In fact, these are all probably quite true, determinable from the inescapable need to address our truancy, alone, but that last week, in the sentimental expression of  “oh man” accompanied with eyes looking to the floor and a drop of the chest in a warm sigh,  “that was good”, was really, really good!

To say we were lucky is an understatement; we were downright blessed. In fact, that statement really ought to be spread across the whole of our social experiences of Turkey in the last 35 days of our journey, and the whole of our past three and a half months in general, with obvious standouts. But we reserve that sentence now for the last week, for that is the subject of this post, not a total recall or sentimental recollection of our favorites of the journey as a whole, written so as to find some closure. No, this is just about the last week, which one could argue, does the job on its own.

We arrived to Istanbul a day earlier than expected, and were having some difficulty connecting via telephone with our contact there. We arrived on a ferry just after dusk and decided to grab a hotel room in Sultanahmet, to recoup and attack Istanbul city streets to find Celal (in the Turkish language ‘C’s are pronounced as ‘J’s) the next day. We got a fresh start in the morning, leaving part of our luggage at the hotel we were to check into in four days time.

Riding around Istanbul was a trip and our map only covered, in detail, the center of the city 20 million people. We were in search of Bagicilar neighborhood and kept an eye on our compass to keep us heading generally in the right direction through the labyrinth, until a man on a messenger’s scooter asked us where we were headed – in Turkish, of course – and no sooner had we said, he was off with a wave of his hand indicating his hire as our fearless leader through the muck of round-a-bouts and underpasses and streets nary have seen a tourist. He led us almost nearly all the way to the center of Bagicilar, often blocking traffic to get us through roundabouts safely. It took us maybe an hour and a half to navigate the 20 km to Bagicilar (bah-je-lar) that would have otherwise taken us three on our own.

We got to the Mosque where we had planned to meet Celal and were immediately surrounded by a large group of curious men, intrigued by our bicycles, and amazed there were tourists in their neighborhood. We tried to answer their questions as we waited for Celal and were really excited to find ourselves outside of the tourist center, laden with prodding vendors touting the best of Istanbul in their respective restaurant.

We were to stay in Celal’s uncle’s home, and we didn’t really know what to expect, at all and what we got was far beyond our expectations…..way beyond.  We are enamored with the Aslan family.

There wasn’t a single person in the whole neighborhood that didn’t seem to be one of Celal’s uncles, or aunts, or cousins, and one by one, they came to the apartment to meet us. We were showered with incredible food on the low table in the living room, smoked nargile and worked navigate our language barriers. Luckily we had Celal, a Rotary International exchange student in Woodstock, IL the year prior (hence our roundabout way of getting into contact) to help translate.

We stayed with the family for four or five days until we had to check into a hotel we had arranged, in order to have an address to ship our bike boxes, prior to our departure from the states. It was hard to explain to the family why we were going to stay in a hotel and not finish out our stay in their home, because we couldn’t really explain it to ourselves. We felt a bit empty and insincere when we first sat in our hotel room alone. It didn’t feel right, but we needed to do it. We had work to do, those bikes weren’t going to disassemble and pack themselves and there wasn’t really anyway to sort out our final tasks in the Aslan’s home. Not because it was small or anything had any derogatory characteristics, no we say this because of their overwhelming hospitality, and our incessant curiosity produced an environment that would drive one to tell oneself, on a reoccurring basis, ‘Oh that important task can wait until a little later’.

Of course we saw the sites, feel head over heels with Islamic tiles, found the best bowl of lentil soup, bartered at the Grand Bazaar and strolled as tourists in Taksim. But our Istanbul is in Bagiclar.  We went to the Aslan’s for one last dinner the night before our early morning departure, (this time without, Celal’s translation service as he had to go back to school) and left with open invitations to visit their family in the east of Turkey, and plan to do so on the second leg of our cycling Journey, aka, our Honeymoon!

Our Motor Scooter Guide through the twisting, turning, round-a-bout, filled street of Greater Istanbul! Our morning Hero!

Our first Dinner with the Aslans

Smoking Nargile, Eating Walnuts with Raisins and learning Turkish until the wee hours of the night

Bendirhan (Father), Canan (Daughter), and Sebiha (Mother)

Celal, Our Hero!

Shopping at the Local bazaar in Bagcilar

Chad give Celal a haircut, Sultan Style, at the Grand Bazaar

Chad with The Queens of Bagcilar

Attending a Kurdish Wedding with the Aslans

We tried our best to stay in step as we danced the traditional Kurdish style. It was suprisingly difficult, but extraordinary to watch.

Jowita with the Bride and bridal party

Ilhan's baked his first cake with the support of only a few women in the kitchen!

The Second day of the Kurdish Wedding. The bride and Groom are both around 17 years old!

Last night in Istanbul with the Aslan Family

Night time sight seeing with Celal and Ilhan

It is hard to think what Bursa would have meant to us if we hadn’t met Ahmet, and Anne. The treat of staying at the Hotel Gunes is the chance occurrence (very strong chance at that) with Ahmet in the hotel lobby. By using the word Hotel, we hope you are not conjuring images of the holiday inn. Hotel Gunes is a very small place set inside a renovated Ottoman House in a bustling little market area. The lobby is often dimly lit with the older couple that owns the joint sitting on the couch staring at the ironic television. They do not speak much English beyond the most basic of phrases, but after being highlighted as Lonely Planets top pick for budget hotel in Bursa, receive probably the highest number of independent travelers and backpackers, of all hotels in Bursa. Ahmet, being a man of curiosity with an aptitude for conversation in all things related to “living” (as in living life to it fullest, blah blah) with his deep seeded love for his city Bursa, has taken full advantage of Hotel Gunes’s, Lonely Planet stature. He is quick to claim Bursa as simply “the best city anywhere,” and with Ahmet as a guide and an Irish Anne to keep the attraction of his eye; he is pretty close to being accurate.

Upon our first encounter with Ahmet, we immediately had a two-day itinerary hand written into our notebook. We had only planned for one whole day there, but we were open to change, as always, and, of course, that change quickly came with mention of “Hamam” (also known as Turkish Bath).

We got to work on the Itinerary on our own with plans to meet with Ahmet later that evening t a tea house to listen to traditional music. We shopped in the wonderful bazaar, visited a shadow puppet master’s shop, visited some wonderful Ottoman sites, including the Green Mosque Tomb, full of amazing tile work. We then returned to the hotel to drop of a few things before heading out for a bite to eat.

Then came Anne. Oh Anne. The 66, going on 26, year old German-Irish wonder. Anne. What a treat. Jowita will surely never forget her first visit to a Hamam if it weren’t for Anne.

Ahmet was a wonderful guide and conversationalist. Our experience of Bursa, with the aid of his expertise, and the chance meeting with Anne, is way up at the top of the list, (not that we keep one). We give many thanks to Ahmet, and hope to see him again in round 2.

Shadow Puppet master of Bursa ın hıs Karagoz shop

Tomb at Green Mosque

Whırlıng Dervishes ın Bursa

Guıtars ın process durıng a vısıt to the workshop of Bursa guıtar master

Vısıt to a mountaın vıllage known for ıts Ottoman homes

Chad and our Fırends Ahmet from Bursa and Anne from Ireland

Anne and Jowıta ınsıde restored Ottoman Hamam

Turkish Tea House where we sat and listened to muscians come together after work to play music

We arrıved at 11:00 at nıght and had to rıde 10km along a busy hıghway ınto Bursa, a cıty of 1.5 mıllıon people, wıth our lıghts lıghtıng the way.

On the bus Chad attempted to call the Hotel to let them know we would be arrıvıng late. The phone was nearly out of mınutes and the lady who answered spoke no englısh. Chad sımply saıd 2 – 10 – Otobus Izmir Bursa and the phone gave out. They seemed to understand perfectly and were waıtıng for us when we fınally arrıved at one ın the mornıng.

Taking the bus to Bursa

We screamed a lot this day. Not at each other of course, but at the wind and then some more at the rain. This was one of our hardest, most exhausting days yet. The morning views from our coastal campsite were really breathtaking. We knew the skies meant trouble for us ahead, but the drama of the clouds made it hard to blink. The colors on Pag, and especially with severe weather, are amazing but riding a fully loaded touring bike through the sand is a real bitch. Yes, we screamed at the sand too.

We drove hard into the coastal wind. We screamed; maybe felt like crying; stomachs always feeling hungry; and then it began raining and did not stop. Despite the strength of the wind, we moved pretty fast. We had been getting much earlier starts than we had been used to thanks to ever shortening days, our efficient German Friend, and the series of early ferries. Yesterday was no different. We woke and got on the road by 8 and rarely stopped. We even chose to forego a lunch break (who wants to stop once one is soaked to the bone and chilled from the wind?) We arrived to Zadar and went to the Information center to inquire about a place to sleep for the night. We were directed to a slum hostel that was too expensive. Combine this with a rainy forecast for the next couple days, and you get a trio of minds not keen on staying any longer than forced to in Zadar.

First plan, Train to Split, ride from Split to Debrovnic. (too long of a train ride for too short of distance but surely we could take our bicycles aboard the train)

Second plan, go to the bus station and try to convince a driver to let us pack our bikes on the underside us the bus to Split (risky but more frequent service and more likely to be able to bribe)

We chose the plan we didn’t make ahead of time (ride the bus all the way to Debrovnic.)

This decision would get us past the rain and give us minimum five days extra time to be spent elsewhere. Ultimately it was a good decision, however, the journeyman’s mind had to justify the appropriateness of the decision repeatedly along the way. It was, at times, really hard to sit on the bus for nearly 8 hours watching the same road we would have been riding for five days straight pass by so quickly. It felt as though we were robbing the heavens of time. Gobbling up kilometers in hours and minutes rather than days and nights. It tasted of betrayal. It made our kilometers feel somewhat insignificant. Today, we traveled one quarter of the toal distance of our trip to date, in one day.

We stared out the window of the bus, moving our eyes between the white line we would be riding and the coastal view we would be experiencing. Then we watched as the bus hits the collected water on the edge of the rode and the 3 meter high wave projected in its wake. We watched the traffic along the coastal road. We watched each curve and each and every time the bus dropped to sea level and raised back up into the mountain edge. Our eyes would return to the white line and picture us there as the bus passed, and we knew we made the right decision.

Today, we bought a week for 200 Kuna (less than 30 euro) each and we discovered that the computer is not broken!

Our disassembled campsite on Pag Island

Morning on Pag Island

Bike packed into the underside of a bus

175 Kuna per person buys five days time in Croatia and keeps one dry, out of the spray of the passing bus wheels

Today we woke early to catch the 7:14 train to Wroclaw and then the 13:50 bus to Jowita’s hometown Zabkowice. The layover gave us time for a cup of espresso we suspect was actually instant coffee, and a beer in the main square. The center of Wroclaw is unexpectedly beautiful — on par with Krakow — and the colors are pretty awesome, especially under clear blue skies.  We got home after six hours of being in transit and a few of sightseeing, and Chad immediately got busy and built a house with Jowita’s brother Janusz, while Jowita did a little babysitting and rasberry picking.

Dobranoc

Chad and Jowita

Jowita guarding the luggage in Klodzko

We were probably the single largest source of amusement for a good number of people today. The driver of our first bus put it best when he exclaimed Jesus Maria (‘hey-zeus mar-e-a’) at first glance at the luggage that drew so much attention. We suppose it is time to get used to extra attention as it is sure to only increase as we mount our bicycles. We couldn’t help be relate to the opening staircase scene of Sasiedzi ‘Pralka’.