Showing posts with label The President Hotel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The President Hotel. Show all posts

Thursday, 20 February 2014

Walking from Besiktas to Kabatas...

One of many cobbled streets that make up the Grand Bazaar.
When I awoke this morning and looked out the window I thought the fog was still hanging heavy over Istanbul, but was pleasantly surprised, when I reached the breakfast room on the sixth floor, to discover that, by and large, it had lifted. Later I saw planes coming in to land at Istanbul airport so I knew that I wouldn't be stranded here for the weekend.

As has been my routine the last couple days, I took the tram from Beyazit to Kabatas and then a taxi to Besiktas and the Renaissance Hotel. Today it was a little smoother than normal and for no particular reason. I jumped on the tram, got off at Kabatas, jumped into a cab, showed him the address of the hotel and off we went; I arrived on time and enjoyed my last day at the conference, which finished at 1530hrs.
The Grand Bazaar – honestly, it's amazing...
The weather was perfect. It was like a spring day in the UK and I decided to walk from Besiktas to Kabatas and not draw money from a cashpoint. By walking I figured I'd be getting some exercise and saving the company a bit of money too. I was longing to get back to the magic carpet land of Beyazit, home of the Grand Bazaar. Up in the Besiktas area it's a bit, I don't know, a bit officey, a bit Croydon and it was odd how, when I set forth from the Renaissance Hotel on foot, the landscape grew more and more Indiana Jones as I walked towards Kabatas.
Another scene from Istanbul's Grand Bazaar...
It was a pleasant walk. The sun was shining and by the time I reached my destination I'd been walking for around 40 to 45 minutes – a good work-out and much needed as I had been sitting down most of the week.
Child mannequins – slightly spooky.
There's a first time for everything, of course, and today, for the first time, I saw a couple of cats shagging. In the UK this is not only rare, it's probably non-existent, but bearing in mind all the manky little street cats that populate Istanbul it's probably not so rare for inhabitants of this great city. I was tempted to take a photograph – the cats in question didn't seem too concerned about having an  audience – but it felt wrong so I passed on by and jumped on a tram bound for Beyazit.

Once off the tram I headed for the Grand Bazaar and was bowled over by its size and the fact that it was an Aladdin's Cave of all sorts of things: carpets, lamps, trinkets, lanterns, mirrors, boxes, everything and very colourful (see photos for proof).

The President Hotel's 'seasonal fruits' – seriously tasty, trust me...
Having walked from Besiktas to Kabatas and then having walked around the Grand Bazaar, I headed towards the harbourside with a view to eating a meal outside of the hotel. What a mistake! I hummed and hah'd to myself as to which restaurant to pick, but eventually found myself being cajoled by the manager of the Beyaz fish restaurant, who was standing outside trying to drum up custom.
The further away from Besiktas, the better the scenery. This was near Kabatas.
There were many problems. Some advice: never eat in a restaurant that has photographs of the food on the menu; never eat in a restaurant that has a television; and never eat in a restaurant with a crappy-looking menu. The Beyaz fish restaurant had it all, and yet it promised so much: right by the sea, a seafood-based menu, surely this was going to be something special, but no, it was crap and I felt cheated.
Down by the water's edge – the Bosphorous near Kabatas.
I ordered sole, but it wasn't succulent. It didn't fall off the bone and, well, it was just rubbish. Accompanying two sole fillets (which were shrivelled and lacked any real meat) was a quarter of a raw onion, some rubbishy McDonald's-style French Fries and a rocket salad. Toasted bread rolls were also offered, but I wasn't happy. I'd ordered a 'shrimp' salad of sorts, but it was completely tasteless and the only decent thing about the meal was the half bottle of wine. I sat there, no newspaper, nothing, just a blank expression on my face.
Back in Beyazit and close to the Grand Bazaar
It took a while of reasoning with myself, but my mind was made up. I was sitting there dreaming of how pleasant it was in the restaurant at The President hotel where I was staying and so I started thinking seriously about what I'd eaten and whether there was any possible excuse for having two evening meals. My reasoning was simple: what had I actually eaten? Well, that was easy: a handful of French fries, a couple of slivers of sole (it was on the bone so I spent miles too much time separating the flesh from the bone and not actually eating much in the way of fish. Alright, I'd had one bread roll and the prawns, but the 'shrimps' were tiny and tasteless so, in reality, all I'd eaten was a handful of chips and a half bottle of wine. I asked for the bill and left, climbing the hill to The President hotel and then taking the lift straight to the 7th floor where I took my seat, ordered chicken breast with rice and vegetables followed by my favourite dessert, none other than 'seasonal fruits'. Perhaps I shouldn't have ordered a glass of wine, but I needed to feel chilled out and the Beyaz fish restaurant had not achieved that for me.

I sat there gazing out over the twinkling lights of night-time Istanbul, watching the headlights of cars weaving their way here and there. Things had worked out fine, but only just and I did feel a tad guilty about 'pulling up a chair' and enjoying what amounted to another meal, although I was still starving hungry, thanks to that long walk earlier.

Tomorrow a late start and then departure – at 1330hrs – for the airport and a flight back to London Heathrow. I'm desperate to get home. It's fine being here and I'm glad I've paid a visit to this fantastic city, but there's no place like home and my work here is done. I'll nip out tomorrow morning to explore a bit more and, hopefully, find a decent 'caff' for my other blog about teashops and caffs (click here for a direct link).

Monday, 17 February 2014

In Istanbul...

It was a bit rushed if I'm honest. By the time I reached Heathrow Terminal 5 in the taxi from home and cleared security – all of which was absolutely fine – I had about an hour and a bit to have something to eat. My last meal was two Shredded Wheat at around 7am this morning and it was now 3pm so I wandered in to Wagamama for a kind of Thai-inspired curry and rice (chicken and vegetables – nice and light) with a glass of Merlot, which was sorely needed. Sitting there after ordering, however, I began to worry about whether I'd be served in time. The last time I was here in October last year, waiting for a flight to Montreal, the service was terribly slow and when you've got a plane to catch you're constantly on tenterhooks, listening out for any gate announcements. Today, I felt that a repeat performance of last October would be the last straw, but I think they sensed my anxiety as my food arrived pretty promptly and it was very tasty – just what the doctor ordered considering the hectic morning I'd had and the rather long and tiresome cab journey from Sanderstead.
Room 533, The President Hotel, Istanbul. No time to take any more...
A window seat...
Right enough, there was little time to relax as I found myself paying up and striding towards the gate (A10) which wasn't a million miles away, thankfully. There was a short coach journey to the plane and then I found my seat (24F – a window seat and I had two vacant seats to my left so I could spread out a bit). But sadly I wasn't relaxed due to my stressful morning and after the plane had taken off and broken through the clouds I found myself pre-occupied with the morning's aggravation, which was clearly (and unfortunately) playing on my mind.

Thank God for John Simpson!
The flight was due to take off at 1620hrs and arrive in Istanbul at 2200hrs. It was bang on time, but a very boring flight, although, thanks to BBC foreign affairs editor, John Simpson, it was just about bearable. Simpson wasn't on board the flight, but he writes a column for High Life, the BA in-flight magazine (this one about how he was moving out of his residence in Paris) and my only slice of enjoyment was reading his column. I've read one before on another BA flight; not only is he a very good writer, he has that ability (reserved only for good writers) of drawing in the reader, making him (or her) a part of whatever experience he is describing. Oh for more of the magazine being written by Simpson. He's written books too and I really wished I had one as the rest of High Life is just like any other in-flight magazine: boring.

Once we'd cleared the UK and crossed the English Channel there were clear skies all the way to Istanbul, but it was night time and all I could see from my window was veiny trails of light, joined together to make cities and urban sprawl below me; occasionally I watched the map as the plane edged ever closer to Istanbul and soon there were only 39 minutes of the flight left. We started our descent soon after and I was amazed at how the plane swooped in across the bay (which I'm sure has a glamourous name but I need to find a map to look it up.

Clearing security in Istanbul was pretty efficient although I was unaware that I'd have to pay for a visa (around a tenner). Getting a visa slowed me down and by the time I reached Baggage Reclaim Conveyor 1 my bag was one of three left on the carousel waiting to be picked up.

A scuffle broke out at customs
As I waltzed towards customs a scuffle broke out and security guards were trying to restrain a man who was trying his best to break free of their grasp. Women were shouting and there was clearly some kind of altercation, but I breezed past the incident, a worthy distraction, which meant that my bags weren't checked. Not that there would have been a problem if they had been checked as I had nothing of any interest other than trousers, socks and pants and a digital camera.

I drew some money from a cashpoint and then ordered myself a private car transfer to my hotel, from where I write this post. The President Hotel is very pleasant, even if the hotel staff appear and sound a little abrupt. "Any questions?" I was asked twice, once by the receptionist and then again by the porter who took my bags to the room. I was in no mood for tipping, not that the porter didn't deserve one. Perhaps when I've had a decent night's sleep.

And now here I sit in my room, quite a pleasant room, but I feel homesick and want to be with my wife, who I called as soon as the plane landed and before I even got out on to the tarmac.

The weather here is warmer than the UK – it's about 13 degrees compared to about 8 degrees in the UK – and there are no clouds.

Time for bed...
I've got a couple hours to kill tomorrow morning so I'll take a walk around town as I think I'm pretty central here at The President and I need the exercise having sat in a taxi and then a plane and then another taxi. There's nothing worse than inactivity. Who knows? I might find a bicycle to hire. Right now it's 22 minutes past midnight and I'd better get some shut-eye.