Middle Ages-Free Since 1453

The best thing I ever did was forget to bring money to the train station.  If I had purchased my ticket right away, I wouldn’t have noticed this awesome poster that informed me that the 557^th Anniversary of the final fall of Constantinople to the Turks in 1453 was on May 29.  This is a pretty big deal for me.  This should be a bigger deal for everyone.  Not only did this finally bring an official end to the tiresome Middle Ages, but it also became a rallying point for Christendom, and, to a degree, sewed the seeds for the concept of Europe and ultimately the European Union. (Because they are still trying to keep Turkey out.  See what I did there?  See?)

This either is, or isn't, part of the area that the Kerkaporta is located in, which is where the Turks either did, or didn't, enter Constantinople.

I resolved to remain in the Sublime Porte for another couple of days so that I could go to the Kerkaporta at the appointed hour, and reflect on how intense the whole scene must have been.  So you can imagine how I felt when I climbed up to one of the towers and saw a bunch of Turkish youth drinking rum and coke (or possibly just coke.  Oh, but I think they had marijuana too, so I'm totally cleared for moralising) on this the day of the most recent sacking of Constantinople.  While avoiding boisterous youth is something that I work very hard at albeit unsuccessfully, I actually found these particular Young Turks to be quite pleasant.  Certainly compared to the ones attending the Turkish nationalist rally at a nearby soccer stadium (I also attended, and admired large pictures of Kemal Ataturk and Suleiman II or Mahmud 2 or whoever). 

It probably would have been nice of me to rotate these before I uploaded them.

The Turks victorious.

In order to fully appreciate the willing and unwavering submission to Oriental culture by going to a Starbucks to aid me in my walk to find the Kerkaporta. In front of me were two groups of women—all tourists.  The first group spent forever explaining to the hopelessly unprepared barista what they wanted and were quite particular and argumentative and demanding.  The next woman starting angrily shouting at the barista and then stormed out disgusted.  I then approached the counter, and very gently, in Simple English and with delicate tact, explained the steps necessary to complete my drink order: that I would like a full cup of ice with two shots of espresso, more ice, then 1 pump of vanilla and filled to the top with cold water.  It’s not an iced Americano, by the way.   While I think he appreciated my tact, he still probably cursed, and curses daily, the grave of the mess officer or whoever was in charge of victuals and logistics during the Vienna Campaign and accidentally left behind that bag of coffee beans at the gates, introducing the drink to Western Civilisation and ultimately negatively affecting him today. 

I'm not sure you can say things like this. 

Aside from this I drank a couple of teas (at least one of them was apple.  Have you had apple tea?!  I don't know if there is actually a difference between it and that apple cider packets you can buy at any grocery store in Canada but it's really good), listened to a drunk Turkish man tell me that Georgia was the best place to be due to all the things one could buy for minimal American dollars, and watched Turkey come in second place to Germany in Eurovision.  Yep, we've come a long way from hammering at the gates of Vienna. 

Wily and unpredictable youth at the Kerkaporta.

In any case, this is how I commemorated the final collapse (or at the very least, one of the final collapses. One might even go as far as to use "penultimate" in this instance) of the Roman Empire in sunny, blustery, hazy Constantinople.  I'm not sure there is any other way because these are the sorts of unprecedented paradigm-shifting fin-du-mondes that only happen once every half-millenia or so that it should really be about individual self-expression.  And lounging in a series of Oriental cafes complaining about the heat, reflecting about how the Turks nearly swallowed Western Civilisation whole, and reading literature by and about people who have sat in Oriental cafes in the past complaining about the heat and worrying about how the Turks are going to swallow Western Civilisation whole is self expression par-excellence if and when you’re me. 

The Orient Sexpress

Look, I’ve read Orientalism enough times (once, and even then it was a bit half-assed.  So let’s rephrase: I’ve cited Orientalism in term papers without having read the whole thing through enough times) to know a thing or two about Turkey.  In fact, most of my identity actually stems from what Turkey is, and therefore what I am not.  So you can imagine my delight when I read several warnings on the old internet that it’s a common scam for locals to approach tourists by speaking Turkish, and with the tourist stops them and says, “No! I’m not Turkish, I’m a tourist!” the con-artist will then apologise profusely and offer to buy the tourist a drink.  They would then go to a bar of the local’s choosing where the tourist would be robbed of all his possessions, or the drink would be on the tourist and would be 1,600 euros.  Or his kneecaps get broken.  Or something equally horrific.  This happens in Eastern Europe a lot with “hot” girls who walk up to American backpackers and ask them if they’d like to get a drink.  Then the backpackers are all, “Oh, snap, this chick totally wants me because I’m such an American hottie” only to discover later that the hot girl is actually a prostitute (twist!) and has a large, neckless ex-boxer boyfriend who drags them to the ATM to withdraw all their savings. 

While I think you’d have to be pretty stupid to think that a “hot,” eastern European girl actually wants to talk to you, this Turkish scam is a lot more innocent and quite worrisome.  Luckily for me, however, I and my anemic skin tone had beaten the system.  There was no way anyone could mistake me for a Turk.  I am the anti-Turk.  I have \spent enough time in Africa to know that everyone thinks I am Russian or German anyway, so I would be well-aware of any scams in the making; in fact, I am almost scam-proof in this regard.  So when several people, independent of one and other, approached me and ask me if I was from _______, because I have a ____-ish face, I thought to myself, “Oh my god, I know what is going on.  They think I am a sex tourist.”  I was onto their game, and what they thought of people from a specific northern European country.  There is no other explanation.*  In each situation when I was asked if I was from _______, I uttered “NO!” and fled the scene.  Can’t scam me.

So I locked up all my money and possessions in the hostel and spent the entire first day in Constantinople artfully dodging scam artists and trying to soak up the beauty of the sunset in some lesser-frequented neighbourhoods outside of Taxim.  Waiting at a crosswalk I noticed an old man carrying a shoe-shining stool had dropped his brush so I quickly scooped it up and handed it to him, as a conscientious individual might do.  He was so grateful that he insisted he shine my shoes for free.  I told him I had no money.  He told me it was for free.  I reiterated that I had no money.  He reiterated that it was for free.  I then said, “Look, I don’t think you’re fully grasping the situation: you’re not just a homeless person.  I’m not just saying I have no money.  I actually have no money.”  He articulated roughly the same message to me about it being free.  I gave up and said, “Fine, let me enjoy this free shoe-shining.”  When he finished and inevitably asked for any money I had, I reversed my pockets to show him that I actually had nothing on me.  He persisted in asking for anything, and I remembered I had a two Lev Bulgarian note in my fifth pocket.  I pulled it out, handed to him and told him to go exchange it.  He wasn’t happy, and sure I technically got scammed, but my shoes look great. 

*I am not printing the name of said country for so many reasons, but I will let you know that in Chisinau I overheard the hostel receptionist, a sweet young girl whose English was quite impressive, exclaim to a young couple checking in, “You’re the first _____ people I’ve met that aren’t sex tourists!”  While it was a bit of strange thing to say, chiefly because the girl had no proof to back this up, these are the moments I live for because they reaffirm the national stereotyping that movies like Hostel and Hostel II have worked hard to indoctrinate me with.   

Smorgas-Bourgas

I awoke with a jolt when the train suddenly stopped in Bourgas.  What surprised me about all this is that I had actually slept at all.  The night train from Sofia had been packed, smelly, and fully of atrocious soccer hooligans* who were evidently just scream-counting to ten.  Getting to Bourgas may not have been comfortable but it was fairly easy.  From Prishtina I bused to Skopje, then immediately caught a bus to Sofia (at a terrible exchange rate in the bus depot because it was some sort of Orthodox holiday and everything was closed) and then found the Black Sea Express to the coast.  I had been through 4 countries in 24 hours, and the first thing I did when I emerged from the train at 5:30am was crawl onto a bench in the station and fall as asleep and the first thing the security guard did when he saw me was grunt angrily and poke me with a stick, telling me to leave.

I'm very much convinced that Bulgarian grandfathers are the original hipsters.

 Bourgas is great.  I think the Russians had something to do with it.  I couldn’t decide if I should stay there for the night and rest up for my big trip to Thrace, or if I should just go to Thrace and deal with the fallout later.  I decided to go to Thrace right away because there was the little matter of needing to withdraw cash.  I only like to withdraw $300 at a time, and while I could easily have blown $300 on Bulgaria’s Black Sea coast on caviar and iced sweet red wine, my fiscal prudence had me counting the precious few lev I had left and purchasing a ride in a minivan (7 lev I believe) to Malko Tarnovo.  I had been to Veliko Tarnovo, so why not Malko Tarnovo?  It also was right on the border with Turkey, which I believed was a pretty good starting point to access Constantinople.

Surprise!  It wasn’t!  Malko Tarnovo, much like the name suggests, is a small Tarnovo.  This is the smallest tarnovo I have ever been in, and while I had a great mixed grill at the local hotel, there wasn’t anything indicating a means of transport to Turkey, nor a Turkish border anywhere in sight.  So onwards I walked, assuming the border was close, and minibuses were waiting to whisk me away.  I took a few twists and turns through the woods and found myself on a road, hoping it was the road the Turkey.  It’s fairly fortuitous I stumbled out onto it when I did because a car immediately stopped for me and drove me all the way to Constantinople. 

The driver’s name was Rouman and he was in logistics, or shipbuilding, or engineering, or porting, or something along those lines.  He had been to Vancouver, and much of the rest of the world.  Now he was driving to Constantinople for a business meeting of sorts and dropped me off in the centre square, which was possibly the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.  Have you seen Constantinople?  It’s one of the biggest cities in the world and the suburbs look hot, unpleasant, and they start at the Greek border. 

C-Stan approaches.

Rouman also told me many great stories, and finally cracked the riddle of the Vauxhall mystery for me.  Evidently the Russian tsar had sent two agents to the UK to learn about railways and the two agents ended up getting disastrously drunk.  When the tsar asked them to relay all their information they could not remember a thing, and when the tsar asked what the train stops in they reached into their memories and came up with the only thing that stood out: Vauxhall, which is the name of a stop in London.  And now that name is on every train station across all the Russias.  The more you know.

And just like that, after waking up in a smelly and dingy train in Bourgas, and before that having been told by my best friend, like in Harry and the Hendersons, to “go on!” because I wasn’t wanted anymore, I was in one of the oldest and mot cosmopolitan cities on the planet.  The city was pulsing with life around every corner, so I took this opportunity to really let loose, find my bunk bed and fall asleep at 6:30 in the evening.

*AHHH!  What is up with soccer hooligans?  They are ruining Europe!  Young, unemployed men (myself excluded) are the worst thing for a society!