A Long Time Ago, in a Galaxy Far, Far Away...

After three flights, four sets of swollen ankles, one bout of travel sickness, and a topsy-turvy drive through the congested streets of Istanbul, your intrepid travellers finally arrived at the Golden Horn, and the hotel which bears it's name.

Fatigue immediately kicked in, and I found myself unable to watch yet another episode of the West Wing, the tonic for insomnia I'd been self-medicating myself on for the last few weeks. I'd been through scandals, censures and the political machinations of Jeb Bartlett's first term in the White House, but nothing could resist the urge for the heavy blanket of weariness to be pulled up, and snuggled underneath.

The next morning, the ever-smiling Mendy (the hotel's concierge) greeted us at breakfast, and helped us plan out first and only full day in Istanbul.
"Mendy?" I asked. "Well actually it's Mandy", she said, "but the manager misunderstood my German accent when arranging my name tag".

Crikey! What will they make of Ginger then?

So with a loose plan involving the sage advice, "...just follow the tram line", off we ventured into the exotic world of Istanbul.

First stop, the Grand Bazaar. So, think of the Grand Bazaar as the Vic Market meets the Arabian Knights, providing the Arabian Knights sold rip-off football shirts of course. And without the $12 bags of hot donuts.
To a chorus of "...come inside, I show you lovely carpet - best in all Istanbul my friend" we ploughed our way through the hundreds of ceramic, jewellery, leather goods, and yes carpet stalls, determined to not get lost.

Unfortunately there's no tram line inside the bazaar, so lost we got - a bit like an 8 year old who's wandered off at the Royal Melbourne Show distracted by the promise of yet more showbags. Fortunately for us, after stopping for a Turkish coffee, the charming near-teenaged vendor gave us some directions, and as we'd had a bit of a look around, decided we'd seen enough in the time we had allowed on our one day maxi-tour. To do this 500+ year old complex justice, you could spend days inside exploring every main section, the coutless sub-sections, and the maze of side paths and tiny lanes all meandering around the site.
So to Door 18 we headed, and off to the Spice Bazaar we traversed.

To get to the Spice (or Egyptian) Bazaar, one leaves the insanity of the Grand Bazaar, and makes a bee-line for the road adjacent to Door 18, and heads down the hill. This promenade is closed to traffic, so is filled with families, hawking traders, young girls looking for new outfits, kebab men, mobile pastry trolleys, and the ubiquitous Castanea stands, whom by dry frying the chest nuts, not only fill the air with that delicious toasted nut smell, but also with smoke.

By the time we wandered down to the Spice Bazaar, our main goal was to get in, and then out the other side as quickly as we could, as our stomachs had been rumbling for some time. Well I say we but I meant me.

This wasn't as simple as you would think given the amount of people all squeezing in the same entrance as us. A sea of humanity pouring in as if being drained in through a funnel - close confines to be sure.
Having been to Morocco before, once inside, this cavalcade of olfactory delights was like a visit from an old friend. Plenty of cinnamon, cardamom, cumin, and paprika, all neatly formed into spice pyramids, but none of the elusive Turkish Viagra I'd read about.

For the record, I was only interested in the label on the jar of this local trouser starch, which apparently features a small baby with a massive phallus protruding forth like some bizarre pole vaulter.

Out into the blinding sunlight we came, and then down to the waterfront we headed for the famous Istanbul fresh fish sandwiches. Sounds less than delightful I know, but Mandy had confirmed when I enquired, that we must have this for lunch. So for six Turkish Lira (roughly A$3), you get a bread roll with a freshly caught and barbecued fish fillet shoved inside.

Man oh man. This fishy little no-thrills ripper is a real winner, and when you add a little lemon juice and a pinch of salt, I was on a one way trip to a potentially new food happy place!
Just when this meal couldn't get any better, the Moslem call to prayer started drifting across the big open square from the mosque perched on the shore, which looked just like a turtle sitting in the sun, holding two spears.
I've experienced the call to prayer in Morocco and Dubai before, and despite the fact it sounds like it's being broadcast on an AM radio station which is not quite tuned in correctly, I find it's the icing on the exotic cake of travel.

So now satiated, and being on the river already, why not jump on a river cruise?

The Bosphorus is the bit in Turkey which separates Europe and Asia, and is a massive channel which sits between the Sea of Marmara to the South, and the Black Sea to the North. The cruise lasts 90 minutes, and takes a journey around both sides of the river's bank. The cruise ship is filled with tourists - both Turkish and others alike - all of whom are well looked after by waiters selling cups of tea, bottles of water, and other snacks.

And all are taking selfies.

I'm sure even the locals on board had, like us, no idea what was being said across the circa-1961 PA system - I'm not even sure words were being used to be honest. So we had no idea what we were seeing, but whatever it was, it looked terrific.
I did notice the Istanbul Modern (art gallery) in it's residence in an old waterfront warehouse, and this only served to remind me that not only does Istanbul sit between the two very different worlds of Europe and Asia, but it also sits between the new and the old worlds of modern Turkey itself. There's the very traditional, steeped in history old capital of the Byzantine & Ottoman Empires, and then there's the post-Ataturk Turkey whom is young, bold and secular (for the time being).

From the cruise we rushed back to the Golden Horn (by following the tram tracks) in time to change, and then meet with the rest of our touring party for the next fortnight.

And it was only just 6pm on our first day!

Stay tuned...

What was I thinking?

As the Spring weather starts to pick up in Melbourne, there's a lot to like about being home - the Daphne's scent in the backyard is intoxicating, the dappled light streaming through the trees tries to lull you into the "nap window", and the smell of the gyoza steaming on the cooker makes me wonder why I'm even considering leaving home.

But I am.

And after a long cold Melbourne winter, this taste of Spring just leaves me thirsting for more. Sure, I've been lucky this year - my paid gig has seen me travel extensively, and to far warmer climes than here, but it was still work. Nor is it any fun travelling without my partner in crime and tourist cynicism, she whom can pick a fight with a pushy Chinese tourist within seconds of being shoved or queue-jumped. The heckler's heckler. She whom fights for all that is good and right (and which serves our game plan). My Madelene, or as I'm oft-to refer her as She-of-Cloven-Hoof, Beelzebub, or the simple (yet classic), Spawn of Satan. Quite simply, the love of my life.

So I shall not be on my own.

And as we've done a few times before, we have planned yet another adventure abroad. Our last voyage was with the mighty Freebs, which made us a triumvirate of good times, dodgy suitcases, and far too many shoes (not on my part).
You may recall our tales from the left-on-the-shelf and largely ignored blog, Franco-Bogan, which saw us travel around France, into Athens, and then a far too brief sojourn on the enchanted island of Santorini.
I get all warm and fuzzy just thinking about it to be honest. The wine, the cheese, the menus none of us could read! Oh the fun we had as I drove all over a country with magnificent views passing by the window which I've only seen in photos - the concentration required rendered my ability to appreciate anything until I locked the car and walked away from it meant I didn't see much. But what a blast we had in celebration of a significant birthday of Madelene's.

This time around, we are travelling to Turkey, joining an Intrepid Tour for a couple of weeks, and touring the country in a loop from Istanbul and back again. I must remember to pack my elasticized pants. From Turkey, our trail leads us to an island just off the coast, but from a political/territorial  perspective, a million miles away. I am of course referring to Cyprus.

The decision to travel to Cyprus is a poignant one. Madelene lost her beloved mother this year, and that was after losing her father only the year before. It was a long, slow decline for a woman who's heart was as big as her generosity, and has a been quite literally a Greek tragedy for a number of years.
Maroulaki came to Melbourne from Cyprus in the 1950's, and after having returned only once back in the mid 90's, always looked back with great fondness of her motherland. I can't really relate as I've always lived about 10kms from where I was born, but I can understand the sentimental attachment.
Long before her passing, Mad and I discussed visiting Cyprus, as her brother had done before. And I take solace in the fact that we discussed our plans for this trip with Maroulaki prior to her slipping away back in July.
So the plan is for a mini family reunion to take place. Perhaps a meeting is a better way to define it, as Mad & I have never met the cousins (bar one whom will not be making it unfortunately).

So here's where things get interesting.

A family isn't necessarily just two people, so when the discussions began last year about this trip, there was great interest from Mad's siblings. Mad's brother Tony (and wife Julie) had been to Cyprus before and loved it. Mad's sister Lizy had always wanted to travel to Cyprus but for one reason or another had never made it. Lizy's son Seb had no interest in the trip, but her daughter Izabella was up for it, so the foundations were laid at that point for a full blown invasion of their ancestral home.

Fast forward to January of this year, and as the family was gathered together for Xmas, this plan evolved from an idea, to a possibility, into a full blown itinerary.

So that's it. As the Moors invaded Spain in the middle ages, the Germans into Poland in the late 30's, and the Americans into our lounge rooms in the sixties, so shall the Scironni family invade Cyprus in 2014!

To sweeten the deal, a family recovery party has been arranged in Santorini for a few days after our Cyprus take over, before a final "Last Supper" in Athens. From there, we all disband, heading to various other locales from Europe.

So what the Hell have I gotten myself in for? Can I adequately write the true story of what unfolds here when so many personal family matters are at stake.

The short answer is SHIT YES! I will dish the dirt, tell the tale, name names, and elaborate to my heart's content, so by the end of this, there could be huge unrest across Europe (not to mention Melbourne's North West suburbs).

Feel for me. I will suffer for your reading pleasure. It's the kind of suffering which involves some char-grilled octopus in one hand, a fine ale in the other, the sun on my face, the wind in my sail, and a lot of laughing for sure. Did I mention that we are ALL a massive pack of shit stirrers? No

All I can say is "Release the Kraken!"

Wish me luck (I'll need it)...