Occasionally, even as an almost-grown-up-person, I feel an urge to revert to my inner child by transforming the world around me into something made-up. I am reminded of an element of my character that loved to race around the field of my elementary school on an invisible pony, to transform a pile of rubble into a castle and envision intertwining tree roots as a many-roomed house. I wholly believed that the tooth fairy lived in the rhododendron bush in the back garden and once jumped of the top of the swing set because I was convinced the Pixie Dust I’d been bought at the Disney Store would make me fly. So entranced by my own delusions, I was often happily lost in an idyllic and imagined world, far from reality.

I suppose it was only natural to snap out of it. I lost my naivete long ago, elusive fairies eagerly replaced with equally elusive boys, and invisible ponies were disregarded as I pursued a desperate quest to be cool despite a mouth full of metal and a delayed entry into adolescence. University quashed any remaining glimmer of magic, moving into the city and forgetting the Thoreau-like romanticism of life in nature, in solitude. Cities leave little room for imagination, and despite being among thousands of years of history here in Turkey, it is impossible to live anywhere but the present in Istanbul. It’s all chaos and distraction. I’d become caught up in a job, a social life, a crush. I’d forgotten about the magic of an uninhibited childhood.

A glimpse of that was returned to me among the ruins of Ani. The desolate and decaying medieval Armenian city that lies on the Turkish-Armenian border is a giant playground for grownups. A treasure trove of antiquities, waiting for over a thousand years to be discovered, reimagined.

Ani was made capital of the Armenian kingdom beginning in 961 AD, and became a thriving stop on trade routes between the Byzantine and Persian empires as well as much of the Arab world. The population was estimated to have reached almost 200,000 by the 11th century, which rivaled contemporary cities including Constantinople, Baghdad, and Cairo. Over the following centuries, Ani rose and fell, first conquered by the Seljuks, who slaughtered a majority of the population before selling it off to an obscure Kurdish dynasty called the Shaddadids. They lost Ani to the Georgians, who returned the city to their fellow Christian Armenians in 1199. But it was soon thereafter captured by the Mongols and by the fourteenth century had passed through the hands of several Turkish dynasties and was in a state of steady decline. By the seventeeth century Ani was completely abandoned.

Four hundred years later, four travelers paid three lira to frolic through the remnants of this once-majestic city. Entering through the Lion’s Gate presents panoramic views across the whole city, which is a on a peninsula between the Akurian and Tsalkotsajour rivers. The ravine of the Akurian marks the border to present day Armenia, which stretches off in the unreachable distance. We are kept out not only by a steep chasm to the riverbed but also by the barbed wire fences and landmines rumoured to be lining the border (why? read here). But that only served to make the whole place feel isolated from the rest of the world. High, imposing walls behind us, the ravine on either side. We surged forward, breathless with the magnitude of it all, with the excitement of exploration.

What remains of Ani are a collection of religious buildings that appear to be scattered across the landscape at random. Once called the City of 1001 Churches, few remain, but the mosque and Sultan’s palace are (perhaps too well) restored, and among the rubble are the foundations of shops and houses, roads, a town square, and much more. Far in the distance at the tip of the peninsula is the fortress, perched fierce and high overlooking the city.

The weather made the place even more atmospheric. We all noted that Ani would not have felt right in glowing sunshine, it was a profound space that commanded equally profound weather. Low clouds hung and obscured the sun, but occasionally forced through to cast a chink of light on the corner of a building or a lichen-covered column. Intermittent smatterings of rain dampened the air, the heavy sky bearing down with the weight of the surrounding's sad and angry past. We meandered in silence, often breaking from the path to clamber up the ancient walls, admire ornate carvings in the stonework, or uncover a piece of painted pottery that had caught the eye. We stopped at The Church of St Gregory of Tigran Honents, which had been struck by lightning and was slit down the middle, one half standing tall while the other lay as rubble at its feet. There we came across Armenian script carved into a slab of rock and it seemed something akin to Elvish, ethereal, delicate and swooping.

Had I been alone I would have been miles away in my thoughts, dreaming up some kingdom and imagining myself Queen. But instead, I was grounded in the present with my friends. I listened as Lawrence pulled up Wikipedia on his Blackberry and described the bloody battles that had ripped the city apart and brought upon its downfall. Later as we were perched on a cluster of rocks, Gill pulled out her Android to play LMFAO “Shots!” which echoed across the ravine, and we laughed as Rob bust a move atop a boulder. Under the eves of a well preserved church, we picnicked on local Kars honey and slabs of yellow cheese. We climbed up the minaret of a 9th century mosque and discovered a hidden staircase in the Cathedral of Ani.

There are many reasons why Ani feels enchanted. It’s location on the far eastern border of Turkey makes it somewhat inaccessible, and as such it never has huge numbers of visitors. Often it seemed we has the whole city to ourselves, as if we were adventurers discovering the place for the first time. What’s more, until 2004 the sight was practically off-limits to tourists, it was only possible to enter the sight once permission was granted by the Kars police, and no photography was allowed. So the city still hides many secrets. But it’s majestic decay inspired me the most. Wildflowers bloomed from the top of a collapsing roof, the arched passageway descending to the Convent of the Virgins was rubble-filled, lopsided and almost impassable. The once-grandiose bridge that crossed the Akurian river now just two man-made precipices, jutting out from the cliff face. All left so much room for imagination.

We spent over six hours in Ani, and left feeling like there was more to explore. While the remainder of our short weekend trip took us to many other beautiful spots, including the Sultan’s palace at Dogubeyazit, the Muradiye waterfalls, the Armenian church on Akdamar Island and the old city of Van. But Ani left its mark. It was impossible to ignore that this was once an incredibly powerful city that had been reduced to rubble over hundreds of years of power struggles. And the burden of its past made Ani deeply haunting and evocative.

A little adventure in the East this past weekend.

We flew into Kars (A)
Drove to Ani (B)
The following day drove to Dogubeyazit (C)
Had lunch at the Muradiye Falls (D)
And spent the night in Van (E)

See the pictures.

When this article recently appeared in the New York Times column Frugal Traveler, it quickly maneuvered its way through the hands of many fellow expats and wanderers, the basic gist being: yes, it's different being a lone female traveler than a male one, but despite what appears to be many setbacks, with a bit of experience, it's quite advantageous being a girl.

When I set out for Istanbul, I was by no means experienced. The only “backpacking” I'd done was six years earlier, when I set off on what was supposed to be a two-week long Eurail excursion from Rome to Amsterdam, via Vienna, Prague, Berlin and Brussels. For those who haven't heard me regale this tale of woe, I'll do so now.

I was doomed from the start. I hopped on a 12.99 euro Easyjet flight to Rome, only to realize, somewhere over eastern France, that I'd left my wallet in my dorm (somehow I managed to get to the airport and even more impressive, through Duty Free without noticing). In tears, I conveyed to the air hostess that I had no money and no way to get into the city. She kindly offered to pay for my bus ticket and at the airport I made a collect call to my parents to wire some money to a Western Union in Rome. The tattooed and pierced hostel receptionist looked even more ferocious when I informed him that I had a room booked but no credit card, but let me stay the night anyway. I made the most of the city with the money my parents had sent over until my wallet arrived three days later. When it did, I found the next train to Vienna, and went down the Roma Termini to catch it. As I curled into my window seat in a sleeper booth for the 14-hour journey, a lady with a snack cart came by. I reached into my bag to retrieve my wallet, but came up empty handed. I looked at her in despair but she shook her head and rolled away unsympathetically. Presumably it was pick-pocketed in the station. And I'd only had it for four hours. I cried myself to sleep in the empty compartment.

Hungry and red-eyed I rolled into Vienna and set off for the nearest payphone to beg of my parents another wire transfer, sheepishly explaining myself, and  found a hostel. I enjoyed Vienna and departed unscathed for Prague, where I'd booked into the Clown and Bard on a recommendation, in the dormitory-style room that harboured 40 or so budget-seeking travelers. In the hostel, I sat down and commiserated with a few kind souls over a beer, and later we set off for the bar, where I managed to drown my sorrows over a few more cheap cocktails, and stumble back to the dorm in the wee hours of the morning. When I awoke and reached for my bag where I'd carelessly left it on the floor by the bed, it was well and truly gone. My passport, camera, mobile phone, iPod, and much of my remaining cash gone with it.

I couldn't ask my parents to bail me out yet again - they'd already done enough. Nor could I confess to them my complete ineptitude. Mortified, I quietly packed up my things, caught a taxi to the airport and fled back to Newcastle with my tail between my legs. The saving grace of this story was that I carry both a US and UK passport, and miraculously (particularly under the circumstances) had thought to leave the British one, as well as a small amount of cash, in the hotel safe so I could actually escape the country.

I told my parents I'd carried on with the journey and made it to Amsterdam. I told my friends at uni I'd decided to return early to "study for my exams". I told Phil, my lovely boyfriend at the time, not to tell a single soul, and he made me laugh at myself through tears of shame.

Even through the disasters of that journey and my evident lack of travel-savvy, I recognized that my position as a female traveler was a benefit. In particular, a small one with big eyes and blonde hair. It's not that I needed to ask for help (though in some cases I did) it was that people reacted to my helplessness positively, where they might be less inclined to lend a hand to a large rugby playing male in the same situation. People offered to buy me drinks, to pay for my food and entry into local tourist attractions, even though I’m sure they were on a budget too. My mistakes made me recognize that people are innately kind. Including, I’m sure, those who steal wallets and handbags.

Six years later, numbed to my past embarrassments, I was ready to put on a backpack try again. I recall the feelings of trepidation as I set off on for the bus from Istanbul to Izmir. But I think it was karma, or my world realigning – through six months of travel I didn’t lose anything more than the occasional pen or friend’s contact details. I didn’t have anything stolen, never had to ask for a bit of spare cash or go hungry. Yes, I had grown up a bit and developed a sense of responsibility and awareness that was lacking during my late teens, but more importantly I found that I was interested in actually understanding the culture; not quite so keen to find the nearest bar in a given city and more intrigued by the opportunity to see how people lived, to interact with the society as a whole. And as a woman in the regions of the world where I was traveling, I was more at liberty to do so.

I look back now on my experience at Saleha’s brother’s wedding in Ahmedabad. I was exposed to some of the less affluent and more conservative Muslims who lived in the city. At the time I didn’t realize how privileged I was to have access to the women's quarters. I spent hours sitting and gesticulating with the women in the community, who would arrive at the house in their burkhas and once in the safety of the home reveal themselves, not just by taking off their black robes, but by opening up their hearts, talking and story-telling. 

But in addition to the women, I was also allowed to interact with the men. Saleha’s father brought me to his work in a small car repair shop to introduce me to his friends. They usually had more of a grasp of English than the women so it was a relief to be able to exchange a few words. During the wedding party I spoke and sat with many, and they were generally warm and interesting, though perhaps a little skeptical of the lone female traveler. To be honest, I wasn’t entirely surprised when one of them followed me upstairs and forcibly made a pass at me. I realized at that point it was in my best interest to disentangle myself from the whole event. I left Saleha’s the following day to sojourn with a high school acquaintance who was studying medicine at the local university.

This was not the only source of unwanted attention. In Tiberius, Israel while I was waiting for a friend to arrive at the hotel, the receptionist tried to ply me with wine and take me to his  "penthouse suite".  In Palolem, India, I stayed in a seedy hostel where the young man I met in the restaurant came banging on the flimsy wooden door of my beach hut at 2 in the morning, shouting at me to come out. Men stared, hissed, cat-called, whistled, from Istanbul to Aswan, and from Delhi to Chennai. While it was a little frightening, it never deterred me from staying in a truly budget hostel, or walking down a street alone. Much of the attention I attracted in these regions was out of pure curiosity and I admired those who had the gumption to come and speak to me. While I felt there was a camera phone in my face every time I turned a corner, it wasn't aggressive or perverse. Families and groups of intrepid youngsters would come to ask whether I would pose in a picture with them. Children would turn around to gape at the girl with yellow hair, and when I smiled at them they would scamper for their parents. I remember in particular a journey where I fell asleep on the top bunk of a second class sleeper train. I awoke in broad daylight several hours later to find a group of ten teenage cricket players gawking at me. Two on the opposite bunk, two below, three peering through the metal bars on the bunk adjacent to mine, and three nearby. I sat up, blinking as my eyes adjusted to the light, “Hermione Granger has woken up” they cheered, and refused to leave me alone for the remaining six hours of the journey.

Without trying to sound like a complete narcissist, it was hard not to enjoy the attention, to be admired, and to be taken care of. Women so enthusiastically offered their home-cooked food on bus journeys it was impossible to refuse, no matter what it might do to the digestive system. When I asked for directions, people would offer to escort me. Men would produce tea and biscuits if I walked into their shop in the bazaar. I was often invited into peoples homes, presented with gifts, or just simply smiled at. I learned to read people, to observe the surroundings and gauge whether it was safe. Just as the Frugal Traveler's article states, it was important to be aware of the situation and to rely on cues. But equally important, in my opinion, was following my gut instinct. If something didn't feel right, it usually wasn't, and I took that as indication that it was time to leave.

To be sure, there are probably plenty of women who might find that the way I traveled far out of their comfort zone. But like the contributors to the Frugal Traveler's article pointed out, I felt more safe in the Middle East and India than I did in much of Europe. Stealing really isn't part of their nature. And most of the time, men only treat women badly if they are deviating from the social norm in a way that might seem inappropriate to the local culture, for example, by dressing provocatively. When I first left town, my friend Darren told me I ought to dye my hair brown, so as to fit in more readily with the locals. I refused and as a result I got more attention. But It was something I was willing to put up with for the simple sake of vanity. And I didn't mind. Each of us have a different comfort threshold, different concerns about new and unfamiliar places, cultures, and people. It's about finding your limits and hopefully about pushing them.

That being said, I think I'm just about ready for another (frugal?) adventure.

Africa, anyone?*

*I'm serious.

One of the many wonderful things about living in Istanbul is that you are constantly being introduced to a friend of a friend of a friend, and somehow they seem to be doing all sorts of extraordinary things.

At a recent boat party, I met Murat Gokmen, a Londoner with Turkish roots who returned to Istanbul for a month this summer to rediscover his home city as well as film a series of short pieces for the Guardian (with a bit of help from the lovely Zach Brown). His first was released yesterday, a beautiful visualisation of the Bosporus and it's importance to the city.  Andrew Finkel, a writer, long-term Istanbul resident, and father of a friend of mine, says it all better than I could:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/travel/video/2011/sep/13/istanbul-bosphorus-video-guide

Also among Murat's films on YouTube is a clip of Baba Zula, one of my favorite Istanbul-based bands who combine "reggae, bellydance and oriental music." Here they react to the municipal ban on outdoor seating in Asmali Mescit at a local bar earlier this summer. Represent, yo.

Back after a week and a half in paradise. But a week and a half in Croatia and the Balkans, rather than sating the hunger for travel, left me rather wanting... The thing was though, it wasn't just about being somewhere exotic (though that was more than nice), or being with wonderful friends (even better), this trip was exciting because it was about going somewhere. Moving from one point to another. Whether by plane, bus, boat, or on foot, there is a simple sense of accomplishment and satisfaction in being mobile, headed in a particular direction.

I like getting places. I often find it the most satisfying part of travel. To be sure, there's an excitement upon arriving at an unknown destination. But I often prefer to know I'm on the way there.  To have a plan, a route, and a goal. To relax in the knowledge that you're in limbo, somewhere defiantly between start and finish.

I spent much of this week en route. In a desperate attempt to keep the cost of flights as low as possible, as well as a bit of nostalgia for backpacking days when I attempted everything on a budget, I flew to Croatia via Bosnia, and flew back to Istanbul via Macedonia.

The two hour B&H (Bosnia and Herzegovina Airlines to most, Benson and Hedges airlines to others) flight out of Istanbul to Sarajevo was delayed three hours. From the lounge, between bouts of fitful sleep on a cold metal bench, I would awaken to peer sleepily at the timetable and watch the delay creep forward: one hour, two hours, two and a half. In a carefully plotted out route, I'd be on a direct bus by 9:30 in order to reach Split, Croatia in time for the Discotheque Riva, a concert on the city's waterfront headlining Faithless and Fedde LeGrand with friends. That became impossible when my flight was scheduled to arrive at ten. Resigned, upon arrival I haggled with the taxi driver for a ride to the bus station, and while all direct buses to Split had left for the day, I hopped on a bus in the right direction, headed for Mostar.  Despite disrupted plans, knowing that there was nothing I could do provided a strange sense of solace... There's always another way. It just ups the stakes of the challenge a bit.

The reroute was, in hindsight, a very fortunate accident. It resulted in a bus ride that was probably the most scenic of my life.  We twisted down narrow, snakelike roads, dipping between high mountains and around glass-like lakes. All the while we paralleled the train line, which crossed the water on long, magnificent bridges and made its way through the hills on dramatic overpasses and through long tunnels. To know this country had only recently been war torn was almost unthinkable as we passed through stretches of serene farmland and tranquil, wind-blown forests.

In Mostar I was told the only bus to Split left at eleven PM for arrival the following morning.  Unbelievably dejected, especially as I'd miss out not only on the concert but also a night in the five-star Meridian Lav, courtesy of a Starwood-pointed friend Walter (yes, the hotel was called the Lav), I spoke to a local taxi driver who asked 50 Euro for a ride to the border. Only after much eyelash batting and wide-eyed questioning did he relent and announce that there was, in fact, a bus running from the other station at four, and offered to drive me around the town for an hour in the interim. Sometimes there is such undeniable luxury in being female.

Mostar is incredibly quaint. See above.

I got on the bus for the last leg of my journey with a sense of self-satisfaction, and onwards towards Split, dancing to Faithless on a boardwalk along the Adriatic coast, a queen sized bed (with a down comforter and air-con), buffet breakfast (stole the jam), and lounging poolside (testing out the new bikini). The luxury was cut short rather dramatically when Josh and I realized that Sibenik, where our Yacht Week boat and friends awaited, was a two hour drive up the coast. In two hours we were supposed to have left the harbour. We jumped in a taxi to the bus station and rushed to catch a bus in the nick of time, and we sat with baited breath as the bus crept up the shore road in deep holiday traffic. We arrived to find that the day trip had been canceled as our boat, Ema Blue, was undergoing some repairs. Bloody Mary's were on the table within seconds.

Yacht week was the Spring Break I never had. See the appropriate pictures here. The not-quite-so-appropriate ones on facebook.

But again, part of the fun was that were always mobile. We took off each morning with a destination in mind, stopping in for the night at picturesque ports, or harbouring in sheltered coves, the ever-changing coastline and clear blue skies following us romantically. The delicate balance between drinking too much in an evening and wanting nothing more than to lie in the sun on the bow all day was rarely tipped.

In the mornings we set off, moving at snail's pace after long nights. As the day progressed with far too few pages of a cheesy International Bestseller read, we would slowly recover from the morning haze. We moored alongside deserted islands and lunched on salami and proscuitto, local cheeses and fresh vegetables washed down with Croatian beer and rose (or perhaps a bit of bubbly for pomp and circumstance). We cavorted in the cold, salty waters of the Adriatic, peering down into the clear blue depths, where splintering light reflected from the seabed below. We would arrived at our destination with daylight to spare, comfortably shacking up next to a fellow Yacht Week boat and befriending our neighbors with offerings of Red Bull vodka or another popped cork spraying undrinkable prosecco in their direction. In the evenings, after a walk and a shower, we would dine on board, or at a local restaurant. Seafood was divine - octopus, shark, mussels and calamari freshly caught and cooked, and bottles of strong Croatian wine flowed. The evening unraveled delightfully from there, but I'll spare the gory details.

As expected, the week ended much quicker than expected, and suddenly we lurched to a stop and in desperate need of a proper bed and a serious scrub down. Despite a niggling in the back of my mind of a flight out of Skopje, Macedonia in two days time, I pushed it aside with explorations of the city of Split with Dan and Dom Heynen, and joined Gill on the island of Hvar a day later. We climbed bell towers, giggled at locals as they doggy paddled in speedos at the local beaches, drank fancy and overpriced cocktails at seaside lounge bars, scrutinized tourist maps to plot our route, perused the old cities, and rented scooters to explore the island. I won't complain about my bruised scooter and the 200 euros worth of  damage, but I will attest to the fact that  at 6 AM on Monday Gill and I came to the sudden, slightly sickening realization that we had a day and a half to get off an island and cross four countries to catch our flight.

We booked it. The 7:30 ferry arrived into Split at 9:40. A 10:00 bus left from the Otogar for Dubrovnik and was scheduled to take four and a half hours, with an unavoidable dip into Bosnia on the way. I sat at the edge of my seat and we watched the seconds tick by before we rolled into the station with minutes to spare before the 3:00 bus over the border to Montenegro. On the way we took a car ferry across the Bay of Kotor, southern Europe's deepest fjord, and rolled into the small town of Herceg Novi, where an overnight bus was waiting to take us through Montenegro and Kosovo and into Macedonia. We breathed a sigh of relief as we boarded that final bus, content in the discomfort of a fitful night's upright sleep knowing we'd reach Skopje by morning and in time to catch our 40 euro Pegasus Airways flight home in the following afternoon. We arrived at 5AM after 22 hours in transit, and fell asleep on the floor of the bus station for three hours before we were ready to face the day.

Skopje is a city that appears to be one large reconstruction site. Apparently the city was all but destroyed after an earthquake in 1963, and it has taken till this year to get moving on the rebuilding scheme. It's clear that they're in a hurry. Cranes litter the skyline, and every architecturally stimulating building seemed to be covered in scaffolding. All around the town brazen new statues are being unveiled, including one hideously tacky Alexander the Great fountain(!) where he is seen on horseback upon a grand white pedestal, surrounded by roaring lions and battle-ready soldiers. See left. That, and the fact that Gill and I were were too tired and too hot, made it difficult to get a good impression of the city, which was deadly quiet due to Ramadan. After making a concerted effort to get our fill of culture by stopping in at a few churches, we fell asleep again on an old, brown, sandpaper-like sofa in Skopje's national art museum before finding any conceivable space that might have air-conditioning (the local mall), until it was time to taxi to the airport and go home. Then the whirlwind was over.

Yes, getting places can be stressful. Plotting a route can take ages, especially in countries where the bus schedule isn't readily available online, (god forbid things are still done on paper!), or a flight is delayed, or you're just too hungover to decide which island you'd like to moor at for lunch. Unforeseen challenges provide an occasional adrenaline rush, forcing you out of your comfort zone. But once you've settled into that window seat, or that perch on the bow where the 180 degree view lends nothing but vast expanses of water; once you've got two hands tight to the handlebars of a scooter as you race along a deserted country road, or you're walking down a quiet side street towards some undiscovered landmark. Once you're doing that, there's nothing to do but take in the the view as it passes, and try to capture the moments of beauty in the landscape. You're moving, but you are there.

Once again, Ramadan has reared its hungry head in Istanbul, but my perception of the holy month could not be more different. Last year, I describe the excitement of awakening on the first day of the holy month as similar to Christmas (see cheesy old blog post here). This year I completely forgot about it.

However, as the week has passed, there has been more visible evidence of Ramadan in the city than noticeable before, and as the days wear on it is clear that change is afoot in Istanbul.

A few days before the start of Ramadan, articles like this came out in a Turkey’s newspapers. The local municipality patrol in Beyoglu, where I live, forcibly removed outdoor tables from local restaurants while patrons were dining, after a ban on outdoor seating was affected sometime last month. Though many restaurant owners have permission for outdoor seating and a decision was made to allow chairs and tables within two and a half meters of establishments, the municipality took and apparently destroyed furniture from the many streetside cafes and restaurants.

Rumour has it that behind this overhaul is Turkey's Prime Minister Erdogan, the Islamist-leaning leader who was elected in 2002 and was reelected for a third term this June. His authoritarian tendencies have become more apparent in recent years, particularly with last September’s constitutional referendum which reduced the power of the secularist military establishment (who have overthrown elected governments when they felt the need) and his intolerance towards journalists and even civilians who openly oppose the government. It is said that Erdogan drove through Asmalimescit in convoy sometime in July, and unable to pass through due to the number of tables (and people) lining the street, he demanded they be removed, using forthcoming Ramadan as justification.

Ever since, my neighborhood of Cihangir, as well as Galata and Asmalimescit have been ghostly quiet, and the vitality of the city, while always lulled with the commencement of Ramadan, seems to have been annihilated. The streetscape has been transformed. Glum and bored waiters stand on empty sidewalks, watching their patrons as they lean out towards the fresh air. The stray cats have free reign, which only emphasizes their vast numbers. I can now walk freely without having to veer off onto the street to avoid tables that jut out and prevent a clear path.

In protest, many restaurants provide pillows so their customers can sit on the floor when they step outside to smoke. Others have placed their tables threateningly close to the door, projecting over the edge defensively. But it doesn’t help the fact that restaurant owners are losing business as a result, many wholly reliant on their outdoor space and fearful their establishments won’t survive.

As an expatriate, this comes as the first vision of a changing Turkey. Of course, there have been many changes since my arrival, but words of an article skimmed, discussed, and disregarded do not seem to have the same impact. Last week, for example, the country’s top four military officers left their jobs, emphasizing the continual power struggle between military and government. This is big news, as they are the defenders of secularism in Turkey, and are likely to be replaced with AKP supporters. But for me, the impact only began to set in as table-purging in Beyoglu began, visual proof that one man’s power is surely rising and his Islamist views are becoming realized.

It isn’t entirely clear whether things will return to normal once Ramadan ends on the last of the month. Perhaps my desire last year to witness the holy month with more authenticity has come true, and by September I’ll return to my perch on a wire frame chair outside Journey Café with a glass of red wine and a bowl of almonds. For I dread to think I won’t be able to do that again. I dread to think of Istanbul without Asmalimescit and the constant stream of pedestrian traffic squeezing down a narrow path between tables of raki and mezze and surrounded by smiling diners. And strangely, I dread to think I won't be able to walk down my street without being forced into oncoming traffic as tables form edge to edge barriers along the sidewalk,  and while smiling at the familiar patrons and fumbling for my keys, I ignore the Vespa whipping past, dangerously close to my bag of groceries.

If things don’t change and this is the start of a large-scale transformation in Istanbul, I’m not sure how much longer I will stay. Already the energy has been drained, perhaps because of the hungry, grumpy Muslims, who will be happy to return to normalcy once Ramadan ends. But I do not wish to witness the spark of the city go out.

Some might say that dashing off to a Spanish isle on the invitation of a man you hardly know is foolish.

I suppose I wouldn't necessarily disagree with them.

That being said, last weekend I found myself lying on a pristine beach in Mallorca, with a man in whose company I could count less than twelve hours.

Let me put this into context.

Grant and I met in Ein Gedi, an oasis and nature reserve on the coast of the Israeli Dead Sea in October of 2009. In 90 degree heat (that's about 35 for those who don't speak Fahrenheit), we hiked to the top of the Judaen Plateau, which afforded incredible views over the Dead sea and into Syria. We took a dip, or a float, in the Dead Sea, and visited the Ahava factory, where I managed to leave a collection of goodies from the shop in his rented car. After a day together with his friend Radek, he drove back up to Tel Aviv and I hitch-hiked down to Eilat on the Red Sea with my friend Mike.

Determined to collect my very exclusive hand cream at some future date, I kept in touch with Grant, and over the past year we have planned (and scratched) several trips, from Switzerland to Georgia. It was in June this year that he invited me to join him while he was staying at his apartment in Mallorca. I had booked a ticket without a minutes hesitation.

I tend to trust my gut instinct about people. Despite a distinct age gap between us, I immediately warmed to Grant. I remember how he generously offered to drive us to the reserve so we could hike up together. He was enthusiastic about visiting the Ahava factory, which he'd never heard of before. And on the back of his business card he wrote: Kate, Come to Scotland or Spain and we can go exploring! Though I didn't have a lot to go on with only those 12 hours, it was long enough to take away good vibes.

It was only in the few days leading up to the trip to Mallorca that I began wondering if I might be in too deep. Not only was I seeing someone who I didn't really know, I would be staying at his home and had no real way to escape if something went wrong. I had written a "disclaimer email" to Grant in the hopes he would understand that I came to visit as a friend, and nothing more, but this didn't stop me from worrying that I might find myself in a slightly tricky situation.

On the eve of departure, I tossed and turned before the 6 AM flight to Madrid. It was partially in excitement, but I kept going over scenarios in my head. How do I treat this practical-stranger when I see him? What should I do if things became uncomfortable? What was my escape plan?

Turns out, as expected, I had absolutely nothing to worry about. Grant was a knightly host. He picked me up at the airport, and we aimed straight for his local beach, Cala Major. The following day he rented a car and we explored the island together for three days. He showed me his favorite swimming holes, and his local eateries. We finally got to know each other, during long hours driving or lounging on the sand, he told me of his plan to publish a novel and direct a film. I got glimpses of his childhood, his family life, his past relationships, and his future goals. He heard far too much about my life as well. We maintained and developed a platonic companionship throughout the trip, which was perfect.

As for Mallorca - I had heard good things about this Baleriac gem between Menorca and Ibiza. It seemed ideally sandwiched between the two islands, Menorca known for its tranquility and natural beauty, and Ibiza for wild nightlife and famous DJs. It was just as imagined - in Palma, the capital, a vibrant social scene went late into the night, with jazz clubs atop bougey hotels and tapas bars serving Mallorcan wine and typical Spanish fare. During the day, couples walked groomed golden retrievers down the boardwalk, or shopped along the Passeig de Born at Louis Vuitton or Carolina Herrera. But there was another side to the island. Grant took me along dusty roads to hidden coves with pristine water. We stopped in little village along the coast for cafe con leche and a stroll along a rocky shore. We drove through towns in the middle of the island with beautiful limestone buildings, surrounded by vineyards and olive trees. During the day we picnicked on chorizo, jamon and manchego, sun-ripened avocados and olives, and in the evenings we drank strong Spanish riojas and Pomadas (Mallorcan gin, lemonade and ice) over tapas or paella in the setting sun, followed by live jazz at the Hotel Saratoga. It was paradise.

I was sad to depart on Sunday morning. I left my favourite bikini hanging to dry on the balcony of Grant's apartment, adding to a growing collection of my forgotten items in his repertoire. I saw it as a sort of subconscious way of maintaining a tie to the place. I hope to return one day, and perhaps, when I grow up, buy a place of my own.

Before the trip, I re-watched one of my favourite films, Before Sunrise. In it, two strangers meet on a train and decide to get off together in Vienna and spend the evening together. The film is a conversation between this young couple as they wander through the cities cobbled streets, stopping at landmarks and in a variety of shops, restaurants and bars. Though they begin awkwardly, each learns to enjoy the others personality and nuances through the course of the night. While doing so, they are discovering the city in each others company, providing as a unique contextual memory of the place.

When it was finished, my roommate turned to me and said "not many people would actually do that, would they?" It takes a lot to get off a train with someone you don't really know, just as it takes a lot to fly out to visit someone you've met only once before. A bit of bravery, a bit of trust, and perhaps a little foolishness as well.

For me, there is great allure in exploring the unknown, partially because it comes with risk. It is easy to take the familiar path and pass on opportunities because they seem scary, or present something alien. But aren't we always looking for something new? What fun is there in chasing the familiar?

I turned 25 this year.

One month and eleven days later. Approximately one year and four months after my arrival in Istanbul, I opened a bank account in my country of (semi)-permanent residence. Walking out of Iş Bank, I held the paperwork for my Euro, Pound and Lira accounts, head high.  I felt so adult. I marched elatedly back to work to announce my great feat to colleagues, none of whom were as impressed as I, rather more shocked at how I'd managed to survive without one for so damn long.

The following day, I locked myself out of my flat. As I pulled the door closed behind me, there was a flash to the kitchen counter, where the keys lay in a pool of condensation next to the milk, also left forgotten. It was too late though, as I felt the lock click and my heart sink; with the sting of tears in my eyes I trudged through the swelter to the office, feeling immensely childish and wishing I had a teddy bear to squeeze. Unfortunately, I noted bitterly, he was locked in, and quite useless for key delivery services.

I willingly admit that opening a bank account is not the most adult thing to do. I remember walking into People's Bank in Old Greenwich at the age of 8 or 9 to open my first account. Twenty-five hard earned mother's-helper dollars on my opening statement. A serious discussion with the clerk about my responsibilities as a newly minted People's Banker. A tiny book to document my expenses. All combined to promote in me a sense of accomplishment and progression towards the adult world. The event was commemorated accordingly, with cookies-and-cream-with-sprinkles-on-top-in-a-sugar-cone from next door Baskin Robbins.

I also recognize that most normal people have locked themselves out. Perhaps they did not have to call a locksmith to break into their apartment, as I did. Or get ripped off in the process, as I appear to have been. It was the foolishness of the act, and my reaction. How it made me feel. Not very adult, to scream silent curses at an unrelenting steel door frame. Or to stamp down the stairs in tantrum. Or to punch at my face in the mirror of the lift. Not very adult at all.

So, what's it all about, growing up?

That's what I'm aiming to explore here. I've finished walking about for the time being (with planned escapades here an there), and with truman offering something in the way of inspiration to help define the next phase of my transscribulations, I hope to look at what being an adult really means.

With more to come,
Your not-quite-Grown-up, Kate.