Every Stone

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I return to Saturday, to Andolu Kavagi, because I must take a step back to explain the genesis of yesterday’s expedition — it was shaped at the insistence of a Turkish woman I met on Kavagi. I was sitting in a café just shy of the top of the hill, having surveyed the fortress and the view and just then settling in for lunch when I was enveloped by a swarm of vocal Turkish women. Their encroachment on my table began innocently enough: a bag on the edge, then a newspaper, then a seat.

At this last piece of real estate claimed, one woman finally thought to turn to me and say, “You don’t mind, do you?” I had as much choice in the matter as fresh asphalt under a steam roller. They made great lunch company, our Turk-English discussions amusing both parties — she asked whether I was there alone. I stuck to the story that I have a husband staying at the hotel, a lie of caution. She looked at me sharply. She said that Turkish women are socially conditioned not to go anywhere without their husbands. I looked at the group. Five women, no men. I asked, “Where is your husband?”

“Mine,” she said, “is dead,” and she took a sip of her beer.

The English-speaker across from her, the chemist, contributed, “I have left my husband and children at home. I want my Sunday. We are part of a jazz festival.”

The last was said almost aggressively. “We are down in the boat there, and the artists are very, very famous.”

There is a self-consciousness about the modernity of Turkey, a need to perform and prove it is European or at the least a part of the developed and not developing world that many Turkish people seem to have — an observation that crystallized with the reading of “Istanbul.”

When I asked what the leader of this small pack of women did, she replied, “I am a socialist.” I froze for a moment. Perhaps she meant socialite? Wrong. The chemist gave her a searingly derisive look and corrected her in a stream of Turkish before turning to me. She said, with no shortage of exasperation, “She is a sociologist.”

All three sitting closest to me were teachers — one geography, one chemistry, and the socialist mentioned above, Marian. (Her name is Mus-ey-an in Arabic, I think, but she gave me “Marian” after two tries provoked laughter from the group.) Then I asked what I should do the next day, yesterday, and suddenly the gates opened — she immediately took my guide book and began noting things on the map, giving me a bus route and bus number and insisting that I go to Ortakoy. “The things there,” she admonished, “are real Turkish things. You can go to a café there and sit by the water, have your little coffee, and be happy.”

Thinking, and marking my map, Marian followed with, “And go to Dolmabahce. You must go there.”

The chemist rolled her eyes. “Go to the archaeology museum,” she barked, “Or to the naval museum.”

Then the both remembered that all museums are closed on Mondays. Piqued, she grabbed the book from Marian, and the two set about finding something for me to do. Marian ultimately elected that I go to Sariyer by bus, but having done a Bosphorus cruise already and being weary of travel, I was not a fan of this proposal. I countered with Princes’ Islands, at which she was unimpressed. She asked, valuably, “Do you prefer natural or historical things?”

It took a few tries to get this question. Finally said historical. She offered a dozen bus routes, each more complex and requiring yet more Turkish than the one before to my eye, and suggested, again, Sariyer for its little mosques.

Yesterday I did make it to Ortakoy, but was too tired to go to Sariyer or to Princes’ Islands. There was plenty to do in Istanbul still. The morning was for Kariye, or Chora, museum and church. On the way there, on a funny note, the taxi driver very sweetly offered me a cigarette — there was no thought of not smoking, but he would share. Very generous. He looked primarily puzzled when I rolled down the window.

The group entering the church ahead of me was Spanish, and the guard assumed me part of them, greeting me in Spanish. I replied in Spanish briefly, and the leader of the group heard me. As I moved past, he asked if my father was from Spain. I was proud he thought I was half. (Unclear on why he said “padre” and not “padres” or “madre.”)

We talked briefly. He and his group found it amusing that I preferred to allow Turkish people to think that I am Spanish than admit I am American. He jokingly said, of course, because Spain and Spanish are better in all aspects. I did not disagree.

The Byzantine mosaics there are extraordinary, better even, or at least more complete and more extensive, than those at Aya Sofya. The walls and high arches of the ceilings are painted and tiled, and the detail is stunning. Some liberties were taken with Biblical stories, from what I overheard from the group of tourists passing my meditative spot, back to the wall in the central room of the church, which explains the brilliance and creativity of the murals — and why I could not place the narratives depicted.

From Kariye I gained the assistance of a shopkeeper to find a bus to Beskitas, from which I could take a taxi to Ortakoy. He pointed me up the hill from the church, allowing for a beautiful photograph, and I traipsed through a neighborhood to reach a busy street. Upon seeing the bus — No. 28 — I flagged it and hopped aboard. It was off-duty, but the driver took pity on my plaintive “Beskitas??” and dropped me at the bus depot a few blocks away, pointing me toward the correct bus. I made my way onto this one more cautiously now, realizing yet more complications of Turkish transit, only to be greeted by a very friendly token-taker who wanted to make conversation for the five minutes before we departed, as the driver remained outside — and five minutes is universally the time given when there is no set time, really, although the Turkish transportation has all been remarkably punctual.

A small crowd of two quickly gathered as a son, nephew, or maybe cousin of the token-taker hopped onto the bus to talk to me also. Neither spoke any English, and yet both managed to ask if I was married, principally through the Lonely Planet “Emergency Turkish” translation section. The nephew was 8 or so, maybe 10, of course.

“Komer See” one sign blared. I thought, “Khmer Rouge.” No, my Turkish is not promising, although I did manage to communicate well enough to get to Besiktas. (And even said it properly, “Beh-sheek-tas.”)

When the bus arrived in Beskitas, the token-taker, my good friend now, signaled me to exit, and I did, gladly. I grabbed a “taksi” to take me the 4 km to Ortakoy, the sun being warm and the walk extraordinarily unpleasant. Ortakoy is a sweet, very nice little area, but not as different as I expected from Sultanahmat. The primary advantage is that you can walk unmolested through quiet cobbled streets, interrupted only occasionally by a tourist trying to haggle or by the sight of a garish Burger King sign. (Yes, Burger King.)

Ortakoy abuts the river, and there is a host of little cafes there to choose from. I bought water and walked along all through the area along the river. It was here I picked up “Istanbul.” Along the river, I saw a style of gate that I recognize from a favorite photograph: a half-circle in iron with pointed rays from its center, these spokes dividing the view of the Bosphorus and opposite shore into individual landscapes.

From Ortakoy I went to Galata Tower, an old Ottoman tower on top of a hill not far from Taksim Square and Beskitas, taking in its view of the city. The historic exterior belies a modern interior. Air conditioning, a concierge, and two elevators, alongside the requisite gift shop, confront the wonder-seeker upon entrance.

I was disappointed by the presence of elevators, having looked forward to climbing the monument, experiencing what its architects and admirers did and making the trade of effort for beauty. There is nothing like the moment you finally reach the top and turn, looking out at last — whether it’s at the summit of a mountain, atop a Mayan ruin in Belize, the tower of Pisa in Italy, or a pyramid in Egypt, maybe.

I walked, then, from Galata Tower down and across the Galata Bridge, passing through the docks and by the ferries again. I bought a sesame roll, like one of the ones Pamuk describes, a ubiquitous snack here. One lira. Less than a dollar USD. More water. Fifty cents.

I trekked then back to my hotel, dropping off “Istanbul,” and followed the winding street back up to the area surrounding the Grand Bazaar. A bag I saw the day before emerged reasonably priced from an intense session of bargaining, which, as a single woman here, consists mostly of frowning and furrowing my brow before firmly giving my bottom line and attempting to shame the (male) vendor into lowering his price.

I got the price down a bit further from the day before, maybe due to the amount of ankle I was showing — capri shorts, very daring — and left the Bazaar very happy. Ten minutes later, I faced the famous Cemberlitas Hammam, recommended to me by a friend and by Lonely Planet. A young boy handed me a well-worn pamphlet, pacing beside a surly-looking tough guarding the entrance listlessly. I entered and was processed from sitting room to

baths very quickly. The jarring experience of the street — the noises, smells, and bright sights — faded quickly, replaced by relaxation. The baths, dating from 1587, are fascinating. Lots of cool marble, and the ceiling is a spectacular dome with stars cut from it. The procedure was relatively straight-forward, and the entire experience was very soothing. Dozens of women gathered in a building hundreds of years old taking part in an even older tradition.

Cemberlitas is central to many of the sights in Sultanahmat, so from there I wandered aimlessly through the Hippodrome and along the outside of the Blue Mosque, taking more photos and enjoying the beauty of each. Eventually I walked back along the tram tracks to my hotel, passing and briefly entering a beautiful park near Topkapi — or perhaps only sharing a name with it — that seemed, unlike most of the area, to have more Istanbullus than tourists. Two young women in head scarves sat by a fountain capped by a modern sculpture that looked like a three-dimensional asterik. Several boys played soccer along the path, and two young men lounged on a bench, watching people pass. A perfect end to a wonderful trip.