Day 23: City Slickers

28 September 2011

Istanbul welcomed us with another sunny day. Hagia Sofia Church was our first stop; audio tour and all. Paul and I were in such a daze that we managed to spend nearly 2.5hours in there. That's more than I think I've spent at any such 'attraction;' particularly one so overrun with tourists, no less. Certainly worth seeing; but next time we'll remember to use one audio guide between the two of us. Hagia Sofia was first built around 360, but through war and revolt has been rebuilt two times and has served as both a Christian and Muslim place of worship; it has been in its current form- a museum- since 1935.

I can't quite remember what this particular "hole" is called, shown in the photo below, but legend has it that a saint or angle lives inside the column, and your wish will come true if you stick your thumb in the whole and rotate your hand.

Right. I'll stick with pennies over my shoulder.

Oddly enough, upon entry to the museum you are given both a paper ticket but also a little packet containing a hand wipe with the picture of the Hagia Sofia on it.

(Costas-perhaps there is historic relevance to your hand gel obsession!)  Perhaps it's for post-thumb rotating.... or a surprisingly progressive public/tourism health strategy... or just weird marketing.


We were sure to wander off the beaten path from there and find a cheap lunch option- what appeared to be a fashion district of sorts served us well. Dining on the patch of road in front of a shop on tiny wooden stools, we were exceptionally well taken care of with three servers doting on us, followed by free tea to end a tasty meal of kabab and salad. Passing around us were endless streams of men carrying carpets, pretzels, furs,...and one even selling calculators, progressing from shop to shop.

The midday sun took us to the shade of the grand bazaar- a maze of, well, everything.

Paul stopped at the insole shop while I snapped photos in the zipper shop. They sat squashed between two button shops. No word of a lie. I meandered back to the hostel late in the afternoon to do some next steps planning while Paul ventured down to the sea. While sitting here scouting out hiking trails, kite centres, and camping, an older Turkish man sitting at a table nearby has been enjoying a meze meal with a small pint of beer while working on his laptop. As I sit here writing, one of the staff come by and slide a plate next to me; on it sit 8 little fish, fried up. He passes over a basket of bread.

"Oh?" I ask...not really sure what is going on.

"Turkish fish," says the server, "try."

The man at the table nearby has a heaping plate of these fish- and has sent some over for me to try. He doesn't so much as glance in my direction.

These little fish are 2 inches long, still looking like fish but lightly breaded. I inspect them, without looking too skeptical so not to offend, wanting to make sure they're not some sort of shellfish. They flop around, and I can see the fins, so yes, they are fish. Now to try them. I pick up the whole thing and tilt my head back, dropping it into my mouth as if I know exactly what I'm eating- and how one eats it.

And goodness me, they are spectacular. The bread soaks up the oils perfectly- and the fish themselves are rich and decadent. Strangers.... aren't they lovely.

Day 22: Welcome to Istanbul

27 September 2011

Costas was kind enough to wake at the early hour of 3:40am to get me back across the border to the Turkish occupied area and to Ercan airport this morning.

I suppose I was hyped on adrenaline when I first arrived at Ercan a week ago, but I hadn't taken notice of how relaxed this airport was. This time around, I set my carry-on bag through the one lane of security which features an ancient scanning machine, looking more like a worn magician's trick black box than an aiport scanner (in the era of full body bomb scan machines, no less).

A security man stood there nattering away on his mobile phone, his back to the entire system, including scan screen. He glanced at me and waved his hand, gesturing toward him- I handed him my boarding pass. He continued to speak dramatically on the phone in a deep, angry voice. He took my boarding card, waved it around, and handed it back to me without so much as a glance.
My bag rolled through the short conveyor belt while he looked out into the open waiting area beyond, still on his mobile, back still turned.

My bag passes through.

I glance behind the scanner- there is no one there. The boarding pass "checker" is apparently also the scan "checker." It seems he didn't feel like checking either this morning. As I pick up my bag, which has a juice box AND nail scissors in it, another man dressed in simple security-esque attire saunters over. He sets down two loaves of fruit bread on the luggage sorting counter and rubs his eyes, exchanging brief words with his colleague. I watch them both for a moment in disbelief- almost giving them an extra minute to realise that they haven't a clue what is in my carry-on bag. The one stretches his arms and stares absent-mindedly to the ceiling, the other is still on the phone. I chuckle to myself and turn away toward the waiting area.  

Having safely arrived back in Istanbul (despite the lax security, no carry-on threats made it through, other than my nail scissors and juice), I was reunited with Paul who had landed via Athens, where he spent Monday evening.

After some metro navigation (where I managed to break a hanging hand strap...fellow travelers in the crammed tram thought it was hillarious), Paul and I found a hostel with space. Neither of us had much sleep so it was a very easy going day- and after a tasty meal in the area, we got some great shots from the rooftop terrace of our hostel. For 20euro/night, the view, free breakfast, a/c, and secure room are all well worth it.

The view from my dinner seat in Istanbul. Cushions, red wine, kebab and checkers. Lovely.

The view from the top of the hostel @ the mouth of the Marmara Sea- between Europe and Asia

Hagia Sofia Church; from our rooftop

Blogging from Istanbul- the Blue Mosque in the background

Day 19-21: Adios Cyprus

Saturday morning (24 Sept) we woke up early despite our late Friday night; but made eaiser by a breakfast of pastries stuffed with halloumi, apple phyllo, and iced coffees. We were headed to the Trudos mountains which are about 2hours from Paralimni- a small jaunt as we're experts at road tripping by this point:

 It was an overcast day with spots of rain here and there, but we still caught great panaoramic views of the surrounding hills and coast.

Lunch break in the Trudos Mountains

We weaved deep into the mountains on narrow, windy roads. It was certainly a test of stomach...shall we say, robustness. An early exit from the motorway meant we got an extra long tour of the mountain valleys and their quaint little villages. Aside from the occassional vineyard blanketing hillsides, the landscape of the region reminded me very much of Morocco. We stopped in the tiny village called Pelendri for a washroom break and parked in the narrow lot that was carved into the steep hillside. Across the narrow street was a tucked away cafe we had spotted. The four of us walked in; the main room had sets of white tables and chairs laid out and to the right was an open kitchen area- looking almost like that of someone's home. Sitting at one of the tables were three older men, with tall pint glasses and a large bottle of Carlsberg sitting between them. There was another, younger man sitting adjacent to the three older men- all four were talking in hushed voices, and while they certainly noticed us walk in, their conversation continued uninterrupted. The younger man looked to be in his early forties, dressed in white sneakers, tidy khaki shorts and a polo shirt.

The owner of the cafe approached our table- a man of average height but with a round belly and a mop of dark fluffy hair dressed in denim shorts, a t-shirt, and with a floppy black leather fannypack around his waist. Beyond him, standing behind the kitchen counter was a woman who looked to be his wife, with two kids milling about while she simultaneously chatted away on her mobile phone and wiped down the countertop. Costas relayed our order- two medium (sweet) Cyprus coffees and two nescafes (the standard alternative).The man sauntered over to the kitchen counter and relayed the order to the woman who quickly began scooping coffee grinds into a Cyprus coffee saucepan.

The cafe had a second floor overlooking the main open area- a small mezzanine of sorts. On the back wall of the main level were four photo portraits; a solemn photo of the founding church leader for the region, and then three young Cypriot soldier hailing from this tiny town- one died in the war against the English, the other two during the Turkish invasion in 1974. Above the double door entrance were three framed photos of the local football club, dating back to the 70s and 80s with haircuts and moustaches reflective of the era. Looking up to the second floor we could see a small glassed-in room overlooking the cafe area. In it were shelves of trophys and plaques. Costas described the place as being a local football house- where club meetings might be held, local events, and of course, where you could get a beer or coffee on a rainy Saturday afternoon.

As the man carried over the tray of four coffees, Costas asked how much they would be. To the side, an arm's reach away, was the man in his 40s sitting and watching the exchange- and he extended his arm to the owner and held out a 10 euro note. Words were mumbled in greek- Ally, Paul and I had no idea what was going on.

We quickly realised this stranger had bought us our coffee.

Costas exchanged greetings and thanked him for the gesture. We sipped our coffee and listened to the quiet murmur of conversation nearby. Costas began chatting with the generous coffee-buyer; about where he was from, hunting, world travels and football.

Ally, Paul and I were a bit shell shocked from the extent of the generosity of this culture- it was baffling. We soaked up our surroundings as the rain began to pour outside on the narrow street.

More locals began to saunter in- Ally had noticed that before the man bought our coffee, a few of the men in the shop had pulled out their mobiles and made quick phone calls. We joked, "Come quick to the football house, there are some random visitors here. A must see."

The teenage sons of the some of the men came in too- dressed in their football gear. They chatted with their dad, glancing our way every once in a while. More kids dashed into the cafe from the rain, pulling themselves up to the bar stools at the kitchen counter. Men sauntered in, scoping out the room and tearing open a bag of chips to snack on while chatting.

The coffee buyer stood up to leave after some time, following his two sons out the front door- shaking hands with Costas and waving goodbye to us three as he parted. We grinned and said hearty thank yous.

We finished our coffee and returned the serving tray to the counter, thanking the family and heading back out into the rain. We drove deeper into the mountains and stopped at a high point looking out over nearly half of the island- seeing the sea meet the flat plains which then turned into rolling hills and mountains.

We made our way to Mt Olympus, Cyprus' highest peak and walked from the car park up to the somewhat anticlimatic- but entertaining- summit:

Cypriot skiing on Mt Olympus!

On our way back down through the mountains we caught the last of the daylight in a tiny winery perched on a hillside advertising free samples. We tasted five local varieties- certainly some of the more unique wines I've ever tried. The host was your typically kind and generous Cypriot and sent us off with a free bag of fresh, tasty apples in addition to the wine we had purchased.

The final stop was Omodos- a beautiful mountain town that offered perfect dusk light for snap-happy Paul and I as we strolled through the very quiet streets. I tried pastichio (or something like that)- a noodle and mince type dish with loads of cream- a hearty finish to the day.

Omodos by night

Sunday was a quiet day spent at the beach where I was able to exercise my sandcastle making muscles with the help of Costas' student card:

That afternoon we were treated to yet another spectacular meal with Costas' family on their outdoor patio; homemade mousakka and tasty partridge, hunted by Costas.

Partridge, served with Cypriot bread

 We headed into Costas' "official" hometown of Agia Napa (pronounced Aya Napa) for the annual festival showcasing local traditions- from the making of Cyprus halloumi, bread, sweets to wines, silk art, and basket weaving. The festival was capped off with a big stage show of music, dance, and fireworks.

Costas' quick stop to say hello to an old employer led to more Cypriot generosity as we enjoyed a drink on the house in a fancy steak flambee restaurant before taking in the sea and meeting more Cypriot cats.

Monday 25 September was our final full day in Cyprus- Paul and Ally flew out from Larnaca (per the original plan...with valid passports) while I would fly out from Ercan, in the Turkish-occupied land early on Tuesday morning. Ally's delayed flight meant a few hours in Larnaca- where we stopped to check out the nearby salt flats:

I was "the last mohican" and was treated to a spectacular dinner that evening with Costas and his aunt and uncle on their lovely back patio. An avid gardener, his uncle enthusiastically showed me his exotic range of cactus, plants, trees, and flowers- from passion fruits, to papaya to Jasmine to apple cactus. Dinner introduced me to two new wines and a zambouca-esque greek liquor- paired with more delicious meze followed by rose water ice. Having studied and worked in Sweden, Costas' uncle had some entertaining stories about his impressions of the Scandanavian culture- their approach to naked sauna-ing being a highlight.

With an early morning flight and packing still to do, I was sad to have to go.... but it seems my time in Cyprus has come to an end- but a memorable one at that.

I cannot say thanks enough to Costas and his family for their hospitality, and as advertised in the airport....

Days 17-18: Constantinos the Great

Costas, short for Constantinos, is our good friend and formidable host here in Cyprus. Cyprus also thinks he's great, as there are both beaches and supermarkets named after him:

We have had a rough idea of how we might like to spend our time here and have taken things nice and easy.

Cyprus coffee at Costas' parents place on morning

Fresh pommagranate

We wake up at leisurely times (in our own home!) each day. The neighbour is usually sitting at the side of his house on a plastic lawn chair, dressed in shorts with no shirt, looking very solemn and intermittantly yelling at his dogs- or anything that moves, really. In the back there is a big wide open space of land- with a few homes down the one side, and the local football pitch visable in the distance. Directly behind the house is the 'stuff' area- there is a roofed area for keeping parked cars in the shade, and beyond that... the creatures! On my first morning I
wandered over and met the pheasants, rabbits, and roosters. The rabbits are bred for their meat are the size of your average cat, living in a big cage sitting on stilts. Boy, they are cute. But when I approach they go ballistic. A dozen big, nervous jumpy rabbits in a confined space is very unsettling...a lot of thumping and fast moving ears. I haven't visited them again.

Day 17, Thursday 23 September, we toured Cape Greecko- with lunch and a swim in the sea off the rocky shores. Nearby, tourist party boats were anchored.

In the last of the day's sun, we climbed around in the sea caves on the southern shoreline and then up to a nearby peak where the friendliness of the "Cypriot cat" (for which there are postcards) became abundantly clear.

one of many schmickens

It was windy... as illustrated by Paul's wind caught shirt.

Costas and his wheels

Ally and I at the sea caves

We stopped at the grocery store on the way home and shopped according to our plan to make a "traditional greek meal". Next to our house is another small house- Costas refers to it as "the old house," where his grandmother used to live. It is a long narrow home, with three separate rooms- all opening to a stone patio with two large arches. We cooked our traditional greek meal in the big old kitchen while Costas zipped home and back.

When he returned he saw our spread and declared himself speechless. Apparently we passed the test and would make suitable greek wives. ha. Dinner was meatballs stewed in a juicy tomatoe sauce, phyllo pastries stuffed with peppery rocket and salty Cypriot halloumi, cucumber and tomato salad and an eggplant, tomato and halloumi bake. Costas' mother- Paraskevi (which means "Friday" in Greek)- sent over some bulgar with vermicelli. The plate looked and tasted lovely, and we enjoyed it with Greek red wine under the grape vines in the courtyard- followed by a lively game of "Things."

Friday brought a bit of cloud and light drizzle and took us to the country's capital, Nicosia. Despite my border troubles and the brief history lessons that Costas had shared, it was this stop that best illustrated the gravity and impact of the Turkish-Cypriot war. The old city is surrounded by the Venetian City walls, built in the Lusignan period and named after the Venetian commanders who defended the city against Ottomans. Nicosia is split down the centre- almost like Berlin once was- with one half being Turkish occupied territory and the other as the internationally recognised country of Cyprus.

When you enter Turkish Cyprus, you do not receive a stamp in your passport for this reason; it is not recognised by most of the world as being a country. That said, you do fill out a little slip of white paper, of which they have thousands stacked like office scrap paper, providing your name, passport number, and nationality. This slip of paper is what gets the "Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus" (TRNC) entry and exit stamps. It becomes your ticket out of the country, and I nearly tossed mine upon arrival. Oops.

There remains one street down the centre- the no mans land- which has sat entirely untouched for nearly 40 years now, with old shop signs hanging from well-rusted wires attached to crumbling brick facades. Crossing on foot is a surprisingly informal affair. The Turkish check your passport and issue the white slip- there is no turnstile- no lines- and very few police. They look like they were guarding a 1950s folk art museum rather than a disputed international border crossing. Had I had problems getting across by car when I first arrived on Tuesday evening, this certainly would have been a feasible next option.

The sudden change in culture and language is fascinating. It is a matter of 10 loosely guarded paces and one small stamp between these two worlds- hardly the same sense of separation one gets when landing from a flight, or even crossing the American-Canadian border. While wandering around the Turkish occupied area- where Ally had visited on holiday in the past- she showed us some neat spots. The Great Khan was an interesting site- it was built between 1576 and 1577 by the Governor of Cyprus at the time. With two levels, the ground level rooms were used as shops and stalls for visiting horse-back travellers, and the top was used as bedrooms. It has since been converted into craft shops,art galleries and cafes.

Ally was sure to pick up some turkish sweets too- not the traditional delights- but minor variations thereof; almost marshmallow-y with pistachio and chocolate and almond. Sweets in hand, we sauntered back across the border to the Cypriot side for frappes at a cafe Costas knew of. I re-learned backgammon, sipped delicious frappe (iced coffee... putting the Tim's iced capp to shame) and tried too many sweets in a quiet courtyard for a good part of the afternoon.

On our way back through winding streets it seems our sugar cravings were not yet satisfied- Paul picked up a Mpougatsa (pronounced "boo-rat-sa) from a small bakery. Suffice to say I've found my new favourite baked good- doughy but fluffy pastry filled with a rich custardy creamy filling.

Having introduced Costas to the practice of post-carding, we spent some time at a big shop with oodles of postcards. Inside, tucked along a side wall, were racks of old black and white photos. Many looked like they had been behind glass frames for years, others looked like they had been sitting in the sun and seen a drop or two of water in their lifetime. They were incredible photos- portraits of family, images of protest and pre-war rallying, traditional acitivies and countryside. When we got chatting with the shop owner and the man next to him, we learned that the man with him was in fact the photographer. The photos dated back to the 1960s and were all taken in and around his hometown, Dali, not far from Nicosia. Ally bought two and I picked up one.

Driving back to Nicosia we drove up to Stavrovouni (which means mountain of the cross) Monastary. "Legend" has it that St Helen found a piece of the holy cross on this Cypriot mountain. It was a male-only monastary so I couldn't go in, but it offered stretching views of the countryside and the sea beyond. Paul did get chatting with the monk at the entrance and told us about how he learned that there is no difference between the various forms of orthodox- Greek, Russian etc.

Paul....having a go with the mitsubishi's suspension in front of the chapel.

There may be minor cultural variations, but that they are rooted in the same religious fundamentals. Andy and Paraskavie (Costas' mom and dad) insisted on taking us to dinner during our visit, so on Friday evening we were treated with the never ending Cypriot generosity and an absolutely spectacular meal called "Meze"- where dish after dish is served of the most traditional greek and cypriot foods for all to try:

It started with breads and dips- tahini, pita, taziki; then olives, sea salts, pickled caper leaves and hot peppers, and leafy green salad. Next came potatoes with egg, okra with cheese, spinach with cheese, roasted black olives, cracked green olives to absorb the olive oil, lemon and coriander, and a fried parsnip-like thing (it looked like a mushroom when I saw it in the grocery store). The meats rolled in with dark Cyprus sausage (almost the colour of black pudding; but tasting oodles better), BBQ beef liver, slouvaki, meatballs, halloumi with lountza (ham),
shieftlatia (mince pork with spices, wrapped in animal something), pork kebab, lemon pork chop with parsley (ie. greek bacon), mousaka, stuffed tomatoes with mice and mint with halloumi on top. Then was cypriot macaroni with mint and halloumi, and bulgar with vermicelli. All of this was enjoyed with a delicious dry red called Makkas from nearby Pathos. We learned all about hunting, the family history, and various Cypriot traditions. The evening could not have felt more indulgent for a traveller looking to taste and experience LOCAL.

That evening we had the pleasure of meeting Costas' childhood friends at a karaoke bar in town-

and while it is the off season for tourism, there were British vacationers readily taking the stage to belt "I will survive." With a two for one drink deal and a friend of Costas' behind the bar, the night stretched on into the wee hours.

Our time here continues to allow us to experience life as a Cypriot, thanks to the generous hospitality of Costas and his family. Stories from our last weekend in Cyprus to come soon...



Day 16: Cyprus!

After a much-sooner than anticipated reunion with Costas, Ally and Paul at the Ercan airport on Tuesday evening, we headed south west toward the border between Turkish and Greek Cyprus. It was one of the best airport arrivals and welcomes I've had, particularly since coming to get me was no small feat for them either. Costas had to get automobile insurance for Turkish Cyprus, and all three endured a bit of a grilling at the border when they tried to cross. All of this after a surprising phone call at 5:30pm saying... "I've landed in Cyprus!"

We passed through the Turkish border later in the evening, with only one the final Cyrpiot border to go. While I had made it to the island, I still have a flip flopping stomach, concerned that they might not let me south. We pulled up along the road under the border lights, and a British woman, as border guard, approached the car at the Cypriot border. If their formality in checking passports was anything like the formality (ie. lack thereof) of the border crossing, then I figured the process might be relatively smooth. 

We handed all four passports over. She looked at each, and asked if I had brought anything with me from the Turkish side. She opened the boot, and peered inside my luggage.

She walked back to the front of the car and handed the passports back to Costas in the driver's seat.

We pulled away.

And then I was in greek Cyprus!

We drove right to Costas' parents home and enjoyed a delicious meal of pasta, chicken and salad with Greek white wine on the terrace- the nearby mediterranean sea bringing a breeze and salty, humid air. It was incredible. Dinner was topped off with a chocolate cake prepared by Costas' grandmother- adorned with candied orange and walnuts. It was surreal.

I asked what the cake was called, and Costas and his father both look at me and reply flatly,

"Chocolate cake."

Ally, Paul and I were shuttled by Costas- our generous host for the week- to our accommodation (a spare home belonging to another family member) in the town of Paralimni, not 10 minutes away. Not having slept much in my adventure to arrive in Cyprus (having done it less than 24hours after the original scheduled arrival), I slept as soundly as ever.

Breakfast of fruit salad, greek yoghurt, and sweet bread, my first morning in Cyprus.

Ally at our comfortable 'digs' in Cyprus, Thanks to the Savvides family!

We slept in until nearly noon today and packed our cool box, heading straight to the beach. The sea was warm and the air a perfect temperature. I still couldn't believe I had actually made it and was sitting on the sand in the warm sunshine, eating fresh fruit and taking in the view of the turqoise blue waters and rocky shoreline nearby. 

Hello Cyprus.



...and with holiday mode fully kicking in, I'm sorry to say that I can't promise daily blog posts. While it won't be daily, Iwill be sure to report on our Cypriot adventures... hunting, exploring caves, more beach, sunshine, wine, and tasty food.

Day 15: Istanbul to Turkish Cyprus (hopefully)

20 September 2011

By the time I boarded the plane this morning I was deliriously tired. I hadn't even taken note of how long the flight was- but had every intention of sleeping from the minute I sat down. And that I did. I was out like a light and the flight attendant struggled to wake me up as we prepared for landing.

Istanbul welcome me at 11:30am with warm humid air- a refreshing change from the brief stay we had in chilly Munich where winter coats were starting to make appearances. I purchased my tourist visa for Turkey, costing 45 euro. The border police let me in with no questions asked- and I took note of the fact that they didn't electronically scan my passport- a good sign for my chances in Cyprus.

With bag in hand, my first stop was the Atlasjet ticket office, a low-cost Turkish carrier offering direct service from Istanbul to Cyprus. I was cutting out the bigger name airline of Turkish Airways in an attempt to find someone who might fly me there without any knowledge of the rules that my restrict my entry. That said, as adventurous as I may be, paying for a flight to the island only to be turned around again was hardly a fun ending.
I approached the man at the Turkish airways office first- it seemed to be a mother company for Atlasjet. Shoot... they might have the same system as in Munich that brings up a message saying that I can't fly... I asked anyway,

"I want to fly to Cyprus, but want to make sure that my passport is valid for travel. It is currently valid, and will be for the duration of my stay- and I have purchased my Turkish visa."

He only spoke a bit of english and it was clear he had understood just bits and pieces of what I was asking. To the unknowing, it sounds like a really stupid question... I just pretended like I didn't know what Turkish airlines had told me about the three month rule, and went on,

"Online it just says that your passport needs to be valid. It's just that some countries- or areas- have different rules."

He had no idea- and directed me towards the border police back in the other terminal where I had come in. He confirmed that there were in fact flights to Cyprus that evening.

I treked back to the main terminal but couldn't get past the arrivals security barrier that separates the baggage claim from the general public arcade. I asked at the information booth- the middle aged man non-chalantly advised that I should have no problem entering Cyprus with a valid passport and a visa in hand. I still wasn't entirely convinced and wanted someone with a bit more credibility than the information booth staff to provide similar reassurance. I'm all for the "ask for forgiveness rather than permsission" mentality, only using it for border crossings was pushing the limit just a bit.

"Ok, thank you," I say to the information office staffer. "But where can I find the police, so I can check with them?"

He pointed me to the security area. I stood outside the frosted glass door that said "Authorised Personnel Only"- or something like that, but in Turkish. I waited until someone looking like an authority came out.

A group of men standing out in the waiting area I was in were dressed in white pholo t-shirts and black trousers with lanyards and ID tags. They looked like tour guides or airport staff. I guess I wasn't being very discreet in my looking at them to figure out if I should approach them, as one sauntered over to me.

"Do you speak English?"

"Yes, little bit," replies the man, smiling.

"I'm looking to find out if my passport is valid for entry to Cyprus."

"Hm."

I don't think he completely understood the question. I repeated it, speaking very slowly, gesturing with my passport, showing the Turkish visa I already had.

"I don't know. Here, come."

He led me to the frosted glass door and buzzed us both through. The door opened up to the customs declaration area, where he and I stood opposite two young police who were standing on the other side of a bag scanning machine. The man in the white polo spoke quickly in Turkish to the other two. At this point another officer had come over to catch wind of the action. I was standing in a circle with these four turkish authorities- three police and one..well...the white polo shirt guy. I don't know what his job is. As the polo shirt man explains, they all keep looking at me. They were all very young looking- my age if not younger... As he explained, yet ANOTHER guy came over. They were all smiling and keen to try to figure out the problem. I think is one of those situations where being a female on my own worked to my advantage.

Once the initial explanation was over, the two police turn to me and I begin to describe the question again, phrasing it as simply as possible.

The taller one stops me halfway through,

"Whoa whoa, slow down, please."

I reverted to speaking as slowly as one can while still making a sentence- and they managed to follow along well.

As I said, if you're not aware of the possibility of a three month rule for passport validity, it sounds like a very silly question. I could see them replaying it over in their minds. I showed them my passport- they asked about where I had come from and where I was going next. They all shook their heads, stuck out their lower lip,

"I don't think it is a problem." They were all convinced it was fine. One of the quieter one chirps up,

"Check with your consulate," he says.

Right. Thank goodness for thinking on my feet.... I came up with a semi-true reply:

"The Canadian consulate does not provide information on travel to northern Cyprus. They say to check with local authorities."
I didn't want to offend these young men by explaining why- I just hoping that they understood. Canada does not offer information as it does not recognise northern Turkish Cyprus- they simply recommend traveling to Cyprus in the south- which I apparently couldn't do. It did not say to check with local authorities, but heck.... in my mind it made sense. They ought to know who they will and won't let into their own country.

The four police chatted some more- I heard "England" and "Canada" tossed into the mix but understood little more than that.

It seems they can't reach a consensus, so they turn to me and say

"We'll take you to our colleagues- to passport control."

As I follow them up the ramp, back toward the border security I had passed through 45minutes earlier, they start with some small talk- am I on holiday? Am I traveling alone? Don't I get lonely? Where are my friends?

We approach a big sign saying "Passport Command Central." Well if there is one place that should have an official answer, I would think it was these guys. We turn down a short hallway and into a big, dimly lit office with a big modern L-shaped desk and office chairs lined up in front. Sitting behind the big desk with a large computer in front of him was another police- this guy had braces. My helpers thus far explained the question to their colleague in Turkish. They chatted. Hip hop was playing quietly on the computer. I wouldn't be surprised if video games were on pause on his screen.
My helper translated to me,

"We don't think it will be a problem. You are okay to go."

They chat some more briefly.

"But check with Turkish airlines, too," he goes on, "They might know for sure."

I smile, "Haha, okay, but they told me to check with you."

They laugh.

Now what?



The one that had escorted me turns and ushers me out of the passport control centre, then pointing me in the direction of the airline ticket booths- the "authorities" on passport control, according to passport control. At this point I had spoken to 7 official police, all of whom agreed- never with certainty- but agreed nonetheless, that I would be okay getting into northern Cyprus. I headed to the Atlasjet ticket booth and asked the ticket agent about passport validity. She said I should ask at passport control. I told her that they adivse I check with her, but that the passport office and border police thought I would be okay.

"If they're okay with it, then we're okay with it," she replies cooly.

Alrighty.

To Turkish Cyprus I go! Forunately the tickets weren't a fortune, costing approx 100 euro rountrip. Enough to risk the adventure...so long as I don't get arrested or anything... or according to my mother, who I called from Munich, "Right, you're going to get into southern Cyprus from the north. I can see you trying that," she pauses, "and then getting shot!"

"Be careful," she advised. "But you're a big girl, you'll figure it out."

As the ticket agent worked on the computer- telling me it would be ten minutes for her to sort it out- I sat down on my bag nearby. It occured to me I wasn't even sure what city I was flying into. Whatever... it's not a big island. I'll figrue it out.  She called me over and handed me the tickets- I was on standby for a 4pm flight that afternoon, and if that flopped, I was confirmed for a 9:30pm flight that evening to Erkan, Northern Cyprus.
I approached the check in desk at 3pm, as instructed, and waited to see if there would be a spot on the 4pm flight. A russian girl about my age stood next to be and through broken english, I learned she too was waiting on standby. We agreed that if neither of us made the 4pm flight, we'd head into Istanbul together to kill a few hours.
While I did have a booked ticket, I was still racked with uncertainty- I needed a boarding pass, I needed to get through Turkish border control in Istanbul and most importantly, through border control in northern Cyprus. Crossing the border to the south of Cyrpus would be another adventure unto itself. 

As the ticketing agents tracked the number of checked in passengers, they made the decision at 3:30pm to issue the Russian and I boarding passes for the 4pm flight. It's amazing how exciting such things can be when you stop taking them for granted!

I checked my bag and made a mad dash toward the passport control and security. Yes, I now had a boarding pass, but I could still miss the flight. The lineup at security snaked across an open atrium- I would certainly miss the flight if I waited in that queue. Thank goodness for my Russian friend, who also spoke Turkish, as I spotted her speaking to the security agents and explaining the rush. I shuffled up next to her. She glanced over her shoulder and I suspect said something like, "Her too!" The security agents pointed her further down the terminal where the next passport desks might be less crowded.

In between sprints, I was trying to load my mobile with credit so that I could let the core adventurers (Paul, Ally, Costas- those who had actually MADE it to Cyprus on Monday evening) know that I would be arriving in Cyprus in mere hours. For all the luck I'd been having since my massive blunder in Munich, I suppose the fact that Orange's mobile top up service was "down" and I would need to "try calling again later" was fair game. 
I was one of the last to trickle on board, and as I found my seat, the Russian and I exchanged relieved smiles. It wasn't until I sat down that I realised, "Sure, I now know the name of the city that I'm flying to, but I haven't a clue where 'Ercan' is in Cyprus, nor how far it is from Istanbul...or the Cypriot border, for that matter." As a domestic airline, Atlasjet is a low-cost option, but with that comes little english from the flight attendents. By chance, ditto went for the travelers on either side of me. I guess I'd just have to wait and see...and look at a map when I landed.

The day's drama aside, I had some real characters on either side of me. The man to my left was in his early 30s and had long black curly hair and was wearing a pink tshirt and hippy sunglasses. He dosed in and out of sleep for the entire 1hr50min flight- and was so deeply asleep that he started talking! In turkish, of course, so no further entertainment value there... To my right was a middle-aged woman, who despite knowing that I did not speak Turkish, chatted away to me for much of the flight. I felt like I understood her; when the tv screens came down,

"Oh I see. There might be television for the flight. Maybe a movie?"

And when the attendants were coming down the aisle with the cart, "Oh good, coffee!"

And when she tried the cheese and mystery orange spread sandwich, "Oh ew... this isn't very good. The cheese is
a bit off and the bread, well...it's soggy."

I just nodded and smiled.

We landed around 5:30pm in the 30 degree heat of Cyprus- I don't think I had been this excited to land somewhere in a while! Now I just had to make it through the passport check. I stood waiting, heart racing yet again. I think the day's stress produced as much sweat as a solid 10km run.

They let me in.

The Turks have been exceptionally friendly during my brief stay- from finding phone adaptors in airports, to getting directions, and when I landed, purchasing a phone card so that I could call Costas to let them know I'd arrived. I approached the security guards and asked,

"Where might I find a telephone?" holding my banana hand up to my ear. Two guards nearby chimed in, speaking Turkish, and an older one stood up, waving his hand for me to follow. He leads me through the small airport up to a vodaphone booth and says something to the young girl working behind the counter.

Oh no. He thinks I want to buy a phone.

I try to clarify, acting out putting money into a phone box and then picking up the phone. They nod their heads vigorously and the salesgirl sets a plastic-wrapped calling card on the counter.

"Ahhh! For the payphone," I say, smiling.

"15 Lira," says the girl.

That converts to around 6 euro, which was certainly more calling than I needed. The security guard was standing next to me and sensed my hesitation. He said something to her in Turkish.

She then produced a card that read 100- for 100minutes. "7 lira," she says.

Wow. This security man was great!!

I pulled out my wallet while the security man hovered over my shoulder. A bit awkard as I dug through receipts and euros to find the right currency. I found a five note, and then dug out my change from my pocket- I had only one lira coin. To my utter shock and surprise, the incredibly helpful security guard reaches into his pocket and quickly tosses another one lira coin on the counter. I try to insist not, handing over one of my bigger notes.

He was having none of it, and ushered me away, phone card in hand.

I'm now sitting here in the Turkish Cypriot airport, with a glass of- dare I say- hard earned wine, waiting to reunite with the dream team. There remains one more border crossing, so I'm not fully convinced I've made it... but boy, what a time I've had trying!

Day 14: Munich... and the "Schengen Area"

19 September 2011

After a cozy night in Salzburg at the youth hostel, we managed to execute an early start and were on the rainy motorway by 8:15am, headed for Munich.

The drive was entirely uneventful. The rest of the day was not.

While Costas and Ally checked out bag drop options- with the intent of heading to Oktoberfest for the afternoon before our 9:30pm flights- I headed straight for the Sixt desk to negotiate some sort of reimbursement for the headaches earlier in the trip. I spoke to them on my own- trying to play the single-helpless-female-left-stranded-with-a-spare-tire card to boost our case even more. We managed to get the cost of the tire and phone calls removed from the invoice- whether this holds true on the final credit card billing remains to be seen. We had a quick coffee before heading up to the Lufthansa desk to check our bags.

Paul had purchased the tickets in one group and collected our passports to run them through the check-in kiosk.
When mine was scanned, an error message came up:

"Passport not valid for travel."

Paul turns around, "Um....Bonita, it says your passport is not valid."

Right. Hm.

We try again- this time reading the screen more carefully- it says something about three months of validity from the time of travel.

We skip my boarding pass and try Ally's passport, which seems to have some sort of technical trouble. We move to the real person agent to try to get things sorted.

The lovely woman dressed in traditional Bavarian attire at the Lufthansa desk confirmed what the kiosk had told us- in order to travel to greek Cyprus I needed a passposrt that was valid for six months from the time of travel.

Mine was not.... and not even really close, at it expires on the 9 November 2011. I was well aware of that expiry and have a trip home for the purpose of renewing the passport. Seemingly not soon enough.

The agent was surprisingly sympathetic for what is really very a stupid mistake on my part.

"Do you have an ID card?" she asks. I hand her my drivers license, and she tries scanning that instead.

She frowns. Nope, that didn't work either.

The agent loosely explains the Schengen Area- a group of EU countries (but not all) that allow for tourists to
travel between them under the same visa and passport rules- ie. carrying a currently valid passport for the duration of stay is sufficient. Despite it's status as an EU country, Cyprus is one of the exceptions and is not part of the Schengen area. Noted.

She then calls the flight manager who comes over- the circumstances are relayed in german and she turns to me with another frown...

"I don't think we can get you in," she says with a faint British accent. "I can try calling our Cyprus contacts and see if there's someone there who can agree to let you in, or you can try going to the consulate in the city."

It was now 1:30pm in the afternoon- fortunately our flight was not until 9:00pm- so at least I had some options. Elated with her willingness to help, I asked that she try calling, but that I would also make a trip to the Canadian consulate and see if I had any passport extension or renewal options. The flight manager even took my mobile number and offered to call in the event she had any news from Cyprus.

The reality of the situation was begin to fizzle out the optimism of my being able to get on this flight. The other three had checked their luggage and I dropped mine off at an in-airport baggage storage. They were headed into town for Oktoberfest- I was headed to the Canadian consulate. With the exceptionally efficient and helpful airport staff, we were on the train with a map and directions to the consulate.

The sad goodbyes began when Costas, Ally, and Paul got off the train to go drink beer and I stayed on the train.
It was now 2:30pm and knowing that consulates keep obscure, limited hours, I had tightened my shoe laces and tightened my handbag to make for a mad dash once the train stopped. The Marienplatz central station is massive and I got lost underground for the first ten minutes, depserately hunting for an exit upward. I reached the busy city street where it was still pouring rain and tourists were milling about. Terrible conditions for making a mad dash in a unfamiliar city.

I completely shelved my usual desire to avoid asking for help and searched to find someone who appeared to know the area. With a loose handwave from a bicycle tuk tuk driver, I headed down a nearby street. I glanced up and spotted the Canadian flag hanging high above further down the street- sopping wet in the rain.
I ran.

I jolted to a stop in front of an electronics store- this is what was below the flag. What the heck?
Past the shoppers streaming in and out, I noticed a small door to the side with a brass nameplate for various offices above the shop. The hours for the consulate were posted:

Mon-Fri, 9am-12noon.

It was now nearly 3:00pm. I buzzed the Canadian Consulate button desperately hoping someone might be there. A woman's voice spoke up, in a french yet german sounding accent,

"Hello. Canadian Consulate."

In my out-of-breath and fairly panicky voice I tried to describe what I needed,

"I'm a Canadian," I say, panting... "I have a flight... tonight... but my passport is not valid."

The woman's voice comes on, "Ahhhh...." she sounds unimpressed and very confused.

"Is there someone I can speak with?" I ask in a not-very-fake distressed female voice.

The buzzer goes and I open the door, taking the stairs two by two. The consulate is in a quiet office building, with the corridors lined with doors to various other office spaces- some with discreet plaques out front and some with no labels at all. I reach the third floor and at the end of the hall is a giant bronze plaque of some sort of diplomatic arms hanging above the solid wood door. Another buzzer.

I push it and wait.

No response.

I push it again- not wanting to agitate but with little patience remaining.

Still no response.

I push one more time, holding it down.

The door buzzes and I open it up to a spacious but sparsly furnished reception area- with a red carpet. The room is dimly lit.

I see an older woman standing behind a desk with a high glass screen- almost like at a bank.

As I approach, she says to me "You know we are closed, right?"

Not a great start.

"Yes, so I've just realised... So I appreciate you letting me in," I reply in the friendliest voice I can muster.

I explain my situation, but my circumstances are met with little sympathy. I mention the Schengen area, as I had since realised that the UK is not part of the Schengen area and I might also face troubles returning to England- despite my having a valid student visa. My favourite part was when she replied saying,

"Oh no. We have a special agreement with England, you see, with the Queen being our founder-" she kind of trailed off, but left her hand hang in the air, pointing to a giant portrait of the Queen on the opposite wall.
Right. After all the hoopla I went through with my student visa, it's clear this woman does not appreciate the limited extent of this "agreement." The woman then starts typing away- but had made it quite clear there was little she could do. She printed off the details of the Schengen area- LESSON LEARNED- and handed me a passport renewal package... for 15day processing.

I said my thanks and shuffled out of the consulate entirely deflated. This was the last shot at making the flight- it was official, I would not be going to Cyprus that evening. I felt a bit foolish feeling all sad when I stepped back out into the rain and, amongst the bustling shoppers, were the usual big-city homeless people resting in sheltered corners between shops. It was a much needed dose of perspective.

With no internet cafes in the area to check out what my next steps might be, I decided to get in touch with the others and meet them at Oktoberfest. I figured there is no harm in wiping the day's drama from my memory for an hour over a big stein with friends, surrounded by entertaining German culture. My brief taste of Oktoberfest was a good one- we visited two tents and enjoyed tasty brews and great traditional music despite the continuing rain. Weiners and crepes rounded out the beer tasting experience as we headed back toward the airport in the early evening.

I said my goodbyes as Ally, Paul and Costas as they headed off to catch the flight- and I stood waiting in line to
speak to the airline and try to fandangle a credit. That flopped. I wandered around aimlessly for quite some time- not really sure about what I was going to do. With Oktoberfest going, accommodation was next to impossible to find- and was certainly at a premium. Over our beers we had joked about my traveling to Turkish Cyprus in the north and trying to get into greek Cyprus that way. According to the people at Turkish airlines at the Munich airpot, the same rule applies for northern Cyprus... that said- things are a bit different on the northern half- trying will make for good adventure either way.

Assumming there are no Cypriot authorities following the blog- this currently stands as my plan of action. I bought a flight to Istanbul leaving at 7:30am Tuesday morning.

There is something very peculiar about booking a fight while sitting at the airport- and looking up at the screen to see it click onto the big board. I sit here reciting the day's adventures as the Munich airport begins to quiet down after midnight. Despite German rigour and rules, I'm surprised to find people scattered about, clearly spending the night here- stretched out and sleeping on benches, chairs- and even with sleeping bags. Come to think of it, I do have my tent with me...

I fell asleep for an hour or two, and this time not woken up by rain or a sore neck, but rather the snoring of a 60-year old italian sleeping on the next bench over.

Day 13: Surrounding Salzburg

18 September 2011

We had ambitious plans for the day; first heading south to Kehlsteinhaus, or "the Eagle's Nest" which served as one of Hitler's summer homes and sits just inside the German border in Bavaria. Hitler was given the home in 1939 as a 50th birthday gift from the Austrian leaders at the time. It sits deep in the mountains, but perched high up with limited access.  We stopped en route in a small nearby town when some sort of local, traditional ceremony seemed to be going on. Paul thought it was a funeral so it's probably for the best I didn't get snap happy. By the time we had parked it was over anyway- but pausing to take in the area and view was lovely.

Tomtom led us to a small village 30min south of Salzburg. As we headed south, Paul read aloud from Wikipedia:

"It is situated on a ridge at the top of the Kehlstein mountain 1,834 m (6,017 ft), reached by a 6.5 km (4.0 mi) long and 4 m (13 ft) wide road that cost 30 million RMs to build (about 150 million euros in 2007, adjusted in line with inflation). It includes five tunnels but only one hairpin turn and climbs 800 m (2,600 ft).

The last 124 m (407 ft) up to the Kehlsteinhaus are reached by an elevator bored straight down through the mountain and linked via a tunnel through the granite below that is 124 m (407 ft) long. The inside of the large elevator car is surfaced with polished brass, Venetian mirrors and green leather (the elevator is still used daily). Construction of the mountain elevator system cost the lives of 12 construction workers."

Curious about how such a site could have survived post-war demolition of Nazi-related infrastructure, my questinos were soon answered as Paul continued with his wikipedia narrations:

"Although the site is on the same mountain as the Berghof [another Nazi property], Hitler rarely visited the property. It has been suggested he only visited the Kehlsteinhaus around 10 times, and most times for no more than 30 minutes. However he did receive André François-Poncet (the departing French ambassador to Germany) there on October 18, 1938. As a result of the lack of close association with Hitler the property was saved from demolition at the end of the war."

We stopped partway up the mountain to pay a toll for the "panorama road" of 10 euro and continued on. Tomtom had us turn a sharp right onto a very narrow road. At the entrance was a sign in German- in retrospect it was a warning sign of sorts, but at the time we decided that as it didn't contain the word "auto" it wasn't telling us that cars were not allowed to pass.

The road quickly turned to gravel and took on a convex shape- it was like driving on top of a narrow archway.

And this was before it even got steep...

The road continued to narrow, and returned to asphalt.

We crawled upward, as the road got narrower still.

"Do we think we should be driving this?" Ally asks.

"Hm..." says Paul, who is taking is slowly, but still confident behind the wheel.

"I don't know..." I chime in. By this point the road was less than 4m wide- and Paulina is a wide car. With hairpin turns every 10m, just as described in Wikipedia, this certainly was a tough "eagle's nest" to get to. It was when we passed a group of people walking up the steep "road" that we became more uncertain of our decision to drive.

We passed yet another group of walkers, and outcroppings of rock began to make these hairpin turns even more challenging.

We were getting anxious looking over the steep drops beside us as we weaved up the mountain at a snail's pace.

Ally looking out over the foggy edge...looking a bit nervous.

By the time we were 4km along the narrow road, we were on the lookout for suitable turnaround points- otherwise it was going to be a painfully long and difficult reverse down the mountain.   The tomtom indicated that we had another 1km to travel, but as we were climbing, the cloud and fog grew thicker. We made the decision to back down to the nearest spot that would suit to turnaround- which, on usual roads, one wouldn't even think of using for a 180.

Paul cooly navigated Paulina with Costas providing direction from the road. Ally and I gripped the arm rests.

The drive down was hard on the brakes, but we made it back safely. The hikers we had passed on the way up looked at us as if we were crazy. I think maybe we were.

When we finally reached the main parking lot at the bottom (the one we had whizzed by on our way up with a slight air of disregard), we saw that the walk to the eagle's nest was over 6km, and at a significant incline. And having made it most of the way up by car, we were well aware of how poor of a view we'd get with today's fog and clouds. We decided to call it quits (perhaps secretly a bit scared of another encounter with those hairpin turns, even if on foot) and head onto our next big activity of the day.... the world's biggest ice caves!

As we got back on the main motorway and headed toward Werfen, home of the "Eisriesenwelt" (ice caves), Ally took the wheel and Paul resumed his narration of wikipedia's description of the eagle's nest to find out what we'd missed:

"Today the building is owned by a charitable trust, and serves as a restaurant. The restaurant features an indoor dining area and an outdoor beer garden. It is a popular tourist attraction, particularly for Britons, Canadians and Americans attracted by the historical significance of the "Eagle's Nest". The house can be reached on foot (two hours of walking), the road having been closed to normal traffic since 1952."

Paul looks up, "Oh my. If only I had read one paragraph further before we tried to drive..."

We all laugh. Given our experiences with Austrian and German rule-following, we were somewhat concerned of the trouble we might get in...who knows who from... but for being those foolish tourist who tried to take a Sunday drive to Hitler's house.

But more legitimate adventure awaited...
http://www.eisriesenwelt.at/site/content/CB_ContentShow.php?coType=home&lang=EN

Austria's ice caves were described as one of the top 7 things to do in the Salzburg area and provided great views of the town of Werfen and the surrounding Alps. On our drive over we had brief conversation about how bundled we'd need to be.

"Just wear whatever you want, Costas." Traveling with the same folks shortens the temper...no matter the circumstances. Both Costas and Paul were in shorts while Ally and I planned to layer up.

We pulled into the main parking lot and climb out of the car. Costas is standing ahead of us, waiting. He comes back and pokes his head over the driver's door where Paul is gathering his things,

"Paul.... I don't see anyone with shorts."

They both laugh, and despite the evidence of a cold adventure to come, both boys begin the trek in shorts. Paul is wearing leather boat shoes.

We decided to hike up rather than take the funicular- a solid climb of about 75minutes reaching approximately 1600m from sea level.

Notice the loose shale footing. Paul got a curious look or two thanks to his boat shoes, from some better-equipped Germans who were on their way down.

The town of Werfen

Once at the top, we met up with the crowds of tourists offloading from the funicular and waited for the tour to begin. As we approached the cave we could feel the temperature drop and could now see our breath in the air.

At the entrance to the ice caves.

Unfortunately no photos were allowed inside the caves- but we snapped a quick shot outside the entrance as we were handed our lantern for the hour-long tour:

The caves are certainly a must-see if you ever find yourself in the Salzburg area. They were discovered in the 1870s and stretch for nearly 14km into the mountain- with the caves itself continuing for over 40km! The steepest ice wall is at 70degrees- and they've managed to rig a set of stairs that climb at 45 degrees alongside it. The tour travels one kilometer deep into the caves, with temperatures sitting at zero degrees celcius. After the warming climb up, we were pretty chilled by the end of the tour.

I've borrowed a few pictures from google to give a sense of what the caves are like:

A promotional photo- but just imagine us in that group somewhere.



The tours are well-guided, and despite the rule-following and precautious nature of Austrians (as we'd experienced it so far), you certainly had to watch out for yourself. Many parts of the route were without railings and there were frequent low rocks and cave walls- perfect for head-hitting while navigating the slippery steps. The guides burned coiled magnesium to create the white light that brought the caves to light. Very neat.

By the end of the tour we were chilled to the bone and raced back down to catch a cablecar to the car;

We were met with thick cloud cover and the beginning of another rainstorm- so headed back to Salzburg for our last night into town at the youth hostel before we return to Munich with Paulina. We hope to make quick work of our hire car return- including flat tire negotiations- and if we're lucky, get a taste of the Oktoberfest activities in town before we fly to Larnaca, Cyprus late Monday night.