Intrepid traveller... Ephesus

Rejuvenated after a nice sleep-in, Boyfriend and I set off for the 3.5 kilometre walk from our hotel in Selçuk to the ruins of Ephesus – the best-preserved ancient Roman city of the Eastern Mediterranean.

We picked up Anna and Glen – a Kiwi couple from our tour group who’ve spent the past two years backpacking through Europe – and followed along the main road out of town. Only a few minutes had passed before we made a right-hand turn to stop at the ruins of the Temple of Artemis. Once one of the great Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, now sadly a bunch of broken marble and stone pillars. Apparently the Pyramids of Egypt are the last of the ancient Seven Wonders still predominately intact – luckily we’ll get a chance to see them in a few weeks.

The last standing relic at the Temple of Artemis

Anna and I in the amphitheatre at Ephesus

At Ephesus we decided, in the interest of saving our liras, to share one audio guide between the four of us. Anna and I each took an earpiece and attempted to relay the information to the boys. I came to the conclusion quite quickly that I would suck as a translator: stumbling over words as I repeated statements in English is a sad indication of my communication skills.

Two hours later we were still wandering the ruins. I think we were all surprised at how extensive they are. Ephesus was a great trading city in 1st century CE; it was also the centre if the cult of Cybele – the Anatolian fertility goddess – until Cybele became Artemis – the virgin goddess of the hunt and moon – and later Diana, when the Romans conquered the city. Later Ephesus was the site of Saint Paul’s famous speech to the pagans. The pagans retaliated with three hours of chanting, “Artemis is great,” and consequently Paul was thrown out of town.

The library of Celsus, Ephesus

Audio-guide weary, we took our leave when the remains of fountains and gymnasiums and latrines (it’s surprising how little the shape of a toilet seat has changed in two thousand years) all started to merge into one. Taking in the ancient world is a tiring task.

Intrepid traveller... Gallipoli and Troy

Yesterday we visited the site of the Gallipoli landings – 25 April 1915. It was freezing cold, with snow covering the hilltops and gravesites around Lone Pine, but our guide, Aykut, made the experience more than memorable.

A sturdy Turk no taller than me, with startling blue eyes and an inability to feel wind-chill, is one of those extraordinary people who can retain facts and stats on every subject from every era. His knowledge of Gallipoli and the reasons for the Allied attempt on the Dardanelles is extensive, while his knowledge of Australian and New Zealand politics and propaganda during WWI put all of us Aussies and Kiwis to shame.

The Australian Memorial at Lone Pine

What struck me most was how small the whole area was. The beach at ANZAC Cove is only a few metres deep, with the length of the shoreline only 3.5 kilometres. The 9-month campaign covered three areas of fighting at the southern tip of the European side of Turkey, to the left of the Dardanelle passage and on average each side incurred casualties of 1,000 men per day. That’s 500,000 men killed or injured in just over 250 days of fighting – and in the end, the Allies were evacuated. Their fight goes down in history, as the only military landing that did not achieve its final objective. And yet, the men that fought there, on both sides, were undoubtedly heroes. Today their children and grandchildren continue to march in their honour, while others make a pilgrimage to Gallipoli to help keep their spirits alive. Last year 9,000 Australian, New Zealand and British tourists came to celebrate ANZAC Day, along with 10,000 Turks. I honestly can’t imagine how they – not to mention the soldiers back in 1915 – all fit.

A statue of the Trojan Horse from the film, Troy (2004) - donated to Canakkale by Warner Bros.

From modern history to ancient times, this morning we drove from Canakkale (on the Asian side of the Dardanelles) to the ruins of Troy. Aykut proved himself, once again, the human-Encarta, reminding us of the story of Homer’s Iliad while linking the fiction to facts. Up until 2003 the actual site of Ancient Troy was a point of contention – with ruins in Sweden and London being put forward by some archaeologists – however, excavation began on this Turkish site in the late 19th century. With its key position at the gateway to the Dardanelle passage, the city of Troy was inhabited for over 4,000 years, with the oldest human remains dating back to 3,500BC. Today we saw the remnants of walls more than 5,000 years old, once standing 12 metres tall, now around 7 but still 6 metres thick.

The view across the plains of Troy (the Roman pillar a relic from the period post 1,000 BC)

When you’re standing amongst so much history its easy to get overwhelmed, and while I heard a lot of interesting facts today, the one stuck was Aykut’s story about the Trojan invention of doors and windows (circa 2,400BC). As a seaport used by the ancient civilisations, Troy sparked the imaginations of the Greeks and Egyptians who started poking holes in their homes in 2,200 and 2,100BC respectively. File that one for your next trivia night!

Intrepid traveller… The good, bad and ugly in Istanbul

Valentine’s Day was a mixed bag. We started off slow, escaping the torrential rain with tea at a café near our hotel that offered Wireless and when the sky cleared, we made our way down to the Kumkapi fish markets – via every conceivable side street, because Boyfriend has a ‘thing’ about always taking the scenic route.

Squeezed between the waters edge and Kennedy Caddesi, one of the city’s busiest roads, the Kumkapi markets are famous for their live catches and reasonable prices. As we’d already lunched on Turkish pizza rolled with coriander leaves, sliced tomato and fresh lemon juice (all for 4 lira) our visit was purely voyeuristic until a conversation began with a local restaurateur, Garip.

This guy not only addressed me personally – as I was snapping away at his sardines and sea breams – but he seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say: I was putty in his hands. It turned out that Garip’s uncle had immigrated to Melbourne 45 years ago (Garip even scrolled through his mobile address book to show said-uncle’s Australian phone number) and had recently flown back to Turkey to visit Garip’s dying father. In less than five minutes we’d learned all about his family and shared tales of both the joys and sadness that come with immigration (me regaling my mother’s own story of moving over from Slovenia). So of course I promised that we’d return for dinner that evening and bring our new tour group. Happily envisaging his prospective table-of-eight, Garip continued to wave to us from across the caddesi as we made our way back up the hill into the city.

Knowing full well that we wouldn’t be making the trek back to Kumkapi I spent the next hour composing the apologetic postcard I would send to Garip from our next port, Boyfriend chiding me once again for being so naive. Then he noticed a dropped brush of a shoe shiner who was racing down the path, he pointed it out and the man thanked us profusely – then turned and motioned for me give him my foot, to polish my very muddy knee highs. Thinking his gesture one of thanks for saving his mislaid brush I too thanked him profusely. He then went at Boyfriend’s trainers with a toothbrush as I began searching for a few coins for his hard work. But it turned out he was after more than a few coins, asking for 14 liras to compensate his efforts. We literally only had 10 lira on us. After checking our money purse for himself he took the 10 and a few cents and walked off in a huff. I was mortified… for about two minutes until the next shoe shiner that passed our way also (deliberately) dropped his brush in our path. The nerve!

We were feeling decidedly used as we arrived back to our hotel ready to meet our new tour group. We went to our room to gather our things, including our local payment money for our guide, and convened with our group in the lobby. It was then that Boyfriend realised we’d been robbed. While we had gone to the trouble of putting our wallets and passports in the hotel safe, Boyfriend had forgotten about the American dollars we’d had converted for the tour – that $880 he’d kept in his travel pouch tucked into the bottom of his daypack. It turns out that morning our cleaning lady had down more than simply make our bed and change our towels, she’d helped herself to $160! Of course the guy at reception denied any hotel staff involvement, but Boyfriend, being even more anally retentive than myself had noticed that the travel pouch had not only been moved but that the sheets of paper within the pouch had also been put back in a different order.

Needing to bond with our new friends, we went out to dinner and planned to drop into the police station on the way back, to file a report in the hopes that I might be able to claim it back on insurance. The police station was right by our hotel, we envisaged the process might take an hour, at most.

And so began the saga of our night in a Turkish police station.

First off none of the policemen spoke English; one who spoke a little bit – a sweet guy in his late twenties with a vicious receding hairline – came over to our hotel to talk with the receptionist and apparently watch a copy of the video surveillance from the corridor outside our room. However, the only person with access to the surveillance tapes was the owner, and he was out with his wife for their Valentine’s Day dinner, and not due back until Monday.

We went back to the station and waited. It was at this point that our nice policeman scattered off. The next hour and forty-five minutes was spent perched on two plastic chairs in the bare, smoke-filled room that constituted their police station. It was obvious the sergeant in charge - a sturdy, arrogant bastard in his late forties – had no desire to help; telling me (via the very broken interpretation of a visitor in the waiting room) that $160 was ‘nothing’ and it was our fault for leaving the money in our room. Six policemen stood around chatting in Turkish (laughing at us), sipping tea and chain-smoking cigarettes as we waited for the return of the English speaking sergeant. Another, pimple-faced sergeant asked – via the same visitor-interpreter – if we knew the serial numbers of our alleged ‘lost’ bills.

Finally the English speaking one returned, only to tell me that they wouldn’t be able to help us: that there was no proof of a theft and that the tapes had been watched – they hadn’t – and no one besides us had entered our room. I had explained a number of times that we didn’t want to claim against the hotel or find the suspect; just that we needed an official form to say we’d had money stolen so that we might claim against our travel insurance. A process that should have taken 20 minutes had now taken over two hours.

With the clock rapidly approaching midnight and them all jabbering in Turkish and looking at me as if I was a madwoman, I finally cracked. I burst into tears, called them all liars and ran outside into the cold. Coming to my defence Boyfriend stayed to attempt to explain my outburst and in his own way berate the Turkish justice system. With everything getting much more heated inside and me bawling out in the rain, the young guy ran out to ask me to come in, promising to write up the report and begging me to stop crying. It was Valentine’s Day, after all.

So two hours and twenty minutes after meeting him, Sergeant Nuri finally wrote up the report – albeit in Turkish – and gave me his personal email address should I require any further copies be sent back to Australia. He even offered us dinner at his friend’s restaurant to apologise for how we’d been treated. In stark contrast to the animals in uniform in the other room, Sergeant Nuri proved himself a true gentleman.

Travelling overseas it’s hard not to make comparisons to life ‘back home’. And the sad and twisted thing about this saga is that I’m not even sure I’ll draw on my insurance in this case. But it was the way those policeman tried to bully me into submission by deliberately sending Sergeant Nuri off and keeping us waiting as they chatted amongst themselves, clearly not working, that made me furious and determined enough to waste my last evening in Istanbul in their company. I hate that it took tears to break them, but if the hoo-ha I caused makes our hotel think twice about the trustworthiness of their cleaner – their name now smeared in public record – and makes the police redress the way they treat the next foreign victim of theft then it’ll have been worth it. Not worth $160 perhaps, but worth the two hour wait.

Intrepid traveller... Paling into insignificance

This isn’t the first time I’ve travelled within a predominately Muslim country, but it’s certainly the first time I’ve been accompanied by a man. I’m noticing a distinct difference. That is, I’m not being noticed at all.

Respectfully covered from neck to toe – except when it’s raining, and engulfed in my hooded parka I resemble a Jedi Knight – I’m certainly not intending to make a scene. However, I’m finding the extent to which I am ignored by street salesmen and restaurateurs somewhat disconcerting.

Boyfriend enjoying his compliments-of-me coffee, at Haydarpaşa ferry wharf

Yesterday I ordered two Turkish coffees at a small kiosk as we waited for the ferry to take us back from Haydarpaşa (on the Asian side) to Eminönü (in Europe), but the waiter turned to Boyfriend to ask if we wanted sugar mixed in. When it came time for the bill, I paid; yet the waiter returned with change for my man. He then asked Boyfriend’s name and where he came from, shook his hand, smiled and went back to serving. It was like I wasn’t even there.

At other places too they have gone to great lengths to introduce themselves to Boyfriend, congratulate him on being from Australia and/or being “such a big (tall) man,” and I merely scuttle along behind. It definitely appears that the ratio of men to women in Istanbul is skewed, and from reading excerpts of the Lonely Planet we’re told that – tourist-dense areas aside – most restaurants in Turkey are segregated and some are even strictly ‘female free’ zones.

The Blue Mosque

Today in the Blue Mosque I noticed that the back of the large prayer hall was cordoned off for women; only an eighth of the whole space deemed necessary for female worship. I’m not going to argue the pros and cons of Islam, but I do question the reasons behind, and need for, any form of segregation – be it of women and men or one race from another.

There are certain times when I like Boyfriend to take the lead: when booking travel and accommodation and getting us from A to B in general. It’s at these times I like to be a bit lazy. But I’m no wallflower and neither are any of my girlfriends. I think I would find it hard to live and work in the Middle East, although for now it is an interesting place to travel.

Last night in London (revisited)

For you, my sweetnesses...

Intrepid traveller... Istanbul

So we farewelled London with a dinner of roast pork and red wine with two of our loveliest girlfriends (will post pics as soon as my laptop is up-and-running), and early the next morning we set off to Luton - heaven help me - for our flıght to Istanbul.

Thankfully both our three hour flight and subsequent hourlong bus ride to our hotel were event-free; unfortunately it seems we've brought a years' worth of London rain with us.

From what we can see, through the teeming rain, Istanbul is indeed a vibrant city. Stretching across two continents, it is also one of the oldest cities (excavation in 2008 unearthed evidence of a Neolithic settlement dating from circa 6500 BC). Today we managed eight hours on foot (on both the Asian and European sides) and we barely made a dent in the map. We did, however, manage a trip to the renowned Grand Bazaar - the largest covered markets ın the world, with more than 2,000 stalls crammed into 58 streets - although Boyfriend kept me on a tight leash when we passed the jewellery stores so sadly, I left empty handed.

While the food so far hasn't impressed us too much, we're both big fans of their Turkish tea and coffee. With two cubes of sugar per tiny serving, it's hard not to like stuff!

Along with a serious caffiene addiction, it appears every man, woman and child in Turkey smokes. And if our current hotel is anything to go by, our rooms will be filled with the sweet (suffocating) scent of tobacco for the next five weeks. Boyfriend - who hasn't smoked in two and a half years - even had a dream last night that he was lighting up. My hair reeks and my skin is dry. Add to that the sadness that is my soaking Alberta Ferretti parka and my almost-mush Converse trainers, I go to bed on this our second night, one sad panda*.


Apology: Without Wireless internet my laptop is sitting idle, so any of the photos I post are borrowed from Google images. When I figure out a way to upload my own pics I promise I will... in retrospect too!

*For you... my darling Anna!

Welcome to the World...

On Sunday my eldest sister gave birth to a beautiful (beach-ready) baby girl. Now the proud mum of three under three, my sister continues to amaze and inspire me...

While her and hubby's new seaside home obviously had an affect in utero: check out bubbaloo's natural streaks.

The Indian Connection

It’s sleeting in Hamburg as I sit cocooned in my girlfriend and her fiancé’s flat, praying to all Gods-that-be that my 21:45 easyJet flight back to London not be cancelled. In under 72-hours Boyfriend and I need to board a plane to Istanbul, and true to form I’ve organised a million things to do before then. First and foremost, get home from Hamburg.

Girlfriend and I on a beach in Goa, Feb 2005

Four years ago said-girlfriend and I bonded for life when we endured 6 weeks backpacking through India. We survived 36-hour long train rides, 24-hour sleeper bus trips; were objectified, groped, spat at by some and revered by others (mostly native honeymooners, the wives of whom wanted to have their husbands photos taken with strange white women – us!). A strong and striking German with jet-black hair and crystal blue eyes, my girlfriend earned her degree in Australia while working in the same café as Boyfriend and I. In 2005 when I mentioned I wanted to take the summer off and explore the Wonder that is India she immediately agreed to take the journey with me. We had visions of practising yoga on the beaches of Goa and playing card games with children on the streets of Mumbai. The reality of our experience was far more wild and wonderful, with our friendship etched in the marble tiles of the Taj Mahal.

Nowadays she’s back in Germany, recently engaged and living in Hamburg. I came to visit one last time before I head Down Under, having promised to help her find a wedding dress and break down the guest list, as I may not be able to make the trip again for their wedding in August.

My flight was scheduled for 17:55 on Thursday evening. Thanks to a taxi demonstration around Trafalgar Square, my 50-min shuttle bus to Luton Airport took well over two hours; and thanks to the inefficiency of EasyJet the plane sat waiting on the tarmac for two-and-a-half hours for the snow (that had fallen on Sunday) to be removed from the wings and the plane treated with a de-icing solution. I finally arrived into Hamburg at 23:00 – both elated and exhausted.

FYI: Not the dress

Girlfriend and I had two bridal shop appointments on Friday: The first in a tiny (shabby) boutique off Lehmweg, where the attendants were pack-a-day smokers with bleach blond hair and caked-on make up; and the second on Eppendorfer Landstraße. The latter’s attendant was equally chic, wearing too-tight, pastel blue cargo trousers with a stripy blue shirt layered by a white-washed denim shirt. A diamonte hair-tie and black trainers completed her look – but the dresses on offer weren’t atrocious. Both ‘boutiques’ had a range of styles for Girlfriend to try on, with corsets and veils and all the trimmings. Typically unemotional, Girlfriend even wept a tear when she saw herself dolled-up for the first time. To be honest she would look stunning in a paper bag so I think she did the dresses more of a favour than the other way around.

On Saturday we experienced a far more comfortable and indulgent bridal fitting at Janine Kuhl Brautmoden, on Ludolfstraße. No champagne on offer but sweets and sparkling water saw us through the two hour dress marathon where Girlfriend tried on no less than ten dresses all with complicated lace-up backs. She twirled around in all that glittered, although sadly we found ourselves no closer to The Dress.

With just under seven months to go, no doubt she’ll be fine. Although reading the hoo-ha that bridal mags sell you, she should be close to wrist slitting if she’s not sorted her location, caterer, cake, guest list, photographer, seating plans and dress all before the sun sets on six months before ‘I do’.

Their wedding aside – as I’m convinced all will be fine and dandy, come August 15 – Hamburg has been a delightful host city. The sun shone brightly on Friday, retail delights abound around their flat in Eppendorfer (Anita Hass also on Eppendorfer Landstraße is a must for savvy shoppers after designer goodies) and we even managed a harbour cruise and a stop off at Hamburg's Red Light district this afternoon before the storm of hail and snow set in.

Now as I look out their window the grey clouds are clearing… Yes, I just might make it home on time.

At time of posting: My plane out of Hamburg was delayed over an hour due to further snow at London Luton. Then it took an hour to get from our 'landed' plane to border control at Luton as their ground staff had gone AWOL. Thanks to easyBus cutting costs and now hiring spaces onboard Greenline Bus Services I was then made to wait for the 00:30 bus to London Victoria (having missed my scheduled 23:00 service). A dozen stops and a few catnaps later I found myself in the middle of Buckingham Palace Road hailing a cab at 2am - but the ₤22.00 fare back to Balham was the final blow.

Farewells and (role) models

Thanks to the heavy snowfall my kidlets have had the past two days off school. Mercifully their parents arrived back from Australia on Sunday, which means I’m off duty. Back in my Balham flat I’m enjoying ‘quiet time’ (as we sold our TV at the weekend in preparation for our move) and some much needed all-about-me time: Pilates and relaxing in a bubble-filled bathtub the highlights of my day so far.

Where my Aus-family is full on, babysitting my American cherubs has always been a breeze. To their 14-year-old son and twin 12-year-old girls I’m less a sitter and more an older sister. I take them out for dinner, teach them the eBay trade and most importantly ensure they get their daily dose of quality television shows like, The Biggest Loser, X Factor and America’s Next Top Model (I’m all for the well-rounded approach to TV-viewing).

Tonight I’m seeing these munchkins for the last time before I leave. The girls and I are going out for dinner at Wagamama, anywhere else would be breaking with tradition.

Boyfriend thinks it callous of me to accept money from their parents for simply ‘hanging out’, and to be honest, sometimes I do wonder who is entertaining who; but at the end of the day I need to take my earnings where I find them. It’s just a bonus that this job has more perks than burdens.

I’m definitely going to miss both my London pseudo-families. But I like to think that through them a part of me will always be in here, even if it’s just the bossy bits!

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!

London is knee deep in the fluffy, white stuff. Cars are buried beneath inches of ice and snow and everywhere you look a person is slip-sliding their way as they attempt to get from A to B. It's fantastical!

I haven't seen snow like this since NYC. And while Londoners normally keep their heads down to avoid any form of communication or contact with other commuters, today it seems we're all smiles - on my way back from pilates I even saw a stranger offer a balancing hand to another who'd lost her footing!

Schools and offices have called a 'Snow Day' as the heaviest snow fall for London in 18 years has been recorded. Fifteen centimetres fell overnight with more snow due on Tuesday. Now housebound, Boyfriend and I are rugging up and enjoying the magic outside from the warmth of our living room (see above). Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!

Our little home...