travels

First stop is Plovdiv, a university town, large but not as big as the capital, with an amazing centre full of Ottoman architecture, built on seven hills, ala Rome. Hikers Hostel is on a cobblestone street surrounded by old houses, art galleries, and teeny restaurants. And in addition to the dorm room, has a giant lofted bed above the common room. Not bad. The city has some night I’ve just missed – a night of art, or something along those lines, where all 100 something galleries in the city stay open 11pm-5am, and everyone just meanders about and drinks cafe, looks at art, does… whatever. Very Europe.

Happy to just stay and relax, but time on this trip is running short, less than two months before the flight I just booked leaves, and from Poland at that, with a half dozen intervening countries I want to see in the meantime. This line is starting to sound familiar. I catch the little local train into Sofia, the capital, with some sort of sweet awning over the central train station:

After two previous locations (the first is now a dirt lot, the second has a sign hanging outside like a storefront with a little mini-map directing you to the new location) I arrive at Hostel Mostel – which I later discover is the local super chain, despised by the little independent hostels, but quite nice, all housed in a giant renovated 19th century building, tucked away in the middle of downtown. Sofia is an interesting place. Huge capital city, yes, but so much architecture and other remnants of post-Sovietism that I find fascinating. And, amazing pizza by the slice. I fail in my attempt to make it up to nearby Vitosha Mountain, my stubbornness at only taking public transport doing me in. The St. Alexander Nevsky Cathedral (Bulgarian: Храм-паметник “Свети Александър Невски”). Back to the land of the Cyrillic alphabet, which I pick up most of within a few days. The desire to learn Russian comes rushing back.

I head northeast to Veliko Tarnovo, past capital of the medieval Bulgarian Empire, most of the town perched on steep cliffs along a river which winds in a convoluted S shape throughout. The fortress is massive, if poorly maintained. I hook up with a few recent, post-Turkey, acquaintances, for a rather memorable night at something we nickname the “twenty-four hour bar” and Spider Club, if that is your real name. Fun continues as I strike east to Varna on the Black Sea (go Flag Hostel!), party town extraordinaire. The ATM right downstairs is apparently controlled by the mafia, and ads a hefty 100% surcharge to whatever you decide to withdraw. So, for that matter, are a number of the beachside clubs and bars. Controlled by the mafia that is, with large men in black suits and bulges under their coats. “No guns” signs are prominent on entrance ways, where one might expect a “no smoking” sign.

I can’t complain with life in Varna. East European attitudes about everything, just a hint of seedyness and danger, gorgeous women everywhere, and the price is right. We nearly make an expedition up to Vama Veche in Romania – for a night. That is, hop in a taxi at 9, cross the border into Romania and arrive to this beach party town two hours later. The cab leaves you, arranging a pickup place for 10am the next morning. The goal, until then: stay awake and party with a few thousand people at what is essentially a beach rave. Best for my health I think I pass, and likewise, that I spend only a few days in Varna

Istanbul (previously Byzantium and Constantinople, now fifth largest city in the world) is a whirlwind of sight and sound that I immerse myself in for little more than a week, though I could have stayed so much longer. A series of snapshots. I take lodging in the heart of Sultanahmet, where the majority of the hostels are, the classical tourist sights, and everything that is wrong with Istanbul. But also some of the most beautiful parts. At some point I brave the crowds at the Hagia Sophia (Aya Sofya), which looks a bit squat and ugly from the outside but is unbelievable from within. On the central altar (?) a cat basking in the warmth of a lamp has everyone in distressed excitement.

Between the spice bazaar and the Yeni Cami (“New Mosque”) a row of men washing their feet, hands, faces outside.

The inside of the Yeni Cami. The boy in the gown and specter is one of several we see in the city, undergoing part of their passage to manhood – circumcision.

The inside of the Blue Mosque is covered in exquisite blue tiles. The ceiling:

One of the specialties of tourist-Istanbul is freshly caught fish, perhaps from fisherman perched along all the bridges of the Bosphorus and the Golden Horn, freshly fried and stuffed inside a bun of bread with some onions. “Balik Ekmek” – “fish bread.” Is delicious. For a slightly more upscale dining experience, the underside of the Galata Bridge is lined with seafood restaurants just over the water.

The two palaces in Istanbul I am able to see: Topkapı and Dolmabahçe. Topkapı is a sprawling affair, sweeping vistas over the water and unbelievable architecture and decorations.

Inside Dolmabahçe, though, is the most beautiful building I have ever seen. No photography allowed, though Wikipedia has a few shots. Just to whet the appetite for something slightly off the tourist trail:

Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, the founder and first President of the Republic of Turkey, used the palace as a presidential residence during the summers and enacted some of his most important works here. Atatürk spent the last days of his medical treatment in this palace, where he died on November 10, 1938. Contains the world’s largest Bohemian crystal chandelier, a gift from Queen Victoria. The palace has an area of 45,000 m2 (11.2 acres), and contains 285 rooms, 46 halls, 6 baths (hamam) and 68 toilets. The famous Crystal Staircase has the shape of a double horseshoe and is built of Baccarat crystal, brass and mahogany. The palace includes a large number of Hereke palace carpets made by the Hereke Imperial Factory. Also featured are 150-year-old bearskin rugs originally presented to the Sultan as a gift by the Tsar of Russia.

Also, walks up through Beyoğlu and Beşiktaş, kumpir (the most delicious thing in the world, like some sort of amazing baked potato) in Ortaköy, a meyhane and general merryment in Taksim, nargile (shisha) pipes in Tophane, the ferry over to Kadıköy and a tea at a relaxing çay bahcesi (tea house), the Grand Bazaar, the Basilica Cistern. Abandoned tankers lopsided on the rocks in Üsküdar. I love the names of Istanbul’s neighborhoods. One place I need not even promise to return to. But at the end, the train station beckons, and an overnight train with a cabin shared by a curious old man sees me across the border into Bulgaria – back, to Europe.

From Egirdir I make my way to Antalya, jumping off point for the Turkish coast. Headed to the old center I hop off our big bus with a few locals and pile into a little minitaxi provided by the bus company to get us into town. The driver winds through narrow streets and backyard orchards on a route which I doubt is the most direct. We pull up to some house where he starts honking madly – a package pickup in the middle of his run. To satiate us he jumps out and picks a few handfuls of orange-esque fruits from a tree and hands them around to all his passengers. Can’t complain. Antalya itself is not too impressive – a return to tourist central, especially Russian. I stay only a day before heading down the coast to Olympos, of backpacker fame. Olympos sounds more like a resting place for the gods, and there are some impressive Roman ruins, as well as the eternal flames at Chimera. But the main draw is the string of hostels and a stretch of gorgeous beach. I forgo the party destinations and end up at Saban Pension, where the mom cooks us a feast every night – some of the best food of this entire trip. My days are spent lying in the hammocks, lounging on pillows in the orchards, reading, sunbathing, and swimming in the ocean. Including a sunrise swim which I am surprised myself by making it to. For the next two weeks I manage to swim in the ocean every day. I would love to live on the coast. When it is finally time to say goodbye I am on to Kas, and wish I would have stayed a bit more in Olympos. I am city hoping, though why I am not quite sure. Quickly on to Patara, site of some amazing ruins of Lycia, and also Turkey’s only (?) real sand beach, 13km long of pure beauty. I spent a few days. I don’t accomplish much. On to Fethiye, renowned for its over density of British vacationers. A few fun nights, one with a 200 euro bar tab (between three of us, and totally not my fault), and a gorgeous view from the rooftop dorm room.

Next to Marmaris, full of Ukranian and Russian tourists. The guys work on their suntan the “Russian way,” standing, speedos bunched up as small as possible, rotating slowly. After someone points it out to me I can’t help but notice everyone. Also, a fair percentage of ladies no longer feeling the need for their tops. I think I am as shocked as any of the locals, coming from the east. Marmaris is a big city without much charm, but I catch a little bus out to Datca on the peninsula, where I wouldn’t have minded staying a few more days. The ferry takes me across to Bodrum, party central, home to Halikarnas, the “loudest disco on the Med.” On the quieter side of the harbor, a sponge vendor.

And the view from the Bodrum Castle, built during the Crusades:

From Bodrum I head inland, forgoing Pamukkale (not worth it I’ve been repeatedly told), and landing at the ancient Roman city of Ephesus (Efes). There are a handful of hostels in town and all seem pretty fun. The ruins themselves are amazing, the main marble boulevard leading up to the library, and the immense theater. Spoiled only slightly by the hordes of European tourists in bright pastel tank tops crowding after tour guides. Still, the place clears out near sunset, and it is easy to see how this city was second only to Rome.

Not quite content to hit the west in one step, I make a midway stop at Bergama. The ancient city of Pergamon lords over, and the Sanctuary of Asclepius (awesome underground tunnel) is nearby, as is the massive “Red Basilica.” The redeeming feature of the guesthouse I stay at is the library, which provides me with a hardcover Isaac Asimov anthology which I carry with me until the end of the trip. The last stop I want to make is Troy, even though I’ve heard all the fuss about the ruins, not impressive, not well excavated, potentially not even Troy etc. It is nearly to Canakkale, my stop for the night, but if I have to go and then make the small trip back I’ll never make it in time. Instead, I take a tip and ask the bus driver to let me off at Truya, which he happily does, big backpack and all, whereupon I discover the 5km walk from the highway to the site. Which, an hour later in the hot sun, was just as rough as I had expected it to be. The guards take pity on me at the site, I stash my backpack and look around. A giant replica of the wooden horse, tacky. The best pictures I take are of an awning covering the ruins and of a friendly cat. Still, with a little imagination. I join a bunch of workers from a nearby restaurant who all head back into town in a little shuttle, their work done for the day.

My first view of the Dardanelles. A waterway whose importance has been impressed upon me by Orpan Pamuk. One night only – I’m not here for Gallipoli, the main attraction, as are all the aussies and kiwis that fill the hostels. Tomorrow morning, bright and early, to Istanbul.

I ditch the duo who are headed up into the mountains (next time!) and catch a bus back across the border in to Turkey. My old haunt in Kars happily provides accommodation for the night while I wait for the 8am the next day. How could I come to Turkey and not ride on the famed (or, rather, ill-famed) train? In just shy of 30 hours it deposits me in Kayseri, only a short hop from my return to tourist central – Cappadocia (Kapadokya). The landscape is worth it.

I shack up in a rooftop dorm room in Göreme for a few days to check out the area. The surrounding countryside is perfect for hiking, crisscrossed with valleys, crazy rock formations, ancient rock cities and monasteries, and a spread of blooming flowers courtesy of spring. It all feels a bit like Dahab though, backpacker central, full of small cafes and bars, plenty of room for the ambiguous lounging.

The Göreme Open Air Museum is a small area full of rock-cut churches and houses, “fairy chimneys,” and the occasional cave monastery. I spend all my time hiking around a maze of interconnected valleys with such delightful names as Rock Valley, Pigeon Valley, Baglidere Valley, Zemi Valley, and Rose Valley.

Someone told me about a hike through Ihlara valley to the south and I manage to make it down via Aksaray. I drop my bags at a little pension in Ihlara, manage to catch the last bus up to Selime at the other end of the valley, and hike back the 14km before sunset. What an awesome hike, with a curious little segment in the middle where all the tour buses come for the “day trip” hikes. The vast majority of it I see more locals than hikers though, as the trail follows a river alongside farmland and orchards. The next day I get an early start out towards Konya, renowned for its conservatism and the heart of Sufism, ala Mevlana, Mystics, and the Whirling Dervishes. I never knew that the reason they twirled was because they believe the dizzying sensation itself brings them closer to something / is a sort of religious experience. A very cool ceremony, with mostly middle aged men, though also younger boys in training and a duo of elders in the lead.

Although I find myself perpetually behind schedule I can’t help but make yet one more stop before reaching the coast – Lake Egirdir. Jutting out into the blue lake is the majority of town sits on a awkward little promontory. Definitely a place to come and relax – my hostel has a unobstructed balcony looking straight towards sunset and a staircase straight down to the beach.

Jumping on the bus from Trabzon up the coast to Batumi in Georgia we make the unexpected acquaintance of two Canadian sisters, who ditch halfway to go hiking in the Kashkar Mountains (Turkey), but promise to join us in Georgia soon. I’ve been assured that US citizens, among others, no longer need visas to enter Georgia, as of this year – the book says otherwise, and I am a bit apprehensive when we just show up. We pile out of the bus with all the locals (who have stocked up with, among other goodies, kilos and kilos of bread just on the Turkish side) and get in the queue, where a drop dead gorgeous and very Soviet-esque 20-something girl scans passports and administers stamps. In a very no nonsense, don’t fuck around kind of way. When we finally get to the front she asks if we’ve filled out the forms (definitely not) and are promptly told to get out of her line and go find said forms. Which are in the clutches of another girl about our age, who leaves us alone to fill out the forms (in Russian), which we decide are about the Swine Flu? We’re not quite sure, and when we’re done just leave them on the desk to get back in line. This time we answer yes to the forms question (live and learn, just say yes – a good motto for Georgia) and are prompty stamped through. Everyone else from the bus is long gone, having acquired who knows what modes of transport onward, though the bus is right behind us and we are happy to hop back aboard. We spend the next 45 minutes dodging cows in the road. Cows seems to rule the roads in Western Georgia – cars come to screeching halts as they calmly wander about, staring sullenly at the intrusive vechile blasting a horn from a meter away to no avail. The three of us agree that, already, we love Georgia.

In Batumi we avoid any backpacker type joints and find the cheapest hotel we can. Which is a bit damp, no other way to describe it, but definitely the right price. Off exploring – the main attraction of Batumi is perhaps the ferris wheel, which we hold off on for tomorrow, and the fountains coordinated to a whole concert of music. My favorite was definitely when Blur came on.

Batumi is apparently party central in the coming months, though at the moment all the beach bars and clubs are frantically under construction, and things are a bit quiet. Our second day we dedicate to laying in the sun on the beach, drinking Russian beer and admiring the beautiful girls. A few hours into this strenous exercise the two Canadians randomly walk up – having been called crazy for trying to hike at this time of year they bailed the next day straight to Batumi. The five of us make a ferris wheel date, which for some tragic reason isn’t running this day, the saddest moment ever. We make up for it by going for khinkali (dumplings) for dinner, the size of which we drastically underestimate and order enough food for about ten people. With stomachs about to explode we are interrupted by a merry old chap who arrives to our little zone (apparently dining out in Georgia is quite a private affair, if you don’t get an individual room for your party you get a little area cordoned off with curtains) with a bottle of champagne and toasts us, Georgian style. That is, with a great many things said, and then the immediate consumption of all the alcohol in your glass. A bottle of champagne down, we are all invited downstairs to join their party (a birthday celebration), where all the younger relatives are dancing about while the whole family claps, drinks (well, the boys), and generally has a merry time. Dan about passes out from sunstroke/sunburn, while the rest of us consume an amazing amount of homemade [white] Georgia wine and make a pathetic attempt to match the amazing dancing of the kids. One of the guys, maybe a little younger than us, is in the national folk dancing troupe – amazing stuff.

A late night leads to an early start, the next day, for Gori, in the middle of Georgia and most renowned for being the birthplace of Stalin. Featuring, among other things, a giant statue of Stalin in the main square, the Stalin museum (all in Russian, be forewarned), and the “original” house that Stalin was born in, preserved in situ.

Our accomodation in Gori is our first experience with a Georgian homestay. It is listed in the book at 1 euro/night (prices have gone up slightly), and it takes us accosting a local, who proceeds to walk with us across town, to find the place. He knocks at the door, down the dusty side street of a dirty side street, neither with a name, and this old lady appears, speaking no English, seemingly unaware what three backpackers may be doing at her door. At this point, our guide has the most doubtful expression on his face, as in, you guys should get out of here, and at this point I am thinking the same thing. But a few seconds later we are waved inside the little family compound – one of the strangest places I’ve managed to spend a few nights.

In Gori we meet up with the first of two Georgia friends that Bryn met in Cairo – Data. We spend the next few days hanging out with all his friends in Gori, enjoying their amazing hospitality. A phenomenon we first discovered in Syria, it seems that whenever someone becomes your host all their other duties in the world cease to exist, something I will have to try and emulate back in the States. After much too long, or much too short, in Gori, we make our way to the capital, Tbilisi, where a general sense of angst has been ongoing for quite some time now (my new found source for all kinds of crazy news from this area). Protestors, living in little plywood and plastic huts labeled as “cells”, have completely blocked off the main street downtown which runs in front of parliament.

They are demanding the resignation of the president, for, among other things, his mistreatment of the Russian invasion, and suspicions over a tank battalion mutiny (how sweet does that sound) which happened just a few days before we arrived. With this in mind, we expected Tbilisi to be a rather lively place, but things were, sadly, rather under control, at least on the surface.

We are told that there are nightly police raids through the protester’s camp to scare people, and that big plans are afoot for independence day, only a few days ahead. At the insistence of our Georgian hosts we make a trip South to the Davit Gareja Monastery, a beautiful place in an “arid lunar landscape” sitting on the border with Azerbaijan, a country looking all the more tempting. A journey which involves chartering ourselves a private taxi for an hour ride from the closest bus stop for a negotiated price which our driver agrees to all too quickly – even if he does sit around waiting us for hours.

We meet up with Bryn’s second friend from Cairo – Tato (there is a bit of a name repetition issue in Georgia..), who is (a) somewhat a celebrity in Georgia, having been a star on the first ever Georgian reality show, something akin to Big Brother, and (b) the manager of the biggest night club in Tbilisi, which is conveniently having a bit of a shindig which we get some invites to, complete with a VIP table upstairs. Not too shabby at all. A night which doesn’t end until the sun is peeking back over the horizon. Our sightseeing the next day (feeling a bit bad that we haven’t actually seen that much of the city) includes what is apparently baptism day at the local cathedral. And a stunning view after a rain storm.

Among other curiosities, such as the availability of kachapuri (cheese or meat, flaky pastries) for breakfast, and nothing else, are the ubiquitous seedy casinos everywhere.

My first taste of the ex-USSR is quite satisfying. It convinces me that girls from this part of the world are exceedingly beautiful, things are exceedingly cheap, and that I definitely need to learn Russian.