Every Stone

My third day without a cell phone. It’s becoming liberating. Breeds independence and self-sufficiency. I’ve been relying on technology for too long. Of course it’s not exactly one of those calm symbiotic relationships like the ramora and the shark — ramora, right? — it’s more like a ball and chain that you have to drag behind you but get to sit on occasionally. So, on day 2, phantom phone calls have finally subsided. I only flinched twice today in response to jingles that sounded like my Ukrainian cell phone. It took at least two weeks to get the Nigerian ring tone out of my head. It’s progress. Soon I won’t search my belongings for a vibrating phone every time I hear someone hum, as I did just now in the lobby of my hotel.

The tour yesterday was better than expected. What our guide lacked in knowledge he made up for with an amiable temperament, willingness to change schedule, and over-time duty. It was also a very small group, only three people, which made it a much more pleasant experience. I was fearing a brilliantly colored headscarf or enormous umbrella, one of those tacky devices tour guides use to usher along their charges, and one of the enormous buses that charges through the narrow, cobbled streets of Sultanahmat. Okay, so we got a chain-smoker with a bad gambling habit, but he altered course upon request and selected an excellent restaurant for lunch. My fellow travelers were a couple from Santa Monica with two grown daughters, which led them to rather protectively invite me to dinner and walk me home. They were terrific company, and their knowledge of Europe and European architecture enriched the day substantially.

Topkapi Palace delights. And not just because of the diamonds. Its views of Istanbul are clear and the weather was perfect. Every building seems cool even in the July heat. The architecture and artifacts are incredible. An exhibit of textiles included silk quilts and woven pieces that are centuries old and have far greater detail and quality than almost any contemporary work. There’s a wealth of gems embroidered into curtains and mats and, of course, in the numerous pieces of jewelry and gifts on display. Gifts from various Eastern rulers — Iranian, Chinese, Japanese — were lined up in cases for the sole purpose, it seems, of making the Western European gifts look all the more unremarkable. The Chinese jade carvings with rings carved from the same block, a special technique, are especially astounding to me.

The view from the palace is extraordinary. The woman of the couple I met, D, noticed the stones paving the walkways are squared and have patterns indicating they’re from other structures. She has a great eye for detail. Throughout Istanbul, especially at these ruins, you see stones and blocks that must have come from other amazing buildings, spurring you to wonder where they originated. The script on many buildings was the beautiful form of Arabic that took the place of art because of the strict ban on all forms of idolatry. It must have been this same belief that prevented the creation of portraits for most of the rulers, necessitating their importation from Italy — Veronese — in order to create likenesses of the dynasty.

Also, and I add this on an apologetic note for you men, there’s an entire building devoted to circumcision. On the bright side, it’s one of the most beautiful rooms. Funny thing here is that you see little boys dressed up like Sultans all over because it’s a ritual for the day of their circumcision. It’s a big deal. The poor little guys look so happy. You have to wonder if anyone tells them what’s coming next. Our guide explained this all to us, hopefully truthfully, and then expanded upon the theme by sharing with us his own personal story of circumcision which, best I could tell, seemed to involved someone simply distracting him as a child while someone else moved in with a knife. Terrifying.

In Topkapi, especially in the gem room, it became very clear why Americans are reviled. They’re loud, obnoxious, and insist on doing whatever they want, regardless of the rules. Even in the marketplace, they try to abuse the ritual of bargaining to get a lower price and simply end up offending, incapable of discerning where bargaining ends and rudeness begins. Several places have given me good prices, probably better than most tourists, for being polite but firm. One asked twice if I was from the US — well after he would try to start conversation for the sole purpose of engaging me, which many, many Turkish salesmen do. (“Hello, yes, hello — can I ask you one thing?” is the most common shout from a store or sidewalk.)

Our guide, and every Turkish person I’ve met so far, and that’s a hearty qualifier of course, has spoken glowingly of Ataturk and the Westernization he implemented (latin alphabet, banning fezes, etc.) even though popular opinion seems, at least given the occasional hostility I’ve felt, to be biased strongly against Americans. Turkish people are glad to have a modern economy and society for their region but resist the United States.

Aya Sofya is stunning. It was a church, then a mosque, then a church again with little change in between, primarily in the covering and destruction of the mosaics on the walls. My favorite is that of Empress Zoe, who had her consort’s face replaced each time a husband passed on. That takes guts. Renovations, huge scaffolds and ladders, mar the building, making seeing the inside and appreciating its beauty more difficult — but not too difficult. It’s an astounding structure. Aya Sofya is enormous — biggest or second biggest cathedral in Europe, I think? — and so finely crafted and detailed that it is stunning to realize its age. A very modern central exhibit announces a message of religious harmony, quote about “lodge of divine love,” and renews faith in, well, the abilities of various faiths to cooperate and negotiation modernization and secularization without compromising religion or progress. Less moving was the Viking graffiti still adorning one ledge, protected by glass.

After Aya Sofya, we stopped for lunch. Kebaps here are quickly compensating for the borsch of Kyev. Yoghurt kebap is my favorite, and I’ve had it twice already. I had also lamb kebap, and I intend to branch out to kofte, famous Turkish meatballs, but it’s hard to convince myself to abandon what may be the most delicious food in the world short of sushi. The other thing I love here is the tea. At any excuse — heat, rest, meals, or relaxation — Turkish people offer you tea. It’s fantastic and generally costs 50 cents. (So 43 cents USD.) The cups are these little glass tulips. Neither here nor, apparently, in Egypt, according to V, D’s husband, could people imagine drinking tea from mugs. It’s borderline sacrilege to suggest it. Not sure what the advantage of serving hot tea in delicate glasses you can feel every degree through is, but maybe that’s important to get it to cool quickly. People take their time drinking the tea, although it’s not of British proportions. Also amazing and addictive here is baklava. Formerly not a tremendous fan of desserts, after Ukraine and Turkey I think I’ll have to fight the sweet-tooth urge.

The Blue Mosque is almost as stunning as Aya Sofya, and it’s perhaps a more powerful experience to visit because of the number of people who come to pray and worship there currently. Tourists are asked to stay to one side and allow people there to pray in a separate entrance — men and women entering and praying separately of course. I had to cover my shoulders because the sleeves of my t-shirt were too short, and we all had to remove our shoes. The interior is carpeted and lit with the glass and iron chandeliers also used in Aya Sofya. (They’ve switched to electricity, but the chandeliers are the same as they were.) The outside of the Mosque is beautiful still, although I don’t know why it was called blue — the book said it was because it appeared blue, but neither the exterior nor the interior appeared blue to me in any way. Outside the mosque I saw my first very stylishly emo Muslim girls. They had silky head scarves in hot pink and red and they wore denim or canvas skirts with converse. The very fashionably conservative Muslim women I’d seen, with their Prada sunglasses and gorgeous bags, but emo was new to me. What Avril Lavigne would wear if she wore a head scarf.

The Basilica Cistern may have been my favorite of the day’s locations, oddly enough. Descending into the cistern the air suddenly becomes several degrees cooler. There’s a tiny café, which I almost regret not going to, perched on one side, and tourists are directed to the other to pass onto the walkways criss-crossing the expanse of the cistern. Fish swim merrily in the water under the paths. It is structurally if not artistically remarkable and inspired the most questions — including the age-old, why is one Medusa head sideways and the other upside down? It makes sense that it was a disrespectful gesture, but why two different directions and not both upside down? Apparently Istanbul allows weddings in the Basilica occasionally. It must be a sight to behold. I wonder if there’s ever been a fashion photo-shoot there; it seems a location that would be used by Vanity Fair or Vogue for a celebrity or fashion spread.

The Grand Bazaar was our final destination for the day, to the consternation of the guide and to our delight. V takes particular delight in bargaining with the vendors, using his French and Arabic fluency as an edge and driving a brilliant bargain. I replaced my ancient Italian puzzle ring with a more elaborate Turkish version with his assistance. There are 5,000 stores, according to our guide, and 4,500 according to my guidebook, and 22 entrances. Somehow he guided us in and out through the same entrance, half-a-block from the Starbucks. We were there for an hour or a little more but could have spent many more hours there. It wasn’t just shopping but complete cultural immersion. There’s an alley of lamps; a row of food stands; and every imaginable form of product.

Starbucks. Mmm. I return to that. After nearly a month away, I couldn’t resist going to the Istanbul Starbucks. Sadly no iced tea was available. I did get iced Americano, though, which is perverse because Turkish coffee is brilliant, and felt properly repentant afterward. Sort of.

Today I went on the public ferry tour of the Bosphorus to Anadolu Kavagi, where I climbed the hill to see the fortress, skinning my knee for the first time in a decade in the process, and hating the Dutch the entire time. (The Dutch, German, and American tourists are my least favorite. The flashiness and flair of the Italians and Spanish makes them remarkably enjoyable. The Danish are completely convivial, but I just wouldn’t seek them out purposefully.) The hill’s top yielded beautiful old ruins and the most spectacular view of the river and towns below imaginable. I sat on the stone wall there for quite some time and wished I could stay there, lying out in the sun on this wall with the perfect view, for hours. Unfortunately the Dutch found the wall as well and insisted on discussing it loudly — more problematic, if not as actively irritating, were the two shirtless men. Or perhaps “problematic” is not the right word. Dyspepsia-inducing might be closer, were it a word or commonly used descriptor or modifier.

The ferry each way was 90 minutes. The view of the Ottoman palaces and of the shores generally was spectacular. The boat was covered, so I got some sun, but it was limited really to the back of my neck from my hour seated with my neck and back in the sun. No red neck jokes. The slight tan I’m building up on my face has come in handy as I’m getting more and more comments on my ethnic/national origin from the street vendors day-by-day. (Like it or not, they’ll comment, so might as well pay attention and track.) Attendants served tea, yogurt, coffee, and orange juice, maintaining their balance perfectly the entire time, amazingly enough. I’m not on board with the Turkish theory about hot drinks on hot days quite yet, but the tea is too good to resist. The yogurt, served with powdered sugar for some reason, was also delicious.