This Is This

13. Thessaloniki, Briefly, Then East
Map

I woke up at seven and looked out the window at the rugged countryside of northern Greece. I arrived at Thessaloniki half an hour later and ate the rest of the Athinian pretzel rings before walking around the town.

Thessaloniki at the waterfront was grey. It looked like the worst areas of the Moscow of my imagination. The nicest buildings were featureless. They looked like giant shoe boxes made of granite turned on their side. I walked down to the industrial port, where Russian oil tankers rusted, before deciding I had seen enough. I returned to the station, got a ticket for Istanbul and spread out on my sleeping mat with a beer and Hemingway.

The train towards Turkey left in the afternoon and passed though some breathtaking scenery. Every half an hour, the landscape changed dramatically. One moment we were travelling along a mountain pass, next we were traversing a plain. For a couple of hours we rode alongside a river in a wooded valley, where huge storks flew silently away as the our passage disturbed their fishing.

I shared a compartment with three English people and two Swedish couples. For a while, the respective nationalities kept to themselves. Richard had just finished college at Trent. Sharon and Jackie were still at school in London. I wondered what the girls were doing on a train headed for Turkey.

“I can’t wait to hear the gossip when we get back,” said Sharon to Jackie.

“We’ve got to have some great parties,” Jackie replied to Sharon.

“Is Ian still together with Michelle?”

I tried to change the subject back to the moment in hand. “It’s getting a bit hotter.”

Jackie thought for a while, and then said, “If we’re going south, then it should be getting…”

“Cooler,” said Sharon.

“Hang on,” said Jackie, “…heading - south.”

“No, definitely hotter.”

“The equator is hotter, therefore…”

“Going towards the equator makes it hotter.”

“But we’re going south.”

“Oh.”

“No, were going towards the equator.”

“So it is getting hotter.”

“Yeah.”

They looked pleased with themselves at their revelation.

We were going east anyway.

We stayed awake telling jokes until one, and at two thirty, at a small station, a Greek official woke us up and asked for our passports. We handed them over and the guard walked away with them.

Ten minutes later, at another station, the Greek police ushered every one off the train into a customs office, where our passports were handed back to us. With everyone back in their seats, we continued for Turkey.

Half and hour later, the train stopped and we were woken up again. We had just crossed the border into Turkey.

The “Turkish wake-up call” consists of a flashlight in the face and a boot in the ribs, if you happen to be sleeping in the corridor. We were marched off the train and told to line up at a window in front of a small building. We waited in the cold night air being eaten by mosquitoes while three men undercover with weapon-concealing cardigans vigilantly watched on.

We reached the window where a man was stamping other passengers’ passports as they were handed over to him. When Richard and I presented ours, he took them from us and waved us around to the side of the building, where there sat a man among forms at a table.

“Nationality?” he said as he looked up.

“British, what’s the problem?” The bureaucracy was tiresome and irritating.

“Visa money. Five pounds.”

“Why?”

“Five pounds.”

I showed him a section from my outdated Europe guide about entry requirements for Britons to Turkey. It said only a valid passport was needed.

“My friend, five pounds.”

“I’m not your friend, and I’m asking you why.”

You would never know I would go on to become a journalist.

“Visa money.” He said louder.

 ”We don’t need a visa. No visa.”

“When Turkish in England: visa money. When England in Turkish:- visa money.” It was difficult for some nationalities to obtain visas for Britain. This was revenge and pocket money all rolled into one.

He called out to someone behind him and an Army officer came out of the building. One of the undercover men also approached the commotion.

“What is the problem?” The officer asked us kindly.

“My friend and I are refusing to pay you money. We don’t need a visa,” Richard said. He showed them the guidebook.

“Yes, yes, you do. Five pounds.”

Richard was getting angry, but I told him to forget it and to go to the consulate when we get to Istanbul.

“OK, you win. I’ll pay you in Turkish lira.” It was a particularly weak and unstable currency.

“English Sterling. Five pounds.”

I gave them five pounds and threw it down in front of the man seated amongst the forms. This was a gesture he didn’t like and he looked at me sternly.

“Merry Christmas,” I said.

He said something to the officer who asked me to follow him into the building. I followed, not that I had any choice, and they had my passport anyway. I was led into a small room with a desk at the far end. He walked to behind the table and sat down in the chair. I followed him around and stood next to him, looking out into the room with him.

This infuriated him, and he he was growing annoyed. I gave a wolfish smile which was only with the mouth.

“Sit down.” He pointed to the chair in front of the desk. Not wishing to have my back turned to the rest of the room, I sat in a chair against the side wall, where I had a better view.
 

He stood up and slowly walked around his desk without looking at me. He was trying to look threatening, so trying to look disinterested I developed an casual curiosity for the books and files on his desk.

“Now,” he said.

I eagerly leaned forward and smiled. It’s story hour on the Turkish border, I told myself. As he paced in front of me, I followed him with my head without moving my eyes - again, just to annoy him. The three undercover guards from the railside walked in. One stood by the door, one sat opposite, and the other sat next to me. I shifted over, looked at him and smiled. Sometimes I love being obnoxious.

“What is the problem?” the officer stopped pacing and faced me.

“It’s mostly in my head, but my throat gets very sore. It’s actually worse when I cross borders.”

“What?”

“Just a joke.”

He looked at me.

“A joke. A funny story. Ha ha.” I said.

He looked puzzled.

“Never mind.”

He returned to his desk and a pile of passports.

He asked the intended purpose of my trip and I said to travel. He asked where. I said that I was going all over. He asked for the addresses of where I would be staying. This was where I had to grovel.

“I’m taking a few days out to visit your beautiful country and its charming people.”

He stamped my passport and handed it back.

“Three months tourist visa. On train now.” He pointed at the train outside on the tracks.

“Cheers. Have a nice day.”

The train left the post at four that morning and we arrived at our destination by lunchtime, five hours late. I think I may have been in some way responsible, which was a first for me on this trip.

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