A Jeton for the Funicular, Istanbul, Turkey (Aug 2009)

“I must use a jeton to ride the funicular!”

This has taken on the tone of a schoolgirl rhyme for skip rope, we are singsonging our talisman sentence back and forth to each other in a cascade of giggles and our Italian friend is mostly just tolerating us as we clutch each other's arms and laugh until our cheeks hurt, "I must use a jeton to ride the funicular!”

And we haven't even starting drinking for the night, either. Well, that's not exactly true; we did have a beer on the terrace after our Bosphorus cruise adventure, and our Italian friend, I wish I could remember his name but it fled my mind instantly in a slur of Mediterranean pronunciation, our Italian friend is chugging a pre-dinner beer as we walk from the hostel to the tram. He tries to insist that we share his beer, and between giggles we demur, we are drunk already on something, the jetons, the funicular, the Bosphorus, or just being here. I peal out into fresh giggles as I realize that we are walking past the Blue Mosque, us infidel women smoking with bare arms and our friend with an open beer, this would get us stoned to death in some places but here its just funny.

We arrive at the Sultanhamet tram stop, and with fake solemnity redeem our jetons to enter the platform. The Italian is still drinking his beer, and we are still smoking, none of which we are allowed to do on the tram platform but we are pretending tourist ignorance. An older man approaches us, points to the beer and shakes his finger, "No, no, is not good," and the Italian replies, "Yes, yes, is good!" "No, no, you must not," "I guess I have to finish it, then!" and he turns the bottle up, throat moving in smooth waves as he gulps down the last dregs of his liter of beer.

The old man looks at us sadly, reproachfully, and we giggle disrespectfully onto the tram. We will be on the train for several stops, we are going over to New Istanbul tonight, to Taksim Square across the Golden Horn. Across the Golden Horn, across the Golden Horn... the phrase has a musical, mystical sound almost, across the Golden Horn. As we sit on the tram, Ariella and I again turn our attention to the funicular. Istanbul is webbed with several different types of transit, trams and light rail and buses and trains and ferries and now, a funicular. What on earth is a funicular, other than a ridiculous sounding word? What will it look like, how does it travel that is so different from a tram or a light rail or a train or a ferry or a bus? I am hoping for something like a ski-lift, with gondolas suspended from a cable swinging gently through an underground tunnel. Ariella thinks that maybe it works with spring action, bouncing us from one end of the track to the other. Funicular, funicular, funicular! We must use jetons to ride the funicular!

The Italian leans over, what is so funny now? We explain our fascination with the funicular, and his eyes light up: "Funicular? But I know what this is!" Is it a gondola? Does it bounce back and forth? Sadly no, it is much more mundane and quotidian than that, it is merely a train that goes uphill. We refuse to believe this, that is far too boring a function for a word like funicular, but the Italian goes on, "No, it is very cool, you see the train goes up but you do not feel like you are going up, the floor is level and the train is built on the slant of the hill," Okay that is a little bit better but I am not sure this funicular deserves a new jeton from me.

We arrive at the transfer point and disembark the tram. I have told my new friends to follow me, I have an excellent nose for sniffing out urban mass transit and finding the right train and it holds me in good stead despite the lack of directional signage. A fresh wave of giggles as we deposit our jetons at the turnstile for the funicular, I am still hoping to see a gondola and Ariella is still hoping for a spring action tube, but alas the Italian was correct. A short, smooth ride uphill and then we are off at Taksim Square, the heart of new Istanbul.

The first thing we see in the heart of new Istanbul is a protest. There is about a two to one ratio of cops in riot gear to protester with picket. "Kate! This is your chance to get thrown in Turkish prison!" I agree, is it an excellent opportunity to get thrown in Turkish prison, which was one of my travel goals. It's been a running joke for a long time, for some reason, and now that I am here in Turkey I have been determined to somehow get inside a Turkish prison if only in name. However, my plan was more along the lines of 'go to the Hilton and have a cocktail in the bar, the building used to be an imperial prison' than 'get beaten up by cops in riot gear while protesting some unknown social evil.'

We skirt the protest and move on, down the wide pedestrian boulevard lined with shops, an antique tram huffing up and down the street through mobs of people. This is new Istanbul, young Istanbul, the modern dining and shopping district, where the Istanbuli come to see and be seen. I can't resist the obligatory snapshot down the street, this reminds me most of Japan, the arcades in Tokyo and Kyoto lit up in neon between the skyscrapers, there is certainly nothing like it in North America or Europe that I've seen, although technically we are still in Europe we are only there by a few hundred meters.

We wander up the boulevard, Ariella has a goal but not a map, we are seeking a particular restaurant in a particular alley. We ask if we've gone too far, no, it's just the next right up there, or maybe the one after that, so we turn at the next right. The alley is narrower than the boulevard and every storefront is a restaurant, with cafe tables spreading into the street to leave only a narrow footpath between the shouting touts for the masses of potential diners to find their way. Every table is full outside, and with good reason; it's a beautiful clear night, perfectly temperate, who would sit inside? Not us, but we can't find a table outside anywhere as we wend along to the end and are spat out at the end of the alley. A moment to breathe, did Ariella see her restaurant? No, so back in.

We find her place, but there are no tables outside. Next door, though, there's a roof terrace with seating. I'm tired of looking for food and ready to eat, so are we all, that press of people was stressful so up we go. Three narrow and steep flights of stairs, crabbed in past the kitchen in the back, and then the beautiful night sky of Istanbul spreads over us. A tuxedoed waiter fusses over our napkins and distributes menus, the first bottle of wine shows up and we're off.
We peruse the menu for the weirdest things we can find, we are in new lands and will try new things. Let's start off with some brains.

Lamb brains, to be precise, not spicy with a little lemon and olive oil. I will try anything once, as long as I have a napkin and a large glass of water handy, so I warily take a small piece on my fork. Chewing thoughtfully and trying to be clinical about it, I don't like it but is that because its brains and thus inherently gross or is it just unyummy? Un-yummy, I decide, a mushy spongey texture, and very little flavor, quite bland actually. We move on to the fava bean paste with dill, which is superb, and dolmas, can't go wrong with a dolmas. In the meantime we are spying on other diners, there are two couples that are practically dry-humping by the edge of the terrace, and what appears to be a business meeting at another table. It's starting to fill up, and then the band arrives. Oh no, there's a band, so much for conversation.

But we are lucky, or rather, they have sized us up and determined that the tipping will not be good at our table, perhaps the Italian's backpacker attire has clued them in, counteracted Ariella's LBD and Louis Vuitton accessories. Drinking our wine slowly and waiting on our main course, Ariella and I somehow begin discussing Breakfast at Tiffany's, and then the wonders of Tiffany's, and our Italian friend is very, very bored.

I belatedly exclaim, "Wait! We just ordered and ate brains, and not one of us made a zombie joke! We have failed, my friends," and Ariella giggles back, "Perhaps...that means... we are adults!" "No, no, no!" a chorus of nos, we'll have none of that but we will have more wine please and thank you.

More organ meats for the main course, fried liver for the Italian and I end up with some kind of fish, Ariella with kebabs. Again we share plates, I don't like the liver but the fish isn't bad. The musicians have made the rounds of all of the tables twice, and at last they shrug and give us a try. Ariella has a request after all, "Hava Nagila!"

Lo, we must all clasp hands and dance around the table. Yes, yes, more wine!

As the song ends, we are smiling and joyful and suddenly it must be said, "I must use a jeton to ride the funicular!" Indeed, we must return to the funicular, we've hit our wine limit for navigating back down those stairs and the funicular stops running at midnight, and so back down the stairs, and through the alley, and down the boulevard, and into the station and a jeton for the funicular! and the tram and back, back across the Golden Horn, across the Golden Horn, a magical, mystical phrase evoking Istanbul's indescribable appeal, Constantinople's beckoning, across the Golden Horn or up the Bosphorus or a jeton for the funicular!