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.