Backpacking the Middle East: A Journey of Alexandrian Proportions- Istanbul

Our overnight train to Istanbul via Thessaloniki began at 8pm Wednesday, and by 9 the next morning, we began to enter the fringes of a massive city of 13 million. The train ride consisted of initial hopes of meeting new and exciting people, and eventually realizing how foolish this aspiration was. A rough itinerary of our night goes as follows :

11:30pm-asleep

2:30am-awoken by Turkish official for passport

2:40am-asleep

2:45am-awoken by Turkish official to return passport

3:00am-asleep

4:45am-awoken by Turkish official to exit train and purchase visa in a dilapidated building surrounded by a vastly dark and cold wilderness.

5:00am-asleep

5:15-awoken by Turkish official for luggage check, or to be more specific, the unzipping of my pack for a two second glance at its contents followed by me zipping it up.

And 5:30am- asleep

Istanbul is an amazing city. Wedged between the Black Sea and the sea of Marmara, this is essentially where Europe and the Middle East meet, and not just geographically speaking. There is a European feel one gets from the scenery, the atmosphere, and to a lesser extent, the architecture. And while loudspeakers belted out the Muslim call to prayer five times a day, I'd never seen anyone heed it.

This was the capital city of the Eastern Roman Empire and where the subsequent Byzantine Empire rose and fell, Constantinople being conquered in 1453 by the Ottoman sultan, appropriately named Mehmet the Conqueror. Today it's a conglomeration of medieval and Islamic architectural styles, filled with stunning mosques, intricate arabesque patterns, and the fabulous Aya Sofia, a church, a mosque, and finally, a museum. Our hostel was located in old Istanbul, and it was hard to believe that this is a city of 13 million people, as the curving, cobblestone, streets and sweeping, verdant park avenues nullified any sense of the hurried throng of crowds so prevalent in most cities. Our first impression of the inhabitants of this metropolis were initially positive, but we did question the depth of a hospitality reliant upon a financial exchange. Unfortunately, within just a few days, we felt as if we were little more than a target for income supplementation, and as we'd so disappointingly learn, this targeting often took on illegal forms.

On our second night in Istanbul, a train to Taksim found us in an area noted for its nightlife, and so we strolled through wide walkways illuminated by strings of globular light, passing clubs that either resembled the dance clubs of the average college town in the States, or dingy, dimly-lit alcoves filled with leathery old men surrounded by clouds of blue smoke.

A young man dressed in a disco-like ensemble, replete with big, greasy hair and shiny boots, approached us within minutes of our arrival to Taksim, displaying a disproportionate amount of interest in tourists for an inhabitant of a city more than accustomed to them. The promise of an "amazing nightclub" brought back memories of my travel guide readings, in which numerous horror stories of scam victims in Turkey were shared. Andy followed him, I followed Andy, and when the amazing nightclub revealed itself to be little more than a basement illuminated by black lights, I knew something bad was coming.

As beers and appetizers were offered, two young women who'd been swaying in the corner with looks of total disinterest suddenly slid into the booth next to Andy and I, and with dark ringed eyes and ripped, acid-washed jeans unconvincingly feigned interest in us. My mind raced trying to guess the angle of the coming con. I'd read about the "Turkish Knockout," a drug that was slipped into the drinks of unsuspecting tourists who'd wake up two days later with, if they were lucky, nothing more than the clothes on their back. There was also something about girls asking you to buy them drinks, and when you did, you'd get a bill of an exorbitant amount. Whatever the con might be, I was not about to drink or eat anything. Andy, on the other hand, displayed a genuine love for Budweiser.

The discomfort of it all made me squeamish, and honestly, it barely resembled a public place. Could the door have been locked behind us? As we got up to leave, and walked towards the bar to pay our tabs, it all became clear: "Let's see," said the bartender, "two beers, four shots and appetizers, that'll be 500 Euros." Of course, I hadn't had anything, and Andy, just one beer, but none of that mattered. We were expected to pay for everything that was brought for both us, and for the girls. As we protested, the manager reached behind the bar, pulling out their special "price list." Written on a 1' by 3' sign tucked out of sight until certain occasions warranted it, were the prices of every drink they used in their scam. One Budweiser: 75 Euros. One shot: 75 Euros. The appetizers? A steal at 50 euros.

Then began the arguing. Three Turkish men, dressed surprisingly sharp in black and white, zealously, almost aggressively insist on the ordinary truthfulness of this price . Altogether there were six of them, three who couldn't have weighed more than 350 lbs. combined, the others overweight and pushing sixty. I pulled ten Lira (about five euros) out of my wallet, while Andy forced a few bills into the bartender's hand. Pushing it back, he said, "No, you owe 600 lira, that is price!" At a loss for how to respond, I opted for aggression, shoving a middle finger in his face with the retort, "do you know what this means?" Andy again pushed the money into the bartender's hand, and the atmosphere grew in intensity. I looked towards the exit, and there stood an overweight, middle-aged man dressed all in black. If he'd been put their for the purpose of intimidation, he failed miserably, as our decision to leave the bar was met with his complete cooperation. This was, sadly, only the beginning of our immersive education in Turkish scams.

Our second night proved no less exciting. While once again in Taksim, we were befriended by a well-dressed young man I'll call Mehmet whom, yet again, displayed an overblown interest in white people.  For no compelling reason, we let him tag along. Both Andy and I had strong suspicions as to the motives of Mehmet, but I think our curiosity bested us. We talked for about half an hour on various topics, had a beer each, and let him pay the bill which he so generously insisted to do.

Perhaps, I thought, he is a genuinely nice person who just likes to meet new people. Perhaps he won't suggest a new bar for us to go to in which various consumables are lavished upon us as scantily-clad women hang on our every word while waiting for the manager to arrive with a $600 bill. But then he opened his mouth, "I know of a great place where we can go," and with that, the most interesting night of our journey thus far had begun.

I still can't say for certain why we went with him, but there is something strangely compelling about getting oneself into a potentially dangerous situation. Granted, this was no foray into Taliban-controlled Afghanistan, but I guess that's the point. It was hairy, but it was manageable, and really, curiosity can be an extremely effective motivator, even when it shouldn't be. Leaving the bar, our companion was spotted by a friend of his, and as this individual yelled our companion's name over and over again, I thought it more than a little bit odd that he was ignored.

In the back of the cab, I whispered to Andy a question concerning the odds of this not being a scam, to which he accurately offered an extremely low figure. We entered the club, however, with surprise. This was no hole in the wall dive for con-artists. It was spacious and well-decorated, lit in a shade of blue, with an undulating belly dancer dressed all in white on a stage near the front.  Mehmet led us to a roomy corner booth, and within seconds (they were expecting us) drinks and appetizers were laid on the large table, while attractive young women flanked us, their white smiles glowing in the black light.

Andy and I were perhaps, at this point, over-confident. With every expectation of the coming scam, and our ability to escape it, we indulged in both food and drink, fully aware that each bite or sip would cost, on average, about 25 dollars. But beyond a sense of amusement, I was angry. The artificial attention from the girls, the look of disarming friendship on Mehmet's face, and the overall assumption that we were brainless tourists raised my ire to a near unreasonable level.  I remember that while the young woman next to me tried so hard to show me physical affection, I snapped at her, "don't touch me," and proceeded to lecture her on the deplorable nature of her attempted deception.  She immediately stopped trying to touch me, and a look of rejection mixed with boredom fell upon her glittered face. 

I recall that at the previous bar, Andy had shared with Mehmet his military experience, and that I had now, for the sheer fun it, indulged Mehmet that we had been the target of a scam the night before. "Man, we really messed that guy up," I said, looking straight into Dimitri's eyes. "I feel sorry for any guy who tries that again." My psychological ploy (pointless as it was) was interrupted by our waiter, the man who would now bring this scam full circle. Andy and I, beers in hand, looked at the bill of 800 or so Euros and mocked surprise, reacting with overly dramatic gestures and exclamations of total ignorance. The sarcasm in our voices was surely not lost on our hosts, yet regardless, their faces remained stern. The manager, an overweight man in his sixties, now approached the booth. "These our our prices, and if you didn't want to pay you shouldn't have ordered! The price is 800 euros!" It was mere seconds before an absurd scenario turned serious. There was no longer any feigned surprise after this successfully corrupt and well-fed man leaned over our table, insisting we pay his exorbitant fees.

This is an interesting video. The initial monument is the Obelisk of Theodosious, or Tuthmosis III, in the Hippodrome Square, just west of the Blue Mosque and Aya Sofia. This was shipped from Egypt by the Eastern Roman Emperor Theodosius in 390 AD. Originally erected in the temple of Karnak in Luxor, this obelisk was created in 1490 B.C., during the reign of Tuthmosis III. The singing that can be heard is one of the five daily calls to prayer for the Muslim faithful, and honestly, it's beginning to sound like nails on a chalkboard to me. In the background, behind the trees, is the Blue Mosque,or Sultan Ahmed Mosque built between 1609 and 1616 during the reign of Ahmed I. 

As the conversation became increasingly heated, the mood quickly changed from inflammatory to worrisome. I was now engaged in an verbal argument with the manager, and while he may have been upset, it was nothing compared to the furiousness he displayed when I yelled, "I'm an American!" Evidently, these words spoke to him a certain implied superiority, as the man, inches away from my face, screamed over and over, "I am not your dog!" This in turn caught the attention of the rest of the workers in the club, and we now found ourselves surrounded by nearly ten men. Andy intervened in a peaceful fashion, and attempted to both reason with and calm the man. I remember considering punching the man nearest me and running to the door, but I recalled that we had checked our jackets at the door, and I really liked that jacket.

With no intention of being robbed, we flatly refused to pay our bill, and I can only assume that they were not used to this sort of resistance, as our hollow threat of reporting them to the police was met with, "Fine! Report us! Get out!" I can still see young Mehmet sitting there in the booth, eyes wide open, a look of regret on his face as the bill was pushed to him. Ever the actor, Dimitri kept up the con, feigning surprise at this odd turn of events, "Don't worry guys, I'll pay the bill." With a snide observation that had they just charged us honestly, they would have avoided giving us food and drink for free, we stormed out, and desperately hailed the first cab in sight.

The final event of the evening was, sadly, more of the same. Returning to Taksim, we finally found what appeared to be, by our standards, a "normal" bar. Moderately busy and well-lit, this tavern seemed the equivalent of an American sports bar, equipped with neon beer signs, multiple televisions, and a wood-topped bar accompanied by vinyl-covered bar stools. Our lesson learned, we approached the bartender directly, ordering and paying for one beer each. Within one minute of our claiming the only two available seats, an older gentleman approached us, with an attractive young woman in tow. "Twenty Lira," he barked, and pointed at his companion. She, unable or unwilling to speak a word of English, merely smiled, not so much in seduction, however, but rather despair. Hers was a strange expression of willing complacency, as if prostitution was merely a means of making a senile old grandpa proud of his granddaughter. On and on it went, "twenty Lira! Twenty Lira!," as he pointed to the young woman with increasing urgency. A firm "No," a polite "please go away," and a stretch of time spent in simply ignoring the odd couple were all ineffective. We finished our beers, and as we rose from our stools, the old man tried one last angle at getting our money. "The beers are 50 lira each, plus the beer for the girl! You owe me 150 Lira!" What else could we do, but shake our heads in disbelief and exit the bar?

Arriving back at our hostel, once again Istanbul's finest tried to rip us off: "20 lira," said the cab driver, tripling the price of our ride.  We just laughed.