Grand Bazaar today. I'd like to say we didn't spend our entire day shopping, but, um... We started off with great intentions, but we just seemed to get absorbed by the market, a sprawling labyrinth of vaulted ceilings and archways and water fountains, and nonsensical signs like "New Market (1571)". Shopping there, in our further defence, is not like shopping down your local Tesco. It's an entire way of being, you have to adapt your eyes and your soul; you have to learn that you don't just buy a bowl, you chat to the owner, you discuss your home country, you might even have a cup of tea together, and then you will mutually decide on an agreeable amount to be paid for a little work of art. And, sometimes, you will say goodbye with kisses on both cheeks. I think that we're very lucky, being here at this time of year - the market, which was described in an article I read as being an incredible test of mental and physical strength, and having between 250,000 and 400,000 visitors per day in summer, in winter is almost devoid of tourists and is instead full of headscarved grannies buying tea and linen, and men bearing beautiful silver and glass teacups on engraved trays to the shopkeepers, who drink and smoke together on little stools in front of their shops, and return the cups to the next passing tea-man.

We wander about the streets looking at backgammon boards and pottery. Some streets are completely filled with sellers of intricately metal-worked lamps, which cast a surreal glow over the brick walls and tiled arches. Some streets are named for their artisans, so Jeweller's Street, which runs through the centre, a wide and built-up street with full-on jewellery shops displaying endless gold bracelets, is easily avoided by Robyn and me, who want handmade masterpieces from countryside cottages. A few shopkeepers try to tempt us with rubber jackets and Gucci bags, but the majority of stalls are filled with beautiful ceramics, kilims, antique printing blocks, evil eye pendants, tapestries... I start to wonder if I've brought a big enough suitcase.

We stumble into a pretty, open courtyard with a fountain and trees and a hole-in-the-wall teashop, where we buy two teas served in vase-like glasses. We drink them standing in a corner, watching the endless tea-men scurrying off to all the stalls, and pay 20p each. It might be the best glass of tea I've ever had.

We spend hours and hours in the market, people-watching mostly, in between coffees at tiny cafes that are part antique shop, part art gallery with antique waistcoats serving as chair covers.


I imagine we actually see a very small part of this sprawling market, which apparently spreads its vaulted wings over 5000 shops and 60 lanes, and has sat here in the centre of Istanbul since 1461.

Eventually we head outside again - the weather has changed fom snow and rain to flashes of sunlight from behind low clouds - only to delve into another market - the Egyptian Spice Market - also covered, but spread over just two lanes filled with the strong scents of henna, saffron and tea, paprika and curry, chilli and oregano. It's known as the Egyptian Market because when it was built in the 17th century, most of the spices traded and stored here were imported via Egypt. We have a late lunch of cheese, cucumber and olives and have to fight off the stray cats that are drawn towards us by the enormous pile of meat that came with our "vegetarian" platter. Be not deceived by the "stray" description though - it's not really an apt description of the fat, sleek cats that roam this city.

Misty Istanbul

I really cannot say this enough: 4am is not a time of day I want to see from the wrong side. Waking up in the absolute stillness of the winter dark, too early for even the factory workers or buses to be stirring is just not a nice experience. As it is also too early for the trains to Lisboa to have started running, I have to catch a taxi to the airport - one blessing of being in Portugal is that the luxury of a comfy, heated taxi is completely affordable. And on the empty pre-dawn motorway, it takes just 20 minutes from my door to the check in desk. Lisboa Airport has been overhauled since I was last here 5 years ago - it's a pine-and-white IKEA dream now. The only two cafes open are Harrods, where I'm permitted to spend 3 times the real-life price for a stingy coffee and a cold pastel de nata.

I grumble, but then remember that my lovely sister and mystical Istanbul are waiting at the end of this journey...

Istanbul has been in the icy grip of some very nasty weather lately; from the plane, I even see snow on the fields of Greece. So it is that, after descending through miles and miles of fog and cloud, my first glimpse of Turkey is of a couple of metres of blue-green sea, a very damp runway, and mist. A lot of mist. Two thin minarets are visible nearby, but otherwise that's all there is - grey mist and damp runway. By the time I clear customs and find my ride to the centre centre, it's all dark anyway, and there's little to do in the shuttle but sleep... and then I meet my driver. He has different ideas. I'm the lone passenger, and he's a very friendly Istanbullu, who chats to me for a very short time, really, not long enough at all, before he says "Kurds. You know them? The Kurdish. Terrible people, we hate them, guns in hands when they little little." Now really, I don't know if this is just me, but I really feel you should get to know somebody a little before revealing your racist tendencies. Apart from his, ahem, antipathy towards his fellow countrymen, though, he's very amusing. Driving one-handed through heavy traffic and torrential rain, he whips out his mobile phone to show me pictures of him and his friends in macho poses in and around Istanbul. "And this is me at Black Sea!" "And me at beach!" "This one I go to Black Sea with friends!" "This one I show my muscle!" "This one when me and friends beat up those dirty Kurds!" and so on. Well, not the last one - but it was close. He drops me at the hotel with his facebook page, email address and phone number scribbled on a piece of paper, just in case.

Anyway, Robyn is waiting at the hostel, and so we go out for dinner and a long chat. We're in a very touristy but pretty area called Sultanahmet; the main street is lined with restaurants fronted with lovely cushiony porches, decorated richly with lamps and fabrics and shisha pipes. Mediterranean food is so delicious - we eat platters of vegetarian mezze and grilled haloumi and spinach with pinenuts and warm flatbread and and and... oh god, I'm about to put on a LOT of weight... :)

Sightseeing

Belem is a few stops from me on the Lisboa-Cascais railway. At the mouth of the Tagus, it's traditionally the place from which the conquistadors and explorers were seen off, and, mostly, welcomed home to Portugal. It's littered with enormous phallic monuments to people like da Gama and Dias, heroes in their own nation, vandals and homicidal enslavers in other, more southern, nations. One man's meat...

There used to be a little hermitage here, where da Gama spent the night before sailing on his epic journey to India at the end of the 15th century. When he returned, flush with success, the king ordered a vast and impressive monastery to be built on the ruins of the hermitage - Mosteiro dos Jerónimos, arguably the vastest and most impressive monastery in Portugal.

Although the squandering of piles of money on a religious statement is not to my taste, the monastery is admittedly very pretty, and as a bonus, inside are buried, side by side, two of Portugal's notables. One is da Gama, who, as I've said, had a lasting effect on my own home region. The other, more culturally fascinating, is Luís da Camões, the 16th century author and poet, half-blind soldier, traveller, romantic. In a shipwreck off Cambodia, his Chinese lover was drowned, but he managed to swim to shore holding aloft his precious manuscript for one of Portugal's classics - the Lusiads. Scandals ensued after his love affairs with princesses and queens, and he was imprisoned several times for debt and fights. He dropped out of the University of Coimbra - hence the statue I had to pass every day while studying there. Fascinating guy...

















Also in Belem, and along the sam colonial lines, is the Monument of Discovery, an enormous structure leaning out over the Tagus, Vasco da Gama leading the conquistadors into regions unknown, spreading Portugal's influence and briefly making it one of the wealthiest empires in the world.


All very impressive.

More interesting, perhaps, is the living, modern city of Lisbon. One of the must-do activities in Lisbon is a ride on the old trams, so Dad and I made our way to a small square where one of the trams begins its perilous ascent to the castle. There was a queue. A long queue. Apparently, everyone else reads Lonely Planet too. The last time I was in Lisbon, it was the depths of winter and the tourists had gone to warmer climes - my friends and I travelled all day on empty trams, chatting to the conductors and hanging off the back rails. One tram came and went, filled to the brim with camera-wielding behatted Europeans; the next came with a twin. Dad and I got on the first one, and managed to nab the last two seats by a window. Luckily for us, this driver decided he wasn't there to be nice, and closed the doors to the other 30 people in the queue; the tram behind us didn't take any passengers at all, but just drove by! Lucky us :)


The No 28 tram wends its way through narrow streets, past Graça and its little olive tree-lined squares, up to the summit where the castle sprawls, and then down again past the teeming alleys of Alfama.


The Castello de São Jorge is another Moorish bequest, as is Alfama, where tiny houses are filled by tight communities - and have been since the time of the Romans. During Moorish times, it constituted the entire city, and it's the only place in Lisbon to survive the great 1755 earthquake.
















After a day's wandering, including an unplanned trip out to a mall on the edges of the city for a CD Dad wanted, we were exhausted, and headed back to Cascais for dinner and coffee. I took Dad to Flecha Azul, the friendly cafe next door to my school, where we sat outside enjoying the evening cool. A familiar, older man emerged from the cafe to smoke a cigarette (and by the way, I'm astounded by how well the Portuguese have taken to being told not to smoke indoors - the last time I was here, there were ashtrays outside shops in enclosed malls, and the Portuguese were making full use of them!) The man, who was familiar in the way that many faces are becoming familiar to me in little Cascais, started chatting to us and turned out to be an English retiree who's lived in Portugal for 10 years (although in time-honoured English tradition, he speaks almost no Portuguese!) He was a fascinating find: in Cascais, most retirees are conservative, upper-middle class bridge players, but he was working class and liberal. Finding out we were Zimbabwean, he self-deprecatingly said he knew nothing about it, but then turned out, as so often, to know quite a lot. He told us of a story that did the rounds in the 70s: apparently, when Joshua Nkomo went to England for the first time, it was traditional for the Queen to pick up visiting dignitaries from Victoria Station in her coach, it being just round the corner from the Palace. Feeling slightly awkward, the pair were sitting in the coach making stilted conversation, when one of the horses lifted its tail and noisily let out some air. At which the Queen murmured "Oh, do pardon me!"

"Oh, no problem, your majesty," says our forgiving Nkomo, "I thought it was the horse..."

Oh, British humour!