Chase A. Wolf's

Istanbul

     Chase’s Log 3.18.2010.  Istanbul – one of my favorite cities in the world – a place of barely-controlled chaos, Turkish style – which is a very different sort of thing from the barely-controlled chaos – Asian-style, of the cities I’ve visited over the past few months.  

     Home Office refuses to call the city Istanbul, chiding me to call it by its “correct” name – Constantinople.  Apparently, Home Office is still irritated at the Ottomans for sacking Constantinople in 1453 and ending 1,100 years of 

Istanbul from space

Byzantine rule, but mostly I think Home Office is just sentimental about the final collapse of the Roman Empire – I’ve heard it shuffling around cursing and muttering to itself about that fool of an emperor Constantine I for deserting Rome as the Roman Empire’s sole capitol and the lost glory of the Empire and the Republic.  I make a mental note to get Home Office checked for Alzheimer’s when I get back to the States.    

     My memory was accurate and the traffic from the airport was horrendous – though nothing like the flight in.  We crawled along for what seemed like hours to the Ceylan InterContinental Istanbul, which my sister Barb loves, and where my travails are eventually rewarded with an upgraded room with a sea view.  I make it back to the lobby just in time to meet my guest and have yet another excellent Global Shopping Adventures meeting.      

Nastia - My Ukrainian Bodyguard

     I forgo eating after the meeting, not because I’m fasting, but because my half-mad Ukrainian girlfriend – Nastia – is flying in tonight and I know we’re going to spend the evening eating oysters and drinking vodka.  Well, she’ll drink the vodka and we’ll both eat the oysters –she has a nearly insatiable appetite for both.  

     She’s a 98-pound, two-fisted Slavic tornado and I make a mental note to check for the location of the back door at every restaurant we visit.  I’ve seen Midnight Express and the last thing I want is to be traded for smokes in a Turkish prison, and, knowing her utter distain for all liquids not distilled from potatoes, I was suddenly gripped by a fearful vision of some Turkish barkeep serving her water instead of vodka, whereupon, moving with cobra-speed, she flies half over the bar, grabs him by the tie, and pulls his hapless face an inch from hers, snarling:  “No  #!@!  Wadka!”  Following which, I take up involuntary residence in a very dank and scary place.  Read the rest of this entry »