menekşe

Back in Istanbul, the temperature has brought out my mittens and scarves, yak wool blankets and endless cups of tea. The mud, freezing rain and greyness of the city has a certain poetry to it; and when you take a moment amid the city's chaos to consider where you are, you realise how lucky you are. There truly is no place like Istanbul, and though my nomadic heart tells me that I'll have to move on at some point, I'm happy to be here right now.

However, it's sometimes necessary to get out for a bit and see something different than the endless maze of construction and rivers of people in dark coats. We wanted to see gulls by the Marmara, and when looking at the satellite imagery of the city on Google Maps, a town near the airport called Menekşe looked intriguing. We headed to Sirkeci Garı, once the last stop of the famed Orient Express, and learned from an evasive information center guide that there was only one inner city rail line, and it passed right through Menekşe— the very train we were looking at.



It felt like we had left Istanbul for somewhere else, somewhere far away— the sea, the quiet and slow pace of Menekşe was so relaxing. We ate fish sandwiches for dinner, and saw our first Caspian gull.

the rise of the moustache index

Yes, you're now in Turkey.

the blue hour

gannets over the atlantic

pork

When you live in a Muslim country or any country where the pig is not a typical source of food, the thought of sinking your teeth into "the other white meat" becomes a bizarre obsession. You begin to find yourself asking people you barely know who are heading to Budapest on holiday to smuggle back some sausage between the folds of clothes in their suitcase— and anyone who brings a package of bacon in from the outside suddenly becomes everyone's best friend. Meat in general, does not move me the way an avocado or ripe persimmon does, and I rarely eat it— but when something is inaccessible or ridiculously out of your price range (a measly little packet of bacon is around 20 lira at a major supermarket— and alternatively that same 20 lira can get you kilos of beautiful veggies), you start to develop a craving. It's the old forbidden fruit cliché; so when you're in a country which celebrates the pig and its meat, you can yourself, get a little piggish.

I don't think the photos do justice to the enormity of the platter of pork— it was a serious mound. A Tasca do Careca, which translates to "The Inn of the Bald-headed Man," is a little local joint in Vila do Bispo in the Algarve. You'll dine on simple, tasty Portuguese food, surrounded by some odd décor choices (colourful football-related stuff, for some reason combined with wooden and porcelain phalluses). It's the kind of place where you feel you'd better finish your meal or hang your head in shame— no wimps allowed.



It took us two hours to conquer the mound of pork— and from time to time, a bald-headed man who may well be the namesake of the little restaurant, popped out to check the progress of his diners. Unlike the table of Dutch tourists next to us, we were determined to finish every scrap on the platter, and as you can see from the above picture, we succeeded. Then, there was mention of a certain orange cake.

It took a lot of determined coaxing from Pedro for me to believe that this cake was necessary, as the waistband of my pants began to dig into my belly— but we were in Portugal, and there was this orange cake that I simply must try...



It was gorgeous, and went well with the post-gluttony coffee and local firewater, medronho, which I am told is 'unlady-like' to imbibe. We left with a little swagger and a slow stride, our stomachs tipping off our balance— but at least our heads were held high!

from the edge of the deep green sea

was one of my favourite songs as a teenager— funny how one can forget these things. 

salt water gifts

With all that Atlantic, you know Portugal has got to have a mean sea cuisine— and any garlic and olive oil loving culture is going to do it right. Ever since Pedro casually mentioned something about a fried cuttlefish some time ago, I have been gently demanding to be taken to said cuttlefish. So there we were in Setúbal, looking for the right place for some choco frito, when the ameijôas were brought up.



In their violet-tinged shells, scented with cilantro and garlic, sweet little clams glistened marvellous folds of marigold. There were warm, buttered slices of bread which, when saturated with the garlicky clam liquor, made me forget that there was a cuttlefish on the horizon— but then, it arrived.



Oh, yes.

estuary

In the fading light, one thousand five hundred Glossy Ibis flew to their roost.
It was our best guess, but there was no questioning the magic.

the smell of salt, and the coming rain

sintra's shades of pink

tall, and small

crocodile gargoyles and mythical seabeasts

The Palácio de Pena in Sintra is one of the Seven Wonders of Portugal, and a UNESCO World Heritage site. 'Wonder' is definitely an appropriate word to describe this palace, which is a collage of Moorish, Romantic, and Medieval architectural elements— crocodile gargoyle? Yes, we'll have that. Wall of faux coral with a bearded seaman-beast spread-legged atop a giant clam? Sure! The bizarre randomness of the Palácio was a delight, and the looming grey in the sky was a perfect contrast to the fading cadmium yellow of the palace walls. It was the stuff of fairy tales, I tell you.



From the topmost level of the palace, you can watch the clouds roll in from the Atlantic— a sliver of silver on the horizon, and Lisbon is a cluttered mass in the distance.