Compelling Cappadocia

Bodrum was the last hurrah for les trois musqueters. David to Greece, UM to mother Scotland and I to the East, to see fairy chimneys in a land of Dr. Seuss' hyperactive creation. An overnight bus of sixteen hours lay in front of me, and sleep came quickly and stayed long (this is particularly relevant in view of my subsequent rides). I awoke to an expansive Anatolian steppe, the counterpart to America's Midwest plains. And plain they are. Lone trees stand, one to a stone-strewn field, light yellow grass cut close to the ground. Periodically a bleak, dead-end village appears on the landscape, the mosque's minarets the only shape to catch my eye against the dull colors of the city's blaise buildings. Lonely.

The transition is dramatic, to say the least, from this sallow swathe to the absurdity that is Cappadocia's towers. Across the gauntness one sees a small block on the horizon grow bigger and bigger and bigger till it clearly is Uchisar (Three castles?), a massive fortress of rock burrowed out from the core to a hundred windows and doors. Past this and down the windies we go, down into the valley where Goreme lies, rock pillars everywhere, resembling a wizard's hat, pacman, and sometimes, most definitely, a phallus. It is an awe-inspiring place, from the prosaic modern structures on the ground up to the windows embedded in a rock home, to the tips illuminated in the golden yellow of the streetlights. Here the minaret has much competition for prominence. Adjacent stands a rock tower with two columns, broken off midsection, a tomb for an unknown Roman.

A kilometer outside Goreme the Open-Air museum contains the medieval community's churches and monastery, as well as an unhealthy portion of the tourists in that area. These evil groups arrive in hulking vehicles, monstrous in proportion so as to spew greater numbers of its minions out the doors, moving in mass one after another to the quaint rock structures, suffocating all room and quenching all ambience in the holy spaces. Droning on the guides differed only in language: Ruski, Espanol, Francais, Italiano, and yes, English. Amongst the herds I visited the various ecclesiastical caves. St. Apple Church, which has nice but unmoving frescoes; the Chapel of St. Barbara, built during the iconoclastic period when images were prohibited as sinful, composed of patterns symbolic of spiritual items; the Church of the Snake, a misnomer since the fresco from which the name derives is St. George's proverbial slaying of the dragon. Reading about this mistake while in the church, I was interrupted by a Turkish guide explaining to his attentive group: "...And here we have the snake that St. George is, umm, spearing, it is, in fact, what the church is named after..." Hmmm...Opposite that misunderstood creature stands St. Onuphrius, who was once a beautiful but vane woman. In his mercy God imposed modesty by a visit in the night, replacing her face with that of a bearded man. The humiliated, I mean, humble individual's breasts are uncovered while a palm frond covers its privates. Marring the whole piece Mustafa, Abdullah, and Onur have left their John Handcocks on the wall.

An additional eight lyra later I am in the Dark Church, so named for the lack of windows, and it is spectacular. The renovated colors are, according to the sign, livid, and I agree: vividly livid. The scenes from Jesus' life swirl above, about, and around the four pillars. The figures are beautiful but stare at me in gaping blindness. They have been the victims of iconoclastic Muslims through the centuries. Strange that these vandals thought they were doing a religious deed, and stranger that only the eyes were removed but the body left. Navy, maroon, and gold are the principal colors, and I can just imagine the faithful arriving to pray amonst the wavering candles; the surrounding depictions reminders of why God took on fleshly physical form, sacrificed Himself, and is now seated, as in the church, at heaven's throne till Judgment Day. These frescoes act as visual tools: for the neophyte, introductory instruction, to the wizened bishop, a reminder to keep focus, to meditation on the centrality of Christ and his life.

The morning air rustles with fire. I had slept well in the bowels of my chimney hostel and arose early to catch the sunrise. I make my way up a steep hill when a frighteningly large balloon looms overhead. It drifts silently, reminding me of Hollywood scenes where a German zeppelin malignantly appears to catch up some nefarious spy. The balloons are everywhere, a polka-dot scheme on the horizon, rising, floating, falling, and the rustle as a stream of fire shoots skyward.

I managed a discount price on a tour, a means of transportation to the far-fetched Ihlara Valley, but first a stop at the underground city where the Christan Cappadocians would vanish before the invading armies of Persians, Arabs, and Mongols. Inverse castles you might say, descending some eight stories, 100m (300 ft.) below the surface. It is all quite dreary actually. No frescoes, no light, no views, the city was made for survival, and most definitely not for people my height. Giant round stones stand guard a the passageways, a last-ditch measure if the invaders discovered the lair.

It is easy to see what drew the monks to Ihlara Valley. The quite communing with God, gleaning metaphors and similes from nature's ways. A river runs the gorge, lush trees lining the sides while green hillsides rise to sheer basalt cliffs, spotted occasionally by a black rectangle that is the entrance or meditative window of a dwelling. The tranquility excites me, for I am seeking the same harmony that the monks did. The river wanders by as always, and barring the everloving, obnoxious, freakin-A flies, it is perfect.

Indiana Jones. That's who I am! The previous churches were unspiring, the frescoes whatever, and alas Abdullah, Murat, and Ahmet had been there already, their carvings blatant. The smell of urine tops it all off. But the dwellings, oh, now that is something for the adrenal gland. I explore multiple dwellings, a labyrinth of tunnels going far back in the cliffs. A poor headlamp augments the mystique of the small chambers, adjoining storage units, and a dark, narrow, foreboding opening. A tunnel going up. I enter, step up. Up, duck down, up, up, where does this go? Up, old rocks. Collapse. No, must go further, up, hint of light. Another small chamber overlooking the valley. The river runs far below, and down the canyon cave dwellings run as far as the eye can see. Monk City.

I spent the night on the river's bank, a bit paranoid that I would be robbed by an inhabitant of the nearby village. Not exactly tranquility, but utter solitude was mine as I read a book and thought. I hit the trail early but made horrible time, distracted by blackberry bushes and more cave dwellings. High up on the cliff, an arched chamber lies exposed to the valley, and I decided to search for the way up, sure of encountering a maze. Through the ground-level entrance I find the same immense, round stones that were in the underground city and crawl past. Two feet of space, vertically and horizontally, the passage leads into another chamber, another stone, halfway buried in the ground, and six columns, hiding their tales in the darkness. On the walls notches were carved for the monk's candles, and the residue of the wax remains. Back out and up to a chimney slot. Startled pigeons shoot the coop, droppings falling dangerously close to my head. I do not want to explore with bird poo in my eye. It is meant to be climbed, but the notches are worn and covered with nests, and poo. These holds are opposite each other in the square shoot, and by stretching across the opening it is possible to wedge oneself up the slot. Up I go, slowly, aware of my potentially dangerous solitude if something goes wrong. Another step up, and I am thirty feet above the cave floor. These must have been troglodyte monkeys, pun intended. Down below the valley, cave dwellings, river rushing by, and blackberry bushes stretch out in my eye. Above the arched roof neatly intact. A small room adjoins with a slot window for the monk to look out as he prayed. I sit on the cliff's edge, and the call to prayer wafts down the gorge. Yes, I feel like Indiana Jones, but to be honest, I know for a fact that Mustafa, Yasar, and Nehmet have already been here. Bless their hearts.

More pics on facebook.

The Expansive Experience of Travel, or The Aegean Coast of Turkey

"Those heroes that shed their blood and lost their lives...You are now living in the soil of a friendly country. Therefore rest in peace. There is no difference between the Jonnies (Anzacs) and the Mehmets (Turks) to us where they lie side by side here in this country of ours...you, the mothers who sent their sons from far away countries wipe away your tears; your sons are now lying in our bosom and are in peace. Having lost their lives on this land they have become our sons as well."

-Ataturk 1934

These words are written at Anzac Cove, the "Normandy" of Antipodeans. The year was 1915, WWI was raging on the Western front, and Churchill thought a speedy finish to the conflict could be achieved by a naval conquest of Istanbul, the capital of the Ottoman Empire. But first they had to get through the Dardenelles, a narrow channel of water from the Mediterranean to the Marmara Sea. Well, that failed, due to heroic mining by moonlight that blasted seven European ships to watery graves. Committed to their venture, the Allied powers launched a land offensive. This didn't work out well either, as strategy had yet to overtake technology. Trench warfare ensued, horrendous conditions, and in blistering heat and warping cold Aussies, New Zealanders, Brits, Italians, Indians, Turks, and Arabs fought a bloody campaign marked by long stalemates, interrupted by incredible bloodletting. Pressing for advantage, the infantry would charge out of their trenches. Machine guns. Shredded units remained. It ran ragged for nine months, till 43,000 Allied soldiers lay dead, joined in Ataturk's bosom alongside 87,000 of his kinsmen. Near the end horrible weather conditions and disease, such as dysentery coupled with a shortage of water, killed more than bullets. Where the trenches were closer, the two sides would trade rations, tossing the tins across six feet of no-man's land. Once, an allied solder lay in this stretch, gruesomely wounded, groaning through tormented hours till, moved with sympathy, a Turk waved a white flag. The firing stopped, and he courageously proceeded to mount the trench, walk that lonely ground, stoop down, picking up the wounded and extraordinarily carried him to the Anzac trench. He then returned and the war resumed. How inane it all is, right? Thus also is the insanity that dissonates in each of our daily lives as we struggle between the good and the evil. Ataturk's statement appears touching, yet he continued to build Turkey's army, and who can deny that one day Anzacs may once again fall dead on Turkish soil?

Today, the battlefield is really quite lovely, bright baby pine trees sprouting up everywhere after a recent fire. The road across the monuments follows the old trenchlines, and cemeteries have been outlined with the opposing ends representing the old battle trenches. Every year, on April 25, thousands of Antipodeans make the pilgramage here and remember those "who sacrificed for their freedom". If you would like to learn more, Birds Without Wings, a wonderful work of historical fiction, brings the battle to life.

A torturous seven-hour bus ride from Gallipoli, and we found ourselves in Izmir. Nothing much needs to be said save our character-ridden hotel (read: dessicate), and that I beat David twice in backgammon. On to Ephesus by car as UM had a strong desire to avoid another bus. In light of topheavy swaying, constant stops to pick up passengers, and enduring a lustily screaming babe, the additional cost was a reasonable exchange. Ephesus was good, though I lack the imagination for such ruins. The Library of Celsus astonishes the eye in her intricacy, and it's fun to make out the greek names for the four ladies of virtue on the facade: Arete (Goodness), Ennoia (Thought), Epistme (Knowledge) and Sophia (Wisdom). St. Paul also spent time here, and St. Luke records in the Acts of the Apostles that the Spirit of God lay so heavy on him that a handerchief, blessed by his hand, could be taken by a breathless courier up the marbled and columned pathways to a sorrowful house and curing the sick, turn that mourning into joyful thanksgiving. This power also led him to fight "with wild beasts", of which we cannot be certain whether the beasts were literal, as in a staged fight, or representative of hostile elements in the city. Ruins speak of time's course, and the once flourishing city of Ephesus now lies derelict after the harbour silted up. The massive Temple of Artemis, one of the original seven wonders of the world, now is commemorated with a single standing column. Good luck imagining that. The column is off to the right of me in the picture below.

The Virgin Mary's purported home is near Ephesus, but I felt no need to honor a myth, albeit a myth so powerful as to persuade the ecclesiastical branches from monotheism to polytheism. Instead, we made our way up a narrow canyon wall, replete with exposed edges to Sirenje, a lovely town nestled into the hills above Selcuk. Eccentric fruit wines are the pull, and David and I sampled apricot, cherry, mango, blueberry, blackberry, melon, and peach wine. Sweet and syrupy, the cherry was best, though I will take a cab red any day.

In ancient times, a particular merchant vessel was caught in a dreadful storm, and found itself caught on the rocks. Below deck were gold scarabs, ingots, delicately-painted ostrich eggs, and among other valuables, a gold cup. This ship had passed along the Mediterranean lands for some time, witnessing the Pyramids and the wealthy Egyptians, at the time struggling with their slaves, the Hebrews. Northward to the Phoenicians, those famed voyagers of the sea, and across the vast lands of the Hittites. To the west Homer had not yet been born on Kas. So many places she had seen, and now to the bottom she went, to rest in peace for almost three and a half millennia. In the year 1984, a particular excavation vessel made its way to this watery grave. On board was a team of archeological experts, divers, and one Hollywood cinematographer. Down they went, over and over again bringing up ancient artificats. And to the heart of the story, through the camera's eye a diver surfaced, an earthenware goblet in his hand. The waves rose and fell, and the diver adjusted his grip to the chalice. A sparkle touched the lens, and to the uproar of the ship, what had appeared to be clay was merely the coating of 3500 years on the ocean floor. And in 2010, twenty-six years later, three travelers made their way to Bodrum to see this cup. The drive to Bodrum flew by, and at night they feasted with the captain of that particular archeological boat. The house was white and blue, Greek from floor to roof. A trellis extended over the porch, and vines clung to the surrounding posts, meandering up to lace the cool night sky. Over kebaps and raki Tufan and UM reminisced upon the dive and old friends. The conversation turned to Tufan's recent doings, the excavation of a Ottoman shipwreck off the coast of Japan. He had wanted to work on a project associated with his heritage, and though Turks appear sadly indifferent to the project, he has excited the Japanese, and when on site, writes a daily column for a national newspaper. The newspaper has 12.2 million subscribers. To put that in perspective, the distinguished New York Times currently has 1.1 million. That is slightly misleading, I know, but we can save that argument for another time. Tufan, meanwhile, had just debarked from another sea journey under the aegis of Bob Bollard, somebody whom for me, and probably for you, does not prompt recognition. Well, he's the guy who discovered the Titanic. It is startling to see the breezy, temperate Aegean wind swirling around us, palm fronds breathing in the air, up down, up down, to fro, up and down, the overhead lamp casting an intimate glow on the group, and Tufan sharing these mind-boggling experiences with me. Oh yeah, he was also on the cover of National Geographic, though you could not recognize him in the diving suit, an ancient artifact in his hands.

The next morning we went to see the cup. A reconstruction of the ship is in the nearby museum, atmospherically located in St. Peter's Castle, a bastion of the Hospitaller's Knights into the 1500's. The nautical museum is quite possibly the best in the world, this particular shipwreck the oldest ever found, and only recently had it been returned from the Metropolitan in New York City. In one of the castle's tower the finds of that site are housed. Through a doorway we entered and there she stood, gilded and graceful with age. The moment was very special to have with UM. Having the heard the story for so many years from UM, I am happy to have made the family pilgrimage.

The next night I feasted on shrimp pilaf and wine. Our hosts, friends of UM from the dive, have a lovely place near the water which has appeared numerous times in the Turkish version of Homes and Gardens. Their beautiful yard is shrouded by the candlelight on our table, their watchdog's impressive bark alone pierces the darkness, and Susanna regales us with her enthusiasm for the happenings of the Bodrum waste and management facility. Surprisingly, she has even taken a number of visiting friends and family there, here at the beautiful holiday resort town of Bodrum. I asked her to take me.

At four she picked me up in her jeep, the dog in tow, and we climbed into the hills surrounding Bodrum like an amphitheater. Past historical ruins dating back as far as the shipwreck, we progressed on the dirt roads, reaching the crest where a stunning view of both coasts greeted the eye. Bodrum, small in the foreground with its lonely castle, and the Greek islands stretching out beyond the sea's horizon. Descending to the south of the crest the destination came into view. The place where lady Bodrum, gem of the Aegean, comes to relieve herself of bodily excess, the dump. And what a fascinating place it was. The recycling facilities are man-powered with over fifty gypsies moving amongst the heaps of trash, sorting through plastics, glass, carboard, and every other unsavory material, the smell familiar to anybody who has dealt with their trashcan. Their homes stand nearby, suitable to the environment since, well, most of the building material is from the surrounding piles. Mattresses, chairs, plastic sheets, and a bicycle were the composite roof of one home. We drive past three men sorting through a hundred plastic crates; curious looks are exchanged, then they wave, and smiles are reciprocated. A girl of eighteen walks by, her nose sporting a jeweled stud, baggy pants and Adidas shoes. She looks away shyly, as do I, but the next moment a man who speaks a smattering of English has come over, directed by the girl, asking us if we are lost. Another attractively dressed girl walks by, yelling congenially at her colleagues. "It's really quite photogenic" Sauna says in earnest as the jeep makes its way down beneath a dangerously precipitous cliff of trash, boulders perched precariously waiting for a hard rain to come down on some unfortunate. Yes, it is a dump, smelly, dirty, and lacking the comforts of urbane living, yet these people are at home, and discerning from those who I interacted with, they are happy.

You can see more pictures from this blog's happenings on my facebook page: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2089690&id=1257302680

Cubana Cigars and A Turkish Hamam

We were finally whole, we three musketeers in Orient were upon David's arrival. UM and I rushed him off to Bursa, as I had made unfulfilled promises to visit friends. We stayed in my old flat with Akin and Jennifer, and the first night was memorable. At the Istanbul airport UM had bought Cubana cigars, Monte Cristo No.2 I do believe, and they were masculine. Les Trois Mousquetaires convened themselves on the porch, Bursa's lights spread out in front of us, and we mired ourselves in the labyrinth of American Exceptionalism, a concept that America is especially good among nations. It has come under fire in academia, and my generation, molded in the halls of progressive-minded education, has a very different view of what America's legacy projects upon the role it should play in the world today. A good conversation with one defining impossibility: that such conversations are too wide in scope to be properly discussed. Too much research is needed, too many fundamental philosophical pieces to be assembled, the requisite time far exceeding what the interlocutors have at the time. Nevertheless, the exchange of ideas is almost always beneficial, and if "one has ears to hear", much can be learned from others.
As we neared the end of our cigars Akin arrived home and joined us on the porch. Now this was travel as education. This was a golden opportunity because assembled were people who were eager to listen. And it was quintessentially human in all of our imperfections, each attempting to understand the world we live in, striving to become more knowledgeable. Akin explained in his view what was happening to his country, it's history, Islam, and the opportunity to have a civilized, knowledgeable, open-minded, and cross-cultural discussion was special. Akin's fiancee, Jen, also came and shared about her experience teaching at a conservative Islamic school. It was all enlightening as an opportunity to hear first-hand what an open-minded person from the Islamic world thought of world events. This is the type of interaction that can break down stereotypes and prevent the insanity of wars. A sufficient amount will never occur, but I do know it was breathtaking to be part of something so good. Obviously I was inspired. It evoked in me a desire to better the world, to follow Jesus Christ's teachings, and be a force for social justice. I do not believe that I will shake the world to its core, as the Jacobins, Bolsheviks, and other burnt ruins on the landscape of revolutionary history did. But how much more fulfilling it is to be a voice for good rather than evil, to speak boldly for justice while shunning the mantle of cynical, silent impotency. For me, I think this lies in teaching, either at the secondary or collegiate level. I want to be the conductor in the classroom, orchestrating fruitful, beneficial dialogue and thought, greasing the wheels of learning, and helping people to acquire knowledge and to think for themselves. Therein lies my gifting, and I wish to give it.

On the following day we patronized the nearby hamam. Reputedly the location of a rendezvous between Antony and Cleopatra, it is quite old. The building is of Byzantine earthenware brick and domed. The ambiance in place, I braced myself for what I hoped would be an improved second experience. The first time, a year ago, I had left bleeding. It had been a different hamam, and the manly masseur was, shall I say, a bit rough, clenching my sides, thighs, calves, and feet with quick, clamping contractions, keeping me busy with my own bodily contractions, that is, restraining myself from reflexively roundhousing my attendant in the face. But the best was yet to come, in the form of a soap bubble immersion which I suppose was to help with the exfoliation, or more aptly, the corrosion of my epidermis. He used a steel wool pad that quickly tore away the dead skin and far too much sentient skin. During the rubbing I assumed the best, till the soap began to sting my wounds. I would have protested but for my host, an English student, and the nature of male bravado. What man wants to explain that due to his soft skin and abnormal lack of bodily hair, he needs "a softer scrubbing"? I persevered.

This time was better, though I will probably never place myself under the hands of another hamam masseur. We spent much more time by the pools, pouring mineral water from small circular dishes onto our heads. Water is always soothing, and the marble floor, humid air, placid pools, and flowing faucets were therapeutic. Sorry, no pictures:) There was a large pool heated at about 100F while another smaller area practically roasted the bather at a scorching 110F. Arriving at tranquility, David and I prepared for the masseur. He first sat us down by a basin and rubbed us all over with a much more tender but effective towel-like glove. Horrible dark rolls of skin came off. Then he plopped me down on the large marble table and disappointingly conducted a comparably painful massage to my first tormentor, drilling my back and calves with his elbows and conducting an overall mauling of my physique. David and I ambivalently concurred that it was a worthwhile experience as we departed the hamam, exquisitely cleansed and quite tenderized.

Istanbul

Sometimes there is a lack of vision in our lives. A neglect of plans, the absence of foresight, and happening upon my razor in Bursa, I thought that the liability had been recognized. First, I have never cut my own hair before. I played the barber one time and gave up quickly when I nicked the boy's ear, causing it to bleed. But we must be bold, and go where no man has gone before. Standing at the mirror I decided to first cut off the majority of my overgrown locks with scissors, just to tame it. Snip-snip, snip-snip, I quickly, snip, had my mop down, snip-snip, to a cacophony of tufts, snip. The razor's time had now come, and I plugged it into the wall. Silence. My bold plan was shattered when it did not start. Damn thing never did. A hat covered my shame for three days, till I got to Istanbul, and wandering about the first morning found a barber who offered me a haircut and cigarette. I accepted the cut, and he smoked the cigarette. It's definitely a buzz job, but at least my 'do no longer has the feral quality of a malnourished alley cat.

I returned to Istanbul to meet up with Uncle Mike and the long-anticipated arrival of my cousin David. Through a mix-up in the reservation website, our booking had been made at a place with no vacancies, but fortune came to the rescue, and we were put up in a small enclave at the corner of the Hagia Sophia and Topkapi Palace. Tiny but picturesque, especially the street-view which UM perpetually praised. A hole in the wall that is lovely, so inconspicuous I still do not know it's name.

I also visited with my friend Corrie who was flying through on her way to Tajikistan. She had one night there and was looking for an "authentic Turkish experience". We found it. It wasn't at "Haci Abdullah's" where we unwittingly consumed eighty Turkish Lyra's worth of food. And though wandering Istaklil Street, a swarming mile of humanity meandering their way down the pedestrian promenade, defines new Istanbul, it was not what Corrie wanted. We found it, rather, in a tea garden, tucked away in the shadow of the Blue Mosque. Apple narghile (i.e.waterpipe, hookah), two cups of Turkish tea, and conversation were the ingredients, surrounded by Turks, soft Turkish pop music serenading the night away. As the evening wrapped up, we met Hasan, the waiter who had been giving us fresh coals for the narghile, he asked us where we were from, and I did likewise, which always catches them off-guard. Turks expect tourists to know approximately three or four locations in the country. "Diyabakir", he confided in a conspirative whisper, "and I am Kurdish, not Turkish". He glanced up at his manager, who had his back turned to us at the moment. He hurried off, but was soon back, and we chatted about his family, eastern Turkey, and then out came the free tea, two glasses each, against our protestations, and that is why I wrote this at 2:30 in the morning. As is typical with people from that part of Turkey, he was quite pious, carefully adding "enshallah" (Allah-willing) to each of his statements about the future. Hasan wished us to stay longer, through the dawn I think, but we had already smoked for two hours, agreeing that definite lung damage had transpired. So we said our goodbyes to Hasan, requiting his hope that we meet again. "Enshallah," he said. Istanbul has been his home for ten years, but still his Kurdish identity is kept hush-hush. I hope that his two children will not need to impose the same self-censorship he has endured when they grow up. Enshallah.

The next day UM and I wandered the pavilions and chambers of the Ottoman sultan in Topkapı Palace. The pavilions constrict in size as you make your way through, each new pavilion representing an increased intimacy with the Caliphate. In the innermost square, next to the Harem (Sultan's living quarters), stands the respository for sacred relics. I saw, with my own eyes, the almighty sword of David, the venerable steel that decapicated Goliath. But what is that to the rod which struck the sea, parting the waters for the Jews, collapsing the passage on the Egyptians? Yes, Moses' staff, the very one that he ignobly struck twice against a rock in frustration, and sealed his fate to never see the Promised Land. The stave that imparted the seven plagues on Pharoah's land, turning water to blood and metamorphosed into a snake. Approximately four or five feet in height, it struck me as stubby. Nevertheless, it's reedy character assured me of the relic's veracity. Other notables include Joseph's turban (was it Egyptian or Caananite?), John the Baptist's arm, the sword and footprint of Mohommad the prophet, alayhis-salaam (peace be upon him), and a few whiskers from his faultless face. Curiously absent were remains from Jesus' life. One of the great prophets of Islam, possibly his physical legacy lie solely in churches, or was the presence of the enemie's god too uncomfortable, politically, to allow at the seat of Islamic power? The imam sings the poetry of the Qu'ran over the pilgrim tourists. His voice fills the holy chambers, and I wonder if he knows the answer to Jesus' absence. I didn't ask.

Looking out over one of the palace's porches, the city stretching out above the Bosphorus, UM and I came across a lovely chamber. It was decorated with azure tile on the interior, stained-glass windows, and picturesque Ottoman furniture. On a sign next to the doorway was written "It was called the circumcision room. The walls are covered with..." Hmmm....
"...blue tiles from the nearby city of Iznik."

That night UM and I had the best of nights. We were both tired but decided to make the journey out to Ortakoy, formerly a small fishing village on the Bosphorus, now subsumed into burgeoning Istanbul as an upscale neighborhood with a famous mosque and boutique shops. So off we went, schlepping through the interminably bad traffic on the waterfront road. Off the bus, turned a corner of the busy road, and the night was magical, the weather sublime, as our view opened up to the main square. Boats bobbing in the harbor, restaurants bustling with the chic elite of the city, and the Ortakoy Mosque, resplendent in the light, her florid lines in harmony with the ever-vibrating Bosphorus. Her architecture is Neo-baroque, built in the mid-1800's as a project of grand art. It was an attempt, along with the Dolmabache Palace, to resurrect the glory of the waning Ottoman Empire. Inversely, it sank the empire more precipitously into the West's coffers. Back to the present, the Bosphorus Bridge soars overhead, lit up in sundry colors, and we set off in search of food to quench the pangs. The touts were all there:"Hi,how are you,Would you like look at our menu, sorry, hello, where are you from, sorry, sorry, we have a seat for you."

Fortuitously, we fell into the arms of The Poisson. Excellent service, excellent raki, fish that melts in the mouth, a historian for a waiter, two superb desserts of crem brulee and mousse, and have I mentioned the good service? All this overlooking the mosque and Bosphorus. UM and I had a deep talk over love, marriage, and life, touching for both of us. Gastronomic experience extraordinaire fulfilled, we ambled our way through the shops. Quickly friends were made with a couple of vendors who were excited by UM's association with Hollywood. We discussed politics, culture, travels, they even got it in their heads that I spoke Turkish. I did my mediocre best. The worry beads UM wanted had dropped from the initial price of 100 TYL ($68) to 70, after our talk the vendor practically gave us the beads for 50 ($35), which UM would not have. He forced 10 more TYL on them, which they volleyed by giving us another chain of worry beads. These were passed on to me, shaking my head at UM's superior charm with people, something I would do well to learn and imitate. Life was grand in Istanbul.