Agatha Christie's Istanbul

All my life I had wanted to go on the Orient Express. When I had traveled to France or Spain or Italy, the Orient Express had often been standing at Calais, and I had longed to climb up into it. Simplon-Orient-Express – Milan, Belgrade, Stamboul...

– Agatha Christie, An Autobiography

All my life I too had wanted to go on the Orient Express. I was only 8 years old when my grandmother gave me an original 1934 edition of Agatha Christie’s thriller, Murder on the Orient Express. It was an easy read. Only 256 pages. But in those pages, I found a new world, filled with dark and sinister characters.

Returning from a case in Syria, the famous detective Hercule Poirot boarded an unusually crowded Orient Express in Istanbul. As the train worked its way through the Balkans, a heavy snowstorm caught the train dead in its tracks.

On that night, Poirot was awoken by a loud cry coming from the compartment next to his, occupied by the mysterious Mr. Ratchett. Seconds later, a bell rang and the conductor arrived at Ratchett’s door.

“Ce n’est rien. Je me suis trompé,” said Ratchett, which was strange, since he was hampered by not knowing any foreign languages.

At breakfast the following morning, as the other passengers complained about being trapped by the snow, Poirot was informed that Mr. Ratchett had been found murdered, stabbed twelve times during the night.

As the evidence mounted, it continued to point in wildly different directions, appearing as though a mastermind was challenging Poirot. But in the end, Poirot’s little grey cells won.

After reading and re-reading Murder on the Orient Express, dreams of the fabled train and its fabulous final destination constantly stirred in my head. So I made the decision: I too would go to Agatha Christie’s Istanbul.

The murderer is with us–on the train now...

After her unhappy marriage to Colonel Archibald Christie came to an end in April 1928, Agatha Christie was determined to leave England behind. Initially her mind was set on the West Indies, but a chance meeting with a naval officer and his wife who had just returned from the Middle East had changed her mind. At age 38, Agatha Christie was going to fulfill her dream of traveling from Calais to Istanbul on board the Orient Express, before continuing on to Baghdad.

Her journey began at Victoria Station in London, where she then traveled to the white cliffs of Dover, before crossing the English Channel to Calais. There, she finally boarded the legendary Orient Express bound for Istanbul, a journey that covered 3,342 kilometers in three days. On that trip she encountered the woman who inspired one of her greatest characters: the loud and obnoxious American woman, Mrs. Hubbard.

Unfortunately, my journey did not begin in London or even Calais, but in Bucharest. Regular service between Calais and Istanbul was discontinued in 1977, but the Simplon-Orient-Express lives on, operating as a luxurious, private train, which operates between London and Istanbul from March until November each year.

After a short time in the Romanian capital, I arrived at Gara de Nord with two friends of mine from college. Together, we boarded our train and settled in for our 18-hour journey.
By midnight, we were racing through Bulgaria, and when I awoke at 8 o’clock, we were traveling along the Sea of Marmara.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, we will be arriving in Istanbul in five minutes.”

As our train pulled into Istanbul’s Sirkeci Garı, I had an overwhelming feeling of excitement, a dream fulfilled. Eighty years ago, Agatha Christie found herself in the same position that I was in. She had gone to bed the night before, probably somewhere in the Balkans, and when she awoke, she was in the Orient.

The Bosphorus was rough and M. Poirot did not enjoy the crossing.

After leaving the train station, we headed to the docks near the Galata Bridge. I was determined to cross the Bosphorus, the tiny strait with stunning blue waves that connects the Black Sea to the Mediterranean, and separates the European side of Istanbul from the Asian side. At 11 o’clock, we boarded the “ATATURK,” a rickety, old ferry bound for Asia. Despite being the end of October, the sun was shining brightly above Istanbul, and a cool breeze was blowing across the deck. A handful of women were standing at the stern of the boat, sunglasses on, hair blowing in the wind. It was also their first trip to Istanbul.

“When I was little, my mother and father told me stories of their trip to Istanbul, and how they crossed the Bosphorus before continuing on to Syria,” said Margaret Smith, 74, an American tourist from Chicago. “I have always dreamt of what it would be like, so I finally sat down and told myself that I was going to do it.”

After ninety minutes, the small ferry finally docked on the Asian side of Turkey, in the picturesque town of Anadolu Kavağı, situated on the peninsula where the Bosphorus meets the Black Sea. It was just as I had imagined it would be like. Small homes lined both the coast and the hills above the town, and fishing boats surrounded the harbor, with hundreds of Turkish men and women waiting for the tourists to disembark.

Madame. Madame, lucky tooth from St. Augustine of Hippo. Lucky Buddha, Madame?

As soon as the passengers left the ferry, they were immediately surrounded by Turkish men and women, carrying enormous wicker baskets, filled with everything from curry and cayenne pepper to a pair of used Nike sneakers to baskets filled with nazar boncuğu (an amulet that protects against the evil eye).

“Sir, sir, I have something perfect for you,” said one of the men, showing me a miniature Turkish flag. “Only 10 Lira.”

I kindly rejected the offer, and headed to the crystal clear shores of the Bosphorus.
Around 3 o’clock, the ferry’s whistle began to blow, and all I could do was imagine Hercule Poirot standing there.

“He was hardly more than five feet four inches but carried himself with great dignity,” said Captain Arthur Hastings upon meeting the famous Poirot. “His moustache was very stiff and military.

“The neatness of his attire was almost incredible; I believe a speck of dust would have caused him more pain than a bullet wound,” added Hastings. “Yet this quaint dandified little man had been in his time one of the most celebrated members of the Belgian police.”

Somewhere in the distance, an announcement was made: “The Bosporus Ferry will shortly depart for Istanbul Sirkeci Station, connecting with the Orient Express.” I could see the characters assembling: Mary Debenham and Colonel Arbuthnot in one corner, with Poirot alone in another.

The return trip was more similar to the one that Hercule Poirot had experienced: the Bosphorus was rough, and with the sun hidden behind the clouds, there was no protection from the cold wind that swept across the boat. No matter how cold, following Poirot’s footsteps had been well worth it.

On arrival at the Galata Bridge, M. Poirot drove straight to the Tokatlian Hotel.

Unfortunately, Hotel Pera Palace – the inspiration for Agatha Christie’s glamorous Tokatlian Hotel – was closed for renovations during my visit. The massive champagne colored, oriental palace loomed large on Mesrutiyet Caddesi, near the leisurely Taksim Square district however, with signs advertising its upcoming grand re-opening. I briefly stood in front of the hotel, with my eyes closed, imagining Room 411, the room where she had written Murder on the Orient Express.

We then worked our way across the Golden Horn, to Sultanahmet, the heart of historic Istanbul, and what 19th-century travelers called “Stamboul.”

After wandering around “Stamboul,” and exploring everything from the Blue Mosque to the Hagia Sophia and Topkapi Palace, I finally stumbled upon Bayezid Square, the entrance to Istanbul’s Grand Bazaar. But to call it a bazaar is a sin. It is more like a small, indoor city, filled with 58 streets and over 6,000 shops. To wander through the Bazaar is a thrilling experience, as it is the perfect setting for one of Agatha Christie’s novels. Anything can be bought there, from spices and silk to old Ottoman doorknobs and Byzantine coins. I was even able to buy a barber shave for $10 USD from Abdullah Youssef, a Jordanian living in Istanbul with his wife and six children.

And for you New Yorkers, the Grand Bazaar makes Canal Street look like an amateur’s show.

“Prada, Gucci, Chanel, we have it all,” shouted one vendor named Mustafa.

“How much for the loafers,” I asked, inquiring about a pair of ‘real’ Prada driving shoes.

“They are real leather my friend, the highest quality,” he responded.

“How much?”

“For you my friend, 100 American dollars.”

I laughed and began to walk away, but suddenly I was beckoned back.

“Okay, okay, for you, a special offer,” he said quietly.

After a going back and forth, I finally got my loafers, for $35 USD. Quite the bargain, indeed.

‘I shall have to go on tonight,’ he said to the concierge. ‘At what time does the Simplon Orient leave?’

On my last day in Istanbul, I returned to Istanbul’s Sirkeci Garı.

Since the decline of the original Orient Express, the train station was renovated and transformed into a regional transportation hub. The glorious old entrance was no longer used, and instead, passengers entered through a modern one near the northwestern end of the station. New ticket windows replaced the old ones, and the old passenger waiting room was transformed into a restaurant, with a suitable name: the Orient Express Restaurant. Above the restaurant’s fireplace was a photo of Agatha Christie, the woman who turned the Orient Express into a symbol of mystery, power, intrigue and glamour.

Despite the hundreds of tourists crowding around the station, Hercule Poirot was still there, lingering on in spirit. I could still see him entering the station with his close friend M. Bouc, the director of Compagnie Internationale des Wagon-Lits. Together the men separated the crowds of merchants and gypsies as they walked towards the train.

Beyond the noise and commotion, a final call was made: “The Orient Express will depart from platform one for Uzonköprü, Sofia, Belgrade, Zagreb, Brod, Trieste, Venice, Milan, Lausanne, Basel, Paris, and Calais, with connections for London.”

The characters began to assemble: the devious Mrs. Hubbard, the gentle Countess Andrenyi, the youthful Mr. MacQueen, and the ruthless Mr. Ratchett. As the conductor Pierre Michel escorted the passengers to their cabins, the whistle blew, creating a melancholy cry from the engine. Suddenly, a jerk, as the train came to life.

The Orient Express has started on its three-days’ journey across Europe.

While Agatha Christie boarded a train of extreme luxury headed for Calais, I boarded a train owned by the Turkish State Railway headed for Thessaloniki, Greece. It was 5 o’clock in the afternoon when the whistle blew, and our train slowly began to leave Sirkeci station. The sun was slowly beginning to set as the train raced along the Sea of Marmara, with the red and orange rays reflecting in the clear blue water. And in that moment, I know that I had left behind a piece of my heart in the fabled Istanbul. I sat back, and closed my eyes, remembering all of the fabulous treasuries that I had seen, in Agatha Christie’s Istanbul.



GETTING THERE
Direct flights between New York's John F. Kennedy International Airport and Istanbul’s Atatürk International Airport are available on either Delta or Turkish Airlines.

WHERE TO STAY
For some extra glamour, try the Four Season Hotel at Sultanahmet (Tevkifhane Sokak No. 1, Sultanahmet-Eminönü, Istanbul; 90 (212) 638 82 00; www.fourseasons.com; rooms starting at 300 EUR per night for a standard double room). Interested in being on the water? Try the brand new Four Seasons Hotel at the Bosphorus (Çirağan Cad. No. 28, Beşiktaş, Istanbul; 90 (212) 381 40 00; www.fourseasons.com; rooms starting at 300 EUR per night for standard double room).

If you are traveling on a budget, but looking to stay down the street from the Four Seasons at Sultanahmet, try a quaint bed and breakfast: Hotel Peninsula (Adliye Sokak No. 6, Sultanahmet, Istanbul; 90 (212) 458 68 50; www.hotelpeninsula.com; rooms starting at 35 EUR per night for a standard double room).

WHERE TO EAT
In Sultanahmet, wander along the main street of Akbiyik Caddesi, which has everything from chicken shish and falafel to narguile (water pipe, hookah). And it’s extremely inexpensive, with most meals being less than 10 TRY ($6.37 or €4,94). If you are looking to experience it all in one sitting, try Café Meşale (Arasta Bazaar, Utangaç Sokak, Cankurtaran; 90 (212) 518 95 62). Located in the Arasta Bazaar, behind the Blue Mosque, Café Meşale has it all: cheap prices, phenomenal chicken shish, whirling dervishes, and what most consider to be the best narguile in Istanbul.

Try Beyoğlu for an excellent outdoor dining experience. Cezayir Street, also known as La Rue Française, has rows of francophone cafés and restaurants. Go to Artiste Terasse (Cezayir Çikmazi, 4/9-10, Galatasaray, Istanbul; 90 (212) 244 70 18) for rooftop views of the Hagia Sophia, Topkapı Palace, Sultanahmet Mosque and Galata Tower.


This piece was originally written for my Travel Writing course, which I took at New York University in Prague in Fall 2008.