Our train drifts it's way through the suburbs of Istanbul, and by the time we reach the central station, I have a pretty decent idea just how big the city actually is. We exit the terminus and the two former inhabitants of Coach F, Cabin 25 exchange brief goodbyes, Grieg off to meet his girlfriend at the airport, me to find a tram. I never did get a full account of the windsurf ordeal, which leads me to believe it was true, and he's a very lucky fellow indeed.
It's a dull, cool, grey day as I hope on board my tram after finally establishing I need to get a connect four style token from the nearest newspaper shop to proceed through the barriers. I wander around the area of my Hostel, attempting to pinpoint it's location. This is where a guide book infinitely assists matters. I locate Hotel Cordial after numerous directions, and counter directions. A young Brazilian called Fabio greets me as I enter a, thankfully, warm room. He tells me about his large stash of duty free booze in his backpack, as he picks the damp insulating newspaper from his socks. I think a number of people will not be prepared for the cold of this area. I predict pain. Fabio's changing hostels so we make loose plans to meet up- Brazilians love a good party-and with that, he's gone, chinking off down the corridor.
I'm already on a mission to take in the sites, and freshly armed with a map from the Tourist Bureau, I hit the nearby Agia Sophia, and Blue Mosque, just in time for one of Islam's five a day. Sitting out in the peaceful gardens between the two giant buildings, the call to prayer suddenly booms out from the Mosque, breaking the tranquility. Fortunately, the guy is good at holding a note, but I figure this is to be expected, as this must surely be the top job in the land. I finally enjoy some shelter inside the place of worship after waiting for prayer time to end. It is very grand and very large. The ceiling seems an impossibly long way away, and locals and tourists marvel at what they are seeing.
Boots back on feet, I stroll back up towards my hostel and then past it to the Grand Bazaar. It is officially the worlds largest single collection of covered shops in the world (reputedly over 4000). It's been reshaped and redesigned over the years, but the overall purpose has remained the same- take pots of cash off the visitors. The bazaar is a spectacular place, and an almost overwhelming one, too. Art shops, butchers, clothiers and many, many more fight it out to make a living in all the hustle and bustle. The jewellery avenue is particularly memorable, it's view awash with the golden gleam emanating from shop windows stuffed full of bracelets, rings and necklaces.
I appear to end up choosing the only shop where no-one is willing to serve me. The reason becomes clear as the owner emerges from the sister shop next door with three middle aged American women ( as a seller, who would you focus on - Scots guy with disheveled appearance and scruffy boots, or three yanks immaculately made up and attired. "How much are these beauties?", one enquires in a southern drawl, pointing at some small paintings. "300 Lira", comes the reply (not cheap). "So they should be, they're beautiful" she inconsiderately retorts. Well thanks for ruining my chances of getting a fair price for them, darlin', I think as I head for the exit. But they are beautiful- Arabic scripture in black, red and gold, in the shape of a rose.
My mood is immediately lifted on walking past another shop near one of the bazaar's main gates. The salesman quips to a potential customer: "Come in and take a look. We won't rip you off as much as the other places will." Impassively, the lady walks off, the joke seemingly lost on her, but it's not lost on me. I'm still laughing when I make it back to the hostel.
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