Odyssey - the journey to Greece (2011) - Part 1

Odyssey - the journey to Greece (2011) - Part 1

My first day began at around 6am . . . but promptly ended in favour of a couple of hours more sleep. After all – it is the holidays.

When I finally roused myself I was full of very good intentions regarding breakfast.

The day before I had not eaten anything at all until the evening - whereupon I filled myself vigorously with lovely French sourdough bread, a deliciously fresh baked piece of Quiche Lorraine served with a spicy salad of mixed leaves and a mustardy vinaigrette and the added tang of julienned pieces of green apple – giving a contrasting crunch and slight acidity to cut through the warm, soft and unctuous quiche…

I followed this with a classic faux fillet, cooked “saignant” – although it came “bleu” (and all the better for it) with French fries (yes French Fries in France – who knew?) and another green salad . . . washed down with a pichet of rough-ish but pleasant local rose and buckets of San Pellegrino (by FAR my favourite sparkling mineral water, although I confess to warming more and more in my middle age to Badoit – a mineral water that I despised in my youth.)

I knew that a dessert was really totally unnecessary – despite my unwitting fast of the day – but I invoked “holiday logic” once more and dove into a delicious rhubarb “soup” with fresh strawberries and a sharp but tasty blueberry sorbet in the middle. It was slightly spoiled by a large piece of chocolate lattice balanced on the top.

I dismissed the chocolate lattice to the side of the plate, whereupon I felt instant remorse and woofed it down to get it out of the way. Coffee – the incredibly bitter and dark French kind – followed. The French really do food well. They’re famous for it of course, but nevertheless it is good to chow down on some good old fashioned French Provincial Cooking as Elizabeth David termed it. The addition of some chopped chives to a steak, or those apple slices to the salad are the touches that make the French both inventive and sensitive to the delights of the palate. Bravo!

Replete, I wandered out of the restaurant and took a very brief stroll before heading to bed in my not terribly inspiring Reims hotel room and read a little of the marvelous anthology of Seamus Heaney poems given to me just before my trip by my dear friend Steph. Heaney is a Nobel prize winner and this anthology begins with poems from his first publication “Death of a Naturalist” from 1966. Very good stuff.

Sleep followed and preceded my best laid morning plans of abstinence and purity . . .which is where I began this tale . . .

I went to the hotel restaurant for breakfast. I’d thought I would have a little fruit, a nice bucket of café au lait and call it quits. But I made the mistake of investigating the “hot section” of the buffet and stumbled upon half a pig’s worth of gorgeous looking bacon. I steeled myself with self discipline, only to see what looked like my spine and anything else that might keep me on the straight and narrow, disappear from the restaurant like a zephyr.

Bacon, baguette, café au lait. Oh yes. What finer breakfast to fuel up the journeying biker and prepare him for his day ahead. It was then I noticed the noise. The constant tapping sound on the roof and the windows. Rain. Lots of it. Bugger.

Rain is not the friend of any biker I know. And certainly not the friend of a biker from the Middle East who has cunningly brought only one item of “wet weather gear” – a pair of rather pathetic rain trousers that probably belong to the pre-fat bastard period (which in turn belongs to the pre-really fat bastard period and so on…). Bugger. Again.

I considered sitting it out for a while before heading to Luxembourg – and then considered that it might be better to just get wet, get to Luxembourg and then ask the hotel to make all my nice biker clothes warm and dry again. I returned to my room in the Two Seasons of Reims (not the hotel’s real name, and perhaps generous – maybe it should be referred to as the One Season . . .it’s a chain you know. I recently stayed at the No Seasons on the Egyptian North Coast and it was ghastly) and began to gather my things.

Bike travel is quite organized and quite complicated. Organised because one has to have things to hand - warm gloves, fleeces, headphones, wet weather gear, passport, driving licence and so on – and so it requires thought. Complicated because motorbikes don’t have a trunk or boot like a car – they have little bags and cases spread all over the machine, some of which are lockable, some of which are portable and all of which require careful planning and packing.

As I considered this task, the ceiling of my hotel room suddenly started pouring water onto the floor. I felt that this was a sign and decided to just set off in the rain outside and dry off in Luxembourg. I packed, paid (Christ – I know there’s a recession and all that, but when did rural France become so bloody expensive! 200 Euros for a night in a Half Season with a moderate meal and breakfast. Vive Le Euro . . .)

I then noticed that the rain had stopped and the grey clouds had been replaced by nice fluffy white ones in the now bright blue sky. This was indeed good news. A smile made it’s way to my chops and I loaded up the bike and hit the road.

BIKE NERD BIT (1): This trip I’m using my iPhone as both GPS navigator and sound system. I bought a great piece of software called “Navigon” which is a full GPS and navigation system and very sophisticated. Made by Germans, so it works. Efficiently.

It offers many route options, has full 3D views and lots of options in terms of settings for voice, volume, units and so on. I particularly like the route settings which allow you to choose between Fast, Short, Scenic or Optimum. It also has choices for motorways and tolls. “Allow”, “Avoid” or “Forbid”. As I say – very German. I quite liked the idea of Forbidding Motorways and Tolls – so that’s exactly what I did. Verboten in one tap of the screen.

It also allows me to play music and plugs into the 12volt socket on the dash of the KTM 990 R Adventure – making life very easy. When directions are required, it automatically lowers the volume of the music blasting out of the ear buds inside my helmet and tells me in a very posh British accent where to go. Marvellous.

It also alerts you to speed limits and other restrictions, which is helpful for licence retention, but bloody annoying after a while as the music stops and the voice comes on saying “Beware”. Obviously translated directly from the German “Achtung!”. I think I would pay more attention to speed limits if it was in German rather than Eton English which makes the instruction sound a little fainthearted . . . “I say old boy, would you mind terribly? Do slow down old bean – it’s a restricted area and all that . . .”

Top kit and highly recommended.

END OF BIKE NERD BIT (1)

So I set of from Reims (which the French insist on pronouncing “R-en-s” - which is just bizarre) and headed off on some beautiful little country roads towards Luxembourg. Of course there aren’t too many road side stops on little French rural country roads. And even fewer petrol stations. And it is Sunday. And I forgot to fill with gas before exiting the sprawling metropolis that is Reims / Rens . . . and after a little while the “you’ve got almost no fuel left idiot” light lit up on the dash of the bike. Bugger.

I did some sums in my head and worked out that if I rode very slowly and carefully I might completely run out only 20-30 kilometres from civilization and then probably get picked up by a mad French farmer on his tractor, leaving my bike to be stolen by neo Nazi skinheads lurking in the villages of northern France (oh yes, they are there. I saw them. And very odd they look too with no hair, big doctor Martens and living in 15^th century farm cottages in the middle of nowhere).

I immediately reversed my ruling on motorways and tolls believing this would immediately allow the nice English voice to direct me to an enormous petrol station with special sections for bikers and a nice man to come and clean my visor and sunglasses (both covered in insect road kill). But amazingly – this didn’t happen.

Instead I seemed to carry on riding along almost single track country roads for miles and miles, with the “Petrol! You F@ckwit” light blinking at me furiously and with some obvious contempt.

As I was preparing my hitch-hiking strategy mentally (this is not an easy proposition when you are a six foot six, twenty stone English biker in the middle of rural northern France, I can assure you), fate delivered me to the fabulous spot of “Ville De Vouziers” where a petrol station was standing like a beacon just off a roundabout. I pulled in feeling quite relieved, but doing my best to look nonchalant and stopped next to the pump.

No attendants, as this is Sunday, but the pump took credit cards. So, no problem. Except it only seemed to like European credit cards and not Middle Eastern ones. I tried all of mine. Four times. Obviously the light tendency towards neo Nazism in rural France that I had observed passing through several villages filled with “yoof”, had spread to discriminating against cards from Arabia. I considered picking up the nozzle and just sucking really hard to see if petrol would come out, but then had a moderately more intelligent idea. I asked the bloke next to me if he could pay with his card and I would give him cash. Brilliant.

He was an elderly Dutch gentleman and at first I thought he simply hadn’t heard my proposal, so I repeated it. In response the expression on his face made me think that instead of asking him if he could pay with his card and I’d give him cash, I must have inadvertently proposed sleeping with his wife and torturing his grandchildren. He did not look happy nor willing.

So I simply repeated my very simple proposition again. It seems that the rule of “three” from ancient rhetoric does indeed work, especially with slightly deaf old Dutch people. He suddenly figured out I was ok and finished his rather juicy nectarine and leapt across to my aid. Obviously I use the word leap advisedly when referring to an octogenarian from the low countries. . .

Fuelled up, I thanked him profusely in five languages including Dutch (danke well) to which he immediately asked if I spoke Dutch. If I hadn’t been so obliged to this nice old boy, I might have been naughty and pointed out that if I spoke Dutch I would have asked him in Dutch for the card in exchange for money proposal instead of allowing him to think that I might be about to jump his wife and have his grand kids beaten with a rubber hose . . . anyway!

I put on Mick & Keef on the sound system and disappeared down the road passing through lovely fields and villages – only some of them populated by skinheads.

After a burst of the greatest rock and roll band in the world. Ever. No discussion. I went back to another playlist and enjoyed some Floyd, Clapton, Cream, Petty, Mac (as in Fleetwood) and some JJ Cale.

I have a massive soft spot for JJ. He is the man who wrote some of Clapton’s most famous hits (Cocaine, After Midnight, Promises and so on) and is a major influence on my own guitar playing and songwriting.

As I reflected on JJ, I came to the conclusion that he is laconic, sometimes melancholic, dry, concise and mellow. He eschews the rock n roll lifestyle and lives on a ranch in the middle of nowhere in America (where there are no skinheads or neo Nazis) with his wife and writes songs on his porch in a rocking chair. Economical with words and notes, JJ is a man who you can hear in Clapton, in Knopfler, in Waits and in many other troubadours and observational song writers.

I give you the lyrics to one of my favourite road songs ever – which was covered later by Lynyrd Skynyrd – and is a song that gets me tapping my feet and singing along every time. Which is weird and moderately dangerous while riding a motorcycle:

Call Me The Breeze – JJ Cale

They call me the breeze, I keep blowin' down the road

Well now, they call me the breeze, I keep blowin' down the road

I ain't got me nobody, I don't carry me no load

Ain't no change in the weather, ain't no changes in me

Well, there ain't no change in the weather, ain't no changes in me

And I ain't hidin' from nobody, nobody's hidin' from me

Well I got that green light, baby, I got to keep movin' on

Well I got that green light, baby, I got to keep movin' on

Well, I might go out to California, might go down to Georgia, I don't know

Well, I dig you Georgia peaches, makes me feel right at home

Now well, I dig you Georgia peaches, makes me feel right at home

But I don't love me no one woman so I can't stay in Georgia long

Here is the album version: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TlppIdtLw5A

And here is a great live version on Jules Holland's show. This man is mellow! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=21PHsqnG-qI

Magic stuff and such a good road song as it describes the delights of being itinerant and nomadic – freedom, no ties, and easy choices. An existential country blues song. J P Sartre would have been proud of JJ Cale. Probably.

Having left Britain yesterday and got to France, today I nipped through a corner of Belgium before arriving in Luxembourg in the early afternoon.

Here I found a fault with Fritz the GPS – he can’t do pedestrian zones – and my hotel – the magnificent Le Place D’Armes is in the Place D’Armes which is very much a pedestrian area.

Fritz faffed, Fritz fumed, Fritz f@cked up. Repeatedly. And I, moron that I am, followed his every direction, round and round Luxembourg until not only was I dizzy but so were some of the people sitting around watching this giant on top of a big black and orange motorcycle repeatedly ride down one way streets the wrong way and across pedestrian areas.

Eventually I switch Fritz off – before he blew a fuse completely – and stopped the bike, walked to the square, checked in and found out where I could park the bike for the night.

The hotel loves bikers. I could tell this immediately by the look on the receptionist’s face as I walked in. She took one look at a six foot six, twenty stone biker with a face covered in exploded insects, sweaty as hell, carrying helmets, jackets, bags and so on and beamed a welcoming smile that clearly showed the hotel’s love for bikers.

Actually she didn’t do that. Instead she half scowled and half wet herself.

I patiently explained that “I have a reservation” – watching her face as I said it. I am convinced that she heard “I have a criminal record” as she looked around nervously for other colleagues in the hotel.

I showed her my booking reference and got out my credit card. I wasn’t a nightmare that was going to disappear quickly.

She said something about how my card number from the online booking had not worked, a last attempt to see if I would suddenly auto-combust and leave her in peace, but instead I handed over all my cards and told her to try one until it worked. Then she took my passport and opened it a Saudi Visa page. She paled again. I asked her where the hotel’s garage was and she said I could put my CAR in a garage around the corner. Clearly trying to block out the idea of biker from her mind while my big black helmet sat on the counter of her reception area.

After dumping the bike in the garage with the help of a nice Tunisian guy from the hotel (he said he was French, but with dark skin and a name like Saeed, I figured he was probably from just South of France and to the right – and I was on the money. We talked about Dubai which he thought was much better than Luxembourg, while I argued for the Luxembourg defence . . .) - I went to my absolutely lovely room, unpacked and showered. I then went through the bikers ritual of preparing the next days kit – washing visors, cleaning glasses, airing out gloves, hanging jacket etc.

I put on some nice unthreatening clothes as worn by civilians who have nothing to do with motorbikes, put on a cap (sunny outside, bald on top, hat is good) and went downstairs to go and sit in the pavement café outside the hotel. The receptionist smiled sweetly and greeted me as I went past then enquiring if I wanted a dinner reservation this evening. Clearly I was unrecognizable as the same man who had arrived an hour earlier looking like an extra from Mad Max.

I went at least 47 feet from the front door of the hotel and parked up in the café which was fairly busy with lots of Luxemburgers enjoying a sunny Sunday afternoon.

I committed myself to following the wise words of the great guru Ray Davies, who penned the magnificent song “Lazing on a Sunny Afternoon” when leading his slightly dysfunctional band The Kinks. (Waterloo Sunset remains one of the greatest songs written and is a beautiful poem to London).

My lazy afternoon required beer, and possibly some food. My bacon and bread levels had dropped substantially and I didn’t think it wise to wait until dinner to eat or terrible things might happen in the dining room of the hotel . . . so I ordered what turned out to be an utterly delicious Caesar Salad. The common or garden staple of international hotel cuisine the world wide, this one actually tasted incredibly fresh, beautifully balancing the flavours with a just hard boiled egg and some lovely spicy marinated chicken meat. Not orthodox, but nevertheless very good.

Beer number one must have evaporated as I barely recall it. Beer number two didn’t hang around. And beer three while enjoyable, seemed also to be in a hurry. It wasn’t until beer four that I really felt respected by my dear golden coloured companion.

I spent a couple of hours watching the world go by, noting the delightful character of Europe with its dedication to eating, drinking, smoking and what the blues men of the Mississippi would have probably called “rambling” . . . and of course Sunday in Europe is very much a “rambling” kind of day – at least once the trivialities of morning religious rituals have been gone through or even enjoyed.

Walking, chatting, a quick pastry, maybe a coffee? Or a beer, or perhaps champagne as it is 4.45pm and that is as fine a time to drink champagne as any other.

Indeed, I noticed several LOLs (Little Old Ladies) parking up and ordering a glass of bubbly to enjoy for 15 minutes while taking a load off the old feet beneath them, as well as lots of fabulously pretty women in white summer dresses and dramatic sunglasses all sitting around talking about sex, plotting affairs and sipping cappuccinos. (Actually they were just as likely to be talking about tax returns, the cost of school fees and what to feed their husbands that evening – but as they were speaking mainly French my imagination immediately turned to sex. Obviously.)

With the afternoon sun beating down on my neck I pondered at length on another beer or not. To beer or not to beer – that is the question. Indeed I posted this question on Facebook, safe in the knowledge that advice would be quickly forthcoming. And indeed it was from my dear and sometime London based drinking companion Mr. Schroeder (no relation of my GPS, and only German by origin and not demeanour.)

Another beer was consumed and I returned to my room – passing the beaming receptionist who hates bikers – to sit down and write this.

I am now late for my dinner reservation – but I will be forgiven by the receptionist because I am not a biker now – so I will go in five minutes or so. . .

Until then I will conclude with the fact that it is great to be back in Europe, back on an Odyssey to my beloved Greece - the long way down – and wonderful to enjoy the culture into which I was born – or at least born adjacent to and grew up with.

Beer at 3.30pm. Quiche Lorraine. Real croissant.

The inability of all of continental Europe to do anything productive AT ALL before consuming a cup of tar-like thick black coffee (except for the Germans).

The inability of all of continental Europe to do anything productive or efficient once the cork is out of the bottle and the food is on the table – and to devote themselves instead to enjoying life, enjoying living and enjoying their friends and loved ones while breaking bread.

Except for the Germans, they break dumplings I think, and are always efficient no matter what. Except when faced with a pedestrian zone and the need to give directions to prohibited vehicles.

It should be Forbidden!

Schiphol, Amsterdam... 4.53am

Night flight from DXB via Amsterdam to Stockholm.

I am in the grey zone between midnight and day. Miraculously, sleep was achieved on the plane (due in part to colossal physical exhaustion and partly to alcohol) so I am not quite the walking dead that I would usually be at this hour...

In fact I have been awake for at least two hours or more - having consumed a fairly average airplane breakfast and the extremely good new Imogen Heap album "Ellipse" in that order... (I recommend the Imogen Heap album much more than the KLM breakfast.)

Airports are strange places at the best of times - sanitised microcosms (or not sanitised in the case of several airports I visit in Africa...) filled with transient life. Ephemeral in the extreme - and by definition.

But at this bizarre hour that is neither night nor day, the airport becomes a ghost town of parody.

As I walk through "airport land" I notice the different places on the ursatz Main Street that wants us to think we're in a small town somewhere - instead of in a series of concrete and steel tunnels in the middle of nowhere that lead to getting on a giant cigar tube filled with swine flu and other people's farts that will somehow defy gravity and other commonly held principals of physics and whisk us to another spot on the planet.

The Bombay Sapphire Bar - resplendent in blue and empty - for no-one, not even the Dutch, drinks gin at 5am.

The store selling sunglasses in the middle of the night when all is dark outside.

The flower shop selling both blooms and bulbs - because I needed to cultivate my own field of tulips...

The lounge playing softly piped elevator music - I'm listening to Daniel by Elton John right now. It could be worse (maybe) - it could be Daniel played on the pan pipes by Peruvian accountants on their away-day from the office...

Oh hideous plastic pastiche of life!

Oh charmless smile of a bored lounge receptionist waiting for her shift to end!

Oh nonchalant negligence of an immigrant immigration official employed only because they are an immigrant and for no other reason!

Oh sad man with laptop checking stock prices in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere when he should be considering the middle of his life and taking stock of that instead!

Somewhere between midnight and day I am nursing the mid-life blues in an airport in the middle of nowhere and with no middle ground to run to.

Worst kind of blues are the blues before sunrise... And one of the worst places to have them is the airport.

But things are looking up already - the Bee Gees are on the music system in the lounge - "Night Fever" the disco classic.

Of course this song belongs in a dark and smokey bar somewhere after the fifth cocktail at around midnight and something, as the girl with the glint in her eye and the moral dilemma in her head looks across at you and you both wonder what the next hour will hold..."Night fever, night fev-err..."

It doesn't belong in an airport lounge just before dawn sitting next to an anally retentive Japanese executive with his own pencil case and a middle European house frau wearing a trouser suit that would have been a good fit 5 years previously...

No, no. That needs Daniel on the pan pipes...

Oh well - only another 30 mins before I get on another fart filled cigar tube and head north to Sweden - land of fresh air, expensive everything, Abba and nice fish.

Oh My GOD! In the name of Mary Jesus and Joseph and all other things that are Holy...

They are now playing Renee & Renata's 80's hit "Save Your Love"...

Kill me now.

Under The Greek Summer Sun

I am in Greece for a long weekend which will culminate with the wedding of two friends who I happened to introduce to each other some years ago. I figured I ought to witness the outcome of my random act!

But before the wedding I am spending the days by the sea near Nafpaktos on the Messolonghi strait which Lord Byron famously tried to swim across.

I'm here to relax and get some much needed rest and I cannot think of anywhere better in the world to do it. I'm staying with old friends George & Nadia in their summer houses - built from stone and set up on a little ridge overlooking the sea.

The weather is hot by Greek standards but pleasant by Gulf measures and I am thoroughly enjoying the pace of life that rural Greece offers. I confess to missing Greece - I lived here for nearly seven years and am a fluent Greek speaker - and most of all the pace and approach to life.

Over some cold beer in a small square and later on over home made wine in a family run taverna in a village I discussed this "Greek-ness" with my dear friend George.

He thinks it's a matter of maybe 15-20 years before rural Greece with its chicken pens, goat herds, crowded churches and summer festivals - part Bachanalian part Christian - disappear in favour of industrialisation, urbanisation and in the name of progress. If this is true it will be a huge shame.

The gentle pace of life, the quiet celebration of simple things like breaking bread with friends and family and the occasional impassioned argument or outburst on a political or philosophical matter of little general importance are hugely appealing for someone who lives on a hamsters wheel in the commercial & material rat race that is Dubai or indeed any major global metropolis, East or West.

The Greek emphasis on hospitality, social integrity, community spirit and the family seem somehow "retro" in a world obsessed with credit, cashflow, consumerism and crisis. But not here.

Not that these things don't exist in Greece - they do. But they are not as important to people as they are elsewhere because there are still other things that matter. The same exact condition can be found in Turkey which is another reason I enjoy that country so much. I feel at home there just as I do in Greece...

This is still a nation where discussion - and sometimes argument - is commonplace among both friends and strangers. One of my greatest pleasures is talking and debating with friends at the dinner table and long into the night, fuelled by wine and intellectual curiosity. Philosophical positions are argued with rhetoric, dissected with hypothesis and analysis and synthesis - all Greek words and concepts - and may involve laughter, tears, joy and sadness the course of the evening. But you know you are alive. You know that your heart and your mind are both functioning. This vitality is enormously refreshing and healthy - and it gives soul to life.

After concluding our meal in the taverna and chatting with the former bank manager in the town and his wife (relatives of Nadia - but everyone knows everyone here anyway) we headed to the house. Nadia watered the plants and trees around the property while George and I sat outside under the clear sky with stars lit brightly above and faced the sea. We've been friends for more than 10 years and were business partners for 6 years so we don't need to talk much to enjoy each other's company.

George drank bourbon - Makers Mark - and smoked a Cuban cigar while I drank wine from Montenegro. We listened to country music starting with Willie Nelson and moving through Lucinda Williams to the Gospel sounds of The Blind Boys Of Alabama - finally concluding with some of my own recent songs. We exchanged perhaps 20 words in two hours as we quietly contemplated the day, what the next day held, life, music, love and death. (At least that's what I contemplated, George may have been thinking about hedge trimming and golf...).

The night ended listening to the incredibly beautiful and haunting voice of my friend and fellow musician NK. Her songs filled the silence of the night and her voice and soul covered our hillside ridge like a sheet across a bed.

The last drop of wine was drained and a fine and deep sleep was enjoyed.

Cosmopolitan & cosmopolitan...

Reflecting on the meaning of the word "cosmopolitan"... Literally from the Greek - meaning "citizens of the world".

I'm sitting by the pool in my hotel in Istanbul. Behind me sits a Russian Jew (his diamond encrusted Star of David and thick Moscow accent give the game away). Two loungers down a Saudi Arabian family sit quietly, man with jet black died hair and moustache, women wearing conservative "leisure" attire and hair covered. A Turkish woman, covered with an amazing tattoo of a snake which wraps her torso twice swims wearing - if I'm not mistaken - a Versace bikini...

A British couple chirp away quietly next to another Turkish couple playing tavla (Backgammon) and smoking vigorously.

A pair of Arab ladies of uncertain origin (they could be Lebanese, Egyptian or Jordanian) linger in the pool switching between Arabic, French and English in their discussion about nothing much in particular.

A family of Greeks warble vocally - as Greeks do - but look slightly insecure... As Greeks do in Turkey...

And a German is classically teutonic proportions patrols the poolside - his "proportions" spilling over his ill-advised speedos. Perhaps he is just exercising in a traditional marching kind of way, or maybe he is sun lounger spotting... Who knows.

Nothing unusual about an international capital like Istanbul welcoming so many different nationalities, races and religions to it's heart. After all, this city has been the centre of three empires and host to great stepping stones in history - not to mention straddling the East and West.

What is remarkable - say in comparison to Dubai or other so called "cosmopolitan" cities in the Gulf - is how at ease everyone is here (maybe with the exception of my Greek cousins whose nervosity is perhaps explained by history married to the modern Greek psyche)...

These people may be tourists or weekend visitors but their comfort and ease is totally representative of the people who live here full time.

Everyone fits and integrates in Istanbul. In fact I can't think of another city in the world which creates such a natural platform for people to come together and feel together.

"Cosmopolitan" therefore is not just about amassing large numbers of foreigners in one place. It is about stimulating them and integrating them - through culture, through business, through simply living life side by side.

Of course it is easy for me to say - I am a full time "cosmopolitis" or citizen of the world. Not only because of where I am, but also what and who I am.

"Cosmopolitan" is not a state or situation - it is a state of mind or an attitude that is inspired. Istanbul inspires it. Dubai does not...but it might in the future if it learns to adopt people rather than collect them. If it learns to give as well as to take. If it learns to build foundations that will last. The same applies to all those vying to become global cities.

Look to history and see what made global cities global and great - whether New York, Istanbul, Hong Kong, Paris, Rome or London. Over different centuries and over many centuries these cities gave people not only a reason to come but also a reason to stay.

Merakli a la Mardin...

Mardin is a city in South Eastern Turkey close to the Kurdish part and it is famous for its food and the "tree of life"...

Cercis Murat Konagi is a taste of Mardin in Istanbul on the Anatolian (Asian) side of the city in the Suadiye district by the Bosphorous looking out to the Marmara sea. (www.cercismurat.com)

I dined there with friends / business partners tonight and I am still in rapture....

The food is divine. The service is warm and the environment lovely - especially on a warm, humid summer evening with a gentle breeze blowing from the Bosphorous and across from the islands in the Marmara sea.

First decisions are taken - we will drink rake - the Turkish cousin of Arak / Raki and we will begin with mezze... And thus mazmiz to excite our eyes, stimulate our taste buds and start preparing the stomachs for a feast...

A salad of pickled peppers and herbs, mouhamara Kurdish / Surian style, aubergine salad (babaghanoush style), lentils, caper berries, medium hot red chilli peppers tamed by parsley and oil, spiced butter beans doused with fresh yoghurt, thick luscious strained yoghurt to accompany and warm breads - some with caraway and aniseed, some plain and charred for flavour... All exquisitely served on Mardin traditional metal mezze dishes with each salad in a long cast spoon to be passed around the table...and shalgam...

Shalgam is very popular in Southern Turkey and is a drink made with black carrots and turnips that have been salted heavily and then fermented with bulghur wheat. There is a variation of Shalgam in India also apparently, but here it becomes a slightly viscous cloudy drink of a dark purple hue - and looks very imperial...

It is certainly an acquired taste which I can only describe as being similar to very bitter carrot juice with lots of salt...but it is curiously refreshing and is said to cancel out the effects of rake... It also tastes immensely healthy. I acquired the taste...if you get the chance to try really fresh homemade shalgam like this then do it.

From the mezze we departed to sample other delights from the Mardin cuisine - including the Mardin variation on Iclik Kofte... Normally iclik kofte are like Levantine Kibbeh or Cypriot Koupes - but in Mardin the stuffed meat enclosure is slightly closer to Arayes in the Levant - but there is a soft dough folded around the spiced meat filling like a duvet and then it is layered on top with yoghurt with spices...

MY GOD this is a food sensation. Texture and taste combine to leave one diner - namely me - almost speechless... This is special food. I begin to contemplate the idea of acquiring a wife from Mardin. Food this good should be eaten more often!

Then Mardin's take on lahmacun - often called the Turkish pizza...except the Mardin version is more like a calzone or an Argentinean empanada with the dough wrapped around the filling and then baked... Also delicious.

Then as we have moved to meat we move on properly to two gorgeous lamb specialities from the Mardin area. Spiced lamb cubes stewed with quinces - a very subtle dish with balanced flavours and deliciously tender meat with the firm quince pieces finished with a gentle but important spice note from pepper and chili.

This was served with an incredible piece of lamb stuffed with two kinds of rice served on bulghur with oil, tomatoes and nuts including almonds and chestnuts - reminding me a little of Mansaf - the Jordanian Bedouin goat dish - except this dish lacked the yoghurt.

The waiter peeled away the skin and fat from the piece of lamb and discarded bones in front of our table. He then stripped the lamb and mixed the rices with the bulghur and served us. Wonderful aromas filled our nostrils as wonderful sights entertained our eyes... And the food was truly delicious.

I began to wonder if my Mardin wife would be beautiful as well as a great cook - finally deciding that she could actually have a beard as long as she could cook this well and I would still be happy!

I drank another glass of shalgam and more rake...

Cool fresh fruit including some sensational dark cherries were served as a desert and then some coffee - similar to Arabic coffee but incredibly strong was brought for us in Arabic style thimble cups.

Then Turkish coffee served in amazing silver cups and saucers on a velvet ringed platform...and a dome to cover them and keep them hot...together with cinnamon biscuits from Mardin and some impressively chewy lokum or Turkish delight.

A waiter came with a large metal bowl and a jug of heavily scented rose water to wash our hands before a tea glass of fresh lemon juice and ginger was served as a final palate cleanser and digestif.

Maybe you have to be there to get the full feeling - but this was a repeated "Oh My God!" meal as each taste and flavour unfolded from the mezze to the lemon juice & ginger... This accompanied good natured conversation with my Turkish vocabulary increasing twofold and my gastro/sociological history of the South East of Turkey growing exponentially.

This is what great dining is about and this was a great meal.

One final note is the "Tree of Life" myth of Mardin where apparently they believe in a sacred tree where the shamen comes from - a tree that if you find it you must sit under it and it will bring you a longer life... As a result there is arborial imagery in every aspect of the restaurant from delightful lamps to sculptures and the restaurant's motif.

To be honest - if it is as hot in Mardin as it was in Istanbul today, then sitting under any tree and catching the shade has to prolong one's life anyway. Whether it's the right tree or not...

And now to sleep and dream of my journey to Mardin and the search for a beautiful Mardin wife who knows how to cook and whose dad owns a vineyard...