Night Train to Istanbul, and Beyond

We departed the Bulgarian village during one of those still midwinter nights when sounds are muffled, the lanes deserted and you listen for the cracking twig, the stealthy footstep, the jackal’s howl. Chris and Karen took us in their van along country roads, fields and woods lighted only by a half moon and a million stars. The train station in Gorna was an oasis of light, the tracks fading into the night.

We discovered that there was in fact a sleeping car with private compartments on the train to Istanbul. The ticket seller had previously informed us there were none on this train and so we had purchased tickets for couchettes, bunk beds three on each side of a compartment. There were few passengers and we would have had a compartment to ourselves. But we were hoping for an exotic adventure – Orient Express and all that – and a private compartment seemed more in keeping with our fantasy. The sleeping car looked ancient and on the side was written; Vagon De Dormit. Perfect.

A short negotiation with the conductor, money changed hands, and we were escorted to an old style first class compartment with wood paneled walls, plush upholstery, and two bunks, an upper and a lower, a small desk against the wall, a sink, and a full length mirror. The carriage even had a shower.

Chris and Karen waved as the train left the station. We were sorry to leave them; they’ve become dear friends, family really. I thought about our time in Bulgaria and all the people we had met. This trip we had been on a tight deadline for a book and spent most of our stay bunkered up and writing, or in the field, building a winter survival shelter in snow, and fires without matches, making primitive tools, photographing the processes and writing about it all for the book.

We hadn’t had time to visit with some of the friends we had made on previous sojourns. Others we saw only in passing. I regretted not seeing those friends, but let it go as the train station slipped away.

The world at night slid by our window, streets lighted only by dim yellow streetlamps, shadowy trees, men huddled by a fire in a barrel, a dog watching the men. We settled into our beds, comfortable and warm with clean, crisp sheets, talked about train journeys past and through the window watched shadows rushing by. When we stopped at lighted stations a few passengers boarded, bundled against the cold, their breath in white clouds.

The conductor roused us at the Turkish border for immigration and customs. The air warmer and softer here than it had been a few hundred kilometers north, the scent of shish kabob and spices from the station restaurant. The formalities were brief. As always the Turkish officials were models of courtesy. Back in our beds we slept until arriving at the outskirts of Istanbul and awakened to blue mist over the Bosporus, high rise apartments and minarets.

New tracks for high-speed trains were under construction, so we could not enter Istanbul through its classic train station in the center of the old city. The conductor dumped us without ceremony at the edge of the city with vague instructions and pointing in the general direction where a chartered bus supposedly awaited. In theory this bus would take us into the train station where we could board the metro for the airport.

Readers of my previous writings will recall that we customarily travel with little luggage, and never, never with roller bags. Rollers, or wheelies, are useless anyplace but on smooth airport floors, hotel lobbies, and sidewalks. They are a horror on cobblestones and earthen village lanes, where we spend a good deal of time. Dragging them up stairs and bouncing them down stairs is a misery. Departing Los Angeles we had succumbed to those seductive little voices in our minds that tell us to take ‘just a few more things,’ and to put those things into roller bags because they will be SO easy to handle. I knew it was a mistake. Anything can happen when traveling, and often does. I silenced that other voice, the one that says, ‘you’ll be sorry.’ Compounding the error, we added even more things to our bags in Bulgaria.

With our fellow travelers, we set off for the bus, a ragged half asleep crowd trudging through dawn’s soft light, and soft, sticky mud. Roller bags do not roll in mud. ML’s roller bag, we later discovered at the airport, weighed 29 pounds. Mine was 39 pounds – this in addition to our rucksacks which contained our laptops, cameras, an iPad, assorted electronics, sweaters, books, snacks, water bottles and judging from the weight, large rocks. At the airport, the rucksacks weighed in at 18 and 23 pounds, heavier than our total luggage when we departed the States a few years ago. Well, we were looking for adventure and here it was, sort of.

Many, many, steep, steel, stairs up to an overpass, then over a sprawl of tracks on a steel grate, and then down many, many steps to the other side of the rail yard. Many. Then along a twisting muddy rutted lane, dodging work vehicles, and across a wide field, feet sinking into mud at each step. This activity provided some much needed exercise and helped to awaken us.

Of course the roller bags had to be carried – up and down, and along the rutted lane, and across the muddy field. Invigorating. ML, as always, was a Good Sport and attempted to carry her roller bag, and she did, part of the way. We arrived at the bus stop muddy, sweaty, but in good shape, allowing for the hernia. ML tends towards impulse, which often provides us with adventures. Rather than waiting for the chartered bus, which was not to be seen, she jumped onto a city bus, spoke with the driver in broken Turklish, and then insisted to me that the driver had said he would take us to the train station. He had said no such thing. I don’t speak Turkish, but I could tell. Besides, I was fully aware that ML had not had her morning coffee and that her higher functions had not yet been engaged. Her judgment at that point was less than razor sharp.

Loyally, I boarded the city bus with ML. The bus driver, understandably, asked us to pay the fare. Having come from Bulgaria, we had no Turkish Lira. Much confusion and mumbling. A passenger, an older fellow in a dark suit, told the driver with impeccable Turkish courtesy that we were yabancis (foreigners) and obviously confused and lost, and possibly we were village idiots in our hometown, and that the driver out of simple humanity should have compassion and forgo the fare. The driver looked at us with pity for our obvious mental deficiencies, and agreed. The other passengers on the already crowded bus politely made room for us, and our rollers, and smiled when I ran the wheels over their toes.

The bus, being a local commuter bus, stopped at every corner. During the hour or so ride this gave us glimpses of Istanbul that we would never have otherwise seen: modern shopping malls, marinas with sail boats side by side, cafes on platforms jutting out over the waters of the Bosporus, school children with book bags, the crumbing outer ring of the ancient walls of Constantinople, wooden houses from the Ottoman Era next to sleek high rise buildings, a hundred small neighborhoods each with its shops, restaurants, markets, churches and mosques, and people from all the world: Hindus, Africans, Asians and Europeans – a wonderful tour on no tourist map. Eventually, we found ourselves at the end of the line: the fabled waterway, The Golden Horn. We were nowhere near the train station where we had planned to take a shuttle to the airport, but what other place could possibly be better? This, after all, is why we travel and follow one another’s impulses – for the unexpected, the surprise around the corner. Delight or disaster, the unforeseen stimulates as the quotidian never can.

After bumping and dragging our roller bags over cobblestones and metro tracks, dodging cars in a light rain, we found an ATM. We pocketed our Turkish Lira, dragged our rollers to an outdoor café, one of a row facing the water, and claimed one of the tables, all of which were covered by umbrellas wet from the soft shower. Our roller bags formed walls on two sides of our table, blocking the narrow aisles and providing the waiters an opportunity to demonstrate their agility.

We had Turkish breakfast (topic of another post) overlooking the Golden Horn. The drizzle stopped. The morning was now cool and gray with flocks of gulls swooping and screeching over the floating seafood restaurants along the waterfront. Ships passed under the Galata Bridge, and across the gray green waters terraces of Ottoman houses and minarets covered the hillsides. Young men and women dressed in fashionable black rushed by our café. Workmen delivered fresh oranges, lettuces, tomatoes, and eggplants, to the row of cafés next to ours. We were beside the Spice Bazaar with its scents of cinnamon and cloves mixing with a mélange of exotic spices. Beyond the Spice Bazaar was a mosque the size of a village and older than America. And I was once again entranced by Byzantium, Constantinople, Stambul – and yearning to simply sit and pass the day absorbing this magnificent city, as generations of travelers have done before me.

ML dragged me away and to the metro, which is clean, modern, fast, and has many, many stairs, and a few escalators, some which were out of service. This gave us an opportunity to work off our breakfast with good solid weight bearing exercise.

The metro stop at the airport is conveniently inside the sprawling structure. Signs in English pointed the way to more stairs (ML says there were no stairs in the airport; our memories differ.) and more healthy exercise. The miles of marble flooring provided good surfaces for the wheels of our exercise devices, which, eventually, after hiking for an hour or so, the airline took charge of at the check in counter. We offered prayers of thanksgiving for this kindness.

The flight to Antalya was painless and short, one hour. We were served cheese sandwiches. There was adequate legroom. Contrary to my hopes, the airline did not lose our exercise equipment. Sadly, our roller bags were delivered to us promptly. I rolled them to and fro through the miles of Antalya’s airport trailing ML as she searched for a vender of simcards for our Turkish phone. After an extended effort by the selected vendor it was determined that our number ‘had expired.’ ML also was about to expire. Espresso revived her.

We made for the bus to the otogar where we would get the dolmus for Kas. The bus had departed during our technology search. It was raining. Heavily. The cab driver helped load the roller bags into the trunk, good man. Mad dash through sheets of rain, bow waves spraying as we powered over the surface of vasty deeps. The driver attempted to help extricate the rollers from the trunk, but his recent injuries received while stowing them inhibited his movements. (ML says this is hyperbole – it’s just simple fact.) We tipped lavishly in compensation.

The dolmus driver was younger and visibly stronger than the well meaning cab driver. We surrendered our rollers to him with effusive thanks. Only one seat was vacant after we were seated, which was quickly filled by a young mother with her charming six month old son. He and I enjoyed playing pass the potato chips as we got under way. For some reason that no one has explained, when dolmuses (dolmusi?) leave the Antalya otogar they drive at about seven miles per hour until they reach the edge of the city. This takes about an hour. After that it’s a smooth run along the costal road with stops every hour or so for tea and refreshment. At one stop, the café was on a high cliff overlooking the night sea. Moonlight fell on small whitecaps and a sea breeze rustled palm fronds.

Beth, compassionate soul, met us at the Kas otogar. By now I was well conditioned and had little trouble stuffing two roller bags into the tiny trunk of her car. After a quick stop for necessities: wine, coffee, groceries, we arrived at our apartment at 21:30 after only 27 hours of travel, with four grocery bags in addition to our rollers. And rucksacks. Only the stairs remained. Three flights.

The next morning ML commented that her arms were sore. She couldn’t understand why. I suggested that her discomfort might be due to unaccustomed exercise, hefting her roller. ‘You think?’ she asked. We walked down the hill to town. ML commented that her legs were sore. I suggested that it might be due to climbing and descending the many, many stairs with the roller bag and advised regular exercise. She responded that I was no one to recommend exercise since I had of late become a sloth. I explained that I was only trying to advise her how to ameliorate physical pain, a topic about which I know a great deal. She said she might start going to a yoga class.

We had breakfast with friends at one of the outdoor cafes, sun warmed, lazy, and glad to be back in Kas. Shopping at the bazaar is less a chore than a pleasure. The spice man invites us into his booth for tea, and in scrambled Turklish we discuss the state of the world, business, the weather. We buy vegetables, fresh eggs and goat cheese from villagers who bring them into town from their gardens.

Kas seems encapsulated in a bubble of beauty and grace. As anyplace where humans live, there are undercurrents, conflicts, and politics, but it is rare to see rudeness or an argument. People appear to go about their daily affairs in a state of serenity.

ML is content here. She works on her photos, cooks wonderful Turkish food, meets with friends for tea and companionship, and watches sunsets from our balcony, the light for one moment transforming the sea from indigo to burgundy. And the sea, well, it’s Homer’s ‘wine dark’ sea of legend and it calls to me. For reasons I do not understand, I feel most at home on the shores and islands of the Mediterranean and all of its embayments, straits, and tributaries – more so even than in the country of my birth. As I have for decades, when I arrive at the edge of this ancient sea I feel that I am where I am supposed to be.

The cliffs above the town are monumental, and on the other side lay the ruins of ancient cities, hidden valleys, nomad encampments, an herbalist who lives at the top of the highest peak and is reputed to know all plants of the mountains, and tiny villages where life goes on as it has for time out of mind. We have small expeditions planned for the coming months. And that’s adventure enough for us. For now.