53. Missing Links

Last night I caught the high speed tram, and a funicular up to the modern part of Istanbul, to see Brother Steve who is here on a conference in Taksim.  At first I didn't want to leave the safety of Sultanahmet, where people now greet me on the street because they recognise me, not because they want to sell me a carpet. But he'd been in conference all day, and I had time to spare ... and it would be an adventure. I changed my shoes and headed into the madding crowds.

The crowds are insane - 12 million people inhabit this city  - we are like herring finding a spot to move -  and because I have become totally invisible, am pushed and shoved and knocked and bruised and elbowed and stomached out of everyone's way all the time.  I have pedestrian rage.  I'm petrified that at any second the skook within me will shriek from my bruised shoulder - Out of MY way you fat Focker! - are you blind?  Nobody steps aside for me. I've tried looking people in the eye, but that's difficult when everyone walks head down, either on their phones or because they're partly hidden under a hideous polyester scarf and long coat. I've tried to stand firm, to make those pedestrian waters part for me, but I'm just a narrow little stream trying to make my way into the dead sea. I've tried to broaden my shoulders, increase my aura - nothing helps. I'm totally invisible.  If I were to collapse on the street, I'd be stepped over.  A frightening thought!  I had a narrow escape with my next life when, to avoid being mangled by the crowds, I stepped into the road, right onto the path of the high speed tram, only to be yanked off and rescued by someone who did notice me, for the nano second that it counted.  Then he brushed himself off and stepped back into the throngs.


But to meet my brother in this wonderful city, even if I had to travel across it?  Priceless.  So I manoeuvred my way through buying tokens, using the machines, facing the right way in the crush so that I faced out, and not in, held onto the poles as I couldn't reach the straps; and watched Sultanahmet, its mosques, balloon sellers, carpet carriers and garbage porters, flower beds, music, ice cream vendors, fortune tellers and fountains vanish as we approached the Other Side, place of conferences, tall hotels, insane traffic and people in suits, people in dark coats, people with briefcases and pearls, people in a hurry. On the way down, past the Ottoman houses and cobbled streets, I was already glad I made the journey as it was in the opposite direction from the Kapila Carsi, the Grand Bazaar, where I don't get lost anymore and where I am invited most days to lunch with the dealers I've come to know and trust.   

Blue Mosque from Galata and Red Fisherwoman

Crossing the Galata Bridge at dusk, populated by fishermen and strolling lovers, where a flotilla of ships, tugs, cruisers and yachts churned up the Bosphorus,  I promised myself a walk across there the following day.  I'm feeling a bit blue, as the weather has been cold, and I've spent a lot of time silent, on my own, just Be-ing, but it can be draining, and alienating. Visiting Steve was a great idea, once I'd got over the can't-be-bothered-to-go-out-my-feet-are-sore syndrome.

Loaves and fishes

Taksim is nothing to write home about: the most exciting thing there was that I bought a new wardrobe!  A lime green tee shirt for $8 as I'm OVER black! And a few loquats as I'm starved for fruit here. It's a ghastly place for those unfortunate enough to be stuck there without realising that This Side has it all.  Steve can't understand why I love Istanbul - wait, I said, until you see Sultanahmet and all that history.  He walked me back to the train late at night, and I was less fearful here than I was in London, where I had awful attacks of acrophobia and insecurity, even though I'd lived there and I was surrounded by the love of family and friends. 


So, another plug where it's due.  When Luda was here, I was hotel door knocking, looking for a centrally located, reasonably priced, clean hotel to stay after she left.  I wore my soles to my skin.  Then I saw a lovely old wrought iron gate, buzzed, and to my delight, there was room at this inn, when I was due to return from London. The rates were the best in town - and yet again, I'm treated like family.  

Star Holiday Hotel, Sultanahmet

I've been staying here ever since: the room is minute, but the view is unsurpassable, the location the best, and the double glazing stops me being woken every five hours by the noise of the city going about its 24 hour business. Brother Steve complained about his Taksim breakfast of watery gruel in hotel that was more communist block than photo chic. I now get my early morning tea from the breakfast terrace before I go back an hour later for the full plate of olives, cheese, cucumber and fresh breads.  I'm sitting in the lounge now, as I wait for my bus to Cappadocia, and without asking, I've been brought a plate of pastry and cheese, and a glass of yoghurt. The muezzin has just called, from the windows along the busy promenade,  I can see young boys dressed in the white fluffy capes in preparation for their circumcision ceremony;  a pirate and his long-black-haired-maiden dressed in green satin with gypsy earrings, hoards of women in robes and scarves, bearded men on their way to prayer.

Aphrodisiacs in Egyptian spice market

A friend wrote yesterday, asking what I'd learned about myself,  so far,  on this journey.  I've been considering this for days now, following the warmth of family in England. My experiences have been filled with marvel, and wonder, and a blissed out feeling of inordinate good luck that I can be here.  But what I miss most is human contact;  a loved voice in the morning, or shared laughter.  As I'd promised myself, I walked down Sultanahmet today, to the ferries and the Galata bridge, and I was acutely aware of couples - everyone holding hands, laughing with each other, helping each other, everyone having someone to love. Children, parents, lovers, friends. I don't need expensive carpets, or silks, or jewellery (!) I don't need to eat in fabulous restaurants (the best meals have been in little hidey holes at the back of the markets) I don't need flashy hotels with hot and cold running bidets.  

Bosphorus Asian side

I need someone meaningful to share this with. Someone who, when I return, will understand each of the phases of the journey, and remember them with me. My journeys have made my character.  How I push my boundaries to their outer limits at times, how I face into the wind when I have to.  But who I am as a woman is defined by the intimacy and intensity of sharing my life with others.  Yes, now after several tough months, I acutely miss being in a relationship.  I'm getting lonely.  I long for calls, and texts and emails that go beneath the surface and understand that I may not be the blithe spirit doing the writing. There may be onions layers there, weeping in the dark.  Am I needy?  I wouldn't like to think so as I'm so fiercely independent, but I'm getting over having meals on my own and talking to myself, and waking up not knowing where the fook I am.  Because if anything happens to me, who, really, will know, or rescue me?

Eating, roadside, Sultanahmet

To rub salt into the above wounds: this is my horrorscope for today:   You may be feeling pretty confident now about your current plans, but something is still gnawing away at the bottom of your imagination. You might be limited in what you can do today, especially if you're obsessing about a relationship from the past. Don't try to escape your history, rather, dig into it. After you can find your way around in the shadows of your subconscious, you'll also be able to navigate better in the light of reality.

Yeah, yeah, all very well ... and once I've dug around the shadows of my subconscious?   

I walked down Sultanahmet, to the ferries, across the Galata, for a few kilometres on the Asian side, then back again, where a Ugandan man asked me for directions;  he wanted to buy white wedding dresses in Turkey to take back to Uganda. Why? I asked him. Look around, nobody wears this stuff here, they wear raincoats and doeks. I steered him to the Grand Bazaar and suggested he buy wedding dresses in China (after he'd asked me for my email address) then wandered into the Egyptian market, the Spice Souk, where again I was almost trampled to a powder.  I had a hilarious interaction with a Turkish woman in a pharmacy as I tried to mime what a hair comb was - I was offered brushes, and nail brushes and scissors and we both clapped when she realised what I wanted.  

Lace bouquet

I found what could have been a wedding outfit shop, filled as it was with white satin negligees and flowing white gowns, and bouquets made out of satin and lace but I imagine that these fashion fripperies would be reserved for the boudoir. The children's shops were monuments to strange tastes with miniature ball gowns with layers of flounces in purples, cerice and deep red. A disturbing phrase on a tee shirt for a seven year old read "Yes I am girl, I am available for the love" ...


I climbed a metal ladder onto a rooftop that advertised lunch.  The views cascaded down winding cobbled roads of ancient homes, all the way across the dark river, glancing across the bridges and along the tops of so many heads, along the promontory into the trees and distant mountains.  The sun was shining, warming to hot.  I was hungry.   A waiter burst out of a fire escape when he heard me clattering to his rooftop,  looked behind me to see if I was being followed,  and asked incredulously  You are Alone?  Sigh. Yes, I am.  He tutted, and threw down a single set of cutlery and poured one glass of water, flapped one napkin on the table, and opened one menu.  I occupied myself reading the intriguing dishes on the menu hoping he wouldn't see the silver trickle of a single tear. And then I laughed aloud, alone.  Really laughed. Giggled.  Wrote them down.

I'd like to meet Le Chef.  Cheer him on for his inventions.

Drunkin chicken, fried with blambeed whisky in high heat.
Battered chicken with smashed potatoes.
Marooned chicken and collapsed potatoes.
Ball of repressed fried spinach, collate with basil.
Shrimps in the small bags.

Plain young girl soup.

Days old Tuna with black eggs.

I chose the Tuna salad, and used the menu as a hat.  I did. The sun was beating down and I wasn't about to move out of it for anything. Not knowing how long I was to live, and all that.

Even bread rolls snuggle up ...

I've taken another risk.  On a whim I walked into a travel agency advertising Hot Air Ballooning.  The next bus leaves soon.  I rushed up to my room at the Star Hotel, and grabbed my cameras and track suit and toothbrush.  Keep my room, I shouted over my shoulder. 

I'm leaving now for an 11 hour overnight bus drive to Cappadocia.  Alone.  If no more is posted on this blog, you'll know that something happened to me to make me permanently invisible, but nobody will report it!  I'm hot air ballooning.  Alone.  I'm walking through a strange valley of strange limestone towers, and I'm sleeping in a cave hotel.  Alone.   I'll eat alone, and I'll stare out of the window alone, and I'll shower alone, and if I run out of loo paper, well, then I'm in trouble, because I'm alone.


Being alone sucks.  Even if I'm surrounded by fantastic beauty.  And friends from afar who do love me. Because if it wasn't for this blog, I would have sat alone, for the past few hours, watching everyone holding hands.  That sucks too.