So a few weeks back (about 3) me and the gang headed out to Istanbul for the Turkish Grand Prix. I’m only getting time to write about it now (well, actually I’m shit bored at work and as such thought I’d at least appear to be productive).
Truth be told though, I have been really really amazingly busy, and not in the sense when you ask someone “how are you” and they say “oh, I’ve been really busy” and what they actually mean is that they have zero time management skills, hence have to spend too much time at the office doing work which could have been done in no time flat. I’m generalising, to be sure. I guess I simply can’t comprehend why people can’t all be awesome… like me.
But that’s for another post and I now hereby, henceforth and forth worthy firmly digress.
As per usual, I get like a gerbil in Richard Gere’s house the closer we get to the flight. “Did I pack my passport? Yeah, ok, check, there it is. 5 minutes later, OH SHIT! Where’s my passport?! Ah ok, there it is. Damn I have to pack still, where are the tickets? What did I forget to bring? Oh man, what if the luggage is too heavy! Fuck, I knew I should have remembered to buy a scale. OH SHIT, WHERE’S MY PASSPORT!”
Ad infinitum.
I have no idea why I do this. It’s obviously a piece of obsolete neurological circuitry that switches on around this time. I have mentioned before that my opinion on flying (especially long haul) is that it’s designed to make your life a misery. I succinctly summed it up as a “cluster fuck”.
Anyhoo, on to the flight (which went smoothly, thanks for asking). Arrived at Attaturk Airport to a sweltering Istanbul. It was like that pretty much for the whole trip; I was always covered by a layer of damp, heavy sweat. Charming.
The hotel was pretty good, Hotel Atlantis (the Cape colored in me loved this name!). At least they had aircon… which broke exactly one day later... due to a power outage of the entire block. Which, of course, wasn’t fixed till 3 days later, or, almost exactly the time we where due to check out.
Digressing. We chose to bunk down in the touristy part of town, Sultanahmet for our trip. It’s in the “Mosque District”, which has Mosques. Seriously. I know, I know, a bit misleading in the naming of the district. But trust me, we where tripping over the things. You can also tell it’s the touristy part due to the fact that most of the items for sale (even milk) don’t have price tags on them. This facilitates the opportunity to “ask” what the price of the item, which gives the proprietor the foot in the door to the ass-rape your wallet. This is when the “haggle” will occur, a feeble attempt (for our part) to try and “lube up” the transaction. We thought we where quite clever, having read fully 3 pages on haggling in our “Lonely Planet: Turkey” guide on the plane. I can sadly report though that we where totally outclassed. These fellas have been haggling since the day they where born and nothing you picked up on your short 4 hour flight would ever match their cunning.
Multiply the rapage by at least 4, when applying said process to taxis. A gang rape, if you will. With a smile and a shrug, and a promise to call you in the morning.
I’d like to think by the end of our trip there was a time when we got the hang of it, but I only think that to try and sooth the inflamed asshole in my wallet.
Digressing.
Other than the sweltering heat (which the chicks obviously loved) and the occasional run on the wallet, Turkey is a fantastic country. Beautiful architecture, very very warm and friendly people, a real sense of community. It was especially apparent coming from London, which had this really foreboding, dense energy about it. We got to and from the track at Istanbul park without much hassle, preferring the official bus service (airconned, thank God!) to the taxis, since they where also the cheapest. The qualifying and race itself was nothing short of spectacular, even though my team, Maclaren finished 3rd and 5th (Hamilton FTW!).
I think the defining moment, where it all sank in, was sitting on the stand, the Porsche cup qualifying finishing up and the F1 safety car doing the parade lap to check all is well. Next, you hear the distinct sound and a low humming melody of a perfectly engineered, loving crafted and expertly tuned F1 engine coming from the pit garages.
The first car (a Spyker) lines up on the pit exit, go light amber, waiting for its signal to tear this shit up. Then GREEN! And it flies down the pit exit, wailing like a banshee with PMS, the crowd erupting to cheers and cat calls! God. Fucking. DAMN! I have goose bumps and tears in my eyes right now!!
And then, like they where following the orders of Russell Crow in Gladiator: “on my signal, release Hell”, they bring the noise.
The race itself was full of anticipation and action. Honestly, I cannot think of a better way to spend the afternoon: at a live F1 race, surrounded by fans of all sorts and nationalities, the wailing of engines and the company of friends. Oh, and Beer!! Cold, cold beer. Well worth every penny and effort to get there. Standing on the start/ finish line afterwards, soaking it all up, was almost spiritual. I lie, it was spirtitual!
After the race we could finally have some holiday, as it where. We kept quite busy, but never felt obligated to DO anything. Everything just flowed. Around our hotel are numerous little side streets lined with cafes and restaurants, old timers playing back gammon, carpet merchants etc. We made friends with this one restaurant owner and spent every evening at his place, drinking, smoking sheesha pipes and playing cards, and forcing my money on him since he wanted to keep giving us free shit! We taught him how to play king and asshole (the game of choice for the trip) and he kicked our collective asses more than a few times! Crafty Turks. He promised to take us to a bar on our last evening there, a promise he made good on and it was the perfect end to a perfect trip.
Oh, we did other things too: we took a ferry (hey! I didn’t get seasick!!) to the islands, accidentally disembarked on the WRONG one we intended to visit but we made the best of it. Our intention was to hit one of the beaches but we ended up swimming at a resort, played more cards and hanging out. The island doesn’t have any public transport. Well, they do, but in the form of horse buggies! The only 2 cars I saw where police cars. On the way back, we decided to rent bicycles (the place is riddled with bike hire companies) and did a “tour de island”, which was only about 16 km. Headed back around sunset, decided not to take the ferry back, instead opting dinner and gambling on the last ferry off the island at 21:45. We miss that one, we’re pretty much fucked!
But the last paragraph basically embodies the spirit of the whole trip. Very much a go-with-the-flow way of thinking, save for getting to the race and back. Which made every moment an adventure. J
I’m probably missing a bucket load of things: little things like our theme song for the trip (Destination unknown, this saxophone dance tune thing they played to death at the F1) or the fact that the reigning King from the last round of K&A could make you do whatever he / she pleased (I feel so dirty and used…). These and other things made it one of the best trips of my life, but I would have to relegate them to the “you simply had to be there” category and leave it at that.
Sure wish you where J
PS: pics on Facebook, when I get round to it…
[G], out
Bah-pom-pom-pom Bah-pom-pom-pom-pom!
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