TURKEY
April 19, 2018 to April 24, 2018
2018-04-19
YEREVAN VIA ATHENS TO ISTANBUL
It’s
our 8th airport since leaving Ft. Lauderdale 24 days ago.
At
2 am Armenia's Yerevan International is a hassle-free scurry. We change planes
in Athens, and by 10 am are flinging our packs into friend Zeki's car outside
Arrivals at Istanbul's Attaturk International in front of the memorial to the
many people killed in the bombing there 2 years ago.
Zeki
has been a friend since he welcomed us to Hotel Peninsula 6 or 7 years ago.
We’ve lost track of how many times we've returned to our favorite city since
then. He now has a wife, 3-year old son, and a new wholesale textile business.
We, as he and partner Bariş point out, are still wearing the same clothes we
were wearing the first time they met us. (True. But, our Travel Drag makes up
in convenience what it lacks in variety. And we do wash it. See below.)
At
the new shop, the guys glue fabric to sample cards while we catch up…and scour
Aegean Airlines breakfast glop from our taste buds with fresh crusty baguette,
cheese, yoghurt, butter, olives, and Turkish tea, our solvent of choice. Three
glasses is the custom. We lose count. Bladders do not.
By
noon we’ve met Gani and Aziz at the front desk and are setting up camp for 5
days in Sultan Hotel (unpacking takes 3.5 minutes), dealing with all that tea
(ditto), and fighting heavy eye lids (they win, ditto, again).
By
5 we drop off Armenia Travel Drag to Rachep at the local washerie, turn away
from the Sea of Marmara, cut diagonally across the neighborhood mini-park past
kids playing in the fountain, and thread up the steep slope to the tram line in
Sultanahmet. The houses are old, the streets as convoluted and twisted as the
history of this most engrossing of cities. This is a new neighborhood for us.
We take notes: pomegranate juice stand there, kebab place next door, general
store (we get a bar of bath soap), more restaurants further up the street.
At
the top of the hill of Sultanahmet we are in old ground, anchored by the
minarets of the Blue Mosque and Aya Sofia, two of Morher Earth's glories. At
one end of the park that links them is ‘the world’s largest tulip painting', a
floral reproduction of a Turkish carpet in stiff-necked tulips, now almost
ready to give in to the warming weather and lie down til next year.
We
follow the tram line down off the hill towards the Golden Horn.
The
Istanbul trams are superb, but riding through these streets is punishing
self-denial. Walking is ambrosia-ed hedonism, my kind. We skirt the shops
selling baklava in all its possible forms, stacks of tulip-hued Turkish
Delight, lokantasi (cafeterias) with trays of improbably beautiful foods, women
rolling out thin strips of dough, wrapping them around greens, garlic, cheese
and baking them briefly crisp, pungent.
We
walk on. We have even better things in store.
Husseyn,
Ihsan, and Metin, the chef, grab and hug us. We're 7 stories up on a rooftop
with a 270 -degree view from the Golden Horn, to the Bosporus, sweeping across
what may be the world's most evocative city scape. Not even this, and the
minarets struck golden by the sun, can upstage this greeting.
We
met Husseyn and Ihsan 6 or 7 years ago when they hustled into the restaurant
where they worked and where Metin practiced his culinary sorcery. Our taste
buds and growing affection have followed them through several job, as a set and
separate. They are together again at Roof Mezes, a move up for them and out of price
range for us. They know it. ‘No problem’, winks Ihsan. The appetizers, tea,
heaven-inspired dessert have no home on the bill. Our appetite for Metin’s
sublime chunks of marinated chicken on a bed of eggplant purée is now the stuff
of legend. It's not on the menu but appears anyway. Hugely discounted. Huseyn
delivers katmer, ice cream sealed in
a thin warm crepe. And winks, Selfies seal the night. We'll return in a few
days.
Thus,
Istanbul has welcomed us.
2018-04-20
ISTANBUL DAY 1
Delores
(Spain), and Maria (Peru), are up for it.
Sisters-in-law
and partners in adventure they sit out the morning rain with us in the bright,
tiny lobby of Sultan. Tomorrow we'll lead them to the commuter ferry and zig up
the Golden Horn to watch Istanbul absorb the sunset. Now, we trade stories.
Gani serves tea. The morning and rain pass. Istanbul sucks us into its light.
Down
here, between Little Aya Sofia Mosque and the park, our neighborhood jumps
starts the day. Pomegranate Guy stacks his stock, rain-polished and juicy
rubies. His brother flips a switch and the vertical spit slowly bakes a
two-foot stack of thin sliced chicken into lunch. The shaggy puppy in the yard
by the police station rolls on its back and nuzzles its mother, bigger and
shaggier. The Rottweilers, off-duty, and being dogs, are in in no hurry to
start the day. They sleep, snort, and snore in the sun.
Up
the hill, Istanbul vibrates. After two years of scorn, the tourists have
returned. Not the Americans, of course. We’re afraid of everything, convenient
neuroses for 45 and his gang. Europeans flock to their closest taste of the
exotic. The Chinese from mainland China are here in great avalanches, with a
skill in bottle-necking, and the new tourist self-centered tendencies to take
up too much space, make too much noise, and ignore everyone and everything not
on their checklists. They’ll get the hang of it eventually. Some may even
survive this larval state as tourists, and emerge as travelers.
We
all flow down Divan Yolu Street (Caddessi in Turkish). It has been the main
road over this hill since the Romans laid stones 2,000 years ago. Trams, not chariots,
run down the middle now, but Rome's descendants still jam the road. We join
them on the narrow sidewalks, neutral territory between the rails and the
shops. In Mom's, famous for furnishings, high prices, and traditional foods, a
babushka in the window wall sits on carpets and rolls out translucent ovals of
dough, Turkey's delicious sibling of France’s crêpes. We pass. For now. The
yards of baklava offer a taste of heaven. A glimpse adds inches to my
waistline.
The
5000-year history of these hills and this place unroll over the many venues of
the Archeology Museum, fascinating in small detail, ultimately stifling. We
take refuge from stones and commentary outside, among the tulips.
Memory
of the morning's rain-washed rubies stops us at Pomegranate Guy. ‘Big, not
big?’ We go for big, sit, and sip, tempted by the spit of chicken ready to
deliver another of Turkey's culinary gifts.
Our day ends quietly, a soft day of small things.
Checklist? Really?
2018-04-21
ISTANBUL.DAY 2
‘And
you didn't told that u r coming’
Unstoppable
Abdalbaset, he of the puppy dog energy and continent-wide smiles, discovers
that we are all in Istanbul again. He has a very tenuous grip on the idea that
being in school means being IN school. He's not even on the same continent. I
suspect the address attached to his brain does not include Planet Earth. But he
is delightful and we'd love to see him. Messages fly, appointments made,
messages crash land. We never do catch up.
‘I
will come visit to u in USA'. (Daddy may be a ‘dictatorship', but Daddy is
clearly loaded).
Disappointment
is buried in an adventure with Delores and Maria zig zagging up the Golden Horn
on the commuter ferry, our favorite one-dollar bargain. It’s our salutation and
valedictory to Istanbul on every visit. We ferry first across the Bosporus to
‘the Asian side', and five minutes later squeeze through the wicket and race
the crowds to the top deck seats for the voyage back across the Bosporus to
‘the European side’. Not even Phineas Fogg who went ‘Around the World in Eighty
Days' can touch that intercontinental sprint.The ferry joins an armada
stitching the Black Sea, the Sea of Marmara, and Turkey to the rest of the
planet.
We’re
small fry,but stuffed to the gills. Tourism has recovered in Turkey, and the
world has arrived. The Italians and Spanish talk so anyone in earshot (that is,
within a half mile) can hear, the Italians adding semaphore for the rest. Turks
jostle. Russians, Chinese, Koreans shove. Americans bulge out of inappropriate
cruise wear. Japanese evaporate in paroxysms of politeness. A young Kurdish man
in his tell take baggy trousers and vest places his hand on his chest, smiles,
and tilts his handsome head.
We
wave goodbye to Delores and Maria, who stay behind, turn and walk on the
levitated old steel of the Galata Bridge across the Bosporus from New Istanbul
to the minaretted glory, Old Istanbul, ‘our town'. We pass fishermen, lines
filaments in gold, and restaurants hawking fish sandwiches. We continue,
climbing from the pier up ancient Divan Yolu. At day's end we succumb to singed
Turkish gözleme, blessed love-child
of flatbread and crêpe, one with spinach, the other with ‘shrooms', all washed
down with icy beer served in copper cups.
We
will do it all again next year.
2018-04-22
ISTANBUL DAY 3
I'm
engaged.
At
least twice.
There
are twenty million people in Istanbul. At 8pm on this Sunday night all of them
are in Car 4 of the Istanbul Metro M2 Red Line to Kirazli, packed beyond carnal
knowledge, and waaaay beyond home base, into a true full body Grand Slam by
Strangers With Privileges. I don’t know the local rules of engagement, but I
suspect repeated full body contact is involved. One more lurch and I’ll be picking
out curtains. But with whom? And with how many?
We
are on our way to Istanbul's western and northern suburbs, apparently somewhere
over the border in Bulgaria, perhaps even Romania. The number of babushkas
slammed against my face suggest the latter. Zeki promises we'll see Muzeyyn,
and 3-year old Yusuf, and eat our fill of tantuni,
Turkey's take on tacos. That seems worth the trip.
And
it is.
This
is our Turkey. Days here are friend and food rich.
Earlier,
at noon, we ferry across to Asia again to spend the day with Nüri Demiröglu,
met several years ago watching the sun set over the white hills of Cappadocia
in central Turkey, and a friend since via WhatsApp and two reunions. We sit now
sipping tea watching the sun play over the white caps of the Bosporus. Tea Guy
moves on, joining Rose Lady, Tiara Guy, Pretzel Guy, and Bubble Machine Boy,
bright colors, all, against the blue of the Bosporus. Tissue Boy is little,
eyes both distracted and focused, challenged in some way, with a sweet smile. I
buy a package, 25 cents. He pulls another pack from his bag, holds it up, walks
on, gently.
Nüri
has news. Next time we meet there will be a Mrs. Demiröglu. He invites us to
join 998 other guests at the wedding in his home town in southern Turkey late
next September. If we had known sooner we could have nudged our September
return to Ethiopia and Madagascar a few days earlier and been here for the
wedding. My taste buds go into mourning.
Other
news comes out over pide, Turkey's
version of pizza, and kneffe,
Turkey's crisp noodle and syrup rival to baklava, served warm, and wrenchingly
good. Nüri may come to the USA in June if his boss comes through. This will be
a business trip. (Nüri helps match Turkish students with English language
immersion programs.) The plan floats by Vancouver, Seattle, New York then lands
with a big bang in Miami. Twenty-seven year old Nüri is a kindred soul travel
junkie, super big time. Plans, itineraries, web sites sprinkle, dot, then fill
the conversation. This will happen. If not, we will see him and his wife in
Spring 2019. It's time we spent a long time traveling across Turkey.
Later
in the night, Istanbul Metro M2 arranges my engagement/s. We leave the
arrangements to the babushkas on the train and escape into the night.
2018-04-23
ISTANBUL DAY 4
We
like last days to be easy.
The somnolent film crew ‘working' on
waiting to continue filming their TV serial fill our small square. ‘Many films
here' says Desk Guy, Gani. This is Old Istanbul made for the camera: narrow streets,
wooden houses, balconies, a tiny mosque, Kebab Guy, Pomegranate Guy, the park,
dozing dogs, furtive cats, babushkas comparing notes, kids playing in the
fountain, and the Sea of Marmara just over there lending it’s reflected light.
We sidle by, turn the corner, then a
tight left into our breakfast place, pull out our chairs, and ‘hi' to Bana,
Breakfast Lady. Turkish veggie omelets, bread, cappuccinos fuel our last day.
Bana is almost sullen at first, then exuberant as she warms to whatever topic excites
her today: bad fast food, good vegetables, a book about Australian Aborigines.
She Is a mini-drama.
Outside the film crew still looks
bored. A generously gifted ingenue rubs her resumé against an available chest.
I wonder what kind of film this is. Will the babushkas take note…or notes?
We take the easy route across the
face of the hill, then up the gentle slope to the Roman Hippodrome, between the
Blue Mosque and Aya Sofia, and then down Divan Yolu on the other side to see
Hosseyn, Ihsan, and Metin once more. The view is an insistent disturbance to
the task at hand: our Trip Advisor review. Ihsan hangs over the screen as we
write. As always, he has a comment. ‘The chicken dish is light. You won't get
bloated’. ‘Did you take a picture at night?’ ‘Come on! That's not a good
picture.’ Done finally, over Metin's chicken, baked fish, dessert, we meet his
approval. ‘You are a poemster’…a label I like. The bill is a fraction of what
it should be. Hugs and cheek rubs soften the goodbyes.
We know we will be back in 2019,
easy decision.
Dennis has felt some rumbles in the
nether regions for a few days, maybe due to his cold and or to diet or to diet
change to. My system is impervious to changes in diet, less so to absorbing the
effects of the sheer volume of food. We take the tram back home. It's a holiday
(Children's Day) and the crowds are stuffing the trams. We are extruded at
Sultanahmet, bachelor status uncompromised.
At ten we
say goodbye to Gani, Aziz and Sultan Hotel. And to our Istanbul, city of
friends. That's not so easy.
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