Istanbul again.

WHERE DID THE WEEKS GO?

I spent more quality time with my new husband, than with my story telling.  Nights that were filled with laughter, food, love,  and making memories and friends.  Days of discoveries, and discovering how another human being reacts under pressure.  Hours of packing and unpacking, breaking and buying suitcases.  Feeding beggars.  Getting dirty and tired and cranky and generally being happy.

At least I have photographs.

I didn't even realise I wasn't keeping up.  So I'm ridiculously far behind in this story. What with silver to buy, cases to pack, hotels to check in and out of, a husband to look after, sights to see, cameras to upload and recharge, planes and trains and boats and buses and taxis to catch, I can't even catch my breath never mind keep pace with the travels. Never mind all the eating, the eating, the eating, the discovering of different restaurants, the little rooftop enclosures, the dark booths in back streets.

So instead of heaps of words, I'm delivering some choice events with photos to tell most of the story.

We were over the moon to be out of Morocco, even though we spent more than an hour in the passport queue. Our driver was patiently waiting, and the dealers in the Grand Bazaar were about to herald our arrival with hearty hugs, mint tea and the promises of long lunches of breads and lamb kebabs. We checked into a large room in Hotel Nena, headed out to the streets for a sheesh, chips, pomegranate juice and vegetables, and despite a typical Istanbul icy wind, were glad to be there. I walked Reno down to the blue mosque so he could get up close and personal with the muezzin, blossoms were flying everywhere, Syrian immigrants and gypsies were begging on every corner, and silver was waiting for my itchy fingers.

Behind the Galata fish markets was a world of fascinating graffiti and street art, closed up shops and stalls, steps that led underneath tangles of vines, and many inquisitive cats.  Reno continued his lipstick fetish, getting me to pose whenever I could, reapplying my lipstick. Urban art has always been a fascination, and the material here was impressive.  Back streets and potholed lanes were filled with urban debris, from disused speedboats, rolls of barbed wire, and even a kitchen sink.  The Grand Bazaar was our first stop every day, fortified with Turkish coffee and greasy lunches and enticing booths and arms laden with silver treasures. 

We found a beautiful tour guide who quickly became our best friend and restaurant and carpet shop leader; hard to believe she had so many connections. We passed a shoe shop where the owner was standing outside. When he saw my leather shoes that I'd bought from him 8 years previously, he recognised them with a yelp and begged me to come in so that he could clean them for me and make them look like new.  I did! He did!  Reno also left his shop very happy, cradling his new green leather shoes like a baby. I bought a red leather jacket I'd been coveting for years; I found some red canvas sneakers;  I was determined to match the pomegranate juice I was drinking every morning.

We walked down from Sultanahmet across the Galata bridge, to a stretch of sand where ferries fought for spaces, churned up the waves, tossed their passengers on shore and sped out again.  People sat on plastic chairs and oilskin covered tables, ordered fish sandwiches with coffee, or pomegranate and orange juice for a few lire.  We found many wonderful places to eat, from warm and friendly places up dark cobbled lanes, to two chairs tottering on a rock on the edge of the Marmara sea, but always had tasty, fresh and cheap food. I found the Arasta bazaar again, where we went several times for sheesh and a beer, and a dervish who whirled in his heavenly trance while waiters bumped past.  

Juice doesn't get fresher than this.  We had just eaten a fish sandwich while trying not to fall off our chairs between the rocks and into the sea.  Then we walked back up through Sultanahmet looking at old Ottoman houses, between the tourists and the palaces.

Finally, a day of moderate warmth and sunshine. We took a cruise down the Bosphorus on a public ferry, to the Black sea, where we climbed to a castle along a track that wound around a mountain.  The others on the little boat stayed below and scrummaged in souvenir shops and dripped ice cream on their shirts.  We returned red faced and puffed, grabbed our ice creams for the ride home, and chugged back in brilliant sunshine, looking at the  magnificent hunting lodges of the rich sultans, and the multi million dollar houses that line the Bosphorus. 

We flew to Cappadocia, hoping for two early morning balloon rides.  We stayed in a thousands year old hotel dug out of the rock, and sat on the verandah watching the balloons rising in the distance. But in my haste to book the tickets before the lines dropped out, I'd miscalculated and had booked the balloons for the day after we left.  The hotel manager, in typical Turkish hospitality, sorted us out and all was right with the world again. We had our magnificent flight, we celebrated with champagne.  We walked and hiked around the ancient limestone dwellings, inhabited by ancient people who still managed to have hospitals, schools and libraries carved out of the stone.