Posted 27 Nov 2008 — by sarah
Category Journeys
Travelling between Istanbul and Serbia I met a German guy who’d cycled out to Turkey and was heading back to Berlin by train.
We agree flying to a city leaves you without a real sense of how that place fits into the country geographically and culturally.
After passing through regions of landscape on the train you have a clear sense of place by the time you arrive. He says cycling into a country is even better, like seeing a flower open up before you.
There’s a nice article here on the troublesome decision of to fly or not to fly.
Here, you will find some reasons not to bother.
Posted 22 Nov 2008 — by sarah
Category Journeys
I’m pretty fed up to have to head home without seeing Palmyra, there just isn’t time after a delay in Istanbul on the way out and awkward timings for connections on the way back which mean leaving early.
I feel like I just got here and have to turn right around – I have just got here.
The only option is the night bus from Damascus back up to Aleppo, then catch a bus over the border at five in the morning. It’s not the prettiest journey.
In Aleppo they say there are no buses today, I must take a taxi. Damn.
Then I get the chance to speak to a Ba’athist. He’s in his early twenties and tells me about weekly meetings reading about politics and international affairs. All his friends go too, he says. He reckons Syria is not like the US where people aren’t political and only care about their jobs and their families. ‘I care about my community’ he hedges, in answer to my questions about choice of party.
I ask him if he sees a lot of tourists pass through this way. This after someone comes in asking the route to Baghdad. His face quakes. I know he’s hearing ‘terrorists’ rather than ‘tourists’. We laugh really hard once he realises the misunderstanding.
‘Tell me’, he says, ‘is it true in Britain people hate the Arabs and the Syrians?’
Posted 21 Nov 2008 — by sarah
Category Journeys
I was in the Internet cafe ironing out a wrinkle in my return schedule and there were three middle-aged men in suits there - pretty unusual. After they left the guy at the desk said they were from the Government and had taken the sheets logging customers’ names and the times they were using the computers. They also downloaded a computer file, but he wasn’t sure what.
I had a definite impression this was unusual
There is pretty open access to everything in Syria, I understand, but the authorities apparently take exception to particualr sites from time to time and block them. The social networking site Facebook is currently out in the cold. Internet cafes get round the controls by using a proxy server.
The guy in the shop also said he’d given them his name and that was a problem because he was a soldier.
After all the fuss with the visa I did start to wonder about restrictions. It made me think that’s the really damaging thing, when they get into your head.
Fortunately the Syrian people are so welcoming there’s no possibility to put up barriers. The teenagers I met the other day have just sent a text inviting me to dinner. I can’t go as it’s time to turn around and head back up to Aleppo.
Posted 17 Nov 2008 — by Sarah Eustance
Category Journeys
This cıty is so layered wıth history it seems almost too much to digest.
Sitting with the owner in the reception of an Istanbul hotel surrounded by traditional kelims and with our laptops on our knees, I ask him the password for the wireless connection. He leans over and types it in, saying it and spelling it out. He is tall with dark hair and a nose that begins to hook.
‘Would you like some tea?’ he asks.
Raisıng his hand and with a glance he tells the boy to bring it.
Later, at the Hagia Sophia, built as a Christian church for a Roman-Byzantine Emperor and then turned into a mosque, I read that it became a museum at the request of the father of modern Turkey, Ataturk.
Posted 13 Nov 2008 — by Sarah Eustance
Category Journeys
I’m only passing through Bucharest, spending a couple of hours at most, but on the overnight train from Budapest I get to know a small part of Romania.
Rodika is a doctor, in her forties, tiny with dark hair and a pinkish manicure. She grew up in Transylvannia which she assures me is not culturally part of Hungary, despite historic links. ‘There are some people who feel strongly Hungarian,’ she admits in French. I’m pleased to be back with a Romance language.
She’s been in Budapest visiting a childhood friend. They grew up in the same village, ‘She, she is Hungarian. And she lives in Budapest now. But Transylvannia is not Hungarian, no matter what some people say.’
We settle back onto her lower bunk as the train travels through the darkened plains of Europe. I ask her about Romania; is it thriving, do the young people stay there? ‘No,’ she tells me ‘Even my son, he left this morning for Germany. He wants to study architecture but he’s never shown any interest in buildings before. But how can I say no to what he wants?’
‘It was different under Communism. I was never a Communist, but everybody had a place in the world. It’s not like that now, you need to be rich.’
She stops twisting her fingers together and brings out some cakes, baked by her old friend in Budapest. They’ve been laid on a fluted cardboard tray and carefully double-wrapped in paper.
We share them between us and they’re almond and plum and delicious.
Posted 09 Nov 2008 — by Sarah Eustance
Category Journeys
In my mind this trip went perfectly smoothly and punctually like this: Leave London St Pancras at 10.00 am – arrive in Brussels 1.30 – take the Thalys train to Cologne an hour after that. Spend a few hours in Cologne, get something to eat and see the cathedral before catching the night train to Vienna.
In reality every single train is running late. It means taking a local service from Achen full of people in fancy dress heading to Cologne. The only seat left among the teenagers in furry yellow chicken costumes and women dressed as princes or card sharps is next to a Frau of more than a certain age. I take it and suffer her disappointment on learning I don’t speak German. I suffer my own disappointment on realising this deficiency is going to seriously hamper my eavesdropping habit.
I do know a bit of German, so to make it up to Frau Disappointed I tell her I’m going to Vienna and ask how long it will take to get to Cologne where I have to change trains. ‘Long’ she tells me, rolling her eyes, tutting and generally using the international language of delayed and annoyed travellers.
“What time is your train to Vienna?”
‘Eight’, I say, ‘eight’. I can’t remember how to say o’clock or hour.
In any language, knowing the numbers, hello and thank you get you a long way. She’s so pleased to be able help she risks a smile and reassures me I should make the connection in Cologne. We’ve used about ten actual words repeated in German and French plus a lot of nodding and pointing to communicate all this.
Her jollier contemporaries across the aisle, dressed as harlequins, have been listening in. They’re satisfied with my travel arrangements too. ‘Carnival’ they say. Their destination was already pretty clear from their glittery outfits. They share a packet of glucose sweets with us.
I make the connection in Cologne and bed down on the City Night Line to Vienna.
Posted 09 Nov 2008 — by Sarah Eustance
Category Journeys
Conversation on the Eurostar to Brussels between husband and wife:
Him: Our train’s slowing down.
Her (reading from the paper): Social stereotypes, social assets – dogs.
Him: Ashford, do we stop at Ashford?
Her: Ours is, ours is our social asset.
Him: Really…. our train’s slowing down now.