First, a map, just to make it clear what I was talking about yesterday when I mentioned cutting the route short. By the way, right next to Çanakkale is the famous Troy (supposedly). There isn't much to see there, apart from the wooden horse built for tourists.
I left off at the point where we reached the town of Lapseki. I must say, back in the previous town there was a sign saying feribot, and while we were standing at the traffic light, I kept poking my finger at it. One woman even tried to explain to us that yes, there really is a ferry there, calling it a motorbot. Bot means boat in Turkish, so overall it made sense. But I'm still not that confident in my linguistic skills, so I didn't push my colleagues too hard — which is a good thing, because otherwise we wouldn't have visited the cute little town of Lapseki.
In principle, there's nothing special about it, but after an endless rapeseed highway with occasional views of the sea, a change of scenery was bound to make us happy. Lapseki is a tiny town with a population of just over 10 kilobytes, known only for its cherries; a cherry festival is held there every year. But after the terrifying brick barracks, it seemed like an absolute paradise to me.
Sorry for the photos — I'm shy about photographing people, because the Euronews TV channel has implanted Western privacy standards into my consciousness, which are already often absurd, and I amplify them even more.
We somewhat unwisely shoved our way into the bazaar with the bikes, because there was nowhere to leave them, and we somehow failed to organize ourselves to send only part of the team.
By the way, about the notorious headscarves, which are generally called hijabs in the world. A woman in Islam must always cover her whole body, except for the face and hands — this is generally what is called a hijab. The old ladies in the photos are packed up exactly like that. The headscarf itself is also often called that around the world. As for the prevalence: once again, superstitious ignoramuses missed the mark completely. Hijabs are encountered very moderately in Turkey. Most women are dressed in a European style. Wrapped up all around are only the elderly and a special subspecies of the young — crazy religious fanatics, whom normal people tease by calling them cockroaches. I haven't tried it, to be fair. And the kind where absolutely only slits for the eyes are visible, we saw only a couple of times — in Istanbul. By the way, there are easy-to-understand pictures on the BBC website about the types of hijabs.
At the bazaar, we first bought some fruit, and then the special squad stocked up on döners (döner). Here I have to clarify a linguistic inaccuracy that everyone made during the trip, and indeed people often make in general. A döner is shawarma. Meaning just a flatbread or a bun sliced open, with meat and some veggies stuffed inside. In our parts, such a contraption is sometimes called a "kebab". Well, a kebab from the Turkish point of view (and the word is Turkish) is simply meat roasted on a spit using a special technique, while the finished product itself is called a döner kebab. All the nuances are quite well explained by the Russian Wikipedia. Obviously, a döner is a dish very similar to a sub or a wrap, but then again it's hard to come up with something highly original in such a simple matter — it was all invented many thousands of years BC. Shashlik, by the way, in case someone doesn't know, is shish kebab in Turkish.
The gang
Also at the bazaar, an underage beggar latched onto us, seemingly feeble-minded, judging by his looks. He trailed us relentlessly until some teenagers passing by told him to back off.
While we were standing and waiting for the food foragers, a skinny older woman approached and, straining her English skills with all her might, started inquiring where we were from. I explained to her and anyone else interested that we were from Latvia, but to do so I usually had to draw an imaginary map of Europe in the air, pointing out that Russia and Poland were nearby.
Then an imposing bearded guy with a DSLR came up, and informed us, albeit understandably but very, very quietly, that he was a local correspondent for the "Lapseki Gazette". The journalist snapped a pic of us, asked a bit about where we were coming from and heading to, and neatly vanished.
Then our comrades returned with the döners, and we calmly sat down on the waterfront near the ferry to grab a bite. I'm afraid of lying right now about how much the döner cost us, but the price was extremely moderate — I think something around 3 liras, which is about a lat. I lied to everyone upon arrival that it was 1 lira, but now it seems I remembered more accurately. However, out of this price, 1 lira is for ayran, the famous Eastern yogurt drink. So the sandwich itself costs two liras — 0.7 lats or just over a dollar. Its size, though, is gigantic — I barely finished it. Granted, more so because it was a bit on the dry side — not enough veggies, and I like more of them. But there were spices. Pepper, however, was not put in for us in Lapseki, nor in other places. They probably decided we were pampered tourists and it wasn't worth the risk. Basically, if you need pepper, just say "biber" and enjoy.
After lunch, we went in to buy ferry tickets at a price of about 1.5 liras. We were helped there by friendly security guards, who, despite not knowing English, bought the tickets for us. This, by the way, is yet another debunking of the myth about evil janissaries. I, truthfully, didn't know the word "half," so the guy had to write it down on a piece of paper. Learn Turkish, kids — if I go anywhere else, I'll study the language more thoroughly, especially if the country isn't English-speaking.
By the way, it's funny, but we exchanged money right at the ticket office where ferry tickets were sold, and both euros and dollars at that. The thing is, before that we only had the money we exchanged in Istanbul, and we hadn't come across any more exchange offices along the way yet. So keep this in mind, just in case. I finally got my own personal money and started feeling more stable (yet another newspaper cliché).
The sun, by the way, was shining with all its might, it had gotten very warm outside, and everyone was in a great mood. We didn't wait long for the ferry — it's strictly utilitarian and transport-oriented, runs often (once an hour, perhaps). The destination was Gelibolu (Gelibolu).