The perks of being a Turk

Written by Tom McGuire

Constantinople, now Istanbul: the city where Europe meets Asia has changed hands many times and each civilisation has stamped its imprint clearly upon the soil. It is difficult to comprehend, particularly for a New Zealander, just how old so many of the structures here are. Recently I climbed up Galata Tower, from where you can see the entire Istanbul skyline. It was first built in 507 by the Byzantine Emperor Justinian. It has had a few rebuilds since then- firstly to make it brick instead of the original wood, and then to restore it after an earthquake. In 507 NZ was a human-free zone, and would stay that way for centuries to come.

Arriving at 5am that morning after 20 hours in transit from Vietnam, I was in a groggy and spaced-out state of mind to say the least. I had slept a little on the 10 hour flight from Ghangzhou, China but I've always believed that the rest you have while perched in an uncomfortable chair with knees bent at an awkward angle while hurtling through the air at 1,000 km/hr doesn't really count. Anyway, I was set for a day of sight-seeing and in Istanbul there is plenty to see.

I caught a shuttle from the airport and ended up in Taksim Square, which I figured was vaguely close to my hotel. The streets were cold and empty, just like Lonely Planet said they would be in January. However, it was only just past 6 as I stumbled around with all my luggage on my back, an unwieldy 20kg that kept threatening to pull me backwards onto the cobble-stones like a helplessly upended turtle.

Taksim Square is a large empty concrete space without any seats, so there was no way I could stop and take a rest. So I forged on, past a glowing Christmas tree and an impressive looking sculpture of people who looked both ancient and important. With rough ideas about the location of my lodgings (it was too early to check-in but at least I could hopefully off-load my ridiculously heavy bag), I started a series of bemusing conversations with Turkish people in the hope of finding it.

Seeing a nearby Burger King, I ventured inside. Two boys came up to the counter and told me emphatically that BK was 'closed', and bid me farewell in Turkish. Handing them a bit of paper with my hotel address on it, I was able to ascertain that I was heading down the right street. Practically everything was shut. There was a tiny scattering of people walking about, dressed mainly in dark coats and scarves. I was wearing a bright blue sports jacket and a bag large enough to see me through an expedition up the Ural mountains. It must have been a strange sight.

Finally, I spied the warm glow of an eating establishment, with mountains of baking piled up in front of the window and words like 'Turkish breakfast' and 'coffee' in plain view. I wandered in, heaving my gargantuan backpack onto the floor. The waiter, clearly deducing that I was of foreign extract, brought me a menu marked 'English'. The Turks are swimming in a sea of produce. Apparently they grow far more food than they can eat themselves and no wonder because it is some of the freshest, tastiest stuff you will find anywhere. The place I had breakfast in must be good because soon after 7am locals began pouring in the door, drinking tea (coy) out of elegant curved glasses and tucking into platters of scrambled eggs or feta wrapped in fresh, soft pastry. Often breakfast in Turkey is a simple cheese and tomato sandwich with coffee. When drinking sweet, black Turkish coffee be careful not to drink the entire cupful unless you like swallowing granules of bean that lie hidden at the bottom, waiting for unsuspecting Westerners who are used to that stuff being filtered out.

There is even a breakfast item here called 'honey and cream'. When I saw that I just had to try it. Anywhere else, a morning meal consisting of a plateful of honey with a large dollop of cream on one side would be seen as horribly over-indulgent. But here it seemed natural, and even strangely healthy. This is due to the delightful freshness of the ingredients. If the waiter told me they had been obtained from his mother's cow and his father's beehive that very morning, I would not hesitate to believe him.

My resolved strengthened by coffee and a significant breakfast, I set out to find my hotel. It soon dawned on me that addresses in Turkey are written in such a way that only locals can make sense of them. The details of mine started with the street name, then a whole bunch of words that meant nothing to me, followed by a number and then 'Istanbul, Turkey'. So my approach was to call into shops and show them the address. The shopkeepers were surprisingly friendly, pointing me further down the street and making valiant attempts to communicate with me in my alien tongue.

Finally, after a long time strolling down the street I called into a bright shiny cafe. The two men working there were only two happy to help, and entered into a vociferous discussion with each other about where the 'Serene hotel' might be. One of them pointed me down an alleyway on the other side of the road, but this was met by noises of disagreement from the other and more discussion. Eventually, one of them let out a chuckle and pointed upwards – I went outside and saw that the hotel was directly above the cafe that I had called into seemingly at random.

Heading round the side of the building, I was met at the hotel front desk by a young guy who spoke good English. Thankfully, he let me leave my bags there. Taking a small pack with some warm clothing and a Lonely Planet travelguide, I set out on foot towards the Old City where most of Istanbul's most famous relics lie. This involved crossing Galata Bridge, which was lined on either side by fishermen trying their luck in the icy waters of the Bhosphorous. From here you can look across to see the gigantic domed mosques dominating the landscape, surrounded by ancient looking brick buildings.

My first stop was the Blue Mosque, which is simply huge and like most relics in this city well over a thousand years old. Today it was closed for prayer until 1.30, but the outside is impressive enough. After gawking at it for awhile I turned towards its slightly smaller brother, the Aya Sofya. This is no longer a functioning mosque, since the secular reformer Ataturk made it into a museum half a century ago. This was done to reflect the monument's bi-religious history – it was originally a Chistian church, which is still evident from the great frescoes of Christ and Mother Mary which adorn its massive interior. Mehmet the Conqueror then took over Istanbul, which led to the addition of domes and large signs in Arabic to the Aya Sofya. It is one of the most incredible pieces of architecture I have ever seen.

Also amazing in its own eery way is the Basilica Cistern which lies underground nearby. This giant subterranean chamber, upheld by dozens of columns and with an inlet allowing water to lie a few feet deep at the bottom (along with plenty of fish), this ancient Byzantine marvel was, according to the guidebook, forgotten about for several centuries during the city's history. Two of the most interesting columns have a carving of the legendary Medusa, the snake-haired woman who was said to turn people to stone with a glance. The Basilica now boasts its own cafe – its dark, damp caverns truly one of the strangest places in the world to have a cup of tea.

Although I was plagued with jet lag, and felt on the edge of collapse more than once, I am glad I forced myself to visit at least some of the 'must see' Istanbul highlights. It was during one of my close-to-breakdown moments, sitting on a bench beside a brick structure that is probably older than twenty generations of my ancestors, that I was reminded why this is such a unique place. Loudspeakers from the Old City mosques started to emit the call to prayer, a five times daily broadcast of a man's voice crying out in Arabic, imploring the faithful to put aside whatever they are immersed and turn their thoughts to higher things for a few minutes. Throughout the call, life carried on – people walked and chatted and shopped like they would in any other big city.

With the afternoon getting on and the thought of an early night and hot shower enticing me, I set out back to Beyoglu. I hadn't deliberately booked my accommodation in what Lonely Planet calls the most bohemian part of Istanbul, but here I was. On the way I ambled along side streets and cul-de-sacs, getting lost in little music shops and sipping pomegranate juice squeezed right in front of my eyes.

In Turkey you can't help but notice all the cats everywhere. You only have to sit down for a moment and there they are, miaowing at you from the bushes. You walk down the street and they give you that look that says 'this is our town. who are you?' The feline presence is particularly prominent in the more ancient parts of the city. These aren't dirty, feral pests. They seem well-groomed, fed and taken care of – but their owners are nowhere to be seen and they don't appear to have been informed that their proper place is indoors, not roaming the streets. The presence of so many felines that are simultaneously looked after and freely wandering the city at will, suggests that cats in Turkey have a sacred status rather like cows in India.

If you believe the guidebooks then Istanbul in January has basically gone into hibernation. Perhaps due to the relatively mild winter, there were actually quite a lot of people. By the afternoon long queues extended out from the Aya Sofya and other main attractions, with many Russians appearing to have migrated south from their even colder homeland. The main street of Beyoglu, where my hotel was located, was absolutely packed with pedestrians by early evening. Since a tramline runs down the street, every now and then people would scatter out of the way as a tram came bearing down upon them, like a large scale game of 'Chicken'. Now all the shops were open and there was a bustling nightlife, with street musicians and costumed ice cream vendors beating their confectionary with a large stick while shouting at passers-by.

Around 6pm, the nightlife took a different turn. Police started appearing on the street. At first, this seemed normal and what one might expect in a busy urban area on Friday night. Then more started appearing, with large guns and riot gear including those heavy transparent shields, and four paddy wagons parked up together. It was soon clear what was going on. From an opposite side street, a large procession of protesters were holding placards and chanting, surrounded by people with video cameras. I couldn't understand what they were chanting about, although I did recognise the word 'fascism'. They had reached the top of the street and weren't going any further. Between them and the police, who looked almost bored, was a large throng of people who passed by without seeming to pay much attention to either gathering. Being aware that there is currently alot of political unrest in Turkey, I wondered whether i was on the verge of getting caught in the middle of a bloodbath. I was glad when i found my hotel. When i mentioned to the hotelier what was happening out on the street, he assured me that protests and large squads of heavily armed police was a normal part of evening festivities in Istanbul.

Sure enough, the next morning brought a fresh round of demonstrations on the main street of Beyoglu – this time right outside my hotel. Several dozen men and women sat on the ground holding up posters which contained the faces of Turkish men, presumably the police chiefs who were recently fired by the government. Rows of police officers stood meters away from the sit-in, watching. I am sure many of them sympathised with the protestors. In Turkey, you can't help but notice all the cats everywhere. You only have to sit down for a moment and there they are, miaowing at you from the bushes. You walk down the street and they give you that look that says 'this is our town. who are you?'