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...