My final packing session was somewhat chaotic. Well, it would be, wouldn’t it - I’d been preparing myself for this trip for weeks, drawn up lists of things to do and buy and pack, etc. Then, when it came to the crunch, I almost made myself late for my flight as I crammed things into my bag and desperately tried to remember what I might have forgotten. My hangover from the night before, when I went out drinking with Richard, did nothing to help me in this task. As it turned out, I was not to remember what it was that I had forgotten until I was on the tube.
I headed for the tube around 4pm, leaving myself plenty of time - this was one flight I was not going to miss. Once on the train I remembered: Toilet paper! I had deliberately gone out to get some, knowing the Arabs’ views on the stuff. I had also bought a water bottle, torch, first aid stuff, diarrhoea and water purification tablets and a money belt. Trust me to leave behind the most important thing.
Heathrow was its usual heaving, dreary self. Furthermore I could find no shops selling toilet paper (by this time I was obsessed with my mission to find some before leaving). I was quite pleased with the security checks before the check-in - they appear to take the threat posed by the PKK quite seriously on Turkish Airlines. I decided to go through to the departure lounge. All manner of shops (I bought more camera films, a pen and two notebooks, one for my diary and one for attempting to communicate with the indigens), but no toilet paper. I conceded defeat, and went to board my plane.
I had a window seat next to a Turkish chap whose only words to me were to wish me a pleasant stay in Istanbul when we arrived there. The take-off was spectacular, with movie-scene images of planes taking off into the sunset as we taxied to the runway. The views over southern England were also stunning. At one point I was simultaneously wondering what the airfield below was and where exactly West Malling might be. I later realised that the airfield was West Malling. I also saw the Stone House, Sam’s old house, below us. In the distance I could make out Rye Bay, and followed the railway line and the Royal Military Canal to where Rye must have been - but Rye and Winchelsea were impossible to make out in the haze and the dusky light. Shortly afterwards we crossed the coastline, and darkness enveloped the land below. Only occasionally could I make out the lights of cities. What were they? Belgrade? Sofia?
The plane itself was tiny and crowded, a brand new Boeing 737-400 - surely too small an aircraft for such a long flight. The service was friendly enough, but chaotic. It’s easy to see why THY is so cheap. Still, we got there, and were even given a few snippets of recorded CNN International to keep us quiet. The approach to Istanbul seemed a little precarious, as we came in over the Sea of Marmora. Suddenly, and possibly too close for comfort, the ground was beneath us. A few seconds later we were safely on Turkish soil. We taxied to a halt, and instantly renewed chaos broke loose as everyone seemed to try to be the first one off the plane. I waited my turn and got off the claustrophobic little jet, eventually.
I queued up at passport control, only to discover that I had to queue up somewhere else, first, in order to part company with my £10 note and obtain an entry visa. Then I queued up again for my visa to be stamped, and onwards to the baggage hall. Amazingly enough, my rucksack actually arrived in the same place, at the same time. I grabbed it, no-one grabbed me as I left the customs area, and I was free to begin my adventure.
It started with the taxi. I had to try to work out which one to take. It didn’t appear to be the one at the front of the taxi rank. Anyway, the guy took my bag, so I hopped in. The guy turned out to be utterly useless. First he tried to start a conversation. I was not averse to this per se, but it transpired that we did not share even a smattering of a common language. Still, he persisted. Then, when I told him where I was staying, he tried to persuade me to check into the AND Hotel in Sultanahmet instead - only TL3 million per night. I had great difficulty explaining to him that I really didn’t want to do this.
Finally, it turned out that he did not have the slightest idea where the Ayasofiya Pension was. He drove all over Sultanahmet, ignored the instructions I was trying to give him (thanks to my map, I knew exactly where we were and where I wanted to be, but it was to no avail). Then he stopped at the tourist police (scarcely 300 metres from my hotel) to ask for directions, got back into the car, did another circuit of Sultanahmet, and then dumped me outside the Ayasofiya Oteli (having gone inside to ask whether they had any vacancies). "Ayasofiya Pensiyon," he proudly exclaimed. No, I thought, Ayasofiya Hotel. Then he pointed out the AND hotel across the road. Never mind, I’ll walk there. I paid up TL400,000 and thanked him, and told him I’d go for a bit of a stroll. I waited until he was out of sight, and then walked straight to my hotel.
I checked in (the guy spoke perfect English, and after my taxi ride I was thankful for this), and made my way up to my room. I noticed that the porter doubled as a security guard, so I tipped him in US dollars, hoping that hard currency was more likely to secure his vigilance. The room was very pleasant, if a little uninspiring. However, this was made up for by the view. Right in front (indeed, almost tangibly close) lay the reason for my choice of hotel: the Ayasofiya. The view, to put it mildly, took my breath away. Having admired it for some time, I collapsed onto my bed - which proceeded to make a very loud creaking sound, which it continued to do every time I moved.
Last Updated on 09 November, 1999