Having had a good night’s rest, I got up early the following morning and went to buy some breakfast in the market next to the local synagogue, surprising myself that I managed to buy one of the few pastries that didn’t contain cheese. Now I’m a big fan of cheese, but not first thing in the morning.

The modern Bulgarian coach set off on time and we arrived at the Bulgarian-Turkish border five hours later, whereby having passed the first checkpoint, we had the opportunity to buy duty free goods from a small shop. Tempted by the £5 bottles of Stolichnaya, I instead decided that my baggage was already heavy enough, and watched as the passengers literally scraped cartons of cigarettes from the shelves into their baskets. Stood outside waiting for the coach to fill up again, I began to notice a crowd gathering around the bins, opening up their cigarette cartons, and then emptying the contents into plastic bags. Then the women began hitching up their skirts, fitting as many packets of cigarettes down their tights as possible.

In a rigmarole that I thought had been resigned to rather less developed countries, we were then made by Turkish authorities to take our luggage back off the bus, line up in a row behind a bench and await its inspection. An hour after entering the border crossing, we were back on the now noticeably smoother Turkish roads heading towards Istanbul. I’ve read in numerous journals that the roads in capitalist countries tend to be in far better condition their socialist counterparts’. I guess some aspects of Bulgaria’s past are still left.

Istanbul bus station is one of those architectural monstrosities that probably seemed like a good idea twenty years ago, but where the practicalities have caught up with grand idealistic intentions. A cross between a multi-story car park and the bowels of a ship, if you are dropped off underground like I was, you are then forced to walk up the many levels of filth filled stairwells to ground level. Not having any local currency or knowing what the exchange rate was, I grabbed what seemed like a reasonable sum from an ATM and flagged down a taxi to take me into central Istanbul. I say reasonable, it could have been anything due to the bouts of rampant inflation Turkey is prone to. Before the government lopped off the zeroes, a can of Coke could set you back a few million lira.

I don’t always use taxis, but it’s worth the money for entertainment alone to see a taxi driver in action in Istanbul. Notoriously bad drivers (even for a country that has an appalling road safety record), they nevertheless combine rally style manoeuvres with a range of other tasks that they apparently need to care to. On this occasion, mine liberally interspersed high speed motorway overtaking with answering phone calls, smoking and changing the sim card in his phone (three times). It took about fifteen minutes to realise from looking at the meter that I was going to struggle to pay the fare. In the end the driver was understanding and just took what I had, dropping me off on the harbour front below the Blue Mosque, reached only after an arduous uphill yomp. Looking out across the Bosphorous bay, hundreds of cargo ships moored off the coast glimmered in the night. I think it must be one of the best introductions in the world to a city.

It was only after I’d checked into a hostel and was sat on the springy excuse for a bed that I realised I’d left my card in the ATM at the bus station. Clever boy. This was more the fault of habit, since the machines abroad give you the money first and your card later. These days, it’s possible (if inadvisable) to set off travelling with just a passport, credit card and the clothes you are wearing. Of course, if you lose that card, you would struggle. Fortunately I’d brought a backup, and took the precaution of taking out sufficient funds for the rest of the trip in case I should lose that too (entirely possible).

The hostel was chosen for no reasons other than I knew where it was (an important factor in the uphill labyrinth that is Sultanahmet at night) and that it served beer. It also came complete with a characteristic feature I’ve found largely unique to older, run down accommodation in Istanbul, and on my few past visits, grown fond of – the apparently notorious ‘Oriental plumbing’. On first inspection, your bathroom facilities may seem to be the same as those you’ve used anywhere else. However, the intricacies of Turkish plumbing only become apparent when an individual in the room next door wishes to use their taps, sink, shower or toilet at the same time as you. In such instances you’ll invariably find yourself fighting for a share of the disturbingly yellow water, or wrestling for control of the interconnected taps. This hotel was no exception.