Wednesday, August 12, 2015

But first, tea.

As soon as I arrive in Istanbul I am already infuriated with it. It is dirty and crumbling and foreign, and I can not figure out where I am.

I think I am starting to burn out. There always comes a point in time, after about two months of travel, that the alien foods, the language difficulties, the social miscues, the constant movement and the long, sweaty stretches between cities and showers begin to tax the appeal of being on the road. I start longing for my own bed in the safe and familiar surroundings of my cosy flat in Sydney. Last week I hit the two-month mark.

I'm looking for a specific patisserie that was recommended to me. It is in Galata, near the famous tower. I figured such an obvious monumental landmark would make navigation easy, and I am not incapable with maps. I have a printed map, Google and GPS on my phone. I even fancy that I'm a decent orienteer. But this 1,600-year-old hilltop quarter answers to no map. I am flummoxed after repeated assaults on it. The surging maze of lanes drapes and twists over the tower's hillside, tossing and tangling me in the ramble of streets.

A sixty-something-looking leather-skinned shoe-shine tries to swindle me in the conniving way of the Turkish tout. After I pick up a dropped shoe brush for him in instinctive common decency, he shakes my hand, asks me where I'm from, and makes to give me a shoe shine in appreciation. I suddenly remember this ruse of intentionally dropping the brush and preying on the decency of innocent tourists. But I am not innocent. I am jaded, lost and shitty.

I protest as he insists my shoe onto his footstool, "No. No! It's not good for my shoes." It's ridiculous; they aren't leather. They are high-tech synthetic outdoor hiking runners designed to allow water to flow through the porous upper, and after hundreds of kilometres of hardcore use, from the wilds of British Columbia to the muddy jungles of Uganda, they are far beyond any hope of scrubbing up a bit.

He counter-protests, "no, it's okay! I am shoe doctor!" and further, as I pull away from his stupid ineffectual brushing and sponging, "no, sorry, I am not finished!"

I'm not buying any of this. I step to walk away and he calls out, "eight lira!" (about A$4). I sigh, irritated with this game, and drop half a lira into his palm, the equivalent of twenty-five cents.

"What is this?" he objects.

"Meh," I shrug and walk away annoyed. An insult, I suppose.

Distracted now. Trying to read the map of Galata's bundles of lanes is like navigating from the scalp of a shag carpet. I finally throw my hands in the air. "The map is not the terrain," I remind myself, and simply meander in circles instead, in which manner I find the patisserie. It was less than a hundred metres away.

It's closed.

Down.

Weary, exasperated and harbouring a growing irritation with the volume of people in the streets, I cut down a side alley in these maniacal laneways and give in to my feet blathering across the roiling cobbles, which ripple like a carpet, until I stumble upon a cozy room called Cha'ya Galata that catches the eye with a seductive sign: "But first, tea."

Tonic.

It comes on a round wooden platter. First flush Assam. The pot is kept warm over a tea light and the leaves have been removed so it doesn't over-steep. A slice of orange is served over the teacup on a bamboo skewer. Warmed milk has its own pot. I have biscuits. I have honey.

Painted on the window is another sign: "You can't buy happiness but you can buy tea, and that's kind of the same thing."

I love Istanbul.

Tuesday, August 04, 2015

Top 5 most beautiful places in Europe

Dubrovnik. Renaissance city of Ragusa and major rival of the venerable Republic of Venice. Tremendously pretty, it is justifiably Croatia's most visited destination. The sun glints off the broad limestone paving stones of the Plaça, polished smooth by generations of footsteps. Narrow hillside alleys of vines and laundry lead up steep steps between Venetian balconies and shuttered windows to the famous medieval walls.

I am only passing through Dubrovnik, on my way to Sarajevo. I've been here twice now, and I think it's one of the most beautiful places in the world. Having travelled to many places I don't say that lightly. Silver-coloured cliffs surrounding Dubrovnik drop into opaline water. Tall spears of mediterranean cypress tower like shepherds above flocks of bony olive trees on the karst rock.

And somehow Croatia produces stunning women—blonde jaw-droppers who would take the catwalks of Milan by storm, and probably do.

So this inevitably leads me to the following entirely subjective list:

The Solonaut's
TOP FIVE MOST BEAUTIFUL PLACES IN EUROPE

(in no particular order)

Dubrovnik, Croatia
One of the best preserved walled cities in Europe. Maybe the best. Tourism has grown considerably in the last five years, but even amid the summer throngs it is easy to find a quiet bar in a lane, such as Caffe Soul, to drink local fruit brandy to the serenade of a live guitarist or watch an evening performance of a chamber orchestra in the chapel of Saint Saviour.

Oia, Santorini, Greece
Those famous photos of Santorini—white domed chapels with blue crosses and low, square houses barnacled above an azure sea—are taken from Oia. The island bakes in a delicious heat in summer. It is the only place I have ever been tempted to kick back with a beer and a book on a deck chair by the pool to overlook the caldera. I deliberately missed my departure ferry to stay. Pronounced ee-ah, Oia is probably my personal favourite in this list, above Dubrovnik.

Venice, Italy
Go back a thousand years in time. Tall fourteenth-century Gothic buildings usher you between piazze and you walk and walk and walk, down tall lanes, between palaces and churches, over bridges and under arched overhangs, and there isn't a hint of the modern world anywhere. You get a sense of how powerfully wealthy this state once was from the vast and sumptuous collection of paintings in the Doge's Palace—one after another gilt-framed Tintoretto, Titian, Veronese. It's like feasting on too much chocolate.

The Vézère and Dordogne valleys, France
Go in October, in wool coat and scarf weather. Leaves from woods of oak turn brilliant orange, yellow and brown in autumn and flock like starlings in the wind. Chateaux stud the hills and charming villages grace the valleys, such as the riverside La Roque-Gageac, the dramatic cliff-hugging town of Rocamadour, and the magnificent medieval Sarlat-la-Canéda, where I lodged for a week in a 16th-century tower.

Lucerne, Switzerland
In late spring, Lucerne is storybook. Yellow flowers whiffling in green meadows. Shaggy highland cattle clanking cowbells. Bright sun and blue sky. Tall evergreen trees. Snowy mountains. White swans on crystal waters. It's ridiculous.