Long queues for rusty ticket windows, tourists rushing through tourniquets and onto the quay, where a ferry sounds the horn to emphasise that it is time to depart, old men with pushcarts bulging with bazaar merchandise work their way through the crowds, Turkish families drag their big blue rubbish bags over the pier, an elderly lady nearly plunges into the water, wheelchair and all. Over a Samsun cigarette and a tulip-shaped glass of tea, the service staff watch things go haywire. Just another summer afternoon in a ferry station on the Bosphorus.
It is a familiar sight in this magnificent metropolis spanning two continents. Busloads of tourists swarm around the Blue Mosque, Istiklal Caddesi is filled to the brim with snacking shoppers, Taksim Square is an eternally congested roundabout covered in a cloud of exhaust fumes, the once exclusive train station of the Orient Express is crammed with commuters and on the terraces of the fish restaurants on the Galata Bridge over the Golden Horn every last seat is taken. Crowds, noise, heat and chaos everywhere – Istanbul is a bedlam. A brilliant bedlam, attracting a million tourists every year, but a bedlam nonetheless.
Give it two or three days and you will crave fresh air and some elbowroom. No problem: the perfect hideaway is only a ferry ride away. In the Sea of Marmara lies a dreamy archipelago where time stands still and every day is Sunday: the Princes’ Islands. I hop on the old-fashioned feribot, Istanbul’s skyline of mosques and minarets vanishes from sight and soon my destination appears: nine green, hilly islands floating in the blue sea, with chic wooden mansions and a monastery on every other hilltop. I disembark on main island Büyükada. Its name literally translates as ‘Big Island’, but take that with a pinch of salt – you can walk around it in an afternoon.
Through a ferry station from the belle époque with Ottoman stained windows, hand painted tiles and fairytale turrets, and on the roof a café that once served as casino, nightclub and open-air cinema, I walk to the taxi stand. It smells of manure – the islands are car-free and public transport is provided by horse-drawn phaetons. I negotiate a price, hop in and off we go, up the hill to the hotel, where I am thrown back in time a hundred years. Splendid Palas Otel is Büyükada’s most remarkable mansion: a shining white wooden box in art nouveau with dozens of balconies, windows with red shutters and a pair of cupolas that are remarkably reminiscent of a belly-dancer’s bosom.
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