Places: The Journey of My Days, My Lives

by Penghlis, Thaao

  I moved on to America to find myself, away from all the influences that didn’t speak to me. It’s interesting how we always end up where we started. Without having thought about it before, I had come full circle with my ancestral past. And that’s when changes take place within.

  Reflecting on the day’s events on my way back to Istanbul, I wished my parents were alive to share my revelations: the spiritual places I had encountered and the influences of those that came before me. They both loved to travel, so within my heart I carried them on my journeys. I could hear them, speak to them, and their presence always brought me a feeling of being protected.

  The next day I prepared to visit the great church of Hagia Sophia, built during the reign of Byzantine Emperor Justinian the Great (527–565). My driver arrived at my hotel with the filthiest car I had ever seen. I was embarrassed and peeved. “You’re introducing me to your country in that?” He was a nervous young Turk effusive in his apologies. He promised to return as soon as possible with a better car. I hate hiccups on the road, but what would a foreign trip be without them? I waited patiently, keeping in mind that I was going to a magnificent church today to encounter new visions.

  Within fifteen minutes he was back with a new Mercedes. I was pleased, but the Greek in me kept thinking, There is something not kosher here. Right away I thanked him and asked if the price would change.

  “No, no, no,” he replied. “My uncle, a very generous man, is giving you his car, which costs five hundred dollars a day, for free. And he wants to meet you, to apologize before we go to Saint Sophia. Seriously, he is very upset, could you please help me?”

  My guard went up, I was suspect, and then it hit me and I smiled and said, “Does your uncle have a shop filled with carpets and many pieces of porcelain?”

  “Yes, how did you know?” he asked.

  “Psychic.” I replied. “A Greek and a Turk together? We don’t want history to repeat itself.”

  He looked at me blankly. “Because we are family now, our history is behind us,” I responded.

  Along the way I told him of my heritage, that our ancestors came from the same country. Maybe there was a Muslim mixed in there with a Christian. He laughed. This pleased him and so I was willing to go along with the game and meet with Uncle George, just for the experience. Besides, coming from an ancestry of merchants, I’m always happy to sharpen my tools.

  It was a beautiful shop, where salespeople smiled and shook my hand because they were fans of Mission: Impossible. They wanted to take photos together, but the young Turk was anxious to get me to his uncle’s office upstairs where he was waiting patiently.

  As I walked up the stairs I stopped to admire the beautiful blue and white porcelain that was on display. Uncle George was waiting at the top of the stairs and embraced me like a long-lost relative. I played along as a beautiful woman entered the space with a tray of desserts and Turkish coffee. The seduction began. The woman was all legs, displaying them through two slits on the side of her skirt. Every time she crossed her legs to purposely expose them, the uncle’s smile reflected his approval. I’m sure that would disappear quickly if there were no desired outcome. But it did have its effect, and temptation was in the air. Lucky me.

  Uncle George had already been on the Internet and got a quick grip on my history. “I love Greeks and, who knows, we could be related,” he shouted out, enthusiastically.

  He had seen photos of my house on the Internet and he loved the art, but the only thing missing, he said, were beautiful carpets to complement the collection. He went on with his soliloquy as merchant rug salesmen do. I had to finally interrupt, “Maybe it’s because rugs live on a floor and I walk over them.”

  “Oh, but wait, I have such treasures to share with you.” He snapped his fingers, bringing on the next show. Within seconds four men appeared with rugs hanging over their shoulders.

  “But I am not interested. I’m sorry, I don’t have the room,” fell on deaf ears.

  The rugs kept coming, and so did the special prices. I decided to sit back and go along with the game.

  The coffee and dessert were delicious and the seductress kept performing. Then finally the package came together. The beautiful vases I spotted on the way up, which they noted, were also thrown in the deal.

  “Twenty-three thousand dollars for the lot,” he said. “Listen, I give money to my village every month so they have bread. They are so poor, and it’s my responsibility to take care of them, that’s why I need to do business with you today.”

  What a touching story, I thought. Or was it part of his routine to seduce the potential client?

  I sat calmly for a while, revealing nothing. George was getting a little frustrated that I wasn’t responding. The seductress kept brushing her hand over my shoulder, reminding me that she could be part of the deal if I was smart. The rugs kept coming and the prices kept dropping, and my expression remained unreadable, just like a poker player. But inside I was laughing at all the “sincerity and love” being thrown my way, and at George who was now believing he was at the top of his game.

  Without a word I quickly threw him when I put my shoes back on to depart. He desperately kept interrupting with new proposals, but for me the folly was over. Without flinching I went right up to Uncle George, shook his hand and said, “The only space I have left is the closets, and that’s not a place to see art.” I thanked him for his enormous hospitality and said I would think about his offer, but after prayers at Hagia Sophia. I had to remind myself that I was still in need of his car, and it was important to leave him with the illusion of hope.

  The expression on his face revealed his disappointment, and I could see his mind swirling. I’m sure the free car was echoing in his head too. At this stage the game was costing him. I kissed the lady on both cheeks to be respectful and thanked her for the show. She was perplexed. When I walked down the stairs behind the young Turk with empty hands, the people who previously asked me for a photo now had their backs turned. I left without fanfare, a stark contrast to my arrival. But the Greek definitely won that round, riding in George’s luxurious car for free.

  First we went to the Hagia Sophia district and visited the Basilica Cistern, meaning “Sunken Palace,” an underground water complex built during the reign of Emperor Justinian in the 6th century. It took 7,000 slaves to construct it. I left my driver in the car sulking while I ventured to the water complex alone. I could hear classical music moaning from its depths as I walked down, and I discovered a four-piece orchestra playing violins to a Chopin concerto. It certainly added to the atmosphere of this mysterious waterhole.

  The lighting was magically displayed in many rich colors throughout the structure as I walked along the planks over the shallow water beneath me. There are hundreds of these cisterns in Turkey created to hold water during times of war. When I arrived at the other end I discovered a large head of Medusa carved upside down at the bottom of a column. The ripple of the water made her snaked hair come alive with great effect. Nearby lay another, engraved with raised pictures of a hen’s eye and slanted with tears. I read that the tears were a tribute to the hundreds of slaves who died during the construction in ancient times. It made it all the more effective with the music echoing in the background. As I continued through, I counted 336 columns of a marble forest that supported the ceiling of this enormous 9,800-square-meter complex. It originally held 80,000 cubic meters of water. What an atmosphere it created. Good place for a murder, I thought.

  The cisterns. (Author’s Collection)

  Hagia Sofia. (Author’s Collection)

  It was now on to Hagia Sophia, the Church of Holy Wisdom. This former Byzantine church was later converted into an Ottoman mosque, but today it is a museum. The architects of the church were Isidore and Anthemius, professors of geometry at the University of Constantinople. They were entrusted with the construction of the Cathedral and supervised one hundred master builders and ten thousand laborers. The finest materials were brought to Constantinople
from around the known world to create this masterpiece. Their work was a technical triumph and a great contribution to the heritage of mankind. It took almost six years to complete from 532–537 AD, and during the opening ceremony Emperor Justinian entered the cathedral and cried with pride. Remembering the Temple in Jerusalem he said, “Oh Solomon, I have surpassed thee.”

  Later earthquakes and invaders damaged the church, but after 1,500 years it still stands in all its glory as a magnificent monument of Byzantine Expressionism.

  While crossing the street I could hear the young Turk arguing intensely over the phone. It was probably a battle with Uncle George over the failed encounter with the Greek upstart. I left him behind and concentrated on this universally acknowledged church.

  Sophia’s riches can be seen not in Istanbul but in the treasury of St. Mark’s Basilica in Venice, stolen by Venetian looters in the 13th century. I proceeded up the stairwell to the higher gallery levels where the mostly restored icons are displayed. It was created that way so the Muslims did not have to confront the Christian imagery in the main chamber during prayer. Such stunning pieces of work, even with the damage done, cannot take away the power they still exude.

  I walked around exploring the beauty of its setting, especially the splendid Apse Mosaic depicting the Virgin and child and the Deesis Mosaic of the triumphant and kingly Christ. Outside the window I could see the beautiful Blue Mosque, which was strongly influenced by the style of this church. Hagia Sophia remained a mosque until 1931, and reopened in 1935 as a museum by the Republic of Turkey. But now the crowd of tourists came pouring in and it was time to go. The size of the crowds was overwhelming and the sounds deafening. I no longer felt I was on holy ground.

  Still, with its rose-colored walls and its beautifully designed dome, the Basilica is an impressive work of architecture—and how amazing that it still stands after so many earthquakes. It was the shape of its octagonal structure that helped balance and preserve it through the centuries. When I walked through its many halls I could not believe the grandiosity of the dome at its center, over one hundred feet wide and fifty-five feet high. The only distraction was the enormous calligraphic roundels hanging on the piers. They were added to the church, eight in all, in the middle of the 19th century, bearing the names of Allah, Mohammed and the first four Caliphs. I found them a distraction, because they didn’t belong to the original expression of this sacred place, the first masterpiece of Byzantine architecture. The ancient Christians would have wept over this ugly imposition. When we add our beliefs to a different culture, we intrude upon its initial vision and deny its rightful expression, but it’s called history, no matter how ugly the intrusion.

  It was in 1453 that the Ottoman Turks, under the Sultan Mehmed II, conquered Constantinople, the “New Rome.” He ordered the cathedral converted into his Imperial Mosque that lasted for over five hundred years. All things pertaining to Christianity, icons, bells and the altar were removed and the mosaics plastered over due to the Islamic prohibition of iconic imagery. But today some of its original art has been uncovered and the golden mosaics of yesteryear are shining brightly again.

  Outside the cathedral the young Turk was waiting for me, but this time there was a smile on his face. Intuitively I thought he had another plan up his sleeve. The bidding game was not over. I asked him to take me back to my hotel. When we arrived I thanked him for his generosity, but he kept walking along with me into the foyer when his cell phone rang. No surprise, it was his Uncle George and he needed to speak with me urgently.

  The young Turk smiled and handed me his phone. “Do you remember the village I spoke to you about earlier that I support? Well, I had forgotten and the payment is due tomorrow. I will make you a deal that could kill me, but it’s for charity,” the uncle blurted out.

  “No, don’t say that, but how sweet of you to call,” I replied.

  Now that he had my attention I listened passively to his aria. He went on about the rug and vases, and he was willing to bring the price down to ten thousand dollars due to the emergency that had arisen.

  “Only ten thousand dollars?” I said with disbelief.

  The nephew who was listening put his hand across his mouth in disbelief, “Oh, my God, he has never done that before, and he must really like you.”

  I put my hand across my heart and whispered, “I am touched.”

  I told Uncle George that I would be interested at that price. Enthusiastically he said he would pick me up at noon tomorrow and after completing the deal he would personally take me to lunch. I pretended to be moved, while he was probably rubbing his hands in delight. Beaming, the young Turk left to receive congratulations from his relatives.

  The concierge who was listening to our conversation called me over to his desk. “But Mr. Penghlis, have you forgotten that you’re leaving in the morning for Cappadocia?

  “Yes,” I said smiling.

  “But you won’t be here when they come to pick you up.”

  “I know, that’s the idea.”

  He laughed his head off. “You are a killer.”

  “True, my merchant ancestry would’ve been proud,” I replied.

  I went up to my room to pack without any guilt. Happily, I left in the early morning to catch my plane to a new adventure, an hour’s flight outside of Istanbul. The travel agents dropped me off at the airport, but unceremoniously did not escort me in as they usually do. I was really tired and I had forgotten to get my schedule from the agents. When I looked up at the boards I saw five planes leaving for Cappadocia.

  But which flight was mine? I eventually stood in each of the five lines to get a boarding pass. By this time I was afraid I was going to miss my flight. I had visions that I had to go back to Istanbul and discover Uncle George, distressed, waving his sword at me. Fortunately the hour flight to Cappadocia went smoothly, and when I arrived my guide was there waiting for me. He turned out to be a very charming and informative man with a good grasp of the history of Cappadocia.

  We traveled for an hour until out of nowhere I viewed one of the most amazing physical countryside landscapes I’d ever seen. It was formed millions of years ago by volcanic forces, creating a soft porous rock called tuff.

  Through erosion, it created the most wonderful “fairy chimneys” and other remarkable formations, giving Cappadocia its unique and unusual physicality. It was in the 1st century AD that Christians began inhabiting these geological marvels and, oh my, did they leave their mark. Due to the soft nature of the rock, they were able to create houses and churches. Carving through the stone, they created furniture within the rock and painted magnificent images of Byzantine icons inside the church’s walls. They stood like sculptures in a museum, providing its inhabitants with a fairy-tale image. Although in reality it was a serious life held together by faith.

  I went crazy taking photographs of the air balloons above me, floating effortlessly across nature’s magical kingdom. I marveled at it all. I would have loved to have flown over all of this, and seen it from God’s eye, but having survived two balloon crashes in Egypt, I was not so ambitious that day. Besides, I was under contract with NBC and I had to be responsible—money more than life, you know.

  Inside Hagia Sophia, Istanbul. (Author’s Collection)

  I went back into the houses and churches to get a feeling of the ancient life, noting that the frescoes on the church walls revealed the importance of their faith and salvation in this tormented land. It was still a breathtaking sight, conquered by many aggressive civilizations through its 2,000-year existence. I wondered why all of the structures were empty of human life? Where had they disappeared? Were they conquered and dispersed?

  Cappadocia. (Author’s Collection)

  My guide remarked that these spellbinding rocks, which had sheltered the persecuted for so many centuries, were just as dangerous to live in as fighting their worst enemy. I was shocked to hear that for generations the villagers had suffered painful deaths, known throughout the region as the “Agony of Kar
ain.” It was diagnosed as a cancer epidemic, caused by the pale yellow rock that inhabits the region. The entire population of Karain and its nearby villages were evacuated and it was declared a disaster area.

  “So what are we doing here?” I said half-jokingly.

  “One day is not going to hurt you,” said my guide. “But let’s move on to another village with a different, but equally evocative landscape.”

  Cappadocia has many small villages and every one with a different face. Within twenty minutes we arrived at our next destination. Here the formations resembled a sea of giant penises. Obviously they did not bother the Christians. Some of them stood sixty feet high, with soaring entrances to protect them from the enemy. I climbed up the stairs and walked into this fantasy-looking house and watched through my mind’s eye thinking about how simply these people lived.

  I found the spaces they created for burial most unusual because they were inside the outer edge of the house walls. They actually kept the family together in this claustrophobic space. But to them it was home, and certainly no house taxes had to be paid. As I stood at the opening, observing what the neighborhood of the time must have been like, I laughed at the image of a bunch of chatty chimneys, screaming across at each other with the latest gossip.

  Next my guide suggested we explore another environment lying on the other side of the hill. We climbed up to the sandy top where I was surprised to discover hundreds of small grape vines packed with fruit on the flatlands below. The birds migrated from the farmlands and dropped the grape seeds onto the sandy soil; the result is a life surviving wildly on its own. The texture of the steep slope was a bleached, sandy terrain, hardened by the elements with not a tree in sight. I was tempted to taste those wild grapes growing in the land of my ancestors.