Stage 7 - Istambul

 The train departs almost on time; a Bulgarian woman chatted with me, and I ended up sitting next to her. But the conductor warns me that I'm not in my seat—it's important because the carriage I'm in stops before the border. So I have to go to my compartment; anyway, my new friend was fun but too talkative. Now that I think about it, I don't recall any Bulgarian ever starting a conversation with me.

I would have slept well in my 2nd class couchette if customs hadn't woken me twice. The second time, already in Turkey, the train conductor woke me up to explain that the police wanted to search the passengers. I looked outside and saw passengers stand in line to show their documents and the contents of their bags. Let them come to me, I told the conductor. But he asked me to come out and present myself to the police.

Finally, here I am in... Halkali? OK, I'd been warned the train stops in the suburbs of the Turkish cultural capital. I glimpse the sea for a moment and catch another train, as judging by the tall residential buildings, not much happens around here. Let's go εἰς τὴν Πόλιν! (eis tḕn Pólīn means "to the city").

Constantinople! I've finally arrived at the city that separates Europe from Asia.

And I want to reach Asia on foot! Not even by car will I breathe the air of Anatolia for the first time. There are two bridges around here. If neither is pedestrian, I'll risk a fine. I don't care. No one will take away this stupid pleasure of imagining myself as a legionary crossing the Bosphorus to reach the former empire of Darius II. On one side Greece, on the other Persia. Everything else is contemporary corruption of history. This is the city! Istanbul.

Sometimes I think I was born at the end of the 19th century, that for some reason I didn't live the next one and came back to live in the 21st. I'm familiar with recent technologies, and it's not true that I was born in the 19th century. But my literary education is almost exclusively 19th century. That's why, anywhere in the world, I'm used to reading that people say my people are better than the other. Reader beware. There's no political intent here, only aesthetic. If I were an Antarctic explorer, I'd carry a Portuguese flag, or accept a French one, to claim the sixth continent as property of the Portuguese Empire.

In Istanbul, still unsure where I'll spend the night, I choose to get off the train near Hagia Sophia. So many tourists! I could even eat a kebab, but not here—whenever I glance at a menu, I see someone smiling at me as if to say: come in, spend your money with us. Circle the once glorious cathedral (and stunning mosque). Only those who've been to a city like Paris or Venice can imagine the number of people stand a line to enter.

After walking through several Istanbul bazaars, I ate fried corn in the gardens of the Blue Mosque. I rent a room at Buculeon by Cheers, near the tourist chaos but with a sea view. I take the chance to lunch on small goat burgers with fries and salad while watching the sea, the border between the Black Sea and the Mediterranean, the birds and boats. It was good; you can tell it's home-cooked. I see Asia for the first time—I could swim there if I wanted. I don't know if it's allowed or dangerous, and anyway, I'm tired and not a great swimmer. I'll take a nap.

I fell asleep easily and had to force myself to get up to make the most of the afternoon. I strolled a bit by the seaside. The weather is changing; such a gale has risen that the seagulls can't fly straight and the waves crash on the shore. I head back to the hostel.

The next day, I looked for a library near Hagia Sophia. How much money they must make with so many people paying to enter the church turned mosque. I can already say that the only mosques I visited in Constantinople—sorry, Istanbul—weren't mosques; they were churches. I'd like to have visited some mosques, but I haven't had the chance to be invited in by a Muslim yet; I don't want to enter as a tourist. For Hagia Sophia, I'd make an exception due to its historical legacy making it such a magnificent monument. But I don't insist; I leave it to the 99% tourists wandering in Cagaloglu. The Ahmet Hamdi library is a former mosque and, in my view, far more valuable. The guard just asked me to write my name on entry; I could consult the books—if I knew Turkish—plug in my computer, and study in peace, in silence broken only pleasantly by the distant call of the muezzins. At day's end, I walk again, cross the Golden Horn, and overnight in Kabatas.

This morning, I finally wanted to cross the Bosphorus Bridge on foot. I'd been warned it was recently banned because too many people were suiciding there. I tried anyway. The police stopped me, explaining in a mix of Turkish and English what I already knew. I said diving into the Bosphorus wasn't in my plans; I just wanted to cross the bridge. They smiled, said they had to follow orders and unfortunately couldn't let me pass. I thanked them anyway. Istanbul's police and security are friendly. The female officers too. I hadn't imagined seeing so many. Most wear just a cap to cover their hair. The police are friendly, I was saying. Tolerant and smiling; some carry only a pistol, others a shotgun. Everywhere I see surveillance cameras; I'd never been in a country with so much surveillance. To enter the contemporary art museum, I had to go through those airport portals twice.

Look at this cat in the middle of the sidewalk! I forgot to mention that Istanbul's metropolis houses 15.8 million people, about 300,000 cats, and 140,000 dogs. The three species live in peace with each other, coexist peacefully, know the city's habits, have the same rights, share the same spaces, and know the basics of the road code. I even wondered if a cat I'd seen the day before in the supermarket had money to buy fish.

The weather today is awful, heavy rain with strong wind. I'll take the ferry to Asia later for a beer. Truth be told, before the Ottomans conquered the city, that bridge didn't exist. All the better.

Here I am finally on the boat heading to Kadikoy. On the other side, Asian land. I'm not the only tourist but undoubtedly the most excited. Nowadays everything's very safe, but the currents separating the Marmara Sea from the Black Sea have swallowed entire fleets. The ferry turns starboard before going full throttle, cutting through the Bosphorus waters. The interior is comfortable, but I prefer outside to better enjoy the view and the waves' sway. I see the Ottoman palace recede and seagulls following the ship—they know tourists give them bread. Sorry, no bread with me, seagulls. I walk from one side of the caravel to the other seeking the best viewpoint—hey, fellow going the opposite way; load the cannons to say hello! Asia approaches in this twenty-minute journey of sublime beauty. We pass cranes and some fishing boats. We dock. I let the more hurried crowd exit first; I wouldn't mind spending the day going back and forth. Stepping ashore, I realize the city is the same, the people, mosques, rules—nothing changed except that faint fishing village smell... 

After a short walk through the neighborhood full of fish markets, cheesemongers, souvenirs, restaurants, I had a beer in a bar intending to write but ended up chatting with Turks and tourists of all nationalities. But I want to resume the narrative on the west side, mainly at Galata West Hostel, where I've been staying. I met many lost Iranians in Istanbul. Nina, an Australian I met in the city, told me her English club also has many Iranians. We talked about Iran, the families they left behind. Many had been on the front lines during the protests. They lament religion's heavy presence in politics. Mohamed left his job for Istanbul waiting for the storm to calm. Maysa came to work in Turkey or Europe, not sure yet. They talk to family daily—at least the internet's back in their land.

I bonded with other Iranians, Turks, a Moroccan who beat me at chess, a Brazilian, a Ukrainian... Hey, I even reconnected with a German I'd met in Plovdiv! It hurt even more than in Plovdiv to leave the people I met at the hostel. I walk to Kabatas station and take the ferry again to Kadikoy, in Asia. I already miss the people I met as I watch the western neighborhoods recede. But my thirst for adventure is greater. Farewell, my beloved Europe. I hope not to return before autumn.