The hotel rooftop balcony

It was a tedious, long journey getting here, fraught with petty annoyances, but as I sit listening to the afternoon call to prayer and the way the muezzin’s chant sounds against the traffic, I can think of no better reward for a trip through the periphery of hell.

Jet Blue was one of the least painful cross-country trips I’ve done; comfortable seats, well-run staff, and I slept most of the time, which helped. Delta sucked. NY sucked. Hot humid, poor air conditioning in the terminals, crappy shops and fuck-all for duty frees. Nasty place. Explored it top to bottom with my day-long layover, riding the air train in several circles almost out of shear boredom as much as anything.

International air travel has lost its allure. When I flew Delta to Japan 14 years ago there were great amenities and it still had a smoking section. Now it’s no better than riding on Greyhound.

I got on the plane and had an odd experience. I got settled in and dozed off only to wake up two hours later to find us still on the tarmac. I then remembered that a ton of other flights were leaving at the same time. We had been the last in the queue!

I made it through passport control at Ataturk; paid my paid my 35 YTL (New Turkish Lira) for my tourist visa, got my bag and after sizing up the taxi situation, climbed into a cab for a ride to the old city. Actually I had waited around until a very nice new official looking taxi was next in the cue. As I approached the man coordinating the taxis a very beat up looking vehicle pulled in front and I was directed in. The driver was a younger man with a flowered shirt and several large gold chains. The inside of the car was very stripped down, but it had the correct meter and license. It seemed only barely street legal, but my inner voice intoned, “You are not here to be comfortable all the time, so get in the damn car”.

 Every step here is an education and no study prepares you for it. As insane as the drivers are said to be in all of the guidebooks, the pedestrians are just as nuts. Road rules and regulations are like the pirate’s code, more of a guideline than anything else. I had a heart attack watching some street urchins attempt to jump through 4 lanes of heavy traffic on Kennedy Cadessi (It’s like an urban parkway/highway) and then stand perched on the median barrier to leap the other four lanes.

Kennedy Cadessi, or Kennedy Avenue is, wait for it… named after President John F. Kennedy. He was popular in Turkey, and to hear the Turks tell it, a fan of Ataturk.

The best investment I could have made was getting the Turkish language CDs. Just knowing a few phrases in Turkish has been gold. Evidently no one ever bothers (meaning tourists) so my few phrases have gotten an enormous response.

I did some easy exploring when I got unpacked. I went down the hill to Topkapi, wandered the palace park then went up the hill along the palace walls. My first stop was the archeological museum – very impressive. Lots of Sumerian and Hittite pieces including the world’s oldest love poem, written in cuneiform. There was no translation in English, but I was curious.

After more wandering and looking in a neat bookshop I came back, stopping at the corner market for supplies. They were making these great sandwiches, so I had one. Soft French bread sliced open with a smoked sausage, cheese and butter, then flattened and grilled. It was a struggle as my first real attempt to converse in Turkish, and my numbers let me down, but the owners were friendly and up to a challenge. I repaid them by stocking up with beverages and snacks a plenty.

I chilled on the terrace in the late afternoon and hooked up with Rudy outside the hotel at 5:30.

We had a fantastic evening. A breeze kicked up and we walked and talked our way through Sultanhamet Square. We talked history as we walked through the hippodrome track and looked at the sites of things that had been brought as plunder and the things that had been removed as plunder. I also learned local orienteering. When in doubt count the minarets. The Blue Mosque has six, and everything flows from that fact. Technically I think that the only place that should have more than one minaret is Mecca, but I doubt anyone stopped the Sultan in the Palace and protested.

We had dinner at Sultanhamet Kofte, which is a local landmark. The signature dish, the Kofte, is seasoned ground meat formed into the size of a fish stick and grilled. We ordered ours ala carte with Pilau (rice), salata (salad), a chicken shish kebab, and a beverage called Ayran. Ayran is basically watered down yogurt and it’s a bit like buttermilk. Apparently it’s an acquired taste, but I have no plans on staying here long enough to like that miserable stuff.

The restaurant has a huge following, but was embroiled in a succession controversy. When the owner passed on some his sons kept the restaurant going while one son decided to open a chain across the region. It was a scandal.

After settling the bill we went to a nice café on the east side of Sultanhamet Square. This was my major introduction to café culture and it was unforgettable.

The café was a bit touristy, but in a good way. There was live traditional music and a Dervish performing his whirling dance. There was also a sort of alcove where a woman was making a sort of flat unleavened bread. It was rolled out and baked on a sort of concave crepe grill heated with coals. The waiter spoke English very well and was almost entirely self-educated, a very witty person with a very Turkish sort of deadpan wit.

This was also where I tried a nargile for the first time. Also called a Hookah, it’s rare experience. The tobacco is often fruit flavored (we had apple) and incredibly smooth. It’s a slow process to smoke one, and will cover few cups of tea. Another of the must haves/bring homes.

We talked into the night and then headed back - me to the hotel and Rudy across to the Asian side.

Thursday June 9th

Today began early with the 4:30am call to prayer! I went back to bed until 6:30 then gave up and got going. I planned to spend a few quiet minutes with my journal but was joined on the terrace by Abraham, the hotel owner.

Breakfast with fantastic. Pretzel-shaped sesame seed bagels*, croissant-like pastries, hard-boiled eggs, olives, grapes and a sort of salami, washed down with many cups of strong tea.

[* The bagel-like things are called 'simit' and are the food of choice from street vendors]

We chatted about life, work and he told me about how the city changed in the 23 years he was living in the States. The hotel was his family home for three generations and he inherited a share in it. He was a chemist and a consultant in LA, and when his company went out of business, he came back, bought out his relatives and converted it to a hotel. It's been open a year and he loves it.

Brad, an Austin businessman in software and Andrew, a Kiwi engineer living in Seattle, joined us at table. We shared out impressions and finds. Andrew has done some serious carousing in Taksim the previous night but was bight and cheerful as only Kiwis can be when hung over.

We adjourned at 9:00, Brad to the Bosphorous cruise, Andrew to explore the Asian side and me to see Sultanhamet.

First stop - Aya Sofia

Photos will never capture the amazing sense of its scale, both inside and out. To attempt to describe it would be to come short fundamentally. The largest building in the world when built, it still commands attention. The mosaics that have been exposed are amazing works of art.

The cistern was both beautiful and eerie. The piped-in classical music is great and the echoes play strange tricks. The odd decorative elements are bizarre in the siting. There are also some strange fish in the deeps parts that swim like small shadows through the half-light.

After a short break at the Internet cafe, I went on the Museum of Islamic Art, a great place in the old Ibrahim Pasha Palace. The art was pretty amazing and covered a whole range of items and periods. The real centerpiece is the vaulted hall with the giant carpets, many from the Seljuk period.

The Blue Mosque was inspiring but not considered Sinan the architect’s greatest work. It's really an attempt to one-up Aya Sofia, but doesn't capture that sense of the mystic. The clean lines and amazing decorative painting and tiles are something thought. I dutifully obeyed the rules and carried my shoes in a bag. It does keep its sense of a working place of worship and the faithful are there in droves.

The mosaic museum was interesting though not much remains of what it once was. The subjects are often violent and intriguing. Carnivores devouring prey and people with demon-like faces.

Lunch was a light repast at the very touristy Sultan Pub. The French cafe tables and chairs were fun though, and I just had an appetizer of fried calamari washed down with Turka Cola and lemon.

The last part of the afternoon I've spent dozing and writing on the hotel terrace. The breeze has finally kicked-up and it there's a more pleasant place to spend a few quiet moments I have yet to see it.

I still have to write a few postcards. I successfully negotiated the post office at Topkapi and have stamps, but need to get down to it. Maybe tomorrow INSHALAH.

To add to the picture I should mention my room, or rather my closet. It's that small. I'll measure the footage. Abe offered a larger room in a day or two, but I'm fine.

The afternoon call to prayer has starter, my signal to get cleaned up and dressed for the evening.

CHOK GÜZEL.

I have a new strategy. With just enough Turkish to pass I'm telling the touts I live here and they give up quickly thinking I'm not an easy mark.

Another fun evening. We walked along the docks and across the Galata Bridge, which spans the Golden Horn. It was packed with people, cars and buses. Men fished over the side of the bridge for what sort of fish I can't imagine.

We took the funicular railway up the hill to Galata Tower and then went up for a spectacular sunset view of the city.

The Tunel is a two-stop tram built to go up the steep stairs from Karakoy to the level of Istiklal Caddessi. Built by the French so they wouldn't have to climb the hill from the residences to the embassies. They had a good point; it's a bugger of a climb.

Istiklal Avenue was vibrant and packed with people. It's the "European" neighborhood and is like a garish version of a packed Parisian street. I did notice a few very nice bookstores and a few spots to revisit. Anything imported is incredibly expensive.

Dinner at the Otantik Restaurant was great. We had Gözleme, which is basically stuffed nan bread and tried several with meat, cheese, and spinach. The main course was a mixed platter with two types of dolma (grape leaves and cabbage). A form of BBQ chicken, spiced meatballs, chicken kebab, and two types of Kofte.

The furnishings were ottoman style low tables and sofas. Hell if you have long legs like Rudy. After dinner we scuttled down the hill to meet Rudy’s ferry and I took a cab back to the hotel.

Friday June 10

Morning ~ I had breakfast with Andrew, Abe, and Captain Marco. Marco is a shipbuilder in town to look for a shipbuilder for some wealthy clients. He’s what we might call “a free spirit”. He found his builder right off the back and has been using the time to see the sights and revisit the scene of his misspent youth.

Andrew was again too damn cheerful. He and Brad had hooked up and gone carousing the night before, ending up at the gambling den next door. Brad held his own at cards, but Andrew had dropped a packet on Backgammon. Apparently his opponent had brought his own dice. The double six roll to win the game was a crushing blow.

Gambling is currently illegal in Turkey, though small gambling joints thrive in the back streets. Turks are very completive by nature. They like games and sports, so banning some forms of competition are a tough sell, the Koran’s prohibitions not withstanding.

I set out for Topkapi Palace at 9am and had a great time exploring it all. I missed the Harem tour. They only take limited numbers of people in groups each hour, and as I had missed the next tour I wasn’t hanging about. The palace is truly amazing in it’s architecture, decoration, and history.

It was very cool and overcast today. It’s been a nice break. For once I’m not marinating in my own sweat as I trudge from monument to monument.

I saw the Topkapi Dagger and some amazing jewelry. The room with religious artifacts was very interesting. The hairs of the beard of the Prophet, his foot prints and other treasures are in a room where passages from the Koran are sung continually. Visitors to the room are expected to show reverence and not make a stir. There was a screaming floundering child running about, but fortunately his family was Turkish and it couldn’t be blamed on the tourists.

I’m of two minds about tourists. I’m one myself, so it may sound slightly hypocritical, but I’m constantly embarrassed by the way others act. I take a certain amount of pride in doing my research before I go anywhere new, mainly because I can be so slow on the uptake when I get on unfamiliar ground. I also get my phrase book and try my best to adhere to local customs. People who act put upon when local custom dictates something constantly outrage me. For example, you can’t wear shorts or shoes in a mosque. The tourists would stand outside and grumble about it. Why come to Turkey? Stay home and watch the damn video. They ask that you not enter during prayers, and still tourists stand outside and complain about a delay of 20 minutes in their schedule.

Language is one of my major pet peeves when it comes to tourists. I try my best to learn survival language skills when I go somewhere new, because it’s a matter of common courtesy for one thing, and practical use for the other. English speakers, whether from the US or England, seem to think that the rest of the world should be speak English for their convenience, when in fact there are countries like Turkey where learning to speak English is a luxury most can’t afford. They may know a few words or phrases, but it’s not essential to their lives. We seem to forget that for people visiting the US, if you don’t speak English you are truly out of luck, and in fact people will be extremely unkind at this omission. My message to fellow tourists is this: if you have a headache and haven’t bothered to learn how to say, “where can I buy aspirin” in the local tongue, I hope you’re in agony you flaming idiot. You deserve the pain.

On a more pleasant note, I’m almost adjusted to local time and slept through the morning call to prayer. I’m actually feeling quite human now.

Lest I give too glowing a report, there are some off-putting things about Istanbul. There is a vast chasm between rich and poor in this city. There is enormous poverty and underemployment. The workforce is massive, overeducated, and hamstrung by truly Byzantine laws. Turkish universities crank out graduates in large numbers for professions that have no demand in a country where the economy is still mostly agrarian.

Ataturk began a great society, but his reach fell short of the economy. One gets the feeling that modern Turkey is always on the verge of becoming something amazing, but never quite gets there.

After writing a few postcards I headed down to Sirkeci, an area down on the Golden Horn. The mission was to find the main post office and a famous sweetshop known for Turkish Delight.

The shop was a great experience. Very old world, but packed with Turks. I had almost no idea what anything was, but I snagged a few nice looking boxes and it was very inexpensive, like most locally produced things.

Local cigarettes are about a dollar a pack, and imported smokes are not much more. Bottled water is like 35 cents a liter, and a sandwich from a deli can run a dollar. Mass transit is less that a dollar. For the visitor with money, it’s a steal.

The post office was a Victorian nightmare that should have been condemned after the last major earthquake. Perhaps stately in its time, it’s looking pretty beat. The façade is like any French provincial large city post office, but one covered with dirt, soot, and neglect. The process is demoralizing. You take a number and sit in rows of stiff looking wooden benches. It’s a classic tale of twenty windows and one clerk. To their credit they are attempting to provide many services like phone, currency exchange, some banking etc.

They do have some nice looking stamps and I might go back and join the happy throng.

Tomorrow it’s on to Bursa and Iznik. I still need to do some light packing. Tonight it’s a home cooked Turkish meal from Rudy’s wife Zeynep.

Rudy swung by the hotel and we had a pleasant trip across the Bosphorus. The ferry is now my favorite type of transport. It’s cheap, and very relaxed. There is a cool breeze out on the water and it’s a refreshing break in the day.

We strolled Kadikoy, a bustling neighborhood on the Asian side. It’s a warren of shops and cafes crammed with people. Rudy snapped my photo standing next to a beekeeper mannequin.

The minibus to Rudy’s neighborhood was an education. It’s a very communal experience. You get on and pass your money to the front based on how far you intend to go. The fact that each bus driver is almost an independent contractor makes for a different ride every time. Some are decorated for a soccer team, or some have nice stereos and even a video screen. Some are also very bare bones and professional. It’s a different ride every time.

We hopped of on Minibus Street, it having no other name and the main traffic being buses and minibuses. We stopped at the Gypsy flower seller for a large bouquet of carnations. She’s perched on the corner and is the vortex of local gossip, much of it about her.

Rudy and Zepnep’s apartment is in a building owned by Zepnep’s mother. It’s shaped like a right long triangle and six stories high. It does have an elevator and the balconies are very nice. The apartment is very homey feeling. Lots of love and warmth here.

Dinner was fantastic. Eggplant roasted over an open flame and then cooked with ground meat and a tomato sauce with cheese grilled on top. The smoky taste was unique to me and I’d have it any time. It’s a very labor-intensive dish and I’d feel guilty asking anyone to make it for me.

We had real Turkish tea made with a double boiler. I need to get one!

We talked into the night and then crashed because we had an early start ahead.

 Saturday, June 11^th

On the Road to Bursa

After a stop for gas and sticker shock, we went to pick up Harris, another teacher at Rudy’s school. Gas is 2.5 YTL per liter, or about $8 a gallon, and it has a tremendous effect on local transportation. Long commutes become impossible without mass transit. Most of the cost is in tax. Which is paying for massive transportation revamp nationwide.

Harris is a true, friendly, open sort of person, probably a great teacher. He kept us in stitches the whole trip with unique observations.

The drive to Eskihar Ferry terminal had us hunkering down in flash flood rains. Very scary stuff, but it tapered off when we got off the ferry near Yalovna. At one point I felt like we were sure to be washed off the highway. The ferry was sturdy and no frills.

The drive to Bursa seemed short, but so much is new that I barely notice travel time here. The drive was actually more like two or three hours.

Our first destination was the Karagoz puppet theater for the 11:30 puppet show. It was a debacle just finding it, and on arrival the damn thing was closed! We horsed around the statues and took photos, but Harris was sorely disappointed.

The shows are a unique form of Turkish theater done with shadow puppets. It’s an early form of cultural satire, with traditional plays and a set of traditional characters, sort of a Punch and Judy.

The story goes that Karagoz, a mason, and Hacivad, a blacksmith, were commissioned to work on Uluu Cami, the city’s great mosque then under construction by the Sultan Orhan. The two wisecracking cronies kept their colleagues in constant laughter. The Sultan, wondering why the construction proceeded at a snail's pace, had them done away with when he learned of their distracting antics. A man named Seyh Kusteri, wishing to console the Sultan when he was overcome with remorse for his impulsive harshness, erected a screen in a corner of the palace and showed silhouettes of Hacivad and Karagoz up to their most amusing tricks.

Next, we drove up to the Tomb of Osman, the Conqueror of Bursa, who made it the first seat of the Seljuk Empire, built on the foundations of a Byzantine monastery. The current buildings are Baroque, but heavily visited as a shrine. Earthquakes leveled an earlier set of buildings. It has a great view of the city and mountains.

Bursa is famous for chestnuts, so we stopped at a popular sweetshop and bought some sugared chestnuts.

We parked and went net to Uluu Camii, the classic 14^th century mosque. For once, I didn’t go inside. The call to prayer had just sounded and they prefer infidels to stay outside during prayer times. I relaxed against a wall and enjoyed watching the people.

The Kozahan, the old silk market, was fantastic. It’s the terminus of the old Silk Road and it thrives today as the center of the local silk trade. The lower arcade where camels and silk were stored is still storage, and the upper arcade is packed with silk shops. The center plaza is filled with tables and chairs, and in the center is a small chapel of some sort that’s still in use.

I got a good education on how to tell real pure silk and on the whole process. The salesmen were excellent and not as pushy as typical Turkish shopkeepers. Purchases were made!

We drifted down the wide boulevard in search of Iskendar Kebab, a local specialty. There are supposedly six kinds of true Kebab dishes and Bursa is known for this one. I fact, if you tell a Turk you’ve been to Bursa, the first things he’ll ask you is if you had Iskendar Kebab, and which restaurant you went to.

We had a great lunch and I also had Turkish pizza, which was very different from anything I’ve ever tried. It’s basically a flat sort of unleavened bread spread with a sauce and some fresh onions. It was very nice, but probably wouldn’t order it again.

Time was getting on, so under clearing skies, we left the mist-shrouded mountains of Bursa and headed out for Iznik, also the ruins of Ancient Nicea.

A beautiful drive through the olive groves led us to Lake Iznik, and then down at the lake’s east end. It was 5 PM, but things were picking up as farmers headed into town on their tractors, whole families towed behind in wagons.

We explored the Senate Ruins, now a picnic area, and walked the ruins of the Roman Amphitheater, and I do mean ruins. When first identified in the sixties I was the town dump. Germans excavated it, and under 20 feet of rubbish they found a treasure.

Aya Sofia was still open, but there’s not much left. Inside the walls there is a nice mosaic floor and one small fresco barely visible. It’s too faint to even photograph. It was partially restored and remodeled by the great architect Sinan, but it’s mostly destroyed. There is a nice rose garden and park surrounding it but the building is barely there.

Fortunately, the old tile market was open and we browsed and talked with the Artisans as they worked on their masterpieces. There were many amazing pieces and the newly rediscovered process shows some amazing detail and clarity. It’s very complex and the tiles are not cheap. I came away with a special one for Maria, but not without some friendly bargaining. The particular artisan I bought it from is nationally known for producing some of the largest and most detailed tiles outside Topkapi Palace.

We went back the long way through the mountains. The scenery was very beautiful and I have a feeling most tourists never see it as the roads are too winding for the big tour buses.

We hit the Pay Motorway for the last leg home, making one pit stop at a rest area. It was interesting for it’s McDonalds, which was a bridge over the Motorway.

We dropped off Harris after one missed exit, a Turkish Nightmare, and got back at 10:30 PM. Had a Dominos Pizza supper and crashed.

Sunday, June 12^th

I was up early reading, but Turks like to sleep in on Sunday, and Rudy and Zeynep are no exception.

Breakfast was a traditional Turkish Sunday brunch; labor intensive, but extremely good. Eggs with smoked sausage, olives and tomatoes dripped with olive oil, Turkish bagels and strong tea from the double boiler.

After a long, relaxed meal we went over the maps and next week’s schedule over Turkish coffee, my first. Very strong stuff, but not to be missed.

We took a minibus back down to the water, took the ferry to Eminonu, then the bus up to Eyup’s tomb.

Eyup was the standard bearer of the Prophet, and his tomb is one of the most important shrines in Islam. He died during an early siege of the city, and was buried outside the walls! Mehmet Fatih (Also known as the Conqueror) built the tomb after the sack of the city and built a mosque next door. A cemetery has grown up around the tomb and now covers the steep hillside.

It’s a good place to discretely watch people and get a feel for the spirit of the community. It’s still an important site of pilgrimage.

The stroll up the steep hill to the teahouse was brutal, but the payoff was a pleasant stop at the Pierre Loti teahouse. It has very good views of the city and the Golden Horn. Pierre Loti was a French writer who lived in Istanbul for several periods and wrote novels that really caught the spirit of the time and place.

We strolled back down, my bag heavy with souvenirs and books by Pierre Loti. They are in the process of building an elevator to the top, but half the experience is the walk to the top.

We parted company near the bridge and I headed back to the old city, passing the spice market or Egyptian market as it’s also called.

I also missed my turn at Sirkeci and walked the long way around the station.

The good news was finding a great tea garden on the other side of Topkapi. I was beat, but spent some time sipping tea and watching the ships and ferries (The Turks call them Feribots) cross the Golden Horn and then head to the Asian side.

Finally back at the hotel, I’m chilling out and filling in my day. Abe stopped by and we had tea and talked about food.

The terrace is peaceful and very pleasant at all times, but especially so at sunset when the light bounces off Aye Sofia before the night spotlights come on

I’ve taken about 300 photos so far, but it can’t describe moments like this as I sit in the failing light and listen to the city and its voice at dusk.

Hunger gnaws at me. I’m like the Spartan with the fox.

Overpriced dinner at the world famous pudding shop. Actually – it is world famous. Back in the 60’s and 70’s it was a last stop for anyone heading into the Hinterland via car or thumb. You could post notes for friends or hook up with fellow travelers heading to parts unknown.

The mixed grill was a combination of almost every sort of meat dish available, and for once this week I gave into my baser instincts and gorged like a lion at the kill. I will say this though: Best God Damn pudding I’ve ever had.

Also, had a nice chat with the steward Duran about Turkish footboy. Nice older gent, probably one of Abe’s uncles or something. While the national team is on the upswing, the local teams are facing a dilemma. The European leagues are picking up good players and the money they command is hard to pass up. Fenarbace can offer enough but Galatasaray and Beshiktas struggle. Fenar has a great new stadium and regularly draws a full house. The steward is a Fenar fan, but Abe supports BKS. Fenar is really the local version of Manchester United, while BKS is more like Arsenal, the workingman’s team.

They’re still talking about the AC Milan/Liverpool match. Apparently the Scouser fans were pretty rowdy – the word going round is that one drunken Scouser tried to pick a fight with locals in a bar and wiped his ass with a Turkish Flag – He got stabbed for his effrontery, but one of his mates was sober enough to get him to a hospital in time to avoid a fatality.

 Brits have a bad rap here. The other tourists seem to keep a low profile, but the English seem to treat the place like Blackpool. It’s the younger ones, apparently.

I was going to do some light reading, but I’m bushed. Good night.

Monday, June 13^th

Called Maria when I woke up. I’m missing her badly. We need to come back here together soon. As much fun as I’m having here, there’s a sense that it’s only half the experience on my own. Being married has ruined traveling alone for me.

Early morning is a beautiful time of day here. It’s cool and peaceful, and as the Turks like to stay up and sleep in, nothing much really happens early.

Lots of lessons were learned this morning. After chatting with Abe for a spell, I decided to impose on his hospitality.

He had mentioned previously that there was a basilica in the basement, so I asked for the nickel tour. It turns out that he’s got a Byzantine Basilica in the cellar and possibly a quite old one. There’s a small door behind the reception area and it leads down narrow stone steps and winds down to a leveled floor and a chamber, roughly octagon shaped with barrel vaulting in the ceiling. The walls descend another three meters under the floor level, which based on the levels excavated in other sites, might put it as much as 1000 years old. Abe tried to tell me it was 2000 years old, but he’s a bit iffy with numbers.

There are three areas with fragments of frescoes at the top of what would have been tall alcoves. Two are the rings of halos, possibly Christ images, and the third will require some study, but it looks like it will reveal some secrets.

He refuses to mention it on the website, but I think it would be a real draw. There’s even a way to enter through the street lever. Some of it is used as storage as it was when Abe was growing up.

We had more tea on the terrace and talked business for a while. I truly think there’s an angle to it. Turks can hustle, but the long-range angle is a step!

Much thought will be required.

On the subject of business, I mentioned my souvenir searches and the cost of Pashminas at Bursa. He mentioned knowing a good place and being willing to take a chance.  Off we went. He wanted a few for gifts for special guests and would do the buying/haggling.

We dropped off the main street, and soon we were in the wholesale garment district. Fascinating place on the whole. If you weren’t a Turk you wouldn’t know about it. It’s a very bustling area. According to Abe, all the shop owners go through these wholesalers and most a do at least a fifty percent mark-up.

In the end, it was a great deal. In the bazaar, they open at 20 and will go as far as 12 YTL, 10 if you buy a few. We got ours for 6 lira, but we got a dozen each.

The clever Turk does not pay retail.

I got six colors so I’m set for gifts. I might hit Kapali Carsi for the experience, but we’ll have to see how it goes.

After securing my purchases in the room I got prepped and strolled down to Eminonu to catch the Bosphorus cruise. The cruise left at 10:30 and it’s almost an all day excursion. At only 7.5 YTL round trip, it’s the best deal in Istanbul.

The boat leaves from the dock nearest the pedestrian Bridge and follows the Grand Palaces and the sights along the water, stopping at several small towns and very vibrant neighborhoods.

After securing my purchases in the room, I got prepped and strolled down to Eminonu to catch the Bosphorus Cruise.

The cruise leaves at 10:30 and it’s almost an all-day excursion. At only 7.5 YTL round trip, it’s the best deal in Istanbul.

 The end of the line is Andalu Kavagi, which is a fishing Village just short of the Black Sea. Crowded with fishing boats and dockside cafés, the specialties are seafood dishes. I had the baked sea bass with a tomato seafood sauce.

I strolled the village, dipped my toes in the Bosphorus, and stopped to buy Nazars from a small stand. A nice lady in a headscarf tended it, and since orthodox women rarely work where they come into contact with men, I figured she needed the money and loaded up.

It was a quicker trip going back, but it was still 4:15 when we docked.

Ready for dinner, I set out up the avenue with an open mind and was waylaid by a bizarre impulse…

I suck; I went to McDonalds.

I left with a Kofte Burger, fries, patates (pepper filled potato things) and a large Coke with ice!

I paid the price. Three Turks stopped me and asked me why I would come all the way to Turkey and get Mickey-D’s to-go. I have no excuse, but I do think that sometimes you have to fly the flag a little, and besides, it was all local types of menu items. Even the Coke is less sweet.

It didn’t help that they put my normal-sized order in a huge bag. The stereotypical overweight Yank with a huge bag of fast food may have damaged our overall national rep for years to come.

Fuck ‘em. It was cheap and it hit the spot.

Tuesday June 14th

A cloudy morning in the old city. The ships are tooting horns, but otherwise it’s only the gulls making any noise.

I think that a city this big has it’s own life. It inhales, exhales, throbs, writhes, and sighs. You can tell more about it by the sound and smell than appearance.

I’ve decided to be more selective about my photo taking. I’ve only got about 160-170 photos left on my memory cards and almost a solid week to go. A few binges not withstanding, money is holding out fine, though it is now getting to be laundry time. We are supposed to have laundry access here, but I’m unsure how the system works.

I’m planning to go to the Grand Bazaar today, though space has now become a concern. Rudy and Zeynep have offered to give me the Nargile (Hookah) they received as a wedding gift and never used, and I would like a Turkish double boiler teapot. My hopes of a Kilim are starting to fade, though I may settle for some cushion covers if I find the right ones.

In the Bazaar

The Grand Bazar, or Karpali Carsi, is interesting as history and architecture. As a retail space it evokes my favorite Deadwoodism: If you’re not here to get fucked or fleeced, get out.

I made a few purchases, one Kilim bag that was the result of some tough bargaining, and hit overload. Many of the goods are the same, but I did make my buys at places where I liked the merchant, and he gave me a reasonable deal. I bought a hand-woven wool throw from a nice old gent, coffee mills from a guy who was low on pressure but had lots of information, a lamp from a young guy not long in business, and my Kilim bag from a complete ass. The others I dickered a bit, but this guy I really hated, so I went for it. When we got close to a price and I told him I’d only do it in Lira, I thought he was going to cry.

I headed out seeking fresh air. The bazaar is crowded and claustrophobic. There are few amazing shops, but it was like sifting through a flea market sometimes. There are numerous exits, but like magic they seem to disappear when you are ready to leave. I wound up on a street selling the hard ware for the things made and sold in the bazaar.

From there I walked up through the various shopping areas to the Sulimanye Mosque.

The mosque is said to be the masterwork of Sinan, though I’ve heard the same of the Blue Mosque and the mosque in Edirne. In my opinion, the real beauty lies in the amazing courtyard and grounds.

I strolled through the streets more or less at random and wound up at the old aqueduct. I followed the old city walls for a stretch then went down to the banks of the Golden Horn.

On the city side of the road, the shops go from cooking equipment and restaurant supplies, including many just selling Turkish BBQ’s.

The closer one gets to the spice bazaar, the more things begin to change to bulk foods, coffee, cheese merchants, and finally, as you step into the bazaar, it explodes with smells and colors.

I’m a fan of the spice bazaar. Smaller and less hectic, it strikes a nice balance between touristy crap and amazing products. I did some real damage there. Tea, coffee, Sujuk sausages, and some imported Iranian saffron.

I hauled my plunder through the streets of Sirkeci, and back to the hotel feeling like I had been through the wars.

How the hell am I getting all this home?

The Turks have all been curious about my journal writing. I’m in no way prolific, but I’ve been out here beavering away at all hours.

Perhaps tourists no longer keep journals. It’s all blogging and internet cafes, but how can you even begin to reflect on your surroundings in front of a computer monitor? It’s just not the same.

Paper may be fragile, but technology is too uncertain.

One of the many contradictions here is the way Turks have embraced the digital world. The smallest shop will have a website, and cell phones are as common as Nazar Bunjuk.

Even the technology can be labor intensive. There are a million copy shops but none are self-service. Even the minibus has two people working it. Rudy thinks it’s a reaction to the massive unemployment and I’m sure that’s behind it to a degree. There’s also a sense of communal values and shared experience, and a need to provide a place for everyone.

An example is this hotel. Abe has twice the staff needed to run a 24-room hotel, but still has a nephew and a friend’s sister just hanging around to do small things.

The population influx has been a real transformation. The idea that the population has quadrupled in the last twenty years is staggering. Many places have become enormous suburbs almost overnight.

For the tourist, the old city is like a wonderful illusion, a richly historical Disneyland that has little to do with the realities of life faced by modern Istanbullahs.

One of the things I’ve noticed is that younger Istanbullahs see the old city as something not relevant. A common response is “Oh yes, my grandfather/father always took us there,” seeming to say  that it’s a nostalgia bank, only to be visited in memories or family. Younger people with means are more likely to have visited Paris, Amsterdam, or the Aegean Resorts than the local monuments or sights.

It would be a stretch to say that the old city has become a Disneyland, or a museum. It’s still packed with bustling neighborhoods and living communities, but the change is coming and it seems like a world on the verge or something that will change it irrevocably.

In the evening, Rudy and I hooked up and had a pleasant stroll through Gulhane Park. He had never been through and it’s a wonderful, shady spot. We did some speculating on the ruins on the ground, and wound our way around and up to the tea garden at the back end of the park, below the last terrace of Topkapi.

The Bosphorus was beautiful and we had a great view of the ship traffic coming down from the Black Sea.

One thing we’ve noticed is that there are few markings or information on many of the historic things around the city. The Ottoman Era tourist attractions are well marked, but many older things are shown only in the guidebooks.

We had dinner under the Galata Bridge at one of the nice fish restaurants. I had the baked sole and it was great. We chatted and watched the ships till about nine, and then each strolled his way home.

I did have a loom in several small pubs full of locals. It’s a lively social scene here after dark. It took a while to stagger home.

Wednesday 15th

 It’s hot today. No clouds and the sun is beating down something fierce at only 9 a.m. I’m still not sure how to spend my day. I might go to Uskudar, or maybe to Taksim and stroll Istiklal Caddessi.

Decisions - Decisions.

Whatever I do, I need to get out of the sun!

Afternoon

I got geared up and took a taxi to Taksim Square over on the European side. My cabbie was channeling Mario Andretti, though that’s par for the course with taxi drivers. Cab rides here are measured not by miles but by close calls. I think I saw the meter jump each time we avoided a crash. We missed a collision seven times and the fare was 7 YTL. Makes perfect sense.

Istiklal Caddessi was crowded and expensive. It’s a great example of a pedestrian street that works but there are some real issues.

Books are astronomically priced, mainly because Turks aren’t big readers, but imports are outrageous. Likewise, notebooks and good writing instruments. No sales volume.

Magazines aren’t bad and I picked up a few for Maria. I have no idea if they’re any good, so we’ll have to see.

I did pass an amazing nautical bookshop. It was too dark for a photo, but the back had a curving staircase and a part of a wheelhouse, all from a grand old steam liner. No books in English, but a very cool outpost.

Turkey is a great place for men’s fashion. I’ve seen tons of great suits and ties, not expensive. The in-look at the moment is the perfect white cotton or linen suit with a pastel green tie or regimental stripe tie. Perfect for a night clubbing on the Bosphorus.

I did some buying at the official city bookstore. Better priced, it’s full of books on Istanbul in every language. They also had some great reproduction prints of antique maps and gravures. I picked up small volumes on Turkish cooking and the Galata neighborhood, as well as two folk music CDs.

As a special plus, they had VCDs on the Karagoz Puppets for only 2 YTL apiece, and I got four to pass on to Harris.

There were tons of cheap VCD movies everywhere and I assume they were also pirated. Might pick up a few since they were cheap and take a chance.

Loaded down with heavy books and magazines, I started downhill, passing the Galata Tower and stopped at the Dervish Lodge. Tired and burdened, I went by without taking a photo.

At the bottom of the hill I found the Tram Line and followed it back along to the Besiktas Station. The Tram is way cool. 1.10 YTL and it’s air conditioned, and quick. It got packed at Sirkici, but it stops in front of the Sublime Port, then a one-block walk up hill gets to the hotel.

I stopped at my favorite place, the corner market, and hooked up a great Sujuk toasted sandwich and some orange Fanta, or as it’s printed here, Portukal Fanta. I devoured it under an umbrella on the terrace and tried to write, but the sun and sleep got me. I dozed with my forearms under the sun and got a slight burn. Very odd indeed.

My clean laundry was stacked in the closet, but I Think I may be short a shirt. Hmm… I do desperately need an iron!

I still have so many questions. There is still so much I’m not getting that I’ll be wondering about for ages. There is a shady joint next to the hotel where they appear to be playing cards and drinking tea in a back room. I have a feeling it’s an illegal gambling joint but I haven’t had the nerve to enquire and I’m not going in to ask.

The call to prayer just sounded and that’s also my cue to check the email and go out. The opera waits.

After the concert

The concert was wonderful. Part of the allure is that Aya Irene is not open to the public, and the only way to see inside is to have tickets to the Istanbul Music Festival. It was second only to Aya Sofia in size when it was used as a church and it has tons of history surrounding it.

The draw for many is its acoustics. We listened to Opera Arias, joined by some Istanbul’s most glittering folks, all there to see and be seen.

The orchestra was outstanding, and they did justice to the hall. The singers were good, but of the six, only three of the soloists managed to really project into the space.

Two of the sopranos were great, one of which had great presence. The real star was a tenor named Eroem Edrogan, who completely rocked the show. Il Brindisi from La Traviata closed the performance and he completely brought down the house.

I would be remiss to forget to include our brilliant supper. We ate at a very ornate European-style restaurant and hotel called The Green House. It’s quite elegant and we ate in the back walled terrace where the tables surround a large marble fountain.

Thursday 15th

My day today is completely at random. We’re doing a few things in the next few days, so I have to be selective. I’m tempted to go to Kiz Kulesi or take a cab somewhere off the beaten path. With only four days to go, it’s getting interesting.

Afternoon – messing about in boats.

With the temperature now in the eighties, I resolved to climb no hills today and that only leaves the waterfront, since Istanbul is built on a series of seven hills.

My first clever idea was to take the Tram to Dolmabace Palace. A good idea in theory. The Tram map shows stops there and at Besiktas, but the clever Turk would have noticed a dotted line from Findliki to those stops indicating they are future stops yet to be constructed. I noticed this when at Findliki, the tram reversed and I was going the wrong freakin’ way. I got off at Tophane and decided to hoof it on the shade-lined boulevard.

At the palace I got “Harrised.” At the entrance a very friendly cop explained that today was a holiday and no entry was permitted. Again I see that maps and guidebooks are merely guidelines.

Stymied, I thought, screw this old wreck and crossed the street to the Besiktas Stadium and looked into their Muzesi and bought a tie at the team shop.

In for a Kru in for a lira, I kept going, heading for Besiktas Iskelesi hoping to catch an economy ferry, but not finding one. I strolled the grounds of the Naval Museum before catching a new-style ferry for Uskudar.

The banks were lined with fisherman as I wound my way along the direction of Kiz Kulesi.

After a head butt over change I bought my ticket and hopped aboard the small cabin cruiser that acts as the ferry. Exploring the island is a five-minute affair, but I spent a pleasant half-hour on the balcony sipping ice tea with lemon and watching people.

From there it was a stroll back to Uskudar, and a new-style ferry to Eminonu, and a walk back through Sirkeci to the hotel. I’m pretty bushed, but we’re going to party tonight, so it’s time to get showered and kitted up for the evening.

I got the 4:50 ferry to Kadikoy, and strolled the plaza in front of Ataturk’s Statue for a few minutes, waiting for Rudy. The place was bustling with all sorts of activity. Several students appeared to be attempting some sort of protest, but no one was paying much attention. Several small fringe political groups were attempting to sign up recruits, but no joy there either.

There were quite a few gypsy women, mostly camped in the shade in small groups. A few were attempting to sell flowers and one may have cursed me. Hard to tell.

Usually they look quite wretched, skin dark and leathery from exposure and bent by poverty and malnutrition. There was a girl however, maybe 14, who was a lovely creature. She had been sent out to sell packets of tissues in the square and not having much success.

The gypsy men are the city recycling system. They prowl the streets just after dusk with giant hand trucks, picking up cardboard and anything glass. It’s efficient in its own way, though it makes for an odd sense of what’s acceptable in a public thoroughfare.

The Turkish concept of public property is very odd. Private property is sacred, but a street or park belongs to no one and is fair game for dumping refuse.

 Zeynep showed up after Rudy, and we cabbed it to Chris’ pad, a ninth story flat facing the Sea of Marmara. He has an outstanding view and the rent was about $700 a month.

Chris is a cheerful Canadian with a slightly warped sense of what’s right and holy – present when we arrived was his previous girlfriend, a kept woman whose current boyfriend is in the black market in Petrol. Chris’s current girlfriend was out working: She’s a hooker.

We were joined by Jason, a TED teacher originally from North London, Aussie Kate and her very cool Turkish husband, Lane who works at English Time with Chris and is fancied by Chris’ ex-girlfriend, and two well-dressed women with very unTurkish plunging necklines. At first I thought this was one of the hooker girlfriends with a friend, but in fact it was a secretary from school with a friend who had gotten tarted up to party with the foreigners.

We left the party at 10 p.m., just as Jason and Chris were trying to get the girls high with an eye to getting in their knickers. Based on the situation, I’d favor their chances.

My ferry ride should have been wonderful, but there was a crew of smelly drunks on the bench outside, and it was really annoying. They wanted to play the Hello, What is your Name? Game and I gave them my coke and smokes to make them go away.

Home to crash!

Friday

Time is getting short and the temperature is rising. Today is the big Kadikoy Flea Market, and I’m meeting Rudy at 11 a.m. in Kadikoy.

Afternoon

Writing here has to be done either very early or in the late afternoon. The oppressive kindness of the hotel staff makes it impossible after 7a.m and it doesn’t cool off again until after 5.

The roof terrace is a province of an older gentleman named Duran in the latter portion of the day. He’s very oldschool and a die-hard Fenerbace fan. Soccer appears to be his secret vice as he only turns on the TV when no one is around.

First things first: I had my epic fall for the trip. Since all accidents seem to happen close to home, it would fall that my trips would not be on trips – not the case.

My sublime stumble was, in fact, at the Sublime Porte. It’s an elaborate Ottoman-style gate, and during the Ottoman days, the center of the empire’s administration. Any foreign dignitary or important government business went through the gate to the office or the Grand Vizer, the Sultan’s mouthpiece and advisor. Immediately across the street is an eight-sided tower that looks down on the Sublime Porte. The Sultan would watch comings and goings from there.

From my hotel it’s a short stroll down a steep hill. Baring the curbs it’s a straight, smooth sidewalk lined with trees. The only problem is that there is one small step near the bottom and my foot slipped on the step. I went down, right knee first and relaxed into a roll, landing smack in front of the gate on my back.

Four Turks rushed up saying “Sir! Are you good?!” And dusted me off. The total effect was hilarious. I can only imagine the ghost of the Sultan laughing like hell from the tower.

The very solicitous people made up for the drunks on the previous night’s ferry ride.

I lumped into Kadikoy Iskelesi and hopped my ferry, still a bit shaky, but without mishap.

I hooked up with Rudy and we caught a Dolmush to the Kadikoy Flea Market. Where the Grand Bazaar is a hive of scum and villainy, the Flea Market is halk or folk as in people.

Underneath the covered tents we shuffled and sweated and shopped like bandits. I found some neat things for not much money, and Rudy picked up a few gifts.

After the flea market, we went up the hill and into the more up market neighborhood of Moda. It overlooks the Sea of Marmara and we stopped in at a tea garden and ate a pair of very small toasted cheese sandwiches and water.

At this point I was beginning to feel quite ill, though I now realize this was just heat and dehydration. I bagged off for the evening feeling quite guilty, but paranoid of a stomach virus or parasite so far from the hotel and my remedies. We were supposed to hook up with Erdal and drink Raku, but it was not to be.

I limped back to the hotel, ill and wiped out, bought two liters of orange juice and some ice tea in tins and drank it all very quickly. Then dozed for a half hour.

I still feel weak, but with a shower and early bedtime I should be fresh in the morning, rest and water to cure most evils.

Later still.

I was ferociously hungry and went up to Sultanhamet Square looking for fodder. The restaurants looked ugly and Sultanhamet Kofte was packed. I ambled over to the English language bookstore, bought a few extremely over-priced books, though one was a dictionary.For dinner I ended up at the 2 Adres Kofte Salonu across the street. A great little joint, it was jumping as the neighborhood hotspot. It’s actually off the street in a basement, but most of the low tables and stools are on the sidewalk, and one large table is across the street under part of another awning. Traffic between 2 Adres and the card room next door is brisk. The card room provides tea and coffee for the eatery, so there’s a brisk interchange.

Dinner was a mixed Kebab grill with rice, salad and four kinds of Kebab. It was good and I washed it down with a glass of beer and chay. The owner is a scream. The complex of tables is his stage and he’s an active host, flitting from table to table, deep in conversation with each group of people.

 The police were out on their rounds, and during a pass several ordered food. They kept going and on the next pass the hot plates came up and mealtime commenced.

 I was confused by the name of the joint. 2^nd Address seemed an odd moniker, until I found out that the first address is the card room! It just can’t display a sign because technically it doesn’t exist.

Saturday 16th

It was a lazy start. I had a slow breakfast and hung around waiting for the call from Rudy.

He showed up about noon, and after lunch with Abe, two Americans college professors, Abe’s accountant and her daughter, we set off for Chora. Chora is an amazing Byzantine church with some incredible mosaics and frescos. The art dates from 1300 thought the walls are much older.

 It’s arguable that Chora is to art what Aya Sofia is to architecture. The mosaic art has a depth of sophistication that is truly ahead of itself.

We took a cab over to Dolmabace in the vain hope that it might be open, but like many sites, it closes at 4 p.m. We killed time at the tea garden then cabbed it back to the hotel so I could re-supply and drop things off.

We were due to meet Zeynep, Errol Bey, and his wife in Kumkapa for dinner, so we took off down through the old city behind the Blue Mosque. Rudy had an idea of where we were headed but his lead took us through a very dubious Gypsy slum.

Kumkapa is amazing. There is truly nothing like it in the US that I know of. To say it’s a street of restaurants is to sell it short. It’s a cobble-stoned street of open-air restaurants and lights in strings drape every surface or sail through the air at random. Gypsy musicians wander through them and the music never lets up as they hammer out all sorts of music, both traditional and newer. Everyone seems to know the words.

A curious fact emerges through the evening. All Turkish women can belly dance. It just takes the right occasion or the right amount of Raku. Many erupt into dance spontaneously, egged on by the other tables and the Gypsy’s.

Dinner started with various Mehane appetizers, mostly veggies in olive oil and bread. Second course of a shrimp sauce baked in Earthenware and finally baked Chupra.

Errol bey is a great guy. Very Turkish, but quite a leftist in his own way. He had stories about political upheaval in the eighties. Great sense of humor, but damn can that man put back the Raku. Mrs. Errol is a sweet lady. Bleach blond, lots of make-up, but very pleasant, and not at all affected.

It was a great evening of stories and jokes and lots of Raku. I helped Errol polish off the bottle and was pretty hammered when things finally wound down about 1 a.m.

I caught a cab back and collapsed feeling relaxed and quite smashed.

Sunday

Not much of a hangover. In fact, barely one at all. A little dehydrated and still sleepy, I rolled out of bed at 7:30 and showered, heading to breakfast in a hurry.

The controversy of the night was a crying child on the first floor who kept the hotel awake until the wee hours. The rooms are far from sound proof, and the other guests were not happy! I slept the sleep of the just and was undisturbed, but Abe had a few complaints in the morning.

I strolled down and caught the 9 a.m. ferry to Kadikoy, armed for the rain with good reason. It rained hard till 10 a.m., and stopped just as Rudy showed up. We caught the 10:20 to Adalar, and were on our way.

Adalar, also known as the prince’s islands, is a chain of nine small islands in the Sea of Marmara. The four largest islands are inhabited and can be visited. One is a prison island with only one prisoner – the Kurdish terrorist Occilan.

The trip to the largest island, Buyukadar, took about eighty minutes, stopping at the other islands along the way. Because of the weather not many people got an early start and we almost had the ferry to ourselves.

The wharf is nice, and opens into streets full of restaurants and small shops. A stroll of a block or so opens to the Phaeton Station, where the horse-drawn carriages wait to take people over the island.

The real draw of the island is its architecture. Its streets are lined with beautiful ornate houses, some quite grand, and most in an Ottoman style.

Our phaeton took us to the south side of the island and the foot of the path to St. George’s monastery. There are quite a few traditions around the monastery dealing with luck.

There are wishing trees where one makes a wish, writes it on paper, and ties it to a branch. One can also buy small medallions and pin them on for the walk to the summit, and most interesting are the strings. If you tie a string to the bottom at a tree and unravel it all the way to the top, your wish will come true. The sign on the monastery door says this is silly superstition, but many things are in Istanbul.

We climbed the steep cobblestones to the monastery and looked in the chapel. It’s quite a document of faith. There’s a whole cabinet of offerings left at the shrine, watches being a popular sacrifice. There is also a corner piled with crutches from cripples who have been healed.

The interior is painted in an almost folk-art primitive style though the starry interior is interesting for its uniform look and symmetry. The icons and pictures of saints are hung throughout the room, and the faithful walk through, touching the saint’s images and uttering prayers. One supplicant was kissing an icon of St. George and praying quite fervently.

We walked the grounds, had a drink and took photos, and then started back down, passing a guitar playing mad hippy.

We caught another Phaeton, and started back, marveling at the ornate houses.

Back in the commercial center we went in search of lunch and find a Doner Kebab place called Bandora with a nice sea view. The name should have been the tip off. Great food, but we were overcharged to a grave degree. Apparently, they had upped our portions without asking and simply tacked it on the bill. It’s not an uncommon practice, but we made a stink about paying it, hopefully driving away all their customers.

We had an hour before the ferry and strolled the streets looking at the houses and talking Turkey. Rudy has had his fill of Turkey and is ready to be back in the good old USA. As much fun as this is, I’m in agreement. Living here would be a nightmare. All of the oddities and frustrations of getting around and living would eventually drive any American mad.

It’s been a great trip, but to actually live and work here would be impossible. Istanbullas become used to the ironies of life here, to a degree that ensures nothing will ever get better.

Monday

For my last day I’ve had a down day. It rained like Hell in the morning and I did some last minute souvenir shopping at a small shop nearby. The owner, Ali, speaks no English but both of his sons live in the US and he’s very proud of the fact. His much younger wife is Ukrainian and speaks some English, so over tea, business was conducted. She brought out different things and I ended up with quite a few very pretty things for not much money. I really liked them. They seemed genuinely friendly, and very customer service oriented. As a parting gift Ali threw in a nice antique set of prayer beads.

The staff lunch was catered and they shared their lunch with me as a last day treat. It’s a system very much like they do in India and it’s quite good. Kofte and potatoes for a hot dish, with Pilau, Salata, a pickled veggie and white bread.

The weather has turned, almost on cue. That my trip is on the ebb in evidence.

Evening – The last boat from Kadikoy

Rudy showed up after one with an enormous duffle bag. I’ve promised to bring a bag back and this thing is big. It’s under the weight limit, but very awkward.

We strolled up to Sultanhamet to a music shop, but struck out looking for a gift for Kerry – we conferred and took a tram to Karakoy and the Tunel to the top of what’s called Cymbal Street.

After ruling out stringed instruments as too bulky to pack safely, I opted for a Turkish drum. It’s sturdy, and should weather the trip home well.

From there we went to Kadikoy and had tea after browsing the music stores. People still listen to tapes here and the CD section is only half the store. I ended up with a greatest hits CD by Baris Manco, the Turkish Elvis.

At my urging we went to Carrefoure, the giant supermarket, or rather, hypermarche, as it’s a French company and laid out just like one in France.

 The differences are there but subtle. Security sends you through a metal detector just to get into the mall, and then seals your other shopping bags when entering the Carrefoure.

The products are Turkish in selection with a huge meat section and sketchy fruits and veggies. Rudy is a health food nut and it drives him crazy. I bought more Sujuk since it will keep, and some assorted junk food for tomorrow.

We took a Dolmush to Erenkoy and Zeynep cooked a great dinner of Turkish Ravioli. It’s an odd sort of small ravioli with butter and yogurt sauce sprinkled with sumac and other herbs.

 We watched some Turkish TV, and then it was time to say adios. I caught a cab to Kadikoy and caught the last ferry to the European side.

 The city was beautiful for my last boat ride, but as we came to Karakoy Iskelesi, the stereo from a tugboat was blaring Ray Charles singing, “Hit the Road, Jack.”

Fitting.

I’m sitting here in the half-light on my last night in Istanbul with Aya Sofia in the near distance. I’ve been watching it every night at about this time and it’s a view I’ll miss. I’m sorry to be leaving the city, but I know it’s time.

I know I could never live here voluntarily. There are too many things that would drive me insane.

The city is just so much random chaos and there are too many pointless contradictions. I was confronted many times with the fact that “you can’t get there from here.” It’s like an artful train wreck that no one stops to notice because it’s a part of life.

To live in Istanbul requires a willful suspension of disbelief and an oriental sense of patience.

I do love this city, garbage and all, but it’s not my place.