Manifest Destiny: Ride Up the 505

It all started with a silly idea. It always does, doesn’t it? Jo was training in San Francisco and considering it’s only a two hour jaunt to the left coast from the Rocky Mountain region, we took it as an opportunity to meet up. But instead of staying in SF, a place I already fell a little in love with earlier this year, we decided to drive to Portland.

Did it make sense? Not so much. Was it a short drive? Nope. But was it one of the best road trips ever? You bet. 

Before the day-long drive north, we stayed in San Francisco on Saturday night, which we spent seeing all the top tourist spots. Jo picked me up from the airport, we grabbed burgers at a California institution (In-N-Out Burger), and then took a cab downtown. From our hotel we walked to Union Square and hopped the cable car to Fisherman’s Wharf where we picked up a clam chowder bread bowl and some local beer. Feeling full, we climbed the hills of San Francisco to Chinatown where we earned ourselves a Chinese Mai Tai at Li Po (thanks for the tip, Anthony Bourdain!). 

Riding/hanging on the cable car.

We made the trek back to The Opal, an adequate hotel under $100 a night—a financial feat unheard of in the Bay area. It wasn’t flashy, but it was comfortable and its central location made it convenient and only slightly sketchy. Just don’t be wooed by the free continental breakfast in the morning that consisted of canned fruit and yogurt. 

For $2 a trip (exact change only), the bus system in San Francisco is my new favorite thing. In the morning, the bus took us within a block of the rental car agency which was conveniently located next to a Starbucks—the road trip was off to a great start! Then Jo forgot her license back at the hotel. A small hiccup in an otherwise seamless journey. 

After a quick drive-by Lombard Street, allegedly the most crooked street in the United States, we headed toward the Oakland Bay Bridge. While the hills in San Fran are tiring when on foot, they’re straight up hair-raising when in a moving vehicle that you’re in charge of. I was glad to escape the city unscathed (both myself and the car that didn’t have rental insurance). 

The drive took us along the water’s edge and past Berkeley, eventually winding its way through a very green part of California. No road trip is possible without a smartphone, without which we never could have found Good Day Café smack dab in the middle of Vallejo. Voted "Best Breakfast" in 2012, we had ourselves a winner and a great way to start the 9-hour journey to Bend.

Once we hit our stride on the 505, the landscape quickly changed from greenery with ocean views to flat fields of yellow with the stark contrast of blue mountains behind. Our Nissan Versa didn’t really know how to kick it into high gear, but it held steady at 75 without issue (until you accidentally hit the turbo button and the car stays revved up at the red line until you pull over and restart the car).

With Mt. Shasta clearly on the horizon, we were moving closer to the Oregon border and trees started to look a little taller and bodies of glistening water started to appear. Once we crossed over into Oregon (a first for both of us) and approached Klamath Lake, the views proved inspiring as the roads narrowed and landscape grew even more dramatic. 

When we weren’t using our time to take in the scenery, Jo and I spent the drive chatting. Before the trip, people thought we were a little crazy to drive about 14 hours on a lark, but the fact of the matter is we’d be doing exactly what we were doing anywhere else: talking. At a bar, over coffee, at home…we’d be doing the same thing and not getting hundreds of miles under our belt. We also used the time to bust out some true karaoke moments, which you can enjoy here. You’re welcome.

We rolled into Bend, Oregon at around 6:30 that night and we were pumped to meet up with friends from high school. Our buddies Michael and Gentry live in Bend, a quaint town set against an amazing Oregonian backdrop. We went to 10 Barrel Brewing Company, one of nearly a dozen microbreweries that grace Bend, and enjoyed a few hours worth of laughter over IPA, red, amber, brown…you name it, 10 Barrel in Bend had it.

The next day we moseyed over to the McKay Cottage with Michael for a beautiful brunch out in the garden. It was almost dreamlike, perhaps because the mimosas, but mostly because of the setting and getting to spend time with one of our favorite people in the world; Michael adds a dose of eccentricity wherever she goes whether it be upstate New York, downstate New Mexico, or the forests of Oregon, so we were happy she happened to be in Bend so we could drop in and disrupt her life a bit. 

Not long after brunch, the road was calling us back again. While stopping for gas, I was approached by a young kid asking if I needed help. I waved him off with a thanks, but no thanks, until he told me you can’t pump your own gas in Oregon. Slightly embarrassed, but mostly bemused, I let the guy fill the tank. 

 A lovely obstacle we encountered en route: single-lane highways with 10 mph road painters.

By 4:30 we started our descent into Portland and that’s where the excitement began. We were on the clock: the rental car needed to be gassed up and returned by 5:00 or we’d incur several fees. Taking a rental car from one state to another is already a ridiculous amount of money, so I went into panic mode. (When renting a car directly on the agency's website, be sure to Google "discounts" to find a promotion code; I got 10% off at Budget doing just this)

Traffic decided to make this adventure a challenge, as Jo barreled down the highway and we made our way right into rush hour. We pulled into a gas station, let the guy do his thing, and asked where the Budget rental car company was located, but no one knew. My iPhone indicated that we were right next to it, but we only saw construction and hotels. We eventually pulled into a hotel parking lot and found a 2-inch sign that boasted the name “Budget”. Thanks a lot. With three minutes to spare, we made it under the wire. Remember to get detailed directions to the drop-off location if you expect to be returning your car around the 5:00 p.m. mark.

The past 48 hours had flown by in a flash and the 14-hour drive went by in a snap. From ocean views to fields of sunflowers, redwood forests to mist-laden roads, the journey was ideal for a Fourth of July weekend, as we saw parts of America we had yet to discover. We felt lucky to take in new views and it felt truly American to explore the West. So cheers to manifest destiny! And cheers to road tripping with a favorite ally.

San Francisco: The Hills Have Heights

It was a whirlwind of wonder arriving in San Francisco for a last-minute weekend getaway with Whitney and her sister Alex for a wedding. Even landing at SFO was a rush of unexpected exhilaration as the plane landed so close to the water I swear there was some splash on the window.

We opted for a shuttle, which ended up being the same price as a taxi—about $18 each to get to Japantown. Driving into the hilly city was a trip in and of itself, as we gawked out the windows soaking in our new surroundings. San Francisco has been on my “must see” list ever since I saw the opening credits to Full House in the 90s. The childhood dream of finding the Full House house would eventually come true, but we’ll talk about that later.

The towering Hotel Kabuki can be spotted a mile away—a useful landmark in the city built on hills. The serene lobby and Japanese décor set the scene for a festive stay at this boutique hotel. Thanks to a wedding rate we paid about $140 a night, but typical rates vary between $170 and $200. The rooms were spacious, the view spectacular, and the bizarro glass door situation in the bathroom only proved semi awkward. Not sure why “luxury” hotels insist on being different to the point of dysfunctional, but there you have it.

After setting down our bags, we set off for the streets of San Fran. The unfamiliar territory proved challenging—even with handy iPhones in all three of our hands, we still got lost. But we chalked it up as sightseeing thanks to the stunning architecture at every turn in Russian Hill. We finally stumbled upon the outskirts of Chinatown and decided to duck into the nearest Chinese restaurant that Urbanspoon gave a single dollar sign and an 85% rating. Ho’s Restaurant piqued our desperate palates and when the food was delivered, it was all immediately devoured. Succulent sesame chicken and entangled chow mein ended up being exactly what we were looking for. 
 

A few hills later we were finally in Chinatown, evidenced by the large green arch hovering over the main street. As the time was nearing dusk, lanterns on each corner were lighting up and the crowd was starting to swell. It's the largest Chinatown outside of Asia and we were just happy to be wandering the crowded streets with bubble tea in hand.

Later that night we met up with the bride-to-be for a bachelorette party held at Circa off Chestnut Street. While the bar had an air of pretension, the area itself seemed like the place to be: bars and restaurants with twentysomethings clambering to get into each. A few cucumber martinis later and we became those twentysomethings, stepping into hopping bars with ear deafening music. Very few people will get me to dance in public with less than a handful of drinks in my system, but the Steinmetz sisters happen to be in that select crew. 

Saturday morning we set out for Powell Street to join the massive line for the legendary cable car. But don’t worry about the wait—you’ll be entertained by the cuckoo-crazies out there sporting microphones and some block rockin’ beats. Whatever you do, don’t make eye contact. Around the corner you can buy a MUNI pass that will earn you access to cable cars, trolleys, and buses. This was the best system we could find for public transportation, but to be fair we never tried the BART (Bay Area Rapid Transit).

Once the arriving cable car was spun around and the gates let up for us to load on, we made a run for it. Our eyes were on the prize of the clichéd exterior side seats and they were obtained quickly and without throwing punches. Not wanting to hang off the side of a moving vehicle and run the risk of sideswiping the mirrors of parked cars, I sat on the bench as Whitney and Alex grabbed the poles. Riding the hills of ‘frisco on the cable car might be considered touristy (so is saying ‘frisco), but the journey is entirely worth the price and the wait. Inching up those hills and flying down them without abandon was akin to a rollercoaster ride—a totally controlled, slow, and safe rollercoaster, but a ride no less. 

The trolley dropped us off near the pier and we were starting to see why people fall in love with San Francisco. It might not be the cool thing to do, but we were hitting the tourist spots pretty hard. As first timers, it’s necessary to get the lay of the land (and so it happens, the sea), so that started with the Fisherman’s Wharf. We’ll leave the hipster/off the beaten path activities for next time.  

Taking advantage of technology again, we used our iPhone GPS to locate an outdoor food stand named The Codmother. The play on words was enough to win us over, but the charming British woman behind the counter secured the notion that we made the right culinary choice. Piping hot beer-battered fish and chips were soon in front of us and the delicious feast was one of the best stateside fish and chip situations I’ve ever found myself in. Crisp, moist, and all kinds of flavorful…this dish was the real deal. If eating seaside fish from a trailer is wrong, I don’t want to be right. 

My only mission while in the land known for missions was to track down the legit Full House house. This is not to be confused with the view of the Painted Ladies, another iconic scene from the 90s sitcom and a major city landmark, but that’s where we started. We grabbed a bus to Alamo Square Park, where loads of people were lounging making good use of their Saturday afternoons. Photos were getting snapped up left and right of the magnificent view of downtown set in the background of gorgeous San Francisco style homes. We joined the crowd of amateur photographers and took a series of shots, all the while playing the Full House theme song. Yup, we’re those people. 

Any kid my age knows the lore and inexplicable attraction to this stupid 90s show, so I’d be remiss to not describe the glory of finding the Full House house. Skip this section if you have no idea what I’m talking about (i.e., you’re not a sentimental TV fanatic living out elementary school dreams). About a mile away from Alamo Square Park we found ourselves in a quaint neighborhood with picture perfect houses. At 1709 Broderick Street, we stood dead in our tracks: there it was...the only other house I grew up with, but never actually step foot in. While the door is no longer eye-catching red but instead painted black (there’s a Rolling Stones reference somewhere in there), it was clear this was the house. What really gave it away: the rope at the top of the stairs preventing people like us from walking right up to it, and the group of girls our age approaching the house from the other side of the street in a fit of giggles. Pictures were taken. Dreams achieved. Mission complete.

If you’re interested in an Alcatraz tour, check the schedule before you arrive in San Francisco and buy tickets online. We managed to snag seats on the first ferry ride over on Sunday, but evening tours sell out weeks in advance. Departing from Pier 33, the ferry takes 25 minutes to cross over. While it’s a storied site, Alcatraz doesn’t hold much appeal to me. It’s a creeptastic jail on an island made popular by Hollywood (although it did seem fitting to visit a few weeks before the not-hit show Alcatraz premiered).

The audio tour is 100% necessary, without which you’re literally just staring at empty cells. The backstories of the former cell residents are what make it all relatively interesting. We were lucky to be there on the same day a former prisoner was speaking—yes, apparently they still exist. Gaining insight to his experience made the trip worth it, but I wouldn’t recommend Alcatraz to most unless you have a torrid love affair with the criminal justice system.

Once we docked back at Pier 33, we made our way toward Boudin Bakery.  When you go to San Francisco, you get chowder in a sourdough bread bowl. Period. Boudin has been busting out these bread bowls for more than a century and the chowder they ladle into those suckers is so piping hot and delicious I still dream about it (this coming from the gal who detests seafood, but even I can’t deny that this was on point). It’s a tourist trap worth getting stuck in.

Our leisurely late lunch was interrupted by the realization we only had an hour before we had to catch a shuttle to the wedding—the original purpose of the whole trip. A trolley, taxi, and shuttle all played their parts in landing us at the wedding with mere moments to spare, but the sprint to the hotel and the wicked fast wardrobe change made for a heart-pounding 60 minutes. We spent our last night in SF dancing the night away, complete with the Hora, an ideal end to a weekend full of West Coast fun. 

Whit and I showing how to get dolled up and dash.

If you’re ever given the opportunity to spend a few days in San Francisco, take it...run with it...never look back. Anthony Bourdain’s new show The Layover featured SF a few days after my return, so I already have a new to do list for when I go back. And with this fantastic city, it’s certainly not if…but when.

Travel in Review: Best Meals

A meal can mean more than sustenance on a plate. It can be reminiscent of a time and place, either representative of a moment in your life or a location you can picture the minute you close your eyes. It can bring you together with people you love or when you’re traveling, be the one highlight of the day. The food itself can be so memorable that just a taste of a familiar bite can send your mind’s eye flying back to that one meal, or perhaps it’s a unique flavor you’ve been chasing ever since it touched your lips.

After soaking in the sights of a new city, finding a suitable restaurant is one part challenge, one part fun. While I tend to research fairly extensively and “prepare for landing,” most of the time I’m just hoping a place will pop out at me once I’m walking around a new city. The advent of Urbanspoon and Yelp have made these decisions easier, but it’s still a matter of finding the right vibe, a reasonably priced menu, and hopefully delicious food the old-fashioned way: luck.

When you walk into a restaurant anywhere, but particularly in a foreign city, you’re taking a risk. A risk with your money, your time, your happiness—not to mention your level of hunger. A good meal can make or break a trip. It can even define a trip; I’ll always equate San Francisco with chowder in a sourdough bowl at Boudin Bakery, Munich with schnitzel at Café am Beethovenplatz, Istanbul with doner kebab at…well, everywhere. 

It’s hard to recall any negative experiences or bad meals, so I won’t rifle through the archives to find one. Instead, I’m going to rehash the top ten best meals of my life and I suggest you do the same for prosperity’s sake. It’s a tough list because there are so many memorable moments in my travel history that involve food (mussels in Brussels, pot pies in Lincoln, moussaka in Naxos, pizza in New York City). But what makes a meal isn’t just the meat and veg and carbs. It’s the conversation, the people, the atmosphere, the service. In fact, the best meal of my life? I can’t even remember what I ate.

10. Denver, 2011: Le Central with Jo, Rachel, and Anna | A lot of meals were gunning for this spot in the top ten (Millos in Victoria came really close to snagging the position), but the honor goes to Le Central last September. Jo was in town visiting me in Denver for the first time and we met up with high school friends Anna and Rachel. All of our affinity toward France originated together in French classes at Las Cruces High School (we all studied in France in one capacity or another over the years), so it was only fitting we held our rendezvous at the best French restaurant in Denver. Seated in the atmospheric enclosed patio, we enjoyed catching up and reminiscing over flowing wine, doughy baguettes, and a unique menu crafted by the brilliant chefs. 

9. San Francisco, 2012: Boudin Bakery with Whitney and Alex | You go to San Francisco, you get chowder in a sourdough bread bowl. Cast aside the fact it’s touristy, it’s a must. Boudin has been busting out these bread bowls for more than a century, and their storied prowess in this arena shows. Not only is there a mechanical contraption that delivers the bread into appropriate buckets, the chowder they ladle into those suckers is so piping hot and delicious I still dream about it (this coming from the gal who detests seafood, but even I can’t deny that this was on point). It’s a tourist trap worth getting stuck in. Sitting with my friends Whitney and Alex, looking out into the popular pier, and being part of the hustle and bustle of this institution was an absolute treat.

8. Hereford, 2008: The Green Man and Tony’s English Breakfast with my dad | An overnight stay in Hereford, England with my dad to visit his cousin Tony resulted in two fantastic meals back to back. Admittedly, it’s kind of cheating to chalk these two meals up to one ranking on the list, but each meal blended so well together and were so complementary, it’s hard to separate the two in my mind. The dinner took place at The Green Man—a quintessential British pub where Tony’s wife Sandra scored me a legit Old Stowford Press pint glass via covert, illicit means. The next morning we were presented with a full English breakfast courtesy of Tony himself, who delivered a masterpiece on a plate: bacon, eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms…it was the full monty, as they say. 

7. Paris, 2003: Baguette outside Centre Pompidou with Jo | Who said a meal had to be on a plate? This one was wrapped in a piece of paper and consisted of a fresh, crisp baguette encasing tomatoes, cheese, and meat—a combination so simple yet so delicious, I’ve been searching for a suitable equivalent ever since. Sitting in the sun outside the bizarre Centre Pompidou in Paris that summer, Jo and I surveyed the scene in front of us: jugglers, artists, school groups, tourists, locals…the mix of characters outside this modern art museum was an amalgamation of all France had to offer. Jo and I were enjoying our first solo trip outside the US and not only was the sandwich tasty, but the view was a delight as well. 

 No photo of our lunch at Centre Pompidou exists, but this is Jo and I pretty excited to be on top of the Eiffel Tower.

6. Orleans, 2000: Je n'ais sais quois with my parents | It was my first trip to France and as a family, we had descended upon Orleans—just south of Paris—to visit friends and sample the Loire Valley. I can’t for the life of me remember the name of the elegant restaurant near the cathedral and the entire night fades into a youthful memory, but it has always stuck out in my mind as an enchanted night. We ate at a round table in the middle of a quaint room and it felt like we were the only ones there, yet the traditional restaurant was filled with laughter and conversation. The servers were incredibly attentive—both water and wine couldn’t make it below the half-way mark without each glass getting refilled immediately. The menu was pre-fixe and was a totally foreign experience for me, then 14 and enjoying a truly French experience.

5. Istanbul, 2011: Kebapci Iskender with Sarah | Sizzling sheep’s butter. Need I say more? Probably not, but I will. This culinary experience occurred on the Asian side of Istanbul and is a prime example of stumbling upon a restaurant that will eventually contain your favorite meal. The sign touted an established date of 1826 and for some reason that acted as the only endorsement necessary to enter the wooden restaurant. A kind English-speaking waiter assisted us throughout the process and delivered a meal unlike anything I had sampled before: sliced pita bread, gyro meat, and tomato sauce…all covered with a splash of melted sheep’s butter. The décor was basic and the menu limited, but the wonderful taste and service made it the most delectable meal I’d had in years. 

4. San Diego, 2007: Kaiserhof Restaurant and Biergarten with my family | Schnitzel was a staple in our house growing up, so it’s challenging to find a decent German restaurant that can do it better. Challenging…but not impossible. The Kaiserhof went way beyond sausage and sauerkraut; it delivered a vast array of German treats and cooked each offering to perfection. We were originally on the hunt for a curry, but when the Indian restaurant we were tracking down turned out to be a defunct Mexican joint, we took a chance with our GPS and landed at Kaiserhof. What luck! We were all pleasantly surprised by the outcome: delicious food and cozy atmosphere. I’m not sure what we talked about that night, but I look back on that meal with such fondness. We were just together eating a marvelous meal that harkened to our family history and that’s exactly what we needed at the time.

3. Munich, 2008: Café am Beethovenplatz with Mark | En route to our hostel our very first day in Munich, my brother and I took note of a charming restaurant that looked leaps and bounds out of our price range. But once we caught a glimpse of our low rent hostel, we decided to splurge on a nice dinner as a way to reward ourselves for slumming it on the lodging front. A garden café on the outside, a swinging piano bar on the inside, Café am Beethovenplatz had a 1920s atmosphere and was full of local patrons. After three days of blah food in Budapest, this feast was such a joy. Free Jagermeister was delivered by our sweet waitress, piano music was floating in the air, and the food was spectacular. Our introduction to Germany was better than I could have imagined and that meal will forever be a reminder of the simple pleasure of just being there. 

2. Edinburgh, 2006: Suruchi Indian with Alicia and Sarah | “Is it tasty?” the waiter asked with anticipation in his voice. The answer was a resounding “yes” when Alicia, Sarah, and I dined at Suruchi. The atmosphere was buzzing and a roaring fire and live sitar music set the scene for this special find. An attentive staff, authentic food, and a conversation between three friends that filled the room with laughter made it an absolute delight. Butter chicken, papadums, naan, and rice…these are the things that dreams are made of. 

No photo exists of our Suruchi experience, but this is a shot from Edinburgh Castle.

1. Tucson, 2007: Old Pueblo Grille with my family | Graduation weekend was hands down the best weekend of my life. After three years of studying at the University of Arizona, I was graduating magna cum laude and celebrating with friends and family in Tucson. Lunch before the ceremony at our family favorite The Frog and Firkin, bar-hopping that night on Fourth Avenue, and spending time with my favorite people was an experience I’ll never forget. However the really wonderful meal happened the night before graduation at the Old Pueblo Grille. My mom and I had been there before for a girl’s weekend, when we indulged in mango margaritas and enjoyed some chile rellenos. So when it came to the big celebratory dinner for my graduation, we decided that would be a reliable option. The setting is ideal: fountains, foliage, and a flair of Southwest all in the middle of the city. While it gets voted the best patio dining in Tucson, we sat indoors at a round table. Coming from Las Cruces, I know good Mexican food and while this restaurant serves decent fare, that’s not why it ranks #1 on my list. It scores this spot because of the feeling I get when I think back on this meal: happiness. I was surrounded by everyone I loved, celebrating an accomplishment, and in a beautiful setting. It was a great send off to Tucson, a place I had grown to hold dear. I knew this meal was special at the time, but looking back on it makes me appreciate it because it’s a snapshot of a moment in time. And like I said, I don’t even remember what I ate.

Istanbul: A Turkish Delight | Day Six

Our last day in Istanbul was a long one, since we checked out of the hotel in the morning and didn’t have a home base until we left for the airport at 11 p.m. Yes, we made the brilliant decision to “sleep at the airport” to save time and money. Props to Sarah who actually had a civilized departure time (9 a.m.), yet stayed with me for my insanely early flight (5 a.m.).

When you book a flight months in advance, one tends to forget early mornings aren’t as congenial as they sound in a foreign city. But somehow, when booking travel, I subscribe to the notion that saving $50 on a roundtrip is worth the 2 a.m. wakeup call required to make a 5 a.m. flight. Or in the case of my flight from Istanbul, no wakeup call at all and instead pulling an all-nighter. 

But before spending six hours in an airport lounge, we had the entire day to entertain ourselves in what had quickly become a new favorite city (don’t worry Oxford, London, and Denver…you’re all still in my top three). Conquering the Grand Bazaar earlier that week, we decided to stop by one last time for some shopping in the eleventh hour for any items that had been plaguing our conscience.

En route to the Süleymaniye Mosque—the second largest in the city—we stopped by some other attractive mosques, taking advantage of their open door policies. It's such a strange and wonderful feeling to wander in and out of mosques in Turkey. Each one was more impressive than the last, ending with Süleymaniye, which had a comforting vibe. Admiring the ornate carpet, I was reminded that we were in the land of a million rugs and the Turks truly know what they’re doing when it comes to carpet creation. 

For lunch we dined outside the chaos of the Spice Market in an Iskender doner shop serving up fast, affordable, and delish fries and lamb kebab in tomato sauce (trying to match the previous day’s experience, but nothing will top that). It was a well-oiled machine on the interior, with young men working hard for the money as they scurried in and out and up and down the restaurant. I felt like we were in the real heart of the city, at the cusp of commerce near the market and where the locals seemed to do their local shopping. 

We spent the afternoon aimlessly wandering the city soaking in the sights, and eventually decided to take the tram to Taksim Square to be entertained by the masses and architecture. This time we looked beyond the materialistic and instead at the incredible buildings residing behind the dozens of stores. Past some gates, we discovered the dainty St. Anthony of Padua Church—the largest Catholic church in Istanbul. It looked more like a decorated gingerbread house than a church, and that was part of the allure. 

Just up the street from St. Anthony of Padua, we stumbled upon a crowd jamming out to self-proclaimed gypsy-rock-cabaret band Into the Moon. Based in Paris, this duo (typically a trio) was rocking it and filling Istiklal Caddesi with fun, foot-tapping tunes. Buying their CD wasn’t a choice, more like a must and for 10 lira I certainly couldn’t complain. Now whenever I want to get transported back to my time in Istanbul, I pop in the demo and feel the music.

A quick late-night snack and round of tea enlivened us before our journey to the airport. The Art City Hotel kindly stored our bags that day and arranged a trip to the airport by shuttle that cost about 20 lira each—about the same price as a taxi, but less stressful. We arrived at Ataturk Airport at about 11 p.m. and since we couldn’t check in or drop our bags off, we were forced to take up residence at a coffeeshop outside of security. If you’re planning an all-nighter at this airport, don’t get your hopes up. 

Buying an overpriced pastry and bottle of water secured our spot at Gloria Jeans (must be the Canadian in me, couldn’t just sit in their overstuffed chairs and use their free wi-fi without making a purchase). Dozing in and out of consciousness alongside Sarah, I questioned my decision to do the airport sleepover, but by the time 4:00 a.m. rolled around, I was thankful to be at my departure gate. 

Three hours of discomfort on a cramped Lufthansa flight later, I arrived in Frankfurt where I had a five-hour layover (did I mention I’ll do anything for a cheaper flight?). At least here I could practice my German speaking skills, buy legit Ritter Sport advent calendars for my brother and myself, and devour some authentic Haribo gummibears. You know you’re jealous.

The next leg of the journey consisted of a ten-hour direct flight to Denver, made an hour longer due to fog in Germany. Highly recommend you fly anything but Lufthansa, as this plane was stuck in the 90s and not in a good Third Eye Blind and dot-com-boom kind of way. I had no idea traveling on Lufthansa meant time travel, as I could have sworn I was transported to when Clinton and Shroeder were still in office due to the outdated facilities on this pathetic plane. And to make matters worse, Larry Crowne was playing on loop. It’s tough to find a decent airline these days, but trust me that this one should be at the bottom of your list for transatlantic flights.

Once in Denver, I hitched a ride from a friend and couldn’t quite believe I was driving along the Rocky Mountains when the night before I had been dancing in the streets of Istanbul.  The line from “Istanbul (Not Constantinople)” will always resonate: “Now it’s Turkish delight on a moonlit night.” I was lucky enough to have six moonlit nights in Istanbul and I’ll always think fondly of this city. It was so familiar, yet so foreign from anything I had experienced before. So beautiful, yet practical. A city full of life and history and culture. A city that captured my heart and my mind.

Istanbul: A Turkish Delight | Day Five

It took twenty minutes and a buck to go to Asia for a day. Istanbul is wow-worthy for a lot of reasons, including the fact it consists of 13 million people, spread over two continents. While the European side is infused with tourists, the Asian side felt more authentic and was an ideal excursion to gain a deeper sense of what this city is all about. 

We headed to the ferry terminal where free-standing machines doled out the 2 lira tokens needed for each way. I highly recommend securing both tokens on this side, as it’s straightforward and a guaranteed cheap price. The commuter ferry docked and there was a mad rush to get on, even though the spacious interior allowed for plenty of seating. Twenty minutes along the Bosphorus and we arrived in Kadıköy. There are tons of options for traveling the high Sea of Marmara around Istanbul, including day-long trips on fancy ferry boats…but the commuter ferry and our hop, skip, and jump to Kadıköy was perfect. If you’re there in the summer, it will be worth exploring your island options.

Upon stepping foot on Asian soil, we celebrated via high five the fact we were indeed in Asia for the first time. We wandered through a fresh market where the smell of fish pervaded our senses. Then an arcade with a string of used bookstores made for interesting perusing, despite the understandable lack of English titles. Our exemplary navigational skills that landed us in Asia successfully deserved a culinary reward and so we indulged at Baylan Patissiere for Kuy Griye (pronounced by yours truly the French way as coup grillet). A layered caramel concoction that’s certainly worth the 12 lira price tag, the Kuy Griye literally melted in my mouth. The kind waiter then helped point us in the direction of the largest bookstore in Turkey: ALKIM. 

After doing our publishing roots proud by checking out the local brick and mortar bookstore scene, we found a coffee house for a truly Turkish experience. Up until this point I’m not ashamed to admit we resorted to the always reliable Starbucks for the daily caffeine jolt, but it was time to (wo)man up and go for the real deal. Turkish coffee is legendary: strong and flavorful, I expected to swoon over this javalicious brew. Instead, I winced in near pain as the swampy, sooty half liquid/half dirt trickled down my throat. I wanted to like it, hell I wanted to love it…but it was a no go. The coffee house itself provided fortune telling based on the dredges of the coffee left behind in your cup, but considering it was all in Turkish, we resisted the 20 lira combo deal.

With the taste of soot still swirling around my mouth, we needed to cleanse our palettes with something delicious. We passed by a little wooden restaurant sporting a “Since 1867” sign and decided to give it a try. Little did I know, it would end up being one of the best meals of my life. 

Upon entering Kabepci Iskender, we were seated by a few men, who quickly retrieved the only English-speaking waiter in the joint. He offered us a sample of sira (fermented non-alcoholic grape juice), and when we determined it was sweet and delicious, he brought us full glasses. The limited menu simply features doner kebab in varying portion sizes, so for 21 lira we each ordered the single portion. While we waited, we read about the storied history of this special eatery—a place that really capitalized on the process and brand of their product. And we could see why: the lamb doner soon arrived and quick on its heels was a man clad in white carrying a sizzling pan. Inside? Melted sheep’s butter. He poured it over the doner plate and didn’t wait around to watch our utter delight. 

 

A single bite secured the fact this was a spectacular meal in front of us: sliced pita under a delectable tomato sauce, swimming in tender pieces of seasoned lamb presumably cut right off the spit. And did I mention the sizzling sheep’s butter? C’mon. Best. Meal. Ever. The only thing that made the experience better was that afterward, as we shopped for tea in the grocery store across the street, our waiter appeared with a shopping bag I had left behind. What service! Well played, Iskender. Well played.

That night we were mesmerized by a Whirling Dervish ceremony at the Sirkeci Train Station—the end point of the Orient Express. The setting was ideal: brooding ceilings with a touch of architectural prowess. The room was sparse and filled with tourists, but the minute the musicians walked in to serenade us with traditional Sufi music, we were all transported to another world. The dervishes, devout Sufi Muslims, performed their religious ceremony which, as you can rightly assume, consisted of a lot of whirling. And then some more whirling. And for good measure, they whirled some more.

Tickets (40 lira each) go on sale at 5:30 p.m. inside the station. I recommend dropping by when you first arrive in Istanbul to read the sign and find out which nights they perform, because the internet spreads some wildly different ideas about days and times. The ceremony doesn’t start until 7:30, so head across the street for a bite of baklava while you wait. Photography is allowed, but beware: some ceremonies in the area do not allow it as this is a religious ceremony, not a show. 

While the price may deter you, I do recommend it because really, when will you have this sort of opportunity again? The kind of opportunity that allows you to sit at the terminus of the Orient Express and be wowed by authentic dervishes in the Mevlevi order. 

Continue to Day Six...