2 fisherman edited (1 of 1)

Street Photography in İstanbul

14.1 million people. 14.1 million stories being made every second.  That’s İstanbul,  the fifth biggest city in the world by density with the richest history I’ve encountered yet in a city. Everywhere traces of its history as capital of four empires (Roman, Byzantine, Latin, Ottoman) can be seen. Between the chaotic history and streets that ignite all the senses, it’s hard not to get overwhelmed, even as a proclaimed lover of big cities.  So many stories being played out in the streets at every moment, and I regret not taking a million more photos, but here are the ones I got. Live and learn right? Next time, get closer. Always get closer.

Turkey grafitti  (1 of 1)


İstiklal Avenue

Aka Independence Avenue, it sees 3 million people pass by on weekends. As we were there during a holiday weekend, I think we saw much more. This is where it’s at.

Taksim trolley bw (1 of 1)

Old trolley that goes up and down the street

protest Istiklal (1 of 1)

Protest in front a university. Unfortunately they didn’t speak English so we couldn’t find out what it was about!

couple walking Istiklal street (1 of 1)

One of the many street food stands that sold either roasted chestnuts, grilled corn, mussels or round bread/bagel like pastries.

Cats. They're everywhere.

Cats. They’re everywhere.

The cats of Istanbul. I must have taken over a hundred photos just of them. They roam around like the citizens of the city that they are, lapping up water and snacking on food and leftovers that shop and restaurant owners place next to their doors. Beware if you’re eating outside at a table: they will jump on your lap and try sampling your food!


A "participant" in the annual Feast of the Sacrifice

A “participant” in the annual Feast of the Sacrifice

Down by the Bosphorus

Tea culture isn't just something for the tea shops.

Tea culture isn’t just something for the tea shops.

3 plus mosque (1 of 1)

Fisherman and mosque  (1 of 1)

Fisherman and the New (500 year old) Mosque.

Passing over the Galata Bridge every day to get to the museums and main sights and then back home, we passed countless fishermen no matter what time of day or night it was. Just below the bridge was another level of fish restaurants serving up fresh fish sandwiches. Not like I had any desire to try one, but after passing a tourist take a bite into one and proclaiming, “I just had one bite and I don’t want any more,” I took a severe pass.


Maddie and Dad hill 3 (1 of 1)

Descending the steep hill coming from the medieval Galata Tour

Bazaar old man (1 of 1)

Entrance to the Grand Bazaar and a piece of old Turkey


east coast uk

Train to Nowhere

Note: I’m trying something new here, to write more travel-focused creative non-fiction, because that’s what I enjoy writing. Let me know if you like it or if you think I should keep this more photography and shorter post based and create a separate platform for my creative writing. I’ve been a lot more inspired recently to write and want to post in order to keep myself accountable. I need to actually finish stories instead of letting them sit around half-written! This one I could elaborate more on, or turn it more towards a fantasy story…couldn’t decide. Hope you enjoy!

Train to Nowhere
by Samantha Anthony

It was the middle of the night and we were standing on a platform in Middle-of-Nowhere, England, being drenched by cold rain instead of snuggling cozily into our beds in London. 

We wondered how we got here, and how we were going to get home. We had had no food or water for hours, and the end of the journey was nowhere in sight. 

Was this how the apocalypse arrived? In the form of a seemingly innocent train ride from Edinburgh to London? It seemed like a plausible explanation. It happened this way in films. One minute the main character is on their way to high school and the next they’re toting a machine gun over their shoulders, off to save the world.

We shivered and complained. It seemed like years ago that we been pushed by a massive crowd onto the train in Edinburgh, the train itself objecting rather strongly to the cramming of too many passengers into its tin belly. We should have listened to its groaning protests; maybe then the ten car vehicle wouldn’t have vomited us onto a train platform in Fuck-Knows-Where-Upon-Tweed a couple of hours later.

 But back in Edinburgh we were still so naive, shuffling onto the train and searching for a table, a search that we soon realized was a little optimistic. It immediately became apparent that it would be impossible to even find a spare seat. The kind folk at East Coast Lines, in their desire to transport everyone from the Edinburgh Fringe Festival (and their money) to London, had completely overbooked the train. Attempting to beat a hasty retreat off the train and to the nearest customer service desk, we were backing down the aisle when we tumbled forward onto each other and random surrounding personages: the train was moving. 

With only one choice, we more or less fell our way back to the connecting compartment between the cars, glaring fervently at the seated passengers we passed along the way. Upon arriving at the cozy luggage transport area, we found it to have already been transformed into a human transport area. Current occupants included:: a frazzled looking young couple with a newborn baby, a rocker chick with a huge pink flower in her hair already sleeping on the floor, two silent men sitting by the doors reading, and a bewildered, hugging couple at the far end. 

We soon took up our 65 pound seats located conveniently on the floor next to an out-of-order toilet and commenced a hearty complaint session. As the kilometers sped away, the disturbing noises coming from behind the closed plastic door became undeniable. A few people had already opened the door only to basically run away. If we had any sense in us then, we would have taken those omens to heart and abandoned ship at the next station, but instead we ignorantly stayed on the doomed train, too wrapped up in our anger to read the signs.



out of order toilet

As the minutes wore on, we began to accept the situation; it would have been more comical if we weren’t so pissed off. But there was nothing else to be done. An overhead announcement came on, and our ears pricked up, expecting an apology of some sort, some kind of compensation offered, tea, biscuits, crumpets?

 “We interrupt your journey to apologize for the lack of seating on this train.” The mechanical, tinny voice above us uttered. 

“Lack of seating?! How about overbooking? You knew how many seats this train had! Bastards!” I yelled at the ceiling, shaking my fist as my fellow passengers exchanged somewhat worried glances, undoubtedly wondering if I was that loose cannon that always appears in these types of situations. They hadn’t yet determined if I the irate but harmless or actually violent type. 

But the announcer wasn’t done infuriating us yet, as he continued, “We further apologize to those traveling in first class as there will be no hot drinks service due to heavy passenger loading.” 

I fumed. “Well isn’t that just tragic!” I retorted at the disembodied voice, grumbling to myself. “Also heavy passenger loading?! Are they serious?!” I exclaimed to those around me, eliciting watery and unsure half-smiles.

 I shook my head to myself and began reading as the others drifted to sleep around me. In the relative quiet, the noises from the bathroom seemed to be getting louder, gurgling and spitting. I eyed it warily, glad that I wasn’t sitting next to it. People came by at regular intervals attempting entrance, and I developed a canned response to their questioning looks, “It’s out of order. Next toilet is two cars over.” I pointed, ignoring their irritated looks, as if it was somehow my fault.

 Boredom soon got the better of me though, and to amuse myself I began to invent ways of elaborately informing my fellow passengers that the bathroom was indisposed. 

“I hear tell that there are bathroom facilities over yonder.” I quipped to the twentieth person that turned to me like I was an authority on train toilets.

“I would like to inform you that this toilet facility is unfortunately not feeling up to working today, but you may be able to encounter a more amiable lavatory at the end of this carriage.” I beamed sarcastically at a bewildered businessman. 

But I was to regret my attitude towards the broken toilet very shortly, when the young mother began changing her baby on her pram. It was not number one. The newborn shot me an entertained look that seemed to say, “Whaddya gonna do about it?”

 I returned to my book.

 Finally we pulled into the first station stop, York, and after a longer than usual boarding time another announcement came on overhead, telling us that we were to be stopped here for an hour while the conductor was transported from the next city, Leeds, in a taxi.

 I unleashed another torrent of angry comments at the disembodied voice. “He’s probably just hung over from the music festival!” I exclaimed. It was true. The Leeds music festival was that weekend.

 I slumped back against my backpack and noted the man across from  me was ironically reading “Turning Confusion into Clarity” by the Dalai Lama…I silently asked the book to shed some clarity on the situation we were all currently stuck in. People packed into the cars, hot and stuffy in the cars, but rainy and cold outside. Boredom. Anger. Frustration.

east coast uk


The hours ticked on, and finally an altogether too cheery voice popped on overhead and announced that the member of personnel (aka himself, the sunny bastard) had now arrived and we would be speeding towards London in a jiffy. 

We sped. For about twenty minutes. Whereupon we stopped. Yet again. Without any information. Yet again.

 The train remained stubbornly halted  as the light outside dimmed, and mist settled ominously on the moors. Everything, had turned a subdued gray, a transformation that was mirrored inside the train by our moods as we slowly began to accept our fate.

After what seemed an eternity, crackles above us signaled that information was yet again about to be imparted onto us from the gods above. But alas, instead of the clarity I had wished fervently for earlier, we were doomed to receive a further dose of confusion as the tinny voice apparently had only decided to made a reappearance in order to make rather thinly veiled death threats. “We apologize again for the heavy passenger loading…but if we do happen to lose some passengers at the next stop we may be able to reinstate the hot drinks service.” The voice politely informed us, as if wishing that some passengers would happen to fall off the train was a normal occurrence on English train services, and that it would be preferable than having to deal with the angry mobs in first class that hadn’t been able to have their afternoon tea. 

Also, apparently another normal occurrence on English train services was to drop their passengers at the nearest available station and vomit them off onto the platform without further instructions on where to go. At least I assume this to be true, as that was what happened next.
So here we are, back at the apocalyptic train platform. Masses of confused people wandered about, their luggage trailing behind them in the din as we all searched for the same thing: a member of train personnel, if they existed. Sometimes there would be a sudden rush as people moved to a flickering screen with train timetables, but mass disappointment usually followed as the list simply updated with yet another cancellation. Our fate seemed cemented with the ticking of each minute. We were never going to get to London tonight. 

All of a sudden, a stout, short and extremely harried looking woman appeared out of nowhere and bellowed, “Everyone that wants to get to London tonight –  get on the next arriving train to Peterborough!” 

Mayhem ensued as the train pulled up and hundreds of people clamored into the metal boxes. We stood in the restaurant car corridor, guzzling the complimentary water that had been so graciously offered (hint: stolen) to us in reparation for the inconveniences caused for the duration of the afternoon. 

“We have to stick together! If we all stick together they have to do something with us!” A leader seemed to emerge from our midst, ready to steer the angry mobs to victory if need be. People nodded, but mainly were too exhausted to get worked up about it. Most buried their noses in their books or phones, accepting the reality of the situation.

train to petersborough

I was once again stuck next to the toilet, again out-of-order, although we were on a different train. I could hear the now familiar noises rising from underneath the door. Was I the only one that was getting worried about this? Two different trains, and the station bathroom had sounded strange as well. I pressed my ear against the door. Glog-glog-glog-hsssssss. I edged away from the door. 

As we hurtled along, the sky darkened and the colors outside began to fade. Where we were headed now, I didn’t know. The speed of the train seemed to increase with every passing moment until the trees were just blurred shapes out the window. There was no going back, and no way out now.


The End


The ABCs of the Camino

I could sit here for hours trying to write something that would capture the essence and rhythm of the Camino, the duality found everyday: the mixture of routine with adventure, conversations on the road both philosophical and nonsensical, equal elation at stunning views and a simple centrifuge, the adrenaline and the exhaustion; even the days themselves seemed split into two: the walking day (7am-2 pm) and the resting day at the destination (2 pm-10 pm).

I could attempt to convey the spectrum of unadulterated feelings I experienced on the camino:  happiness, sadness, loneliness, boredom, excitement,  panic, contentment, fear,  frustration, anger, weariness…

And I could try to explain my gradual awakening and realization that the last thing I wanted to do after it was over was return to my teaching job in Madrid. How the reasons I thought I had for returning fell away until I was left without a single one, and decided not to go back.

But I don’t think I would be able to express these thoughts, nor do I particularly want to – the camino is a personal journey and I want to keep it that way.

Instead I’ll share a product of the camino here. I started writing a lot more on the way, and one day, lying bored in the sun by a tiny albergue, I started a list of words (in 4 languages + some invented words) that captured my experience – so here it is!

787 Santiago sign


AAlbergues (pilgrim hostels), Asturias, avocados

B – Blisters, ‘buen camino’, blackberries, bocadillos (aka lunch – baguette with avocado, tomato, roasted red pepper,cheese), boredom, Basque Country

Buen Camino - the goodbye said on the road to with other pilgrims a good journey

Buen Camino – the goodbye said on the road to wish other pilgrims a good journey

C – Café con leche, ‘the cohort (group of people we continually saw), communal meals, CAOTD (cute animal of the day), chuches (gummies in Spanish), caixo (Hello in basque), cows, chocolate, ‘cheating’ (Is biking cheating? Is taking a donkey cheating? Is walking on the highway cheating?), Cantabria

Cute animal of the day - this dog was so human it was amazing.

Cute animal of the day – this dog was so human it was amazing.

Ddonativo, dogs (everywhere, varying from terrifying to adorable)

E – Elevenses, earplugs

F – Forests, flies, figs, fountains

magical forest path

F is for beautiful Forests

G – Geographer (my solo walking music), ‘Gumicukorka’ (gummies in Hungarian), Galicia

HHospiteleros (the people who run the albergues), hysteria, hedgehog!, highway robbery (what happened at most cafés on the camino)

H is for HEDGEHOG!!!

H is for HEDGEHOG!!! Cannot express how excited I was to see one for the first time IN THE WILD

I – Irún (starting point!), inspiring

J – Journaling (every day)

K – Kitchen (Is there one?!)

L – Laughing, laundry, loneliness, language, leszarom (‘I don’t give a shit’ in Hungarian and a necessary mindset to adopt)

M – Mountains, monasteries, magical, medieval


Top of the highest Mountain we climbed

Top of the highest Mountain we climbed  – above the clouds

N – Nettles

O – Odorous (see: cows)

Ppueblos (villages), (don’t) pussyfoot around, playas (beaches in Spanish), peregrinos (pilgrims in Spanish), peanuts, primitivo

The magical beach

The most beautiful Playa there ever was

Q – Quechua (the brand of everyone’s hiking gear)

R – Rustling (my biggest camino pet peeve, the rustlers that started sometimes before 5 am), Rat race (for beds)

S – Snorers, sunburn, supermercado, sidra (cider), SOUSes (Slugs Of Unusual Size), scallop shells

Sidra in Oviedo - traditional to Asturias, a little bit is poured at a time and you have to immediately drink it before the bubbles dissapate

Sidra in Oviedo – traditional to Asturias, a little bit is poured at a time and you have to immediately drink it before the bubbles dissipate

T – ‘Twiggling’ (used in a sentence: “Lord of the Rings is boring…all the Ents are just twiggling around.” Clearly I did not utter this sentence.)

U – Ura (water in Basque)

Ura stand outside of Donostia

Ura stand outside of Donostia

V – Vaseline (for feet), Vegetarian (since Zarautz)

W – Wine, washer (is there one?!), whatever

W is for Wine

W is for Wine

X – ?!?!?!? I’m stumped on this one. I admit defeat. Help?

YYo (Ok in Hungarian), Yellow (arrows and shells)

Z – Zenarruza (monastery)


Getting led by a monk at the Zenarruza Monastery

Getting led by a monk at the Zenarruza Monastery

Would you do the Camino one day? And camino walkers -any other words to add?