypt.
I will be the first to acknowledge that we are entirely, completely, 110% unprepared for this leg of our journey, I have yet to even open the ohhhh soooo essential guidebook (despite trying very hard to find one in English not Italian). But I am also 110% confident that we will figure it out (and if we dont, well, I have travel insurance for just that occasion). I am also 110% excited... to ride a camel, to wear a headscarf, to shop in the markets, to smell the smells, to see the sights... excited beyond all words and comprehension! So excited that I could pee, but I wont.
I am getting ahead of myself. Today has been a wonderful and SUNNY day in Rome filled with wonderful old sights and even more wonderful new friends.
But, for now we are going to say `arrivederci!` to Rome.
It really has been a slice.
p.s.
Prego.
Top Ten Tips for 2009/2010 (according to Steve)
(in no particular order of importance)
#1: When in Europe, seek out McDonald's if you're in need of a free bathroom.
#2: It is near impossible to successfully couch surf in Italy if you are not a young hot female or if you are a hot young female who is traveling with their boyfriend.
#3: When staying in hostels/hotels, and the breakfast is included, ask if it is "hot"
#4: Pack Light!!!
#5: There is no good substitute for the (real) Nutella.
#6: Always be wary of people coming up and talking to you for no particular reason... at the train station... when it's 4 a.m.
#7: Share travel tips with fellow travelers... they will hopefully reciprocate.
#8: Never pay the sticker price.
#9: Don't be ashamed to eat the familiar (read: McDonald's) once in a while/when you feel you have to.
#10: invest in a good map or be willing to suffer the consequences.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Some pics from the Steve-man!
The Fountain of the Virgin (it's real name!) in Rome!
Britt(les) in Skates... in Rome! Mamma Mia!Note: Italians suck at skating.
The myth, the legend, the man... The Prince!?!... Niccolo Machiavelli in the "flesh"!
Florence from on top of the Duomo - pretty way up there!
Another Duomo shot.... had to get my eight euros-worth!
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Banana Yo!
Happy New Year everyone! Or as they say here "buon anno" which is pronounced with impeccable similarity to the phallic shaped yellow fruit, leaving both Steve and I wondering why the entire city of Rome was shouting "BANANA!" at one another. After figuring out what it meant we both got (perhaps too much) enjoyment at shouting "banana!" at people. No one caught on that we weren't actually saying 'boun anno'.
Truth be told, New Years in Rome was a little rough on us both. We found a couch surfing event where the beer was overpriced but the crowd was friendly and rung in the new year in true roman style (whatever that means). The metro stopped running before we left for the train station home and we found ourselves walking across Rome to the train station. A bag of pistachios, a pit stop at the pantheon, gelato and falafel snack breaks, and two hours later we arrived at the train station with plenty of time to spare before our 5:40am train ride home.
The station was cold and the only seating was on the floor, I fell asleep shivering while Steve fought off pick pockets, and woke up just in time for my hang over to kick in. Happy New Year to me.
Every cloud has a silver lining and this is no exception. Last year Steve had the idea to write a list of goals for the upcoming year on a cocktail napkin which we both, in turn, signed.
Last years heavy hitters included learning french and going traveling together - check and check! This year we've committed to purchasing a car, volunteering, taking some more advanced dance classes, a trip out east, and skydiving... all of this, of course, when we return safely and soundly home.
In the mean time, we're finishing up our Italian tour of Rome -> Venice -> Florence -> Pisa (where I'm blogging from) -> Siena (maybe) -> Rome -> Turkey.
Yes, Turkey. We leave Italy on the 13th, which is a good thing because one more Gelato and my pants wont fit.
Truth be told, New Years in Rome was a little rough on us both. We found a couch surfing event where the beer was overpriced but the crowd was friendly and rung in the new year in true roman style (whatever that means). The metro stopped running before we left for the train station home and we found ourselves walking across Rome to the train station. A bag of pistachios, a pit stop at the pantheon, gelato and falafel snack breaks, and two hours later we arrived at the train station with plenty of time to spare before our 5:40am train ride home.
The station was cold and the only seating was on the floor, I fell asleep shivering while Steve fought off pick pockets, and woke up just in time for my hang over to kick in. Happy New Year to me.
Every cloud has a silver lining and this is no exception. Last year Steve had the idea to write a list of goals for the upcoming year on a cocktail napkin which we both, in turn, signed.
Last years heavy hitters included learning french and going traveling together - check and check! This year we've committed to purchasing a car, volunteering, taking some more advanced dance classes, a trip out east, and skydiving... all of this, of course, when we return safely and soundly home.
In the mean time, we're finishing up our Italian tour of Rome -> Venice -> Florence -> Pisa (where I'm blogging from) -> Siena (maybe) -> Rome -> Turkey.
Yes, Turkey. We leave Italy on the 13th, which is a good thing because one more Gelato and my pants wont fit.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
confessional
forgive me followers for I have sinned. It has been a long time since my last post and I apologize profusely. I have been stuck in hell, I mean Orte, and have not had access to Internet, phone, TV or the outside world for the past month.
I have all of my previous posts pre written and will be posting them over the next few days to play catch up. I apologize for an concern or confusion that my lack of communication has caused. I'm alive and well, I assure you that.
Love always,
Brittles
I have all of my previous posts pre written and will be posting them over the next few days to play catch up. I apologize for an concern or confusion that my lack of communication has caused. I'm alive and well, I assure you that.
Love always,
Brittles
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Spainglish
Lulled into a false sense of security by my ability to parler my way through France with relative ease, I dont give a second thought to my Spanish liguistic abilities until we are across the border… and by then it is too late.
To clarify, I speak a wopping three words of Spanish and I taught myself those on the bus. My driver, who happily spoke to me in French will now only yell at me in Spanish, and it occurs to me that this language thing may be a bit of a problem.
Why is he yelling at me? Why wont he let me back on the bus? Why wont you speak English? Or French? Throw me a bone Mr. Busdriver…. He doesnt throw me a bone but he points at the dinner where the rest of the bus has gone for breakfast, shakes his head and I realize that this extended pee break is actually my first Spanish breakfast. Pitty, Im not hungry.
We get back on the bus, he speaks more Spanish, the bus laughs… at me (I know this because they point), welcome to Spain.
Nineteen hours and several pee breaks later [ if gotten rather good at knowing which ones are to be used for peeing and which ones for eating), and Im in Granada. I made one friend on the bus, a peculiare woman who confessed that she didnt quite understand societies aversion to canibalism [seriously?) but she was continuing on to Morocco so we parted ways… shucks.
First item on the itinerary is a shower. Second, free Tappas. In Granada, with every drink you order they bring you food and its free. It might be cheese, olives, falaffel, macaronie salad, sandwhiches, anything goes but its usually pretty good and always free. The beer is cheap and as long as youre drinking they keep feeding you. Its pretty easy to enjoy a lunch of free tappas and a few beers for four euros which makes Granada a pretty lively party town.
My host is Martel from Montanna and she is marvelous. She knows how to party and she speaks spanish, which makes her my new best friend. Were both young, fun and SICK.
Doesnt stop us from hitting the chipitoria (shots bar) and the discotech. With every shot you take you get a cupon, you save the cupons and get a souvenier, I save enough for a cowboy hat (25) which I think is the greatest thing in the world until I wake up the next day and feel like like someone played a death match round of pingpong with my head.
I climb a mountain sized hill and enjoy a nice view of the Alhambra and my drunken falafel purchase from the night before while I recover. I love Granada.
The city embraces the spanish lifestyle to the fullest, meaning 1pm is when you should hope to wake up, but its okay and not uncommon to sleep past 3pm. Everyone shuts down in the afternoon for a siesta and if youre going out you might start getting ready around 1am and be in bed by six or seven in the morning if youre having an early night. I wish I was exagerating, Im not. Anyone who knows me, knows that this is the complete opposite of how I function but I faired surprisingly well.
I did better with the schedule change then I did with the language barrier anyway. When it came time for me to exit Granada, I fudged up. My fear of getting on the wrong train prevented me from getting on the right one and rather than making my way full steam ahead to Barcelona, I was standing on the train station platform alone, in Granada, crying … and then they turned off the lights.
This train that I wasnt on was the great big dominoe for a series of missed buses, trains and airplanes but I didnt know that yet.
Take two: I buy a ticket for the same train the following day, this time I get on it. Success .
Next stop Barcelona, Ill just shut my eyes and sleep soundly… some people can dance, some people can sing, I have the god given talent to be able to sleep anywhere. Couch, airplane, kitchen Floor, you name it. This is why I travel so easily. But, I can not sleep on the Spain train from hell. I almost wish I had missed it again. Its loud, the lights stay on, my compartment is conveniently located between the washroom and the bar. Im sick, Im tired, and Im going to shove that cell Phone up your ass if I hear your bootylicious ringtone one more time.
The train stops in Barcelona two hours before my plane leaves for Italy. The doors open and Im the First one off the train, I hop in a cab, I get to the bus station, I buy my ticket, I get on the bus, I look at the arrival time, epic fail. By the time we arrive at the airport my plane will be in the air. I give up, Im too tired and too sick, I want my mommy and a bowl of soup. I find a hostel, I briefly consider sightseeing but decide to save some excitement for tomorrow.
I realize that there are worse places I could be stuck than Barcelona, which is good because Im there for three days. If I was smart I would sleep, take it easy, drink tea and eat soup. Im a stupid stupid girl. A bunch of German dudes befriend me and make it their mission to take me out. They speak really good English but ¨im sick and feel like im dying¨ doesnt seem to be in their vocabulary. Neither is ¨i have a 6am bus¨ a box of wine later Im feeling a lot better and so I go out and party like the rockstar that I am. Viva Barcelona. I should mention that I saw a lot more in Barcelona than the hostel and the bar, but I was so sick that its kinda blurry and I remember feeling like crap a lot better than I remember the sights and sounds. It was good though. I think I liked it.
To clarify, I speak a wopping three words of Spanish and I taught myself those on the bus. My driver, who happily spoke to me in French will now only yell at me in Spanish, and it occurs to me that this language thing may be a bit of a problem.
Why is he yelling at me? Why wont he let me back on the bus? Why wont you speak English? Or French? Throw me a bone Mr. Busdriver…. He doesnt throw me a bone but he points at the dinner where the rest of the bus has gone for breakfast, shakes his head and I realize that this extended pee break is actually my first Spanish breakfast. Pitty, Im not hungry.
We get back on the bus, he speaks more Spanish, the bus laughs… at me (I know this because they point), welcome to Spain.
Nineteen hours and several pee breaks later [ if gotten rather good at knowing which ones are to be used for peeing and which ones for eating), and Im in Granada. I made one friend on the bus, a peculiare woman who confessed that she didnt quite understand societies aversion to canibalism [seriously?) but she was continuing on to Morocco so we parted ways… shucks.
First item on the itinerary is a shower. Second, free Tappas. In Granada, with every drink you order they bring you food and its free. It might be cheese, olives, falaffel, macaronie salad, sandwhiches, anything goes but its usually pretty good and always free. The beer is cheap and as long as youre drinking they keep feeding you. Its pretty easy to enjoy a lunch of free tappas and a few beers for four euros which makes Granada a pretty lively party town.
My host is Martel from Montanna and she is marvelous. She knows how to party and she speaks spanish, which makes her my new best friend. Were both young, fun and SICK.
Doesnt stop us from hitting the chipitoria (shots bar) and the discotech. With every shot you take you get a cupon, you save the cupons and get a souvenier, I save enough for a cowboy hat (25) which I think is the greatest thing in the world until I wake up the next day and feel like like someone played a death match round of pingpong with my head.
I climb a mountain sized hill and enjoy a nice view of the Alhambra and my drunken falafel purchase from the night before while I recover. I love Granada.
The city embraces the spanish lifestyle to the fullest, meaning 1pm is when you should hope to wake up, but its okay and not uncommon to sleep past 3pm. Everyone shuts down in the afternoon for a siesta and if youre going out you might start getting ready around 1am and be in bed by six or seven in the morning if youre having an early night. I wish I was exagerating, Im not. Anyone who knows me, knows that this is the complete opposite of how I function but I faired surprisingly well.
I did better with the schedule change then I did with the language barrier anyway. When it came time for me to exit Granada, I fudged up. My fear of getting on the wrong train prevented me from getting on the right one and rather than making my way full steam ahead to Barcelona, I was standing on the train station platform alone, in Granada, crying … and then they turned off the lights.
This train that I wasnt on was the great big dominoe for a series of missed buses, trains and airplanes but I didnt know that yet.
Take two: I buy a ticket for the same train the following day, this time I get on it. Success .
Next stop Barcelona, Ill just shut my eyes and sleep soundly… some people can dance, some people can sing, I have the god given talent to be able to sleep anywhere. Couch, airplane, kitchen Floor, you name it. This is why I travel so easily. But, I can not sleep on the Spain train from hell. I almost wish I had missed it again. Its loud, the lights stay on, my compartment is conveniently located between the washroom and the bar. Im sick, Im tired, and Im going to shove that cell Phone up your ass if I hear your bootylicious ringtone one more time.
The train stops in Barcelona two hours before my plane leaves for Italy. The doors open and Im the First one off the train, I hop in a cab, I get to the bus station, I buy my ticket, I get on the bus, I look at the arrival time, epic fail. By the time we arrive at the airport my plane will be in the air. I give up, Im too tired and too sick, I want my mommy and a bowl of soup. I find a hostel, I briefly consider sightseeing but decide to save some excitement for tomorrow.
I realize that there are worse places I could be stuck than Barcelona, which is good because Im there for three days. If I was smart I would sleep, take it easy, drink tea and eat soup. Im a stupid stupid girl. A bunch of German dudes befriend me and make it their mission to take me out. They speak really good English but ¨im sick and feel like im dying¨ doesnt seem to be in their vocabulary. Neither is ¨i have a 6am bus¨ a box of wine later Im feeling a lot better and so I go out and party like the rockstar that I am. Viva Barcelona. I should mention that I saw a lot more in Barcelona than the hostel and the bar, but I was so sick that its kinda blurry and I remember feeling like crap a lot better than I remember the sights and sounds. It was good though. I think I liked it.
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