The journey took twelve hours door to door, and I arrived towards midnight, feeling distinctly limp.
I took my time driving to Marseille, but luckily I had left lots of time before checking in. I needed it, as it took 40 minutes to deal with parking. I had prereserved in a long-term car park, referred to as P7. After three circuits of a complex network of roundabouts, still no sign of P7 – just P1, P2, P3 and P4 – I finally spoke in the intercom of one of these to get directions, by which time I was fizzing.
P7 was of course the furthest end to terminal 1, where my blood pressure was not improved by incredibly long queues to check in and then to get through security. The actual journey calmed me down: Turkish Airline staff were good and we were served a free meal and drinks (bit different from the money grubbing on Easyjet).
Istanbul Airport was very modern, but the scene outside the baggage area reminded me of India, with a chaotic mixture of taxi drivers and touts.
Luckily I had prebooked and drove to my hotel in solitary state in an eight seater, and paid half what appears the going rate. My first night-time impression of Istanbul was of avenues of ultra modern blocks, until we reached the old historic center where I was staying.
i collapsed in my comfortable but too warm bedroom, relieved to have arrived