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It was still dark when we arrived in Istanbul, and due to
the early hour, we were whisked through immigration and customs before I even
had time to think of Midnight Express. Our hotel proved generous in allowing us an
early check-in, so we were crawling into bed just as the muezzin began his morning
call. This hotel, the Four Seasons, was
well situated, and advertised itself as being a restored palace. It was only later that I found out that it
also been Sağmalcılar Prison, the very place where Billy Hayes had
done time. I’m sure the rooms are a lot
nicer now.
We awoke in time for lunch at a
sidewalk café, then wandered over to Hagia Sophia. Despite being the off-season, the place was
bustling, and I wondered at how crowded it must have been before the
semi-monthly terrorist strikes that plagued 2016. The place was undergoing major restoration,
and I began to grumble about paying full fare.
The nearby Roman Cistern had come highly recommended, but was infested
with vermin – hundreds of school kids shrieking and filling the already cramped
space with their incessant selfie posing.
We retreated back up to the Topkapi
Museum, number one on my list due to the great old film with Peter
Ustimov. But here too was crowded with
older students, pressing themselves through the narrow doorways into rooms
already jam-packed. And here too was the scaffolding, with more than half the
rooms off limits, including, and most frustratingly, the displays for the
Spoonmaker's Diamond and the Topkapi Dagger, which I had most hoped to
see. I cooled my anger with a coffee on the terrace
out back, at the crossroads of Europe and Asia.
But it was the massage at the Aya Sofia
Hamam, that finally brought calm. This
beautifully restored Turkish bath was a masterpiece in tile, the ceiling above
as designed by Spirograph. The time,
the day, the era, all blended together by the work of strong hands.
I found the freedom I had been seeking
at dawn the following day. Using the
classic Strolling Through Istanbul as
a guidebook, I hopped a taxi out to the far side of Galata Bridge to begin a
morning’s stroll. I crossed the Golden
Horn once again, alone but for a handful of fishermen casting lines into the
waters below, which twitched in the wake of ferries whose own crossings were
proceeded by whistle-blast.
I skirted the Spice Market and began to
climb toward a quiet Sultanamet, having the broad open spaces to myself, my
photos unencumbered by the shapes of strangers.
After a simple breakfast in the shadow of Aya Irini, I walked through
the Outer Garden of the Saray, popping into color in the early springtime. A failed attempt to cross back below the
Topkapi brought me to a military post, so I reversed myself and continued to
wander the district, popping into lesser museums covered by my three-day
pass. A number of them were similarly
under renovation, and I cursed the tourist bureau once again. (Later I heard from others that this seems to
be Istanbul’s perpetual state, a ploy perhaps at getting return visitors.)
This walk set the tone for the next few
mornings, and I covered a great deal of the city this way, book in hand. The quiet of the smaller mosques reminded me
of the lesser temples of Southeast Asia, always an oasis of green calm in a
chaotic cityscape. Dogs lazed about, and
worshippers nearly blended into the surroundings so quiet was their prayer. I walked ever westward, toward Europe,
climbing each of the seven hills, wandering the massive mosques that defined
them, each with quaint neighborhoods of their own. At some point during these ambulations, I
fell in love with the city.
The Fatih area was perhaps my favorite,
so far off the tourist track, so run down the archeological sites, sitting
amidst neighborhoods sliced into interesting geometric shapes by haphazard
lanes, all running into the ganglia of intersections that seemed villages in
their own right. Schoolkids made their
way toward classes, and older residents sat with their newspapers and strong
coffee. A pair of tourists too fuelled
up in a café, where the owner reached over to the vendors next door, to break
the usual oversized denomination.
Nearby, a rubbish collector slept inside his empty mobile rubbish bin.
The open marble grounds of the Fatih Mosque were bright and beautiful on a
sunny day. Fountains splashed invitingly
in front of a set of escalators leading downhill. A somewhat sketchy guy dozed over his
cigarette, but I worry he was going to steal my shoes. Down a street adjoining the mosque I began
to notice a different brand of Islam had taken root, with bushy beards and
women in fuller burqas.
I watched one woman vacuum the street and wonder perhaps unkindly if she
ever caught the drag of her hem in the suction.
In the afternoons I’d do similar walks
with LYL and her friend Naile, who’d flown over from Ankara to join us. The days stayed cool and encouraged longer
distances, always punctuated by coffee and Turkish delight. Meals were exquisite, on par with Italy in my
opinion, taken at outdoor cafes where we’d admire the dogs, chat with fellow
diners, and try to think about anything but terrorists. (I was affected by them anyway, in the form
of Trump’s travel ban. Unknown to me,
electronics had been banned from US flights originating in certain countries,
Turkey among them. The UK had followed
suit, and thus I was deprived of reading material for my London flight. I got of easy off course, compared to too
many others, but was annoyed nevertheless.)
And how not to love this city? With its
Bosporus views from Suleymaniye Mosque; the bustling stroll down the trendy Istikal
Caddesi; zigzagging through the former Silk Road caravanserai that dot the hill
between the Grand and Spice Bazaars; the medieval charm of Galata? Even the polished patter of the carpet sellers
was amusing, offering a brief moment of laughter as you drifted past. If any of their wares had been of the flying
variety, I’d have bought one immediately, if only to return, homing pigeon-like
back to the city of its birth.
On the turntable: David Byrne, "Rei Momo"
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