ON TURKEY, GREECE & MALTA
If you’ll recall from the ON EGYPT post, in January of 2025, my department was eliminated. While I wasn’t eliminated, I was rehomed into a role that was an immediate and resounding no thank you.
From January through June, I was deep in the job-search trenches. (One day, ask me about the company that put me through seven interviews, three personality tests, eleven essay questions, and an onsite to their annual conference in Park City, only to tell me two days later they’d decided not to hire for the position after all.)
Then, on a fateful Wednesday morning, I was finally offered a job I wanted. I accepted, went for a walk to clear my head, came home, and bought a plane ticket to Istanbul (to date, the most expensive plane ticket I’ve ever purchased).
On Thursday morning, I resigned. That evening, I boarded the aforementioned flight to Istanbul. For those of you keeping score, that’s a 24-hour turnaround between booking and boarding. As luck (fate? the economy?) would have it, Quintin had just been laid off, so his calendar was also perfectly clear.
With exactly two weeks between my resignation and my start date, and 24 hours of planning, we threw together the best escapade we could.
Quintin and I visited Istanbul on the Radical Sabbatical™, and it was one of those cities we knew we’d return to. This time, we stayed in a different area of the city, but we essentially replayed the greatest hits.
Turkish Breakfast remains unmatched: a leisurely, decadent, delicious spread that begs you to sit a still.
We did another all-day food tour with Culinary Backstreets (the undisputed GOATs of walking food tours), this time in Kurtuluş. Once a predominantly Greek and Armenian neighborhood, Kurtuluş offers a peek into life outside of the tourist hubbub. A memorable bit was a store selling every variation of pickled goods, including pickled almonds. Honestly, not great!
In keeping with the theme of food, we returned to the site of our most memorable meal from our first trip and were thrilled to discover that nothing had changed. People were still smoking indoors, the servers were still happy to theatrically explain every dish, and the old men dining next to us were more than pleased to accept our leftover rakı when we left.
Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque remain utterly unmatched in grandeur. One night while walking home, the nighttime call to prayer began, and the Muezzin engaged in a “call and response” in which one Muezzin (Hagia Sophia) would play part I of the prayer and then the other Muezzin (Blue Mosque) would play part II. The mosques are across the plaza from one another so it was essentially a call and response that escalated to the Muezzin trying to outdo each other. Quintin was in heaven and if he could have placed an online bet on who would “out prayer” the other, I’m sure he would have.
A new experience was visiting the Princes' Islands, a set of islands just off the coast of Istanbul where rich people have vacation homes. The islands are touristy and the islands are also stunning. We rented clunky bikes and pedaled past Victorian-era wooden mansions—some meticulously restored, others charmingly dilapidated—with pine trees framing views of the shimmering Sea of Marmara.
I left Istanbul, once again, excited to someday return and explore more of Turkey.
When we asked our guides who the most famous Turk is:
İsse, our food tour guide, said Mustafa Kemal Atatürk
Alp, who showed us around the islands, said Mustafa Kemal Atatürk and Recep Tayyip Erdoğan.
From Istanbul, we jetted over to Athens. I’d describe Athens as a gritty, interesting, European city. My impression is that Athens is a more fun place to live than to be a tourist.
It won’t shock you to hear we did another all-day food tour (eternal shouts to Culinary Backstreets). We also did a sunset bike ride. Zipping up to the Panathenaic Stadium (the only stadium in the world built entirely of marble), gliding past the ancient Temple of Olympian Zeus, and weaving through the National Garden as the sky turned pink made the city’s endless history feel thrillingly accessible (the heat had also subsided which added to the appeal).
Before the biking tour, we visited the Parthenon and on the walk out, Quintin declared that “antiquities are overrated” and he’s “just not that interested in old, crumbling rocks.” It was honestly music to my ears and I could not agree more, but I never thought my history professor husband would have such a common opinion.
We did, however, go to the Temple of Poseidon at Cape Sounion for sunset one night, and I’ll tell you… those were some stunning old, crumbling rocks.
The answers to “the most famous Greek” were wonderfully varied.
Rea, our bike tour guide, said the poet George Seferis and opera singer Maria Callas, with special shout-outs to Giannis Antetokounmpo and George Papanicolaou (the physician for whom the Pap Smear is named).
Constantine, our food guide, answered “Tina Fey” with conviction, before a diatribe about how Giannis is the pride of the nation.
Theo, who took me shopping, said Giannis, Maria Callas, and Homer. Eclectic group..
From Athens, we journeyed to the small, sun-bleached island of Malta.
Because EYE have only ever known one person to travel to Malta, EYE thought Malta would be less crowded than its “more touristed” counterparts like the Greek Isles & Sicily. EYE was out of touch.
We went to Malta on a weekend, in the height of summer and for anybody reading this blog thinking of visiting Malta at a time like this, allow me to dissuade you. The island was PACKED with European weekenders plus cruise ship day-trippers. The main drag in Valletta was literally shoulder-to-shoulder.
Might I recommend visiting in the shoulder season.
Our hotel was on one of the two busiest streets in Valletta. Like you know when you walk by a street and think, “omg thank god I’m not staying there?” and then you keep walking? That was our street. A club rager downstairs lasted until 2 AM, and the ensuing shenanigans continued until we left for breakfast the next morning. My nerves.
Moreover, not a single bus got us where we needed to go. Thank god for Bolt, T-Mobile international roaming and a fluid schedule (but is it ever really fluid with a type-a, virgo, eldest daughter?!?!?!)
With the scene set and the “disasters” accepted, allow me to change my tune. Malta is an absolutely FEAST for the eyes.
The honey-colored limestone architecture is unforgettable, especially at sunset when the entire city is set alight. At the Upper Barrakka Gardens, we saw two older residents standing on their balconies, chatting across the space between their apartments, smoking cigarettes, and drinking coffee. I could not have written it.
The history of Malta is also fascinating. Every major Mediterranean power, from the Phoenicians to the British, has left a mark (read: conquered Malta). We learned about The Knights of Saint John, a medieval Catholic military order that still exists today, issuing their own passports and coins without actually ruling a country. You can have a Knight of St. John passport…but it’s a passport to nowhere, they rule no land (does this fall into the same category as Lewis Hamilton being an "honorary" citizen of Brazil?)
After a few days meandering through the various towns (Mdina! Highlight! Serves as Paros and Kings Landing in Game of Thrones) we went to a popular, crescent-moon-shaped sandy beach to pass the day, relaxing in the sun. It was decidedly not relaxing.
It was the most I’ve ever seen lifeguards jump into the water to pull people out (no lie, every 30 minutes). When I saw the adult women in front of me wading in with inflatable water wings, I knew they were senseless morons. Who sees lifeguards performing multiple rescues and then enters the sea with skills so poor you need floaties? I didn’t take my eyes off Quintin, who was forbidden from going in deeper than his calves, all day. I wouldn’t call it a serene beach day, but it was… memorable.
Our farewell to Malta was a perfect epilogue. We showed up to the airport for our 4AM flight, hardly coherent. What we found was an airport of also hardly coherent boys (read: young men) who had clearly come straight from the clubs. They were ordering Heinekens (!) at the airport kiosk (!), telling the workers, “Thanks! Have a good night!” as if the ladies were closing down a bar, not starting the morning shift. (we do appreciate the manners, though.)
About three minutes after I clocked what was going on, someone started playing the public airport piano. When he finished, the whole place erupted into claps and polite shouts of “Bravoooo! BRAAAAVOOOOO!” as if we were at the opera, not gate B12, where everyone was about to wake up after a two-hour flight with the worst collective hangover of their lives.
It was a very last minute, somewhat shoddily planned trip that served the exact purpose it was supposed to – putting the first half of the year behind me, closing the chapter on my former place of employment, and ushering in a new chapter refreshed (or at least….grateful to have visited somewhere new!)
