...(Not Constantinople)

Now this place is different, but at first glance, not as different as I expected. After wading through the humidity and boarding the shuttle for the long (50 km) ride in from the airport, the first thing I saw was a “power strip” shopping center, complete with Sbarros, BK, and Popeyes. Granted it was next to a goat field but still, a little more western than anticipated.
The city is huge, a mammoth sprawl lapping onto two continents. The current population is somewhere around 16 million and the trip from the airport was an extended slog through urban sprawl dotted generously with mosques and minarets, backlit by an fierce sun that appeared to be none too happy about calling it a day. I arrived at my hotel and unloaded my bags. (I was staying at the Orient Youth Hostel, a recommendation from one of my flatmates. I had pointed out that I haven’t qualified as a “youth” in quite some time but was reassured that while it was “historically” a youth hostel, it was now just another hotel. Uh, guess again.)
I was staying in Sultanahmet, the historic district and home to the Blue Mosque, Hagia Sophie, and Topkapi Palace. I didn’t get that far as I was just looking for dinner. I was quickly waved into a restaurant (actually I waved into a bunch of restaurants, in fact, let’s just get this over with…If there’s a negative to Istanbul, it’s that you are bombarded by people calling you their “good friend” trying to get you to buy something. Usually it’s a carpet but it can be any kind of knick-knack or meal. The opening approach is to ask where the person is from (Baltimore? My good friend, I have a cousin there? Beautiful city. Come see my shop.) , but there are variations. Numerous times a local would start to speak Turkish to me and then when I responded with my patented dumb look, the response would be “Oh, I thought you were Turkish. You look Turkish”, thereby appealing to the universal desire to not look like a tourist.
Once you get used to it (and it took me a full day), you recognize a certain good-naturedness to most of the hawking (that’s most, not all. Occasionally it got a little creepy). I had to laugh at the “You look Turkish” dodge (I’m the least Turkish looking person I know) and got to the point where I would reply “Now, we both know that’s not true.” The usual response would be “Nobody is perfect” followed by a request to come see some carpets. (and I’ve got to wonder if anybody ever says “Well, I was just going out for a kebab, but sure, I’ll come buy a carpet”)
OK, one more example of the sidewalk sell and then I’ll move on. I had been warned about this one before arrival but was amazed at how many times I saw it. Istanbul has a lot of shoe shine guys and many practice the following dodge. You’re walking down the street on a hot and humid afternoon when a shoe shine guy rounds the corner and starts walking down the street in front of you. Out of nowhere, his brush falls from his box. You point this out to him and he expresses his extreme gratitude and insists that he give you a free shine to demonstrate his thanks and out of “friendship”, adding that he would feel bad if denied. You accept and he sets to work, telling you about his multitudinous children and his hard life and how helpful a generous tip would be. A friend of mine got stuck in the midst of this scenario a few years ago and said it got downright ugly. I was amazed when on my first walk about town; the first shiner I ran into dropped his brush not once but twice. A few hours later I was across a bridge, one got in front of me and his brush clattered to the pavement within ten seconds. (I suspect neither of them thought I looked Turkish.)

You get the idea, right. It’s annoying, but not annoying enough to seriously detract from the city’s highpoints. I felt positively harassed the first day (I suspect that traveling alone I was a particularly attractive target.), but by the second day was pretty sure that unless I did something really stupid, I was perfectly safe. Once I got to that point, I could enjoy the city for what it is. I’ve been back for about three days and I’m already musing on my next trip over.

So what stands out? I don’t know; everything. That first evening, I was sitting outside the restaurant, carpets spread on the cobblestones. I was working my way through a kebap platter. Most of the other diners had finished their meals and were settling in with a cup of apple tea (good stuff) and /or an enormous hookah pipe, blissful expressions behind the plumes of smoke. A loudspeaker coughed from a few blocks away and the night was filled with the evening call to prayer. The thought occurred that I was a long way from home and that was OK.
I had that thought a number of times. Istanbul is an easy city to get lost in. I don’t mean “forget your troubles and yourself and just be” lost; I mean “Where the fuck am I” lost. Most of the street maps I saw only list about half of the streets and most of the actual streets aren’t marked and aren’t straight either for that matter so, well, you get the idea. That isn’t necessarily a bad thing. I got good and lost (twice) trying to find a particular mosque and ended up sitting in the shade of the courtyard of a small neighborhood mosque, hanging with the guys and eating salted cucumbers from the cucumber and apple vendor, and thinking, again, that I was a long way from home. I couldn’t speak the language but that didn’t matter, nobody was talking anyway but the fact that I had bought a cucumber seemed to indicate that I was ok. (For the record, I did finally find that mosque but it was closed for renovations.)

The apple and cucumber vendor is just one (or is that two?) example of Istanbul’s interesting and expansive array of street food. Far and away the most popular items are grilled ears of corn and large rings of sesame encrusted bread but there are plenty of others: Rice pilaf (sold out of one of a bright red popcorn cart, nuts and dried chickpeas, watermelon, ice cream (a rubbery version that you really have to bite your way through, spooned out by a yard long rod with a tablespoon sized peel on the end), fresh squeezed orange juice (about .75 for a 6 oz glass), meatballs, and doner kebaps (gyros). Down by the Bospherus it gets a little more exotic and distinctly fishy: mussel shells stuffed with chopped mussels and rice, shredded fish meat and grilled fish sandwiches.
Speaking of fish dandwiches, the coolest things was heading down to the base of the Galata bridge where three bobbing boats, belching smoke and lit like carousels sell fish sandwiches topped with onions, greens, and a lemon sauce. At a price of about three bucks a piece, it’s no wonder the place is packed. I bought one, the guy behind me bought 8. Afterwards, I walked across the bridge to what I thought was Asia. (Turns out I was misinformed, it was just another part of Europe.) Along the bridge there were lots of anglers, snatching small fish out of the Bospherus which they would immediately cut up and pickle into some form of seviche. The Turkish drivers thought nothing of stopping in the right hand lane to chat for a bit and maybe buy a cup of fish. (Like to see somebody try that on the GW or Woodrow Wilson.)
It’s not just the food that’s exotic. Waking up to the 5 AM call to prayer let’s you know you’re in a different place. I suppose that, viewed objectively, it isn’t that much different than the regular tolling of the church bells in Rome but subjectively it’s so much different. In the old part of the city, mosques are everywhere so you get this overlapping effect as one meuzzin wraps up while another starts. One meuzzin doesn’t seem to take any notice of what or when the next one is singing but every now and then happenstance brings about what sounds like a duet. My first day back in Rome I found myself waiting to hear it, but, well, I was back in Rome. I still miss it.
Then there are the Dervishes. Istanbul isn’t really Dervish central but there are a few performances (if that’s the right word). Interestingly, the Mevlevi order has officially been outlawed for years but the Turkish government recognizes the tourist appeal so the ban is hardly enforced. Quite the opposite, they’re actually pretty well promoted. I attended a Sema performance at a converted bath house. I was expecting a watered-down version (no pun intended) and that may be what I got, but it was still beautiful. One by one the five semazens(the proper name for a dervish, I think) entered dressed in black cloaks and tall felt hats, symbolizing their graves and tombstones respectively. After a series of prayers and bows, they removed their cloaks to reveal white gowns (funeral shrouds) and took up positions with one in the center (sun) and the other four (moons) surrounding him.
With each hand hugging the opposite shoulder, they slowly began to spin on their right foot, their left propelling them. Their arms slowly came down and then opened like flowers. With one palm up and one palm down, heads tilted to the left, they spun like that for 7 or 8 minutes, beatific looks on their faces. Then another series of bows, then more spinning. The entire performance lasted about an hour and there appeared to be general confusion on the audiences part as to how to respond. Do you clap for religious ritual? We reached a compromise of sorts and we greeted the semazens’ departure with silence but applauded the musicians.

Elsewhere the Turkish women and visitors from other parts of the Muslim world represent the entire spectrum of head scarves, from the complete black shroud to fluorescent colored form fitting attire. Turkey has long prided itself on having a secular government but the increasing use of the scarves has sparked controversy, leading to some politicos having to explain why their wives choose to wrap themselves and in some cases being asked not to attend public ceremonies. There appears to be some concern that the current head of the government is too solicitous of Islam and I heard some fears that the idea of a secular government is being challenged. Many are looking forward to the December elections with curiosity and concern.
I suspect I could go on and on. The total lack of street musicians (except one kid noodling on a melodic from dawn to dusk), the apparent lack of child labor laws, the almost Venetian quality of an evening boat trip up the Bospherus with ghost-like mosques nuzzling the shore, the Spice Bazaar (every stall selling some version of “Turkish Viagra” and everyone looked different, but they did have apple tea. Have I mentioned apple tea? Apple tea is great.) and, of course, the Grand Bazaar. (I bought a shirt. Not because I wanted a souvenir but because it was my last day and Istanbul is really hot and humid and I feared that if I didn’t get a fresh shirt, they weren’t going to let me on the plane. Anyway, the guy quoted a price of 75 Turkish Lira (TL=$.70) and I got him down to 40 but I still think I got ripped.

I also haven’t mentioned the Blue Mosque (stunning), the Hagia Sophie (even more so), Topkapi Palace (really crowded, I mean really crowded), or the Underground Cistern, and the simple fact of the matter is that I barely got out of the historic district. When I first came to Rome, somebody told me that I should just approach the city with the intention of coming back because you just can’t see it all. The same is true of this one. Besides I have all those good friends.