Epi-Blog

A place can live in our minds, long before we ever step foot on its soil.  If I say “China”, images might begin to come to mind: the Great Wall forming a dragon’s spine roller-coastering over thousands of miles of mountains, the vast courtyards of the Forbidden City with its blood-red lacquered doors that speak to its foreboding, or perhaps the strangely stunning hills or karsts that punctuate the Guilin landscape as immortalized in ancient paintings or gleaming new skyscrapers standing like sentries in its bursting metropoli. 

If I say “Turkey”, your mind may conjure up more references than you may have thought probable: a song by They Might Be Giants (which is actually a remake), the domes and minarets of Istanbul’s skyline, Turkish coffee, Turkish baths, whirling dervishes.  Some may think of the Turkish Delight that sways an easily corruptible young Edmund Pevensie in The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe, and wonder how such an unappealing rose-flavored jelly confection could accomplish such a thing.   As it turns out, some form of Turkish Delight exists in much of the Balkans, Eastern Europe, Central Asia and Arab world, with different ingredients accounting for different textures and countless flavors.  Unfortunately though, some references aren’t quite as innocuous as these. 

For some decades now, Turkey has had to live down its reputation abroad, especially in places like the US, as the land of Midnight Express.  And that probably speaks as much to how Turkey has changed, as to not knowing a place until you step on its soil. To say that Turkey is a place of contradictions is simplistic, and implies that we have presupposed ideas of the place, that Turkey’s identity in our minds at least, is conditional: the most modern Islamic country, its great, historical megalopolis Istanbul sited in both Europe and Asia, possible entry into the European Union.  However, to say that Turkey is misunderstood would be more accurate.   In many ways, it is very much like the United States in its struggle for a cohesive political and cultural identity, progressive and liberal versus traditional and conservative, and points in between.

Asia Minor and Anatolia are different names for the land that modern Turkey occupies, and it has been settled for a least eight millennia by a litany of different peoples, and has seen the rise and fall of many civilizations, religions, and empires. It is the birthplace of St. Nicholas, site of Mt. Ararat where Noah’s Ark is said to have landed, where the Virgin Mary and St. John both supposedly lived and died, homes to oracles of Apollo and two of the seven wonders of the ancient world, and the Trojan War.  Though the landmarks and history of this land are the main attractions for visitors, as it was for me, modern Turkey is most notable in my opinion for its people.  Industrious, hospitable, proud and curious, they animated this place that could easily be stuck in its past glories, but instead continues to change and add to its history. 

So whatever ideas you may have about Turkey, I say go see for yourself.  You might be surprised.

And to everyone, tesekkür ederim for reading and letting me share my experiences with you. 

A Mad Dash to the End... Up, Up in the Air

I signed up for a tour that included a hike, pottery and wine visits, and the famed underground city, Kaymakli.  The tour is mostly boring, and run of the mill, but I suspected as much when I signed up.  By now, I am pretty fried and just want to be spoon-fed.  The excitement of the day, well, according to our guide, was that Nicolas Cage and crew were in the vicinity shooting Ghost Rider 2.  Yes folks, the end of civilization meets one of its cradles. 

I walk into a small eatery for dinner where I’ve had lunch before, and the owner and his young helper are playing a guitar and mandolin-like instrument.  Did I mention how casual this place is?  We are joined by the Canadian who had recommended the place to begin with, and then a pair of Aussies who are dining with some new French friends, two of whom have been lodging in their car.  That’s roughing it.  After we’ve all been served, and the owner’s elderly parents waltz in to say hello, we are treated to a small impromptu concert of guitar and drum.  Dinner and a show, excellent!  Considering how dead this town is, this is an oasis. 

The next morning, it’s an early call as I get picked up for my hot air balloon ride.  It is pre-dawn, and the van I am in has ten passengers picked up from various hotels – me, and 9 Asian women.  Have I mentioned how big this place is with the Asians?  They include several Koreans, one Chinese and two Japanese, one of whom was curious about relocating to the U.S.  She said she did therapy, and I thought, cool, physical, psycho-…?  No, beauty therapy.  Well, I guess the world needs that too.  We are joined in the balloon by a nice Aussie guy and two Brazilian men who are so not used to this wicked cold.  It’s probably 15 degrees F and even colder up in the air.  They squeeze 13 in a basket for 12 really, but we manage. 

It is pretty neat being up in the air, and the truth is the landscape took a backseat to the amazing sight of all the other balloons.   But I wonder if there’s something wrong with me (no snide remarks please) because after a while, it’s somewhat anticlimactic, whereas the women are thrilled and squealing.  To each their own. 

Afterwards, I walk to the Open Air Museum that is a series of churches carved out of caves that the early Christians used for worship.  And they are mostly tiny, crude if you can imagine carved rock pews – but the frescoes and ornamentation are interesting, though again, after one church, you’d more or less seen them all.   There’s another town of interest I should see now, but I am cooked.  I arrange my transport, pay my bill and am ready to go.  But before I settle in a for short night’s nap, I meet a really neat Aussie family who has traveled the world.  The father is an imposing figure, whose nasally tinged rich, baritone voice sounds like one you may have heard on a PBS documentary.  His son, early 20s, is a talkative chap, but he has a lot of interesting things to say – his interest in China, his passion for Chopin, the hypocrisy of old powers and their attempted policing of emerging powers.  His curiosity, enthusiasm et al is infectious, an instance of youth not being wasted on the young. 

I search a while for dinner, but pretty much anywhere I’d go, I’d be the only diner.   It is an eerie and frustrating endeavor made more so by the worst thing I’ve eaten in Turkey or anywhere for a really long time.  This motley assortment of restaurant workers could barely accommodate one lone diner.  When they dropped my spoon on the floor before serving me, they didn’t even bother to give me a different one.  I’m not that fussy, but what I order and what they specialize in, is done for the evening.  So my second choice is an inedible crock of manti (small, Turkish dumplings) smothered under a mountain of sour cream.  I took three bites and I was done.  Me!  Done!  Hard to imagine. 

My airport transfer is at 4 a.m., exactly 72 hours since my arrival in this strange place.   It is an odd bookend to the hustle, bustle and alive-ness of Istanbul – but only goes to show the range and diversity of this complex and interesting country.  

Kapadokya

My first day is somewhat lost as I sleep until mid-afternoon.  I amble down to the village to scope it out, get my bearings.  It is a much less eerie and foreboding place in daylight.  I follow a fellow traveler’s recommendation for a börek place, and there find more travelers.  One group is Australian and headed by bus into Syria on their rather lengthy trip.  Another, from Maryland via Buffalo is a tech guy who is heading further inland to Ankara and then onto other places on his journey.   

Amongst others I meet in various places, there are: the NYC area couple dressed almost entirely in monochromatic black (they're lovely, but she's a bit over the top), the Torontoan who quit his job and is traveling through Turkey and the Middle East, the Indian couple from Mumbai on their honeymoon, Korean tourists EVERYWHERE, the barman at a fancy Manhattan hotel who has weeks left on his trek through Turkey and points beyond – honestly, I’ve forgotten everyone’s itinerary and am lucky if I remember my own. 

My most memorable socializing comes at Fat Boys, perhaps the only bar in town.  I am content to enjoy my Efes Dark beer when I am beckoned to play doubles pool by a young British lass who won’t take no for an answer.   Turns out she and I are at the same hotel.  Her pool partner is a local/bar worker, while mine is a young Colombian student whose friend did not want to embarrass himself by playing.  That, however, did not stop me.  One of the students is studying industrial engineering, the other philosophy.  They are quite different, but have been lifelong friends. 

The students had just eaten at the same restaurant as I, and when I left, the two employees were showing the last patrons, two young Asian women, local hospitality.  They wind up at Fat Boys as well, and serve as a good floorshow for the rest of us while Turkish pop emanates from the speakers, peppered with Usher, James Brown and The Weather Girls.  Over the course of the evening, our British lass serves as temptress and ringleader as we play pool, drink local wine with Sprite, and break out the water pipe, known in Turkey as nargille.  It is convivial, educational, relaxed, and freezing cold when we have to nargille outdoors.  The lass and I discuss life and travel on our way back to and at the hotel, where we’ve been joined by three local dogs that trailed us, one of which whimpers and scratches at my door until 6 a.m.

In Kapadokya (The Land of Beautiful Horses), the otherworldly rock formations dominate the physical landscape, but also beget the camaraderie and communality of the human landscape that begins to take shape in its nooks and crannies, especially in the cold of winter.  This region has a mystique that draws certain travelers, even dogs and cats, who seek one another out and trade stories and experiences; and that’s probably been as memorable as anything I’ve seen in this ancient land.  

Long Night’s Journey Into Day

On my last morning in Fethiye, I look up from my breakfast on the hotel roof to see Dr. Can heading towards me.  He has had a change of plans, and apparently my hotel did not get his message to me.  I am pre-coffee groggy, but finish up as we head off to visit Kayakoy, the Ghost Village some few kms inland.

Sitting high in the mountains, Kayakoy is an eerie sight, as the numerous stone houses that dot the landscape look as if they’ve been bombed out, most of them missing roofs and are only partial structures now.  After the repatriation of the village’s Greek population, the village, whose buildings date back to as far as the 16^thcentury, was abandoned as the Turks who moved into the area settled in the flatter, arable land.  As in the other Greek village I visited, Sirinçe, the town was on the mountainside rather than on more easily navigable terrain.  We think it’s because they wanted to maintain the available land as farmland.    It must have been a very hard life, trekking up and down these treacherous inclines with or without donkeys. 

During our tour, Dr. Can and I discuss some universal issues: politics, religion, mothers-in-law :)… And then I thank him for his hospitality and bid him farewell, in hopes that one day should I find myself in Fethiye, to see him again.  He even offered up the hospitality of his son who lives in San Fran, should I ever find myself that way. 

Now, the last leg of my journey begins – a 13-hour bus ride to central Turkey and the famed landscape of Kapadokya.  As I board the bus, I can already tell this may not be the best ride.  There is a slight musty smell, sort of like old man, and there of course is an old married couple sitting right across from me – he has a traditional knit hat, wiry beard and some unruly eyebrows.  I wonder if it’s him, but who am I to complain, I haven’t done laundry since I’ve been here.    I don’t think it was him ultimately, as this bus isn’t as nice as the last one I had.  No tv per seat, just two screens playing bad Turkish programming, no snacks and one porter.  I am grateful that the agent booked me next to an empty seat because the many stops dropped off but picked up quite a few passengers. 

I was thinking I was being clever in combining travel and lodging together with this bus ride, but sleep was not to be.   There were the many stops.  There was a small group of young men traveling together and one insistent on getting my attention, which he does.  He motions me to sit next to him and with the limited vocabulary in my guidebook, we do not accomplish much in terms of conversation.  I almost wanted to say “I’m pregnant” as a joke, but don’t know how well that would go over.  But as I said he is insistent and proceeds to talk to me in Turkish, repeating himself and speaking more loudly, as if that would somehow break the language, if not sound, barrier.  No dice.  I eventually move back to my seat, and try not to engage much as I am in need of sleep badly.

The further inland we go, the thermometer keeps dropping.  Outside is quite dark, and as we drive through the city of Konya, the home of Sufism, the urban landscape is surreal.  It is completely modern and industrial, miles and miles of highways and buildings and lights, but completely deserted and ironically, soul-less.  It all looks abandoned and on the edge of nowhere. 

Which makes my own arrival one hour earlier than expected in the village of Göreme under cover of night at 4 a.m., no less surreal.  The best way I can describe it is that the landscape is sort of sci-fi and western, while the buildings and storefronts are sort of frontier/western.  It brings to mind the Yul Brunner cult sci-fi western, Outland.  Everything is closed and completely deserted save for the stray dog growling at me.   Nothing is well–lit except for some of the chimney formations on the hills and I have no idea where my hotel is.  It is also freezing, I am guessing in the 20’s.  There are no maps at the bus stop.  I head towards the chimney formations and make a turn to avoid the growling dog, which turns out to be a blessing as I see some signs that point to my hotel.  Mind you, these are not your typical streets, through your typical town.  They are mostly brick-like, and all you hear is the roll of my luggage echo through the air, streets split at houses, and thankfully, now there is enough of a sign trail to lead me to the hotel, most of which is carved out of caves, which is situated at the top of a steep incline.  Pant, pant, pant.  The very top is the reception area that also serves as the hotel’s eating area.  The door is open and the lights are on.  Access to all the guestrooms and ancillary areas is external.  I need a WC desperately and am grateful to find one in the maze of stairs and rooms.   Back at reception, I make myself at home with my head resting on a table until a hotel worker finds me at 5 a.m. and shows me to my room.  I promptly bask in its cozy warmth and fall asleep… until the 5:30 prayer call through the village shatters my peaceful slumber.   Day will be breaking soon, and I eventually fall asleep.  

Take it Easy

This stop in Fethiye is exactly what the doctor ordered, a couple of days of relaxation to recuperate from travel-itis.  My first morning, I take off for the ancient Lycian cliff tombs behind the city.  I take the long scenic walk along the road just up the hill (known as Lovers' Hill) from my hotel that wends itself along the city.  The vistas are çuk guzel, beautiful. 

A Turkish flag flies high over the city, and the tombs are pretty neat, but access is closed in winter.  I wander the city and stumble upon the little archaeological museum, all two rooms of it filled with relics from and information about this very ancient region where Hittites, Lycians, Carians, and a slew of other peoples dating back till at least 3,000 B.C., populated the area before the Greeks, Romans, or Turks.

Back at the hotel, I ring up Dr. Can, with whom I have been trading friendly emails.  I hate to impose, but he seems eager to show me hospitality and this city he loves so much.  He picks me up in the late afternoon (with some fresh baked good from his wife) and drive to the other side of the harbor for a spectacular view of the city I wouldn’t have had otherwise.  We then drive a few kms toward Çalis Beach that is very popular in warmer months, especially with the Brits.  Along the way, we drive past his home, his old home, and then stop at the apart-hotel he owns – it has a lemon tree!  I don’t think I’ve ever seen a lemon tree.  So deprived. 

Dr. Can is a retired biochemist for whom since realizing his dream of moving to Fethiye 25 years ago, has turned his love of the place and interest in people, into a second career/hobby.   As he drops me off for the evening, he offers to show me Oludeniz (the Blue Lagoon) and Kayakoy (the Ghost Town) the next day.  It’s hard to say no.  Mind you, between my hearing, and language gap, I maybe only understand about 70% of what Dr. Can says, and I suspect I talk too fast for him to understand me too much at all.

It is now early evening, but this town of about 80,000 is spread out and a little sleepy, and the eateries seem to be mostly empty.  For some time, I wander along the harbour looking for a restaurant with signs of life for dinner.  I stop at a popular place that turns out to be a pastane (patisserie).  Oops. I have dessert first then, a delicious slice of chocolate and chestnut cake.  I head back out later and stop at a harbour-side café/restaurant that has a boisterous group inside. The place occupies two structures adjacent to one another, the café is more like a ski chalet with big windows, low deck chairs, a standing pit fireplace with a marble counter for guests to kick back and enjoy the warmth.  Seems as good a place to alight as any.  The party of about 20, seated at tables in the back are vocal, occasionally standing to clink glasses.  One of them, a robust young man wearing a striped sweater with little butterfly wings on his back and matching antennae, seems to be the nexus of this group as he makes a prepared speech that he mostly shouts, punctuated by porcine oinks.  I surmise they are not Turkish, given the bemused look of the Turkish staff.  Turns out they were Russian.  They sure know how to party.  

I order a meze platter, my first on this trip, and it is so good.  A spicy tomato dip, a garlicky yogurt, cucumber dip – caçik, and some delicious roasted eggplant – all eaten with bread.  The plate is huge, and I wonder how I will finish the meatballs I have ordered, which come with rice, mashed potatoes and salad.  Well, I had a little dining companion as a cat wandered in and came straight to me, spoke to me with its one eye larger than the other, “are you going to eat that?”.  I don’t want to encourage the strays around here, but assume it’s really a way of life for them too, so I relent, and start feeding it bits of my meatballs under my table.  I also throw down a piece of bread, and the kitty will have nothing to do with that.  So much for beggars can’t be choosers. 

I head off to the small, t-shaped nightlife district that encompasses two small streets.  I avoid the modern, bright neon lettering of Mango and Club Rain and head to the small, hand-lettered divey looking bi-level fish-shack inspired Deep Blue Bar.  The place is homey, not very crowded, and I hear a male version of “Time After Time” but can’t seem to locate the jukebox, then follow its sound upstairs.  I think, oh no, karaoke?   I enter a room large enough to seat 30, but it is mostly empty except for now 3 patrons and the lone musician singer on a small stage at the front of the room.  He moves onto a very, very long rendition of Elton John’s “Sorry Seems to be the Hardest Word”, then Cat Stevens before I recognize the long, thrumming, opening guitar chords as he breaks into The Eagles’ “Take it Easy”.  His set includes Sting, Four Non-Blondes, Chris Isaak, among others.  It is obvious English is not his first language by some of the inflections in his singing, and some of his singing and guitar playing are mechanical, but he’s not bad and his earnestness makes up for it.  He is at his best with the more rock-inflected songs. 

I then head over to the hopping Car Cemetery Bar where a largely younger crowd is hanging out, and almost as soon as I get there, a live band takes the stage.  Their lead singer and guitarist struck an Anthony Kiedis vibe with his long hair, wiry body and high energy, and they are REALLY GOOD.  I would consider paying to see them good. 

Their first song is in English, and the rest of their set were Turkish pop standards that were crowd favorites as people hopped and bopped around in rhythm.  Even one of the local flower sellers, whom I had seen the night before at the fish market going around to tables selling bunches of flowers, was totally getting into the act.  She probably came in to sell flowers, and before long, was dancing more passionately than anyone, to the point where a man approached her and playfully started tossing her bunches of flowers all around the bar and the stage.

All the while, the television was playing the WCL – that’s the World Combat League to those of you not in the know :)  It’s a form of fighting where kicking, punching and knees to the head and body are the standard, and this particular match was between the New York City Clash and the Philadelphia Fire.  New York’s Jennifer Santiago gave NY an early lead as she pummeled her larger opponent, but NY’s men were no match for the fury of Philly’s men. 

As I considered this lively corner of otherwise, idyllic and sleepy Fethiye, it is obvious that this whole town, however it chose to spend its time, knows how to take it easy, and not to let the sounds of their own wheels drive them crazy.  Not a bad philosophy, really. 

A Mediterranean Dream

After being in the scrappy town of Selçuk for three nights, I head south in hopes of sun and a change of pace.   I took a minibus to the town of Aydin and switched to a larger, fancy bus to Fethiye, on the Mediterranean.  Turkey has an extensive network of busses large and small shuttling people short-haul, like Selçuk to Sirinçe, or long-haul, like Aydin to Fethiye (about 4 hours).  The long-haul busses are fancy.  Each one seems to come with two porters, many in bow ties and vests who check passengers in, serve beverages and snacks a la flight attendants, and retrieve baggage. Each seat has its own mini tv and pull-down snack tray.  So civilized.  Greyhound could learn a thing or two. 

Originally, I had tried to book myself into an apart-hotel that was well-rated on tripadvisor, but the owner, Dr. Can (pronounced John), said they were closed during the winter.  He offered to ready a room for me if I needed, but there was no staff there.  I thank him, but decline.  Instead, I booked a hotel through booking.com (I have had pretty good success with them since I started using the site last year in Asia).  I arrive and the place is an oasis for me after the sweet, but shabby environs of Selçuk.  The hotel is somewhat secluded, right off the marina, it was a bargain and I got upgraded to a seaview that also overlooks the pool.  I’m almost giddy.  The bathroom alone is about the combined size of my room and bathroom in Istanbul.   The sky is perfectly blue from my balcony.  Aahhh.  A guy likes his creature comforts too.

By now, it is late afternoon and the sun will set shortly, so I set off to explore the town.  I don’t know how to describe it, especially in terms of other Mediterranean cities since I have never been to one, but it is just very nice and sweet, clean and relaxed.   Views along the harbor, with the boats and their masts, are a sight for sore eyes that didn’t know what they had been missing.  I wander away from the waterfront and into the town and discover an outdoor fish market, which is ringed by restaurants that will cook whatever seafood you buy from the fishmongers.  Only one restaurant seems to do any business, so that’s where I go. It is chilly, but with heat lamps, there are many diners outside.  I pick out some cold mezes to go with my small bottle of raki (phew, it turned out to be about 4 glasses) and order a sea bass.  It is a place without menus and prices (which I knew would later lead to a bit of sticker shock). The little rounds of bread come piping hot out of the oven (you can see the baker rolling out the dough in the window), flecked with poppy seeds and OMG, they are so good.  Pillowy and hot, with a hint of salt.  

I watch small Turkish Mediterranean city life unfold before me – a sophisticated young mother in a pashmina dangling her cigarette just so, a pair of distinguished older gentlemen eating plate after plate of food, while indulging the few cats that roam about with scraps of fish, a pair of diners being serenaded by a trio of Turkish musicians.

It’s probably the raki, but I have an undeniable warm and fuzzy feeling that floats me back to my hotel like a Mediterranean dream.   

My brain must also have...

lost two days in transit, as I had been unable to formulate a set itinerary for myself.  Was indecisive and woke up too late to do the tour of Pamukkale, a famous natural wonder of travertine (whatever that means) white cliffs left by mineral deposits from the hot springs.  But I am a little touristed out, and if I really wanted to see it, I would have gone. 

Instead, I opt to stick around this town that has grown on me.  While getting directions and advice from JuJu, one of the brothers who run the hotel, he takes me out on the balcony to show me the pimped out camel that has just arrived in town for the camel wrestling taking place in several days.  Darned, I have the worst timing.  Alas, I settle for a side trip to the small village of Sirinçe, which means pretty.  The story goes that the village’s name used to be another word that meant ugly to ward off unwanted visitors, but in the recent past has adopted this more inviting name.  It is set high in the mountains where the temperature dropped 5 degrees Celsius on the 15 minute minibus ride up.  An orthodox village that used to be Greek until the great population swap (Turks and Greeks expelling the other) of the 1920s, the village is known for its sweet fruit wines and olive oil. 

Well, it’s the most rural place I’ve ever visited – that’s for certain.  Pretty?  Well, that's in the eye of the beholder.  It was different.  Well-used, stuck in a rural past with muddy inclined paths and little shack houses fallen into deep disrepair, pressing against the future of strewn plastic garbage, satellite dishes everywhere, and what I presume to be a sewer drain being gouged out of the stone streets.  However, most of the white and brown houses dotting the mountainside were pretty.

Back in Selçuk,  I thought I’d try something different for dinner.  Some of the hotel staff just had Turkish pizza delivered from the place next door, which I’d been wanting to try.  I order a traditional pide - long, thin baguette-shaped, but flat and topped with minced meat and egg which came with a small salad, as well as some meatballs with cheese which came with two gigantic pitas (don’t know what the Turkish word for it is),  It was a lot of food, the pide alone would have sufficed.   A pair of Italian or Spanish tourists come in after eyeing the lone tourist diner through the window and order the same thing.  Between the two of them, they ate as much as I did.  It was really good, and I felt bad leaving the few slices of orphaned pide. 

As I ate, the staff was riveted by a tv program that I found quite compelling too, even if I had no idea what was going on.  It was completely over the top and started with a man clutching a small blanketed body in a dugout grave, unwilling to step out, even piling dirt upon himself.  Eventually, he emerges from the grave only for a Godfather/Tarantino-inspired gunfight to break out at the cemetery!  Guy can’t seem to catch a break, though he later successfully smothers an enemy to death while they both recover at the hospital.  Good stuff!

I wander the cold, mostly empty streets and stop into a candy and nuts shop and have my first Turkish delight and chocolate covered hazelnuts (Turkey is the leading producer of hazelnuts, fyi) of the trip.  For the uninformed, like myself, Turkish delight comes in a wide range of flavors, not just rose water.  I buy a small assortment and it is delightful – it’s like the original jelly candy/gummy bear, really. 

I take in my last night in Selçuk, only just having begun to know its rhythms.  

Life Among the Ruins

My trip from Istanbul to the town of Selçuk via flying to Izmir, was almost hassle-free.  At the airport, I met a nice gentleman from the southern resort city of Antalya.  He has a business in Madison, Wisconsin of all places.  Upon arrival, a language barrier between myself and the Turkish Airline rep led me to the international terminal for my baggage.  I get there, no baggage, am redirected to the domestic terminal where I JUST came from, only to have to go through security again and then pantomime lost baggage.  Security puts me on the phone with baggage, the rep’s English is not great but decent enough to tell me my luggage is on the next plane.  THE NEXT PLANE?  I begin to speak a little more animatedly, but resigned, I prepare to wait.  But then the security guard parts the dividing doors and there is my bag sitting outside the baggage office. 

Okay, between this little incident, my departure from JFK, and the little doozy of an overpowered passenger trying to divert a plane en route to Istanbul from Oslo – Turkish Airlines is not winning me over much. 

So this little adventure cost me time and I just miss my train to Selçuk and wait another 2 hours.   I did struggle through basic getting-to-know-you’s with the security guard at the station, as well as a retired teacher and his wife returning from a visit to their daughter in Istanbul.  The Turks are by and large quite friendly, as reputed, and eager and curious to know about people. 

I settle into my hotel and am completely underwhelmed by the place.  Upon strolling around the town, I see that my hotel is not so bad after all.  It’s a small town, so the range of accommodations isn’t great.  At one end of the town is St. John’s Church, where St. John is said to have lived his last days and is also buried there, I believe.  I am tired and try to shake off a couple peddlers.  One shows me, as we stand atop some stones outside St. John’s, the lone column that remains of The Temple of Artemis at Ephesus, one of the original seven wonders of the world.   And high above on a mountain 9 km away, is the House of the Virgin Mary, where Mary was said to have lived her last days.  

I tripadvisor places to eat, and Ejder Restaurant is #1 and just a few feet from my hotel.  It is tiny, maybe 10’ x 10’, seats ten.  There isn’t a kitchen to speak of.  There’s a small alcove where some prep and cleaning are done. And a coal-fired oven up front where the owner, Mehmet, does most of his work.  When I enter, his wife is eating her dinner at one of the tables, and I feel like I have intruded upon someone’s home.   Two customers enter and I am relieved to not be the only diner.  It is super-casual, a young boy comes to deliver fresh pita wrapped in newspaper.  Mehmet strolls down the street to pick up a bottle of raki for the other diners. Turkish news, soap operas and music videos play on the flat screen tv overhead.  Some of the contents take their cue from the U.S., and are just as trashy!   The music videos in particular have the sophistication and creativity of MTV circa 1984, but the blatant sensuality of 2004.  I enjoy my mixed grill as I take in this little cozy corner of Selçuk.

On my way to the comprehensive ruins of Ephesus the next morning, I pass of all things, a Korean restaurant at the edge of town.  Strange.   The ruins themselves are impressive and include the Celsus Library, The Baths of Scholastica (a wealthy patroness), a public latrine, a huge theatre, ritzy marble-lined Curetes Street, a large agora, etc.  On the other side of the complex lies the Church of Mary, the first Christian church dedicated to the Virgin Mary. The relics and ruins date from different periods, as there are many layers of history here that include the Epistle of Paul to the Ephesians, often shortened to Ephesians, which is the tenth book of the New Testament. 

On my way back to town, I have to stop for a Korean lunch, right?  There are five items, only two whose names I recognize – I go for the bibimbap which arrives in a metal bowl, rice separate.  It is not quite the same as a sizzling ceramic crock, but tasty nonetheless.  The eggplant kimchi was very good.  The place is gigantic and must serve as a stop for busloads of Korean tourists.  The owners are Korean, greet me in Korean, to which I just look stupid and say hello.  The staff is Turkish, and one woman tends to the female owner with great care, almost filial.  She dotes on her as the owner crosses herself before she tucks into her own lunch.   So here we are in tiny Selçuk/Ephesus, a major crossroads of historical and biblical proportions, that is in modern-day Muslim Turkey, where a Christian Korean woman employs Turks and serves mostly Korean tourists.   So weird and wonderful. 

Walking around town, I am waylaid by a young boy, possibly 3 years old who charges me out of nowhere.  Kid, where are your parents?  He seems a little demonic and if he were any taller, he may have hit more delicate areas.  Then a young girl, probably his slightly older sister runs into me on her pink tricycle.  Okay, this treacherous gang of two means business.  They have a gleam in their eyes, they want blood.  They approach for round two, so I have to raise my voice and give my sternest look and put my hand up to motion “stop.”  For a split second, I could see Bonnie and Clyde consider their options – “Yeah, this Asian dude means business. We better go potty.”  That’s what I thought….

Later in the evening, I return to Mehmet’s restaurant.  His family is sitting down to dinner, newspapers lining the tablecloth.  I recognize something that looks like oxtail bone.  Mmm, oxtail.   A few regulars drop in: a teacher, who’s able to translate for the photographer and singer.  The teacher discusses how they’re all Turks, but all look different: he Greek, the singer Egyptian, and the photographer Italian.  Which seems to run true as the three brothers who run the hotel I am staying look very different from one another.  Then Mehmet talks about his recent trip home to visit his family of 4,000+.  I think he misspeaks, maybe he meant visit his hometown. No, no.  He meant 4,000+ family members as his father has married 11 times!  Apparently one wife has died and he is on the prowl for another.   Zoiks. 

A pair of customers comes in and the place is so small it’s impossible not to overhear conversation.  From what I gather, they are both staying at the same hostel.  At some point, I interrupt because they are talking about applying to schools and for scholarships.  He is a consultant from NYC and she is a young Korean woman who’s been backpacking around Asia for 2 years!  And plans to continue for another year before her undergraduate studies in the States.  She was headed to Iran and Central Asian countries like Turkmenistan next.   All the consultant and I could do was shake our heads in envy. 

As I leave, the singer shakes my hand, holds it and breaks into a throaty, deeply resonant melody that reverberates through my body like history through these towns.  

Three Rakis to the Wind

My last day in Istanbul was pretty full.   The weather was cold and wet and I made my way to the Grand Bazaar.  It’s absolutely huge, a whole city block, indoors, with thousands of stalls selling everything Turkish you could imagine.  It was sensory overload and I walked a straight line through it, though staying out of the rain was the best part of it for me.

Upon exiting, I made my way down the narrow rickety, cobblestoned street filled with puddles of rain turned thin mud by the all the construction dirt… and stumble upon the thinnest sliver of a durumuc (sp?) joint.  I’d been meaning to try durum, though honestly, I can’t tell the difference between any number of Turkish foods with different names that sort of look the same and seem to be cooked the same.  It was kebab like, so I just dunno.  Anyway, skewers of meat in and out of the fire, two men working the small grill, three stools, four bowls of spices with deft fingers dancing in and out of them, sprinkled over meat, greens and pita.  The spices were probably thyme, paprika, sumac and something else.  And it was the best thing I’d eaten, better than the fried fish I think.  Then I tried an ayran, which is the popular thin yogurt drink here, um, not so great for me.  I love yogurt, but growing up in a culture that obsesses about sell by dates and sniffing milk containers to see if its contents have gone bad does not lend itself to enjoying ayran so easily. 

I head to the Rüstem Pasa Mosque because Pico Iyer details his affinity for the small mosque in this article from National Geographic Traveler, http://travel.nationalgeographic.com/city-guides/istanbul-traveler/.  I can’t begin to describe Istanbul in a way that would begin to capture the fascinating complexity of this city, so if you get a chance, I highly recommend reading it. 

I then delve into more street food and have corn on the cob, half of which wound up in the trash.  Then the memory of the fish sandwich from yesterday was nagging at me.  The rain meant there was but one vendor on the Golden Horn side, and their condiments did not include the spice and pickled peppers I liked so much.  But rather than cross over to the Asian side again, I got one anyway.  Blech.  All bread, and more bones than I cared to pick out of my mouth.  Ate the fish, threw the rest away. 

On my way home, I start picking up some souvenirs.  There is a little complex behind the Aya Sofya with artisans, including a calligrapher.  I thought it’d be sort of neat to start collecting little calligraphic mementos of my journeys – well, this guy was not going to be helpful.  In fact, he was reading the paper and perhaps it was the language barrier, but he did not exude warmth of any sort, so I left. 

Thinking I should do a Turkish bath (hamam) before I leave, I research a bit.  The famous Çemberlitas Hamam is nearby and I have passed it several times, but it is so geared towards tourists and honestly, I’m not really “feeling” a hamam at the moment, but thought it would be a good remedy for the cold rain.   But my internet research did turn up Jennifer’s Hamam which is in fact, a towel/textile store run by a Canadian ex-pat.  It is in a small outdoor bazaar right near my hotel and I stop by. 

Jennifer is very informative about her organic textiles and the losing battle against modernization in the business.  But she is doing her part, restoring old looms, working with the last family in Turkey that grows their own silk worms, etc. to preserve this important part of Turkish culture. 

A few stalls down, I hear a haunting Turkish melody and stop.  The young clerk shows me the CD that is playing, but then he is also glued to me for five minutes, um, hello, personal space?  I wind up buying the CD and another one he recommended.  Haggling doesn’t come naturally to me, but there was no way I was going to pay more than iTunes prices for these CDs.   Mission accomplished. 

I walk towards Çemberlitas, but am still hedging.  $22 seems a bit much for just the bath (sans massage) experience and the stream of tourists going in and coming out isn’t so appealing.  On the corner, there is another calligrapher.  He was friendlier than the earlier one, but his schtick seemed to be similar to the Chinese calligraphers in NYC who cater to tourists by writing their names in English but with Chinese-inspired stroke-work and icons.  And there was the language barrier.  Oh well.  But there is a barbershop right next door to the hamam and I have been roaming the streets of Istanbul looking like a shaggy wet dog.  Relievedly, I get my locks snipped.

Feeling human again, I stop by a brightly lit eatery with a rotund woman with a headscarf sitting by the front window rolling out dough.  She is making gozleme – Turkish crepes.  It’s busy, which is a good sign. The place itself had old rugs on the floors, low round tables that look as if they belong in a pre-K, horrible fluorescent lighting, also with new compact fluorescent bulbs (but not turned on mind you) with their extension cords strung over the room as one might do with actual decorative Turkish lamps.  But like much of Istanbul, it is shabby chic, emphasis on shabby.  I order the two house specialties, gozleme and manti (Turkish dumplings/ravioli) and some fresh pomegranate juice.  The food was very tasty and I was quite pleased. 

Now that I had my eating mojo on, I stop for baklava at a bakery.  It should be noted that I am allergic to most versions of baklava, as they usually have pistachios or walnuts.  But the pistachio and chocolate one looks especially good.  I order some to go as my Benadryl is back in the room.  I stop by Mado, a famous ice cream/gelato place and order the special, which includes pistachio.  I start to have a little trouble breathing but am fine. 

On my way back to the hotel, I run into a couple of young men from Cappadocia.  We chat and they invite me to join them for some raki, but again, I decline.  I have some trust issues :)  Instead, I head back to the restaurant I had eaten at on my second night (and had breakfast there once too) to have a glass of raki.   It is 10 p.m., the restaurant is mostly empty, but host Yusuf’s warmth and hospitality make up for it.  Plus, they are playing the best music, a “new jazz” mix that includes a Turkish version of “Hit the Road Jack”. I enquire as to what it is, and thus we begin a whole conversation about music, he brings out his laptop to show me what he personally has, etc. Unfortunately, the music on the stereo is compiled by a company that does mixes and does not provide a playlist :( He said he’d try to get the info for me, but thus far, nada.  By then, I am on my third glass of raki and Yusuf has given me a plate of cheese, tomatoes and cucumbers gratis as accompaniment.  Feeling warm and fuzzy, I head to the hotel and offer Ramazan, on night duty, my baklava.  Spreading the love.  

The Blue Mosque

Also known as the Sultanahmet Mosque, the Blue Mosque dominated much of the day’s activity.  It so dominates the area (for which it is named), and is visible from places like the roof of my hotel, that I had sort of taken if for granted since my arrival.  But one of the Aussie/Kiwis of the night before sang its praises, so I had to go.  And what a marvel it is. 

I had to wait close to an hour to enter, as it closes during prayers throughout the day.  But that time was spent wandering around its perimeters, taking in the slightest hints of what might lay inside.  I’ll try to keep this brief, but it was one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen.  No camera, especially my camera with my limited knowledge of how to use it, can really begin to do it justice.   But I submit these few pics as evidence.  Being at Sultanahmet is probably frustrating for tourists and the faithful alike because even when prayers are over, the pious are still there praying, and the area that is demarcated as the tourist zone never really allows you closer access to the beauty of the place.  Which is probably just as well because given the scope and enormity of the place, you’d have to start scaling ladders and scaffolding or something. 

From there I ventured to the Museum of Turkish Art and Design, or something like that.  Right across the street from Sultanahmet.  Nice little museum with a current exhibition marking a significant anniversary of the Qu’ran. 

One of the ubiquitous street foods is a thin ringed bread with sesame seeds, been eyeing since day one.  It was okay, would’ve been better warm or with a hint of garlic or onion. 

Came back to the hotel only to find that this part of Sultanahmet (the district) was without electricity.  So much for charging my camera battery.   Instead, I head off to the ferry for a little jaunt to Asia.  Yes, Asia.  As most of you know, Istanbul has the distinction of being the only city in the world that lies on two continents.  It’s sort of like going to Staten Island!  The weather is probably the nicest since I have been here and the sunset is pretty.   When I get to Kadikoy (there are different ports/neighborhoods/districts on the Asian side with ferries to them), I smell fish. Lots and lots of fried fish.  I line up at one of the many vendors and order my fried fish sandwich and top it with salt, lemon juice, some ever-present red flakes that might be red pepper or sumac or something else delicious, and thin pickled peppers.  OMG!  It was so good.  Best thing I had eaten so far, but then having laced my sandwich with four peppers, it starts being a landmine for my tongue. The last one in particular found the left side of my tongue and sent a hurting, burning, fiery track right up through my nose into my head.  Ow, it burned so bad my nose was running and I had to buy 2 fresh orange juices to begin to quell the flame.  Phew.  But the damage had been done.  I was hooked.

The ferry ride itself was nice, though the Bosporus at night is dark and foreboding.

On my way home from the ferry, another pair of friendly salesmen who stalk the streets outside their stores ready to prey on passing tourist, snared me into their trap.  The encounter goes something like,

Salesman: “Japan?  Konichiwa? “

No Sale, Man:  “New York.” 

Salesman: “Really?  Do you know how to get to Carnegie Hall?”

No Sale, Man: “Practice.”

Salesman: “Ha.  You know we got a couple of old buildings in this area…” (referencing Aya Sofya and Blue Mosque)

No Sale, Man: “Oh I know.  Yeah, those two aren’t much to look at…”
And before he can pull me in further, I break free and continue on my way home. 


Also, thanks to Ed for reminding me, rest in peace Pete Postlethwaite.

New Year's Day (well, Night really)

By the time I woke up on New Year’s Day, it was close to 7 p.m.  Having done my reconnaissance mission the night before, I headed back to Istlikal.  No sooner than I get there, a young man starts chatting with me.  As some of you know, I am going deaf, so listening to people in strong foreign accents is that much harder.

And as native New Yorkers are bred to be cautious, alert, some might say cynical and neurotic… I wondered how I would fare in this country having heard that Turks are renowned for their friendliness and warmth.  I can also be a gullible sort too, despite my street cred :) So, if someone isn’t trying to sell me something, steal something, hustle something, I think, “Huh?”  This guy was Kuwaiti/Kurdish/Turkish, visiting with his large family.  I ask, “Who’s watching your kids?,” to which he responds his wife (and his parents).  He fills me in a bit on the complicated history between the Kurds and Turks, the difference between Arabic women and Turkish women, asks me about my profession and marital status (as everyone here does!  If I wanted that, I would just go visit my mother! :) .  He invites me to join him for drinks, which I decline.  As it turns out, he just wanted to practice his English and get to know a fellow visitor.  But, I sort of like this traveling, eating and drinking alone thing.  Plus, I am still somewhat skeptical.  Can take the boy out of NYC, but can’t take NYC out of the boy.

No sooner than I turn back down Istlikal, another guy strikes up a conversation with me.  I had slipped up, the trick is to look down, try to avoid eye contact with people (and I call myself a native NY’er).  And so this fella was from central Anatolia, his accent was stronger and his English was not as good.  He wants to grab drinks and dinner, and I haven’t quite learned to shake people so we walk for a while until I work up the moxie to say, thanks but no thanks. 

By then, I hadn’t eaten in about 24 hours.  So began my evening of eclectic eating.  I start with gianduja (Sofe, that’s like Nutella) gelato.  It is right there.  Dessert first, right?  I am so hungry having tried to shake these guys I’ve lost valuable eating time.  Next up, a large fresh squeezed orange juice for less than $1.  Next, roasted chestnuts (the vendors are everywhere).  Then I wander some more, searching for a restaurant that feels “right” to me.  The options are overwhelming, but I finally take the plunge at a place that is doing a brisk business outside with their fried mussels. 

I order a quarter sandwich of roasted lamb intestines (served with a smoky/spicy sauce), sarma (stuffed grape leaves I think), stuffed mussels, and a whole sea bass.  I ask the waiter, is this too much food for one person?  He looks me over and says, “For you, no.”  Then he motions at his portly middle-aged body and says, “For me, yes.”  As it turns out, it was a wee bit too much food, and too much food that tasted the same (the sarma and the mussels had the same stuffing which was very filling).  But the sandwich was good, except when I bit into some hard bits, and the fish was well-fried.

I head back to Nevizade Street for some raki, begin to enjoy the numb tongue feeling while a fight almost breaks out in front of the hotel not 4 feet in front of me.  Almost.  I mention my disappointment to the gent at the next table, who is from Norway, visiting Istanbul with his German friend (and two Latvian friends they were meeting up with) and headed to Malaysia for 4 months.  That is the life.  I asked how his pan-Euro group formed and they all met through couchsurfing.com.   Good to know it’s not just for, well… couchsurfing. 

It is probably about 1:30 and I decide to walk home for a second night running. This time though, there are no other walkers, no New Year’s revelers.  I get to the bridge and see at least a hundred fishermen lining both sides of the bridge, with their poles dangling below into the Bosporus (or its estuary).  They have makeshift fires in metal cans or with heaps of garbage. I peer over the bridge into the littered water, watch their hooks and bait make small ripples into the water when cast, and then disappear.  They are patient, which I suppose comes with the territory.   On one fisherman’s pole, I see the shadowy outline of a small fish, maybe an anchovy.  The angler next to him, a larger shadow, maybe a sardine.  I wander over to their recycled plastic buckets and see their evening’s work.  The anchovy guy had been busy and caught at least 5 larger than a sardine-type fish. 

I keep on walking, almost home, and run into a quartet surrounding the sweetest looking blond-haired dog who is lying prone on the sidewalk being petted.  The strays in this city are such docile, sweet, healthy and beautiful animals.  It’s quite strange actually.  So I get in on the action and the quartet introduces themselves as a band of Aussies and Kiwis now living in London.  Two were Caucasian, one of them was of perhaps South Asian descent, one was perhaps of African descent – and here we all were, petting a dog in the park between Aya Sofya and Sultanahmet Mosque at 2:something in the morning. 

I may have only been awake for 7 hours by then, but it was an unexpectedly full and gratifying evening.  And I didn’t even write about the amazing musical duo playing at this bar in a tiny alley.  Such soulful electric violin and vocals, haunting.  

New Year's Eve

New Year’s Eve was an uneventful, meandering sort of evening.  Other options would’ve been a $120 Bosporus Dinner Cruise w/food/drinks/dancing/fireworks view or hanging on a bridge with probably hundreds of thousands of Istanbullus.  Since I don’t even do that sort of thing in NY, I figure, why do it in Istanbul. 

So I took the tram into the “New City” – my first taste of the non-tourist ghetto, and NYE was a prime time as any for a change of pace.  What can I say?  If Istanbul were a body, then Istlikal Caddesi would be its beating, pulsating heart.  I was amazed and wowed and floored by the sheer number of people streaming up and down the avenue – think Istanbul’s version of Paris’ Avenue de Champs Elysee, but bigger.  NYC doesn’t have anything you could even compare it to unless you combine Times Square with Fifth Avenue and Lower Broadway with a dash of the Village (both East and West).  The energy was so incredibly vibrant yet laidback.  The truth is, words wouldn’t even begin to describe it, and if they did, I don’t have the time or abilities at the moment. 

When I veered off the main drag onto the side streets, it was a completely different story.  If Istlikal is Istanbul’s heart, then the warren of streets, labyrinthine and climbing uphill and downhill, and wending and winding are its blood vessels.  One side off Istiklal in particular was more spread out, maze-like and deserted (um… that’s the side I got a bit lost in).  The other side was like walking in a giant, roving party as you move through the maze, with eateries and bars spilling off both sides of every little cobblestoned alley.  And as I tried squeezing through one particularly boisterous street where there are two or three bars/eateries right up on each other, spilling out onto the street on both sides, percussive music pumping (not dance or rap music mind you), people dancing so joyously in the tiniest little space – I smiled so reflexively and thought, this is exactly why I am here.  A celebration, in the smallest square feet imaginable, bigger than anything I’d ever felt or seen. 

I grabbed a beer and a stool somewhere on Nevizade Street, and lost all track of time without a cellphone or watch.  The only indications that it was the New Year was the small wave of applause, the setting of flame/flare, and people rising up from their stools to kiss each other on both cheeks. 

By the time I made it back down the hill to the tram, and waited and waited… two passed that were out of service.  I started walking probably sometime around 1:30 following the tram’s tracks to lead me back to the hotel.  I could’ve grabbed a cab, but just kept walking and walking and walking… over a bridge, jumping over tracks, onto the highway and back onto streets.  It’s a good thing I’m still young and spry enough to do this.  I would not recommend it for most.  It took probably close to an hour.  By then, I had walked about 6 hours that night and subsequently, slept 13 hours.

New Year's Eve

So, nothing lengthy for now, just an edit really.  I cribbed the Turkish for Happy New Year off the web, which only goes to reinforce the idea that you can't trust everything you read/find on the web or anywhere really.  So here's the more proper saying I guess - MUTLU YILLAR!  Hope nobody is suffering too badly this morning/evening.