Flight of the screaming baby

The weather was quite balmy when we stepped out of the airport in Istanbul. The airport is massive and I’d already walked about 50 kilometres before leaving it, so walking into the steamy outside was just the rather salty icing on the cake. Still, as unpleasant as the weather was, the company was worth it.

And, as I mentioned to Lindy, it was amazing that we all managed to wind up in the same place at around the same time from three different countries: Paris, London and Stockholm. We all met up, without a hitch.

Of course, my journey hadn’t been free of problems. For a start, the early train into Stockholm had been delayed a number of times. Honestly, I love living in Sweden, but the trains could be a little more reliable. At least they’re comfortable and exceedingly fast. Still, it didn’t stop me arriving at Arlanda with plenty of time.

Then there was the smallest passenger on the plane.

This little charmer was a lot better behaved than the baby. The baby that screamed for almost the entire flight. And I’m not exaggerating. It was sat a few seats behind me and merely stopped to draw breathe. Fortunately, the Korean drama I was watching managed to drown out most of the noise. Or, at least my headphones did.

The flight itself was fine though I could have done without the man next to me who snorted a lot and had restless leg syndrome combined with a bit of manspreading. He was very disappointed that they had run out of chicken, refusing to have the pasta alternative. To be fair to him, the pasta was not the best aeroplane food I’ve ever had.

Speaking of food, for dinner we visited a local place not far from our accommodation. It’s a very local place, recommended by our host. Of course, the people who run it do not speak English and none of us speaks Turkish. This could have presented a problem but for the telephone that was handed to Sarah after we sat down.

The phone was mysteriously handed over. “I don’t know who I’m speaking to or why I’ve been handed this phone…” She answered. English came out of the speaker. It was the wife of our host. Her English was good enough to stand as translator.

The end result of the deliberations was laid out on the table before us. It was all delicious. Mezze style plates of amazing food. Poor Lindy is allergic to capsicum, so she was given a plate of rice, but the rest of us tucked in like starving locusts. I particularly loved the aubergine and mince dish.

There was another bit of translation required, though not delivered, earlier when three boys rang our doorbell to ask if they could fetch their football that had landed on the roof of a garage next to our house. They tried but did not succeed, even though, at one point, John offered to throw the smallest boy up on the roof. He begged off rather rapidly.

They never managed to get the football.

Anyway, we’d arrived at the café (you couldn’t really call it a restaurant) after having a bit of a stroll around the immediate neighbourhood, stocking up on supplies. Shops are quite close to us and number quite a few, selling fresh fruit and vegetables. We are very much not on the tourist map.

Having supped sufficiently, we paid the ridiculously cheap price (around £12 for five of us…not each but for all of us) then bought a kilo of baclava across the road (about £5) to take back to the house to have with coffee.

It was a grand start to our Turkish Adventure.