Istanbul – Day 10
I decided to have a proper Turkish breakfast at Rumeli, a local café fifteen minutes away. The place was vast—dark wooden tables, heavy metal chairs—and completely empty. A shy waitress in a white hijab handed me a menu and disappeared, giving me ample time to decide. Fifteen minutes later, I still hadn’t a clue what I wanted, so I ordered the “express breakfast” for a bit of variety.

What arrived was a plate with a couple slices of cheese and several tiny bowls containing: a boiled egg, honey, cucumbers, tomatoes, olives, butter, and some bread. Two cups of tea were thrown in for good measure. It was a meze but with no joy, no heart—just small portions of disappointment. Every time I tried to scoop something from one of the dainty bowls, I failed. Eventually, I tipped everything onto the plate and stabbed it in frustration.

The worst part of a cold, disappointing breakfast is the regret—that I could’ve just ordered an omelette and been perfectly happy. But no, I had to try something local. Being intrepid always carries the risk of disappointment. I left craving a greasy New York bacon, egg and cheese to make it all go away.

After breakfast, I walked to the Akbıyık train station, right at the end of my street, got myself a transport card, and decided to just…go. I hopped on a bus across the Bosphorus promising myself I’d ferry back later. It was a glorious day—bright, bustling, the bridge views were stunning—and before long I found myself disembarking at Karaköy, on the waterfront.

Excited seagulls soared overhead like airborne landlords surveying their domain, while focused men fished from the bridge with quiet intensity. The sharp scent of ripe fish hit me just before an entire fish market unfurled along the quay, glistening with silver scales and bright red gills. The shouts of vendors, cries of gulls, idling diesel engines, and low moans of ship horns blended into a chaotic melodic soundscape. Fish wraps were being hawked left, right, and center. Tempting, but it felt a bit early for mackerel.

I grabbed a fresh pomegranate juice, perched on a bench, and looked up things to do in the area. The Galata Tower, built in 1348 as the Tower of Christ, caught my eye. It’s been a Genoese colony, prison, lookout and point of flight for the scientist Çelebi who donned wings and flew across the Bosphorus in 1638.

I began the slow march uphill through a neighborhood of car chop shops, grease-ridden mechanics, tire stores, and electrical suppliers hawking random coils of soft metal and threaded cable. Every so often, the scent of grilled meat cut through the stench of oil and rubber, and I’d do a double take as a tiny vertical spit of roasting doner appeared like a mirage among the grime. I was tempted to join the men wolfing down hunks of pita stuffed with glistening meat, but I soldiered on, up the ever-steepening cobblestones.

At the tower, the line was long, the hill steeper than expected, and the ticket was €30. That was enough for me to pivot. Peckish from my ascent, I rewarded myself with a doner sandwich in a casual cafe facing the tower. The meat was sold by the gram so I opted for the smallest portion, just in case I wanted two. I ate mouthfuls of scalding lamb and crunched on a side of pale green chilis that added piquant, eye-watering spice.

Post-lunch, I stopped for a Turkish coffee and what I thought was a pistachio cookie, but it turned out to be a lime green sugar bomb filled with chocolate cream masquerading as a fancy biscuit. Fuming, I scraped out the chocolate but the damage had been done. I was about to sulk back down the hill after yet another food failure, when I heard a small gasp and saw a metal tin rolling down the hill alongside me.

Instead of chasing it, I stuck out a foot and flicked it into my hands like I’d been training for this moment—Quick Foot Rog—I swaggered back and returned it to the pretty store vendor, who smiled, impressed by my footwork. I examined the tin and asked what she sold. Candles, it turned out—lovely ones in decorative tins. I bought one with an illustration of the Blue Mosque, feeling rather pleased with myself for using my footy skills, (still got it baby!) being helpful, and supporting a local business.

Back down the hill I reached a sprawling intersection at the mouth of the bridge. Frowning at how to navigate the busy streets, I saw an underpass and slipped below ground to find a miniature shopping mall. On the way across a handwritten sign caught my eye— “ANY FUTBOL SHIRT 200 LIRA”—about $7. I approached the tiny outlet offering Liverpool, Manchester United, Madrid and Barca shirts on display. A man appeared beside me.

“You have Arsenal shirts?”

He nodded, ducked behind the counter and dug out a red and white Saka shirt.

“Too small,” I said, holding it up.

He dived into some battered cardboard boxes and reappeared seconds later with the Arsenal black away shirt in an XL.

“It fits!”

I handed over the cash and strutted off like I’d just scored the winner. Do I care about buying knock offs at $7 versus $100? No. Especially when I can’t buy a ticket for a home game for under $200.00.

I’d looked up a local guy known as “Lion Fish Man,” a street vendor known for his devotion to perfectly grilled mackerel. He was across the intersection in a tiny waterfront alley, as promised—methodical, focused, dealing with a chaotic flurry of excited customers. It was cash only so I grabbed some bills at a nearby ATM, ordered and waited...until I realized there were about 7 orders ahead of mine. After watching how slowly “Lion Fish Man” moved I figured it would be about 20 minutes before my order was ready. I lost my appetite for a mackerel sandwich.

The ferry to Eminou took me back across the Bosphorus and during the short trip I decided to go all out and treat myself to a complete hammam experience. I’d been traveling for 10 days, sleeping on lumpy mattresses, walking an average of 6 miles a day and enjoying fifty percent of my meals, which is terrible percentage for someone who needs excellent food every 2 hours. I had a hammam mapped out that was in the Fatih district but after walking the colorful route back, I was going in circles unable to locate the place.

It was another blue dot mystery. I asked a man on the street who looked insulted by my question and waved me away. Eventually, I rang the number on the listing.

“We’re inside the hotel,” they said.

Aha! The hotel that was right in front of me.

Down in the basement (again), I was greeted by a woman who looked Thai or Malay and a non-verbal man, both very sweet. I picked the full package: sauna, steam, body scrub, soap massage, and regular massage—for $60. “Cash only,” of course. I said I’d run to the ATM, but they insisted:

“After! After! With manager!”

By this point, I’d accepted that “cash only” was the way of life. So I stripped down and surrendered to the bliss. First, ten minutes in the sauna. Then ten more in the steam room. After that, I was led into a cavernous marble chamber straight out of a Roman bathhouse—domed ceiling, warm slabs, echoes of running water. My hostess turned out to be the same woman from the front desk. Curious, I asked where she was from. “Indonesia,” she replied with a soft smile, before getting to work.

She instructed me to lie face down on the warm slippery stone, naked as a large newborn. I was doused with buckets of hot water—over and over—followed by a vigorous scrub that felt like being exfoliated with a silicone Brillo pad. My skin was being reborn.

Then came the sensation of being enveloped in a giant soap bubble. The woman dipped a cloth bag into some magical solution and squeezed—suds exploded across my body like hot candy floss. It was bizarre, oddly sensual, and borderline erotic. Then came the oil. Then the tiny stool, where I sat while she scrubbed what little hair I had left, then waterboarding me with buckets of hot soapy water. Finally, we moved to a private room for a full-body massage that turned my limbs into soft dough. When it was all over, I was wrapped in towels, handed a glass of mint tea, and left to recline—utterly transformed.

The manager walked me to a nearby ATM, eyeing my shorts and t-shirt in the chilly evening.

“You not cold?” he asked.
“This is summer to me,” I replied as my teeth began to chatter.

On the way back, he pointed out a McDonald’s style kebab shop. “Very good,” he said. I paid him and took him at his word. The chicken dürüm and Fanta were delicious. I could live on dürüms forever.

Back home, I considered a late evening stroll, but the thought of putting on clothes after the blissful massage felt like betrayal. I curled up with Uncle Oswald, who was in the midst of promoting his new sex pill—crafted from powdered scorpion tails and dung beetle shavings. Hysterical, naughty, problematic, and utterly Roald Dahl.

Another Day in Istanbul

Istanbul

Final Day in Istanbul