by Lynne Martin
We dozed for a while and rose to start the day-one routine we had established in Buenos Aires. Tim hurried down to the little market on the corner (it seems it was never closed) to get coffee and breakfast basics and to reconnoiter their wares while I inspected our new digs. The views were even more stunning in the daytime. In one direction, the sea sparkled beyond ancient red-tiled rooftops. In the other, the sinuous golden onion-shaped top of the Blue Mosque gleamed in the sun. The apartment was immaculate and the Internet worked perfectly, fulfilling two of our major requirements.
Only the bathroom presented a challenge. I had been too tired to notice the night before, but it was one of those curtain-less jobs, not uncommon in Europe, in which the entire room is the shower. The bather must remove everything from the countertop, secure the toilet paper in a safe location, and throw his or her garments out the bathroom door into the living room. After someone enjoys a shower, the entire room, especially the floor, had to be dried with a large squeegee provided by management. The idea was that the naked, shivering bather would shove the water into a drain in the middle of the floor. Not fun. Every morning, we indulged in subtle jockeying about who would be first in. The last one out would dance with the squeegee.
Soon we were strolling up the tree-lined street toward the Blue Mosque. Small shops opened in the bright morning light, scarf-covered mothers herded their children to school, and outdoor cafés filled with Turkish men drinking tea, smoking, and chatting. The low brick buildings reminded us of the East Village in New York, but with a colorful twist. Jewel-toned textiles were everywhere. Rugs, coats, jackets, sunshades, and furniture were bathed in vibrant shades of red, ochre, blue, and green. We sniffed the rich aromas of coffee, baking pastry, and meats searing over charcoal. Some of the savory whiffs came from the apartments, but more from the small restaurants and cafés. Boys with brass trays full of steaming pots, richly decorated tea glasses, and plates heaped with pastries darted through the streets, delivering breakfast to the shopkeepers. It was a busy scene, and everyone seemed to be in a great mood. People laughed and chatted as if they had all day to entertain each other. As it turned out, it was true.
Most of the Turkish people we met would drop everything to engage in lively conversations with us about anything from the weather to the sad state of American politics. We Americans may associate Turkey with its ancient sites, turquoise beaches, textiles, spices, minarets, and palaces, but its true treasure is the people. They are sweet, clever, accommodating, and hilarious. Someone cracked us up at least once a day, even when we didn’t understand each other very well. Language is no problem when everyone tries hard to communicate.
We entered the magnificent open space that links the Blue Mosque to the Hagia Sophia, the monumental Orthodox patriarchal church, now a museum, and finally ends at Topkapi Palace, the primary residence of Ottoman sultans for four hundred years. All three structures sit upon a huge elevated flat plaza, which gives them the commanding position great monuments deserve. “Oh God, Tim, you’ve told me for so long that I would love this place, but I had no idea how magnificent it is,” I said as I spun around, trying to take it all in.
“So glad you like it,” he beamed. Presenting a magnificent city to someone you love is one of life’s great pleasures, the best gift imaginable. “And I’m not surprised at all!”
When we reached the Blue Mosque entrance, silent women wrapped a floor-length piece of fabric around my waist and closed it with Velcro tabs. Every non-Muslim woman in the mosque wore a blue skirt. I heard each person who stepped inside involuntarily make a sound—a gasp, a sigh, a small “wow.” It was impossible not to be impressed with the dome that soared hundreds of feet into the sky, covered in millions of mosaic tiles. Stained-glass windows cast an otherworldly light over the enormous space, and a golden altar gleamed on one side. Smaller domes surrounded the larger one, and people at prayer knelt where we were not allowed to walk. The space was carpeted in Chinese red with a blue floral design, and huge lighted candelabra had been brought down to human level. The colors and light were ravishing. I was in utter awe.
“So, what do you think?” Tim whispered with grin. He knew I was too moved to speak…a miracle in itself.
I said nothing. I couldn’t.
After such a moving experience, naturally we were starved. We chose a small, attractive restaurant we had noticed that morning on our way to the mosque. We were seated quickly, and comfortable chairs, colorful crisp linens, and beautiful pottery set the stage for one of the best meals I can remember. Turkish food, like most Mediterranean fare, is heavy on olive oil, lamb, fish, nuts, and yogurt. All of those ingredients appeared on our table, artfully prepared and graciously served. I loved the first course of hot yogurt soup with dried mint and lemon, but the star of the meal was the dessert: walnut-stuffed figs poached in clove syrup! The waiter, the owner, and his wife, the chef, entertained us with wonderful tales and snappy patter. Fortified and happy, we set off for more discoveries.
When we arrived at the famous Topkapi Palace that afternoon, we ran into a long, slow-moving ticket line. That put us off immediately. Call us impatient, but waiting is agony for us, and the microscopic inspection of every site does not interest us too much. We are really not very good tourists. While we appreciate the history of the places we visit and study before we are on the ground to see them, we just aren’t the kind who must read every plaque and pore over each item or painting in a museum. We’d rather appreciate the monument or museum as a whole, then dip into the things that are of interest to us. At our age, we also have to take into consideration our stamina. That and the fact that, whether we like it or not, our energy and our time on the planet are finite. While we discussed our options, an enterprising guide, who twinkled with practiced enthusiasm, told us that he would help us skip the line and see the highlights of the palace in one hour. Just our style.
Tim and the man negotiated a price that wasn’t too outrageous. “How many people will be on the tour?” he asked.
“Eight.”
Tim looked around. No one there but us. “Where are they?”
“Stand right under that tree, and I’ll go get them,” the fellow replied.
We watched as he walked along the queue of tourists shuffling slowly along. Within five minutes, he recruited another six people, scooted into a side door of the ticket booth where he procured eight passes, and led us on our way. Evidently there were other people who favored an overview like us! Impressed by his efficiency, we were even more delighted with his tour. He was well informed, articulate, and entertaining. We saw the highlights, drank in the stunning views of Istanbul and the Golden Horn, marveled at the crown jewels, and then we were back “home” enjoying a cocktail in our plastic terrace chairs before sunset.
***
We loved every minute of Istanbul. In contrast to our experience in Buenos Aires, we were having the time of our lives and feeling very grateful that our homefree adventure was all we had hoped for. Well, we loved almost every minute, except one cold, spluttery day when we decided to find the ancient Spice Market. We inspected our map and knew it wasn’t too far to walk, so even though it was late afternoon, we decided to make the trek. After a few blocks, though, we realized we had gone astray. The street wasn’t even on our map, so we asked a shopkeeper lounging in his doorway to set us straight. He pointed in the opposite direction, and we followed his instructions. This happened several more times. The last person we asked assured us that we were just moments away from our goal. Instead, we became more confused with each encounter.
The splutter grew thicker. Just when the skies opened, we realized we had walked much too far to scurry home for cover. There was no possibility of catching one of the taxis whizzing by, loaded up as they were with bedraggled people escaping the monsoon. Meanwhile, since the bus system was a mystery to us, there was no hope there. In moments, we were soaked up to our knees and as lost as we have ever been.
After forty-five minutes walking in our search for
the bazaar, we were parched, wet, exhausted, and very irritated. We ducked into a little restaurant for shelter and ordered drinks. The place reeked of steaminess and wet clothes and hair. When the rain finally let up, we paid the waitress and asked for directions to the Blue Mosque, our landmark for our way home. She was a little salty since we hadn’t ordered food, and brusquely pointed over our shoulders. “Right there,” she said.
We stepped outside, annoyed. “I know she’s lying,” I said angrily. “We couldn’t possibly be that close to home. We’ve walked miles!”
Tim clutched our damp map, turning it this way and that, trying to make sense of it. “Of course not,” he mumbled. “That would mean we’ve been sloshing around in a circle.”
But when we reached the corner, we looked up to see those damned seagulls flying in their endless circle around the golden spire! The waitress hadn’t let us down. We staggered down the street, laughing like lunatics at our grumpiness. (Some guy waiting for customers in his shop door said, not unkindly, “Have you been dranking?” To this day when one of us has a laughing fit the other asks, “Have you been dranking?”) Five minutes later, we stood in our apartment, wringing out our jeans. We still haven’t figured out how we managed it.
We finally found the Spice Market the next day. For this foodie, it felt like Mecca. Just outside the market under a colorful tent is an enormous plant nursery. The scent of fresh herbs and edible flowers sweetened the air, and then we turned the corner into the vast hall of the market itself. The combined fragrances—saffron, curry, mustard, vanilla, and dates—swirled up into the vast arched ceiling as hundreds of people filled the wide corridors, their chatter and the vendors’ calls rising and falling like a tide. Ground spices were displayed in great piles in each merchant’s stall, and as we browsed it was difficult to be content with only photos to take away.
Had we succumbed to our desires and taken some along, our clothes would have been forever permeated with spicy reminders of that afternoon.
We also found the Grand Bazaar, where four thousand stalls house an abundance of fabulous clothes, jewelry, food, textiles, and treasures. That market is even more elaborate and exotic, its ceilings and walls completely covered in exquisite tiles, enormous flags hanging from its train-station-size ceilings. The colors, textures, and intensity of the crowd were breathtaking. So abundant were the wares that we again walked away empty-handed. Two Librans are hopeless and helpless when presented with that many decisions.
Istanbul’s wondrous delights were capped by the Hagia Sophia, rising at the other end of the mall from the Blue Mosque. It presents the perfect synthesis of the Ottoman and Byzantine empires under one enormous dome. An Eastern Orthodox cathedral built in AD 537, it was briefly a Roman Catholic cathedral from 1204–1261 and became a mosque in 1453 after the Turks conquered Constantinople. In 1935 it became a museum. It would be impossible to describe the profound effect of the colossal building. We gaped, openmouthed, at its marble walls and magnificent dome, with forty windows below it letting the sunshine stream into the huge expanse. It has withstood time and earthquakes and has been fascinating art historians, architects, and engineers through the centuries.
Grandeur always makes us hungry, so we went to look for lunch. Walking down from the mesa of architectural treasures, we found ourselves in Akbiyik Caddesi, the tourist street, which runs through the middle of the old section of town, anchored by the Four Seasons Hotel at the more refined end. The hotel was very discreetly marked and guarded by gentlemen who did not invite a casual inspection by peasants like ourselves. At the other end stood the neighborhood where real people like the Martins spend their nights in Istanbul. Sidewalk cafés of every description jammed the intervening blocks, filled by day with German, American, Asian, Scandinavian, and other tourists of all ages. Later in the evening, raucous young people enjoyed beer from enormous self-serve canisters, laughing and puffing away on colorful hookahs, water pipes, which are provided at every table. Usually, Tim and I are satisfied with being mature, and we consider ourselves fortunate to have negotiated life’s pitfalls and come out whole at the end. In Istanbul, however, we wished we could plop down, order a beer tube, and grab a hookah while laughing and swapping stories with twenty-five-year-olds. I’m sure we would have enjoyed it for at least ten minutes or so.
Instead, we settled in for lunch in a typical spot, an indoor/outdoor bistro with bright umbrellas and small tables. They all served kebabs, rice, eggplant/tomato purée, pillowy pita, and honey-laden fruit and pastry desserts. We were fascinated to see people puffing away on flavored tobacco filtered through the water in the container!
Several courses later we ambled down toward the water. Small shops line the streets in the old section of Istanbul, and their owners hang out in front, offering their wares with the most ingenious come-ons they can muster. One rug guy said to me, “Oh, come on, just give me your money,” while a man on a street where we walked every day finally said, “Good morning, I’ve been waiting for you!” They’re persistent and good-natured, which helps them sell a lot of gorgeous rugs to the tourists. Since we are permanently on the road, we do not collect anything except photos and memories, but we certainly enjoyed fondling the merchandise and having great fun with the enterprising shopkeepers. Even people who don’t own stores find ways to relieve tourists of their money, especially around the big attractions. I saw one fellow sitting on a stool selling a stack of satin hats. He was dressed in full sultan regalia, looking completely authentic, except for the cell phone stuck to his ear. Moments like that were exactly what made us want to be home free! In that instant the fellow with the hats became indelibly part of our lives, a person we will remember forever. It’s those little impressions that add up to a world full of magic.
***
Every day as we left our house, we passed a small tour office. We began a nodding acquaintance with Remzi, the slender, balding owner who seemed to be there all the time, chatting with people who stopped in to have a glass of tea with him. Remzi spoke good English and knew everything about having a good time in Turkey. His assistant was a big, smiling bearded fellow who wore the same T-shirt every day. One afternoon as we perused photos of Turkey’s Turquoise Coast in his window display, Remzi invited us in for tea. An hour later, we knew the names of his grandchildren, in what part of Chicago his brother lived, and his thoughts on the coming U.S. presidential election. One other thing: we booked a very expensive daylong boat tour along the Bosporus. The boat tour proved pleasant enough, but not nearly as entertaining as Remzi himself, and our burgeoning friendship with him made the expense worthwhile. We still correspond, and hope to return to buy a four-day sailboat tour of that Turquoise Coast. “Just give me a call and it will all be arranged perfectly,” he said the day we left. I believed him.
We swung into our time-to-move hustle on our last day in Istanbul. We still wanted to see several sights in the city, and we’d begun staging our belongings for an early flight the next day to Izmir, in the heart of Turkey. Tim left the apartment and walked out onto the terrace, where he watched an enormous cruise ship plow its way toward the ocean. I’m always the last one to be ready and I hate making anyone wait, so I quickly grabbed my purse and pulled the apartment door closed behind me. “All set,” I said. “Where shall we have lunch?”
“Let’s go back to that terrific place where we had that yogurt soup,” he replied. “I’ll be right with you.” He stepped into the hallway and grasped the knob of the apartment door. “Looks like you’ve already locked it,” he said. “Let me have the keys, please. I need to get my other glasses.”
“I don’t have the keys.” I was slightly alarmed.
His brow wrinkled. “How did you lock the door without the key?”
“I just pulled it shut and it must have locked itself,” I said defensively.
“Oh brother.” Turning slowly, he gripped the handle of the door that opened to the stairway. It was locked, too. We hadn’t left the apartment all day. “Why in the world d
id you pull it shut? I had just stepped outside. I wasn’t ready to go yet,” he said rather sharply.
I shot back, “Well, excuse me, mister, but when you went outside and had your bag with you, I assumed you were ready to leave, and that you had the keys with you as always.”
We walked away from the doors in chilly silence to review our options. We stood on a third-floor terrace at noon with little shelter, about half an inch of water in a plastic bottle, and no way to get into our apartment or leave the building. We sat down in the plastic chairs, which we’d pushed into the sliver of shade offered by the building. “Look,” I said. “I have my iPhone and it’s still connected to Wi-Fi, so I can send the owner an email and ask him to help us.”
“Good idea.” Now calm, he looked slightly apologetic for having snarled at me.
I sent the email and we waited. And waited. No reply. We considered yelling down to the store to get help, but we knew we couldn’t explain ourselves to the Turkish-speaking fellow who was on duty. Besides, it would be embarrassing to shout our stupidity from the rooftops, so we waited some more. After sitting in silence for about fifteen minutes, inching our chairs ever closer to the wall to escape the hot sun, Tim said, “Hey, you have Skype on your phone. Try calling him.”
The owner answered immediately. I explained our problem and he said he’d send Kubilay and a locksmith as soon as possible. We offered to pay for the mistake, but he said he wouldn’t hear of it. He told us it had happened before, which eased our humiliation. Somewhat.