Gap Year Odyssey - BenWH

Homeward Bound

BenWH — Thu, 28 May 2009 00:00:00 GMT

I have heard that if you have nothing nice to say about someone, you shouldn't say anything at all. If I am to follow this, mention of my fellow passengers on the Santander-Plymouth ferry would be conspicuous only by its absence. However, I also know that what people don't hear can't hurt them, and I have promised to give a full account of my trip, up until the last hour.

Simply by waiting at the port, you could tell things had changed. At least 90% of the passengers were British, and those that weren't were mostly English-speaking. (Although, 'what sane Spanish person would holiday in Plymouth?' would be the obvious response to this.) People just walked up to the checkin and started speaking English without even asking if the person behind the desk could understand it, a big breach of travel etiquette. They headed straight for the duty-free and bought cases of cheap wine, beer and spirits. They sat, moaning about this and that, talking as if they hadn't just spent a week or more on holiday. It turns out that many of them hadn't. Later I was to discover that many people just travel from Plymouth to Roscoff to Santander to Plymouth as a sort of economy cruise, sometimes not getting off the ferry, and if they do only to make the most of the duty-free. Extraordinary.

On board the ferry, I was at first very impressed. With the exception of my Marmaris-Rhodes disaster, the ferries I have travelled on have got progressively better over the course of the trip, and this completed the journey in style. A couple of good restaurants, bars, and half a shopping mall meant getting bored here would be quite difficult. Some people, however, seemed to manage it. Soon after boarding, there were calls for 'Bingo!', and it was promised by the onboard organiser of 'entertainment' that this would be played in due course. First, however, was the football: Man U vs Barcelona. I found a nice private table from were I could keep an eye on one of the many large flatscreens and my fellow passengers and bought a paper and a magazine to read. I tried to walk downstairs to get some food, and ended up spilling much of it due to the unsteadiness of the floor, so I returned to the football. This of course finished with the British getting angry and the few Spanish crew members jumping up and down in glee. Hooliganism averted, however, the bingo began. I'm no bingo-expert, but the rules seem pretty easy to follow. But by the end, half an hour of listening to random numbers combined with a worsening seasickness, made me feel like I was stumbling drunkenly through a game of NumberWang. I went to bed. Sleep was just out of reach, however, and after about an hour in this state I was alarmed by an awful wailing, as if a mother had lost her child over the side of the ship. But gradually, it settled into something resembling a 1980s ballad and I concluded that it must be one of the onboard entertainers.

The next day was difficult to get through. I couldn't make myself sleep through it, and so I had to endure an aching tiredness and dizziness, not helped by further games of bingo and a second outing for the entertainers in the background. These latter were no better than a mediocre karaoke performer, but might have got through to the second round of X-Factor if they had been young, charismatic and attractive. They were neither young nor charismatic nor attractive.

Thankfully, by mid afternoon the shore of Southern England became visible on the horizon. I walked outside and stood in the sun as the last minutes of my trip slid away.

The Rain in Spain

BenWH — Mon, 25 May 2009 00:00:00 GMT

Having heard that the rain in Spain falls mainly in Santander, I was not surprised to arrive into a dark and drizly afternoon in the town bordering the Bay of Biscay. I had survived another train journey, which became gradually more and more interesting as the weather became gradually less and less pleasant until, about two hours from Madrid, we disappeared into a cloud and didn't pass through the other side for some time. Luckily, there was a film to watch; more specifically, the same film dubbed in Spanish and with Catalan subtitles. I learnt one or two more Spanish words and phrases from it including a couple of jokes at the expense of the Scottish (it wasn't a very good film), rather hoping that the journey would be long enough for the weather to change.

I asked at an information point how long a walk it would be to my apartment from the station and was told 20 minutes. But she didn't exactly look like an athlete so I reckoned I could do it in 10. After about half an hour of walking in circles in the rain and several requests of help from strangers, each of which required miming - incidentally, if anyone has a good mime for 'traffic lights' I should like to hear it - I arrived. I was staying in a small self-catered apartment, as here this was going to be cheaper than anything else and gave me the freedom I wanted. I had just misjudged the size of Santander, meaning this was a little further out than I thought it would be.

Next day, armed with a beach towel, sunscreen, music, reading and everything else, I went the 30 minute walk to the beach. Unfortunately, it kept trying to rain and when it wasn't, there was barely any sun. Having promised myself that I would stick to my self-catering rules - no cafes, no restaurants and no non-food shopping -, there wasn't an nawful lot to do. So I did a lot of walking. The next day, my final one in Spain, was much better. I went to the beach early, walked around the town, and sat in the parks waiting to board my ferry. Santander reminded me a little of Plymouth, not only as a port town, but also in aspects of its layout and character. It is not a particularly classically beautiful city, nor is it incredibly ugly, but probably the only reason to come here is for the beach, one of the top 8 (allegedly) in the EU. I was therefore glad to have one day to make the most of it.

In the evening, I made my way to the port, checked in, and sat down to wait to board the ferry. Every time I looked at my watch, I could for the first time in two months count down the number of hours until I would be home. First, however, I had to endure my worst sea voyage yet.

The Real Madrid

BenWH — Fri, 22 May 2009 00:00:00 GMT

Trains in Spain, I soon discovered, trump those anywhere else in Southern Europe. Taking a mid to long-distance train journey is very much like taking a flight for the Spaniards, and with this come many advantages and associated disadvantages. For example: you have to 'check-in', passing through impressive security and waiting in a lounge for them to call you up to board, when you again pass through two levels of identification/ticket-collecting before you can access the train. Time-consuming, but reassuring. Once on board, you can recline in big comfortable seats, listen to a number of private radio stations or even watch the film. This last option was played in Spanish with subtitles in Catalan, but I think I understood most of it; Lord knows how. I also took the opportunity to steal the headphones provided as my MP3 ones had broken the day before. However, I don't mean this as a bad joke when I say that every word spoken or sung through them sounded like it was being lisped. Dodgy headphones aside, the whole experience contrasted sharply with having to walk over the tracks in Montenegro, Serbia or Turkey just to get to a train that looked like it was last used to carry soldiers to the Eastern Front in the early 1940s.

Like Barcelona, Madrid also has a good metro system, so once there it was easy to find the hostel. If anything, however, fewer people here speak English, making it difficult to locate yourself with the help of the locals, and I found myself employing my few Spanish phrases more often than their fluency deserved. I had nearly no previous knowledge of the city, so after getting settled, I looked at the metro map and decided to go to Gran Via, this sounding like a fairly central location. From here, it was easy to walk around the centre of the city, from the palatial gardens in the west, down to the older streets and squares of the city, and back up to the more modern commercial centre. As a city it is interesting but not inspiring, and particularly after Barcelona I was struck by the lack of history and culture. Later that evening, I also noticed another problem: food. Tapas, the famous dishes of Spain, are rarely vegetarian, and on a budget it is difficult to eat anything else here. I walked around for some time, and eventually settled on Starbucks and a thoroughly American salad.

Having decided that the city itself could probably not occupy me for a further two and a half days, I aimed to spend as much time as possible in the world-famous art galleries. On the second day it was raining, so I went to Del Prado, the grand and expansive gallery housing everything from portraits of imperial families to, irritatingly, rooms and rooms of Goya of whom Spain is particularly - and in my opinion unjustly - proud. The next morning, needing something a little more expressive, I went to the Reina Sofia, Madrid's premier modern art museum. Spain apparently had its renaissance last century, artistic expression bubbling over the supression of Franco's regime, and it shows. This is one of the few art galleries I've been to where you literally stumble upon works you know or recognise in every room, surrounded by similar pieces that make you think even more deeply about what is familiar to you. The one problem was that the museum is simply too big for one day and doesn't have any sort of narrative to string the various exhibitions together.

In the afternoon, thoroughly tired of walking inside, I went to walk outside in the city's extensive parks. They feel somehow timeless until, suddenly, you're standing before a garden built in remembrance of the victims of the terrorist attacks Madrid suffered a few years ago, a tragic reminder that history is a living process. The weather began gloomy, but gradually brightened throughout the afternoon until it was too hot to walk around. Back at the hostel that evening, I was greeted by yet another set of roomates. These had been changing every night of my stay, making it difficult to get to know people, and the hostel itself was one of the biggest I'd stayed at, modern and impersonal. It was time, I knew, to move on and begin my journey home.

´Barthelona!´

BenWH — Tue, 19 May 2009 00:00:00 GMT

As the herds of elderly and young alike were driven away on their various tour buses, only a handful of us remained standing by the ferry. I had asked a guard and found out what bus to take, but some of the other travellers either hadn´t been travelling for as long or simply thought they could work it out for themselves, and stood there helplessly. They formed a group, led by nobody in particular, and walked to-and-fro to investigate their surroundings like the confused survivers of a natural disaster. I was tempted to intervene, but there were enough of them to manage on their own, and instead I reflected on the difference that over seven weeks of being constantly on the move had made to my ability to adapt to a new environment and get to where I needed to.

I saw a little of Barcelona that evening, but was mostly too tired from my time in the sun, and went to the hostel, found some food, and met the other travellers there. It was an interesting crowd, including two Estonians, now Londoners, who I would spend the evenings and mornings with over the next couple of days. One of the Estonians, it turned out, worked in a McDonald´s in London I had been to a number of times, and to which, after hearing some of his stories of kitchen hygeine, I shall not be returning to again.

Knowing that effectively I only had two full days in the city, I got up early the next morning with a busy schedule planned out. I started on La Rambla, the bustling street in the centre of town that attracts 250,000 people every day (though only a fifth of these are native Barcelonans). At once, I loved Barcelona. Dozens of street performers, musicians, human sculptures line the street, while flower stalls break up the usual souvenir and newspaper stands. The centre of the street is built for pedestrians only, and in spirit it feels like a medieval city centre rather than one of the biggest tourist destinations in 21st century Spain. Every time I turned around, I hald expected to see dancing bears. (To challenge my first impressions, a few days later I read that a great ´clean-up´ of the street is being proposed to deal with the - apparently - ubiquitous prostitution, violence and drugs. These seemed to escape my notice.) The market, too, was incredible: a cavernous and energetic Catalonian take on food shopping. I just bought a smoothie and looked at the more interesting examples of Spanish cuisine.

Next, a walk down to the beach. It is some distance from the top end of La Rambla to the nice part of the coast, but the sights are worth walking past: Christopher Columbus stands high above the harbour area; nearby, a strange abstract structure that is mostly just empty space also hangs overhead; and finally, what must be the more financial district of the city, a sort of Spanish Canary Wharf. The beach, when I arrived, was too crowded to enjoy. I sat for a while, then got up and admired some sand castles along the path. My mistake was to stop and photograph one; a stout and until then motionless woman immediately got up and started indicating to a cardboard box containing a few coins. Again, I must reiterate: absolutely nothing is free. I give some change and moved on. My final sightseeing before a quick siesta at the hostel was the Gothic quarter. When she found out that I knew London, the woman behind the desk at the hostel had compared each district in Barcelona with an English counterpart. This was supposedly like Notting Hill. Really? I couldn´t see the similarities, but the area was certainly fascinating, with a bohemian feel and an atmosphere of being alive as well as historical.

Finally, and later in the afternoon, I went to the Museum of Contemporary Art. There is too much here, and the collection is too eclectic, to do after a long day of sightseeing and in a couple of hours, but I sampled the areas that looked interesting. In one exhibition I noticed that, unmistakably. a picture in a series of geometric designs was upside down. The more I contemplated it, the more obvious it became, but I was afraid of pointing this out, not wanting to be the fussy foreign tourist who takes issue with the way the locals display their artworks. I kept silent, but lingered by it painfully long, hoping that somebody would ask me what the problem was to give me an excuse to vent. The opportunity never came.

During talks in the hostel, I had discovered that Mt. Tibidabo was the best place to see the city from, and being a fan of that great sitcom Friends I naturally had to make the pilgrimage. I had to get two tubes, a bus, and a cable car to get to the top, but once there you can see across the whole bay area and it was worth it to see how the city fits together. However, the top has been ruined by efforts to draw more tourists and an amusement park takes up most of the space. From here, I went to another of the city´s main attractions: Guell Park. There being no metro station bordering the park, I spent around an hour just wandering; gradually the heat started to dehydrate me so I made serious attempts to locate it. It was an interesting and certainly worthwhile stop, but the masses of tourists made it difficult to enjoy. Parks, for me, should be for relaxing, not keeping your hands in your pockets and dodging between crowds. Finally, I made for probably the city´s most famous architectural work: Gaudi´s Sagrada Familia. A strange combination of the Gothic and the Modern, somehow otherworldly like something out of Lord of the Rings, this unfinished cathedral towers over the surrounding buildings. I didn´t go in as the line was long, the weather hot, and the entrance expensive. I think I will wait until it is completed in 2020 and get my money´s worth.

My remaining time I spent lazy, soaking in my last hours in the city. More than anything else, Barcelona had surpassed my expectations. I had come here merely as a stopping point on my journey home, but somehow it turned into an adventure of itself and will remain one of my favourite European cities for a long time.

Lost At Sea

BenWH — Mon, 18 May 2009 00:00:00 GMT

A thirty hour journey was ahead: first, a train journey from Naples to Civitavecchia, from where I could take a direct ferry to Spain. (I decided not to go to Rome, expensive for backpackers and somewhere I have already been to and will hopefully get the opportunity to go to again. I also decided not to stop at either Sicily, Sardinia or Corsica, as these are difficult to see without a car and I felt that I had done enough island hopping and wanted to see as much of Spain as possible.) The train was not too bad, and I managed to have a short conversation of broken Italian-English with a family who got on at Rome seemed fascinated by my trip. I arrived into Civitavecchia in the warm late afternoon and sat down looking out onto the calm water.

The ferry, I soon realised, was going to be a different beast to those I had been using for the first seven weeks of my trip. It was bigger, comprising 11 decks (which, I later noted, was two more decks than hell had circles and the tortures here were even more imaginative), and there were at least five times as many passengers as on any of my previous crossings. These could be roughly seperated into two categories: the 18-30s and the 65 and overs. The latter group occupied the lower decks: the more sedate bars, the casino, the fancy restaurants, etc. The former group mostly occupied the upper deck, a half-in-half-outside expanse complete with bar, seating and empty pool, should you wish to lie by it and pretend you could go swimming. If you wanted to spend time in the sun, this was your only option, and you had to endure the crowds, the sweaty sunbathers, the drunk Italians and Spaniards and the heavy Euro-trance that kept hitting a scratch on the CD and replaying a beat over and over in some kind of epileptic, hypnotic purgatory of sound.

I managed to sleep surprisingly well on the lower decks, surrounded by the elderly and those few younger travellers who were not part of the Italian/Spanish trans-European pub crawl. Indeed, when I woke up, I was shocked to see that it was past midday and I had spectacularly missed breakfast. So, in order to make the most of the sun, I headed upstairs. Yes, I chose to endure the aforementioned hell, but only because I wanted to make the most of a day I would be spending entirely on a ferry, and the only way to do this would be to spend as much time in the sun as possible. Fortunately I managed to find a corner away from the crowds and spent the day relatively quietly.

The day passed quickly, and by early evening we could see the Spanish coast. The sun was just threatening to creep behind the mountains when we disembarked in Barcelona.

In the Golfo di Napoli

BenWH — Fri, 15 May 2009 00:00:00 GMT

The first indication that we had arrived at the hostel was an Italian man calling my name and gesticulating wildly (as is the stereotype) from a third storey window in a back-alley in the old part of town. We followed his instructions and were welcomed into the hostel: his home and the top-rated hostel in Naples, a fact of which he is very proud. We understood that he would be feeding us and the smells from the kitchen hinted that this would be something spectacular, but before we could eat we were put through a brief Italian lesson, and were afterwards asked to sing along to a number of Italian songs. The food was beautiful and the wine, although coming from a 5 litre plastic container, was equally good.

The three of us decided to get up early so that we could make the most of what the Bay of Naples has to offer. We planned to climb Vesuvius before the heat of midday, which we managed, getting a taxi most of the way up as is the custom and then walking the final 270m or so. It is a tough walk, over sliding pebbles and up a steep slope, but the views from the top down into the volcano make it worth it, as do those on the other side out over the bay. Unfortunately, it was misty so we were unable to see as far as on a clear day and we were prevented from climbing to the very top by a man blocking the way who informed us that, for insurance reasons, he could not let us go to the top unless we gave him 100 euros between us. I think this may have been a con, but his friends were willing to back up his claims and there was no other way to the summit.

Next stop: Pompei. So many people written so beautifully about this haunting place that I hardly feel qualified to. Personally, it was the fulfillment of years of anticipation. I first discovered the city aged 11 through the Cambridge Latin Course, saw the pictures of the victims frozen in time and eagerly read and watched all the books, documentaries and dramatisations of the city´s tragic end. Pompei is different to all the other ancient sites I had ever been to, both because of the state of preservation (paint is still vividly visible on many walls) and the nature of what is actually preserved: normal homes, taverns, shops, baths, the places where ordinary citizens went about their daily lives nearly 2000 years ago. The site is so vast that we did not get the opportunity to see all of it, but I know it is somewhere to which I will return.

We explored some of Naples itself in the afternoon, looking at some impressive churches and soaking up the atmosphere, and in the evening the three of us went to a pizzeria that Giovanni, our host had recommended as the best in Naples. Included on the vast menu were pizzas named after each and every one of the owner´s 21 children. ("Great man," Giovanni had said, "... great woman. Their television was broken.") Finally, we got icecream, and sat to eat it on the steps of one of the city´s famous churches as the cars careened past us wildly.

The second day I was on my own. The weather had improved, but most of the city activities are indoor ones so I could not justify finding a park and lying in the sun. Giovanni, very proud of Naples and obviously still bitter that Rome had been chosen as Italy´s capital after unification, provides his guests with brightly annotated maps and insistent advice on where to go. Following this, I took a tour of what was beneath the city. The first part was a Roman threatre, found some years ago underneath someone´s house - interesting, but there are better examples of theatres across the Roman world and you don´t have to descend beneath a trap-door to see them. The second half, however, took us through a bigger system of ´caves´, originally the underground water system and more recently used as bomb shelters in WW2. These were fascinating, and carrying a candle for light through a 50cm wide passage was strangely atmospheric. The one downside, was the tour guide, a Neapolitan Manchester United fan who insisted on speaking in a bad Glaswegian accent. On a tour that included Brits, Americans, French, Italians and Germans, he also insisted on telling several uncomfortable and long jokes about the war, seemingly oblivious to his both audience and the passage of time. Finally emerging from under the ground, I headed for the archeological museum. It is well stocked and even includes a ´Secret Room´ - I´ll let your imagination do the work here - but after several hours it can get a little monotonous.

That evening I was again treated to a Giovanni home-cooked meal, and again had to sing afterwards. Some new and noisier people had moved into the room which made sleep difficult, so I took it easy the next morning, walking around town and then returning for my bag and making for the station.

Italy Again

BenWH — Thu, 14 May 2009 00:00:00 GMT

I walked to the port and stood, watching the ferry pull in as the sun was setting behind the Kefalonian hills adorned with wind turbines. It would be my last view of Greece for some time, and I would be returning into a little more familiar territory and truly beginning my journey homeward. The ferry was more luxurious than any I had been on so far, boasting two pools, two saunas, two restaurants, shops, numerous bars, dozens of lounges, a large hall, and I have no idea what else. Of course, it was completely out of my league. I realised this after being charged nearly 4 euros for a small coffee that actually had writing squirted delicately in chocolate sauce onto the foam. I was going to resist the 5 euro/half hour internet rate, but having read an article in my paper that infuriated me I even paid for this just for the satisfaction of not having to wonder if my letter might have got published had I actually sent it. I later complained, as the internet kept cutting off, but was told that the reason it was so expensive was that it was a poor connection - seemed like faulty logic to me, but I have found it's a lot harder to make a convincing case for a refund in a foreign language and I didn't want to be hit with the peculiarities of Greek contract law so I settled down to watch a preliminary round of Eurovision. Again, I met a group of school children - this time Italian - who seemed fascinated by me and wanted to know more than my tiredness could cope with.

Sleep was predictably interrupted. Despite there being so much space it was impossible to get away from televisions, which were for once playing films in English. Thus, whenever I woke up, I started to get into a film and had to watch to the end. But by late morning, the ferry had pulled into Bari in southern Italy. The port at Bari is arranged fairly counter-intuitively, and I was at first concerned that I found myself out in the open without having gone through passport control. Checking that this was ok, I then sat to wait for a bus. The local taxi drivers, however, had other ideas: I accidentally managed to get a 20 euro fare down to 5 euros and still rejected it, and one man even tried to convince me that the bus had broken down and a taxi was my only option. But I stuck to my convictions and eventually the bus for the station arrived.

After I had purchased my ticket I made for an internet cafe. Incredibly, the first one I walked into had two familiar faces standing at the counter waiting for a computer: the two Americans I had met just four days before on the way to Kefalonia. They were also going via Naples and needed somewhere to stay so we decided to stick together and they made reservations at the hostel I was booked into.

Although Bari looked to be surrounded by some interesting sights, we didn't have long enough or the means to fully explore them so settled into a cafe. The area was not as bad as I was expecting, and there was some impressively complex graffiti, but the city centre itself was a fairly nondescript Italian city. The four-hour train journey that followed was hot and stuffy, but the scenery was interesting and a complete contrast to that of northern Italy that I know so much better: greener, with gently rolling hills, rather than the jagged valleys of the north. The time passed quickly enough, reading the paper and playing cards. We had to change at Caserta, and once we were in Naples we needed to get the Metro and walk through the now dark streets to get to our hostel. It had had been 28 hours since I left the beach at Kefalonia, and I was exhausted.

On the Trail of Captain Corelli

BenWH — Tue, 12 May 2009 00:00:00 GMT

When I arrived into Sami, the main Kefalonian port, it was completely dark and all I could see were the shadows of the hills and the lights flickering on the surface of the water. I would have to wait until morning to get a proper glimpse of the island I had read and dreamt about for so long.

When that chance came, it was worth the wait. The scenery of Kefalonia is probably more beautiful than any I have seen so far. It also earns the title of being the only place I have been to to which I would move unhesitatingly if given the chance. Like the other Greek islands, Kefalonia is rugged, montainous with beautiful calm blue seas and rocky beaches. It differs, however, in that it is so green and lucious; so alive. I started the morning by going for a walk to explore and get a feel for the island's landscape. I didn't have a destination or route in mind, but I headed inland, walking at first along a track and then veering off onto a country path. For nearly three hours, I didn't see another human being, a welcome break from the bustle and chaos of Athens. If you blink here, you might think you were walking through fields in southern England; there are small paddocks, mossy walls, arboreal paths and hundreds of coloured wild flowers. Beneath the surface, however, everything is more dramatic and impressive: ants three-quarters of an inch long, flying insects as thick as your thumb and sheer peaks replacing the rolling hills of England. Walking back along the path between shade and sun, I could almost picture Pelagia hunting for snails - either you'll know what I'm talking about, or you won't. Everything about this landscape is timeless.

Back down on the coast, I found a nearly private beach and settled down to read. Every time it got too hot I could go to the waters edge and sit on a rock with my feet dipped into the tepid water. This, I think, must be what the Greek islands are all about. In the evening, I went to an internet cafe, this being the only deficiency of the place I was staying. I had opted for self-catering in a small town on the coast, aiming to save a little money on food. The plus side of this was that my studio apartment was so close to the beach I could easily walk back for a snack or a drink; the down side was that I ate nothing but bread, cheese and fruit for three days. I bought a newspaper, as I have started to do to keep track of the British news in preparation for my return, and spent a relaxing evening on the waterfront and on the balcony of my apartment.

After a long-anticipated good night's sleep, I was ready to explore even further afield. I decided I would leave some of the other towns on the island for another time as the bus journeys can be long despite the short distances and in this weather I wanted to make the most of where I was staying. I walked inland again, up a road the led me round a hill and to a small village. Like most of the island, this was mostly made up of modern and uninteresting (though not ugly) houses that were built after the immensely destructive earthquake last century. Further up the hill, however, I discovered the ruins of what must have been the old village until 1953 - stone buildings, now desolate and overgrown. This made the journey worthwhile and strengthened the links of what I saw with the book that had introduced me to the island.

Again, I spent the afternoon at the beach, and this time ventured to swim. I chose a rocky cove because it was deserted and later discovered why. After half an hour swimming in the warm water and another fifteen minutes drying on a rock, I looked down and saw a trail of blood trickling from my foot down towards the sea. Given the length of time this must have been open, I could not work out how much blood I had lost, but on closer inspection the wound was fairly deep, giving the appearance of my having tried to carve myself a sixth toe. Reluctantly, I limped back to the apartment and dressed the damaged foot, sadly acknowledging that this would put an end to my doing any swimming for the next few days.

The final day of my peaceful rest arrived, and so I went to soak up as much sun on the beach as I could. In a complicated and prolonged conversation with a woman who worked at the place I was staying I had managed to get a free load of laundry done, which considering the extorniate laundry rates in this part of the world was particularly welcome. After a lazy, but nonetheless productive day, I took a late-afternoon taxi back to Sami. Two Greeks shared the cab with me but for some reason weren't willing to share the cost and I wasn't really in a position to argue, outnumbered as I was. So to save funds, I bought a 1 euro meatless Greek kebab and sat by the port in the evening sun.

Cross-Country Greek Journey

BenWH — Mon, 11 May 2009 00:00:00 GMT

The day was a stressful one. I woke up not knowing where I was going to be spending the night; I had some idea that it would be Greece, but other than this I was lost. I had stupidly left all my arranging until the previous day, forgetting it was a Sunday and that all the places selling ferry tickets would be closed. Therefore, I had to get up early to confirm that my preferred route was possible, buy ferry and train tickets and notify my accommodation that I was going to arrive in the middle of the night. Fortunately, everything worked out alright; someone must have been placating Metra, the little known Greek goddess of public transport, on my behalf.

I had to get a train from Athens to Patra, which was fairly uneventful excluding a frantic 15 seconds at the station as two trains pulled in next to each other at exactly 12.06, the specified time for my departure. And then there was the fact that I had to change, having not been notified by the unhelpful and grumpy gentleman at the ticket office. Other than this, however, it all ran smoothly. In Patra, I went to a cafe with two college freshmen from Colorado who I had met on the train, and sat there talking for the greater part of the afternoon.

The ferry was a nice one - no restaurant and no WiFi, but it was less than three hours. On it I met a group of Kefalonian school students, who began the conversation, as is the norm I have found, with 'what football team do you support?' Within minutes there were nearly twenty crowded round me. What was my starsign? What did I think of the Greek entry to the Eurovision song contest? Did I know Zac Effron? And so it continued. Whilst I enjoyed talking to some authentic Greek islanders, especially getting the chance to actually meet a 'Iannis' from Kefalonia, and learning some Greek phrases, I was so tired that I couldn't help but be a little relieved when the ferry arrived and I could clamber into a taxi.

Best and Worst of 40 Days

BenWH — Sun, 10 May 2009 00:00:00 GMT

For my 20-day mark I did the 20 most important lessons I had learned so far. I know it's a little late, but I thought I would compile, from my 40+ days' experience so far, the 20 best and 20 worst things about travelling in this part of the world. So here goes:

WORST:

1) The fact that Sundays in Catholic countries are miserable. Unless you are big on Mass and don't mind fasting.
2) Hidden costs and people always trying to rip you off.
3) Local customs that prohibit the wearing of weather-appropriate clothing.
4) 'Transit days' and having to move on as soon as you get settled.
5) People who snore.
6) Having to pay half a day's budget just to get your clothes cleaned.
7) Traffic that is an all too constant reminder of your fragile mortality.
8) Understanding how much we rely on people to speak English and trying to deal with it when they don't.
9) The Pound to Euro exchange rate.
10) Showers that are broken/cold/slow/dirty/non-existent.
11) Last minute panics of the 'Oh-God-where-am-I-going-to-sleep-tonight' variety.
12) Places that have more Brits than locals.
13) Most fellow travellers younger than about 16. Especially in groups.
14) Having to keep your hands in your pockets, lest somebody else slips theirs in to steal something.
15) Having to remember to charge everything, and creating a rota in your mind so that you don't suddenly find yourself with no working MP3/camera or worse: phone.
16) The unprecedented number of injuries you manage to sustain.
17) Carrying around a backpack for two months.
18) The constant and unwavering fear that you are going to lose your passport.
19) The one or two occassions when it actually rains and you feel like you deserve a refund.
20) The guilty feeling that creeps up every so often when you know that really, you're just having too much fun.

But if I'm being honest, there's nothing in the Worst section that I can't cope with. I would endure a bad shower, the risk of pick-pocketing or even expensive laundry just to spend a day with interesting people in an interesting country doing something I've never done before.

BEST:

1) The weather: so good it feels like it must be bad for you.
2) Sitting in cafes, reading and sipping a cold drink without a care in the world.
3) The realisation that all people, no matter what language they speak, are essentially the same.
4) Swimming in the sea without getting hypothermia.
5) Meeting so many interesting people doing travels of their own.
6) Seeing places you have always dreamt about/read about and them exceeding your expectations.
7) Talking to strangers on public transport.
8) Sharing stories.
9) Understanding your place in history.
10) Trying the local cuisine, but being able to rely on the fruits of globalisation should you need to.
11) Looking again at everything you take for granted about your life.
12) Feeling, in a way, healthier and more relaxed than you ever have before.
13) Hearing new music (and hearing old music in a new place).
14) Waking up to days you know won't be ordinary; ones you will never forget.
15) Living in the present, fondly remembering the past and excitedly anticipating the future.
16) Seeing the lives affected by the politics and current affairs you hear about every day.
17) Learning so many new things every day and realising that there is so much you can never understand.
18) Views that take your breath away.
19) The satisfaction of doing something that is completely yours and that proves your independence,
20) Knowing that, if all goes to plan, you will get so many more opportunities to do this again.

It's All Greek To Me

BenWH — Thu, 07 May 2009 00:00:00 GMT

The first thing I saw of mainland Greece was Starbucks. A good omen, I thought to myself. I felt awful: neck ache, headache, very little sleep, and on at least half a dozen occassions throughout the night I had woken to find I had no sensation in one of my limbs due to my awkward sleeping position, draped as I was over my backpack and curled around the arms of a chair. My mood had not been improved by the ferry failing to serve breakfast and charging me 5 euros for a coke and a packet of crisps. So I made for Starbucks, praising the deity that had brought two of my favourite things to me: coffee and WiFi.

Finally I decided I had to get to Athens proper. The ferries arrive into Piraeus, some kilometres outside of the city centre and fairly uninteresting. The route to the centre, however, is less than obviously pointed out. But with the help of a local businesswoman I managed to get a bus and then the metro, and she even insisted on paying for my ticket. I was in the centre by midday.

When in Athens, head to the Acropolis. So I did. The heat was overpowering, and limited the sort of walking you could do seriously, but I am not one to complain. I spent the day exploring Hadrian's Library, the Roman Agora and the Acropolis. The latter was obviously the highlight, though the Parthenon is itself a dissappointment in one respect due to its continual state of scaffolding-clad repair. When you step back, however, and consider the age of the buildings, the significance of the sight and the civilisation that grew from here you begin to really appreciate it. The setting, as well, is incredible. I had been warned that I would not like Athens because of its ugly modern buildings, the smell of sewage that pervades the atmosphere and the notorious and equally ubiquitous 'women of the night'. Somehow, however, all these lend the city something of authenticity: it is alive, in all its ugliness and sin, and it was probably equally sordid and even more foul-smelling two and a half thousand years ago. From the hills overlooking the city, you also have the benefit of seeing the city buzz beneath you, without the scents and sights you would rather miss. For me, this didn't ruin the ancient buildings; it just put them in a different context.

In the evening I went out with three others from the hostel: an Australian, a South African and an American. So, naturally, rather than taking on the nickname of 'Britain' as is common in such gatherings, I became 'Europe', as we realised we represented four different continents. And whilst I resented the pressure that comes with representing over 700 million people, there is something special about sitting around four corners of a table, having come from four corners of the globe. We went to a wine bar in the centre, then took a ridiculously cheap taxi to a club playing something like remixed ska, and walked back past the Acropolis as the dawn was breaking over it.

On day two after getting a much-needed haircut, which was pleasantly unsurprising, I headed back down to the ruins aiming to spend the day exploring those parts I had not yet seen, namely the Agora and the surrounding area. I did, but having forgotten my camera, I knew I would be back the next day. The sun was again bright overhead, so I relaxed, read, and treated myself to a (relatively) expensive lunch. That evening we stayed in the hostel, which had a friendly and relaxed bar area, and played cards. The hostel seemed to attract really interesting and fun young people from all over the world and was big enough that there was variety in company but small enough that you could find people again.

The next two days passed similarly. I had got into a pattern of exploring the fascinating areas around the main hills, which stretch further than is at first obvious, and which are constantly opening up new paths to walk down, new pillars, inscriptions or monuments to investigate. On the final day I climbed the big hill opposite the Acropolis with a guy from the hostel, and was amazed at the views of the sprawling city, stretching from the coast and the port, past the ancient city, and up to the mountains in the distance.

Nightlife remained fairly relaxed over the final two nights. One interesting occurence happened, however, after two of us had gone to get food. We noticed, as we were walking, that the streets were empty, cordened off by the police who were showing a big presence. This was because of demonstrations, fairly small, but potentially violent as they seemed to included both right-wing nationalists and left-wing anarchists. Many of the shops were closed, but due to the banishing of the usually terrifying traffic, the city actually felt safer than normal. That was until we were on the street on which the hostel was located. Extraordinarily, of all the places to choose, about 50 protesters and perhaps 20 armed riot police were standing just yards from the hostel door. At first we planned to walk through them; 'they don't look very violent' I said. Famous last words: I fight broke out at that very moment. So we managed to navigate a back street, sneak behind the protestors and police, and reach the hostel before they started using tear gass. The hostel was locked, but the receptionist let us in, and the other guests who had been on the balconies watching the fighting, came back in as the tear gas got to them.

Later that night, however, the violence had cleared, so four of us walked back down to the Acropolis, climbed the hill next to it and sat to watch the lit-up ruins with the full moon behind them as some Greek men played folk music on a guitar beside us. It was one of those atmospheric 'gap-year' moments you know you will never forget.

Rain, Wind and Sun in Santorini

BenWH — Mon, 04 May 2009 00:00:00 GMT

The ferry pulled into the main port on the island of Santorini (also known as Thira) in the dark. The setting is surreal: a small port surrounded by a dozen or so shops and cafes at the bottom of a dramatic cliff face and accessible from the land only by a small winding road. The cliff was lit up by the lights from the port and a few hoteliers and taxi-drivers were loitering where we disembarked in the hope of catching some extra business. The hostel owners had promised to meet me to save a taxi fare, and I was expecting the usual custom of a piece of paper bearing my name so we could identify each other. I waited for some minutes before realising that this was obviously not the method used here. Eventually I saw a man in the distance holding a sign with the hostel's name and ran to meet him before he gave up and turned around.

We drove through the winding lanes and over the rocky landscape to the town of Perissa on the other side of the island. All I could really see, however, were the lights of the few and sparsely placed dwellings. The hostel was much what I had expected for the small price I was paying: clean, full, but nothing special. In fact, we were on the ground floor with a door opening to the outside seating area and as the temperature quickly dropped outside, so it did in the dorm. I met my room-mates and settled in for an early night.

The next morning promised a wasted day - heavy rain set in, making any efforts at sightseeing doomed to failure. This is the main problem with the smaller Greek islands as opposed to cities: enjoyment is heavily reliant on good weather. However, I met some new people, ate and drank in a couple of nice cafes and watched films and read. It was the first day of the trip so far in which I did not take a single photograph, but I needed to catchup on some relaxation and it served that purpose.

The next day the weather was a little better. Frustrated by both the rain and my inactivity on the previous day, I probably over-reacted on both counts and decided to head up a mountain ... in shorts and flip-flops. The inappropriate nature of my dress didn't hit me until I was a quarter of the way up and by this stage I refused my better judgment of going back. It was still drizzly and every few minutes the wind would surge round the bend of the mountain and make walking the delicate path almost impossible. But it was worth it: the views over the town towards the sea, the beautiful flora and the rocky crags were so wild and unspoilt. I reached the top, but didn't hang around as the wind was picking up and nearly swept me off - literally! The weather gradually improved throughout the day, which I spent a little more sedately. I went a number of times to an internet cafe to plan the next leg of my journey, upload photos and catch up with friends, but the wind was still intermittently strong and every time I went there was a power-cut. Indeed, so synchronised were my arrivals and the losses of power that the owner started to think I was an unlucky omen and laughingly nearly refused me entry towards the end of the day.

In the evening, I went to the bar opposite the hostel and met some of the 'locals'. In the summer, these are mostly made up of Britons and other English-speakers who head to the island to get work. The holiday season, I discovered, did not start for another week or so, and nearly everyone in the hostel was planning on remaining on the island until September and looking for more permanent accommodation. As such, the place has a real community atmosphere, but I also realised that not being part of this group I was effectively an outsider; a tourist. This may be something to do one summer, I thought.

On the final full day, I had intended to be a little more adventurous. Cycling was futile because of the terrain, however, and quading or motorbiking was probably a little too adventurous given the local drivers and the unpredictability of the roads. I therefore planned a day lying in the sun, and headed down to the black beach, where the sand is thick, dark and consequently keeps warm all day. The weather was some of the best I have had yet, and almost made it worth enduring the rain of two days before. I lay out on the beach into the evening hours and finally headed in for bed.

The next day I was due to leave for Athens, but my ferry did not depart until midnight. I spent the greater part of the day reading on the beach again and walking around the town. In the afternoon I had wanted to leave for Fira, the capital of the island, so I could see some variation. However, the timing did not work out and by the time I got to Fira by bus, it was time to get a taxi to the port. At the port I ate in a cafe full of locals watching Chelsea play Barcelona, and was eventually able to board the ferry, take my seat, and try to sleep.

Not another ferry trip ...

BenWH — Sun, 03 May 2009 00:00:00 GMT

Santorini is not that far from Rhodes, but the ferry I had chosen to take was the slow option, spending the day drifting from island to island. This way, I thought, I could see some of the natural and architectural variety of the islands in one day - the perfect option for the traveler who is limited for time. It is also cheaper and after my previous ferry experience I recognised the value of taking a proper ship rather than the sort that is more usually used as the temporary home of recently slaughtered fish.

The early morning taxi ride to the port cost, as always, almost as much as the ferry itself. Having boarded, I occupied myself in sitting down to relax for the next fourteen hours. As it was 7am, cold and damp, I settled in the bar and took the only available food and drink for breakfast - a cheese pie and a poisonously strong coffee. Then the irritations began. Children, I have come to realise, are the biggest annoyances of any traveler. In fact, in the Lonely Planet guides, the Dangers and Annoyances section should list children as the first item for virtually every destination. I hate that I've become one of these child-haters, but I wish parents would leave them at home. They won't remember anything, and really it's a waste of natural and economic resources and a damn nuisance to everyone else. To the point: as I sat in the lounge of the ferry, peacefully reading my newspaper, one of the little brats started flicking coins noisily onto a table. The parents, evidently relieved by this distraction in its attentions, did nothing. After several minutes of this, I started to lose my patience, but I know that hitting other people's children is generally frowned upon, so I too did nothing. But then it became coin-throwing, as the child started hurling the money violently at the table and watch it bounce up again. The phrase 'take someone's eye out' passed through my mind, and I raised my copy of Friday's International Guardian to shield my eyes. Soon afterwards, I made my escape.

Some of the islands we passed were completely unique and passing between them in a relatively short space of time gave an interesting perspective and a rare opportunity to contrast these isolated cultures and worlds. Thin layers of cloud were flitting over the sun, so I spent the day between the outside deck when it was warm and the relaxing bar when it wasn't. Despite the poor selection of food, it was one of the better ferries I have been on and I valued the opportunity of seeing several of the islands both up close and at a distance. I managed to read a great amount and to eavesdrop on some interesting conversations - one of my new favourite pastimes - and so the day passed almost too quickly.

What Colossus?

BenWH — Thu, 30 Apr 2009 00:00:00 GMT

When I arrived into Rhodes, the heat of the sun was beating down and the few early tourists were walking along the waterfront. Rhodes is an idyllic place, spoiled only by the people who drive its economy: the tourists who come religiously every summer to bask in the sun and frequent the beach-side bars and clubs. Fortunately, by late April and early May the worst of the holiday season hasn't begun, but you can still benefit from fantastic weather. Everywhere has opened by now too, but you won't be hit by the prices that get hiked into June and beyond. I slowly made my way along the waterfront the makes the northern border of the town, stopping at a cafe and eventually completing the 2km walk that brought me to my hotel.

I say 'hotel' because the place I was staying was rather different to the establishments I have become accustomed to. Clean, modern and well located, it was nonetheless completely soul-less and characterless, the sort of place that people come to to stay by the pool all day and only to venture out at night. It, along with most of the accommodation, is in the modern part of the town: equally uninspiring, but close enough to both the old town and the beach. However, it was nice to have my own space, to have a real shower and even to get access to a television to fuel my hypochondria about swine flu. It acted as a good base and enabled me to have my first lie-in for weeks.

The next day I had planned to have a catchup, doing the things that build up when you neglect them for too long: doing my laundry, getting a hair cut, planning the next part of my journey and catching up on sleep. Stupidly, I had not foreseen that it was May Day, a national holiday in Greece. Everywhere was closed; literally everywhere. And what made matters worse was that the sun - an essential element if you are to enjoy a day on a Greek island when all businesses are shut - was on holiday too, hiding for the better part of the day behind heavy clouds. Even the sun-worshippers who are normally shamelessly baring all in their multitudes along the beaches had retired into their hotel rooms. I tried to make the most of the day by using the cool temperature to explore the town, but I couldn't help feeling a little defeated.

Saturday, however, was much more productive. The sun returned, as did the businesses and with them the tourists. I dumped my laundry and headed off to explore the old part of the city. Rhodes Town, which is apparently the biggest medieval walled city in Europe, is beautiful if a little crowded. It is a great place for walking, the walls acting as a your points of orientation, and in the centre and at the water there are enough cafes, restaurants and shops to keep most tourists amused for days. The prices, however, reflect the level of tourism, and it is probably a good thing that the next day I had planned to move on.

The people who come here seem to be a mix of northern Europeans, more diverse in some ways than the Marmaris crowd, but nonetheless fairly limited in their variety. Displaying unwarrented levels of delighted exoticism at the smallest cultural differences, it can be quite difficult to take them seriously. Go down to the beach in the day, however, and even at this time of year you will be visually assaulted by hundreds of square meters of sweaty pale flesh. Needless to say, I avoided the beaches during the day for this very reason. In the evening they cleared, however, and found a sun lounger to read for the final minutes of the day.

The English Turkish Riviera

BenWH — Wed, 29 Apr 2009 00:00:00 GMT

The less said about the bus journey from Goreme to Marmaris, the better. Suffice it to say that thirteen hours on a bus that gradually became more crowded, more overheated, and more malodorous throughout the night was not one of the more comfortable nights I have had to endure. They try their best: there are TVs, and the seats are at least soft, and there are regular stops, but nothing could induce me to have more than about an hour's sleep all night.

Marmaris, into which I arrived, had little of what I have come to expect of Turkey. There was the shuttle bus from the bus station to the centre, which was small and authentically Turkish, but here the similarities stopped. Having avoided wearing shorts for fear of offending, and having eaten almost nothing but true Turkish cuisine for over a week, I was suddenly thrown into an environment in which my Western values and expectations were both at home and thoroughly alarmed. Having enjoyed a great choice of vegetarian food in Turkey, here the only veggie burger I could find was at Burger King - everywhere else was catering for the British tourists. In fact, the first item on nearly every menu was the full English breakfast. But the strangest difference was in dress. Here, religious sensibilities are thrown at the window along with 80% of a person's clothes: short shorts, mini skirts, t-shirts or even toplessness (of the male variety I should add) were ubiquitous and nobody thought twice about it. In the summer I've heared that tourists can outnumber locals by 10 to 1 and the majority of these are Brits. I'm sure even in late April I heard more Yorkshire accents alone than people speaking Turkish.

I explored the waterfront of the town, which takes a good half hour to walk from end to end, sat in a couple of cafes, did some reading, and soaked up the sun, but the interest for me in the town was soon exhausted. Had I been here longer, I would have taken a tour to explore the beautiful coastline, but even these were geared towards the package holiday market, mostly involving stops at beaches only. The place I was staying was great for the price, but there were no other backpackers there and I was pleased I was not going to be there long. I went to bed early so I could get to the ferry early the next morning.

The next morning, the owner of the hostel offered to take me and my luggage to the port, situated out of town, on his scooter. I was eager for the free ride and so hopped aboard. At the port, the boat I boarded was not what I was expecting. Having been used to bigger ferries in the Adriatic, and seeing the numbers of tourists at Marmaris, I expected something like this, but the boat was tiny and the passengers didn't number above 20. Towards the end of the 90 minute journey I started to feel sick, no doubt due to the small size of the boat but the sight of Rhodes in the distance managed to keep me focused and we gradually pulled up into the harbour.

Land of the Wild Horses

BenWH — Sat, 25 Apr 2009 00:00:00 GMT

Somewhere in the middle of Anatolia lies Cappadocia, a mysterious landscape of canyons, rivers, and the caves of the troglodytes who settled there nearly two millennia ago. Cappadocia is like nowhere else on earth. My guidebook describes its landscape as 'lunar' - it is certainly rocky, dramatic and in places barren, but what makes this place so spectacular is something that is unique to earth: human settlements built into the rocks. The bus drive to Goreme gives you some idea of what you can expect for the next few days, but what I was completely unprepared for was the scale, the sheer number of these cave villages and underground cities.

I had only a short afternoon on my first day to explore, so after a little walking I headed for a cafe with a balcony overlooking the town. Sitting back, a cold beer in one hand and my reader in the other, whilst I looked across the valley in the evening light, I realised how much I love travelling. The only thing to mar the feeling was the restaurant I went to that evening, which was by far the worst I have been to on my travels. I should have known: in the vast room, I was the only one there. The food was burnt, tasteless and soggy, and the staff lingered around my table with a disturbing blend of obsequiousness and intrusive questioning. I hurried through my meal, didn't leave a tip, and dashed out before I could be persuaded to stay any longer.

I only had two full days in Cappadocia, and because the landscape is so vast and the places of interest so far out I knew that I would need help in getting around. On the first full day, therefore, I took a tour. This is something I would never normally do; in fact just days before I had been scorning the tourists who needed a guide to show them around and make their holiday interesting for them. But as I don't drive, and I had travelled nearly 24 hours to get here, I had to find another way to make the most of the area. The tour surpassed my expectations and turned out to be one of the most enjoyable days I have had so far. There were sixteen of us, mostly European, though I got talking to a lady from Chicago who within minutes had invited me to drop in when I am in the States this summer. The guide was knowledgeable, interesting and helpful, and over the course of the day we managed to see and learn a great amount.

We started off by stopping at the top of pigeon valley; of course, no pigeons live there now - they have been driven away by the humans - but the view was stunning. Next stop was the biggest underground city that has been excavated so far, where the early Christians would hide in the hills. This was extraordinary, and photos or description cannot really do it justice. As we half-walked, half-crawled through the underground tunnels, it suddenly struck me that people used to live here for months at a time. The city had dwellings, stables, a winery, a church, a burial place, communal areas ... and it was all buried deep beneath the earth. (Note: the experience is not advised for claustrophobics.) We were then driven to a valley, with great faces of rock on either side and a river running through trees below. Here we walked for an hour, stopping to look at the local farmers and shepherds and finally reaching a restaurant where we were treated to an authentic Turkish lunch. The remainder of the afternoon was spent admiring the views, learning a bit of history of the region and stopping at an onyx workshop, outside which we finally caught site of some of the famous pigeons.

I returned to the hostel, which deserves a description of itself. I had chosen one of the numerous 'Cave Hostels', which are fairly self-explanitory. Built into the rocks, our hostel had cave bedrooms, with a communal area made of glass that looked out onto the valley and the town. I had been expecting something a little less comfortable from a cave, but we had beds and sheets, and there were even curtains of sorts on the window cut into the cave wall. The only time you noticed it was a cave was the morning, when you woke up in the stale and heavy air, but for about 3 pounds a night, I wasn't complaining.

That evening I met up with two other travellers at the hostel and we walked to the top of the hill into which our hostel was built and from where, apparently, you could get the best views of the sunset. Unfortunately, the cloud cover was wrong and it never turned into the spectacular event one might have hoped for, but it was still an experience. In the evening I went with one of them to a pub down in the centre of the village. Typically for the area, it was an international theme and was run by an Australian, a reminder of the tourism in high summer. Again, it was also almost empty, another indication that the season hadn't really begun here.

By the next day I felt that I had already seen enough of the village, but was reluctant to take another tour due to expense and loss of independence. I decided to rent a bike, and explore the local landscape in this way. I hadn't ridden properly for years, and this was on the 'wrong' side of the road, so I was a little apprehensive. However, after a couple of early wobbles as I learnt left from right, I was fine. The first route I took rapidly turned into terrain that was impossible to navigate, so I took another. I rode up to the Open Air Museum, an awful hill but a worthwhile view at the top. The museum itself was a little dissappointing - swarming with tourists and overpriced - but the ride down the hill again was so exhilirating I didn't mind. I explored more, rushing through canyons, arriving into tiny rural villages, and stopping every so often to photograph a rock face or a lone donkey.

Despite aching greatly, I wanted to make the most of my last night in Goreme, so joined most of the others from the hostel in going to a Turkish night. All you can eat, all you can drink, with entertainment of the Turkish variety throughout the evening; all for 50 lira or about 21 pounds. The evening started tamely; it was the whirling dervishes, and because of the event's religious significance, there was to be no drinking and no flash photography for this part of the show. Of course, the sanctity of the moment wasn't spoiled by them charging bus loads of wealthy Japanese and American tourists money to see it, nor by its inclusion in a show that would later include belly dancing and considerable amounts flash photography and drinking, but the hypocrisy was hardly noted. As the secular entertainments proceeded, the evening gradually became louder, less Turkish, and culminated in the aforementioned belly dancer being lowered from the ceiling in a luminous cage and calling several male members of the audience up to have lessons. Authentically Turkish? Probably not. Amusing? Certainly. So continuing the mood of the evening, six of us headed for what we had been told was the only club in Goreme and turned out to be a small bar with a number of surprised locals that played almost exclusively 80s music. Everyone I was with was great, however, and I certainly have met some people here I will be keeping in contact with.

On the final day I had a bus to catch, but most of the day to spend in Goreme. Most of the morning I sat talking with my fellow travellers in the atrium area, and later headed out for a lunch with them. The day passed so quickly that soon I was saying my goodbyes and heading down to the bus stop for the next leg of my journey.

More Turkish Train Time

BenWH — Fri, 24 Apr 2009 00:00:00 GMT

As I have previously mentioned, I finally made the decision to explore more of Turkey. Having got here, and realising what a diverse, huge and at times daunting country it is, it felt foolish to move quickly on to somewhere new. Of all the places in Turkey, the one that had the strongest pull for me was Cappadocia, the Middle-Earthly valleys of towns built into the rock. Problematically, this would require a 21 hour journey from my current location of Izmir. Normally this might have been too much of a barrier; in comparison to what I have been getting used to, however, it seems positively short. And besides, I have learnt to make the most of my time spent travelling: reading, sleeping and working out where I am going to go next.

The first couple of hours of the train ride gave some stunning views of the mountains, kissed pink by the setting sun; once darkness set in, however, there were no such amusements and other than this, the journey from Izmir to Ankara was greatly uneventful. A couple of locals tried to talk to me, but soon realised the limits of their English and my ignorance of Turkish; I got very little sleep and that which I did get was disturbed; and I consumed large amounts of water, diet coke and Turkish tea. Otherwise I read, philosophised and generally let my thoughts morph between wakefulness and sleep in that surreal way that they tend to do.

Ankara, into which the morning brought us, seems fairly unexciting despite being the capital of modern Turkey. But I wouldn't know; I took my guidebook's word for it. I was more concerned with getting to Cappadocia as soon as possible. Having managed to lose myself in a sort of underground bazaar annexed to the station which sold mostly military uniform and equipment, I decided to indulge in a cab. Little more in price than the metro it got me to the bus station, or 'otogar', in good time. Next came the tough part. Insular as I am, the words 'bus station' conjure up images of a few buses lined up at Exeter or at the very most Victoria Coach Station in London. In Ankara, this is more like a medium sized airport, but I managed to locate a company selling tickets to Goreme, where I was going to be staying, and boarded the first bus I could. For four hours we rushed down straight roads as the scenery became increasingly desolate. Sometimes in the distance you could see snow-capped peaks, but mostly it was rocks, small mountains and a scattering of grass between the small towns. At Nevsehir, I changed to a shuttle bus, which took me to Goreme, in the heart of Cappadocia.

The Gateway to Asia

BenWH — Sat, 18 Apr 2009 00:00:00 GMT

I am starting to get the feeling of having properly started travelling. France, Italy, Croatia - these were just a warm up, though highly enjoyable. Montenegro, Serbia and through Bulgaria - challenging certainly, but the backpacker mentality still hadn't set in. But once I pulled into Istanbul on the train, saw Asia over the water, and stepped out for the first time into a Muslim country, a country whose culture, cuisine, music, art and history was almost entirely alien to me, I felt I was truly a traveller.

Some will no doubt criticise me for not doing my research, but the very nature of this kind of travelling means you are making things up as you go along and playing things by ear. My time in Istanbul suffered because of this, but I still managed to have a fascinating time, and have certainly found somewhere I will come back to explore on another occassion. Although I arrived in the early morning, for instance, I spent most of the time just walking around, sitting in parks and not really making any concrete decisions. I knew I could not get into my hostel until the early afternoon, and having not changed, had a shower, or really rested for over 24 hours I was not in the mood for sightseeing. So in the afternoon, having stopped in to the hostel, I became more adventurous and explored Sultanahmet, where I was staying, from the water up to the Blue Mosque, Hagia Sophia and beyond. It is a glorious area, particularly the park between the two big mosques. The gardens are perhaps too formal and the number of tourists is a distraction; still, you can't help but be impressed by the magnitude and magnificence of the buildings on either side of you. Foolishly, I had changed into shorts, so endured the stares of the locals throughout the afternoon.

In the evening, the hostel where I was staying had organised what it called - somewhat misleadingly, in my opinion - a 'pub crawl'. Despite being tired, I decided to go so I could get to know some of my fellow backpackers. We set off at about midnight, taking a mini bus to get from Sultanahmet to the busier nightlife centre of the city. We spent the night mostly in live music venues, which played a spectrum from Turkish ska and Indie to Techno and even 50s Rock'n'Roll. At the end of the evening, however, our guide dissappeared. There was muttering that he had had an argument with his girlfriend and had walked off, so the remaining eight of us had to get into taxis and make our way back.

In the morning, I met up with the Californian I had met in Dubrovnik whose route had taken her down to Turkey and had just arrived into the city. We wandered around, sampled some of the local food, and went into the Blue Mosque. However, being a Sunday and a national festival, the crowds were overwhelming. The heat too was extreme, and of course we were covering up so we could go into the mosque. Having exhausted myself, I decided to leave the Hagia Sophia for another day and spent a relaxing afternoon and evening walking around and reading in the terrace above the hostel.

The said hostel was in some ways perfect: ideally located, a roof terrace with fantastic views across the Bosphorous, several large communal areas with free internet access, and so on. However, there were some major flaws, which meant the place did not have the same atmosphere as I had experienced in Belgrade and Dubrovnik. The hostel was big, spread over four floors, and so when it came to finding the people who I had met on the first evening, the task was impossible. Over the course of the three nights I was there, there were only three people with whom I had a chance to speak to more than once - hardly the ideal atmosphere for cultivating friendships. For a solo traveller, this is rather disastrous, and was the main downpoint in a weekend that was otherwise enjoyable. There was one guy I met, however, who was one of the most interesting people I have had the opportunity to meet so far; unfortunately I could not find him on the last evening, so never got his contact details.

Ironically it's illegal to export antiques from Turkey.

On Monday I had more sightseeing planned but the Hagia Sophia was closed and for some reason I couldn't locate the Cistern until after closing time - two fairly major failures, which limited my sightseeing opportunities. However, I spent a good time in the Grand Bazaar - certainly an experience in itself, as I managed to resist the attempts of shopkeepers to sell me every description of item - and walked in the heat through the palace gardens. I have discovered that Istanbul is not a city that can be fully appreciated in three days, and in the end had to give up in my efforts to pack everything in. But on my final full day I did get the chance to meet with several of the locals, sharing lunch in a cafe with one (who said he could find me job if I could get my hands on a forged TEFL certificate) and playing dice in the evening at the hostel with another. The residents of Istanbul are for the most part greatly friendly, welcoming to strangers and eager to talk to you, which can all be slightly disconcerting for a Westerner who is used to passing people on the street with no acknowledgement. But for the most part it's a good thing - you just have to make sure they're not trying to sell you something.

On Tuesday I rose early to catch the ferry across the Bosphorous - this is necessary if you are to travel on to anywhere in the Asian part of the country over land. It may have been due to my expectations, but I immediately noticed a difference as I stepped onto the Asian continent. Perhaps it is because this part of the city sees less tourism, but I could not find anyone who spoke English. I managed to locate the station through a combination of luck, instinct and by miming my request for the locals, and boarded the train.

The Odyssey brings me to Homer

BenWH — Wed, 22 Apr 2009 00:00:00 GMT

I had travelled to Izmir to meet an old school friend who was travelling with her family. Having promised to meet her at the hotel for breakfast, my first hurdle came when the train stopped at a station in the middle of a field and we were shepherded off and taken to a shuttle bus. The route, it seems, was undergoing major engineering work, a crucial fact you miss when you don't speak the vernacular. When I had located the hotel, I got some strange looks from security - it seems I was not kitted out in quite the style of the 5 star's regular patrons - but was eventually let in and enjoyed my first cooked breakfast in weeks.

Her parents having rented a car, I experienced the luzury of 'private transport'; I had forgotten the freedom that we take for granted when we are not relying on timetables. We drove down through Selcuk to Ephesus, the site of some of the most extraordinary ruins in this part of the world. Having parked in the main car park, we boarded a 'free' shuttle bus that kindly took us via a school of carpet making, just on the off chance that we should be looking to purchase a carpet - see '20 Lessons', lesson number one: nothing is free. When we eventually reached the ruins, the sun was baking the ground, and tourist groups swarmed around their multilingual guides like flies.

The ruins at Ephesus are fascinating because of the great length of time that this area was settled. You can see inscriptions in all periods of Greek and Latin, and a myriad of styles of architecture. I of course am not educated in the subtle differences between these, but my friend is terrifyingly well read and was able to provide me with information. In the afternoon we drove up into the mountains to have a picnic, and spent a good deal of time searching among the trees for a particular kind of plant to no avail. But getting a chance to fully explore a less populous part of the country is something you rarely get as a solo traveller without a car, and so I made the most of it. Back in Izmir, we ate out in the evening at an authentic Turkish restaurent by the sea - my first real taste of a selection of the local entrees.

My second day in Izmir was spent in varying degrees of panic. I woke up knowing that I only had a bed for one more night and had no more idea of what country I was going to as I did what bed. My main options were to head to the Greek islands, to explore the Turkish coast further or to head inland. After hours spent looking over maps and doing my research in internet cafes I chose the latter, but I had left little time to do anything else all day.

So on my final day I spent a little more time exploring. Izmir is a city that at once appears perfectly simple; as you spend time here, however, you lose faith in the geography you have built up in your mind until you become entirely lost. The outskirts are a sea of square technicolour houses; interesting although not beautiful at a distance, but not worth exploring. The centre itself in many ways resembles a Western European city, but none of the shops are the same. In fact, for the first time in living memory, it took me over an hour to locate a Starbucks. (I know this is unadventurous, but I was after coffee that didn't have mud in the bottom and wouldn't send my system into shock. Besides, few people here understand requests for a Grande Iced Latte.) However, by the sea there are some interesting features including a small mosque and a famous clock tower, and of course the city is famous not only as the alleged birthplace of Homer but as a crucial place in the fight for Turkish independence. Having explored these and resigned myself to the fact that I have about exhausted what Izmir has to offer, I settled into an internet cafe, which is where I write this: small, out of the way, but incredibly cheap. A little while ago, as I was typing, a fight broke out outside, perhaps a sign that it's time for me to move on!

Stuffed in Turkey

BenWH — Tue, 21 Apr 2009 00:00:00 GMT

Taking trains in this part of the world can be thoroughly disconcerting for the following reasons: Firstly, whereas in the bigger stations in London, trains arrive and depart every couple of minutes, in the forty minutes I was at Haydarpasa station in Istanbul, mine was the only train to depart. Secondly, you can board the train a considerable time before it sets off, during which time it will make strange clunking noises as if threatening to take off and confirm your fears that you are in fact on the wrong train. The quality of the trains, however, is better than in most of Europe, with more legroom, nicer toilets and bigger windows. The trolley even comes down the train every half hour or so, significantly better than in Britain, and because the aisle is so big this doesn't disrupt your movements down the carriage.

The four hour journey to Eskisehir therefore flew by, especially as I have been used to much longer journeys over the past few weeks. The next six hours would be more challenging - stuck at Eskisehir station, waiting for my train to Izmir. I managed to find a machine that for a small fee would look after my bag for a couple of hours so I could stretch my legs and explore the town. Having located a civilian who spoke English, I managed to communicate my intentions to the person manning the machine, who told me that I needed to be back no later than 5.30 as there was a likelihood the machine would malfunction and this was when he left work.

I won't waste space describing the town - suffice it to say that I was probably the only English-speaker in a 20 mile radius in an area not known for its tourism. It wasn't bad; there was just nothing there worth seeing. So I made my way back to the station, made use of the free WiFi and read. At 5.20 I returned to the spot specified to collect my bag. I waited; the machine had clearly broken or been turned off or otherwise ceased to work. 5.30 came and went; I continued to wait. A station worker who had passed me by several times, tried to explain in frustrated Turkish that - I imagine, not that I could understand -I could not leave my bag there because it was not on/working; he banged the doors, shouted at me, shook his head and walked off. More people came, to whom I tried to explain that my bag was actually in there, but nobody understood, clearly thinking I was either incredibly stupid or incredibly stubborn.

Finally somebody came who spoke very broken English. I showed him my ticket from the machine, and he understood. Eventually he managed to locate the man who ran the machine and after several attempts to coax it into handing over the goods, it opened up and I was able to take my bag away. I was reassured that they had taken the security of my possessions seriously; I just wish they had been a little easier to access.

When I was finally able to board the train at nearly 10, I was pleased to see I had a single seat between the aisle and the window. However, the woman in front of me kicked up a fuss about being sat opposite a man, and so I did the gentlemanly thing and sacrificed my superior seat. The new one had half the leg room and was opposite somebody else, which effectively limited me from moving my feet; as a result, I slept very little and in the morning was alarmed to see that my ankles had actually swollen from lack of movement. But back to the woman, who by now had vacated the seat behind me and had taken up a further two seats across the aisle, and having left her possessions on my original seat she was effectively taking up three. Some time later, she advanced her foot onto a further seat, contorting her body painfully to extend her monopoly over my part of the train. Petty things like this don't normally bother me, but as I lay awake squeezed into less space than a child could be expected to occupy, my anger gradually increased. Every time I did go to sleep, the train would stop, make the aforementioned clunking noises, and so I would again be disturbed. I approached Izmir more in need of a cup of coffee than ever in my life.