Budapest to Istanbul-Day 8

My flight wasn’t until the afternoon, but I was done with sightseeing. However, the Great Market Hall was only 8 minutes away, so I threw on my jacket and quick-marched alongside the roaring freeway toward what looked like a neo-Gothic aircraft hangar, its facade stitched together by hundreds of rectangular windows that warmed the bustling market aisles with hazy morning light.

Inside, the lower floor buzzed with eager shoppers squeezing and sampling stacks of fresh produce that spilled from a myriad of enticing stalls—shiny apples, pickled gherkins, red, green, and purple tinted cabbage, candies, a plethora of stomach churning spirits offered by grinning locals. Smoked sausage and cured meats hung like trophies alongside barrels of fiery red paprika waiting to stain your fingers.

I had a few coins rattling in my palm and, on a whim, approached a spice vendor.

“What can I get for this?” I asked, holding out my change like a schoolboy at a tuck shop.

He raised an eyebrow, took a glance, and handed me a sachet of hot paprika. “Seven hundred,” he said. I only had six. He waved me off with a smile, a small kindness I wouldn’t forget.

Upstairs, I bushwhacked lace curtains, tablecloths and embroidered tea towels draped like jungle vines, following the scent of freshly baked bread to the food court. After circling, I landed on a stall manned by a brigade of beaming pink-faced ladies in aprons. They sang out their menu to me, urging me to try the pork stew for breakfast.

Splendid idea!

It was a cauldron of richness—a porky, spicy blend of paprika, cabbage and garlic served with al dente dumplings that looked like miniature pig ears. The hot sauce scorched my tongue. When I yelled “SPICY,” while wiping my eyes with pleasure, the women cackled, repeating it back to me like a badge of honor.

My airport bus came quickly, and I’d just sunk into my plane seat, about to doze off, when a swarthy man appeared and asked if I could swap so he could sit with his wife and kid.

I was polite but firm—“Sorry mate, all my stuff’s just above my head and you're way up front.” He nodded and backed off.

When we took off, I noticed the seat across from mine was free. I nudged his wife and offered to move. She shook her head with a smile and said, “It’s good for him to be up there away from us.”

Me time obviously.

We landed in Istanbul at 9pm. Cool breeze, dark skies, and an energy that felt different—denser, edgy, mysterious. The taxi driver and I had a tense back-and-forth about the bridge versus tunnel. One saved time, one saved money. I went with speed.

I showed him my Airbnb address.

“No number,” he said.

He barked a few more things in Turkish until I handed him the phone to speak to my host, Leila, who, I thought, confirmed the address.

Somewhere near Beşiktaş stadium, caught in traffic, he pointed toward the glowing arena. Galatasaray were playing—riotous, flashing lights, red flares in the distance—the city was ablaze.

I asked who he supported.

“Galatasaray!” He yelled, staring in the mirror with fierce pride.

“Me, Arsenal!” I yelled back, trying to mirror his fierceness.

Music from #Uppbeat (free for Creators!): https://uppbeat.io/t/danijel-zambo/borders

License code: EY3UZRWDSSLDTOGY

We hit the district of Fatih, a name I’d later learn meant "conqueror.” The driver stopped abruptly, dumped me and my bags, pointed vaguely toward the street, and sped off. No “here you are,” no number. Just me, my suitcase, and the hum of a kebab shop’s neon sign across the street.

The street was dark and quiet but not menacing. I pulled up the Airbnb message and saw a picture of the buzzer. No street number. Great.

I tried calling Leila again—nothing.

Pacing up and down like a lost delivery man, I tried to find a buzzer to match the picture and sent Leila a photo of my location. She called back, casual as you like.

“Oh, it’s number 5. I think I see you.”

I turned to see a shadowy figure waving from a doorway.

Leila was tall, slim, with a cloud of black hair and uncertain almond shaped eyes. We shook hands, and she offered me the elevator for the single flight up. I jumped in.

Once inside, the apartment was much larger than expected—a wide oval lobby with seven doors, each leading to a bedroom like student digs. It was spartan but charming: white walls, wood floors, mismatched rugs, a lone bookcase, thin doors, chunky keys and mechanical locks.

The house was alive with chatter. As I opened the door to my room I met Celine, a French woman who’d lived in London. “Where in London?” I asked.

“Finsbury Park.”

I blinked.

“My family's been there sixty years.”

Instant connection.

My room was basic but a bargain at thirty bucks a night. Two single mattresses stacked together, a desk, a lamp, and a tiny balcony with a washing line. The curtain across the window was basically tracing paper. I could already feel the heat from tomorrow’s sunrise.

Around the kitchen table, I met my housemates: Alex, (Celine’s partner) also French, Mil, a sweet cybersecurity student from Bangladesh, Sun Jung, a Korean teacher on sabbatical. It felt like a college dorm, but in the best possible way, something I’d been craving—company, stories, warmth, curious minds.

Mil offered me a dish of rice pilaf, chuckling as he handed it over.

“I forgot the salt. You may be finding it a little bland.”

He wasn’t wrong. But it was fragrant—cardamom, cloves—and warming.

“It’s also vegan,” he added. “Are you vegan?”

I snorted.

“Do I look like a vegan?”

The room exploded with laughter.

“We’re all vegan,” said Celine, “except Sun. And now you.”

Sun smiled and held out a fist. We bumped. More laughter.

After dinner, Celine invited me to accompany the group to a nearby Sufi ceremony. Keen to connect with this cabal of foreigners, I joined them.

Leila and her brother led the way as we tip-toed along skinny cracked pavements, dodged traffic circles and circumnavigated shady parks to the local high street. I hung back with Sun, eager to connect over Korean culture. But she’d never heard of my favorite Korean movies - Oldboy, The Chaser, or The Man from Nowhere. She liked PSY and lived in Gangnam. But no clubbing, and definitely no gangsters in hot tubs. She preferred tennis and the Greek Islands, so we clicked on that.

As we approached the Sufi lodge, men wearing prayer caps hurried past, eyeing us with suspicion. Inside we were separated from the women and steered into a red carpeted pit where shoes came off and the murmurs began. I looked to Alex for a signal, but a silent usher nudged me into a side room thick with body heat—eighty men crammed shoulder to shoulder, knees folded, all staring at a flickering screen.

I deflated at the sight—no live whirling, just pixelated dervishes looping silently in digital delay. I sat, trying to fold my stiff legs in front of the screen, while studying the stork-like movements and upturned palms of eight whirling Sufis. Their sleek white skirts—tanouras—spun like tops, hypnotic and serene.

A chorus of bearded shaykhs followed the whirling around a low table. They rolled their heads and torsos, murmuring prayers into a mic, each chant echoed back by the crowd like soft rolling thunder.

Then something happened.

The men on either side of me swayed. First left, then right, eyes closed, voices low, chasing inner stillness.

I had to join in to avoid being headbutted.

But we were so close that every chant from the man to my left, sent a hot breath deep into my ear. I shivered, leaned right—only to discover that the guy on that side was off-beat. When I swayed right, he swayed left. Our faces drew dangerously close. For a moment, it felt like we might perform unintentional CPR. By the third round, the rhythm was gone. I slid forward to avoid the hot breath sandwich—and to stop the launch of a wacky new branch of Sufism!

My knees—knackered from a lifetime of football—soon began to howl. I scanned the room for Alex or Leila’s brother. Nothing. So I slipped out quietly, on the hunt for a toilet.

I found one behind a set of saloon doors but had to don wooden, curling-toed Aladdin slippers. The floor was slick with water—some kind of communal hammam? I didn’t ask. I slipped them on, took a picture of myself in the cubicle (I had to), then went outside and observed the ceremony from a bench until the Istanbul chill sent me home.

On the walk back I was tempted by a kebab, I hesitated. Everyone at the Airbnb was vegan except me and the Korean BBQ lover. I suddenly felt... watched. Guilty. I skipped it.

A cat lounged outside a Pierre Cardin store reminding me that Istanbul is known as Cat City. Wanting to document this purr-fect kitty I closed in with my camera. The little fucker screamed like a banshee and launched itself at me. I screamed and bolted off.

The others returned about half an hour after I’d settled in. I emerged, told them my cat story and then showed them the documentation. The place collapsed in laughter.

Job done–a great night for Black Ops.