A gilded mahogany table stands incongruously on the Parisian platform. The Venice Simplon Orient Express slows, its blur of white lamp shades coming into focus. It receives red roses and white trays of strawberries from behind the table for those "blithely breakfasting" on board.
It is this iconic train journey that has inspired our route by ordinary rail. We feel like a tribute band who halfway through the tour, witness our heroes nonchalantly pass by.
The last breakfast of our month-long expedition is on a rooftop restaurant in Istanbul, overlooking the Bosphorus. We are joined by a seagull who looks as stuffed as the red glistening peppers at the table.
The Bosphorus still “spills” as much “ordinary plenty” now in the summer of 2016 as it did our last visit three years ago. Slate grey rock armour is punctuated by stone beehives housing men breakfasting on olives and tomatoes. A bather carries coals in a pot for poaching his eggs. A kettle whistles from a faded blue canopy, drowning the sound of men giggling girlishly as they are carried by force downstream.
Violence
Recent violence is mirrored in ancient images which vie for attention on the walls of Haggia Sophia. Christian symbols are overpainted with Islamic art; the evangelists morphed clumsily into Daedalus-like deities.
Previously we had joined multitudinous queues to see sites; now we are like A-listers with access -all-areas passes. Blue Mosque guardians provide me with a floor-length blue skirt – or you might call it a string-drawn sack.
Sitting in silence in the women’s area, I am handed a brochure and encouraged to ask questions. I have plenty but ask none.
Tense
The atmosphere in the city is tense. Terrorist attacks have taken a heavy toll – the restaurant terraces are empty. You can hear it in the voices of the owners pleading for custom with cries of “You looking thirsty and hungry”, “Your table awaits you” or “Here, no-calorie food”.
“Why do you come here? Are you not afraid?” we are asked by a restaurant owner, reminded of his own three-year-old when he sees our boy as sleepy as his restaurant.
My husband tells him about living in Belfast during the Troubles and how bread continued to be bought on streets while glass crunched underfoot.
We return to an open-air restaurant by the Blue Mosque where little swirls of sweet smoke linger from the shisha pipes and trays of multicoloured Turkish teas clink.
It is comforting to see the same whirling dervish from three years ago still spinning in his simple white flaring skirt and tan brown hat to the sound of mournful music and the clatter of the falling dice.
