frances
lai
blown a
wayfarer
PRINCES' ISLANDS
July 10
Indeed, sleeping in is generally mandated on holiday. However, it may be my love-hate relationship with sleep, or perhaps it’s my internal clock that prevents me from lying inert for more than eight hours. Whatever the reason, it felt cruelly unjust to interrupt Kyle’s heavy doze, and so I read and fiddled on my phone in bed for who knows how many hours that eluded us.
Less than two days is hardly enough time to acclimate to the sweltering heat, especially coming from mildly summered London. Feeling the tenacious sunbeams seep in through the drawn shutters, I had no qualms about waiting out the hot ferocity as I struggled to maintain homeostasis.
Finally emerging from our quarters well into the afternoon, some quick-service nourishment seemed like the most sensible option to make the most of the remaining day. I had taken note of a shop around the corner specializing in börek, a flaky pastry made of many thin layers of dough filled with any assortment of sweet or savory stuffings. It’s always a good sign when a place only offers what you came in for. With nothing to eat since a shared kebap platter the night before, a hunk of börek filled with meat and another filled with cheese were so immensely satisfying, buttery, and chewy that we were given just the right sustenance to take on a biking venture on one of the nearby islands.
Arriving to the docks to find that our prepaid metro fare would work on the ferry as well, we climbed aboard and situated ourselves on the top open-air deck. The day was tepid and breezy over the water, and the smog that hovered over the city did nothing to diminish its splendor. The ferry pulled away
from the dock, offering a dwindling view of Istanbul, and fell into a subdued speed eventually taking 90 minutes to reach the last island, the biggest one and also our destination. A man expertly balancing on his head, hands-free mind you, a large tray of Turkish pretzels made his rounds before stopping to gaze wonderingly out at sea, loudly advertising intermittently his simit for sale.
As the vessel approached the first port of call at Kınalıada, I brought myself starboard to grab a glimpse of the little island and observe its beachfarers speckling the narrow coast with their umbrellas. This brought about a very momentary longing to make haste with Istanbul and move on to our beach destination. Then my eyes dropped below to the water immediately surrounding us, and I was astounded to see hundreds upon hundreds of jellyfish. I’ve never seen a jellyfish in the wild before except the ones that wash up dead on shore, and there I was looking upon a sea of countless jellyfish. They came in all different sizes—mama size and baby size and papa size and even auntie size—but all a uniform translucent white. Periodically I would notice the sun hitting the water at a peculiar angle and
realize it was a jelly corpse poised on the surface. Sufficiently intrigued, I made a mental note to find out more about the ecosystems of these waters and whether it was jellyfish mating season.
Finally we reached Büyükada, a while after the novelty of the sea voyage had worn off. The cobbled pathways leading from the harbor were lined with restaurants and vendors offering delectable refreshments from tornado potato fries and kebaps to waffles and dondurma, Turkish ice cream. Only a few hours until the last ferry back to the mainland, we hired bikes to do our own tour of the island. With motor vehicles forbidden, giving the islands an inherent contrast to manic Istanbul, cycling is the most pleasant and cost-effective way to explore the island. A few caveats: like Istanbul, the terrain is hilly, obviously something to consider with regards to cycling. In the absence of cars, horse-drawn carriages have assumed the role of taxis, which is great for cyclists. Only, in the stagnant heat stews the foul, earthy stench of equine excrement, nearly impossible to escape when the physical exertion of biking in hot weather obliges you to take full, robust breaths.
We never bothered with any of the island's cultural attractions. The plan was to locate a beach and ultimately marry the sticky salinity of our sweat with the cool, briny seawater. However, this summer daydream was never realized; all easily accessible beaches were only so after paying its cover, and we couldn’t figure out how to get to any of the untaxed shores without grapples and rope, though we tried. We ended up with a pair of beers at a waterfront restaurant as a consolation for our efforts.
