Inglish in Istanbul
‘Oh dear,’ sighed Helen one sunny day in May, sounding as wistful and contemplative as a recalcitrant schoolgirl who’s just realised he missed her opportunity to cause a minor explosion in the chemistry lab when the teacher’s back was turned.
‘What’s the matter dearest?’ I enquired in my most caring manner.
‘I’m well into middle age,’ she plaintively moaned, ‘and I’ve never been to Istanbul!’
‘Don’t worry,’ I reassured her, ‘We can pop over in the autumn half-term holidays. Then all your dreams will have been realised before you finally shuffle off!’
Which is how we ended up squeezed into the cheap seats of an Easyjet flight en route to Sabiha Gocken airport in the early hours of Monday 24th October!
For those of you who imagine that a flight to Istanbul would naturally land somewhere near the city, let me put you straight on the matter: Sabiha Gocken is a very long way from the heart of Istanbul (it’s actually on a different continent to the historic part we were staying in, but that probably makes it sound a little too dramatic).
Helen and I were a little concerned as to how we were to make our way from the airport to the old city as we anxiously emerged from the airport into the greyness of a Turkish October morning. We’d read the guide book which kindly suggested several means of conveyance from the airport to the banks of the Bosporus, none of which were a new-looking, clean and smart white coach with comfy seats and no other passengers. We were, therefore, slightly concerned when a swarthy man grabbed us and suggested we board such a vehicle which was handily placed just outside the terminal building. We were even more sceptical when we were informed that the fare would be eight Lira, around £3, each.
As is usual for the confused and befuddled new-arrival in a strange country, we didn’t like to argue and meekly boarded, sitting right at the front, the better to see the sights.
As I gazed back down the length of the deserted vehicle I had flash-backs of catching public transport in Africa, where it is not unusual to sit for several hours in a sweltering minibus waiting for enough passengers to make it worthwhile for the operator to bother making the journey. Turkish practice, it seems, is a shade less inhumane and after a few bleak moments the driver climbed aboard and fired up the mighty diesel. The driver probably had a policy of only carrying a couple of passengers at a time in order to keep weight down and achieve maximum performance from his racing bus. Helen and I alternated between involuntary bowel movements and gasping in admiration as he swerved between the irritatingly pedestrian Porches and Ferraris that were baulking us at every turn.
Alighting from the bus at Kadikoy, we were both pleased to spot the ferry terminal handily placed right next to the bus stop. It was beginning to seem as if the good folk of Turkey had got this whole public transport thing well sorted. We were even more thrilled to discover that a ride across to Sirkechi would only cost about 70p each leaving, we guessed, enough money to sample a drop of local best when we got there.
The map we had said that our hotel was only a hop, skip and jump from the ferry and so we launched ourselves into town. I insisted on being a martyr to masculinity and set off wheeling our shared suitcase, carrying my (very butch) man bag and trying to hold onto and read the GPS on my tablet computer. Helen, being a martyr to femininity, ignored my struggling and sauntered along, casually browsing shop windows and marvelling at the sights and smells of the spice bazaar.
Just before I gave up the pretence of manliness and burst into tears, we staggered up to the front door of the hotel and elegantly collapsed in the foyer.
Hotel Erboy turned out to be much better than we’d expected and, other than to comment on the rather splendid buffet breakfast which, in the hands of a dedicated glutton, could last all day (thereby saving enough money for at least 2 more samples of the local best), needs no more mention.
The next few days were spent happily wading our way through mazes of back-streets, bazaars and magnificent mosques. Of these, the Hagia Sophia, The Suleymanyi Mosque and the Basilica Cistern deserve special mention. All were wonderfully preserved and managed, in spite of the crowds of tourists, to retain a sense of peace and of their great history.
We bravely tackled the tram, train and funicular railways, in turn and were stunned to learn that each offered regular, quick and clean transportation around the town for only 70p a ride – beer prospects were looking better and better!
On the second morning, as seasoned Instanbul commuters, we decided to take the tram over to Galatassaray. We duly squeezed our way into a very crowded rush- hour carriage and held on tightly as we swung around the winding route down towards The Golden Horn, an inlet of The Bosphorus that divides the old city. At every stop people were forcing their way on and off, but the overall effect was that numbers stayed more or less constant and we had to remain standing. That was, until we reached Sirkechi where, suddenly, it seemed as if everyone had decided to get off at once and we saw our chance of a seat! I made a dive for the nearest ones and victoriously lowered myself in. Helen then pointed out that this was a ‘priority seat’ and that if an elderly or otherwise more deserving than us person got on, we would have to give the seat up. I looked up and down the now almost empty carriage and declared that we’d chance it. The first person that got on after that was a middle aged woman – not a lot older than me, and certainly not disabled. She looked at Helen and I and said, quite forcibly, in English with a heavy accent, ‘Back, back,’ and pointed down the carriage.
‘No way,’ I thought, ‘This woman doesn’t need this seat any more than I do.’ I dug my heels in, feigned total ‘foreigner who doesn’t understand’ status and pressed my cheeks harder into the seat.
A fairly elderly man then entered the fray, echoing the woman’s words, ‘Back, back.’
I looked him up and down, thinking that, although, admittedly, he was older than me, he looked fit enough to walk the extra 2 feet to the next empty seat. Accordingly, I continued to pretend I couldn’t understand a word anyone was saying and stoutly (but largely silently) defended my equal right to the contentious seat.
Several more people got on and joined in, all repeating the word ‘back’ and pointing down the carriage. I was beginning to get embarrassed: was this some terrible social faux pas I was committing?
Just as I was on the verge of capitulation, a woman who spoke more English than the rest of the mob pushed her way over. ‘They’re trying to tell you that the tram turns around here and goes back the way it came.’
Oh the shame of it all. There was I thinking all these terrible foreigners were trying to deprive me of my hard earned seat, when they were in reality trying to save us from an unscheduled journey back to the hotel!
A further highlight of the trip was our fish dinner in a small village on the banks of The Bosphorus. We’d taken an excursion by boat and, as part of the treat, had a couple of hours stopover within sight of The Black Sea. There was an icy wind blowing, and the village had a definite ‘death throes of the season’ feel to it. We took shelter in a café (that turned out to sell beer by a happy coincidence) and then steeled ourselves to run the gauntlet of restaurant doormen lining the street and trying desperately to lure the handful of tourists inside.
We accepted the invitation of the least forceful and sat down with the menu in a small, English bus-stationesque, establishment whose walls were lined with a variety of deceased sea creatures. The coming hour was hilarious! Neither of us had any idea of what we were ordering, and the restaurant staff had no idea what we were asking them. Strange dishes came and went, often with no request from us and no warning from the staff. Battered mussels and chunks of fruit arrived without explanation at random points during the repast – all served with a smile and eaten with relish. I’ve still no idea as to what most of the meal comprised, but it tasted good and was one of the most pleasurable experiences of the whole week.
By the end of our stay, Helen and I were totally agreed that Istanbul had been a sound destination for a short break and we would have loved to tarry a while longer on the banks of The Bosphorus.
