Istanbul Part 2

 

The coffee culture has amazed me in every country I’ve been in.  Even though the Turks had their own coffee from way back, they have also adapted to the more modern lists of coffee concoctions.  It’s not advisable to drink the water there, but for a caffeine fix, the city has you covered.  You can go anywhere in the city and get an Americano, an espresso, a cappuccino.  But I was in Türkiye.  I had to try their famous coffee at least once before I left.

I followed a suggestion on my phone to this little out of the way place for my first and only Turkish breakfast.  I had no idea what I was ordering or what to expect but I’m here to say: Turkish breakfast is amazing.  I’m not even going to tell you what’s in those little cups.  You’ll just have to go to Turkiye and experience it for yourself.

The coffee is strong and very chocolate-y with a bunch of silt at the bottom of the tiny cup (Greek coffee was the same).  They ask if you want it sugared or not (definitely order sugar) and they give you a little glass of water with it to clear the palette.  Despite being mired in tradition, the coffee has been relegated to special occasions.  Modern Turks actually drink tea all day.  In any marketplace, you can see men walking around with trays loaded with cups of tea to deliver to shopkeepers throughout the day.  When the lovely waitress offered me more bread and tea, I said yes to both.  Everything was just so tasty.

I’d learned from a meal earlier in the week: when they give you the little cup of tea, don’t touch it.  It’s served boiling hot so you can’t drink it right away.  Just put in the sugar cube, stir it, then let it sit for a minute.  Then when you can touch it without burning your fingers, take a tiny sip to test the temperature.  It’s good tea and worth the wait.

My last day in Istanbul in three words: OH MY GOD!

Saturday was a particularly gorgeous day.  The weather during my entire stay had been great – rainy when I arrived and overcast on one morning, but other than that, every day was mid-70’s and sunny.  I’ve already explained that I’m not a fan of entering religious buildings as a tourist – makes me uncomfortable.  But as there are numerous historic buildings in Istanbul and I had yet to see any of the touristy parts, I figured I’d make an effort on my last day.

I also wanted to finally figure out the transit system.  I had purchased an Istanbulcart card, a multi-day pass for tourists to use on most means of public transit.  Tried to use it on the subway and it didn’t work.  Did some research that evening and found out the card has no credit on it (!).  You have to do that separately – which is stupid, but okay.  Went to charge it the next day and it said the card couldn’t be charged.  What.  The.  Hell? 

Cut to that Saturday.  I tried to charge the card using a different machine when a little girl gestured to me that the machine didn’t work.  She pointed me to the machines used by the locals for the more permanent transit cards.  Guess what?  I couldn’t get that one to work either.  Ah, screw it.  I’ll just take a trip on the ferry instead.

I’d planned a tour of the Bosphorus anyway, so now seemed the right time.  My neighborhood of Kadikoy is considered the trendy area with all the shops and cafes.  Across a short stretch of water lay the Karakoy (sounds the same but are two different places) neighborhood with many of the historical churches and buildings.  I decided to see the Galata Tower first as it was a famous landmark.

This is where my time in Portugal comes in handy.  The Tower is in an ancient section of town.  The roads are made of old, uneven cobblestone up some impressive hills.  I saw other tourists stop to rest as they tried to make it up this beast.

This isn’t even the full hill.  It makes a turn, so I couldn’t get it all in one picture.  But it is ugly.  And a pretty typical hill in Portugal, so I was able to make it up without rest or injury.  Yay me!

The tower was beautiful – from the outside.  I didn’t even try to get in because the line was way too long.  Instead, I took my pictures, bought my simit for the day, and explored the surroundings.  As I was sitting and eating by a fountain, I started to actually feel the place.  Yes, Istanbul is chaotic and I don’t know what anyone is saying, but the history in every building, the music coming from all around, the interesting mix of cultures and religions that are woven into the city is just mesmerizing.  I can understand how the city draws in so many visitors. 

Simit done, I made my way across Galata Bridge to the Egyptian Bazaar, a famed marketplace.  It consists of a glut of stores and stalls before you get to a large gate.  That was a struggle getting through the narrow, incredibly clogged alley.  I was tired of being jostled even before I got to the gate.  And then onto … The Grand Bazaar in two words: sensory overload.  There is so much to see that you end up not seeing anything.  It was purses, and rugs, and spices, and jewelry, and shoes and … so much stuff.  And so many people angling to get to that stuff and hawkers trying to get you to look at their stuff and the sounds and the smells and …  As with the rest of Istanbul, it was a lot.

I couldn’t stay long.  Even with all there was to see, the crush of people wore me out pretty quickly.  I exited the Bazaar and figured I’d head over to the Blue Mosque, a famous temple.  On the way there, a man speaking English stopped to inform me that the Mosque was currently closed to anyone but worshippers.  If I were to come back, I’d need to cover my hair (I knew that, but I just wanted to see the mosque, not enter it).  Instead, he suggested coming to his rug shop.  I started walking and he kept pace with me, telling me about the area. He led me to the basement of his shop to show me his art – the most gorgeous handmade rugs.  He invited me to tea in the sitting area (tea and hospitality are very big with the Turks) and the rugs were forgotten as we just talked. 

His name is Zaza and he called me delicious.

This is his rug shop where we had tea.

And this is the view from his apartment.

And that’s all I will say about Zaza except that he is the sweetest man I have ever met and I will remember him for the rest of my life.

Never did get to see the Blue Mosque, though.

Making my way back from his place in the growing dusk, down unfamiliar Turkish streets, I was still reeling over meeting that man.  I got back to the ferry muttering OMG the entire time.  The sun began to set and a couple of musicians started to perform in the back of the ferry.  It made the whole trip home even more surreal and beautiful.

No headache upon my return to the apartment this day.  I was way too freaked out to absorb much of anything between his apartment and mine.

The next day, I packed up to leave.  I had declined breakfast with Zaza by WhatsApp and instead climbed into a cab ... driven by another crazy cab driver.  Honestly, I barely noticed.  My brain was still too fried.  Only one thing I can say about my visit.

Freaking Turkiye, man.

Istanbul Part 1

 

My time in Turkiye began with the kindness of one man and ended with the kindness of another.  The country is now burned onto my memory when it was only meant to be my gateway to Southeast Asia.

Freaking Turkiye, man.

In planning my next move after Bulgaria, I was a bit troubled.  I want to hit Thailand, Singapore and Cambodia then, hopefully, I’ll also dip down to Australia (Melbourne) and New Zealand.  Here’s the problem:  Singapore requires a return plane ticket and the last two countries just entered winter (the seasons are reversed in that part of the world).  The whole trip requires a bit more time and planning.  Since most of the flights I found would end up routing me through Istanbul anyway, I figured, screw it.  Just go to Istanbul for a week, check it out, then dip down from that huge international airport.

As I had already bused across Bulgaria from Sofia to Sunny Beach and, since Turkiye is right over the border, I thought to save a trip to the airport and just bus it again.  Sigh.  I feel that was a mistake.

The bus ride took forever.  That was a long eight hours and a big two-hour chunk of that was spent on the nightmare of Turkish border control.  I admit it.  I got too complacent.  Every country I’ve been to so far didn’t require a visa, so I stopped checking.  And thinking that I was just crossing from Bulgaria into Turkiye, I assumed that the rules would be the same. 

AMERICANS NEED A VISA TO VISIT TURKIYE.  If anyone from the U.S.A. wants to visit the country, please do your research beforehand. You need to apply for an e-visa online to save yourself the panic I experienced at that crowded patrol office.  Though this wasn’t explained to me at the time, I probably could have applied for a visa on my phone if I weren’t so taken aback and unfamiliar with the process.

Without a visa, I was scrambling from person to person trying to resolve the manner.  It didn’t help that most barely spoke English and could not care less about my plight.  The nearby convenience store did not have an ATM and the office did not accept cards.  And, of course I didn’t have any Turkish Lira as I hadn’t even entered the country yet.  All I had were a few Bulgarian Lev, maybe $10 American, and a few euros.  Not enough to equal the 637 Turkish Lira required for the visa (equivalent of $30 US).

Just as I figured I was about to be stranded on the Bulgarian side of border patrol with nowhere to go and no way to get there, the driver paid for my visa from his own pocket.  I couldn’t thank him enough (or at all, he spoke Bulgarian and Turkish only), but he took my ATM card as collateral so that I’d pay him back.  And after every passenger had to show our passports not once, not twice, but three times, we then had to get all out luggage off the bus to be scanned.  This was worse than going to the airport.  At least the staff there were better organized.  More proof of this was the mile-long line of cars we passed that were trying to get out of Turkiye and into Bulgaria.

When we were finally cleared to leave, I worried for the rest of the bus ride.  I know worry is useless, but I was already on edge from my lack of planning for the visa and my brain tends to dwell on the nightmare scenarios.  What if he loses my card?  What if he left it at the patrol desk?  What if he forgets about it and leaves the country with it?  What if my card doesn’t work at the ATM? And, yes, I had alerted my bank that I was going to Turkiye.  But there’s always that little fear in the back of my mind that the card won’t work when I first put it into a foreign ATM, or it will get eaten or something.  Then what do I do?

We finally reached the bus station in Istanbul, and I flagged the man down.  He led me to an ATM where (yay!) the card worked, and I gave him 800 liras.  The man actually reached for his wallet to give me change.  Are you serious, dude?   You just saved my bacon.  I don’t want your change.  I waved him off and said thank you again.  He shook my hand and walked off while I went in search of a cab.

I had no preconceived notions about Turkiye, didn’t know much about it at all.  I didn’t realize that Istanbul straddles two continents and has multiple cultural districts.  Since the cab driver didn’t speak much English, we used the translation app on his phone to communicate.  The bus station was in the European section and he explained to me that we had to cross the water to get to the Asian section.  I had no idea what any of that meant so I just nodded and went along with it.

Prior to this travel journey, I’d rarely used taxis.  Atlanta is a big car town, so I just didn’t need to use taxis very often.  I realize that taxi drivers know the roadways inside and out, they know the best routes, and how to get around in traffic.  There is a great deal of trust you have to put in them to get you where you’re going safely.  That having been said, every taxi driver I’ve encountered is out of his or her freaking mind! Istanbul is no exception.  The cabbies there drive at warp speed even in the mild drizzle going on in the city when I arrived.  They love to speed up on a car then honk to get that car out of their way.  You know those lines they paint on the streets?  Yeah, those are just suggestions in Istanbul.  People just drive in the middle of those lines, drive diagonally, slip by other cars so closely you’d expect to see sparks flying.  It is just … wow.  I’ve learned to close my eyes and just pray to whatever deity may be listening for a safe journey.  It’s worked out well so far.

Somehow, we made it to the place.  Parking in the city is non-existent, so the man had to jam his way into a one-way street to let me out.  The apartment was a pleasant surprise.  Very clean with a full kitchen and a washer.  I think this is the first time I’ve seen a full-size fridge in Europe.  The thing is taller than I am.  That’s unusual but cool.

The host had left out two pairs of slippers along with the towels as it is customary to take your shoes off when entering the home.  I’d gotten into that habit in Bulgaria, so that wasn’t an issue.  Finding outlets was an issue (again) as the only place to set up my computer was the dining room table.  The only available outlet meant that the cord was draped in front of the bedroom door.  I had to constantly remind myself not to trip over it.

Exploring the city the next day, I quickly stumbled upon the rail station.  I noted it but kept walking.  I also discovered my new favorite food in the country. This is a Turkish bagel called a simit.

It is cheap, plentiful, and delicious.  I bought one every day I was in Turkiye and highly recommend them to anyone going there.  Just go up to a cart and say ‘Bir simit lutfen’ (one bagel please).  Tesekkurler (thanks).  There are accents on some of these Turkish words, but there’s no way I can do them with an American keyboard.

Seeing the variety of people in this country was very interesting.  There were many women wearing headscarves, if not full burkas.  I saw one woman whose entire skin, even her hands, were covered and all you could see were her eyes.  Then, not a few feet away, a woman walked by with a bare midriff and purple hair.  It was very strange.  Seeing the contrast did make me feel very comfortable with the long pants and t-shirts I was wearing.  No one paid any attention to anyone’s dress or skin color.  Everyone was too busy just trying to maneuver around the pedestrians, cars and motorcycles to even notice anyone else existed.

Turkiye ups the ante from Bulgaria and Greece in the number of stray cats on the streets.  There are also stray dogs there.  Big ones.  It was initially a little unnerving to see these 100-pound dogs just lying in the middle of the sidewalk. But they act just like the cats.  They are well fed and don’t even pay much attention to pedestrians.  They aren’t aggressive or loud, they just hang out and everyone expects them to just be around. 

My neighborhood is called Kadikoy, a very busy place near the harbor.  Plenty of restaurants, shops, and grocery stores in every direction.  Something I noted both here and in Bulgaria is there are a lot of places that sell ornate evening gowns and wedding attire.  There were several multi-level stores featuring the most gorgeous designs. 

As I am a fan of green spaces, I was thrilled to find this park a block away from my apartment.  

What was even better was its proximity to yet another park near the harbor. 

Istanbul, while beautiful and interesting, is exhausting.  Not like Rome where my legs were dead by the last day.  And not like Dublin when my feet were killing me from all the walking.  No, this is too much cigarette smoke, too many people, cars, honking horns (so many honking horns!), motorcycles, cats, dogs, uneven pavement – it’s just a bit much.  Add to that the serious language barrier and the place is mentally and emotionally draining.  Very few people speak English and I truly felt like an alien in the city.  I returned to the apartment every day with a mild headache.

Sunny Beach (or will it ever stop raining in Bulgaria?)

I haven't been on a cross-country bus in years.  I wasn't sure what to expect, but except for the rain, it wasn't a bad trip.  And it meant one less round through airport security.

The Bulgarian countryside is pretty, but a whole bunch of nothing.  Few settlements and even fewer exits.  It was pretty much a straight shot to the coast.  We made two stops at the cluster of cities in the middle of the country, but that was it.  And the rain continued off and on through the entire journey.

We arrived at Burgas bus station, a pretty yellow building, and I sat down to wait.  My host had agreed to pick me up at the station.  Except it wasn’t this station.  I’m thinking he was to pick me up in Burgas, but he meant to pick me up from the Sunny Beach station once I’d taken the shuttle from Burgas.  Instead, I just sat waiting in the light rain and gathering dark for 1 ½ hours for nothing.  I’m an idiot.

Just as I set off to find a bus (using Google Translate to read the Bulgarian bus signs), a man approached me.  He’d been sitting in a cab across the street the entire time I’d been there and he must have seen my frustration.  He offered me a ride and after figuring out the address and the cost I agreed.  Anything to end the waiting.

Realizing that Burgas was an hour away from Sunny Beach, I understood why the host wouldn’t want to drive so far.  He did greet me at the hotel next to the apartment, got me in the building, and showed me around.  As for my new place … yeah.  It was clean and had most of the amenities.  But it was cold and impersonal unlike the place in Sofia which was very cozy.  The faux marble floor always looked wet when it was just shiny and could benefit from some throw rugs.  There is no microwave and the provided towels were kind of funky.

While the building itself is almost deathly quiet, from that first night to every night afterwards, there was a party going on somewhere else on the property.  I would discover later that the clubs and bars are not far from the apartment and there was loud music playing every night up until around midnight.  Annoying, but I got used to it.  Then, in the morning, the masses of seagulls in the area would wake me up with their incessant squawking.  With all the noise from the birds, it felt like I was visiting Jurassic Park. Oh, look.  There’s a dinosaur.

First morning there and ready to explore – but the rain continued.  What was worse was all the standing water everywhere.  The sidewalks, the street – it was a struggle to navigate around the puddles while still being mindful of the cars passing by and stirring up more water.  

My first view of a Balkan Beach – completely deserted and rainy.

I know it was raining and this is Bulgaria (party capital of the world), but the place feels half-dead.  Like the resort aspect of the place is well past its prime.  There are plenty of hotels here, restaurants, supermarkets, and pharmacies though half of them were closed. 

The dinosaur pictured above was fronting one of two dinosaur parks that were both closed.  A lot of the buildings I walked past were obviously residential and there were people walking around with their families, but very few appeared to be tourists.  It’s the end of May.  My first day in Bulgaria was on American Memorial Day, traditionally the beginning of summer and yet there’s no one here.  I ate out twice on that first day.  Two other tables filled while I ate breakfast, but for dinner, I had the entire restaurant to myself.  How do these people stay in business?

I have to mention something else about the weather.  I knew the rain was cooling everything down, but it was still May.  No, I don’t know anything about Bulgarian weather patterns, but it felt way too cold to be the beginning of summer.  I went online to check.  Yep.  I knew it wasn’t just me.  According to Microsoft on 5/30/23, at 74 degrees F, there was a record low temperature in Sunny Beach.  So much for getting in some beach time.

By Wednesday, though, the sun finally showed itself.  I could shed the hoodie and the umbrella and really get a sense of the place.  Oh.  There are the tourists.  The rain had kept them hidden, but they were there.  Not enough to sustain the place in my opinion, but at least the boardwalk was a lot livelier. 

There were the usual cafes, souvenir shops, clothing stores and the like on the very long strip.  Also a bunch of tattoo parlors and fish spas.  I’d first spotted one of these in Lisbon and thought it unusual.  There are at least five of them here.  You pay a small fee to sit with your feet in a fish tank while the fish eat away dead skin.  Interesting to look at, but I didn’t indulge.

By the end of the week, the temperature had risen enough to lay out on the beach.  The water was still freezing, but that didn’t stop others from getting in.  The beach offered jets skies, parachuting and speed boat rides.

I have to say that the Brits really get around.  In every location I’ve visited, there have been plenty of British tourists.  Their presence is so strong here that nearly every restaurant has a version of the full English Breakfast.  It became a goal of mine to find the best one on the strip.  This one had the best coffee. 

But this one had fries.  For breakfast 😊.

Being a resort town, there were also plenty of bars and happy hours everywhere.  The place took any opportunity to get you drunk.  I attended a couple of two for one drink specials.

And I am a sucker for an interesting cocktail.

Despite the slow decay of the resort, the beach was still nice.  And since the Bulgarian lev is worth about 50 cents on the American dollar, you can get a decent bang for your buck here.  

Sofia, Bulgaria

Why, oh why am I in Bulgaria?  It’s not exactly a happening hotspot like Amsterdam or Dublin.  I don’t speak a word of Bulgarian and I had no idea if English was widely spoken.  So why?

 A couple reasons.  One my favorite travel bloggers spends a lot of time there and really likes it.  Granted, she stayed in a mountainside village called Bansk and Sofia is the capital, but still, I wanted to get a sense of the country.  I am trying to work my way down to Southeast Asia and Sofia is a nice stopping point between there and The Netherlands.  And also, there’s Schengen.

Now’s a good time to explain the Schengen contract that exists in Europe.  There are roughly 30 countries in Western Europe that have entered into an agreement where anyone in those countries can freely work, travel, and live in any other Schengen country without having to worry about visas or passport control.  All the big dogs are in the contract; France, Italy, Germany, Spain, Greece, Portugal, the Netherlands, and a bunch of others.  The British Isles are not part of the contract nor is India, Asia or any of the African nations.  For anyone who isn’t in this contract, there are restrictions placed on how long you can stay in any of these countries.  For Americans, you can only stay for 90 days out of 180.  Then when your time is up, you have to leave those countries for another 3 months before returning.  I spent a month in Greece, a month in Portugal, and a week in Amsterdam so by my count I have roughly 3 weeks left.  I figure to get my three months in Southeast Asia, New Zealand, and Australia before returning to a Schengen country.

But first, Bulgaria.  Not in Schengen and Americans can stay in the country for 30 days without a visa.  So.  Why not?

I could quickly tell that Bulgaria was not a hotspot for tourism.  I flew into the country on Bulgaria Air – an airline that didn’t even have their own kiosk at Schiphol.  The lady checking in my baggage had to climb over the counter to get some luggage tags from British Air since she didn’t have any.  Didn’t make me very confident about my flight.  But I arrived in Sofia’s tiny airport with zero incidents.  And the chocolate they give you on the plane is pretty tasty.

My first view of Sofia, Bulgaria gave me some serious Athens vibes and not in a good way.  Crowded streets, graffiti covered buildings, and the look of soot on everything.  Not nearly as much trash as in Athens but I still got that vibe.

Like in Lisbon, the apartment I rented for the week doesn’t look like much from the outside, just a gate on the side of a building with peeling stucco in the middle of the block.  But the apartment itself is just as advertised; a studio with a full kitchen, living room and a tiny laundry room.  It was clean and beautifully decorated.  I was pleasantly surprised.

The place is also an easy walk to the commercial center of the city.  Plenty of restaurants, shops, and bars that are always busy unless it’s raining.  The rain was part of my bad impression of the city.  I arrived when everything was gray and drizzly, and it stayed that way off and on for most of the week. Fortunately, enough people speak English to where communicating wasn't too much of a problem.

Since I was still nursing my sore throat, I thought it best to stay out of the rain as much as possible.  That’s always hard to do when I first arrive since I want to scope out the grocery stores and get a lay of the land.  Scouting around for food, I passed by a restaurant called Happy that had a huge picture menu outside.  Went to reception and the woman asked me something that I don’t think I’ve heard in my adult life; smoking or non-smoking.  Oh.  Smoking is still a thing in restaurants here.  That’s not good.

The restaurant was just as huge as the menu as I was directed from one receptionist to another who showed me to my table in the back.  In looking at the waitresses, I got the impression that this place was the Bulgarian version of Hooters.  All the ladies were young, pretty, and tiny.   Their uniforms consisted of plaid shirts and short, tight, red skirts (and the skirts had to be tight if even I’m noticing all the butts).

The menu there, as in most places in Bulgaria, is huge and varied.  They’ll have Bulgarian dishes, of course, but also American, Greek, sushi, pizza – it’s nuts.  In Happy, I ordered a Bulgarian dish and some Asian bread, doing dinner international style.

I quickly got in the habit of looking at the people sitting in the tented off eating areas along the pedestrian walkway.  If I saw an ash tray or a pack of cigarettes, I looked for another place.  Other than the quick takeout places, this left me with few options.  I guessed that I’d have to figure out another of those convection stovetops if I wanted to feed myself. (Nope.  Never did figure that thing out.)

Another issue with the restaurants in Sofia.  I swear, any time I walked into one, it’s like I caught the staff off guard or something.  They act like “oh.  You want to eat here?”  Um.  Yeah.  You are an open restaurant, right?  You do serve food?  First instinct is to think it’s a race issue, but somehow, I don’t think it is.  That’s just how the staff are here.  Doesn’t mean they aren’t polite or efficient, just kind of detached.  Made me even less willing to leave the comfy apartment, so I lived off a casserole I made one night.

And then there’s this sign on the restaurant just steps from my apartment.  Yeah.  I’m not that adventurous of an eater.

I had determined, upon seeing the apartment, that I could hang out here for a while.  Save me from getting on a plane in a week’s time.  The first night in the place had me reconsidering.  1) The apartment is next door to a bar.  I saw the tiny outside seating area when the host showed me the place, but didn’t think anything of it.  Until the shouting and laughing and arguing started.  It lasted for hours.  Then, after a period of quiet 2) the dogs started howling.  I’d noticed that there were many people walking dogs around the square.  Didn’t realize it would be a problem until that night. And then, after another brief break 3) the cats decided to make their presence known by yowling just outside my window.  I was already sleeping in a strange bed in a strange place, I still had the sore throat, and the noise gave me the worst headache.  That first night was not fun.

The following nights weren’t nearly as bad, but the place was still noisy as hell.  It seemed like there was a speakeasy coming from one side of the building.  Jazzy piano music (well-played, don’t get me wrong) alternating with a flute came from the left of the apartment.  Loud shouting came from the right, making me think there were guys playing video games. And then there was always noise from the bar at night. The picture below is my view from the apartment of the back deck of the bar.

My second morning in Bulgaria, after finally getting some real rest, I figured out my issue with Sofia; there’s no water there.  Other than the rain of the first two days and a couple of fountains, the city has no major water source.  If it couldn’t be determined from my choice of places to go, I really like being near large bodies of water.  Amsterdam with its canals, Dublin’s location beside the river Laffey, the Greek Isles (obviously), and, of course, my plan to move to Madeira.  Water makes me happy. It is no longer acceptable to be apart from it. 

So even though Sofia has more of a sense of life than Athens, it’s still not high on my list of favorite places.  It does get points over Athens in that it has a couple of great parks.  Green spaces are always a plus in my book.

And then there are the roses.  Bulgaria is known for its roses.  There are everywhere.  Any time I went into a souvenir shop, the first thing that hit me was the smell of roses.  There were soaps, oils, skincare products, you name it.  That smell always made for a pleasant shopping experience.

The influence of America in Europe continues to amaze me.  I’ve already mentioned the American music everywhere.  You have no idea how surreal it is to be in a Bulgarian bookshop called Orange and hear Chop Suey by System of a Down come on over the speakers.  It is bizarre!  Add that to the English signage everywhere, English phrases on people’s clothing, and the American products and restaurants that have creeped into the culture and it feels more like a spreading cancer than a nice touch for tourists.  McDonald’s continues to have its greasy mitts in every culture along with Starbucks and Dominos.

Hey, I also have a clothing store to go with my restaurant in Greece!  Cool!

Despite my issues with Sofia as a whole, I enjoyed my time in the apartment.  It was a top five for accommodations on this journey.  I wanted to extend my stay, but the place was booked.  The owner offered me another one of his six (!) places, but only for a couple of days.  I declined and prepared to make another move.

Bad day in Amsterdam/Good day in Rotterdam

Travel lets you experience the joys of a new city, new energy and a sense of discovery along with so many other people of different races, creeds and nationalities.  I wake up every day feeling incredibly lucky to have the time, money, and freedom to spend on travel.

And then some days, I just wish I had an electric cattle prod.

AmsterDAM!  Friday was a bad day.

I got a late start – not a bad thing on its own.  I was catching up on some writing.  I sped that up because it was getting increasingly noisy in the hotel and I hadn’t had anything to eat yet.  I figured I’d do my laundry first before my next flight on Sunday.  I had asked the desk clerk about onsite laundry on my first day at the Moxy.  He said, as long as I bought the detergent, he’d let me use the machine on site.  On that crisp Friday morning, I attempted to do just that, laundry and soap in hand, only to be told by a different guy that only guests who were staying for two weeks were allowed to do their laundry on site.  Otherwise, I’d have to schlep my dirty drawers all the way into Amsterdam, by shuttle and train, to get them clean.  Pass.  I’ll just have to wait until my next destination (or see if that other clerk shows up on Saturday).

I thought to do something different and head into Rotterdam for the day. I took the train to the city, got out at the station only to realize that my 3-day pass does not cover trips to Rotterdam.  I could not get out of the station.  There were no ticket booths inside – you have to purchase them before you enter.  My only other choice was to head back to Schiphol or Amsterdam Centraal.  Moral of this story, kids; pay attention to the map they give tourists when you purchase a short-term pass.  It covers a lot of territory in The Netherlands, but not everywhere.  Rotterdam and some of the outlying cities, while not that far from the airport, have to be purchased on a separate ticket.

I got on the train back to the airport only to get about 5 minutes into the journey when a guy comes to check my ticket.  Huh?  No one ever checked before.  Sigh.  I explain to him about the Rotterdam mistake and how, since I couldn’t get out of the terminal, I was heading back to Amsterdam.  He said that was fine, but I was also sitting in the First-Class area (red seats).  I’d have to move to the next car and the blue seats.  Admittedly, that encounter went a lot better than I thought it would.  He wasn’t rude or anything, didn’t charge me for my mistake even though I was prepared to pay.  Instead, I went to the cheap seats as asked – and immediately regretted it.  I understand why someone would pay for the First-Class seats.  That car was empty except for me, which made it gloriously quiet.  As soon as I sat down in the cheap seat, the train made a stop and the rowdiest bunch of Irish guys sat right behind me.  They were talking so much and laughing so loud, it physically hurt to be around them.  I gritted my teeth.  It was only one more stop to Amsterdam Centraal.

Then, of course, I got off the train to be surrounded by oh-so-many more people.  Just what I needed to make my day complete.  I had to take a minute by the canal to calm myself before moving any further.

When I tell you that Amsterdam is stupid with tourists, I mean it.  They’re stopping in the middle of a walkway to take pictures, they’re running into you because they’re too busy staring at their phones, they’re using their kid-filled strollers as battering rams to get through a crowd.  It’s already difficult to maneuver around the bikes, the cars, the trams – everything is made so much worse when you have to dodge and weave so many pedestrians.  And as I was already in a piss-poor mood, this is where the cattle prod comes to mind.

Thank you so much, ma’am for blowing smoke directly in my face.  ZAP!

I’m already risking my life by stepping into the bike lane to avoid you, and you’re backing up?  Are you trying to get me killed?  Well, I’m definitely zapping you!

You haven’t even done anything to me, but you probably would if given a chance.  ZAP!

Before I started slapping everyone in my way, I wandered out of the more touristy areas and to some peace and quiet.  After a while, I realized that I was going around in circles trying to find my way back to the train station.  I finally resorted to using the phone to get back.  By the time I saw the station, I was tired and famished.

I found my way to a nice sit-down place called Cau.  I had a very good (if very pricey meal) that included a couple of drinks (that I really needed) and a piece of Amsterdam’s Dutch Apple Pie (tasty).  Then it was a mad dash to the train station.  I was more than done with this day.

Made it through the train ride and stood outside Schiphol to wait for the hotel shuttle.  And wait.  And wait. I watched the other hotel shuttles return two, sometimes three times and still no Moxy shuttle.  I never before had to wait so long for it.

I dashed inside to go to the bathroom before I started doing the pee-pee dance.  Ended up breaking a couple of nails as I always tend to do when I’m stressed and in a hurry.  Ran back out … and still no shuttle.  I knew this because the large group of people in the waiting area had only gotten bigger while I’d been inside.

I ended up waiting outside Schiphol for almost an hour.  I was just about to get a cab when the shuttle finally showed up.

Friday was a bad day.  That’s all I’m trying to say.

Saturday.  A bright new day and I have a plan.  Buy an actual ticket to Rotterdam (30 euros – the same price as the three-day ticket to Amsterdam and its surrounds) and take the 20-minute train there.  I got out at the station and – the ticket lets me pass.  I was able to leave the station!  Yay!

Something of note about this train station.  One side of it lets out onto a nice path by a pond.  The other side lets out directly to the commercial side of town (pictured above).  Unless you know about this beforehand, there is no way you’d ever guess that.  The train station at Amsterdam Centraal is the same.  The front of the building is this grand, red brick façade that leads to the heart of the city.  The other side has a more modern design and leads to a wide canal.  The facades don’t even look like they’re part of the same building and yet they are.  Funky architecture is a Dutch staple.

Rotterdam is no exception to this rule.  One of its biggest tourist attractions is the cube houses.  This complex is situated near a train station and is touted as the design of the future.  Yeah.  I don’t know about that.  For a small fee, you can tour one of the houses with its sloped ceilings and narrow stairs.  Being tall, as most of the Dutch are, I had to do a lot of ducking to make sure I didn’t bump my head.  And the ‘neighborhood’ is a literal tourist trap.  There’s are multiple souvenir shops in the courtyard to cater to the scores of people prowling around.  Some residents had to put signs in front of their staircases to make sure the tourists don’t bother them.  I enjoyed my visit, but I really don’t see the appeal of living in one of these places.

Sidenote:  screw Dutch stairs.  Having to go to the bathroom a lot, I’ve become very familiar with the dark, narrow, sometimes windy staircases that lead to the bowels of some Dutch restaurant.  They may be space saving and efficient, but they are also scary.  I usually went down them sideways, clutching the rail because I really don’t want to find out how good Dutch medicine is.  Those stairs are awful. 

I wandered around to a street market.  I’m curious now.  Is this an everyday thing, all these festivals and markets just popping up everywhere?  If so, The Netherlands is more of a party country than I realized.  There is always something going on to catch your interest, even if you’re not into drugs and hookers.  The market sold pretty much anything you can think of from clothes to household items, meats and cheeses, as well as hot foods from snacks to full meals. 

I walked the stalls for a while then headed to this insanely designed building.  The Markthal is full of cafes and restaurants along with a few retail stores.  That was interesting enough, but then I exited the place and realized that there are apartments all around the sides of the building.  That is insane to me.  But again, efficient.

I finally broke down and got some fries from inside the Markthal and took my treat to the nearby park to eat it.  Fries are considered more a meal here than a snack and the Dutch prefer to eat them with garlic aioli rather than ketchup.  The sauce on these is more a mild cheesy mayo called fritesauce.  They were delicious but fair warning; don’t immediately dig in.  The things are fresh out of the fryer and you will burn your mouth.

And while I’m on subject of food, a few notes.  I went into a cheese shop and was automatically offered some free cheese.  It was good, but I couldn’t purchase anything since I was leaving soon, on an airplane, and didn’t have a fridge in the hotel.  It’s a shame because the variety of cheeses they produce in The Netherlands is insane and I’d love to try them all.  If you go to Amsterdam, make sure you at least enter a cheese shop.  They’ll give you free cheese and who doesn’t love free cheese?

This is a stroopwafel, a mini one I got with my breakfast cappuccino one day.  They are made up of two crispy wafers with syrup between them.  They sell the larger size in the grocery stores, but you can also buy them at stands around town.  They’re not bad.

Unlike my return trip to Schiphol on Friday, this trip from Rotterdam went off without a hitch.  I spent the rest of the night getting ready for my flight on Sunday.  And that temper tantrum I thought I’d have upon leaving Amsterdam?  Nah.  I’m good.  It’s not that I didn’t enjoy the city and would happily return.  I was just ready to move on, very glad that I wasn't returning to the states.

Unfortunately, I took with me a souvenir that I really didn’t want.  On my last full day in the city, I woke up with a scratchy throat.  It developed into a mild cough that had me scrambling to find some cough drops on the way to my plane in Schiphol.  You know what’s hard to read?  Cough medicine labels in Dutch.  I found something I thought sounded good and asked the cashier about it.  Turns out I was right. So, me and my Dutch cough drops boarded the plane to my next destination. 

(I feel like there is so much more to say about Amsterdam, but three posts are already a lot.  As I write this, it's 3 weeks later and I have moved on to 3 other locales in that time.  Let me just say that Amsterdam is awesome and everyone should visit.  Become one of the stinking hordes of tourists, have some cheese, and try not to pee in the canals.  The Dutch really don't like that.)