I Have Been To Istanbul

"If one had but a single glance to give the world, one should gaze on Istanbul." Alphonse de Lamartine

It is a city on two continents and two seas, a city of contradictions and revelations, a city that speaks, as Yeats wrote, of what is past, or passing, or to come. And now I have been there -- too briefly of course -- but unforgettably.

My entry was at sunset under stormy skies, a wide-eyed passenger in a van that drove us from airport to hotel in traffic that ranged from sluggish to completely stalled. Through windows plashed with raindrops I glimpsed the dome of Hagia Sophia, and the city walls of old Constantinople, and a brightly lit fish market along the waterfront, and tankers lined up on the Bosphorus to enter the Sea of Marmara.

We settled in at a small hotel in a picturesque neighborhood of narrow cobblestone streets and then ventured by taxi to a noisy restaurant in the Kumkapi district, for mezes -- eggplant with tomato and spices, canelloni beans, breaded calamari, garlicky yogurt -- followed by a main dish of fish, bream to be precise, each one served whole on a platter, including bones and head.

Our group: a middle-aged married couple and three lively widows in their 70s, all of them English, and me, of course, led by Ceylan, a young Turkish woman with reddish hair, a wry sense of humor, and a pack of Winstons in the pocket of her jeans.

I grew fond of the three older ladies, intrepid women shaped by war and widowhood, urging me to try the rose jam at breakfast or the homemade baklava, and whatever the problem, chin up.

But mostly I felt separate and odd, jotting down notes in my trusty little journal, pausing to take pictures and then running to catch up with the others, nervous about losing sight of the guide among the swarming crowds on tangled streets. (As it turns out, my best times were when I took off on my own little side journeys, but I didn't muster up the courage until a bit later.)

The first official stop on our initial day of touring was Hagia Sophia. Originally the Church of the Holy Wisdom, changed in 1453 to a mosque, and a museum since 1935, it seems in many ways the symbol of the city. I used to teach sixth grade students about it in social studies classes, and now, unbelievably, here I was.

I entered braced for wonder, remembering the words Justinian is said to have exclaimed upon its completion in 537 A.D.: "Solomon, I have outdone thee!" Despite the ravages of earthquake, plunder, desecration, and age, it is still breathtaking, a a vast domed space of haunting light and gilded beauty.

We visited the Blue Mosque also, a domed and multi-minareted marvel built over a ten-year period beginning in 1606. Here, we removed our shoes to enter and covered our heads, then wandered among the crowd through the hushed central prayer area, surrounded by stained glass windows and walls lined with extravagantly beautiful İznik tiles. My neck was starting to hurt from looking up.

It was a short walk afterwards to Sultanahmet square, where we descended a staircase beneath the streets to visit Yerebatan sarayi, otherwise known as Basilica Cistern, sometimes referred to as the Sunken Palace -- and a sunken palace is exactly what it looks like.

Built in 532 as a water reservoir for the Byzantine castle in the time of Justinian, its columns and arches are mirrored in the water, and there is something magical and other-worldly about it. The columns look amber in the artificial light, but it is mostly dark, and cool, and except for some watery dripping, silent.

Ceylan pointed out two large Medusa heads down there, one sideways and one up-side-down, and the evil eyes etched in stone, a motif we would later see on keychains, beads, and baubles everywhere.

"It's the Turkish way of health and safety," said Ceylan. "We don't worry too much."

We stopped at a pudding shop for a disappointing lunch, but I did try a sweet, traditional milk-based pudding. Turkish comfort food, I think; I like that kind of stuff.

I wish I had bought some of those roasted chestnuts I passed, sold by vendors on the streets, just as they were sold in the New York of my childhood, or grilled cobs of corn. I have concluded that Istanbul is not a good city to go rushing through like this, but we were on a tour with a crammed itinerary that day.

Most of all, I loved just wandering, not necessarily with a point. Aside from the brief rainstorm that greeted us and one morning shower, the weather was mostly heat and haze throughout our too-few days in Istanbul, and I was always sweaty, but in this I was not alone.

It seemed a city of aromas, sometimes of perspiration, more often of spices and tea and traffic and fish and tobacco and sweets and street vendor food. It seemed a city of clamor and song and call to prayer, of the shouts of pushcart peddlers, the cajoling of shopkeepers, music spilling into the streets.

During a cruise on the Bosphorus, I drank tea served in a clear curved glass on a porcelain saucer with a cube of sugar and a tiny spoon. A Turkish folk song was playing, and I sighed, sipping my tea, imagining it to be a song of love. I asked Ceylan what it meant. "It means if you cheated on me I'm gonna burn your house down," she replied. So, yes, a song of love.

One night I went off by myself and found a place where a Sufi whirling dervish danced. I watched, entranced by his trance. Then I sat on a step and ate a fig. I heard the call to prayer, seemingly coming from everywhere, and thought it was very beautiful. ("Not always so beautiful," said Ceylan when I mentioned this to her the next day.)

We explored the edges of the Grand Bazaar, a labyrinth of worldly goods: rugs, jewelry, purses, tiles, dishes, scarves, belly dancer costumes, Turkish delight, evil eyes, and pretty much everything else. "Can I sell you something you don't need?" asked one particularly charming fellow. He said he was a champion breakdancer -- if I were Turkish, he said, I would know who he was. He was funny, smart, and fluent in English, but I regret to report that I still didn't buy anything. I just never felt like shopping on this trip. No heart for it.

There was the Spice Bazaar too. Suffocatingly warm and crowded. I thought I would enjoy it more than I did, but I guess I am a country girl after all. Being swallowed into a sea of humanity in an enclosed space freaks me out, even if there are beautiful mounds of paprika, saffron, and pomegranate tea along the way.

I made my way to an exit, sighed a great sigh of relief, and bought a simit from one of those vendors with their little red carts, partly because I was hungry and partly because Orhan Pamuk had mentioned simits in his book about Istanbul. A circular piece of bread covered with sesame seeds, it was fresh and good and satisfying, oddly reminiscent of a sesame bagel.

And one night I saw an orange moon rise above the Sea of Maramar, and twinkling lights all along the shore.

As with any other city, early morning is the best time in Istanbul, at least in my opinion. I like when the streets are still quiet and vacant and everything is just beginning to awaken and open.

It was early on a Sunday when we went to the Topkapi Palace, the residence of the Ottoman sultans for 400 years. We wandered the courtyards and grounds, saw rows of marble columns and copper fixtures tarnished to sea green. We looked at solid gold ceremonial flasks and crowns, studded with jewels, and dazzling thrones, and all sorts of obscenely extravagant objects. I know this sounds irreverent and shallow, but I soon got bored around here. The setting was beautiful and the craftsmanship impressive, but I am far more interested in real people than royalty.

But a place I especially enjoyed visiting and never would have known about had Ceylan not brought us there was the Chora Church Kariye Müzesi in the Edirnekapı neighborhood. In its original incarnation it stood outside the walls of Constantinople and was later incorporated within the city's defenses built by Theodosius II in 413. It evolved over the years but was largely rebuilt in the 11th century, later collapsed under an earthquake and was again rebuilt two centuries later.

The most amazing thing about this church are the breathtaking mosaics and frescoes, dating from the 1300s, that line its interior. Some were plastered over after the city fell to the Ottomans in the 1400s and the church was converted into a mosque, but many remain, and they are stunning. Apparently the place has been a museum since the 1950s, but its location and light and ambiance seemed somehow sacred to me, a refuge.

We went back along the Bosphorus. The cool air at the water's edge seemed to have lured everyone out: families were picnicking, couples young and old walked or watched the sparkling strait, women strolled along in traditional veil or trendy fashion, men lit up cigarettes and talked into mobile phones. With sunset came reflections on windows, a glow and twinkle in cafes, silvery light slipping into night. I wondered about that Istanbul hazin that Orhan Pamuk has written about, the pervasive sense of melancholy, but at the moment it seemed elusive. I asked Ceylan, and she said, "It's too hot to feel it. Still summer. It comes with autumn mist..."

To me, the mood was matter-of-factness combined with mystery, and a worldliness not quite elapsed into weariness. I witnessed the bustle and jostle of commerce and life, competitiveness and desire, along with a penchant for pausing -- a cigarette, a conversation, hot tea in the sun. It seemed a place of history and modernity, of holiness and worldliness, decay and vitality...and the young in one another's arms, as Yeats said.

In his foreword toIstanbul, Poetry of Place, Jason Goodwin writes, “It is not a mosaic but a shifting kaleidoscope of views and voices which characterizes Istanbul down through the centuries.”

A kaleidoscope, and I've merely glimpsed a glimmer.

More travels in Turkey to follow...little by little...

I Have Been To Istanbul

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