Istanbul: The Sights

Any reservations we had about Istanbul evaporated after several revealing days of taking in the city’s sights. They were beautiful and exotic and we enjoyed each one.

First up on our agenda was a casual luncheon cruise on the Bosporus for a magnificent view of the city from sea level and an afternoon heading up to and back from the Black Sea. The day was sweltering as we were transported to our little excursion boat in a so-called “air-conditioned” van that would have been cooler had we rolled down all the windows. As we’d already learned back at the Princess Diana, Turkish AC has no resemblance to the icicle-producing jets of cold air we’re used to. It merely circulates the hot air with the goal of making you think you’re cooler as the sweat continues to trickle. Simply put, Turkish air conditioning is what is commonly known as a fan.

Our boat ride underway, the Bosporus breeze lowered the temperatures and we enjoyed a tasty paper-plated lunch of kebabs and rice and were kept company by dozens of graceful dolphins that played in our wake. The broad, critical waterway slices transcontinental Istanbul, which straddles both Europe and Asia, in two. One-third of the population lives on the larger, eastern, Asian side but the western piece is home to the bulk of the population and is the city’s cultural heart. After an hour and a half of cruising north past sumptuous palaces followed by wooden mansions and the Selimiye Barracks (where Florence Nightingale worked during the Crimean War), we disembarked in the harbor of a nondescript little fishing village, climbed up the steep hill behind it and gazed out over the vast, storied Black Sea. And all at once it hit me: we had landed on the eastern shore of the Bosporus and were now in Asia! Our gap year has taken us not only to Europe but to Africa and Asia as well.

The following day, not having done adequate Istanbul homework to venture forth effectively on our own, we joined a small tour group to take in the city’s highlights. We found ourselves under the guidance of Tahir, a delightful young man from the area, and part of a remarkable cultural stew: a French-speaking woman from Quebec who ran a relief organization in Nairobi, Kenya and lived there with her 16-year-old daughter; her husband, originally from Saskatchewan, who headed up a refugee agency in Khartoum, Sudan; a woman from Bangalore, India in town for a regional meeting of the World Economic Forum; and, a young Filipino couple who worked in Dubai. We were an impromptu set of international visitors ready for a few days in Istanbul.

Sightseers know the Sultan Ahmed Mosque, built in the early 1600s, as the Blue Mosque, so named for its exquisite interior blue tiles. With its six minarets and perfect cascade of domes, it is a magnificent piece of architecture. We passed by the ablution fountains outside the courtyard, I draped the requisite scarf over my head and we then slipped off our shoes before stepping barefoot onto the plush Turkish carpet along with the scores of other visitors. Despite the crowds, the cavernous chamber was hushed and the delicate morning light that streamed through the pastel stained glass windows added to the tranquility of the space. Every available surface was embellished with hand-painted blue, green and red tiles in graceful, flowery patterns. No human or animal images were in evidence since Islam forbids prayer in front of such since to do so would be a bit too close to idol worship. I’ve found the mosques we’ve visited generally more peaceful and conducive to contemplation than the many churches we’ve seen. They are lofty, light-filled places of prayer with no distracting statues of Saint Sebastian punctured by arrows, frescoes of bleeding, beheaded martyrs or dark paintings of souls condemned to the fires of eternal damnation.

Our next stop was the neighboring Topkapi Palace, sprawling residence of Ottoman sultans, their mothers, sisters, wives and concubines in the harem and the bejeweled, golden-hilted dagger made famous by the 1964 caper film (Topkapi) starring Peter Ustinov and Melina Mercouri. Much of the palace’s enclosed space is dedicated to the presentation of priceless treasures and Islamic artifacts sitting on sumptuous velvet cushions behind thick vitrines. Just as in Croatia, where myriad macabre Catholic relics were displayed -- shards of saints’ bones and clips of their nails housed in hollow gold coffers in the shape of arms and feet -- so the sacred relics of Islam’s holy messengers were presented. Treasures such as a hair of Mohammed’s beard, a tooth, his sword and his cloak were similarly preserved in gilded and argentine receptacles. And I wondered in Istanbul as I had in Croatia about the authenticity of all these religious artifacts: who vouches for the provenance of such things? The sultan robes on display were close replicas of the priests’ vestments we’d also seen in Croatia: royal regalia of gilded thread and the finest embroidery. Was it any wonder that citizens and kings (like those of France in centuries past) became so wary of the “bedecked like royalty” clergy? In Croatia, each room of the convent treasury was vigilantly guarded by a genial, habited nun who we were told would have no problem physically pouncing on us should we attempt to take pictures or touch anything inappropriately. In the Topkapi Palace, armed guards from the Turkish military replaced the smiling sisters but I’m not sure with whom I’d rather tangle.

What is it that compels people to buy funny hats and ridiculous shirts on vacation and to actually wear them as if they were attractive? Perhaps its make them feel like locals but in reality they stick out like sore thumbs. Over the course of our travels we’ve seen so many tourists, especially bands of merry men off cruise ships, in silly looking sailor caps and black-and-white striped sailor shirts or cheap straw panamas with coordinating ribbons. They wear their new attire enthusiastically for the length of the holiday, but I’m certain that once home, it is relegated to the already existing piles of discarded accouterments from previous excursions. I imagined their lucky children and grandchildren as they picked through the heaps of discarded bonnets and chemises with delight as they prepared for Halloween and other dress-up occasions.

As we wandered the Topkapi Palace, I spied a troupe of several dozen weathered older women draped in black and wearing navy and white baseball caps atop their headscarves. Well, that’s a unique look, I thought, and while happy to see that the women were out and about, wondered, given their hats, if they could possibly be off one of the massive cruise ships docked in the Bosporus. Tahir told me when I asked that they were actually peasant women from rural Turkey enjoying their first trip to see the top cultural and religious sights of Istanbul, paid for by a charitable foundation. Wow, I thought, their particular baseball caps are not silly at all and I was certain that once back on their farms, the women would continue to wear them proudly.

Around the corner from the palace, monumental Hagia Sofia (Holy Wisdom) rises at the end of what was the ancient Roman hippodrome. In the reverse of what took place in Cordoba where the victorious Catholic monarchs mutilated the mosque by dropping a basilica into the middle of the Islamic mezquita, the triumphant Ottoman Empire defaced the cathedral by turning it into a mosque. In both cases, the buildings should have been left alone, but alas, such is not the behavior of conquerors. In 360 Hagia Sofia was dedicated as the Greek Orthodox Cathedral of Constantinople, for a short time in the 13^th century was a Roman Catholic Cathedral, was first transformed into a mosque in 1453 and finally was secularized as a museum in 1935. The echoing interior is a massive example of Byzantine architecture and was the largest cathedral in the world for nearly a thousand years until Sevilla’s cathedral was built.

Lying beneath Istanbul are hundreds of dark cisterns that stored water for the emperors from the city’s days as Constantinople. En route to the Grand Bazaar, we left the 90-degree temperatures of the streets to descend to the refreshingly cool depths of the grandest of them all: the Basilica Cistern, so called because it lay beneath a grand Byzantine public square (the original meaning of the word). Sometimes called the Sunken Palace because that’s exactly what it appears to be, the cistern covers almost two and a half subterranean acres and includes a procession of 336 marble columns. The symmetry and grandeur of the deep, cavernous structure, illuminated by atmospheric lighting, are really quite extraordinary. We walked along the raised wooden platforms, watched the slowly moving, ghostly carp silently guarding the waters and felt and heard the drip-drip-drip of moisture from the vaulted ceiling. In addition to being a welcome relief from the aboveground heat, visiting the cistern was an eerie, entirely unexpected and fascinating stop on our guided itinerary.

There are more than 3,000 shops in Istanbul’s celebrated Grand Bazaar. While merchants are indeed anxious to make a sale, shoppers are not subjected to undue pressure à la Morocco. A retailer may ask you once if you’d like to see some beautiful belts or shawls or carpets but then smile and let you go on your way when you shake your head and say, “No thanks.” The covered marketplace was considerably more modern than I expected and while many of the stalls were tiny niches overflowing with merchandise, others were bright, roomy showrooms with plenty of space for displaying their wares.

Our stay in Istanbul ended with another van-with-two-drivers transfer to the airport. One of our chauffeurs was a young man who, when we told him we were American, enthusiastically shared that he’d always wanted to go to the US – out west to Texas and to Dallas, specifically. He was a big fan of the late ‘70s television show and wanted to see the ranches and the horses and wear cowboy boots and a cowboy hat like JR Ewing. We wished him well in his quest to reach Dallas as he dropped us at the terminal and then headed for our hour-long flight to Cappadocia – Turkey’s particular version of the American West.

Pictures of our adventures: http://gapyeargirlgoestoeurope.shutterfly.com

An Unsavory Breakfast

The morning dawned under hazy sun and high clouds; it was definitely going to be another hot one. We put on our shorts and T-shirts and headed upstairs to the rooftop terrace for our first Turkish breakfast buffet. We had no idea what would await us but the multi-tabled spread included the usual suspects: yogurts, fruits, cereals, boiled eggs, cheeses, breads, jams, butter and a few surprises like halva, tomatoes, cucumbers, olives and the Turkish version of bagels with cream cheese schmears. Coffee and tea were in abundant supply and we filled our cups to their brims.

I also noticed a lovely wine cart on wheels with a nice variety of vintages tucked next to the coffee urns. The young man servicing the buffet told me that in the evening, the breakfast-room-with-a-view turns into a bar and that yes, wine and beer were indeed served. When I asked about the availability of spirits in Istanbul and Turkey overall, he assured me that while some establishments choose to abstain for religious reasons, many others are available for wine-lovers like me. Phew, I thought and breathed a sigh of relief – I was already starting to warm up to Turkey.

We grabbed our customary morning plates (yogurt and cereal for me, cheese and eggs for Joe) and claimed a perfect table by the window. I took a spoonful of yogurt and looking up, instantly lost my appetite. A sad and frankly upsetting family scene was in progress just two tables in front of us. A T-shirted, baseball-hatted man and an adorable little girl in a flowered sundress were enthusiastically enjoying their bacon and eggs. Across the table from them, a woman in a black, face-concealing burka was attempting to eat her own breakfast. I watched in astonishment as she quickly lifted the heavy fold of veil and surreptitiously slipped a forkful of scrambled eggs between her lips as if to be observed eating was a depravity. Just as swiftly, she dropped the black cloth so that her chewing mouth was once again hidden. Her husband and daughter continued to revel in their morning repast while she struggled with every agonizing bite. My stomach was in knots as I watched the woman attempt to get through a meal in public. How can this be? I wondered. Does this woman understand the shackles that bind her? Is this the future she wants for her daughter who is now so carefree and spontaneous?

Over the course of our first days in Turkey, we witnessed so many fathers doting on their daughters, adorable creamy-skinned cherubs with soft blond ringlets and olive-skinned beauties with silky dark manes. How can the power of this misguided theology compel them in a few short years to subjugate these beautiful young girls by hiding them under shrouds the minute they reach puberty? Is a future of anonymity, of being covered and smothered what they dream of for their daughters?

It’s going to take some time to reject the suppression of women in Islamic countries, and it will take years, perhaps decades (and I pray not centuries), but it’s eventually going to happen. It will be up to the younger generations of women who connect in person and via the Internet with others not bound by the strictures of their religion to envision possibilities for themselves and carve out independent lives separate from their fathers and husbands. And there will be young men who want their women independent and not just prizes or trophies to be hidden.

I have four sisters, all of us strong, self-reliant, fiercely independent women, thanks in large part to the way our parents raised and educated us, none of us willing to relinquish who we are or what we look like for husbands, fathers or religion. We’ll all go to great lengths to do what’s best for our children, but beyond that, don’t try to tell us what to do, where to go or what to wear. I envisioned my sisters all sitting beside me in the Lady Diana breakfast room, open-mouthed with horror just as I was, watching this poor woman battling to finish her meal.

Joe and I drained our coffee cups, packed up our things and headed for the stairs. As I glanced back for a final look at the draped woman, I saw that she had pulled a Blackberry from beneath the folds. Yes, I thought, bravo. It won’t be long before communication leads to a yearning for dignity and independence. I suddenly had hope for her daughter.

Pictures of our adventures: http://gapyeargirlgoestoeurope.shutterfly.com

Istanbul: First Impressions

The flight to Istanbul took us over the northern Greek coastline and we could clearly distinguish the Halkidiki peninsula southeast of Thessaloniki with its three slender fingers stretching into the northern Aegean. Our plane then plunged into a thick cloud cover but as soon as we emerged ten minutes later and the terrain below reappeared, we knew we had entered new territory. The neat geometrical green and brow fields had transformed into irregularly shaped parcels in a rainbow of colors, like the art project of a kindergartener who scribbles freehand and then colors in the haphazard shapes that result. Disturbing visions of a Fes-like experience to-come unsettled our anticipation, despite the fact that multiple fellow travelers had told us that although there would be similarities, Turkey would not be another Morocco. We were flying into a murky, indefinite undertaking, having done only bits of inadequate research for this part of our trip. Turkey was going to be a whole new adventure, starting with its largest metropolis, that much was clear. We had no idea what we would find in this ancient city that dates back to 3,000 BC and has been known over the centuries as Istanbul, Constantinople, Byzantium, “The New Rome” and myriad other exotic labels.

Arriving in 80-plus-degree heat, we appeared to have come in from the Arctic dressed in multiple layers of our heaviest clothing in a successful effort to avoid extra baggage weight fees. Joe may have stuck out a bit with his travel sports jacket fitted snuggly over bulky upper wear, but my sartorial excess of tights under baggy black sweats, hiking boots, several shirts covered by a dark fleece and a woolen pashmina enveloping my neck was hardly out of place. The sun was shining and the airport terminal stifling, but all around us were women whose clothing concealed any hint of exposed flesh. The minute I disembarked the air-conditioned plane the sweating started in earnest. I couldn’t imagine having to don this many layers as a matter of course, blistering Turkish temperatures be damned. The variety of female attire in the terminal ran from close-fitting mini-skirts and tank tops to full, black burkas with narrow slits that revealed only the wearer’s eyes. Welcome to the mix that is Turkey, I mused. More the norm were dozens of women in loose, colorful head scarves and belted, floor-length London Fogs cum burkas. All I could imagine while observing the heavy maxi coats was the perspiring that must have been taking place beneath them. These women had to have been swimming in sweat, but of course, any evidence of their indignity was safely hidden from view.

The drive from Ataturk Airport into old town Istanbul was via broad modern boulevards lined with bright, orderly beds of purple petunias, red geraniums and yellow marigolds and closely mowed grassy lawns worthy of an affluent American suburb. We passed scores of tankers and cargo ships lying low in the distance on the Sea of Marmara, waiting patiently to pass through the Bosporus Strait and north into the Black Sea. All along the waterside promenade were men running in gym shorts and singlets and women clad in head scarves and long skirts power-walking. The juxtaposition of male versus female exercise apparel was remarkable.

As our airport shuttle approached our destination, the scenery took a drastic turn and our curiosity about why there were two drivers in the front seats was sated. How many men does it take to navigate a mini-van through Istanbul? Always two: one to concentrate on operating the vehicle with a hair-trigger braking foot and one who knows the ins and outs of every tortuous lane and directs the guy behind the wheel. Our van-with-two-drivers entered a rat’s nest of dusty, narrow streets that wound up and down the hilly Sultanahmet quarter of the old town dropping off passengers along the way. I’m not sure why, but I had expected the city to be flat and here we were climbing steep hills and twisting down sharp curves to finally reach our hotel – the final stop.

Istanbul is home to a sea of humanity -- almost 14 million people live there – and we learned very quickly that everywhere is crowded and constantly teeming with activity. Our mini-van battled tram lines, cars, motorbikes, trucks, bicycles and handcarts through Istanbul’s crazy road system built, rebuilt and reworked over centuries with all drivers ignoring the universal octagonal red signs that commanded “DUR” in big white capitals. Gargantuan tinted-windowed tourist coaches squeezed through the tight neighborhood lanes ill-equipped to handle the complications of contemporary traffic at the risk of snapping off side mirrors and scraping bright enamel paint jobs. Istanbul made unruly Rome seem like a buttoned down English city by comparison.

Our accommodations were of the modern tourist variety (we prefer not to take chances when arriving in an unfamiliar city). Although bright and welcoming itself, the Lady Diana Hotel (apparently the owner loved the late princess) was in the middle of blocks of old wooden structures, some with broken windows and many of which looked like the termites had gotten the better of them. Many appeared uninhabited and needed a good chipping and a few coats of thick paint. Hmm, I thought, this is going to be interesting. The Lady Diana was perfectly situated not far from the Golden Horn, the broad natural harbor off the Bosporus in the center of a triangle formed by the city’s top sights (Hagia Sofia, the Blue Mosque, the Basilica Cistern, Topkapi Palace and the Grand Bazaar). Istanbul straddles the 17-mile-long Bosporus, one of the world's busiest waterways, which runs between the Sea of Marmara and the Black Sea and separates the city’s old sections from the new. It is the world’s only metropolis situated on two continents: one third of the transcontinental city’s population lives to the east in Asian Anatolia but its commercial and historic center is to the west -- in Europe -- along with the remaining bulk of its residents.

On our first night in the swarming city, we ventured out in search of a restaurant with a rooftop terrace and traditional food recommended by Frommer’s. After wandering the old town labyrinth for over an hour and stopping for directions multiple times, we finally arrived hot, tired, hungry and ready to relax. The view over the Blue Mosque was magnificent but as luck would have it, the restaurant served no alcohol and I thought, “So much for our relaxing evening,” as I feigned a smile while ordering a bottle of sparkling mineral water. The alarm had roused us for an early flight at 4:30 that morning and all day in transit we’d looked forward to having some wine with our kebabs and baba ganoush. “Are we really going to have to battle the temperance monster?” I moaned, just as the call to prayer sounded over the city. I warned Joe that if coming to Turkey was going to be like vacationing in Utah where the prevailing religion was ever-present and finding a restaurant that serves wine and beer can be a struggle, I was going to be cranky for a week.

After just eight hours in Istanbul, with its resplendent past and complicated present, Joe and I were on sensory overload. The city was ancient and modern, conservative and free-wheeling, cramped and sprawling, filthy and spotless, young and old, deafening and serene. Overall, it was congested, just like I’d imagined, but even grittier and noisier. It was definitely not Morocco since no one had hassled us on the street but what had we gotten ourselves into. But I had to tell myself to be patient, you’ve only just arrived. First impressions may be misleading but I knew that Istanbul was going to have to do its best to grow on me.

Pictures of our adventures: http://gapyeargirlgoestoeurope.shutterfly.com