Waffles in Ortakoy

I have recently been introduced to yet another of Istanbul's culinary delights: waffles. Of course, this isn't exactly what springs to mind when you think of classic Turkish cuisine, and I don't think it is, but, as with everything here, the Turks have made it their own.

You don't have to go out of your way to find these elaborate treats; you see places advertising waffles on more or less every street. However, there is one particular place who's waffles seem to have attained almost legendary status among the expats of Istanbul, and that's Ortakoy, a waterfront district on the European side. There you'll find a line of about ten stands that devote themselves entirely to creating the best waffles in town.

As you gaze down with gluttonous eyes at the store front display of imaginative and delicious fillings you can choose from, it's hard to stop yourself from salivating a little. After eventually settling on banana, kiwi, strawberries, chestnut paste, chopped pistacio, chopped peanuts, nutella and hazelnut spread, the vendor dollops the batter into the waffle maker, then slathers it with a generous layer of the spreads and piles on the fillings of choice. He then rolls it up to make a sort of wrap. It is almost impossible to keep waffle-eating a neat process; I soon got myself into a gooey mess.

I think I could happily eat these every day of my life. Although not without investing in some wet-wipes first.

Rumeli Hisari

I opened my curtains on Tuesday morning to warmth and blue and felt an immediate compulsion to be outdoors. After several attempts to decipher the rapid Turkish and wild gesticulations of various bus drivers, I finally worked out which bus I needed to be on to take me to Istanbul's vast and ancient fortress, Rumeli Hisari. It took me all the way along the coastal road, past some very exclusive looking cafes and what can only be described as a 'quaint' little harbour which displayed a collection of wooden boats of varying degrees of luxury arranged neatly alongside eachother.

When the time came for me to get off, all my fellow passengers who had heard me explaining in broken Turkish where I was trying to get to started tapping me on the shoulder and enthusiastically indicating that this was the place. I hopped off the bus and peered up at the pale stone edifice of gargantuan propotions. Sturdy is the word.

Being an off-season weekday, I had the place practically to myself. I spent about an hour wandering around the stone walls, clambering up every set of perilously narrow cobbled steps, some of which were perhaps only two feet wide with a 20 foot drop to one side. Of course, due to the delicious disregard of health and safety, there was not a railing in sight

I climbed up to the highest point of the fortress and there I wedged myself between the battlements and spent a happy half-hour sitting there lost in thought, overlooking the beautiful Bosphorus that was gleaming as the sunlight danced about upon it's surface.

A mix up with the police

For the second time in the two months since I've been here I have had to shift my two suitcases of belongings across the Bosphorus from one continent to the other. I had to leave my apartment on the Asian side because the lease was up, and the school has now placed me in another apartment on the European side. It must be admitted that this second move was considerably easier that the first. Instead of battling through the ever-teeming and letally uneven streets of Istanbul with two suitcases that probably equate to my own weight, the school provided me with the company car. This car is a large, imposing black van with blacked out windows, driven by the company's driver, whose name is Mehmet. After we had crossed the bridge into Europe and were about 10 minutes from my new apartment, we were waved over by the police. I thought nothing of this at first, expecting it to be just some kind of random, routine check for a driver's license or something. However, the policemen soon started to take a distinctly aggressive tone with Mehmet, and then demanded to see my passport, which, after much huffing and puffing and eye-rolling, I managed to retrieve from the depths of my suitcase. After I showed it to them, one if the policemen gestured me back into the passenger seat of the car, where he attempted to interrogate me in Turkish. After much repetition and gesticulating, I eventually understood that he was asking me if I knew Mehmet, and, for some reason, if I had paid him any money, or if he had paid me any money. In my limited Turkish all I could do was say again and again 'ogretmenim Ingilize!' (I'm an English teacher), which did little to enlighten the increasingly exasperated police officer. After several calls to their superiours, the policemen eventually seemed to decide that it was all more hassle than it was worth, and so let us go. It was only later that evening after talking to some friends that I realised what it was all about. They thought Mehmet was traffiking me for the sex trade. Mistaken for a prostitute - first time for everything.

Traffic wardens

Since the weather has taken a turn for the worse, Istanbul seems to have found it necessary to station neon-adorned traffic wardens next to various sets of traffic lights as what they seem to think is an extra safety measure. As far as I can see, the sole purpose of these wardens is to stand on the pavement and blow their whistle in the most infuriating manner to signal that the lights are green. As if the drivers couldn't see otherwise. And as if they could even hear a traffic warden whistling over the roar of Istanbul traffic. The most superfluous job ever.

Dolmabahce

On our day off last week, my flatmate and I decided on a touristy visit to the Dolmabahce Palace, a building which is perhaps one of the finest examples of Ottoman extravagance. The place was truly phenomenal; possibly the most elaborate example of interior design you can imagine. I have never seen such plushness; an opulent swathe of colour and patterns, offset by by the shimmering, shivering crystal chandaliers in every room from which you can hear the very slightest tinkling sound as they are stirred by tourists' intrusive footsteps.

One of the main features of the Palace is the principal staircase in the official entrance hall. Truly unlike anything I have ever seen before, the sweeping curve of the carpeted stairway is framed by the perfectly preserved transparency of glistening English crystal.

The many chandaliers in the palace are dwarfed the one that hangs in the cavernous ceremonial hall. This hall in itself is breath-taking; its vast marble columns supporting a painted ceiling under which you could probably fit an entire mosque, but its centrepiece surpasses all. What is claimed to be the largest chandalier in Europe, the four and a half tonnes of crystal suspended from the ceiling was said to have been a gift from Queen Victoria.

However, in amongst all that grandeur in the palace, if you look closely, there is the slightest eccentricity. As you run your eyes down the vast and immaculately varnished wooden doors inlaid with gold and mother of pearl, you notice something slightly odd. Where you would expect to see a large and elaborately engraved golden doorhandle, you see instead a small, round, porcelain one, painted with a selection of slightly gaudy florals, not unlike something I would find in my grandmother's little Dorset cottage. An odd choice by the Sultan Mehmet, I wonder if one of his many wives had something to do with it.

Istanbul Emniyet

I have now made two visits to the Istanbul Emniyet in the long and complicated process of getting my residency visa, one on Christmas Day and one last week when the snow was falling. It is exactly as I expected it to be; a huge and utilitarian concrete building that at any hour of the day is swarming with people of practicaly any nationality you can think of. It is chaos; people shouting and gesturing, bustling and rushing, sitting and waiting. When I was there last week I even caught a fleeting glimpse of a woman in labour being manouvered into a fold-out wheelchair surrounded by a gaggle of clucking relatives. What a place for a new life to begin. I'm bracing myself for what I hope will be my last trip tomorrow.

A snow day

It is somehow strange to hear the call to prayer, a sound which so forcefully evokes the blistering heat of the Middle East, resonating through a mist of big, slow snowflakes as they drift down drowsily through that white snow light onto the higgledy-piggledy rooftops of Istanbul.

Christmas (or New Year?) confusion

A hilarious Turkish quirk has come to light over the last two weeks. Whilst the Turks are all aware of Christmas and understand its significance to us as a religious holiday, they seem to believe it to be somehow fused with New Year's Eve, perhaps even believing it to be one and the same thing. Let me explain further. Having had only the most cursory smattering of Christmas propoganda in the run-up to actual Christmas, in the run-up to New Year's Eve, Istanbul was inundated with it. All along the main streets there were cut-outs of Christmas trees and ball-balls, not, however, bearing the usual Christmas greetings, but instead best wishes for 2013. From about the 27th until the 31st there were vendors stationed on every street corner selling Father Christmas hats, shops were playing out the Turkish version of 'Jingle Bells' (which is almost worse than the original version) and on New Year's Eve itself, I even saw someone in full Father Christmas costume! My lovely students all very sweetly wished me a 'Happy Christmas', but not on the 23rd or the 24th, but on the 31st, which prompted me to spend about half an hour of my lesson going into a detailed breakdown of the difference between the two events, using various timelines and diagrams of Christmas trees and fireworks to clarify my meaning.

A tourist day

A couple of weeks ago on our day off, my flatmate and I made a spontaneous trip to Sultanahmet, the main tourist district of Istanbul. Here you find all the principal tourist attractions conveniently spaced within walking distance of eachother, at least, if you manage not to lose yourself in the labyrinthine streets. It was a murky day and had been grey and drizzling for most of it, which in certain parts of Istanbul somehow seems to make the city even more atmospheric, as well as having the added advantage of warding off the usual hoards of tourists.

After a rich and silty Turkish coffee on the ferry we were caffined up and ready to make a beeline for the Grand Bazaar. I had been there once before and on second visit was no less overwhelmed by the riot of colour, the range of goods and the vibrancy of those who work there. After about an hour of wandering we eventually found our way out of that Alladin's cave and out into the open streets once again. It was dark by this time and the treacherously uneven cobblestones were gleaming with wet and light. We passed through an old book market, overhung with dripping vines, and then sidled through some twisting back alleys until, quite by accident, we found ourselves facing the magnificent Blue Mosque. What a sight. A complex arrangement of six minarets and a multitude of domes, the iconic mosque was dramatically lit against the night, seeming to defy the mist and drizzle of the December evening.

We approached on the offchance that we might be allowed in, and were told that the main body of the mosque was closed for the evening, but that we could watch the prayers. This bothered me a bit at first because I felt like a bit of a voyeur, especially in my relative ignorance of the religion, but once inside there wasn't a problem; the space is so big that you sort of lose yourself in it and so don't feel too much like an imposter. The prayers were beautiful, mainly for the emotive sound of the Imam's chant and the unified assent of the praying men echoing effortlessly through the space.

As you enter the outer courtyard of the mosque the first thing you notice is the beautifully white, smooth marble paving stones, enhanced that night by the sheen of the rain. Inside the mosque itself is no less spectacular; the colossal marble pillars rising up into the acutely blue mosaics of the domes. An enormous wrought iron chandalier hangs from the main dome right down to a mere seven or eight feet from the carpeted floor.

Afterwards we walked all the way back down to Eminonu, where we dived under the famous fisherman-lined Galata bridge, to find a whole row of fish restaurants marketing the day's catches. We settled here for an hour or so as we gorged on the fantastic fresh fish sandwiches before catching the last boat back to the Asian side. A good day.