Istanbul

Getting off the plane that brought us from New Delhi to Istanbul was like being hit unsuspectingly in the side of the head by a stray snowball during an Eskimo gang war. I’d lived the majority of the last month and a half in the South of India, sporting only a swimsuit and retreating each day to the shade of a juice shack as afternoon temperatures forced anyone with more than a 6-day vacation off the beach (i.e. anyone without strict tan-development deadlines). We’d anticipated a bit of a shock, so we spent our last two days in India scouring New Delhi for clothing warmer than our complete 2011 collection of Indian backpacker apparel (no socks with Birkenstocks, men’s lungi skirts, and fake Ray Bans).

Ben, my brother and co-nomad, in his corporeal freezing prevention
gear, having just gotten off the airplane in Istanbul. 

Our flight had been delayed by six hours due to the fact that we had chosen to arrive on the coldest day Istanbul had seen in 33 years. Our baggage was further delayed because dozens of flights had been canceled, and the airport was in turmoil, complete with les femmes sans luggage crying violently at each dispensing belt (personally, I am much more attracted to women without baggage). By the time we left the airport, took three forms of public transportation, ate ice cream to help with the NHWAP (Northern Hemispheric Winter Adaptation Program), and inhaled about 400 snowflakes, it was dark. When we arrived late to meet Sertac and Yavuz at the Kartal train station at 18:30, it was not our fault. I will go on record to place blame on the considerate conductor who opened every door on the train at least five times per station, permitting no straggler to be left behind (despite the cold and the fact that there wasn’t room on the train for them anways).

I didn’t know I was going to be meeting Yavuz that night. In fact, I didn’t even know that he existed until our warm embrace at the cold Kartal Station. In India I’d met hundreds of people, and had grown quite accustomed to the different types of first impressions. Sometimes you’ll really like someone right away, but after an hour or a day you can’t stand them. Sometimes you’ll find that this reaction occurs in reverse. Another time of first interaction, “friend-at-first-sight” is when you start high and you stay there. Yavuz was one of those people who I didn’t really pay much attention to until I found myself all of a sudden very drawn to his peaceful, whole-grained demeanor, which reminded me of my dad’s. He is the kind of person who never interrupts, is very appreciative, always listens, and actually cares (instead of pretending to, as I often find myself doing). He’s the type of person who will give you a pencil if you ask only to borrow it.

Like Starbucks in Vancouver, you'll find at least 4
of these on every city block downtown.

Our hosts walked us through the streets of Istanbul, past bakeries, Turkish sweet shops, and small cafés to Sertac's apartment. We arrived home (so nice to say) to find that his mother Anna had prepared for us an incredible Turkish dinner (lucky for us, she runs a restaurant). After filling ourselves with succulent non-Indian foods without fears of acquiring a bowel-unleashing, vomit-inducing, tissue-devouring, tropical parasite that renders you infertile, I had a 6-month all-time greatest shower. Admittedly, my bathing standards have fallen quite a ways below par, as I tend to find myself content with anything that exceeds manually sloshing buckets of freezing cold (and often smelly) water over my head in a mosquito-ridden bathroom shared with an international crew of motherless hippies who were never taught proper hygiene. That night the boys brought us for a long, frigid walk through the Asian side of Istanbul, which we wrapped up with proper European beer, hookah, chess, backgammon, and a yellow bus ride.

Our first proper day in Istanbul began with a meal that was possibly the best breakfast I’d ever had. After fried sausage-egg omelet, three varieties of [good] olives, two kinds of [really good] cheese, fresh bread, thin-waisted Turkish tea, Turkish coffee, pistachio salami, cherry tomatoes in oil, sliced tomatoes, nutella, butter, honey, cheese spread, tahini desserts, hazelnut spread, and blackberry jam, we all met to spend the day with Sertac's cousin Marve. With a personality that reminded me somewhat of Yavuz, Marve was not only lots of fun to hang out with, but also very beautiful. While very quiet, I have a very vivid memory of hearing her laugh behind me after finding that I was wearing her purse on the dark and snowy deck of a ferry.

The trio did a famous job of showing us Istanbul. I won’t even pretend to be cultured enough to remember the names of most of the places we visited. We skipped out on going into the Hagia Sofia, as it was a little pricey for our meager wallets. We visited mosques, ate real donairs, went to an underground palace built by the Romans (where I picked Medusa’s nose), ate real baklava (which tasted like duck meat - I think I’ll stick to fake Canadian baklava for now), went for 70 centiliters of Turkish beer (Efes), and visited a beautiful train station built by the Germans during WWI. The highlight of the day was the Kebab (2 m long) and Raki experience at dinner - I’ve never been so overwhelmed by a meal.

Ben, Marve, and Yavuz (left to right) receiving oral stimulation from a Doner.

Now most Turkish men are big. They’re not fat, and they’re not necessarily tall, but they’ve got firm, round bellies, thick necks, and solid builds. This is probably a manifestation of all the bread and animal flesh in their diet. The kebab was on a 2+ m slab of bread, was skewered with the largest sword I’d ever seen, and was topped with chicken wings, ribs, breaded beef rolls, and, to be fair, some tomato. All this was a bit much for little old me, coming from India, which isn’t exactly known for vast amounts of meat consumption. What’s more, I was a nearly faithful vegetarian for nearly six years before coming to India, apart from the occasional fish and a chicken wing while intoxicated that made me vomit (admittedly, cause and effect concerning this relationship is poorly established).

Serdar

We spent our last day in Istanbul sleeping in, having a breakfast nearly identical to the day before (it was at this point that I learned that they eat the same breakfast every day, and that it wasn’t, as I had conceitedly assumed, a special meal for the noble Canadian guests), and playing guitar hero rock band (or whatever it’s called) at a local arcade with Sertac's cousin Serdar. Serdar is a nifty dude who has lived and worked in Vancouver, smokes chocolate tobacco from a trendy wooden pipe, drives a beamer, and sings a mean Spice Girls.

Turkish coffee and choco coffee beans.

We also drank Turkish coffee, which Sertac tells me ensures a bond of friendship for 40 years before you need to have another one. I personally prefer to see my friends on a more regular basis, but I suppose if you do things his way you can have a lot more friends. It is also possible to predict your future by reading the dregs of your upturned and cooled down coffee mug. As it turns out, I was so excited to learn my future that I completely forgot to look until long after we had left the café. Living contentedly in the grinds of Ben’s cup was a kangaroo, which we interpreted as a sign that he shouldn’t go back to school next year, but should instead go work a menial labor job in Australia so as to continue traveling and thus avert a four year cold war with responsibility.

I’ve met many people on my travels that have had a lasting impression on my life. However, for logistical reasons, there are only a handful of these individuals who I know I will see again in the future. Sertac, my first ever couchsurfing host, is one of these people. When surfing, you nearly always need to send a request to wherever it is that you’re going. Though Sertac invited Ben and I to his house, as he saw that we were coming to Istanbul. He is a 20 year old who is a hard-working University student. He’s a big guy with a big smile, and I found that the size of his body was quite strongly correlated with the size of his heart. He spent 3 days doing nothing apart from spending time with us. He made us all of our meals, he brought us all over town, and he tried to make us feel as welcome as possible. Thinking back on it, I don’t think there are too many people who I could handle being around for 3 days straight, but with Sertac it wasn’t anything but a pleasure. He is so full of positive energy that it rubs off on you and leaves you inspired for when you’re on your own again. He gave us so much, including a bag of cereal for the road the day that we left (and he even tried to make us take a carton of milk), and he expects nothing in return. He looked after me when I was feeling sick from the cold weather. It may sound like I’m writing a testimonial, but I don’t know how else to express the way that Sertac, who walks like a penguin on ice, and who I taught to pinky swear, experiences life and interacts with those around him. In some ways he reminds me of my super-happy, extra-enthusiastic, always-positive friend Drew from back home.

STATS

Language: Turkish

People met: Sertac, Yavuz, Marve, Serdar, Anna, Sertac's father

New beers tried: Efes

How they say cheers: Sherifé

$ spent in Istanbul: $145 over three days (including Turkish visa)

# of rides: 1 (Serdar)

Distance traveled: Just around the city