Attaturk and Abbasi

March 26

Having bought my ticket to Amman, Jordan, I secured my plans to the Middle East and I could not believe it.  The last Saturday crept on me.  Mudra comes into my room as I am packing, and she starts to fondle my tan sweater. 

“Ot kude?” – “Where from?”

“Germaniya”

All of sudden her big brown eyes shift from the sweater and towards me, and she asks me, fingers still clenching the sweater,

"Sprechen Sie Deutsch?"

And my eyes light up.  My smile has increased ten fold and we communicate like we never have before.  She lets out a sigh that I will never forget. 

I learn she lived in Germany for about six months as some sort of service lady- maid I presume and no- not the other type of "service lady." 

She tells me that the sweater is "schön" and I tell her she can have it.  She lets the sigh out again and tells me

"schönen Danke."

Later in the hallway before leaving for my last night of dancing in Burgas, she tells me I am a

"Kulturjugend schön schön,"  kisses me on both cheeks, and pins a Martenitsa on my jacket. 

 I head out in full gear and as soon as you know it, it was a rendition of last time- catch bus at 11:30 PM, right in the middle of the party.  In comparison to the last Saturday, I have moves- although Beginner/Intermediate.   Good progression, but man- some people are really good. 

That night, as I head to the Bus Station, a taxi driver asks me,

"Where are you going my friend?"

"Za Istanbul!"

disappointed, his response of "Oh...Istanbul" fleets into the silence.

I wave the bus down and get in.  This time, I actually do attempt to sleep, but it is incredibly difficult because these coach busses are impossible to sleep in.  If you try to sleep with your back to the seat, your head goes either left or right and it just hangs.  If you try to sleep on both seats, the window is always rattling, and then with your head in the aisle, that needs no explanation.  So for the most part, the ride was not pleasant, and the whole time, this older Turkish dude kept giving me glances. 

"Quit looking at my nuts, asshole" I would say to myself in my head.  I had bought a black sack of assorted nuts in Bulgaria and was eating them, and the dude kept looking over.  Mind your own damn business...

A Bulgarian/Turkish girl and I get to know each other and her mom happens to be a huge fan of America- her first time crossing the border.  A unique one for sure; as a man who was in our coach bus attempted to transport two duffel bags of Vodka to Turkey and it took about an hour to get that all situated. 

Six hours later we arrive in Istanbul, and thanks to the attendants who gave me two Liras, I was able to board the Subway to Havalamani Airport without having to make a withdrawal- victory. 

This place is huge.

If you thought Istanbul was international, wait til you see the airport.  It is phenomenal.  Istanbul is practically the gateway from and to Asia, the Middle East, Europe, and Africa.  There are just people from all walks of life speaking different languages and of course, also waiting for their planes or asleep on the seats.  The world is not so different afterall :P

And free Wifi.  Oh yes.  How I love thee.

I check the departures and mine is not listed- too early, but I do notice Istanbul to New York and I think to myself, "I could be there."  I take a brief tour, watching people from other cultures live.  Two Asian girls are sitting peacefully at a table, diligently reading.  I situate myself at a Gloria Jean's Coffee and try to sleep.  The man in front of me begins texting with his volume up.  So every. damn. letter. he types makes a pleasant "beep" sound.  Miraculously I fall asleep, but wake up after an hour.  Just then, a woman sits at the table next to us, I believe she was from England.  I watch.  After glancing at the man a few times, she has enough and leaves.

I go over to him.

"Hello, could you please turn the volume down?"

"Is it just drilling your ears?" He turns it down.

"Where you from?"

"Lebanon"

Freddie if you ask him what his name is in English and Fareed if in Arabic - kind of like my name, Aaron; English and Haroun; Arabic.

Business traveler.  He told me he was ready to give back to the community and go into teaching.  Right on.  Earthly dude.

"Ah, human resources.  Good communicator.  You know, in China, the possibilities are springing up everywhere.  That is where everyone is going."

Time draws near and I check my bags in.  A man tells me to go to Petra in Jordan, the sand is "pinky."  Cute.

To the terminals.  I take a tour of the place, seeing so many cultures, making small talk with everyone, and find some Wifi while sitting next to a Romanian and two Indians. 

And then it's time to fly...

I arrive and guess what - there is no ATM in the arrival and the only currency accepted for Visas are Jordanian Dinars.  Wow, who thought this one up?  The best part is that the only bank that is present has a terrible conversion rate!  At least I have Euros.  No biggie.

Money is running low, so I take in a budget mindset.  Public transportation only- hardcore!.  I did my research beforehand and learn that the bus runs from the airport for three Dinars (roughly one Euro) versus the Taxi- 20.  No brainer on this one.

There, I meet an Arabic couple, one from Morocco and one from Jordan.  They speak in English because there are simply too many differences between the dialects; business owners and lovers; that seems rather ideal.  They give me their contact information, help me out with my hostel location, recommend me a few places, and even offer to give me a short ride to find some better priced Taxi drivers.  What

the Taxi drivers here will do, is they will follow a bus until it stops, then try to get the departing passengers to pay a higher fee.  We arrive at the bus station and flocks of Taxi drivers start slapping the windows.  I follow the couple to their car.

The man tells me that they are asking,

"Is the Japanese with you?"

HAHAHA.

I see a photographer taking a picture of the traffic.  I take his lead and go next to him, he offers me to use his stand, I gracefully decline.  I am dropped off a block away and hail a Taxi.

I show him the address of the hostel and we are off...

After countless attempts of looking for the hostel, even going down a one way the wrong direction- and people just giving us the weirdest looks, and asking so many people where this damn hostel was at, We just happen to stop at a spot with an unsecured wireless connection and I go to find the address of the hostel one more time- until I see the negative reviews for the first time.  Atrocious.  So I find

another hostel- Abbasi.  I tell my driver to go to Qurash street, and we follow suite.  We find it in no time; after about an hour of looking for this Bdeiwi hostel.  The fare was five Dinars.  I give him eight.  He looks down and says disappointingly,

"I spent an hour with you." 

"That's all I got."

"Here's my contact."

I join the commotion in the hostel.  It's a mixed group, but primarily English speakers with an occasional French or Spanish.

An older couple from Australia plus some random dude.

A Canadian couple about my age.

A Californian. 

Everyone swaps their stories and a kinship forms. 

Not bad. 

I do not like hoste- hey did they just offer me free tea, falafel, and…GUAVA JUICE?

A fork in the road.

March 15

Right, so where were we?

After Syria denied me entrance into its country, I set sights back to Istanbul.  There I would meet up with Benno and Denny, and we would altogether find out that the food that they sell in the outdoor markets would not only be cheaper, but also outstanding in quality in comparison to what the supermarkets/markets sell. 

Just 'nother day in Istanbul

Seaside Restaurants

Lines of fishermen

Grill on the boat, throw onto land.

Check out the Galata Tower

Aside from Fumas, they have bumps in their Nikes.

In preparation for the future, I delve into the possibilities of the following:

a)      Go to Morocco from Istanbul and spend a month there, hitchhiking and blending in with the locals, while hopefully picking up a pair of blue robes with the Tuareg

b)      Fly to Egypt, go to the Gaza Strip through the Rafa crossing

c)       Go to Jordan, ultimately putting my plane ticket from Tel Aviv to Morocco into play

I vision Morocco as this vast desert land, where Aladdin would be playing in my head the whole time.  I also fiddle with the idea of becoming a nomad with either the Tuareg or the Bedouins for a few days.   Oh, and the food.   

The Gaza Strip intrigues me with a sense of wonder, mystery, and even life-threatening situations.  I began to do my research into the matter, consulting online sources and first-hand experiences about entrance and exiting.  I imagine myself meeting a host from Couchsurfing and he brings me to meet some Hamas people.  Oh and there is cheap food too.    

Going to Jordan would allow me to see Palestine and Israel.  Oh, did I mention I have a plane ticket from Israel to Morocco?

Days pass, Benno and Denny stretch their budgets even more by what I like to call an “alcohol bailout,” resulting in breaking their five day streak of sobriety.  As a result, they force themselves to eat the most they can during their happy hour of breakfast and allow their bodies to nourish throughout the day on just that. 

Travelers from the globe come in and out; guy from Australia (funny because he’s staying at “The Sydney Hostel,” a woman from Iceland, a group of Iranians who I found particularly interesting; they wanted to immigrate to North America; the possibilities are simply so much easier and plentiful as opposed to in Iran, where one is ostracized for being an artist and going against a wave of societal pressure along with poor infrastructure.  Did I mention they had incredible accents?  Like the Swedes, they consume American media and entertainment, resulting in what Benno described as a “sitcom” style of expression and speech.  

My days begin to run dry and I feel stagnant, so I urge myself to get moving in the direction of north- Burgas, Bulgaria.  Gergana and I contact each other and she informs me that she arranged a “mini-rent” type of situation in an apartment for nine days.  With this is mind, I go full speed ahead with the plan to leave Istanbul and I go to the reception to find out bus information.

Bus Company: Varan

Time: 19:00

Cost: 55 Turkish Lira

Easy enough.  Benno doubts that I will find a bus in sufficient time and that I will end up back in the Sydney Hostel.  Out of the reasons to inflate my ego, get out of Istanbul, and learn Salsa, I bid the hostel farewell and make way to the Otogar.

I arrive at the city-like station and immediately head towards the Varan office.

“Ankara! Ankara!”

“Hello my friend, where are you going?”

I get there and the office says they do not have any to Burgas- despite what the information on the internet said, and they point me to the opposite side of the Otogar, where even more bus companies attempt to call my attention.  After shopping around with poor communication- I finally found a company with a Bulgarian clerk, with whom I gratefully communicated with.  It feels more comfortable when you can at communicate questions in yes or no format, or even ask where something is.  Not knowing any Turkish aside from a few scattered words like Thank You or Mosque- extremely helpful when buying a bus ticket- the world feels rather scary.  I gladly purchase the ticket from the Bulgarian clerk, greet a few Bulgarians, and head upstairs to wait for the departure, where I meet a man named Mohamed.  A lawyer in Cairo, we exchange Arabic phrases, political beliefs, traveling to the Gaza Strip, and daily niches throughout the night and ride. 

“The revolution…as we marched together...we lost our ability to become self-conscious…and Mubarak left.”

He was meeting his girlfriend in Bulgaria, with whom he met through Yahoo I presume.  At the border, the officials could not read his passport and were slightly suspicious.  The tattered passport filled with visas and stamps, however, would see yet another stamp into Bulgaria. 

“It’s old, let’s switch passports.”

“Then I can go to Syria!”

He tells me about how difficult it is, as an Egyptian to get a Visa anywhere in the world.  He must be interviewed, fill out forms, and pay, whereas I simply fly or go to a border and am let through for a meager amount- exception of Syria. 

We exchange contacts and I head to my temporary house in the middle of the night.  Perhaps I would have an excuse to travel to Varna- to visit a new friend.  

March 19

Mudra they call her, mother of all good.  At 2:00 in the morning of Saturday, she and I conduct not only a business transaction, but also a brief chit chat of who I am.  Through my Bulgarian and her…Bulgarian we come to the conclusion that I am:

a)      From America (Ot Sasht)

b)      Study in Germany (oocha v Germaniya)
c)       Travel (putoovam)

Story of my life.  We call it a night.

Handwashed

The Burgas wind claims another!

"Yo whattup"

Palm trees in season; I arrived as they were setting them out.

Cross-dressing

Saturday comes and I begin to meticulously soak up information like a sponge; from Arabic to Human Resources.  That night I attend a beginner course in Salsa taught by Gergana as well as a course in the Bachata and go to Cocktails and Dreams to practice a bit.  One of my few sources of Wi-Fi, I establish communication with loved ones back at home while people dance.  Gergana and I also establish a schedule for the week that would turn out to be roughly three hours of Salsa everyday, private teaching.  From that Saturday on out, it was as if I simply lived.  Not as a tourist, nothing.  I even meet two Arabic speakers- refugees from Iraq waiting on Bulgarian citizenship so they can move to Sweden, but do not reap their abilities to my advantage.  Mudra and I continue to communicate in Bulgarian about everyday things, what I do, what is going on in Libya, and so on.  I also meet two famous Bulgarian actors who invite me to an opera, but I go to Salsa instead.  Mohamed also informs me not to go to the Gaza Strip, as recent activity between the IDF and Gaza indicates its insecurity.

Perhaps it would not be the best time to visit the Gaza Strip...