Enter Istanbul!

After a long, miserable night in the most uncomfortable seat imaginable, touchdown in France's Charles de Gaul airport. I didn't have time to explore or even gaze longingly at the rather flat, green, agricultural landscape in the vain hope for a mere glimpse of the Eiffel Tower. I saw no sleek artsy people, no men with funny little goatees wearing berets, no hipsters hanging out looking cool. I had only minutes to look around me while rushing to my connecting flight. These were my observations: it smells like perfume, fine chocolatiers are in abundance and the toilet seats are bright orange.

The big surprise came when I seated myself in seat 14C and realized there are no number 13 seats at all on the plane. The hostess told me its because of bad luck...silly me, I should have known! Later I heard they cross the seat belts in the empty seats for good luck. I was sandwiched between Ali, a Turk studying technical stuff in the USA and a Bosnian girl whose family moved there in the late 1980s to escape the war which made it an interesting flight.

Finally, feet on the ground, I made it to Sultanhamet in Istanbul. By the time I changed money and checked into my hostel the sun was going down. I went out with my trusty camera along with dozens of others vying for the perfect shot of the mosques and the fountain.

Venders were there serving a variety of foods and drinks from makeshift carts. I bought a drink of fresh squeezed orange and pomegranate, an ear of heavily salted corn and a flat bread, very, chewy, flavored with potato or cheese, the latter being my choice. A bicycle rig offered hot tea, a man stirred traditional candy, and more. Suddenly, as if on signal, they all took off in their rigs, beat a hasty retreat around the fountain and scattered. I expected t see police coming but that was not the case. I still haven't figured it out.