The leaves are about gone. Despite it being the end of December, there is still some life in them. Fall and winter so far have been quite mild here in Ankara. The bare, gnarly branches outside in front of my balcony are a sign of winter, but the 06.00 street sweeper-man moves his broom and dustpan down the street much more quickly now too. I wonder how long his season goes? What happens to his paycheck when the leaves stop falling and there is nothing left to sweep up?
It’s the day after Boxing Day and as the sun comes up I’m putting the last things into a suitcase for a trip to Stockholm. This trip is not for work and I’ll only be alone while in transit. Once I get there, I will have good friends to share the experience with. I am of course looking forward to this, but I am aware that, although walking a city with a native may take me to some non-touristic gems, the element of surprise goes away a bit. The chance encounters that a solo-woman can encounter, although often annoying, can be their own gems that just wouldn’t happen if she had a companion. Okay, so it has taken me a while to come back to writing this story. I have no excuses other than I’ve been traveling a lot.
Seconds after the guy with the big club realized I was no threat, both of our frightful expressions became equally apologetic. I felt bad disturbing him and he felt bad for wanting to bruise whomever it was knocking on his door. His English was good and he explained that he had just closed his place for the season. It was early November and the seaside town just wasn't booming with business in winter. It was late, or it seemed late, and I simply asked him if he could recommend another place for the weekend. He said that he could, of course, and as his initial shock subsided more and more, his offers increased. "Well, you can stay here for one night. How many nights do you need . . . oh, two, well, you could stay here for two, but there won't be anyone to make you breakfast. Well, I will call my friend and see if he can make your breakfast tomorrow. He can be here by 10, what time do you want to eat . . . oh, you get up early, I will ask him to be here by 8.30 . . . " His increased willingness and efforts to get me to stay were at first kind and then a bit weird, and once he invited me to have dinner with him, I was on the phone with a friend in Ankara, pretending I was talking to "my boyfriend who couldn't come with me on this trip, unfortunately." This was a case of trying to read the line between Turkish hospitality and a creepy guy thinking he's going to get lucky in his empty hotel tonight. I took a chance and stayed.
What ended up happening was me having an entire refurbished historic Ottoman home to myself. This man had created his own "Art Hotel" with antique artifacts decorating the interior common space and about 10 rooms of this inn. My breakfast chef was Jacob who spoke less English than I spoke Turkish, but we spent two-hours sharing stories over coffee and simit that morning, him showing me photos of his army days in the 80s. With pictures, a map and good senses of humor, Jacob and I laughed and learned from each other's stories.
I had a similar experience in Istanbul when I was there a couple of years ago. Walking through the busy Sultan Ahmet with my guidebook obviously seeking out a tourist trap, I was stopped by a man speaking to me in German. I kept walking pretending not to pay attention. He switched to Italian and then Spanish before I told him that I was from New York (my easy answer these days). He then apologized saying I didn't look American and that his English wasn't very good. He asked me where I was going and when I told him I was seeking out the big cisterns, he said, "oh now, I can show you something better." Red flags should have gone up for obvious reasons, but something in me wasn't afraid of this guy. He was older and smaller than I was, so if nothing else, I could outrun him, but I knew he wasn't really a threat. For the rest of the afternoon he took me to remote corners of Istanbul that few tourists had seen. I participated in an afternoon prayer at the "Baby Aya Sofia," walked into the depths of the most amazing cistern that was lined with ancient columns and sat in a traditional teahouse surrounded by a cemetery where all the locals hung out. I ended up buying him lunch, which was how I paid him back for a great day. It turned out that he was out of work from the University and he was playing tour guide to solo travelers like me for an extra buck. He offered to go with me up the Bosporus the next day, but said that he couldn't afford the ferry ride.
Yes, he was looking to make a buck off of me. Turned out that the club-guy was too. Charged me more than I expected for his private Ottoman house and that is always a letdown. It would have happened if I was alone or with someone, though, but the breakfast with Jacob and the private tour of Istanbul probably wouldn't have. Really, a lunch and an in-season price for a beautiful out-of-season experience didn't put me out much. I have choices to decline the offer or pay the money, say good-bye and end my day very happy. I have had similar encounters with friendly people in Italy too, which I am pretty sure wouldn't have happened if I was traveling with a boyfriend, probably not if I had a female friend either. The solo female traveler's vulnerability attracts the weirdoes, but it also attracts those that want to reach out to a wandering soul. My luck has been quite good, and memories many. The hidden scams are a bummer, but the hidden gems are what I always remember.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Tuesday, December 08, 2009
Four Strikes Against Solo Travel
I had a friend here tell me the other day that she was a slave to her office and I was a slave to travel. I’ve had an office job maybe twice in my life and I know that working from 8-5, being busy or, even worse, having to look busy for those set hours of the day were not at all easy for me. Probably why I never lasted more than a year in one of those jobs. Being a slave to a school was a lot harder work, but the time was busy and I more often than not enjoyed the work. Kids were the reason I got out of bed in the morning and if I didn’t have a smile on my face at 4.30am, a student was likely to have me laughing out loud by 8.00.
My job here in Turkey does indeed make me a “slave” to travel. My partners here, the US Embassy and an educational organization acronymed TED, have projects and schools all over the country and they send me off to check-up on all of them. I have to say that it doesn’t give me much to get out of bed for in the morning other than to pack a bag, catch some mode of transportation or to write a report, none of which chains me to an office and that I like. But the constant travel is not my favorite. As a matter of fact, after quite a few solo trips for fun and adventure’s sake, I am growing to dislike more and more setting out on the road, or into the air on my own no matter what the reason.
It’s 3.30 on a Thursday afternoon. My bus leaves at 4.15 from the main bus station in Ankara so I better get downstairs and catch a taxi. This will be a short trip. Just two nights so my bags are light. I pay the taxi, get my receipt and head to terminal. This place is HUGE! Three levels of “peron” - the bus equivalent of gate - each level having at least 50 of them – arrivals, departures and maintenance/fill-ups. Inside the terminal is lined with bus company counters battling for the passenger heading to Konya or Istanbul which are about 3-4 hour trips and even Batman and Van which are closer to 15 or 16 hour trips. Fortunately my travel budget allows me to fly to those far-reaching destinations, but this trip today will just be 3 hours by bus. I slowly realize that my bus company does not have a bus at the designated peron or any nearby peron and have to figure out where it is.
Here lies strike #1 against solo travel: dealing with the inevitable travel bumps, in a foreign language. When traveling with someone, or at least someone you like, these bumps hold very little stress and can even be good fun. For example, one person can go and check the schedule change while the other stays with the bags. Hauling around luggage, a computer and a water bottle adds a whole lot of literal and figurative weight when you’re faced with chasing through a crowded terminal in search of a bus or a plane you are now late for. A travel companion also takes away the stress of being late. Solo travel is all about the destination, but when you have a companion, missing a bus just means the two of you hang out in the terminal together, read books, listen to music, play cards or just tell stories. You’d be doing the same things on the bus anyway.
I’ve almost mastered counting in Turkish, so I could understand when the guy at peron counter #40 told me my bus was 45 minutes late and would be leaving from peron #29 instead of #25. Now, even my light baggage was an annoyance, so I headed to the spot, perched myself and read for the next hour. With the majority of the population choosing bus as their mode of transportation and so many bus companies, the coaches are generally quite nice. Fairly clean with a “steward” that walks the aisle pouring water, handing out packaged cakes and crackers and chi to the travelers. They are supposed to be non-smoking, but there is always one chain smoker that can’t keep his lips off the damn things, so his cigarette smell then mixes with his fairly strong body odor and that is less than pleasant. The 5 foot-nothing older woman sitting in front of me has been known to recline her seat back into my lap too, which is really uncomfortable. But I equip myself with a book and an iPod to escape into my own world that also drowns out the Turkish music videos playing on the TV screen. Strike #2 against solo travel: A friend with you would give you a reason to laugh about this situation. You aren’t in it alone, which makes the discomfort so much more bearable.
Three hours and a cigarette stop later and I arrive at my destination city. It’s been dark and rainy the whole time and might as well be midnight. Someone is supposed to be waiting for me there, whom I have never met. I’m not the hardest person to find in a crowd so I am sure they will find me since I will not be finding them. They grab my luggage and shuttle me to their car. Usually an English teacher comes along so I can at least have more than a conversation of “hello . . . how are you . . . my name is Ismet” with my guides. The time will be about 9.00 at night by the time I get into my hotel room. Crackers on the bus and the chocolate that I brought with me leave me feeling satiated, but I know I need something more substantial in my stomach. This leaves me at strike #3 against solo travel: dinner. Whatever the day held, good bad or whatever, having to sit down at the end of it and have a meal alone often makes it all seem pointless. I don’t mean to seem so fatalistic here. I’ve had some amazing solo travel experiences at the end of which nothing really matters . . . the smile on my face and the memories in my mind win and a good meal alone is just as good as a meal with someone. Not the case so often with work travel. You just continue to read the book and isolate yourself making the whole day just blend into a blob of nothing-special.
Salad and glass of wine consumed, bottle of water in hand and off to my room to have a shower and sleep. Now this is the situation for work trips. There is almost always someone at the station or airport to pick me up and take me to where I’m going. The solo adventure traveler doesn’t have that option always. Strike #4 against solo travel: searching for accommodation in a strange city. Sure, you can reserve ahead of time, ask directions, have a map, but when a bus drops you off in the middle of a city at night and there is no sign pointing you in the right direction, the next 20 minutes can really suck.
A recent work trip had me really close to the Mediterranean Sea so I decided to extend into the weekend and travel to the coast. Antalya is well known for it’s old city and beautiful warm beach seaside scene and even in early November, it lived up to this. As advised by a local, I took a shuttle bus from the station to the city center. I’ve been to old city centers before. Cobble stone roads that don’t allow cars to enter. It’s usually hard to miss this area. That was not the case here. Where the bus dropped me off, everything looked like a modern city. Traffic, trams, parking lots and buildings. It was dark and I was clueless. My crap Turkish got someone pointing in the right direction for me, so that direction I headed and sure enough, the cobblestone road appeared.
Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick was the sound of my suitcase wheels as it followed behind me, drawing the glares of the very few shot-owners that still had their doors open. The pension that I had reserved gave me walking directions from the “main bus stop” but it appeared that I had lost that lead. Old cities rarely have street signs so all I had with me now was my sense of direction, which basically meant that I was lost. Pulled out my crap Turkish again to get some more points, but my hotel seemed elusive to most of them. Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick
What I did find was a hotel I had sent an email to for a room but didn’t hear back. I figured I’d go for it. As I approached, I saw that most was dark inside – not promising, but I knocked anyway. No answer. I rattled the door a bit – locked. As I turned to wander on, the door flew open and standing there facing me was a man with what I can only describe as a Fred Flinstone club in his hand – a huge fricking club raised to knock over whoever was on the other side of the door.
I’m going to stop the story there because this entry is meant to be about the negative side of solo travel. There are bonuses too, and this story continues on and turns into one of those, so until next write . . . I promise it won’t take as long to post as this one did.
My job here in Turkey does indeed make me a “slave” to travel. My partners here, the US Embassy and an educational organization acronymed TED, have projects and schools all over the country and they send me off to check-up on all of them. I have to say that it doesn’t give me much to get out of bed for in the morning other than to pack a bag, catch some mode of transportation or to write a report, none of which chains me to an office and that I like. But the constant travel is not my favorite. As a matter of fact, after quite a few solo trips for fun and adventure’s sake, I am growing to dislike more and more setting out on the road, or into the air on my own no matter what the reason.
It’s 3.30 on a Thursday afternoon. My bus leaves at 4.15 from the main bus station in Ankara so I better get downstairs and catch a taxi. This will be a short trip. Just two nights so my bags are light. I pay the taxi, get my receipt and head to terminal. This place is HUGE! Three levels of “peron” - the bus equivalent of gate - each level having at least 50 of them – arrivals, departures and maintenance/fill-ups. Inside the terminal is lined with bus company counters battling for the passenger heading to Konya or Istanbul which are about 3-4 hour trips and even Batman and Van which are closer to 15 or 16 hour trips. Fortunately my travel budget allows me to fly to those far-reaching destinations, but this trip today will just be 3 hours by bus. I slowly realize that my bus company does not have a bus at the designated peron or any nearby peron and have to figure out where it is.
Here lies strike #1 against solo travel: dealing with the inevitable travel bumps, in a foreign language. When traveling with someone, or at least someone you like, these bumps hold very little stress and can even be good fun. For example, one person can go and check the schedule change while the other stays with the bags. Hauling around luggage, a computer and a water bottle adds a whole lot of literal and figurative weight when you’re faced with chasing through a crowded terminal in search of a bus or a plane you are now late for. A travel companion also takes away the stress of being late. Solo travel is all about the destination, but when you have a companion, missing a bus just means the two of you hang out in the terminal together, read books, listen to music, play cards or just tell stories. You’d be doing the same things on the bus anyway.
I’ve almost mastered counting in Turkish, so I could understand when the guy at peron counter #40 told me my bus was 45 minutes late and would be leaving from peron #29 instead of #25. Now, even my light baggage was an annoyance, so I headed to the spot, perched myself and read for the next hour. With the majority of the population choosing bus as their mode of transportation and so many bus companies, the coaches are generally quite nice. Fairly clean with a “steward” that walks the aisle pouring water, handing out packaged cakes and crackers and chi to the travelers. They are supposed to be non-smoking, but there is always one chain smoker that can’t keep his lips off the damn things, so his cigarette smell then mixes with his fairly strong body odor and that is less than pleasant. The 5 foot-nothing older woman sitting in front of me has been known to recline her seat back into my lap too, which is really uncomfortable. But I equip myself with a book and an iPod to escape into my own world that also drowns out the Turkish music videos playing on the TV screen. Strike #2 against solo travel: A friend with you would give you a reason to laugh about this situation. You aren’t in it alone, which makes the discomfort so much more bearable.
Three hours and a cigarette stop later and I arrive at my destination city. It’s been dark and rainy the whole time and might as well be midnight. Someone is supposed to be waiting for me there, whom I have never met. I’m not the hardest person to find in a crowd so I am sure they will find me since I will not be finding them. They grab my luggage and shuttle me to their car. Usually an English teacher comes along so I can at least have more than a conversation of “hello . . . how are you . . . my name is Ismet” with my guides. The time will be about 9.00 at night by the time I get into my hotel room. Crackers on the bus and the chocolate that I brought with me leave me feeling satiated, but I know I need something more substantial in my stomach. This leaves me at strike #3 against solo travel: dinner. Whatever the day held, good bad or whatever, having to sit down at the end of it and have a meal alone often makes it all seem pointless. I don’t mean to seem so fatalistic here. I’ve had some amazing solo travel experiences at the end of which nothing really matters . . . the smile on my face and the memories in my mind win and a good meal alone is just as good as a meal with someone. Not the case so often with work travel. You just continue to read the book and isolate yourself making the whole day just blend into a blob of nothing-special.
Salad and glass of wine consumed, bottle of water in hand and off to my room to have a shower and sleep. Now this is the situation for work trips. There is almost always someone at the station or airport to pick me up and take me to where I’m going. The solo adventure traveler doesn’t have that option always. Strike #4 against solo travel: searching for accommodation in a strange city. Sure, you can reserve ahead of time, ask directions, have a map, but when a bus drops you off in the middle of a city at night and there is no sign pointing you in the right direction, the next 20 minutes can really suck.
A recent work trip had me really close to the Mediterranean Sea so I decided to extend into the weekend and travel to the coast. Antalya is well known for it’s old city and beautiful warm beach seaside scene and even in early November, it lived up to this. As advised by a local, I took a shuttle bus from the station to the city center. I’ve been to old city centers before. Cobble stone roads that don’t allow cars to enter. It’s usually hard to miss this area. That was not the case here. Where the bus dropped me off, everything looked like a modern city. Traffic, trams, parking lots and buildings. It was dark and I was clueless. My crap Turkish got someone pointing in the right direction for me, so that direction I headed and sure enough, the cobblestone road appeared.
Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick was the sound of my suitcase wheels as it followed behind me, drawing the glares of the very few shot-owners that still had their doors open. The pension that I had reserved gave me walking directions from the “main bus stop” but it appeared that I had lost that lead. Old cities rarely have street signs so all I had with me now was my sense of direction, which basically meant that I was lost. Pulled out my crap Turkish again to get some more points, but my hotel seemed elusive to most of them. Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick
What I did find was a hotel I had sent an email to for a room but didn’t hear back. I figured I’d go for it. As I approached, I saw that most was dark inside – not promising, but I knocked anyway. No answer. I rattled the door a bit – locked. As I turned to wander on, the door flew open and standing there facing me was a man with what I can only describe as a Fred Flinstone club in his hand – a huge fricking club raised to knock over whoever was on the other side of the door.
I’m going to stop the story there because this entry is meant to be about the negative side of solo travel. There are bonuses too, and this story continues on and turns into one of those, so until next write . . . I promise it won’t take as long to post as this one did.
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