Istanbul not Constantinople

 Thursday 19/Friday 20 September

The title of this instalment? It's a song https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wcze7EGorOk

Despite barking stray dogs, police sirens and traffic, I sleep well, pack up and after the usual hotel buffet breakfast we load up the bus for the last time and Mustafa squeezes through the Ankara rush hour to get us to our last cultural port of call, the tomb of Ataturk. 

The rather magnificent Greek-temple style mausoleum was completed in 1953 to house the great leader's granite sarcophagus, though he had actually died in 1938 from cirrohsis of the liver and general wear and tear at the age of just 57. In 1944 the government had instigated a competition to design it, having decided that his resting place in a museum was unfit for the man who wrested Turkiye from the Ottoman Empire and its Sultan rulers, and brought it into the 20th century. It's set in Peace Park and heavily guarded by the military, so much so that because there was going to be a visiting dignitary that day, we weren't allowed in after all so had to make do with standing on the adjacent street and photographing it from a considerable distance as you can see above. 

Ataturk is a massive hero for Turks, and especially our guide who was able to talk about him at length. She's especially drawn to him because without his doing away with the old religious laws and bringing about a secular and more equal society back in 1923 after the post-WW1 war of independence which began in 1918, her life as a Muslim woman (a bad Muslim, by her own admission) would have been very different. Gocke majored in history and like most guides underwent considerable training, so throughout the trip she's given us all kinds of historical and ancient mythical background info plus insights into Turkish life and traditions, from male circumcision rituals to engagement protocols and old wives' tales. She's revelled in being the centre of our attention, but she's been good fun and has never shyed away from dealing with challenges.

So we have no option but to get back on the bus and head to Istanbul. After a few pit stops, we arrive back in the city and have a very early dinner at a lovely restaurant beneath the Galata Bridge with a view of the Bosphorus. Dinner is rather bland and disappointing sadly, but we do have cake to celebrate Millie's 70th birthday which falls the following day when she'll be on her way home to Florida. (We were never quite sure whether her name was Millie or Minnie, or even possibly Ginnie - Puerto Rican by birth, Noo Yoik by upbringing and a widow, she was on the tour with her brother Rafael, nice enough wise-cracking guy with a permatan and way-too-white teeth but with a rather creepy penchant for Columbian girlfriends half his age, of which his sister does not approve. Thankfully neither of them were Trump supporters so we could be rude about him.)

We're taken back to the Crowne Plaza and it all goes a bit flat. Dee and I have been upgraded (allegedly) but I still overlook the main shopping street and it's only after we venture out for a stroll that we realise we're just slap bang in the middle of the clothing/textile wholesale and retail business district (a bit like round the back of Oxford Street, but much denser) and there's no bars to be had for a quick drink beyond the horribly expensive hotels. By this time gippy tummy has begun for me so an early night is called for.

After filling up on breakfast (which I'm afraid doesn't stay put for long - I'll spare you the details), Dee and I head off to the Grand Bazaar which is about 15 minutes walk away. To our surprise, much of it's like an indoor mall with lots of little shop units rather than market stalls (though there are more of these on the outer perimeter, and it's one of those places where everyone is selling the same stuff, much of it knock-off brand copies and you just need to haggle on getting the best price. I may well have slipped up by purchasing some Chanel perfume based on the tester which could have been genuine and even after quite some time still smelt authentic, but I'll have to wait and see if I have a bargain or a dud. It was about a fifth of the UK price, so maybe the fragrance will only last a fifth of the time on the skin...

                                                            

We sit in Beyazit Square near the university and the mosque of the same name with a tea and watch a cat with her kittens feasting on raw meat delivered by and elderly man with a bucketful of scraps. Everywhere you go, you see little piles of dried cat food left out for the generally healthy-looking strays (I had a cuddle with a kitten in Cappadoccia who judging by her stitches had evidently just been chipped and neutered.)

  

On our return to the hotel, we have a late check-in so we enjoy a free swim and a sauna - unfortunately the steam room is being retiled. (And yes I know my legs are very white - this hasn't been a sunbathing holiday and on my return I may well look exactly the same as when I left.) I then pay a Hammam massage -got to be done - which is one of the most toe-curling yet also wonderful experiences ever. Lying on a large slab butt naked and being scrubbed with a loofah isn't very comfortable, but the healing foam and massage (especially the scalp part) is rather lovely even though the amount of water chucked over me at the end feels just a wee bit like I'm being waterboarded. However, I have never ever felt so clean, soft and glowing in my life, and I float back up to my room in my fluffy white hotel robe.

The sense of relaxation is relatively short-lived though as we have an ever so slightly stressful transfer to our accommodation for our last few days. We approach the doormen with a request to order us a taksi and there is considerable confusion at the address and much toing and froing and checking of it. (It's not that far away - we could actually have walked it in less than 20 minutes were it not for a very steep hill and cobbles to negotiate). The roadworks outside the hotel which have closed the street are also a problem, so eventually porter Alattin takes us down to the main road and across the street to await a yellow cab, which takes much longer than promised and then contains a driver who also does much head-scratching and phone searching to suss out the address. 

He sets off at high speed through the narrow streets (how he doesn't take off several wing mirrors on his way is quite remarkable) and attempts to dump us off on a corner where there's no sign of the hotel. A helpful shopkeeper points him in the right direction which is close by, but he still has to drop us off at the end of a narrow pedestrianised street. As he unloads the car and I fumble for cash, he is hemmed in by helpful drivers front and back and there is much shouting and tooting. We head down the street with its welcoming red carpet (well, it's kind of netting), walk past the hotel (that's a bit of a grand name for it!) and then more helpful strangers point us back to where we need to be.

We receive a warm welcome, and an apple tea as our room is still being cleaned. This building has been decorated to look as old Ottoman as possible, a lift lined in black leather tiles, studs painted on the walls, antiqued taps and door handles, and patterns picked out on ceiling roses and architraves in gold paint. Unfortunately, it's all gone a bit to seed and it's looking rather shabby - clean, but down at heel. Our promised balconies can barely fit a a chair on them, Dee's door won't unlock and mine has no key to lock it,  and this is the view, which would be perfect if I were a pigeon fancier:

We have a small kitchenette and up a few flights of stairs (although to be fair the lift goes up there too), there is a roof terrace which boasts an overflowing ashtray, some worse for wear leather dining chairs, an abandoned bar and general detritus. Not a deckchair or sun bed to be seen, but there are a lot of seagulls - note to self - do not eat up here. The view one way is similar to the above, the other way is a fairly spectacular one across the Bosphorus. We have a sit and a read for an hour or so anyway to catch a few rays, then get changed and go out to find a recommended restaurant.

It's an interesting walk - this is Kumkape in the old city, much more of a neighbourhood though of course we aren't the only tourists, and our room is one of several spread across two buildings with busy restaurants on the ground floor and an entire family involved in the business. We have to run the gauntlet of nice young men with menus trying to entice us in to eat at regular intervals down every street - any ideas about not eating in restaurants that have photos of their food outside are completely redundant here if you want to eat at all! We find the resataurant after a little help from a nice man wielding a hose on his plants, and it's pleasant and welcoming and I have moussaka - a massive tasty portion of savoury mince served with rice and chips of course and is nearly twice the size of what I can actually eat. The wine is reasonable and the cats are cute though:

We wander back, manage not to get lost and find that the area around us has really come alive, with little live bands serenading tables with lively Turkish music at every restaurant. Ours has a quartet of accordion, zither-like and tambor-like things, plus a tambourine which serves as a tips hat. The guys are friendly and fun and they sit with us to play for a while, which we really enjoy, along with the rake which we try for the first time and yes it's just like ouzo or pastis and we do need to water it down, but after a while it's really quite pleasant. A sense of bonhomie pervades as we watch young women stand up and dance along to the musicians too - all jolly good fun before bedtime!