Istanbul, Delphi, and the Athens airport

Dulles. The checkout counter guy was rude; the security checkpoint ID checker recoiled when she saw my passport photo (she apologized but I wasn’t bothered).

In the boarding area, I heard a few kids—and let me tell you, I’ve developed a sense for the ones that are going to be annoying. One already was: “look, daddy! Curtains!” I was relieved, as I boarded, to see her and her family far away in economy plus.

The flight over was not awful; I had a row to myself until someone jumped the seatbelt sign to usurp the other end of it before I could, but I shot him a dirty glare and occupied three of the five seats. The “breakfast” was a donut (230 cal, 110 g fat (!), 22 g sugar). And they wonder we have an obesity crisis.

The noiseblockers made a huge difference, on the way there and back. You still hear the kids, but their ability to gnaw at your soul is significantly curtailed. Ironically—and fortunately, since it makes you less dependent on a battery—they’re more effective for blocking non-ambient noise when switched off, perhaps because the ambient noise helps block out individual voices. That and they’re effective during takeoff and landing, when you have to turn off electronics. Whenever they announce that, I want to say, “could you ask those people to turn off their child for now, as well?”

Time for a public service announcement: DO NOT FLY LUFTHANSA. I had to wait in four different lines (directed to each by the one before) only to be told to go back to the gate to get my boarding pass, which for some reason I could not get when I checked in at Dulles). People were mostly rude, as well as useless, and the entire area was full of people annoyed that they were standing in the wrong line because airline personnel kept giving them the wrong information. The one thing I will say for Germans, or Europeans as a whole, is that they’re less likely to help themselves to part of your seat. That and they have the decency to serve alcohol for free, unlike United.

At the visa counter in Istanbul, the official handed back my passport as well as a fortune (I will be recognized and honored as a leader in my community). It was an auspicious welcome to a fabulous visit to an amazing city.

As soon as I got through immigration, Kate greeted me with a big hug and introduced me to her friend Ian. We then met the son of the family that runs Marmara Guesthouse, who drove us there along the Bosphorus Strait and the walls of the old city. Elif, his sister, checked us in and gave us lots of suggestions for exploring the city.

Istanbul is the only city in the world on two continents. I was under the impression that we’d be able to walk to Asia, but apparently they only open the Bosphorus bridge to pedestrians once a year, so a ferry would have to do. Even before we learned that the bridge was for motor vehicles only, Kate informed me that it was “quite a long walk to Asia.”

We settled in and went out for dinner and a walk. We learned quickly not to flush what I, after over a week with Kate, have come to call “bog roll.” Signs everywhere warn against it, including one in our hotel bathroom that adds, “Thank you for understanding the Turkish sewage system.”

The waiter in the restaurant we opted for (or were lured into— they have people standing outside to convince you to go in) was a bit odd. He—and he wasn’t the first— was confused by this arrangement Ian had going and was determined to figure out what was going on by asking if we’d had trouble finding a hotel and whether being married or not made a difference. He then said to Ian and Kate,

“I can’t understand you, perhaps because you’re American.”
“Actually, we’re English.”
“Why don’t you talk with British accents, then?”
“We do.”

He wasn’t the only one; it wasn’t long before I was asking them to repeat themselves and they were asking the same of me.

A.: I hear the hippodrome’s cool.
Ian: There’s a pajama school?

After dinner we went for a walk. It was Ian that the restaurant people approached (and approached constantly). The next day, carpet salesmen and, when it started to pour it down, umbrella salesmen joined their ranks. Some were witty (“how can I help you spend your money?” and, upon our return in the evening, “I’ve been waiting all day to sell you carpets!”); some were risqué (“which one is yours?” and “Oh, you have a harem! But you need six for a harem…”); all were persistent, but also cordial and not threatening. A lot of the time they made us laugh, and if nothing else, they inspired us to find alternate routes to and from the Guesthouse. It was almost like we were friends by the end of our visit—when we walked to the train station four days later, they said goodbye and wished us well.

Back at the hotel, I was caught taking notes and confessed that it was for the blog (well, travel notes, but they’ll go in the blog).

Kate, to Ian: Careful, or you’ll end up in the blog.
Ian: Will I be able to read it?
A.: The url’s clingingtomysanity…
Ian: The Euro is clinging to your sanity?

Kate said a few things that we deemed “too crass to blog,” which made it even funnier when we saw the Kras Airlines counter at Athens airport. Something had to be funny at Athens airport.

In preparation for the trip, I consciously chose clothing and shoes that would not scream “American.” Apparently, I did very well, because several locals asked me whether I was Turkish. One, handing out newspapers on the street, handed one to me (but not to Kate or Ian). It became a running joke.

I woke up the next morning at the call to prayer, but fell back asleep before I could decide whether or not it was time to get up. Thursday, our first (rainy) day, was great for all the touristy things: Topkapi Palace and its Harem; Hagia Sophia; Basilica Cistern; and the Blue Mosque. At Topkapi I found myself shopping for armor in the Armory; the maces looked like they could knock a screaming child right out.

On Friday we hit the Grand Bazaar and then the Spice Bazaar, where we tried samples of teas, lokum (Turkish Delight) and spices, and bought some to take home. Outside the bazaar buildings, street vendors sold similar wares. Dolce and Gabbana is apparently the knockoff of choice in Istanbul.

As we crossed the Galata Bridge over the Golden Horn, we made our way up to Beyoglu through what were apparently the fish bazaar; plumbing bazaar; satellite dish bazaar; and more). We enjoyed our walk across the bridge, in spite of the smell of fried fish. The bridge was always lined with fishermen.





Kate and I bought our tickets to Thessaloniki at the train station, once the terminal of the Orient Express. We walked around in that area and passed several restaurant lure-people, one of whom was particularly persistent but still friendly. We would walk by him several times over the next couple of days.

We explored Beyoglu and had a delicious, affordable dinner with a view. We walked back across the bridge and through the Sultanahmet neighborhood, local of Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque, as well as our hotel. We took pictures of them in the dark (mine came out not only dark, but with water spots), and I stepped aside to get a shot of HS without the cat that was sipping from the reflecting pool in the square in front of it. Kate said, “you could include the cat, then show it to Gracie and say, ‘this is what you could like if you lost weight.’” So I did. Feral cats abounded in both Istanbul and Greece, but for the most part they looked healthy and not emaciated.

On Saturday we took a cruise along the Bosphorus, stopping in Asia—in the village of Anadolu Kigali—for lunch and a hike to the castle ruins. From there we could see the Black Sea, and yet look back to downtown Istanbul in the other direction. We were very happy with our trip to Asia and with the ferry trip. We made it back to our hotel through the complete madness of Istanbul on a Saturday night, and had a wonderful dinner at Yeniyilda (“New Star”) in Sultanahmet.

We used the few words of Turkish we’d managed to learn. Everyone we ran into spoke English, but just lit up anyway when they heard “Tessekur Aderim” (sp?) for ‘thank you’ or other such words. Overall, people were incredibly friendly.

The next morning, after taking some pictures from the terrace of Marmara Guesthouse, we walked Ian to the tram he would take to the airport and said goodbye. Kate and I were curious whether we’d get a lot more unwanted attention without him; we didn’t.

We decided to just wander (our train was that evening), and wandered across the bridge and into Beyoglu, stopping for dessert along the way. We walked up and down Isteglal Caddessi and its side streets; bought some fruit and Borek Spinaca, i.e. Spanakopita for the road; explored a very cool used book bazaar; and had lunch in Cicek Pasaji (or Flower Arcade).

We crossed back to Eminonou on the bottom level of the bridge, passing a whole line of restaurant lure guys, each starting a conversation with us. Seeing that we were in a hurry, they didn’t press. The fourth or so that we passed, having seen us walk by the others, said, “I am the next one.” We couldn’t help but laugh.

We returned to Marmara Guesthouse to pick up our bags, said goodbye to Elif, and walked to the train station. We walked by the persistent restaurant lure guy, who wished us well, and realized we had an hour before we had to be at the train station, so we went back to his restaurant. He asked where we were going and offered to carry our bags, and was really surprised when we said, “here.” He took my bag, and said, “what is in here? I know! You killed your camel and stuffed it in your bag.” He chatted with us as we ordered, and, asked how he was, responded, “I am very sad, because you are leaving Istanbul.” Kate and I ordered lentil soup and a pizza to share. I dropped my lemon into my lentil soup, which splattered on my face and clothes. Kate lost it laughing; I got up and went to the washroom to clean up. One of the waiters asked her what happened and apparently also lost it laughing when she told him. He brought me a new lemon and made a flinching motion when I lifted it over my soup. From then on, when Kate and I directed the other to smile for a picture, the instruction was, “think lentil soup!”

We proceeded to the train station, settled into our couchette. As the train left Istanbul, we still saw the old wall of the city for quite a while. It was a very comfortable trip, apart from the (illicit) smoking in the corridor and the passport checks along the way. The customs guy asked us if we had anything to declare, looked skeptical when we sleepily shook our heads. “No? Nothing? Cigarettes? Whiskey? [pause] Drugs?”

We arrived in Thessaloniki only to learn that the next train to Athens was full. I’ll spare you the details, but we ended up getting bus tickets to Delphi (where we would have gone anyway but probably from Athens) and then spent the next few hours finding a tourist info center, and then booking it back to the train and bus stations to pick up our stuff and catch the bus. It was an interesting, pretty walk. The ride to Delphi was scenic, replete with hillside villages and the odd ruins. Even once it got dark, we could see orange trees and outlines of mountains.

The bus was practically empty, and mostly pleasant apart from the cigarette smoke. We had to change buses about half an hour beforehand, so I ran out and called a few hotels in Delphi, only to find out that they were closed for the winter. While I was at the phone booth, a local woman approached Kate with the name and phone number of Hotel Pan; I called, and they said they would expect us. The driver of the local bus enjoyed maneuvering the narrow streets and negotiating passage with the other cars. A cigarette in hand and Greek rap music blaring, he got us to Delphi.

Hotel Pan was beautiful—beautiful room, beautiful view. We went for a quick walk and quickly crashed. The only issue was that we were out of bog roll and the hotel manager had already gone to bed. He wasn’t particularly responsive the next morning, told us the cleaner would put some in the room. Luckily, she arrived early, and Kate could declare that we would no longer need to ration bog roll.

The next morning, we set out to find the oracle. I had the impression that if we just kept walking uphill we would get there, and Kate and I were both happy to just wander. This is how we ended up hiking on Mt. Parnassus.

A.: Keep your eye out for an oracle.
Kate: What might an oracle look like?
A.: Good question.

As we hiked, the rain got stronger and stronger. My waterproof shoes held out for a good hour, until they got wet from the inside. Kate and I couldn’t see where we were going because of the fog, but it was nice to be amid nature, having spent most of the previous day on a train and then bus. We kept asking the other if she wanted to turn around, but both decided to keep going. Then, the rain got really bad, and we approached some sort of natural stopping point, and turned around. Just as we did, the rain stopped, the sun started to come out, and the fog started to clear. A beautiful view opened up ahead of us, and we were completely surprised by it because we couldn’t see a thing on the way up. We had a lovely hike down and even dried off a bit.

We returned to the hotel to change clothes and camera batteries, and continued our search for the Sacred Precinct. When we found it, it was more amazing than we imagined. We visited the Temple of Apollo and surrounding ruins, and then crossed the street to see the Tholos. I thought that might be the oracle, as did Kate, since it’s the postcard image of Delphi. We asked it a question, at which point the cat sitting near it meowed, twice. We accepted the cat for the present-day incarnation of the oracle, even when we later read that the oracle was most likely up by the Temple of Apollo (the oracle referred to a being, rather than a set structure; the location referenced above is where the priestess conveyed the oracle’s pronouncements).

Delphi is SO beautiful. Even without the ruins it would be beautiful, but the ruins make it picture-perfect. We were very happy to be there, rain and all, in the off season, because it just wouldn’t be the same with hordes of people.

We headed back, ready for food, and debated whether we’d get a snack for lunch and big dinner, or the other way around.

A.: We can’t have spanakopita every day!
Kate: There’s no law that says you can’t.
A.: Okay, I can’t have spanakopita every day and wonder why I’m not as thin as I used to be.

We ended up getting—what else—spanakopita, which held us over to dinner. We set out for dinner and visited the few shops that were open in the off season. We chatted for a while with one shopkeeper, who said that over the weekends quite a few school groups and other visitors from Athens come, so it’s not as quiet, but that in the summer it gets crazy and very hot. She said that Canadians, who are often overweight, suffer when they come in the summer. Kate and I both figured she meant Americans but didn’t want to say it. She told us a little bit about the Greek language, and mentioned a common joke about how foreigners will say Calamari for “good morning” (which is “Kalimera”).

We weren’t quite ready for dinner so we stopped at an internet café. I discovered that Citi had absolutely gouged me with a foreign ATM withdrawal fee (the irony: my ING atm card had been in my wallet the whole time, but I canceled it before I found it).

We had a lovely dinner, although we had a feeling our waiter was a stoner. He had to ask Kate what her order had been, seconds after she placed it. I went to wash my hands, but the figures on the washroom doors were so androgynous that I couldn’t tell which was the ladies’ room. The one that had breasts also had a mustache. I guessed (and needless to say, nobody cared). We had a drink to toast our wonderful day. I remembered that before leaving the States, my friend May said to have an extra drink, for her, so I did.

We turned in and woke up the next morning in time to catch an earlyish bus to Athens. When we got to the bus station there, I watched our stuff while Kate went to find information about which bus to take into the city center.

Kate: Do you want the bad news, or the really bad news?
A.: [Blank stare]
Kate: The buses are on strike.

We went to get more info from the info desk. The woman there told us how to walk to the train station but couldn’t tell us whether it would be open, and told us the taxi drivers were gouging even more so than usual. We hoped to leave our bags there to explore Athens on foot. We stopped in the park across the street to eat our olives and to-mah-toes (as Kate calls them), as I couldn’t stomach anything else with phyllo dough (i.e. everything for sale at the bus station), and then lugged our stuff to the train station. My bag was awkward but waterproof, and not too bad carried as a backpack. Navigating Athens on foot was pretty scary, but we made it to the train station… only to find it closed. We opted to get a cab into the city center, but the cab drivers told us the city was cordoned off because of protests. We were about to walk, when he told us the metro would be open for another hour. We took it to Syndagma Square. On the way, a man on the metro gave Kate some basil, which made our journey fragrant if nothing else. We came out of the metro and saw for ourselves that the city was just not a good place to be at that time. We think the hill we saw from the square was the Acropolis, but didn’t wait too long to find out before we decided to cut our losses and head for the airport.

We took the metro as close to the airport as it would go, and then followed the locals out. We got some coffee and the only food available (the café was out of spanakopita, so we had to settle for cheese pie, i.e. spanakopita without the one healthy ingredient). It was quite good, but the phyllo dough diet was getting really old. The woman behind the counter told us to try to train, but it too had shut down. A guy on the street told us that all we could do was go across the street and hail a cab to the airport. He was very nice, and somewhat apologetic that our visit to Athens had come to this.

Kate: The people are really nice.
A.: Yes, the ones that don’t try to run us over are quite nice.
Kate: Well, yes… the ones we talk to.

We dallied on the highway for a while and took some pictures, and then tried to hail a cab along with a dozen other people. Eventually, a man who worked as a security guard at the airport hailed a cab and shared it with us, and we got there.

Kate and I had hoped to get earlier flights out of the city, but upon arrival we learned that all the flights for that day had been cancelled, because the air traffic controllers were on strike as well. So we made the most of what would be a very long night. I found myself at saying, “oh! Let’s explore the zeroth floor!” in a tone that should have been reserved for, “oh, look, it’s the Parthenon!”

Over dinner we had a slow-eating contest. Kate is one of the only people I’ve met who matches me in speed-eating (and actually in memory, too… we did a lot of reminiscing). Later, we had some wine, over which we played “car games.” She asked me to name all ten countries with four letters in the name (which Ian had asked her back at work); she and I together tried to name all the countries in Africa (surprisingly, we got all but three). We visited the really crappy but free internet terminals (which boot you off after ten minutes; have trouble sending e-mails—Kate drafted one to her husband about five times); and are difficult to type on) and did a few tours of lobby before settling into a perch on the second floor. Which was not carpeted. Tragi-ironically, it was the day of Kate’s (doctoral) graduation, but she’ll be able to formally graduate in the spring. Kate was able to sleep more than I did; I slept some, people watched more. In my few days in Greece, I noticed that people were very trendy, and skinny jeans abounded. Now, I respect Kate Moss as a fashion icon, but I also realize her iconic status is largely merited by the fact that she pulls off looks that few others can; most people have no business buying skinny jeans.

Morning came, and I was able to check in. I had to go through security, but Kate couldn’t get her boarding pass yet, so we had to say goodbye. Since we both arrived in Istanbul, it seemed so normal to be together again, as if nothing had changed since we met ten years ago or last saw one another five years ago. There were little reminders along the way that we would part ways, i.e. when she and Ian talked about what they would make with the spices they bought and I realized I wouldn’t be cooking with them. Nonetheless, it almost came as a surprise to me that we had to say goodbye, and I found myself choking back tears. I cried the whole way to the boarding area. I am capable of human emotion, who knew? Don’t tell anyone.

We both arrived home safely and much later, which is the important thing, but the rest of the trip was not fun. I was starving but hadn’t eaten in the airport because I was trying to acclimate myself to EST, and somehow the request for a veggie meal didn’t make it to Lufthansa (which is odd, because it’s automatically on my United profile, and it has in the past when I’ve flown partner airlines). It did not help that the flight attendant informed me that I had to order one in advance, and no I did not want a ham-covered tray anyway. What the cabin crew did do right was not support the asshole behind me who wouldn’t let me recline my seat even a little bit. I found a hand coming down on my head, and looked back, horrified. I reclined a little more. The asshole pressed the call button. I heard the flight attendant say, “you have enough room” and walk away. He continued to kick my seat out of revenge, but I managed to sleep anyway. Sadly, I was so preoccupied by the indignity of it all that I left my book—the one Kate gave me—in the seatback pouch. I realized it as soon as I went through immigration, i.e. as soon as it was too late to go back. I was crushed, both because of sentimental value and because I had gotten into it (I have since acquired another copy, although it's not as nice).

I won’t go into detail about why the next three hours in Frankfurt were not fun, except that Lufthansa not only doesn’t let you into the boarding areas if there’s a preceding flight there—so I had to continue to sit on hard floors—but also kept changing the gate. Lest you think I’m feeling sorry for myself, don’t; I read the NYT article about the state of children’s health in Afghanistan at the internet terminal in Athens airport, I know not to complain about air travel. I know even air travel can be a lot worse. Yet, I know it can also be a lot better.

The flight to Washington was full of screaming kids (the headphones REALLY do help) and other annoyances. A man got up to get something from the overhead bin and dropped a coke can on my hand; that hurts. The guy sitting next to me kept elbowing me. I don’t have a book, and unlike the way over, there’s one film screen for the whole cabin and I can’t see it (which is just as well because the films all suck). We arrive at Dulles and people take their sweet time getting off and making their way to the shuttle bus. Ironically (because I thought in Europe, I can’t wait until I’m somewhere where not everything smells of cigarette smoke), the shuttle bus smells of cigarette smoke. My point is, it was an unpleasant trip back.

It was SO worth it, though. It was a great trip.