I went to Ölüdenitz on the south coast of Turkey in order to paraglide. It’s known as a mecka for gliders, with five different take-off sites, perpetually perfect weather, and a long beach on which to land; what could go wrong? Well, everything…

I arrived at midnight with my backpack and nowhere to stay, after two flights and two bus rides, thoroughly worn out. The place looked as I had feared – nothing but bars and night clubs and faux English pubs, plus loads of lodgings. I didn’t look around, but went for the second hotel I saw – nothing fancy, but there was a pile of paragliding equipment as high as I was, which I thought boded well.

The next morning the place was full of what looked like frequent flyers, but no-one seemed to be going anywhere. Turns out there was a big bike race on, so flying was forbidden. Not obvious why? They had multiple helicopters covering the race, and Mr Chopper is not a paraglider’s friend. I was kind of ok with that, because that would give me the day to find an instructor that could take me on. Or so I thought. Not a single one was interested. All they do is tandem flights – taking tourists for a quick top to bottom and then selling them photos and videos of the ride is a lot more profitable than actually teaching someone how to fly. So in spite of there being paragliders everywhere I was grounded (I don’t have a licence to fly on my own – hence the need for an instructor…).

My backup plan was to hike the Lycean Way – a relatively new path that follows the coast of the peninsula – but it was simply too hot; 27 degrees in the shade and muggy as anything was more than I could take. So there I was, stuck in a tourist hellhole, with no prospect of doing any of the things I wanted. I went for a swim in the Mediterranean at sunset and pondered my options: stay here for the week and hope something materialized, or change my plans entirely.

The next morning, as paragliders started to appear in the sky, I went for another swim, and then got a flight to Istanbul for that evening. No sense in prolonging the misery.

Arriving in Istanbul late in the evening I got a taxi to the hotel I had found, got fooled by the driver into paying 20% extra (“bank fees”), and arrived only to be informed the room was double-booked, and would I mind staying somewhere else? Not an auspicious start. Turns out “somewhere else” was a huge apartment right next to Galata Tower (which, in competition with the bridge across the Bosphorus, is THE symbol of Istanbul), so that was ok. The prayer tower four meters from my bedroom window that called believers to prayer at dawn the next morning? A little unexpected, but a very efficient wakeup call. 😅

And so I set out exploring Istanbul. I have been once before on a work trip, some 25 years ago, so had seen Hagia Sofia and the Top Kapi, which I was happy about, because the lines to those attractions were such that I could have spent the rest of the week standing in them. Instead I went for long, meandering walks through the Old Town, taking in the sights and sounds and smells of the city. Impressions: dirty, chaotic, crumbling, hilly – oh, so hilly! – and cat-infested. There are cats everywhere, but they are looked after – people feed and water them, construct special houses for them, and there is even a system that lets you collect trash and get cat food in exchange – because one saved Baby Mohammed from a snake once; not a bad deal for the three million (!) felines that currently inhabit the city.

The smell of roasted chestnuts and cobs of corn fills the air of the bazaars and the maze of streets, where – in Arabic style – the vendors and their wares spill out into the streets. The olden way of business prevails here: all shops specialize in one thing, and they all congregate with their brethren (very few sistren to be seen), so that one street sells nothing but tools, another plastic toys, a third music instruments, and so on. How they make it work I don’t know: Imagine being an umbrella salesman in a street of umbrella salesmen – in a city where it doesn’t rain for at least six months per year… They don’t seem bothered tho. Mostly the men sit around and drink tea out of tulip-shaped glasses, and smoke acrid cigarettes. Quite possibly this has the effect of curing them (not of illnesses, but in the mummifying sense), because they all look to be about seventy, regardless of actual age. Wiry porters carry immense loads on their backs or on little carts, blocking the roads even more than the rest of the throng.

What’s surprising to me is how many of the old houses are actually gorgeous – a wonderful Turkish take on Art Noveau. It’s sad to see how many of them are in disrepair and/or hidden by shabby constructions of later date, but a hundred years ago this must have been an amazingly beautiful city.

There’s plenty of architecture of greater age that is even more impressive, of course. I had an amazing experience last time I was here, descending into a subterranean roman cistern, where I was suddenly alone in what looked like a half submerged cathedral, with nothing but ambient light and Pavarotti for company, making it more of a religious experience than I have ever had in an actual church. And so I foolishly set out trying to repeat that. It wasn’t to be. I saw three cisterns, one without water, one tiny, like a flooded basement, and one that was something like my original, only this one was filled to the brim – with tourists. Nothing like queueing behind selfie-takers to get you to commune with the divine, eh? After this photographic wankery I decided to steer well clear of any other major tourist attraction.

Instead I saw several of the less touted mosques, and found them all beautiful. Who knew ostrich eggs were used to fight cob webs on the immense candelabra, or that the acoustics of the domed ceilings were improved by incorporating water vessels into the construction at angles that offset the bouncing sounds? An added bonus: the relative calm of the mosques’ grounds means that cats favour them – in one I’m suddenly ambushed by six kittens, who quickly turn me into a fairground for their play. Allah akbar, indeed.

I see the Swedish General Consulate behind barbed wire and armed guards – a reminder that my country isn’t popular in this part of the world right now; a far cry from when Swedish varjag warriors were seen as an elite, and were made into a special bodyguard unit for the Caliph. Luckily my hotel is owned by Kurds, so we bond over the shared experience of being outcasts.

I drink amazingly good coffee in swanky cafes, and marvel at the patience of the poor (?) fishermen on Galata bridge, who stand in the heat all day for a bucketful of sardines. There are other marvels: the sight of women’s clothes, ranging from full body burquas to, frankly, astonishingly vulgar, as seen in the nightlife outside my hotel, which happens to be next door to both night clubs and what on medieval maps would have been called Gropeacunt Alley. There is also the many patients of cosmetic surgary to gawk at: nose reduction and lip expansion jobs for ladies, hair redistribution for gentlemen. Istanbul can really be a transformative experience…

The food is predictably good: Anatolian breakfast is a sumptious affair with twenty-odd accoutrements, accompanied by endless cups of tea, and fresh pomegranate juice. Sumptuous! Cheap and cheerful canteen-like restaurants serve healthy Turkish cuisine, like filled peppers, grilled aubergine and lamb shanks, and if one is thus inclined there is baklava on offer on every corner.

And so I spend my days roaming the city, haggling over tulip bulbs and pashmina shawls in the bazaars for the fun of it, taking a boat ride around the Bosphorus, trying to imagine all the people and ships that have crossed through here since time immemorial (the cataclysmic earthquake that opened the strait between the Black Sea and the Mediterranean is what supposedly gave rise to the Noah mythos, after all, and the Illiad played out at the opposite end of the channel). I even cross over into Asia, just to be able to say my holidays spanned two continents.

It is not what I had hoped, but it’s a good trip nonetheless. My initial plan – to experience the Turkish wilderness in the air, on land and in the sea – came to nothing, and Istanbul/Constantinople/Miklagård might be an acquired taste, but it’s many incarnations and contrasts and history make it endlessly fascinating, and a wild experience. Mashallah!