I have lived in Turkey for a while. Eight months in Istanbul, eight years ago, as part of the Erasmus study abroad programme. As I enter the country my heart warms with memories of that time. Even though I’m not in Istanbul yet, the smells of the dürümcü’s, ekmekci’s and kahve’s, the incredibly huge flags everywhere, the minarets that spring above all towns and the conversations I pick up while riding past in that mysterious language make me feel at home. I had forgotten how much I like it here. We all know the experience of listening to a song or an album that you used to listen to, haven’t in a long time and now that you do again takes you back to that period when you did. I had that experience with food. In a local restaurant with no more than two tables I have a meal that drags me even further down memory lane; kofte, grilled peppers and tomatoes with that puffy Turkish rice and a salad that’s more herb than salad. And ayran of course, always ayran (a salty version of buttermilk). I’m happy I’m here.

The uncontrolled downfall of the Lira is a tragedy and I feel for the Turkish people. It also means I can afford hotels. And I need those. These days are the coldest ones yet. The temperature is below freezing throughout the day. As I make my way towards Istanbul, sometimes it doesn’t get warmer than -5 Celsius all day. It creates the awkward situation in which I must wear five layers against the cold, but the first three are completely soaked in sweat after an hour. This means I can’t stay still for over 10 minutes or freeze completely. I’m basically cycling in a wet suit. I buy boreks from bakeries and eat them while cycling. Every now and then I try to scream out the cold on the descents. Rain is forecasted in a couple of days, and I’d rather cycle in the cold then in the wet, so I push trough. Aluminium foil around your shoes turns out to be a very good low budget form of isolation and wind resistance. The plastic bags didn’t work.

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The road is anything but spectacular. I follow a highway for four days straight that is draped over the hills like a string. I don’t encounter serious climbs, yet it’s hilly enough that most days I climb over 1000 meters. Luckily these roads have broad shoulders and more than enough space for me next to the cars. I could probably be taking a more scenic route, but I have the rain on my heels and I’m too excited for Istanbul.

The night before I arrive in Istanbul I stay at Kaya’s place. Another wonderful human I met via Warm Showers. He lives 60 kilometres from Istanbul, yet his town is considered a suburb of the gigantic city in the distance. Kaya is a middle-aged physics teacher, living alone, and has a daughter that studies in Izmir. He lives like a bachelor, his house is messy but welcoming, tools on the stairs, projects in the garden, every wall another faded colour and a boxing bag in the hall. A lot of bike tourers happen to be vegan, so to be safe, he’s cooked up a delicious vegan meal, and complains light-heartedly that my profile does not specify my dietary needs. After dinner he reads my zodiac, using a computer programme that he projects on the living room wall. He’s certainly right about some stuff, but I’m not a big believer. I don’t dare to tell him that. We play chess, I lose twice, although not completely helplessly. Kaya is a man that sees life lessons in everything. Especially when we’re playing chess I’m treated to them, sometimes via Google Translate. Both tired, he from his workweek, me from the cold and the kilometres, we turn to bed early.

It’s 60 kilometres to Istanbul. All of them turn out to be heavy traffic. With 15 million people, in hosts nearly the same amount of inhabitants as my whole home country of The Netherlands. I pass high-rises and shopping centres. Busses greyed out from their own smoking exhausts weave in and out before me. My ears are ringing. And then I turn a corner. The Blue Mosque emerges before me, towering over the Topkapi Palace and the Hagia Sophia in the distance. The Princess Islands fade away in almost the same blue as the water of the Bosporus. My heart skips a beat, butterflies in my stomach. I’ve been singing a made-up song of all the neighbourhoods’ names I could remember as I was making my way here. And now… now I am actually here. I can see the city fuming with excitement and energy, but maybe that’s just me.