Topkapi palace and chilling with Nargiles

Monday 15th

This morning brought with it some much needed sunshine. We decided to visit the Sultan's palace first off this morning. It presides over the Sultanahmet area, the entrance to the Bosphorous Strait, and the Marmara Sea. It's pretty much the Mayfair of Istanbul and rightly so; this is the palace of Emperors. It's also pretty expensive to get in!


We wandered up through the fırst courtyard and bought our tickets to enter the palace itself. Just next to the ticket-office is a beautiful ornate fountain. This is where the royal executioner used to wash his tools after performing such duties as... oooh - decapitating those who had displeased the Sultan; their heads would then be placed on spikes adorning the palace gate to serve as a warning. I am always amazed by such casual references to barbarism whenever you visit something as steeped ın hıstorıcal eloquence such as this. It affords both a wonderful and tantalising sense of the macabre. It's strange that there is some unspoken watershed in which the abhorrent acts in history (I am not just singling out Istanbul here. You wıll find the history book of every city and culture you dive into has its skellingtons: flesh, bones, and sinew, in its proverbial closet) stop being inhumane and ghastly and start becoming events that you can take your kids to - and let them poke at things - on a Sunday afternoon. It's kind of like that unspoken period of dısclosure you have with your parents from your teenage years to your adult ones where you can finally tell them it was you who covered their Persian rug ın cognac and set fire to it when you were twelve - more on that one later, Mum/Dad!

Inside the palace is amazing. You can really begin to comprehend what ıt meant to be royalty ın Istanbul. The palace ıs an amalgamation of four courtyards (the fourth courtyard was a very late addition) each representatıve of an echelon of importance ın the Royal hierarchy. Being already in the second courtyard we started ın the kitchens, of course! The kitchens were the size of my entire middle school ın Oxford. I saw some of the bıggest ladles I have ever seen - and I am sure the pots were to cook people ın. The Sultans had a fascination wıth Chinese porcelain. Legend has it, they were supposed to change colour when poisoned food was served in them. I have never really taken much interest in Chinese ceramics - but I have to say I found the Ming Dynasty pretty!gaudy! I much preferred the Quang myself.

We skıpped through the silverware section and went directly through into the second courtyard. This ıs where armoury was, the tower of justıce, and where the imperial council sat; and where hıgh up on the wall the resıdıng Sultan would sit behind a grille and listen in to the affairs of state. Thıs struck me as a bit bloody odd - mainly for the fact that there were so many paintings of him doing it. Didn`t anyone tell the poor guy he was rumbled? Here we marvelled upon the treasures of the Sultans, including the exquisite Topkapi dagger. This was a present, among other thıngs, from Mehmet to Nadir Shah of Persia. Unfortunately the poor sod was assassinated whilst the goods were en route. Like any shrewd Sultan, Mehmet called all bets off and had all hıs presents returned quıcksharp!

We went on through the gate of felicity and into the third courtyard. Now this was where it was at! This was the inner part of the palace where only the uber-privileged were allowed to tread. Eunuchs, page-boys in training, and of course, the harem. Marcus and I had a interesting debate about how frisky the Sultans must have been in order to maintain a healthy series polygamous relationships wıth cırca 80 women. We decided that there was a lot of underhand rumpy-pumpy goıng on.

We ended up in the final courtyard, the fourth, where we stopped for a cup of tea overlooking the Galata bridge. It then rained on us. We had a quick look at the quaint house of circumcision and then made a joint decision to bugger off and get a nice kebab. I have really skipped over the splendour of this place. You really must view it for yourself.

We headed down through the Spice Market to the Galata bridge for a rooftop lunch. We had an amazing kebab-to-share and learnt the importance difference between nodding your head to say you understand what in an aubergıne kebab, a chicken kebab, and a lamb kebab, and ordering them. I think empires have been built on such deliberate misinterpretations. Nevertheless we ate them like the fat-b*stards we are - and they were pretty good.

We finished off the afternoon with a Nargile and apple tea in Cay Bahcesi - a tea garden. These wonderful places are the ultimate chill out areas. 48 hour London clubbers could do well to take a leaf out of these verduous books. Nargiles are water-pipes aka hubbly-bubblies aka Hookahs. Just to dispel any myths they do not have hashısh ın. They are tobacco soaked in molasses and drawn through water. They do however, invoke a mild feelıng of pleasant euphoria and I thoroughly recommend you try one, ın the proper settıng, of course. Apparently, accordıng to a Turkısh student we got chatting to, smokıng one for an hour is equivalent to puffing 200 cıgarettes. This was actually a marked improvement seeing as I had to beat him down from his original claim of 2000. I think I finally got him down to 200 but he was not happy about it. He also showed me the Ottoturk-Arabıc alphabet. All 140 characters of it. I was pretty ashamed to realise I still struggled with 26.

Afterwards we ambled on back to the hostel and played chess until midnıght. We clımbed into our beds in our nine dorm rooms and I slowly drifted off. Around 2am, 2:45am, and 3:30ish someone farted. At 7am the Israeli guy in the bunk up from me took a phone call on his mobile for 15mins.

The Princes Islands and the Bosphorous Strait

Tuesday October 16th

Photos are here:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=17798&l=6cf6e&id=513701387

After spending three or four days in Istanbul we were a bit fed-up with the general madness and needed a break. The funshine had finally re-emerged and this being the case we decided to do a couple of boat tours. We strolled down to the Eminonu harbour to take a ferry boat up the Bosphorus Strait to the Karadeniz- the Black Sea. However we got there a bit too late so we revised our plans and decided to go to the Princes' Islands. These Islands are so named because they were used to permanently intern banished Sultan princes; usually by the current Sultan - be it a father or brother or uncle. Now this may sound a pretty terrible way of treating your family but believe me it is humane compared to the usual method. Basically when a Sultan passed away (this was often an event that could be hurried along) accession to the throne was decided through murder: fratricide, infanticide, nephewcide.. unclecide.. you get the picture - in order to secure your position as Sultan you needed to kill your brothers. This often was preempted by sons murdering fathers, uncles murdering nephews and suchlike. It reminds me of the Wizards of the Unseen University in Terry Pratchet's Discworld novels. Who are always backstabbing and double dealing each other in order to rise up the hierarchy toward Arch-Challencer. Except it is pretty dark. Actually, a more apropos comparison I can draw from William Blake's chilling description of potential of humans to inflict misery:

"Cruelty has a human heart,

And Jealousy a human face,

Terror the human form divine,

And Secrecy the human dress.



The human dress is forgèd iron,

The human form a fiery forge,

The human face a furnace seal'd,

The human heart its hungry gorge."

I think the last princes were murdered in the 17th century. After that some bright spark came up with the bright idea of having the first born prince as the heir. Before that it was just fun and games all round. One lovely chap, I believe it may have been Selim the Grim, murdered all three of his nephews in order to secure accession for their brother. Another unrelated, but interesting story, relates to the Byzantine king - Andronikos Komnenos. He was an über funboy. Bright, talented, courageous, and a complete libertine. He had made many attempts to gain control of Constantinople. He finally came to power in 1182 by usurping the boyking Alexios II Komnenos after the emperor, his father, had died to years before. Andronikos ruled for a relatively short period. Meanwhile the deposed Alexios went west to Europe and a petitioned the pope and the knights of the crusades to aid him in regaining his throne. The good Christian knights were more than happy to help - for a fee: money makes the world go round. A huge force led by one Enrico Dandolo - the Doge of Venice - marched on Constantinople in 1183. Andrinikos realising he had no chance buggered off with alacrity to Cyprus; but not before robbing most of the royal treasury; he was a canny lad. Alexios was now restored to king but unfortunately he couldn't pay the army of rather hot and bothered, and expectant knights. They camped outside of Constantinople - probably getting more hot and bothered by each passing day, whilst Alexios tried fobbing them off. They finally cracked and sacked and pillaged the city. Andrinikos was brought back to the city and handed over to an angry mob for justice. They pulled him to pieces - literally.

The ferry usually goes from Eminonu - but it had temporarily been moved to Kabataç. So we had to get a tram. Before doing so we tried one of Istanbul's famous fish sandwiches. These can be pretty touch-and-go healthwise; you may well end up puking your ring up if you get a dodgy one. However ours were good and at three Turkish lira, they were also a bargain.

We took the ferry from Kabataç out in the Marmara Sea. The view of Istanbul from the ferry was absolutely gorgeous. It is really quite something to see the city from the sea. We decided to explore the Island of Helybiliada. It is supposed to be the prettiest of all the islands. On the way, Marcus befriended a group of Iraqii tourists. They were on holiday in Turkey and could speak no Turkish. They could speak a little English, but could not read it. In short they were having problems figuring anything out. They really took to Marcus and they planned to hang out with him for the rest of the day - starting with getting off at Helybiliada with us. I found this a source of great amusement until I realised that meant they'd be hanging out with me too. They were pretty cool guys, although there dress sense was a bit alarming. most of them were wearing red, brown, and yellow versions of Michael Jackson's Beat It leather jacket. They looked like Bagdhad's version of the Brady bunch, and one of them was a doppelganger for beaker from the Muppet Show. Suffice to say when we got to Helybiliada we scarpered!

We decided to hire some bikes out and we rode around the Island for the afternoon. It was a pleasant ride and nice to get some exercise. We rode up to the monastery, that was unfortunately closed and at the top of a huge b*stard hill. When we got back to the port to get the boat we bumped into the Brady Bunch again. They weren't best pleased with Marcus's earlier snubbing of them so they were ignoring us. We started back to Kabataç and got chatting to a guy who live on the great island - the largest of the Princes' Islands. We found out quite by accident that the boat was not going to Istanbul but somewhere south in the Marmara see. We quickly jumped off the boat at the next stop as it was last one back to Istanbul; unfortunately we had forgotten totally about the Iraqiis. As the boat pulled away from the harbour we saw them on the top, they all stood and grinned and gave us the thumbs up signs. It was very poignant seeing Iraq's answer to the Groovy Gang: happily smiling as they headed off to God-only-knows where in the Marmara with no idea how to get back. I hoped we'd never see them again. Well I guess it didn't matter as they'd blame Marcus anyway. Maybe this is how international disputes start...



We got back to Istanbul and decided to go for a Meyhane. A Meyhane is a Turkish tavern serving delicious food with live, loud, music and lots of Raki (a Turkish liqueor) and wine. There is an area pretty much dedicated to it in Begoylu called Nevizade Sokak. We ambled down there and got a table in a balcony overlooking a teeming narrow street; and got hammered. It was good fun and well worth doing. Afterward we wandered around for a while stopping and drinking beers. We were on our way home when we passed an Irish bar called the Irish centre. The late Pete McCarthy, author of the fantastic eponymously titled book: McCarthy's bar, has a complex set of rules regarding not passing an Irish bar with your name on it without stopping for a drink. (something I have not had much chance to employ given my surname is Parle) I have discerned the cororally of this to be do not pass an Irish bar; we could break this down even further but then I'd probably have never got out of London this Autumn. to wit the result was we stopped in and a had a couple of beers. Siobhen, Pem, Alli - you would have been proud. It wasn't too bad actually, a live band was on singing Van Morisson and we finished our night there. Tomorrow is our last day in Istanbul.

Sunday sightseeing

Sunday 14th

The first place we visited was the Basilica Cistern- thanks for the tip Chiara - the main reason for heading there was to get out of the rain; the irony was not lost on me when I discovered it was raining inside the cistern also. It is an amazing place, however. Built by the Byzantine emperor, one Justinian the one and only as far as I can tell, the place is straight out of a level of Tomb Raider. It was all I could do to stop myself from leaping over the rails and running through the water looking for a medi-pack. To describe more generally: It was constructed around 532AD under the Basilica Stoa and functioned as a repository for fresh water for the royal palace. At some point in time it was closed down and forgotten by the general populous. The main entrance was sealed and it remained dormant apart from the occasional rumour of underground passages and fresh water springs that never depleted in the basement of certain houses in Sultanahmet. It finally was rediscovered by Petrus Gyllius in 1545, after taking interest in said rumours he unearthed the entrance and restored it. Even after this, it was not really seen as much more of a dumping ground by Istanbulian's; it was even used as a dumping ground corpses for a period. The cistern was finally renovated in this century into the moodily-lit, and mysterious cavern you can view today. It is a massive place - 65m x 143m in area. It is supported by 12 rows of 133 columns and used to hold 80,000 cubic metres of water. Fresh fısh even swım around the gantries and uplights. At the rear of the construction there are two Medusa heads, in the form of blocks, inserted into two columns. There are all sorts of legends surrounding them, basically though, I think they just looked cool and someone stuck them in for effect.

After this we headed straight over to visit the sublime Ayasofia; known also as Sofia Hagia in Greek, Sanctia Sophia in Roman times, and in English: The church of the divine and holy wisdom. It is quite simply breath-taking. Parts of it are over 1600 years old. I say parts because it has had many face-lifts over the years, and parts of itself rebuilt or restored from either war or natural disasters [incidentally again: Istanbul lies along the North-Antolian fault-line between the African and Eursasian tectonic plates. It has suffered a number of major earthquakes that have been well documented in history. The last major earthquake Turkey suffered was in Izmir, further south, in 1999]. If you see nothing else in Istanbul see Ayasofia. It is an architectural orgasm. It has been designed in such a way that as you walk in from the outer area you are exposed to a number of local domes, each larger than the last, each become visible as you walk into the hall - until finally you realise the sheer size and beauty of the building... and you are left simply speechless. It is said only the holy order could enter through the main door into the great domed inner area. I can see why. Once inside you generally spend a good hour walking around gobsmacked as you try to come to terms with it. You can ascend to the upper areas to marvel even more at the huge Islamic discs, relics to when Sultan Mehmet the conqueror converted the church into a mosque in 1453 after capturing the city. You can also see the paintings of the Seraphim at each main pillar, and beautiful ornate pictures of Jesus, the Virgin Mary, and Constantine. It is strange and somehow reassuring to see both religions juxtaposed equally throughout the museum. It was also still raining outside. Marcus and I got split up at some point in the museum so I headed over for a quick look at the Sultanahmet Camii aka the Blue Mosque. Again this is another beautiful work of art, built between 1609 - 1616. It is also still a functioning mosque. Although Istanbul has a very European feel to it, hearing the bewitching Adhan calling the muezzin - the faithful - to prayer always serves to remind me that I am somewhere very exotic. The mosque was beautiful and very similar to Ayasofia.


Marcus and I then spent then spent the rest of the day being fecking miserable as the rain did not let up until late into the night. I have a lovely photo but I can't upload it here. I'll edit this at a later date.

Istanbul - Hamamis, Nergiles, Barbers, and unexpected things

Friday 12th

We got into Istanbul at midday from a 6am flight from Rootin' Luton. Luton isn't my favourite airport at the best of times, but being there at 6am is right out. It didn't help that we stayed in the equivalent of Luton's answer to Fawlty Towers the night before.

It's pretty cool to arrive in Asia and then drive across a suspension bridge into Europe. Our bus dropped us off by Taksim Square - the equivalent of London's Oxford Street I guess. We spent 20mins waiting for the 61b bus amidst the throng of people and vehicles. Marcus got harassed by a bunch of psychopathic seven year-olds that kept on deriding each other by shouting 'GAY' at one another. We suddenly saw the 61b sneakily pull out of nowhere and bugger off. We then cracked and got a taxi.

We booked into a funky little hostel in the Sultanahmet district. This area is on the curve of the Golden Horn peninsula, on the opposite side of the Bosphorus strait. It is a jutting piece of land that presides over the Marmara Sea. It's small wonder that this site was chosen for the Topkapi palace, the Blue Mosque, Aya Sofia, and the Hippodrome, to name but a few architectural wonders. We are just a few streets down from Aya Sofia itself opposite the demon barber of Istanbul - more on that one later.

We'd actually arrived at the end of the holy feast of Ramazan so everyone had gone bonkers and the Turkish Delights were flying. It probably wasn't the best night to hit Taksim Square - but we braved it like the little troopers we are. We got the low down on a few cool night-spots to go to from a guy in the hostel. The Tunel road was absolutely heaving. Turks love dressing up and Dolce and Gabanna seems to have been adopted as the national dress. We tried to get in to a late night club but we were turned away in disgust by the owner - probably for being heinous, pikey, gippos who's clothes didn't have a single D&G label on. So we just hung out with all the other reprobates in the cafes and had couple of beers.

Saturday 13th
Got up and headed straight out - eager to see the sights and explore this vibrant city. We didn't bank on the fact that the end of Ramazan meant everybody was on a bender for the week-end. The Sultanahmet district was awash with tourists. Not just foreign people visiting Istanbul, but Turks from all over the country visiting Istanbul. It was pretty manic. We decided to head for the Kapari Carsi (the Grand Bazaar) A place famed for the sheer scale of shops, merchants, and procurable oddities... for a price, of course. It was shut. Nevermind. These things happen. So our spirits not dampened, we bought a couple of pretty tasty kofte kebabs and went for a wander and a wonder. I insisted on getting chillies in mine - despite the worried look on the kebab shop proprietor's face. We strolled along the peaceful and almost deserted streets. The original Kapari Carsi is enclosed in a kind of Medina; a fortified market basically. This kind of makes sense given that most merchants spent a lot of money fending, or buying, off thieves and bandits. The modern incarnation of this market spreads far further. It runs all the way between the Kapari Carsi and the Misir Carsi (the Spice Market). We managed to get to the doors to the original market, where I stood quietly contemplating the massive door to the place - snot gently running from my nostrils and tears from my eyes as the chillies I had eaten slowly began to superheat my sinuses and turn my face the colour of a two year old having a tantrum.

When I'd recovered slightly, we wondered down and around the Cads surrounding the Kapili Carsi. Although everyone was on holiday apparently underwear was still fair trade on holy days for the only shops open were selling hot lingerie or D&G underwear.

We finally decided to end the afternoon by having a hamam. Hamams are Turkish massage parlours. They are actually middle-eastern practices that are also still practiced in many North-African countries. This rings true for many customs you find in Morroco, Tunisia, Egypt, and even many places in Greece. It emphasises the anthropological importance of the trade routes between these places. It's roots of course are with the Romans. I am not sure if this custom prevails into modern Italy. but they are a fantastic way to relax. There are a couple of recommended hamami in the Lonely Planet. We chose a reputable one over less known one - for sexual chastity more than anything else (and if you've ever seen Marcus in a skirt you'll know why - he's quite a looker) - it was pretty cool; if not a little pricey. Hamams are emphatically separated into male and female. in older times, the intrusion into the a female hamam was punishable by death; note that the converse was not enforced - in fact it was probably punishable by half the men in the hamam doing the funky chicken.

I have had a hamam once before, in Tunisia, methinks it was in Sousse - but I could be wrong. I was having a week's break there on my own. I have always been quite into massage as a therapy. A girlfriend encouraged me to give it a go once and I liked it so much I did a year's course in it, although I didn't formally finish. Anyways I'd read up on it and decided to give the experience a go. This was a much smaller and less touristy hamam. When I say less touristy I mean just me and lots of Tunisian locals. I rocked up and paid - I think maybe a couple of quid - for it. I was presented with a pair of shorts so antiquated they would have had Stanley Matthews cringing in embarrassment, however in the spirit of keeping an objective mind I donned them and went into the hararet. This place was basically a concrete sweat room. On either side were two massive stone blocks protruding from the wall at least the height of my chest. In the middle of the room were two, heavy set, barely clothed, Tunisians that were taking turns in alternatively scrubbing each other raw with pairs of massive abrasive gloves (I later found out to be called Kese) and pouring buckets of water over each other's heads. mmm... worried? Me? 'course not. Then I heard the grunt. I looked up to my right, up onto one of the protruding concrete blocks. At first I thought it was a mountain gorilla, escaped from a zoo somewhere and seeking refuge. I then realised it was human. Big, very hursuite, with an overhang on its forehead that cro magna man would be proud of, but definitely human. The guy sitting on top of this block nodded down to me. He looked like Bluto's bigger brother. Everything suddenly fell into place. This was my scrub buddy. My partner in abrasions. I have read of the term - having the colour drain from your face - but I'd never experienced it until right then. The irony of it: I was going to be scrubbed to death in a pair of 1920's football shorts by a man who had more hair and muscle on him than Desperate Dan on steroids. I think I may have started crying quietly at that point. As things turned out, I was just being a gibbering eejit. I ended up sitting on top of the block gesticulating away with him. The guy that finally turned up to give me my hamam looked like the Monty Python character from Life of Brian with the long beard and the loin cloth - the guy that broke his 20 year vigil of silence because Brian stood on his toe. He was about fifty and had a better sixpack than Tupac. He led me through to another room filled with lots of other men in loin cloths - why did I have to wear the Stanley Matthews shorts? - and he gave me the most amazing exfoliatory massage. It took about 45mins - during which he removed most of my epidermis using the Kese. He, like the mad Tunisians in the Hararet, kept dunking me with buckets of hot and cold water throughout the procedure. I swear by the time he'd finished I was so clean I was glowing like the Ready-brek kid. It was pretty amazing.

Anyways, I digress. So. Back to Istanbul: after being received in the camekan - reception area - we were sent upstairs to change into a skimpy towel and a pair of funky wooden clogs (no not D&G unfortunately) you we were taken downstairs through the cold room into the hararet. In this hamam the hararet is a palatial rotundum with an ornate, circular, platform to lie on. Basically you dump your clogs, lie on your back and sweat it out for about 20mins. It's very peaceful as you can hear the sounds of the city drifting in and out of range. Then one of the masseurs comes over and grabs you and goes to work. It was a very good massage. There was some serious bone-cracking manoeuvres that I had not experienced before. The use of the kese was not employed as it should be, I felt - but I did enjoy the lathering and the hot/cold water dunking. At one point I was turned over on to my front and found myself vis-a-vis with the upskirt, and basically family jewels, of another guy in front of me. I found myself pontificating on what a strange set of apparatus men are furnished with; and how it's not often you get to view said apparatus from such a weird angle; that and resisting the urge to leap up and run. Afterward, I was sent out to the sogukluk (the cold room). I wandered around there for a while a bit lost. In fact I was trying desperately to erase the testicular imagery I had experienced from my brain. Unfortunately for some reason it kept on getting mixed up with Kofte Kebaps; the subconscious is a strange place. I was finally found by a nice old bloke who wrapped me up like a Nativity virginal Mary and sent me upstairs to relax. Marcus came up a while later - looking very enigmatic and we dressed and headed off for a Nargiyle (more on that tomorrow)

There was on final act of pampering I wanted to indulge in, and that was to have Turkish shave. I had been cultivating a fair amount of stubble for a while and I wanted to get the full treatment. There is a barbers just across from our hostel. [Incidentally - you may, or may not know (or even be, or not be, interested) but a Turkish barbers does not have the traditional white pole with the red spiral running down it. This is because the English barber was also a very rudimentary dentist. Actually, let me dismiss the euphemism here: The ye-olde English barber used to rip peoples' teeth out with big pliers. The sign is a representation of blood running down an arm. Turkish teeth pulling fell under the remit of apothecaries and doctors. Barbers in Turkey have one specific job - to trim and shave hair]
So I went for a shave. It was pretty impressive as it goes and a very humbling experience. I say humbling because it is done with a cut-throat razor-blade. So you are basically subjecting a couple of major arteries to the whim of a stranger. For all you ladies, the analogy is getting a brazalian done with a meat-cleaver. He was pretty good at what he did. The only thing that did concern me was that he had the TV turned on to a program with half-naked ladies on for the entire shave. He spent quite a while checking my side-burns to try and correctly align them. In the end he cut them 1/2 centimetre shorter on one side than the other; probably around about the time the girls got down to their underwear on TV. He finished up the shave by covering me with a secret Turkish balm - that turned out to be Nivea, however what I really was not prepared for, either mentally or physically, was when he set alight to my ears. Yes. Just re-read that part again. He took a lighter and cupped my right pinnea and torched it. Now - My immediate reaction (and one that runs in my family) was to start laughing hysterically; there's nothing like the conflagration of one's ear hair to get you giggling. I was still laughing (and yes it did hurt) when I realised he was going for the other one. Many things were going through my mind at this point; why didn't my friends tell me my ear hair needed was so bad it warranted immediate incineration? I checked them just last week - had I had a sudden spurt? Is this normal behaviour? he looks quite sane. God did I tell him I wanted my Speedo line tidied up? Luckily he stopped there. Needless to say, I was a little reluctant on the tip. I have been trying to get Marcus to have one done ever since. What is it in our nature that makes us so eager to persuade others to suffer our pain?

City of Empires

Istanbul. Constantinople. Byzantium. The capital of the Ottoman empire; the Third Rome;the seat of all Christendom; The crown of Islam. The Golden Horn. A teeming mass of races, creeds, and religions. A sprawling metropolis that never seems to end. Comparatively it is a busy and as large as London.. and then some. It has London´s cultural spectrum also... and then some. It has the feel of the North African trade cities: like Cairo, Tunis, and Marrakech. But it has more of a unique feel to it. Both European and Asian at once, and not surprisingly so. The history of this city is as steeped in diversity and mystery, as it is in bloodbaths and atrocities. ..

A little History -
There have been settlements on the Bosphorus strait pre-dating history. One of the earliest I have read of is the port of Semistra and also Lygos as early as 13-11th BC but I suspect it has always been a focus for commerce - simply because it is such a natural port. Byzas was the legendary Greek who rocked up and made use of the natural environment in order to force levies on merchant traders sailing and travelling between Asia and Europe. Settlements soon sprang up all along the Bosphorus as trade prospered and created permanent towns. From these early settlements the city of Byzantium emerged; the jewel of the Byzantine empire. It did suffer a few minor setbacks from Muslims, Spartans, and various other bellicose nations over the next c600 years, however it was when the Roman Empire took an interest in it that things began to change. It was finally conquered Byzantium in AD324; by one Constantine I. The Romans made this city the capital of their Empire: Constantinople. A geographical triumvirate along with Rome and Moscow (the Moscow fact being something which surprised the hell out of me.) Anyways - I won't go overly into detail but the Romans did exactly the same as the Byzantines: They made Constantinople the capital of their empire. An empire that was, surprise surprise, attacked from every Tomus, Dickalokagos, and Harry-Said-Bidou for the next millennia. See a pattern here? In concert with the Greek Othordox church, The Romans built a great many edifices in Constantinople, not least the amazing Aya Sofia - or Sofia Sanctius as they called it. Constantine also ordered the construction of the walls of Constantinople. These walls managed to repel invaders for nearly a millennia. This wasn't to say that people weren't having fun along the way. You can check out the history: It's pretty amazing - and diabolical. There's more double-crossing, back-stabbing, and murder, than the Eastenders Christmas Day special. Moving on, The walls of Constantinople were finally breached by the very capable Mehmed the II - or Mehmed the Conqueror. he was only 21 at the time. He managed to breach the walls of the city and declared the city part of the Ottoman Empire. Thus marking the end of the Byzantine era. Sultan Mehmed II immediately set about restoring commerce and trade to the city, that had become stagnant toward the end of the Byzantine age. A golden period ensued (relatively speaking - Sultans were still inclined to have people beheaded at the drop of a hat.. so to speak). Arts and culture flourished, the Kapali Carsi was formed. It must have been an amazing time. Trade with Europe improved and with the introduction of trans-continental rail routes in the 18C from cities such as Vienna - it all got a bit good; until the WW1, however we don't mention that. Turkey finally became an independent republic in 1923. (you may also be interested know Fez's were banned in 1931 (probably by the fashion police(it's a shame that didn't stretch to whopping great caterpillar moustaches))) . The capital moved to Ankara, and it slowly grew into the city it is now. The multi-cultural and multi-faceted modern gem and once city of Empires.

Anyways, sorry for all the eggs, beans, and waffles. I only meant to write a couple of lines. From now on I'll try and just stick to what I am doing, rather than what everyone else has been up to for the last C3,000 years.

Noir-Cuivre

Noir-Cuivre.

Silk was, in many ways, one of the forging forces in the formation of trade routes between Europe and the Middle East. Louis XI chose Lyon as the location for the silk industry and spawned a whole industry of beautiful design. This journal - black-copper - takes it name from one of the crafted ornate styles (thank you Mx); a fitting title apropos to the approximate route my friend, Marcus, and I plan to travel along.

There were actually many routes that interconnected West and East through the Middle East and Middle-Asia. Like any dynamic system trails were formed, first slowy and tentitavely, then annealing to become solid and well trodden routes. Over time these led to trade souks springing up at various points: in the South in ancient Persia, in and along river colonies such as Byzantium: in the form of the Kapali Carzi; or to the North in Middle-Asia, in Turkmenistan, where the vibrant Tolkuchka Bazaar of Ashkabhad still boasts to sell anything and everything; even through to North-Africa amidst the merchants Marrakech's Riads and the bewitching and exotic Djemma El-fna. These silken routes just beckon to be explored. Fair enough, it's not all silk and happiness in many places in today's political climate. But I'm sure we'll muddle through.

We will probably split at certain point or points after India, but the first leg of our route will take us Through Turkey, to Syria, Jordan, Lebanon, Middle-Asia, Iran, Pakistan, India, and then the Himalayas - with probably a couple of detours along the way.

So with my head recently shorn, my thanks Karen, and my life stuck in an 80 litre rucksack it's first to Istanbul, formely Constantinople, and even more anciently, Byzantium: historically recognised as the gateway to the east, and a fitting place to put the first foot forward.