The Moscow Metro, according to Wiki-sama, is the world's second most heavily used rapid-transit system after the Tokyo Subway, with an average of 7 million passengers per day (that about equals the population of Switzerland by the way). It is the most convenient mode of transport in Moscow, in my opinion, due to its efficiency and extensive coverage throughout the city. Its greatest appeal though, is the intricate design of many of its stations, making it a tourist attraction in its own right. I didn’t get to snap many pictures as we were playing catch up with time, so do visit Moscow and dig into the experience yourself. ;)
The map of the Metro. The brown ring line interlinks with all other lines radially running through the city. The stop for the Red Square and Kremlin is situated at the centre of the ring.
Taking the very steep and long escalator at Kievskaya station. I actually timed the duration but now it's slipped my mind ;( Many other stations also have such deeply-built underground tunnels.
Most of the classically designed stations have dim lightings, lending the dreamy atmosphere.
Waiting for the next train; a bit worn out after getting a little lost searching for the right line- it really was mind-boggling compared to other big metros I've been to, like the London Underground or the Hong Kong MTR.
A train wooshing by on the other side of the rail.
A train clocking in at Arbatskaya.
The blue train is one of the older models; other newer ones have been introduced, though still very few.
Paintings at... Kievskaya station, I think.
March is Bulan Amali Muslim in Volgograd. Last Sunday, we had a course on managing a deceased Muslim, from bathing, clothing, praying, to burying the body. It seemed that I had forgotten some stuff from Pendidikan Islam classes in school, so I’m glad I decided to attend. More importantly, as always, I urge everyone including myself to constantly remember death, and not just as something that saps away all things pleasant from us. Death is a passage to another world- a world that, although itself transitory, accommodates us for an even longer time than that we spend on earth. Thus, as we pray for salvation on the Day of Judgement, don’t forget to seek relief from punishment in the grave too, for we know that there are a whole lot of people who would enter Jannah but could not escape punishment in the grave.
On a lighter note, I’m finally putting up some pictures. I wrote a post accompanying them approximately two weeks ago but due to reasons unbeknownst to even myself, I didn’t post it. The truth is, I sort of dislike my own writing. I know I’ll never be literary-hall-of-fame material like some of my favourite authors, but it’s dawned on me that I can’t even write decent, well-structured prose without dwindling it with haphazard details and loads of parentheses (like now. Ha-ha). Sometimes, after reading things over, I wonder, can people actually understand what I’m saying? That doesn’t include the fact that I rarely can write everything that I mean to- it’s as if there is a giant filter in my brain working on autopilot. Hence the result goes… something like this paragraph. Right.
Despite that, life’s good. It may seem lame to say that time and again, but well, I mean it. Of course, you have to brush off ugly little details, like the harassment you get from certain Liverpool fans throughout the past seven days, or the dreadful falls (note the plural) on ice on the way to class last week after two years of clean sheet. Paediatrics cycle started on Monday, and after we finished taking a guided tour of the department with the teacher that day, I knew I was going to enjoy the next two weeks.
Taking the patient’s history can be a bit tricky, though. Apart from having to use terms easier for them to understand, there’s this business of switching your conversation ‘format’ from the polite form which we’re so used to with adult patients, to the common form used for friends or younger people. In short, our grammar was all over the place, and we ended up being a laughingstock for the 12-year-old girl and her two ward buddies. Be wary of girls this age- other girls my age will mostly agree with my assessment that this is their critical period of possibly developing into the ‘gedik’ stage; most guys will typically think they’re cute. Oh and be very wary when they tell you that the scar on their abdomen was caused by a monkey bite. Err yeah.
Anyhow, I had a lot of fun and am looking forward to the rest of next week. And below, is my post from a fortnight ago.
***
At the behest of my father and brother, and uncle (with scoffing taunts to boot), I’m obliged to post an entry of pictures, a whole lot of which had caused me mild headache having to pick and edit them here and there. By editing I naturally mean resizing, and a bit of tweaking at the contrasts and stuff; I am no Photoshop expert.
I can’t even think of appropriate words to express remorse for my lack of writing and posting pictures anymore, notably with respect to my travels. What can I say- I have tried, and even vowed to write in a daily journal during my trip this time, but last time I took a peek into that battered notebook, it stopped at day 3 (which so happened to be the case with my Turkey trip too). And my brother has long stopped pestering me for an entry “promoting Bristol”, as he put it. My uncles would prefer pictures- even that I failed to give.
The reason I didn’t put up pictures on my Flickr was that I wanted my story to be the heart of my work, accompanied by pictures- not the other way round. I’m always a writer first (konon.), a photographer second (if ever I am one). But as I had explained sometime ago, once I started to earnestly write about something, I couldn’t seem to spare any details- everything felt important and indispensable, right to every minute and whiff of the air if possible. My Day 2, for example, took about five pages’ worth of a standard small-line notebook (I have relatively small handwriting, too). And I know my weakness - finishing what I had started, especially when the process is laborious and I can’t appear to make time for it but, out of sheer stubbornness, refuse to trim it down to a “short & sweet” version either. I can do with an editor.
Except that I’m not a published author, as I have finally made my senses to come to realise, and so for the time being I’ve decided to make do with pictures whilst trying my best to get a shorter version of a story out, whenever that may be. Winter is about to end (technically it’s already spring, but for some ironic effect, heavy snowfalls occurred on the 1st of March, spanning a good few days), gracelessly incarnated by mud stain greasing the edges of your pants and fine drizzling drops which at times may trick your eyes into perceiving them as snow (probably because you want ‘em to be). According to my personal weather forecast, tomorrow will be “cloudy with snow tapering off”. I hope they’re wrong.
I’ve been preoccupied thus far, though largely owed to my abominable lack of time management. Also in a bit of a funk, owing to someone trying to get smart-alecky with me. Please, do exercise some manners and respect towards others, even if you disagree with them. It’s difficult enough to keep my patience in check without this kind of people poking round my bubble of sanity.
That being said, life has been kind to me of late (The Optimist speaking again). The startling part of the picture is receiving bountiful amount of kind treatment from the locals. I’ve been so accustomed to the cold stares and cavalier attitudes of many Russians that when people whom I met abroad and back home (upon learning about my place of study) ask about the locals and whether they really are as standoffish as reputed, I would generally agree with the notion, forgetting about many other kind souls who have brought smiles to my face during my drawn-out stay here. Like the old patient yesterday morning who bellowed, “Good morning, doctors!” when we passed by, or another old patient who kissed each of us on the cheek (after blowing a kiss to each of us) and called us her granddaughters, or the many gentlemen who gave me their rights to a seat in the marshrutka, or another gentleman who defended me when I couldn’t find my tram ticket and had to pay again before suddenly finding it right after (how classic.) and the conductor refused to return my money (with words like, “she’s only a student!”, “are you trying to take advantage over foreign students?”; even threatening to complain to the authority. Haha). And I haven’t even mentioned my teachers- most of them are awfully kind and helpful, though we still have our fair share of likes and dislikes, which is normal, of course. I’ll have to remember all these people the next time someone asks me about Russia.
Enough yapping let the pictures do the talking.
***
Fatin and Kak Nadiyah
Fahida and I
It turns out I can't just let the pictures do the talking. ;p Anyways, this was my first time taking a train ride in Russia. It was better than what I had expected it to be- in that jagged, traveller-roughing-it way, of course. There was only one drawback that i could think of- it was extremely warm inside- too warm for comfort- although we found out way later that we could actually open the window. But alhamdulillah, my biggest fear was unfounded- the toilet was relatively clean and thus I didn't have to test the superpower potential of my bladder for the stretched 18-hour journey.
A boy in a forlorn mood throughout the entire pre-departure time.
A lot of fellow students of my university were also on board, all heading to various destinations in Europe for the two-week-long holiday. Luckily, four of us girls got to bunk together and the remaining two in our compartment were also women. The upper bunk was decidedly small, bordering on claustrophobic; nonetheless, I slept a full seven hours soundly, uninterrupted.
The narrow aisle, not unlike an aeroplane's. Note the purple-haired old lady playing crosswords- favourite pastime of many Russian elderlies. Purple is also a favourite colour for hair dye amongst the elderly, apparently.
The view outside was either that of trees, village houses, dachas (summer houses), factories, and, occasionally, frozen river. The train made a number of stops along the way, each one ranging from 5 to 20 minutes, and you could go out to buy drinks and snacks at the many kiosks by the side of the track.
It was best, though, to bring your own supply of food and eat together with your friends, as we did. The amusing part was that the food were supposed to last us for the whole journey, but as it happened, a couple of hours (or less?) was all that was needed to polish off the sushi, tandoori chicken, fried squids, jemput-jemput, and corn pudding. I think they should just provide us a kitchen next time.
Kak Nadiyah, Fatin, Fahida and Shafwan in front of the renowned St. Basil's Cathedral.
We managed to make a little day tour around the heart of Moscow- the Red Square and Kremlin, Arbat street, and Europa mall for halal kebabs at Kebab House. Snow had melted, and the Red Square was a picture of puddles of water. The weather was gloomy and foggy too, and later in Arbat it rained.
Shafwan with the Kremlin at the background.
It was only the second time that I had really been in Moscow, after a 3-day stopover last summer. The city emits an appealing aura- its strange blend of opulence and decay fascinates me. The wobbly, wooden-benched but fast metro, the olden architecture of Kievskiy train station next to the steely-looking Europa mall... it would be comforting to think that the contrast provides some kind of balance to the setting of this great capital, except that I know better. It seems to be a recurrent theme in many cities in this country- beautiful, elegant shops for the rich are everywhere, yet you see poor people, beggars in every direction. Moscow is the reputed capital of billionaires, yet many of its public facilities leave much to be desired. Where does all the wealth go to- making the rich richer?
Gum, a luxurious shopping mall at Red Square, housing all the pricey labels. We went in to use the bathroom. ;p
gorgeous baby and father inside Gum
I think packing all these into one entry is starting to look wearisome. I'll follow up with the Moscow Metro... soon. ;D
Alright, so the collage is more about wax figures at Madame Tussauds than live, animate people on the street. That's me being bitter. I wish I could go the extra length to photograph everything I set my heart on, not bounded by disproportionate qualms and reservation.
If there was one thing about Hong Kong that stood head and shoulders apart from the rest, it was the dynamism of the people. Everywhere you turned to, everybody was just actively on the go; business took place at the flick of a finger and trust me, you wouldn't feel scared of getting lost and having nowhere or no one to turn to- help was everywhere around you. The acts of hospitality and great competency were especially demonstrated to us at the airport, which had now become my favourite airport in the world (not that I've been to many. haha). Those guys were fast, professional and always ready to lend a hand, unlike so many officers I’d had the displeasure of encountering here and in other places.
I think I could turn people sick with another word of adoration ;p There was a snag to the delightful candy bag of a trip, sure. There always were. In fact, there were a few snags- not least was the expensive cost of expenditure, which could certainly be managed with careful and sensible planning. It would be most inconvenient, however, if you miscalculated the conversion rate of your currencies and discovered the truth only after you had finished all your last-minute shopping, which we so gullibly did. Haha. The horrors of realising you actually spent a third more than you thought you did…
In all simplicity, Hong Kong was the exact opposite of Istanbul. Cloud-busting skyscrapers, blinding neon lights, whooshing pedestrians on zigzagging streets... the faces of the two cities couldn't be more different. Yet they shared one common point of gravity- both were breathtakingly beautiful, in very contrasting fashions. And I was one happy traveler.
ps: All pictures were taken late evening, save the panorama in the middle- it was afternoon, after a heavy downpour.
pps: Pardon my lazy writing.
Turkey, Day 3.
When I first planned my winter trip, I could not help but be tempted to fit in as many places as the stamp pages in my passport could permit (pardon the hyperbole, I just had two cups of tea). Rationality and a bit of advice here and there put my toe back in line, and I believe my decision to explore the lands of Turkey instead of hopping off between huge, glamorous cities as many of my friends did was the best for me (and my companions too, I hope). I came to learn that the world was a huge place, and pieces of valuable experience were everywhere for you to pick up if you looked hard enough for it.
Friday, 26th January 2007.
My father had kindly proposed an ideal itinerary (with original recommendation by veteran Boogey) for the entire ten days, and whilst we intended to follow the provided plan, we decided to be flexible and kept our options open. And so, when Shaynaz told us she had a test that Friday morning and could only accompany us in the afternoon, I thought, fine, we could have a walk around on our own (read: find food). We told Ruki of our plan over breakfast, and she decided to come along, bringing us to the nearby Friday market.
The gentle breeze outside lent character to an otherwise frosty picture of winter. We walked, eyes ogling at every restaurant in sight. Within spitting distance from our flat, the canvas-covered market reminded me of a typical Russian bazaar, selling everything from perfume imitations to gummy bears in plastic containers. The sellers were decidedly more enthusiastic than the buyers, hollering incessantly with animated gestures. I looked around, familiarising myself with the scene. Tearing through the crowd from one aisle to another were men selling Turkish tea in small glasses on a silver platter, expertly gliding through with their balancing act. We bought some stuff and made our way to the shores of the Sea of Marmara, cutting through a branch of Istanbul University campus as we went.
Ruki showing us round the market
I was not sure of the faculties included in the campus but I saw a bunch of students wearing lab coats, so they had to be science-related. It was a nice place, with lots of shades- I wondered why the leaves remained intact on the trees at this time of year. Heh. Walking down the hilly path was pleasant but I knew climbing our way back would not be as such. Saved the worry for later. We crossed a railway track, a road, and a playground before touching the end of our destinations- the sea. Rock-strewn ridges embroidered the coast, and with the sound of the seagulls as our theme song, we were set to go. Down to the rocks we went.
I have a thing for railway tracks
Girls just wanna have fun. Aha.
We sat on the rocks with our dangling legs for a while, taking it all in at a go. The birds, the wind, the many ships ahead, the splashing of the waves. Such beautiful harmony they made. I suddenly recalled slivers of the beautiful poem by Orhan Veli, which Boogey once put up on his blog in his entry about Ortakoy:
I AM LISTENING TO ISTANBUL
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed:
At first there is a gentle breeze
And the leaves on the trees
Softly sway;
Out there, far away,
The bells of water-carriers unceasingly ring;
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed;
Then suddenly birds fly by,
Flocks of birds, high up, with a hue and cry,
While the nets are drawn in the fishing grounds
And a woman's feet begin to dabble in the water.
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.
The Grand Bazaar's serene and cool,
An uproar at the hub of the Market,
Mosque yards are full of pigeons.
While hammers bang and clang at the docks
Spring winds bear the smell of sweat;
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed;
Still giddy from the revelries of the past,
A seaside mansion with dingy boathouses is fast asleep.
Amid the din and drone of southern winds, reposed,
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.
A pretty girl walks by on the sidewalk:
Four-letter words, whistles and songs, rude remarks;
Something falls out of her hand -
It is a rose, I guess.
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.
A bird flutters round your skirt;
On your brow, is there sweet? Or not? I know.
Are your lips wet? Or not? I know.
A silver moon rises beyond the pine trees:
I can sense it all in your heart's throbbing.
I am listening to Istanbul, intent, my eyes closed.
Fatin and me
From left: Fatin, me, Kak Nadiyah, Ruki.
More rock action
After the routine photography session, we decided to make our way back so that we would be in time for our afternoon excursion with Shaynaz. But hey, the playground was simply irresistible. The last time I hit a playground was last spring, during a jogging session (which was an interesting story on its own, I kept forgetting to blog about this. Hah). Naturally, all of us raced for the swings, them being our favourite childhood plaything in the field. I guess the pictures would speak enough of our long-lost deprived obsession.
Buai laju-laju, sampai pokok sena...
Sukanya dapat main jongkang-jongket. Hehe.
Gelongsor pun bantai.
On our way back, we passed the market once again, and the urge to grab a cup of tea off the tray was so strong we called for Ruki to stop for a while. But she firmly opposed our idea, saying they were expensive, and we could always drink at home if we were that thirsty, it wasn’t that far away anyway. At 1 YTL per very small cup (the classic shapely one without handles), she had a point. Heh. But really, it wasn’t so much about being thirsty than the traveller’s itch to try everything local, made by the locals, in a downright local atmosphere. And drinking tea off a walking tray in a rowdy crowd of Turkish people doing household business somehow felt like it. Me and my unworldly wisdom.
I didn’t feel tired, but somehow took a nap back home (all of us actually, but I had been known not to take afternoon naps) whilst awaiting for Shaynaz. At last, she came and without ado, we set out to Beyazit area, five stops from Findikzade. The now-familiar sight of an Ottoman mosque greeted us upon arrival. It was the Bayezid Mosque, built during the reign of Sultan Bayezid II in 1501 and completed in 1506, according to the gilded plaque at the doorstep. Beyazit square stood between it and Istanbul University, teeming with raucous bunch of pigeons. Here and there, you could see old ladies or men selling feeds for those ravenous creatures, amidst the hustle and bustle of passers-by who couldn’t care less about such mundane things as feeding pigeons. This was the job of the tourists. Hehe.
Mak cik waiting for customers to buy her bird feeds
Restaurants at Beyazit
Bayezid mosque
Fatin with Istanbul University's gate at the background
The soaring gate of Istanbul University drew us in- two huge Turkish flags provided company to both sides of its fine structure. No sooner could we step into its historical compound than we were stopped by its two guards, on the grounds of wearing headscarves. Shaynaz tried to reason- ok, not reason, it was a stale cause, appeal perhaps- with them, but they would not budge. So we had to content ourselves with some pictures in front of the gate and swiftly made our way down the steps towards the mosque.
As we took off our shoes at the entrance, Shaynaz pulled out a headscarf from her bag, as it was obligatory for every female visitor to any mosque to cover their heads as a sign of respect. They even provided a handful of them white-coloured ones for those in need. I smiled sadly at this tasteless mockery of our intelligence, flaunted shamelessly before my eyes. The people here took the lengths to ensure everybody cover their heads appropriately, yet the people next-door were yapping for us to take ‘em off. Talk about irony and respect. And the end of the world.
The inside of Bayezid Mosque
Pak ciks selling all sorts of stuff under the trees beside the mosque
This eccentric pak cik caught my eye. Tak berani tangkap dekat-dekat though. Hehe.
Eccentric pak cik's trade- spot a Russian Rouble there!
Next- Sahaflar Carsisi, a place where you could find antiques and old books, or so I was told by Boogey. Indeed, there were rows and rows of thick books with nice jackets on display, which, by the way, would burn a hole in your wallet to buy ‘em. Or my wallet at least. Pretty handicrafts were plentiful as well, like these elegant painted wooden boxes I saw- they made excellent collector’s items. Further ahead, we sought the entrance to the Grand Covered Bazaar, the heart of old Istanbul’s commerce.
Strolling along the passage of Sahaflar Carsisi
The entrance to the Grand Bazaar
Growling stomachs oughtn’t be ignored though, so we resolved to have lunch first at one of the many restaurants lining the streets. The usual kebab for me- I was so not over being infatuated with meat yet. The sight of Lahmacun (flatbread topped with minced meat and other condiments- dubbed as Turkish pizza) further tempted me but my stomach needed a break after the kebab I decided to save it for another time. Nonetheless, I managed to try Shahnaz’s dessert, a kind of brownish round thingy dipped in chocolate, which I forgot everything about, except that it was delicious. The picture of it was unclear, and I doubt even Boogey could verify its identity. Hehe.
Yummy kebabs
Pak cik making, er, Lahmacun I guess.
The detour to the bazaar turned out to be one of the most amusing moments of my trip, thanks to the clownish antics of many of the shopkeepers. They would do anything to lure you into their shops, to the point of speaking your language. Some would yell, “Murah! Murah!” or “Lelong! Lelong!” whilst others went on to profusely praise your country, even quoting such phrases as, “Malaysia… truly Asia”. What a riot. The only other time I had similar experience was in Makkah several years back, when the pak cik-pak cik Arab started to converse in Malay, accompanied by a thick, peculiar accent. Thought they were really funny.
Performing ablution isn't a problem here
I'm kind of obsessed with these things, aren't I? I mean, they're everywhere! Kudos to majlis perbandaran or whomever, very thoughtful of you.
Anyway, back in the Grand Bazaar, the gatal pakciks weren’t to be spared. Rather a few had the guts to brazenly utter stuff like “You know… I’m still single” over a cup of tea, followed by a wink, and these were fifty-or-sixty-something wrinkly pakciks we were talking about. Queerly, I could find no female shopkeepers in the entire parts of the bazaar that I managed to explore, even in those selling headscarves and pashminas. I wondered why.
Looks like they're lost.
Lantern shop
Carpets mahal gile...
A lady expertly weaving carpets with very deft movements
Taking break from shopping with a sip of coffee
It would take us days to peruse through everything there was in the colossus of a place, so after buying some typical souvenirs that attracted us most, we agreed to move on (and made a silent vow to come back). The exit we took led us to the back gate of Istanbul University, braced by high walls of bricks and stones all around. Having been barred from entering, our impulse to get in only increased (the forbidden was always tempting, yeah?), and, despite already knowing the answer, we tried our luck once again. This guard was more apologetic- though I couldn’t understand a word he jabbered in Turkish, his expression atoned for it. Still no go though. Well. Thanks a lot, Mr. Ataturk.
The high walls of Istanbul University
We walked up and down the hilly street towards our next destination: Suleymaniye Mosque. Apparently, the Historic Peninsula was built on seven hills to model ancient Rome, and a mosque was erected on the crest of each hill, like this majestic one we were paying a visit to. Suleymaniye Mosque was commissioned by Sultan Suleyman The Magnificent, the most famous of Ottoman Sultans whom all of us had learnt about in form 4 world history (still remembered us laughing at such a self-absorbed honorary title back then). His and his wife, Roxelana’s mausoleums were located adjacently, together with some other people.
Suleymaniye Mosque
Inner decor of Suleymaniye Mosque
The mosque was even bigger than the Blue Mosque, and just as beautiful. Like the Blue Mosque, it was deemed as the Ottoman’s reply to the legendary Hagia Sophia. Constructed by Mimar Sinan who was regarded as one of the greatest architects of the 16th century, Suleymaniye mosque was the definition of beauty itself, baring the characteristic Ottoman architecture surrounded by a mesmeric garden. Save a few wandering souls, the place was empty, though. We made i’tikaf as usual for a while before proceeding downtown through the Spice Bazaar.
The meeting of Bosphorus and Golden Horn: view from Suleymaniye Mosque
Shops down the pavement
The sun had set, and yellow lanterns flickered to life, adorning the entire street with a pasar malam-like ambiance. True to its name, you could see all kinds of spices imaginable sold everywhere in the vicinity. I would have stopped to pick up some stuff, but our guide seemed to be in a hurry, probably because it was getting late.
Sugar and spice, and everything nice...
At the other end of the bazaar stood the regal Yeni Mosque, or New Mosque- constructed by the order of Safiye Sultan, mother of Sultan Mehmet III in 1598. Its true dimension appeared somewhat obscure due to nighttime and my bad eyesight, but the burnished lighting was simply gorgeous. As it was time for Maghrib prayer, people flocked from nearby. Business went on as usual though, even as the calls for prayer from several neighbouring mosques echoed one another in a most calming blend of sounds. Why these people didn’t go to the mosque and pray when they were just more than a few steps away puzzled me. The chintzy light of worldly materials proving too bright to resist in the end, was my sad conclusion.
The New Mosque
The front entrance of the mosque
New Mosque: the interior
Sarah at the open space in front of the mosque
Afterwards, we wandered down to the quayside to enjoy the night view of the Golden Horn and Bosphorus. Prominent from afar was the Galata Bridge, which spanned the Golden Horn, connecting old and new European Istanbul. The idea to build the first bridge during the reign of Sultan Bayezid II was planned extensively, seeking designs from many great names, including Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo (the latter turned down the request). Leonardo’s design apparently would make the bridge the longest in the world of that time but ultimately it did not gain approval from the Sultan. Thus no bridge was built until the 19th century. I read somewhere that there was a renewed plan to put the original design to life, building yet another bridge across the Horn (there were three at present).
A view of the Galata Bridge
There were several boats cruising around, and nearby, one was leaving the dock. Along the waterfront were scores of stalls selling all kinds of delectable dishes. All of us opted for fish sandwiches. Mentang-mentang kat tepi laut. As we queued to buy food, Fatin suddenly had stomach pain and later could not finish her meal. She first had an attack at Suleymaniye Mosque earlier but it had since subsided, until now. After a while though, she appeared to be better so we went back to the bazaar for a bit of further exploration.
The bazaar was as colourful at night as it was during the day, the pak ciks twice as loud. Hehe. We were curious to see, in many of the shops, trinkets in all manner bearing a round symbol in alternate blue and white colours- the so-called evil eye. I’d heard of the expression before but never thought much about its definition nor major significance in any culture. It seemed that these ornaments were used to ward off the evil eye and many of the locals here really believed in it. A pak cik even gave us a small pin with the sign, as a token of good luck. I kept it deep inside my pocket, contemplating whether I should chuck it when I got back.
Ceramic souvenirs
Colourful cushion covers and bedsheets
Our spree was cut short when Fatin’s condition suddenly took a turn for the worse. As we hurried down the alley, I saw Fatin and Shaynaz stopped dead, abrupt. As the rest of us closed in, we saw that fatin had vomited right in the middle of the walkway. The pak ciks who had been enthusiastically hollering at us to drop by their stores instantly became subdued; one or two were seen clapping their mouths in horror. One guy even shouted at us to clean the mess, to whom I gave a huh? look before we ushered Fatin out of the way, back home.
Our third day was eventful, to say the least. ;) Fatin was fine, though not feeling so well until the next day. We all had a blast anyway, a continuation of a lifetime experience that just got better and better by the day.
The map of the Metro. The brown ring line interlinks with all other lines radially running through the city. The stop for the Red Square and Kremlin is situated at the centre of the ring.
Taking the very steep and long escalator at Kievskaya station. I actually timed the duration but now it's slipped my mind ;( Many other stations also have such deeply-built underground tunnels.
Most of the classically designed stations have dim lightings, lending the dreamy atmosphere.
Waiting for the next train; a bit worn out after getting a little lost searching for the right line- it really was mind-boggling compared to other big metros I've been to, like the London Underground or the Hong Kong MTR.
A train wooshing by on the other side of the rail.
A train clocking in at Arbatskaya.
The blue train is one of the older models; other newer ones have been introduced, though still very few.
Paintings at... Kievskaya station, I think.
