'Millions of people living as foes...'

It takes two hours in the end until we leave the border control behind us. From 4:30 to 6:30 in the morning, it’s stop and go, followed by waiting and luggage checks on the Bulgarian and Turkish sides. Night trips are a hardship, I’m aware of that now, but my inner penny-pincher keeps winning out when weighing options. Because: I save valuable accommodation costs. I actually got a seat in the aisle but remained by the window when someone sat next to me at a Bulgarian stop. Now, after the border halt, my seat neighbor asks me, kindly but firmly, to switch. 'You have sleep, now I sleep' - 'That's only fair'. I learn a rule of long-distance bus travelers: The window seat is the sleeping seat.

Despite being in the aisle, I sleep comparatively well and only wake when the bus drives through hilly wheat fields that rise like waves in the sea on either side, with tall skyscrapers in the background. That must be the behemoth Istanbul. As we pass through the first districts of the 20 million metropolis, traffic eventually stops. City traffic jams. The bus driver rolls down the window and lights a cigarette. 'He’s doing what?!', my inner smoke detector goes off as the smell hits my nose, 'That wouldn’t happen in Germany.' You German, dude. Welcome to Türkiye!

As we arrive at the ZOB, we first pass through a huge maze of underground tunnels and various levels, probably the largest bus station in Istanbul. A bus Moria, an endless mine shaft. I’ll never find my way out here. But fortunately, the bus stops above at the numbered platform. The bus station is also a metro station. Puzzled, I walk through several bazaar-like entrance halls. But where is the entrance to the subway? I first withdraw cash - sleepily choosing the more expensive conversion option - and buy a bottle of water at one of the hundreds of small shops. Where the entrance to the metro is, I ask the vendor. He casually points behind him with his thumb: 'In the back.' Ahh.. 'They could have put up proper signs for that.', I think. Another ‘German’ moment. Well, they will become rarer at some point.

In the evening, I go to the hammam. What I saved in money and comfort during the bus ride is now being balanced out again. Part of the washing ritual includes being covered all over with a huge soaped cloth bag with small soap bubbles. In millions of little bubbles, I float in a cocoon of foam. When my brother and I used to take baths as kids, we always played ‘Foam King’. Whoever whipped up the most foam and piled it on their side of the tub was the Foam King. Now in my soap cocoon, I am again the Foam King, the Foam Sultan of Istanbul.

My first walking tour through the evening old town only takes place with three of us. A couple in their retirement age is nervously wandering around the meeting point. They must also be looking for the guide. Bingo. The tour guide appears shortly after, and the two Americans introduce themselves: 'We're actually on a cruise.' Their ship departs at 10:30 PM, and they request a shorter version of the tour. That’s fine by me. So, the two are on a cruise. 'That makes sense.', I think as I take a closer look at them.

In the Hagia Sophia, I learn that the earlier Crusaders conquered Constantinople for a time and re-dedicated the church as Catholic. The two Americans are traveling without missionary intentions, arriving lightly armed and leaving again after three days. I guess that’s progress compared to the year 1204. The woman tells me about all the museums they've 'done', calculating how much they’ve saved with various inclusives, deals, and cruise bonuses and how many steps they’ve walked. Cruising is a 9 to 5 job.

As I walk through the Fener district, I stop at a shop selling homemade arts and crafts. Homemade chickpea bread for 70, lemonade served in a cookie for 50 Lira. My lunch is ready. The shop owner, Berivan, offers me the only stool in her tiny studio and sits herself on a rung of a ladder. She grew up in Germany for the first four years of her life because her father, a leftist director, had to go into exile during the military dictatorship in the 80s. She has to commute to her shop in the Muslim-influenced Fener since she couldn't deal with the very curious and conservative neighbors and has moved away. When Berivan gets comments on her appearance on the train, the men often become awkwardly silent as soon as she responds. They’re not used to that, she tells me. In Istanbul, it seems one lives in a constant contradiction between conflict and tolerance of the contrasts of a strictly Muslim and a western-liberal Turkey.

After I change sides – from the European to the Anatolian – I find myself in the Kadiköy neighborhood. South of the Muslim-dominant Üsküdar, Moda and Kadiköy are the Kreuzberg and Prenzlauer Berg of Istanbul. Leftist posters, murals, and vegan shops. Fewer headscarves, more man buns.

In the hostel courtyard, I try to strike up a conversation with two guys with my 'Is the water here drinkable?' question, stepping away from the usual hostel ABCs ('How are you doing, mate?', 'Where are you from?' / 'How long are you staying in xyz?'). In vain - 'No Idea.', is the response. A Californian wanders over to us, improvises two chairs into a seat, and shows how it’s done: 'So where are you all from?'. You just have to love the Americans for that.

The other two travelers are Austrians who have done volunteer work in Georgia for a year. Gratefully, I immediately ask for tips for my next destination. The Californian turns out to be a caver and is visibly proud of his extravagant hobby.

I lie in bed in my hostel room and have 'stomach issues'. The vaccination doctor had already warned me that I would struggle with it at least 2-3 times during the trip. That it would hit me in Istanbul, however, I did not expect. I suspect that the heat mixed with sleep deprivation (the room has no air conditioning) had to do with it on the morning’s second walking tour. Now I toss and turn and try to survive a second hot night. From outside, an unharmonious choir of guitar ballads, Turkish talk show television, 'Simiiiiit' calls from the rolling pastry vendors, and the occasional call to prayer filter in.

Like someone misplaced, I wander through the streets in search of water and bananas. Small groups of police with shields everywhere. I suspect a political demonstration?

Today's hostel activity is movie night in the courtyard. They are showing The Craft, a 90s coming-of-age witch film, which would actually be just right. I attempt to sit for 20 minutes, but can barely hold myself on the chair, and the Turkish hostel staff alternately blows smoke directly into my face. I give up. In the last hostel, an Iranian said to me: 'Turkish people don't smoke cigarettes, they eat them.' 'I like Istanbul so much, I’ll extend my stay by two nights,' I had thought the day before yesterday. Now I'm stuck in a single room.

Once recovered, I make contacts through an app for solo travelers (thanks, brother!). Once, I explore several mosques and a cemetery hill with a view with João, a remote worker from Brazil. Another time, I meet Zeynep, a Turkish woman who works in the Hagia Sophia and kindly arranges my train ticket to Ankara. We take the ferry to Büyükada Island, where there is a ruin of an orphanage of the Greek minority as a lost place, among other things. Both João and Zeynep tell me that leftist groups in Istanbul strongly criticize the immigration of mainly Syrian refugees to Turkey, as they often strengthen strictly religious communities and displace the more liberal Turks. 'The more you learn, the less you know,' I say in conversation with João. Does that make sense? He at least understands what I mean.

On the last evening, he shows me a good viewpoint in the Moda neighborhood with a view of the European part. Suddenly it dawns on me that I probably won’t see my home continent for the next five months and I feel a bit sentimental. Brexit for a while. Well, at least that saves me from annoying lids on plastic bottles during that half-year.