May 27, 2026 — Istanbul, Turkey
Istanbul gifted me one last unplanned day, and it turned out to be anything but ordinary.
With Rosinante not due to arrive until seven in the evening, I had the whole morning to myself. First order of business: chores.
Turkey is currently deep in Kurban Bayramı — the Feast of Sacrifice, known to the wider Muslim world as Eid al-Adha.
During the holiday, banks and post offices close, and in Istanbul, the Grand Bazaar and Spice Bazaar shut their doors entirely. Finding a replacement gas bottle for my camp cooker became a small adventure. Most major shops were closed, but with a little AI-assisted research, one attempt, and four kilometers on foot through the old town, I tracked down a tiny shop that had exactly what I needed.
I passed by some beautiful mosques on the way.
With chores done, I made my way to the heart of the old city. Hagia Sophia is one of those places that genuinely humbles you — around 1,500 years old , it has lived more lives than almost any building on earth: Byzantine church, mosque, museum, mosque again. The ancient Christian mosaics still line the walls, a quiet act of preservation across centuries of change.
Currently under major renovation to stabilize the dome against earthquake damage, it’s a different experience than my last visit — but the soul of the place still reaches you.
Just across the square, the Sultan Ahmed Mosque stands as its elegant neighbour. Both are active places of worship, shoes off at the entrance, prayer times punctuating the visit. A good reminder that these aren’t just monuments for tourists.
After the mosques I got happily lost in the bazaar, picked up an Istanbul T-shirt, and settled into a restaurant for an early dinner — wanting to be ready when Rosinante arrived. And then my phone buzzed.
Hannah, a fellow cyclist from our WhatsApp group Silk Road — Going East, took me up on my open invitation for a beer. Twenty-six years old, on the road since early spring, she’d ridden down through Slovenia and the Balkan coast before reaching Istanbul. Before that: South America, East Africa, China. She carries it all lightly and is searching for her path in life. The same age as my kids. We talked routes, borders, and the particular freedom of touring alone — the kind of conversation that makes an ordinary dinner memorable.
Then seven o’clock came. And went. No bicycle.
I checked the tracker, told Hannah maybe see you tomorrow on the ferry to Yalova, and headed back to the hotel. Customs had called. Rosinante was stuck at the airport — her shipping box too large for the X-ray machine. One hour by taxi out there, two hours of paperwork, one hour back in a Mercedes van big enough to fit the box.
I wasn’t alone in my predicament. Several other passengers had also been called back by customs that evening. Among them was Effe, a 26-year-old medical student from Boston — cheerful, relaxed, and perfectly aware of why he’d been summoned. Seventy cigars for his father, imported from the States, sitting in his suitcase. His situation was clear-cut. Mine, apparently, was the mysterious one. What exactly does a bicycle look like on an X-ray? The friendly custom officers had to open the box to find out.
Effe and the others were genuinely wonderful — helping maneuver the unwieldy box, pushing the cart, holding things in place, generally being the kind of strangers that make a stressful situation fun. A big thank you to Effe and everyone who pitched in that night.
Past eleven PM by the time the XL taxi got Rosinante and me back to the hotel. I’ll try to charge the costs to Lufthansa. Not holding my breath.
I got myself a well-earned beer and sat out on the patio, letting the night settle. Rosinante was here. Everything was together.
Tomorrow morning: we ride.