I went to a bakery to buy pide for dinner. Only when outside did I notice the name of the bakery. It’s very distressing. I definitely don’t want to talk about it.

Istanbul can provide a reminder that ALL of the world’s major religions, including Christianity, are at their roots Asian religions that then spread. The Hagia Sophia was for so long the centre of Christianity. For centuries it was the largest church, the biggest dome, the most massive building, etc, etc, etc. Later it became a mosque and it is now a museum. A fantastic museum with many, many layers.

There are sounds that help remind us every day that we’re in Istanbul – the deep notes of the ships as they pass through the Bosporus, the call to prayer from the mosques at various times starting before dawn, the cries of wheeling gulls. Recently added to that has been the crack of teargas guns, the wail of police sirens and the chants of protestors. Today I went to the Topkapi Palace – a much more peaceful place indeed.

The palace was started by Sultan Mehmed II in 1453 and is very human in scale with only two floors and lots of open space. This particular sultan also started another fine Ottoman tradition – fraticide. To stop two of his sons fighting over who gets the palace when Dad dies, he had the younger one killed. The idea took hold, and for nearly 200 years whenever a Sultan died, all of the Crown Prince’s brothers and half brothers were strangled and buried with their father. When you have 4 wives and 200 concubines strangling all the younger lads would have been a good night’s worth of work for the Head Groundsman – he also doubled as chief assassin. The leadership team at Fairholme should stay right away from Peter Sutton when Linda retires.

I wonder if the brothers ever cottoned on to the fact that they were the only kids at Topkapi High School with lots and lots of aunties but no uncles? Later this practice was modified slightly to keep a couple alive in prison at the palace just in case the new Sultan produced no male heirs. Some of these royal prisoners eventually got to take over the throne but had been driven quite mad by the wait – understandably. Imagine spending the whole first part of your life hoping your dad stays well, then the next bit hoping your brother doesn’t.

The Ottomans also used their massive wealth to collect a huge portfolio of religious relics – the Prophet’s coat, footprint, parts of his beard, some of his hand writing. They have King David’s sword and a staff that is said to belong to Moses. They have various parts of Christian Saints/ Muslim Prophets, John The Baptist’s wrist bones for example. There is enough jewellery to excite an entire harem of course, and a library that’s not too shoddy. Today they had a Mufti reading from a 16th Century Koran, with an English and Turkish translation shown on a screen as he recited the words. I do think Celia and Margie’s people would be able to find an exciting body part or two in the relics room.

To finish off my great day exploring Istanbul and Linda’s day wrestling with her concluding chapter, we dined at a local restaurant.  Grilled seabass and fresh salad, kofta and veges, dessert and water – about $20 each.  Walking home we were accompanied by  the deep notes of the ships as they pass through the Bosporus, the call to prayer from the mosques across the city, the cries of wheeling gulls. No chanting protestors, no police sirens, and definitely no teargas. Even a 21st Century Ottoman Prince would think that’s a pretty flash way to finish the day. Though I’m not so sure about his younger brothers.

I had to get my hair cut in Turkey today. I went to a place downstairs and they gave me their card. It’s very distressing, I don’t want to talk about this either.

I went to a public toilet in Turkey today.  It’s very distressing – I really don’t want to talk about it.

Since we have fêted the notion of the road less travelled, what is tourism without surprises? Linda and I were teargassed today. The reason? For the past six days there have been six hundred or so protestors camped in a park not all that far from our apartment. The government is planning to clear the site of trees in order to build army barracks and, in the words of a local, ‘another’ shopping centre.  A ‘Save the Park’ group had been camped at the location to stop the trees being uprooted, but on Friday the police moved in. The camp was burnt down, the trees were bulldozed, and, in the process, some people lost eyes, one is in a coma and dozens were injured.

It’s Saturday here, and we had enjoyed an innocent touristic stroll across the Galata Bridge and through the Spice Markets to the Grand Bazaar. Despite noticing a proliferation of young people wearing surgical masks – the pollution was nonexistent and surgical masks have always seemed like a Japanese tourist or doctor thing, we headed home via the fernicular rail expecting a slow stroll down the hill to Sedal Ekerin Caddesi – our street. The only cause for concern was a chance conversation with a passenger on the fernicular who gave us a little background to the protests, then, with his limited English his parting words were: “Be careful’. We thought he was being a little melodramatic, perhaps. Yet, when we got off at our stop, the station doors were locked, the place was filled with teargas to stop protestors from reaching Taksim square – site of activity, and people were attempting to get back on the train.  Fairly quickly – though it felt like a long time,  some Young Turks (sorry Scotty) broke open a roller door allowing everyone to exit.

We walked home against the tide. There were thousands and thousands of young people heading to Taksim Square. They were wearing a combination of surgical masks, or gas masks, or helmets, or bearing Turkish flags and they all were walking with intensity. One particularly erudite young man having a tea outside our apartment gave us some background.  A relative had been the Foreign Minister in a previous government and strongly opposed to the any military involvement in government because of Turkey’s long history of dictatorships and coups.  Now young people particularly see the military as the only guarantee of a secular Turkey, the only guarantors of free speech and the right to protest peacefully.

Another salient lesson regarding the things we take for granted in Australia and the costs that have been incurred in obtaining those freedoms; things like freedom of speech and peaceful assembly, and train travel without the teargas.

Many here consider dogs to be unclean, although I don’t know why anyone would get that idea:

Our neighbourhood is Constantinople Cat Central.

Actually there are real issues for blind people across this part of the world, with so many shop owners or authorities refusing to allow any dog, even guide dogs, into shops or public transport.  And seeing-eye goats or cats haven’t been a huge success.

(OK, I made that bit up about the goats and cats- guide-goats are pretty good, it’s just the seeing-eye cats that have been the problem)

Oh dear – time for bed.

We have established the five major food groups for Turks – in ascending order:

5 – Dairy – apart from yogurt and arayan -the yogurt drink and some goats’ cheese there is very little to be found.

4 – Meat – only seen lamb and chicken.  There is plenty of fresh fish.

3 – Bread – we have seen every sort of bread for sale – except Turkish!

2 – Fruit and Vegetables – actually vegetables and fruit

1 – Kebabs

This list doesn’t include beverages because there is only one beverage – tea, tea or tea.

The food is great – and very different from Italy.  Each morning for breakfast Linda and I head to a local bakery that only sells borek and backlava-ish things.  If any of you have known about borek and intentionally hidden this from me, I would find it a hard thing to forgive. I choose the spicy meat pastry, Linda the cheese, or cheese & spinach and with these delicacies, two cups of tea each. Our waiter Ali then says “Kacnhit cey nitchcel birogulu mish” then charges us a random amount.  For exactly the same order no two days have been the same price.  Good job Ali.

We have found Turkish wine from a wine shop just up the road – up being the operative word in the case of this hilly precinct. Turkish Sav Blanc is not NZ Sav Blanc – but it is OK.  The wine bar sells a wine that has been made in the same village for around 7000 years the archeologists think.  There were pottery shards found in caves there with wine stains through them, and carbon dating gives the age. You’d think that they’d have wine-making nailed after that amount of time – but I think there’s just a wee bit to go yet on the wine-making journey until their Old Caves Red makes it into the top 100 list.  Even the list of something you’d pay good Turkish lira for actually.

We haven’t yet seen Turkish bread, there is beautiful bread everywhere, but not Turkish bread!  Even doner kebabs are sold in crusty white rolls.  I think Turkish bread and Turkish wraps are  something invented by Coles.  The kebab shops are omnipresent, as are fresh fish restaurants in our part of the city.  The food on the Asian side seems cheaper and better, but who can really make a judgement after a few days?

We have just started to get our bearings, sorting out public transport and routines that fit studies with souvlaki.  We haven’t really started cooking. But when we do there will be no shortage of beautiful ingredients -tomatoes, capsicums, eggplants, nuts, cherries, fresh herbs and great yogurt and goats cheeses.  Just no Turkish bread – unless of course I happen to find a Coles or Woolies.

A number of historical figures have been sold in Turkey.  Miguel Cervantes was captured by pirates, then spent six years as a galley slave rowing a boat on a Turkish Mediterranean Cruise before obtaining his freedom.  Of course he went on to write Don Quixote – a series of sequential short stories, and by doing so is credited with inventing the format we now call ‘the novel’.  The fourth Pope was bought and sold by the Turks as were a number of Byzantine saints.  As were Linda and I yesterday.

We had asked for a driver to pick us up as we had read plenty of Turkish Taxi Terror yarns. When we stepped out of customs at the incredibly efficient Kemal Attaturk Airport, we were met by a man (I thought he said his name was ‘Sandshoe’ AND so did Linda) who told us to wait.  There was only four people on his list, so he sold us to another man (I though he said his name was ‘Sandal’, AND so did Linda.)  Sandal couldn’t put a group together, so he sold us to another bloke who was heading home from the airport and had his wife waiting for him outside in the car.  I won’t pretend his name was Slipper- that would be a silly name.  He and his wife drove us to Unpronouncable Street where we will be for the next three weeks.

Our apartment is wonderful on the inside, but my goodness the outside needs a bit of work Mr Ozturk. On the theme of novels, John Buchan’s ‘Thirty-nine Steps’ has nothing on Suite Home Galata.  It is seventy-two very steep steps up a spiralling, marble staircase.  My Children, how proudly your little hearts would beat if you could but see your father springing lightly up and down those stairs!   Your mother has christened me ‘The Gatton Gazelle’ – just to give you some idea of how elegant I look on that staircase.

First impressions of Istanbul itself? It is a great city and it will become even better as we become more familiar with the geography.  We have negotiated the public transport system to cross over the Golden Horn to the peninsula.  We have obviously walked extensively around this district – enough to get mildly lost but still manage to navigate our way home.  We have found some of the major tourism landmarks, but have not yet visited them as we are awaiting Mitch and Maryanne’s arrival.  We have found a place for breakfast, and we have located butchers, bakers, candle stick makers, etc.

Turkey will be NOTHING like Italy.  Despite the modern Kemal Attaturk Airport, the Kemal Attaturk freeways and bridges, the Kemal Attaturk schools and universities, there is only so much one Father of the Fatherland can do.  There isn’t a Kemal Attaturk garbage collection system, or a Kemal Attaturk – we’d-better-fix-that-one-last-pothole crew, or a Kemal Attaturk Are-you-certain-that-fish-meets-our-exacting-hygiene-standards?-inspector.  But that is what makes the next three weeks so exciting for the two of us.

Whenever Mitch or Nat ask us where we will go to in Europe next trip, five out of six times we have said ‘Florence’.  They think that means we are already boring, predictable, old farts. We think that means that we love Florence.

Our farewell dinner was at one of Florence’s better known places.  The food is all cooked according to Mediaeval recipes – honey instead of sugar, again lots of vegetables, very few spices and almost no salt.  At first taste it seemed quite bland- then the depth of flavours from slow, fire-cooked foods kicked in.  It does take a while for palates so used to salt and highly spiced foods to adjust, but all this month has all been simple flavours, perfectly cooked and beautifully presented. I am almost feeling sorry for visitors to our place when we get home  – they will feel like Evans kitchen guinea pigs!
(By the way Scotty, I have used brackets to tell you that the total meal – three courses, bread, wine etc. was about $70)
Better let you go Scotty.  We’ve got a plane to catch tomorrow.

We leave Margie and Celia’s people to go off to the land of Saracens!