turcfree

IC isn’t, like me, a fucking pig. The more I like something the faster I’ll shove it into my maw, the doner kebab, for example, was virtually inhaled. But I found a chink in IC’s armour in the form of stuffed mussels, or as the Turkish call them, stuffed mussels. Don’t get me wrong, they’re very good, but IC regarded them as Manna and employed my tried and tested method of eating them as if they were about be stolen by a thief, or as the Turkish call them, bastards.

The same cannot be said for the bread. Let me stop you right there if you’re thinking the bread was bad, on the contrary it was very good, but bread with every meal, everyday? And lot’s of it? Because that’s what happened, hey, by the time we left we thought we wer aktually turnings into a bread!!! Aahahaha. GR8.

The day following the riot IC and I decided to hotfoot it over the Galata Bridge to Taxim and visit the ‘Modern Art Gallery’ which was a dirty rotten lie. In many respects Istanbul is about 10 years ‘behind,’ Turkish Modern Art could’ve come from 1990’s Goldsmiths but it was still very interesting seeing how the YBA’s were being re-hashed without all the phalluses and pickled fish, in fairness there were a couple of really nice pieces but nothing to set the world on fire. The gallery was virtually empty so it would seem that no one is that interested anyway. Fuck it then.

We headed over to the ancient Galata Tower for lunch but it was shut (for lunch) so we nipped round the corner to an empty café for some freshly cooked fodder, and beer. This part of town was poor and a bit ramshackle but the food was great and the weather was right nice, if a bit too hot. The local beer incidentally is bloody nice too (and cheaper than tap water.)

IC and I encountered poverty quite a few times on the trip, it wasn’t overt but if you took the time to get properly lost in back streets by the Grand Bazaar ‘real’ Istanbul made itself known. These markets were quite different from the tits and teeth Bazaars, and seemed to comprise of shops selling endless quantities of cheap cloth to the throngs similarly attired like bobbins. Fake goods lined the narrow streets and for the first time we didn’t get hassled, not one iota, these folk weren’t interested in tourists, they knew they had nothing to offer us.

The last meal on the last night was an expensive affair, well, relatively speaking. We dined in a very posh linen crisp fish restaurant on a sumptuous terrace overlooking the sea of Mamara where we chose the dead fish we were to be shortly served. Once again we got the wine for a song but the fish was a bit on the wee side, though delicious. Throughout most of the meal some old hag took it on herself to stare intently at us, I don’t think this went unnoticed because when she scuttled off the manager gave us a free pudding. No idea what it was, a sort of yoghurt thing but it was right nice.

One of the best things about Turkey was the lack of British people there. Nothing worse than being abroad seeing your fellow countrymen barking orders at locals all greased up on the local moonshine. The one we did encounter was a cross between Keith Richard and a penis. IC and I were having coffee outside of a posh furniture that doubled-up as a coffee gaff when a man with a hat and bare feet (the alarm bells were ringing from the off) began to nasally enthuse at the wowness factor of our being there, for some reason. He even dragged the shop owner out, who he was draped over like a soiled prophylactic, to let him bathe in the WOW of it all. IC and I sipped our coffee glancing nervously at it other with fixed grins. The Englishman started to go on about classical music, I knew before I said something about the Last Night of The Proms that I shouldn’t, English nearly blew his balls off when I did, then rushed back in the shop to take advantage of the owners sublime music system (and coffee) before actually patting me on the head, which IC didn’t like one bit. The classical recital he put on was live and began with applauding that English and Owner replicated with irritating enthusiasm, it was time for IC and I to get away, we hurriedly paid for our coffee as English played air-violin with imploring eyes, the wanker. As we were leaving English ran after us to say farewell and, for the sake of something to say, I asked him how long he and the shop owner, with whom he was taking substantial liberties if I’m honest, had known one another. ‘Oh,’ said English swishing the air, ‘I met him yesterday.’

I suppose it’s encounters like this that make a holiday a holiday, but I’d be happier without them, still, for all the negatives there are always dozens of positives. Looking back now the best part of the trip was a spot of luck regarding the hotel. Every night from the roof terrace IC and I bore witness to the most magical sunsets I’ve ever seen, they were almost silly beautiful, in perpetual change as if we were captured in a giant kaleidoscope. From where we sat we could see Asia, two seas, architectural hymns to god, seagull poo… sipping wine, plonked in a part of the world with more historical significance than just about anywhere, 360 view, drinking. And smoking. The evening prayers that bounced off the landscape were now just perfect.

Oh, I just picked up my new bike…