Only one full day in Lisbon. Had to see Sintra, so, even though Portugal appears to be in the middle of an ice age, no choice but to visit today. Tomorrow we go to NYC.



Finally found Estacion de Rossio, but it wasn't as easy as it looked when the concierge marked it on my free map. It's an impressive looking building, all right, but why didn't I recognise it as the station I was looking for? I took photos this afternoon to try to solve this mystery.

In fact, the station name was marked on the outside of the building but it wasn't called what I was told it was called, and, anyway, I couldn't read the script. Here is a close up of the name of the station, carved into the arches.



What do you make of the name? After a bit of staring, I managed to make out "estacio" on the left, but nothing I did could make the word on the right say "de Rossio". In fact, Wikipedia cleared up the problem; apparently Rossio is a kind of nickname for the area and the station. I think the word on the right might be "central".

In fact, I stumbled on the station by mistake. I was lined up at Starbucks--decided I needed a coffee before continuing the search for the station--and noticed a sign marking the "Estacion de Rossio Starbucks".

When I arrived inside I found a great crowd of tourists all lined up at machines and ticket windows; I joined the end of one of the lines. It was taking a very long time: no movement at the front for ten minutes. I had a flashback to the incredibly non-intuitive Spanish ticket machines, and the inscrutable train and metro system there.

Come on! Come on, people! I didn't even know whether I was in the right line, and I couldn't ask anyone because most of them appeared to be French, and so quite difficult to approach.

The couple at the vending machine finally stepped away with tickets in their hands. I started to wonder whether I wouldn't be better off staying in Lisbon for the day, and trying to find my way back to
the hotel at the end of it.

Up stepped a family, who called up a member further back in the crowd. After he pushed his way through the heaving throng they began their own struggles with the machine. Finally it was my turn to go through to the front of the queue. But this was not the machine I needed. It was for buying or topping up a multi ticket.



I went to the end of another queue. I bought a ticket from a human being--and I felt like kissing him--and here I am on the train about to arrive in Sintra.

Will have to delay the start of my exploration when I arrive, though, because I have to swallow some Panadol. The joy of being in a place where I could have a drink!

Yesterday, I had the Clingon order a white wine on the one- hour flight from Casablanca. I had his and my own, and another at dinner. . . And I guess I'm not used to drinking so much since Morocco.



It's now the evening after my afternoon in Sintra. I probably should have stayed in Lisbon. Sintra was a total tourist scene: something I've come to dread. Very few Portuguese locals anywhere in the vicinity. The day was a nightmare of trying to coordinate bus and train timetables. (Note to self: if it looks too hard, choose the simple option.)

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Location:A Lesson about Taking the Path of Least Resistance

Marrakech & How to Open a Bottle of Wine without a Corkscrew

We arrived here after a great couple of nights in Essaouira. I think this is my favourite place in Morocco. Very laid-back locals, a medina that's a breeze to walk through, and the coast. Can't say more.

The Clingon, unfortunately, indisposed, spent a day in bed with a cold. A result of wearing shorts in the High Atlas, in below freezing temp, and a high wind? He won't have it. The cold doesn't cause a cold, maman, it's from an infection. I explain about how you can subject the body to too much stress and make it susceptible to infection, but the information is unheeded. Sad for me, as he passed on the cold as a Christmas present to me.



Hope you had a good one. It doesn't look a lot like Christmas in Morocco, but I was determined to get some Christmas cheer into me. The hotel owner here told me where they sell wine; took me half an hour to walk there in the dusty heat and exhaust fumes, but I made it. Unfortunately, Eden Carre doesn't sell corkscrews. Thus set the Clingon on the job of researching ways to open a wine bottle without a corkscrew. There are ten ways, apparently, but none of them any good for me. The hotel we are staying in now doesn't even have a spoon knocking around on any of its three floors, let alone a corkscrew. So, what to do? Go across the road to the shops (sounds simple, but crossing the road out there is very complex and dangerous. . . you have to watch for vans, cars, taxis, scooters, bicycles and horses and carts; there's no pedestrian crossing, and even in the new part of town where they have them, they just don't carry the same restrictions for motor transport as they do in Oz. I'm staying in the room for a couple of hours to recuperate from the trauma of walking around for a couple of hours today.) Can't supply a photo that shows my experience, as I can't take my eyes off the traffic to snap.

So, back to the quest for Christmas cheer: there is a two-dollar shop here (I suppose it's more like a MAD 20 shop). I mimed the use of a corkscrew (though not the drinking of the wine. . . some people seem to be sensitive about that) and the two young assistants found one immediately. (I didn't see it when I was looking because it was above--my--eye level.) Don't think the local white will ever take off anywhere else in the world except Morocco, but it's 7% alcohol, just like many whites that taste good.

We have been warned about the "false guides" and tricksters here, but I walked about the medina this morning by myself and was not hassled at all.

The Clingon has learned something about haggling, and feels very proud of himself.

I'll close now with the correct responses to the Saids' desert riddles. No doubt you worked out the answers, unlike this thick writer.

1. How do you get a camel into the fridge in three movements?
One: open the fridge
Two: put the camel in
Three: close the fridge

2. Why don't Japanese people eat with this finger? (Said held up his index finger.)

Because the finger belongs to Said.

3. Three people are crossing the river. The first one sees the water and touches the water. The second one sees the water, but doesn't touch the water. The third one doesn't see the water or touch the water. Who are the people?

The first is a woman.
The second is the child she's holding.
The third is the child in her womb.

4. The lion is holding a party. He invites all the animals and they all turn up, except for one animal. Which one doesn't attend the party and why?

The camel because it was in the fridge.

Ha!




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Location:Rue Oqba Ben Nafaa,Marrakech Médina,Morocco

Of Camels, and Fridges, and a Night in the Sahara

Stayed in Mazourga, in an auberge called the Touareg. Room quite smelly, wifi on and off, but what a location! On the edge of the Sahara Desert.

Thought a camel trek and a night in the desert sounded like something I had to do.

It's good I got the camel-back transport out of my system. (A year or so ago, I was considering doing a camel safari for a week or so in outback Australia.) An hour and a half on the camel yesterday and again today tells me that perhaps I'm not cut out for it. It's not a smooth ride, and the way the beast kept making a loud farting noise with its throat and lips while it turned its big head to see what was sitting on its back, was a little frightening. I wondered if it could reach back far enough to take a camel bite-sized chunk out of my calf.

The Clingon pronounced the camel trek boring.

However, we did make it to the camp in the desert without mishap. When we arrived the camel driver, Said, told us to go up to the top of "that big dune", so that we could watch the sunset. I was surprised. He expected us to go off and play in the desert without someone to show us how to get there and get back.



So, that's what we did. I had visions of getting lost and wandering about seeing mirages and dying of thirst. I've told you about my sense of direction before, but having the Clingon with me, and keeping the camp in sight from the top of whatever dune we were on, allowed me to get up there, take some sunset photos, and get back before it got dark.

We had some mint tea with Said and then he got on with cooking our dinner. It was a great meal, rice with a Berber kind of dressing (a chunky sauce of tomato, onions and herbs) and a very tasty chicken tajine. Fruit followed. Then Said returned. He moved back the carpets from the middle of the courtyard between the tents, and built a fire in the sand. Another young man joined us. He was also Said. (Said 2 said that he slept in the camp every night, looking after it.) They warmed the skins of some drums in front of the fire, and then began to play for us.

The two Saids played the drums. And then they sang and accompanied themselves on the drums. They passed drums to the Clingon and I. The Clingon had already been put on the spot earlier that day when some Mali musicians insisted he play with them. (He turned bright red, but to his credit, he did actually make a white boy kind of effort with the rhythm thing.)


After a lot of faffing about, the Clingon sang a Spanish song. I could not think of a single song. I was convinced I had never sung a song in my life, or if I had, I had completely forgotten every single one. Those of you who know me well, know that I saved the Saids from a very unpleasant experience by not singing anything.

After the Clingon had exhausted his repertory, Said suggested we tell jokes. I wondered if they would be very funny in the present company, where they would have to be in English so that I could join in. (Said 1 speaks Spanish better than English, and Said 2 speaks no Spanish but quite good English.) Then Said2 said that what Said1 meant, was not a joke, but a kind of question.
Oh, a riddle? Then I could not remember a single riddle I'd ever heard or told. I was madly trying to remember Bilbo's favourites, but I could not remember a single one.

Hereunder I will make a record of the riddles riddled by the Saids. Please make an effort to work out the answers before my next blog. I will provide the answers in the next entry. (And no fair going to Mr Google. That service would have saved me from looking so dense last night, but there was no wifi in the dunes.)

1. How do you get a camel into the fridge in three movements?
2. Why don't Japanese people eat with this finger? (Said held up his index finger.)
3. Three people are crossing the river. The first one sees the water and touches the water. The second one sees the water, but doesn't touch the water. The third one doesn't see the water or touch the water. Who are the people?
4. The lion is holding a party. He invites all the animals and they all turn up, except for one animal. Which one doesn't attend the party and why?

Ok. That's it for today. We are in











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Location:R703,Ouarzazate,Morocco

In the Riad, the Clingon gets Welcome News

We're staying in a riad: a multistorey dwelling, that opens onto what used to be a courtyard. The rooms rise above the former courtyard on all sides. Several hundred years old but recently renovated by the Australian owner and her Moroccan husband. I took the photo from the roof garden at sunset last night.

The last two days have been of great interest to the Clingon, not just because we're staying in Fez and have been exploring the medina. The HSC results came out two nights ago, and the ATAR came out last night. He did very well (topped his school) in both Spanish Continuers and Ancient History. He came 5th in the state in Spanish Continuers. His ATAR is 92.65, which he is very happy with.






I don't travel to shop, dear reader. My bag is far too heavy as it is, and I have been shedding whatever I could at checkout. But yesterday I was glad to buy a leather handbag. (I will now superannuate the embroidered cloth bag you may have seen on my shoulder in the past: I realised it was very easy to dip a hand into and just snatch out anything rattling around in there.) I've bought myself a bag with several pockets and zips for locking contents in place. Also bought a leather jacket from a leather tannery co-op in the medina. (I haven't owned one of those since the 80's, when all the teachers at ILI in Cairo bought one.)







As for us, we are off to Meknes for the day, today, and will return to sleep here tonight, and hope to take off for points further south--the desert--tomorrow. After the desert, we'll spend a couple of days in Marrakech. We fly out of Casablanca for Lisbon on 28th December.

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Location:Derb Moulay Abdellah Fadili,Fès Médina,Morocco

Waterlogged and Gin Soaked

Clouded over yesterday and has been raining steadily ever since. Thunder, lightning, the whole show. The mountain view from our room is a cloud view now.

I'm propped up at the empty bar at the Parador Hotel. All the other soaks must have left when the rain set in, so at least it's smoke-free. It's one of the only places in town where you can get a drink; I guess I landed on my feet at least as far as drowning my troubles.


We've been here over 24 hours now, and have just made one quick trip into the medina. We didn't see the Kasbah yesterday when it was open, and before it started raining, and today--Sunday--it was closed. Not that we wanted to go up there today. Far too wet. We went out to the square for lunch and sat in a leaky tent, just long enough to eat and get our feet wet in the stream that was running over the floor.

Tomorrow more rain is predicted, here and in Fez, where we have planned to go next. I know I'm not happy to go down that mountain road in a bus in the wet, so I think we'll stay at least one more night after tonight. I hope we manage to get to the Kasbah tomorrow, and do a bit of exploring in the medina.

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Location:Avenue Hassan II,Chechaouen,Morocco

Chechouen is a state of mind

We arrived here at 3 o'clock this afternoon, and hamdullilah!

Instead of taking the CMT bus, as we had planned, Habib--the driver of the previous day's cab--talked us into purchasing his services for the trip from Tangier to Chechaouen when he picked us up for the drive to the bus station. He said we'd stop in Tetouan. We could look around the place a bit, pull up for photos whenever I wanted on the way, and not just go straight to Chechaouen as I would do if I took the bus. What he didn't mention was that he'd drive like a maniac on the narrow mountain roads.

I kept telling the Clingon to tell the old bastard, in Spanish, to slow down. Habib seemed to believe that he was addressing me in English, but what I heard was French; I understand "baguette", and "oo la la" and a few other useful French phrases, but most of the lexis and grammar is a mystery to me, as I've never had a French lesson. Eventually, I think Habib got my message succinctly from my tone, even if English was not one of his best languages; for example, when he started to overtake a truck on a blind curve, I said: "No! No! No!"

Thereafter, for the next hour or so he kept up a private conversation under his breath. We didn't know whether he was cursing us, or praying to Allah for patience with the Madam in the back seat. Maybe it was a combination of the two.

When we finally touched down in Chechaouen, I was grateful that I'd arrived without having to vomit from the back window.

There are no photos in the entry today because I did not take any. It's the first day since I left home that I haven't taken any photos. I could not bear to delay our arrival at the destination. That was the first reason I didn't take any photos. The other reason was that when H. left us to wander into the medina in Tetouan, I felt spooked.

Tetouan had changed greatly in the forty years since I last set eyes on it; and I guess I must have changed as well. Not so brave (foolhardy, perhaps?) as I was at 21. Or was it disappointment that I did not recognise any of the quiet alleyways and covered spaces I walked around so many years ago. They were crowded, dark, dirty and menacing somehow. I have only pleasant memories of Tetouan. Also Chechaouen, when we finally arrived, did not resemble at all the quiet, blue village in the mountains, that I'd secreted in my memory bank.

The mountains are still here, of course, and the blue houses, but not the serenity that I experienced then. We were followed and hassled almost from the time we set foot out of the cab in this town. The Clingon was approached twice by gaunt characters trying to sell him marijuana. (They slipped past me and whispered in his pearl-like out of my hearing.)

Last time I was here, I remember seeing two women totally in white. (Think burqa but pure white.) I remember eating a fantastic salad of carrots in orange juice. I remember a tranquil beauty. Today it was noisy; there was a real tourist scene, with hawkers and buskers wandering around the outdoor restaurant tables. People not taking "no" for an answer. Daunting. And no women in white floating past the blue walls.

As I hear the wind howling and wait for the rain to start beating against the windows, I try to recreate the little bit of paradise. In my mind, I'm going to Chechaouen.




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Location:Avenue Hassan II,Chechaouen,Morocco

From the Rooftop in Tangier

Arrived here yesterday, after catching the red-eye Renfe train from Granada to Algeciras. Up at 5.15 a.m. so that we could get the 6.45 train. Arrived in Tangier early afternoon and landed at this delightful guesthouse, Dar Yasmine, where I write now from the restaurant overlooking the port where our ferry came in.


We looked around the medina and the kasbah yesterday, and then had a Moroccan feast at a restaurant in the medina. We tasted all the iconic dishes: pastilla (a chicken pie finished with icing sugar!), couscous, tajine, and lots of dips and different breads (which I can't name).



Today we went for a taxi tour of the new areas of Tangier. We saw the place where the Atlantic Ocean meets the Mediterranean Sea. (I couldn't really see the difference: not like there was a different colour or anything ; )

The Clingon pestered the guide, Abdel, with questions about his most recent linguistic project: Moroccan Arabic.



Tomorrow, we're off with the local bus to Chefchaouen in the mountains. Here in Tangier it's been quite balmy. (The Clingon insisted on wearing shorts for our tour today, after we sat in the roof garden in full sunshine this morning.) Tomorrow we'll be shivering in the blue town.

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Location:Tanger Médina,Morocco

A Few Thoughts about Spain

Haven't had time to catch up lately. Train trips and fighting through crowds of Spanish tourists, on the Spanish Constitución long weekend. Madness in the narrow alleyways of Madrid, Sevilla and Cordoba. Footpaths barely wide enough for walking forwards; come an entourage of taxis and everyone's flat, backs to the wall.

A few notes about what I've learned about Spain in the last couple of weeks. (We'll leave here in a couple of days, so this may be my last chance to get these thoughts down.)


Finding a good cup of espresso coffee is not easy. That surprised me. (I was getting Spaniards mixed up with Italians, I think.) A lot of cafes have those awful Nescafe pod machines, or drip coffee.

Many Spanish seem to enjoy travelling in family groups. A few times, I've found myself in a cafe in the morning (the Clingon still in bed catching up on beauty sleep) and in walks a group of 10 or 12 people, looking for tables. I order quickly then.


The Spanish seem to be extremely fond of pig meat in all its forms. Walk into any bar, shop--not just butchers, but pastry shops and tourist tack shops--and you'll find rows of pig legs, going green and black, hanging from the ceiling. Sometimes there's a tiny fake pig leg hanging from a taxi driver's rear view mirror. I wonder how all the real pigs' legs get eaten. (Some of what I've seen the Clingon put in his mouth turns my stomach. I've come to realise that we just can't share tapas.)

Spanish people, like the Turkish, love smoking, young and old. Sometimes, as I walked down a narrow alleyway in the old part of Sevilla, I could smell the after-breakfast cigar of an old guy in the next alley.

Spanish people are very happy to speak to the Clingon, and they all compliment him on his Spanish. Generally, they seem to be quite friendly and amiable. Not as polite as the Turkish to this old girl--no-one has stood up for me on the Metro here, or anywhere at all--but they generally greet us with "Hola", and "Buenos dias!".

So, off to get a bite to eat now, at 9.30p.m. We are becoming more like the Spanish, eating late. Can't stay up and out though. Have to be in bed by 10 if I'm going to continue walking for several hours every day. Tomorrow we've got tickets to the Alhambra, which we can see from our room.








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Location:Calle de Portería de la Concepción,Granada,Spain

The €120 Carnation

Our last day in Madrid today. Discovered a couple of things about this city.



First of all, if a couple of upbeat ladies approach one asking for €0.01 in return for a carnation because there's a fiesta on the next block this afternoon, it's probably a good idea to take a photo of them. It saves time going through the mug shots at the police station when you report the theft. I was searching for the 1 Euro cent (not something that comes in very handy here, as you may be aware, though it is still tendered in change).

The older woman suddenly had her hand in my purse while the younger one distracted the Clingon. Neither I, nor the stranger with her hand in my purse, could find the cent, so the women snatched back the carnations they'd foisted on us, and disappeared.

The Clingon wondered if they were the pickpockets we'd been warned about. I suddenly wondered that too, and looked in my purse for the €120 that I'd last seen while searching for the 1 cent coin 30 seconds earlier. But you know the story.


We spent a couple of hours at the police station. First I took a number, and made a statement over the phone to a national policing centre. Meanwhile, the Clingon was out traversing Plaza de España looking for the two perps. I went into the waiting room, and cooled my heels with twenty other people, all waiting for their numbers to come up. The Clingon arrived and then a young policeman took us in to sign the statement which I'd given the man on the phone. The statement was in Spanish; the Clingon translated as best as he could, and I put my name to something which may or may not have been exactly what I said.

After that we went back to the waiting room, and I played Sudoku on my phone, while the Clingon's belly rumbled. Finally a young woman in jeans (she looked like one of Charlie's angels) called my name and we followed her to a small, grimy office in which a couple of plain-clothes policemen showed us photos and we tried to identify the women from the park. We did finally identify two women, and, in fact the women we reluctantly identified were known to work the carnation scam as a team. If I had to bet my life on our identification, though, I would not do it. I had to sign my name across the faces of the photographs of the two women, got my signed and stamped police statement, and now I'll wait until the Allianz phone line for claims opens again in a couple of hours to start the insurance ball rolling.






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Location:Calle Gran Vía,Madrid,Spain

Bye Bye Barcelona

This is our last morning in Barcelona. We catch the fast train to Madrid at 11. 

It's sad to leave when there's so much we haven't seen, but the rain and the Clingon's Barcelona belly have hampered us a bit. I've (re)learned a great deal about travel and have been close to tears with frustration at times.

It rained for three days, as the Clingon predicted it would, on arrival. Yesterday was clear, even with glimpses of blue sky at times. I walked to the Gothic quarter of town and checked out Barcelona's 14th Century cathedral, which was impressive. 

The Clingon was confined to quarters. The meds hadn't worked, but we tried the big guns at bedtime, and he's had a quiet night.   

                                 ,       

    

Yesterday, I went to Sants Estacio via the subway to book tickets for the train to Madrid today. I'd put my soggy three-day metro ticket--which I'd used for one journey--into the slot. The night before I'd been drenched, as I described in the last blog entry, and my cloth bag and all its contents had been thorougly washed out. It was early in the morning. I was the only person there. The machine ate my ticket. There were no station staff I could call on, nor any bystanders who might have helped. So, with trepidation--would the machine eat my new ticket as well?--I bought a one trip ticket and made my way down to the platform.

I'd been to Sants Estacio to make the seat reservation on the Barcelona to Madrid train the previous day, and learned that the seats could only be reserved one day in advance. I was told that I could go to booths 8-15 at 10 a.m. to do the booking. But there was something the railway     staffmember failed to tell me. Why would she? So obvious when you know, so vital when you don't.

I joined a hundred other people on the seats waiting for 10 a.m., when I envisioned a shit fight for space at a counter. I wondered about this. Did I need to take a number. I asked a young woman waiting on one of the seats, but she didn't understand English. Then I saw what had been hidden by people standing around it earlier: a machine where you could push a button and take a number. OK, I was making a reservation, having already paid for the Eurail pass, so I pressed the reservation number. Ten seconds later, it was 10 o'clock and my number came up! I was first in the queue. Another woman waiting, who must have witnessed what had just happened, demanded to see my number. I showed it to her, breasted my way to the booth and presented my number. I asked if the clerk understood English. She said "No", and then told me I had the wrong ticket. I had to get a ticket for prepurchase, or something like that. Language: lost in translation.

By the time I returned to the machine, my number was 0038. Frustration. Should I cry now? I decided to do a Soduku on my phone, swallowed the tears and waited for 0038 to pop up on the digital display at the front.

So, dear readers, I am brought back to an understanding of what my students go through when they are newly arrived in Australia.

I'll catch up with you from Madrid.



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Nadir in Barcelona

As we arrived in the country, the Clingon cheerily announced that Barcelona was in for three days of rain. We had the third day yesterday. (I hope he was right about only three days.) The heavens opened--thunder, lightning, rivers coursing down the kerbs. I was out, desperately trying to find my way back to the accommodation after dark: an uncomfortable position I find myself in regularly.

I knew I was close, but a combination of not having every road marked on my map, not being able to read the streets that are marked on my map because of rain on my glasses (and nothing dry to wipe them with), not having every street sign displayed on every corner, not having enough light to read my map by, the fact that all the streets look the same to me (thanks for laying it all out in a perfect grid, Ildefonso Cerdá), and my spatial ineptitude, found me running from corner to corner, awning to awning. So, I must have been within 300 metres of our accommodation for about an hour last night, as the lightning struck and water pounded the streets and myself, and could not find the Hostal nohow. I rushed down the street, up the street, crossed the street, went back, recrossed the street. I wanted to cry, but the picture that presented itself to my mind's eye of a bedraggled 60 year-old, sobbing as she begs a kind passerby for directions, stopped me.

I tried ringing the Clingon to beg him to come downstairs and find me, but he had helpfully turned his phone to "Do Not Disturb", so he was not picking up. Why did he do it? Who is bothering him with incessant phone calls? Who else has the phone number? I ask you readers. I have worked hard to make sure we can contact each other in foreign places by getting us both a Travelsim and keeping it topped us so that we can always call & text each other in an emergency. What goes through that tin head?

I don't have the energy at the moment to go into the details of our stay in this city. I've reached the lowpoint of the journey (I hope), and can't think of anything at the moment that doesn't make me want to cry. Later, when the trauma of wandering the dark rain-lashed streets subsides, I'll fill you in on Barcelona.





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Selçuk to Barcelona

Laid over in Istanbul for a few more hours yet. Got up at 4.30 this a.m. to get on the shuttle--which the hotel owner drove--to Izmir Airport. (The shuttle cost more than the flight Izmir-Istanbul.)

The Clingon does not function well on little sleep, unlike your informant, who has become accustomed to little sleep over the last eighteen years.

Celçuk: we visited the house in which Mary is reputed to have died, not because we particularly wanted to, but it was on the tour hit list. Unimpressive, except for the strange wall on which visitors left notes and prayers for the good health of the living and repose of the dead.



On the way to our next stop, Ephesus, we drove past a German statue of Mary, which made her look like a basketball player. I guess the Germans like their gods big and athletic.

Below is a much more aesthetically pleasing statue. I've included it for my sister-in-law. It's the goddess of wisdom, who is her namesake.



Ephesus was impressive. Only about 20% has been excavated at this time. When they finish the job in two hundred years or so, it should be even more so.

Everywhere in the city, the cats come out to pose and preen on the ancient pillars, like a feline version of Facebook.



After a smorgasbord lunch in a local restaurant, we visited Siriçe, which was a Greek village, well-known in the area for its wine-making, but abandoned by its inhabitants in the 1920's during the population exchange. It's a Unesco World Heritage Site, and draws hordes of tourists into its narrow cobbled streets, down which there is no motorised traffic except for tractors.


It was delightful!

Now we've got another hour or so before we can drop off the luggage and check in for our flight to Barcelona. We will have been here in Instanbul Airport for 6 hours by the time we take off, but that's all right. Gave me a chance to update the blog. Next time I write, we'll be in Barcelona. Talk to you then.





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Pamukkale

Had a great time in Pamukkale, traversing the Travertine. . . Well, maybe not such a great time. Glad I've done it once, but didn't expect to have to walk 700 metres up a wet limestone slope in the middle of winter, without shoes.

Cold, it was, and I'm a tenderfoot. I never walk about in bare feet in Sydney, not even in the house.


I guess visitors have to climb barefoot to protect the limestone slope. It's a Unesco world heritage site. Stunning sight it is. When I first clapped eyes on it from the restaurant of the Melrose Viewpoint Hotel, I thought it was a mountain covered with snow.

When the Clingon and I got to the top of the slope, we walked around for a bit among the ruins of Hierapolis of Phrygia. The Clingon was cold and unhappy, so he sloped off down the limestone again, supplied with lunch money. I thought all my birthdays had come at once. I could spend as long as I liked taking each photo. I didn't have to listen to whining and complaining: hurry up! you've already taken a photo of that; come on; let's go; etc., etc.



The other spot of luck was the weather. It wasn't warm, and it looked like rain all day, and did rain lightly a couple of times. Good for me because it kept the other tourists away. I wandered around the ruins, not having to contort myself or stand on rocks to avoid having a French tour group in my shot. The only time I shot other tourists was when they were an asset to my composition.
Hierapolis was impressive. Would love to go back again and see it at sunset, but that won't be on this trip. Next time I might come in spring, or autumn again, as we did this time. I wouldn't come back in summer. Too crowded; too many tour buses.


We got the local bus from Pamukkale to Selçuk this morning. Beautiful sunny day, blue sky. Tomorrow we're looking round Ephesus and a few of the other places close to here. Hope the weather is not as nice as it was today.

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By the Sea: Side

Thought I'd take a little time this early morning to get something down. I had nearly a whole entry composed but because we weren't connected to the internet, I lost it somehow. So, here is what I remember of it. You should understand that the web address for this blog says a great deal about the experience of the kind of travel we're doing: you need time to take it all in, think about it, if you're going to remember it in five years, or even five hours. And the past few days, we haven't had the time to slow down and look at where we've been.




This morning Dawn's rosy fingers are over the horizon and we're looking at the blue Mediterranean. It is the Clingon's first sight of this sea. We arrived in Side after dark last night. (Sunset is 4.30 now.) We'd spent a night in Avanos and then a night in Konya. I'd booked all this accommodation over a month ago, and now, with the benefit of hindsight, I would not do the same again. The bus trips are too long. I would cut a couple of places, and book the accommodation when I arrived in the country. At this time of year, the hotel's and pansions are almost empty. (I think we are the only occupants of this hotel tonight, and they were very surprised to see us emerge from the yellow taxi last night. They thought we had got the hotel name wrong. There seems to be a bit of a laissez faire attitude to their hotel bookings at Sunprime Dogan Side Beach.

We were lucky enough to find a restaurant open at the time we were ready to eat at about 8.30 last night. (The Sunprime's bar was open, but they had no food in the house and no cook. I reminded them that we'd be wanting breakfast so that they'd get their act together this morning. We've got another bus trip, this time to Pamukkale, this morning at 10.30.)




Konya: I booked Konya so that I'd be able to see the dervishes. Didn't know I'd see them in Istanbul too. Also didn't know that the Clingon would have such a strongly negative reaction to the experience. He said it was the most boring experience of his life; I think he was not remembering some of the bone-numbingly boring speech days and assemblies he--and I--sat through during his school years.)

But, the Konya experience was a lot more authentic and spectacular--thirty whirling dervishes, not just 9 or 10, coloured lights, in a specially-built amphitheatre built to seat thousands--and it was totally free. In Istanbul we weren't allowed to take photos; when the minder saw people taking photos, she shone a green light on their heads to force them to stop. We were told not to take photos in the Konya performance, the Clingon told me afterwards, but although I registered that the speaker had segued into English, I didn't understand what he had said, so I didn't feel guilty snapping away with the twenty other photographers sitting in the front row of the amphitheatre, their SLRs fitted with long lenses and resting on tripods, all in full view of the speaker and the rest of the audience.

So as we look at the water, and I try to get myself in the mood to get out of bed, shower, and get ready to go again, I'll just pause to wish the Clingon a very happy birthday. (He is the most avid reader of this blog; his favourite character in the text is, of course, the Clingon.) The Clingon is a man today. At the moment he's chomping through a horde of chocolates and lollies we picked up at a shop last night, in preparation for his birthday breakfast.







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The Weather in Cappadocia

Today we moved on from Göreme.

This morning the Clingon asked about the strange noise outside. I'd recognised it: rain. Something I didn't imagine we'd encounter in this high, rocky, dusty country. We've been lucky with the weather, so far, though the Clingon says snow is predicted tomorrow where we are now: Avanos.

We flew over the landscape in a balloon on our first morning in Göreme. The balloons haven't been up since due to winds, and now, rain.




Wednesday morning we hopped into a minibus provided by the Flintstones Tour Company, and went off for the day with 12 fellow travellers from China, Korea, Spain, Italy, and our guide Selim. After a quick shifti at the panorama of Goreme, we went to Derinkuyu underground city, where the Hittites/Phrygians hid out from their enemies between the 15th and 12th centuries BCE. Four underground floors in this city, and stables, kitchens, but bathrooms consisted of clay pots.




Hundreds of underground cities in Cappadocia with tunnels linking many of them. A 14 km tunnel from Derinkuyu to the next city.

A wander around the Selime Monastery. Had a lunch of river trout beside the river and then a short hike up the Ihlara canyon, the second longest canyon in the world, according to Selim, our guide. It's a Unesco World Heritage Site. We stopped at a church carved into the rock with extant paintings of Jesus and various saintly types, all of which were achieved with natural pigments: the white is pigeon poo, of which the ancients had an abundant supply. You can still see the pigeon houses carved into the rocks.

The Romans really hated the early Christians and chased them down, and then the Crusaders invaded to finish the job. Here I was thinking that the Crusaders invaded to flatten Islam, but no, they were just as anti the Orthodox Christians.

After the hike, we were whisked off to place where they tried to flog us onyx and Zultanite, a newly discovered gem that changes into 5 different colours in different lights (though they only managed to demonstrate two colours). The next day--for the Clingon and I signed on for a different tour with the same company the next day, dear readers--they tried to flog us pottery and carpets, which took up more of our time. So, not so many photos on that day. I'm all for seeing the way they harvest the silk from silkworm cocoons, that was interesting. As was the information about the different carpets, but it went on too long for me, especially as I don't travel to shop. I'm still recovering from the hard sell.




This morning our lovely hotel owner drove us here to Avanos, where my Googling back in Sydney had told me there was a market.




We visited the market--quite small and not particularly colourful, but worth a run through, I thought. The Clingon was not of the same opinion, I think, and remains singularly unimpressed with Avanos.

After the market, I dragged my reluctant fellow traveller to visit the old part of town, where I walked gingerly around the ruins, shooting the dilapidated houses of the Greeks who were forced out in what the locals refer to politely as "the population exchange" of the 1920's.




These abandoned houses, the falling walls and roofs, were exciting for me to shoot, but also, the sight was sad. Imagine the reluctant exhangees. To this day, nothing has been done about those decaying houses. Couldn't read the signs I saw around, so I don't know whether anything is planned for them, but I hope not. They are a poignant reminder of a history of tears.


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Göreme

A long day, and I'm exhausted. Arrived at Göreme yesterday in time to see the sunset at what I thought our concierge was calling "the sunset pint". Willy is from Afghanistan, but speaks, so he told the Clingon, six languages: English, Turkish, Arabic, Uzbek, Hindi/Urdu and Farsi. Strange about this place: every street you walk down, men ask where you're from, hoping you'll step into their restaurant or shop. I always ask the same question back, and so far I've encountered no-one who's "from" Turkey: Kazakstan, yes; Turkey, no.



This morning Butterfly Balloons picked us up from the hotel at 5.30 and drove us down to their headquarters for breakfast, after which we were transported to the balloon lift-off pint. My urge to see the fairy chimneys was the main reason for coming here to Göreme. And I was not disappinted. The landscape is unbelievable. And most of it is out there, waiting for people to experience for free. There's a great deal of it in the outdoor museum, available for a price, which we paid. But too many other people paid the same price and it was a bit of a tourist frenzy. When we left the company of all the other tourists and went for a walk among the fairy chimneys, we were left to ourselves, with the sunshine, the landscape and the birds. We even saw a couple of raptors right overhead; the Clingon was of the opinion that they were stalking us, waiting for us to die.



Thank god there's no hope of getting a tourbus down into those magic valleys.

We walked towards what we were promised would be the Rose Valley, but every sign we saw, no matter how far we walked, said it was 2 km ahead. It was difficult walking, with lots of going up and down slopes slippery with loose sand and gravel, so when we saw the cafe, we decided we'd visit. Surreal, among the weird shapes of the eroded valleys to see a cafe where there are no houses or people, except for the few tourists, who aren't on buses. It was surreal in another way, too. It was a cafe with no coffee or tea or food. The only thing for sale in this cafe was pomegranate juice. We bought a large glass. The cafe guy was blonde, deaf and with dirt-engrained hands, which he used to push dried apricots into my mouth.




Finally, an old man came clopping up to the cafe in his horse and cart; he offered to take us back to town for 20 TL. I declined, but thought better of it when it was too late. It was 4km back to town and by the time we arrived I was not good for much except sitting on the bed and groaning. I could not even drag my sorry arse out to the sunset pint.



So here I am, in bed, nice and cosy. Eyes almost closing as I write, but I must finish this.




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Bye Bye Instanbul

Sadly, our time in Instanbul has come to an end, and I did not see half the things I wanted to. As I mentioned in the last entry, we intended to go to Taksim, Tunel, etc yesterday. I told you that those places were on the Asian side, but, because of my map reading skills, I was mistaken. In fact those places are on the European side, just on the opposite bank of the Golden Horn from Sultanahmet, the old city, where we are staying.
Here is a google map of Instanbul. If you blow it up, you can see that Beyoglu, and all those places I mentioned in the last blog, are clearly on the European side of the city.



We didn't know that a marathon was running, but the trams weren't, so we walked along the tram line, to the Galata Bridge and across to the other side of the Golden Horn, and Beyoglu. The walk was pleasant--everyone else was doing the same thing--and the roads were easy to cross; we weren't dodging cars (even on the footpaths) and trams. First intention was to visit Istanbul Modern, but the entrance appeared to be firmly shut. Oh well, I thought, perhaps they'll open again later when the the Marathon's over. We kept walking.


The runners (actually, only the walkers and laggers at this late stage) were still streaming by. The road was coated with empty water bottles and sponges, and crews of cleaners were clearing up. Then we noticed a group of tardy walkers ahead; they'd stopped completely and were all pointing their camera phones excitedly at something we couldn't see, just around the corner. When we came up to them, this is the sight that greeted us. (Just the stairs, silly, not me sitting on them. I haven't managed to be in two places at one time yet. That's spooky.)


(I hasten to point out to you, dear reader, that I had not been swigging the local amber as we walked. That was something the Clingon decided to retain in the image as a joke on the woman who bore him inside her body for nine months.)

I had intended to visit these stairs but had forgotten about their existence in the rush to see all the other features of the city. And here we were upon them without planning.

We walked up all those stairs . . . and back down again, when we realised we'd have trouble getting to Taksim from the top. My knees were protesting, we were sweating. We both divested ourselves of layers.




We stopped for tea at an expensive up-market cafe when we reached Taksim. And then we followed the crowds to Istiklal Cadessi, the most famous shopping street in Istanbul. Also devoid of traffic. Not sure whether it's always like that, or was only that way yesterday because of the marathon.

We had lunch, the trams started running again, and we got on. The Clingon was of the opinion that we had to change trams, so we got off that one. It filled to overflowing before he realised that he had made a mistake, so we walked back to Sultanahmet.

Called the airline to confirm flight and tried to do check-in on-line. The Turkish Airways website told me that my flight hadn't been ticketed. (I have a ticket number, and a reservation number.) Worrying! Didn't know what to do, so late last night I called the travel agent I'd bought the tickets from. He told me he'd check at the airlines and get back to me. When he did, he said that yes, the flight had been ticketed, but Turkish Airlines didn't know which plane was flying to Kayseri yet (???????), so they couldn't let us check in on-line. So anyway, that's the way it stands at the moment. The shuttle will pick us up at 9.00, in a couple of hours, and I hope I don't have too many (mis)adventures to report to you in the next instalment.


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