I awoke in the King Priam room of the Hisirlik Hotel. I wondered if the poor man had had better digs than these. He was however long gone, his problems were over.
I struggled in the telephone box sized bathroom. The shower wouldn’t work above knee height and barely dribbled below that. I got my stretching done early just trying to get the soap off.
Wet rooms…hmmm…not sure. Fine if you have palatial space I suppose, but when you have to remove the mat, towels and toilet roll before you start…not so good.
I sat on the bed and examined my toe with a Simon Templar eyebrow. It looked more like the one on the opposite foot now. For which I was belatedly grateful. I had hardly noticed it scrambling over the ruins yesterday. How typical that when something hurts your day is blighted, but when nothing hurts we take it for granted. Note to self to be more mindful in a truly Epicurean manner.
Out on the road there were fields of tomatoes with gangs of women bent double picking them. They were wearing the usual garb of headscarves and baggy trousers and I could see a few of them eating as they went.
Then a man selling cucumbers. They were in a heap almost as high as he was. Dumped from a tractor onto the side of a dual carriageway. A hard day’s selling lay ahead for him.
We parked up in the big town of Cannakale. It sits on the sea facing the Gallipoli Peninsula. It was to here that Leander swam across the strait every night to visit his beloved Hero, priestess to Aphrodite. Guided every night by the lantern in her tower. Until the wind blew it out one night and the poor bloke drowned. Also drowned was the princess Helles who had helped Jason retrieve the Golden Fleece. Which was how the mouth of the straits got its name, Hellespont. There are references to her all over town.
I had found an apartment – that had been listed as a hotel – where I could get some washing done and stop moving for a bit.
The very friendly owner was expansive about the problems he was facing. I pointed to the washing powder in bags running up the staircase behind him. He said ‘I found this lot at last month’s prices so I bought 100 kilos. The price of everything is going crazy.’ I congratulated him on cornering the Persil market.
We had a deep and meaningful over a delicious Turkish coffee that he rustled up at the desk. We both agreed that everything was going to shit when it really need not.
I walked out into the street towards the nearest hammam but it was closed. So I retraced my steps to find the other one at the opposite end of town.
I almost missed it. A hole in the wall where I was greeted and shown to a cabin to disrobe. The whole place was laid in marble and slippery under the sliders – no socks – I’d been given. I followed the masseur like an old man who’d had his roller skates confiscated.
I was led to a sauna room that was so hot I couldn’t place my feet on the floor. After 20 minutes I was beckoned to a slightly cooler room where my masseur put on a glove made of Scotch Brite and scoured my body all over. Then a dousing with tepid water and more scrubbing. Then to the marble altar. Before I got on I pointed to the L3/4 joint on my lower back and acted out the charade of breaking a French stick. He nodded, soaped me up and got going.
Crikey! He had hands like Maximus Prime!
My body complained by parts… ‘Ooooh helloooo!’ said my calves. ‘Give it a rest!’ clicked my shoulder blades. ‘Oh my God!’ said my knee caps, as they settled back down from my hips.
Then it was over and the dousing and rubbing continued in a cool room. Followed by a shower so powerful it had me bent over.
He manhandled me into a chair and rubbed me dry. Covered my head and body with dry towels and left me in companionable silence with three other blokes sporting soup strainer moustaches.
Tea was served and all was right with the world. If ever there was a Marlboro Light moment this was it. The whole process a little over an hour and a half and for a fee of five pounds fifty.
I went back to get a small bag from Pedro and found the guard washing a car in the lot next door. He gestured that the key was on top of the front tyre. And that’s where I found it. And that’s where I replaced it. When in Rome…
My building was in a street lined with barbers so I had a trim. Again a very discreet, soothing and relaxing service, where care was taken without rush. But a little freaky to see most of the customers sitting around wearing face packs in every colour you could imagine. It was like a barbers from Spirited Away.
Feeling restored – and with my washing drying on a rack – I walked out into the glowing evening light for a stroll along the front.
There was a museum and docked next to it the mine-layer that had caused so much damage to our fleet in 1914. Three of our capital ships sunk and a further three badly damaged.
Walking along this generous waterfront I came to a square with yet another wooden horse. Asking a passer-by I was told that this was the one that had been in the film Troy and had been donated to the city as a thank you. I’d refused to photograph the version at the entrance to Troy itself. A truly monstrous thing made of scaffold boards.
Although the horse is perhaps the most famous myth associated with Troy it was – to my mind – also the saddest part of that story. A proud city succumbing to a dirty trick after 10 year’s of seige.
Orroight mate! Enough of this maudlin stuff. Don’t get on your high horse! I reminded myself that it’s not even in the Iliad anyway.
A little further along there were seven identical stands selling toasted cobs of sweet corn. Begging the obvious question…
Still in the afterglow of my bath experience I watched the sun set on the Dardanelles and retired without supper.