from Istanbul: swept away

So here is the truth: deep down, I had hoped, I had dreamed of purchasing a Turkish rug.

All these times, when carpet salesmen would come up and say: do you want to visit my carpet store? Do you want to see my rugs? I wanted to say yes! I do! Show me, show me!

But I remained silent. What do I know about buying a Turkish carpet here? About the authenticity of any of them? About whether I would be scammed? About how to take the damn thing back, should I be so lucky as to purchase it?

I had secretly measured the space in my new condo. 9 x 6. Just in case someone was throwing something in my lap, I’d know. 9 x 6.

On the first days here I ignored all the thousands of carpet stores. What happens to those who enter? Do you get sucked into an exchange from which there is no turning back? Is stuff poured into your tea cup so that you wind up handing over credit cards willingly for carpets that you don’t even like?

I concentrated on exploring Istanbul and ignored the carpets.

Until today.

It was determined at breakfast that on this day we would turn our attention to the markets.

I took out my little scrap of paper. 9 x 6.

I poked through my books and came up with several addresses of reputable carpet dealers. Just in case. Anyone who knows Istanbul would laugh at that, but I was of the belief that carpet dealers can be divided into the reputable and the questionable and that knowing a good street number is all that you need for instant success in carpet acquisition.

We set out. Over the Bosphorus and into the tangle of streets.

First though, I need to feel like I am at home here. Like I know about life.

I pause and buy an ear of corn. Like the locals. He picks an ear out a stack, I smile wickedly and say no, no, not the old ones, I want one fresh from the coals. He shrugs and hands one over. Fresh from the coals.





I burn myself bigtime.

We enter the lesser Bazaar, the Arasta. I had already determined that looking at rugs at the Grand Bazaar would be like looking for the perfect croissant in Alaska. I’m sure they’re there, but where do you even begin.

At Arasta, all is calm.





I pass shop after shop, looking only for one dealer, whose name I ripped from a book on doing Istanbul the right way.

There it is. Gengiz. In we go. Small shop. So now what? Unlike the 99% others out there on the streets of Istanbul, this one seems supremely indifferent to my shopping needs.

Carpets, I want to look at carpets, I prod. (Was that a yawn?) He shows me one. All wrong, I think. Shouldn’t I be looking at a catalogue? At samples? Shouldn’t we discuss my tastes, my demographics? My budget?

After a minute or two, he says – follow me to the other store.
Ah, there is more. Good.

The other store is not just up the block. It is up and down, and turn this way and that, into a jewler’s and up the stairs and finally, I am in a room with many many carpets.



In the meantime, my man from Gengiz is gone.

I am now before Ilker (from Nakkas), with the pink shirt. Ilker is big. But Ilker does not himself bring out the carpets. Workman one and Workman two do that when Ilker issues a command.

The search begins.

I want something big-ish. 9 x 6.
That’s too yellow.
I prefer flowers.
Too red.




That wont go with the brick love seat.
No, I don’t really remember the shade of brick, but this seems a mismatch.
Maybe we should go for the deeper reds.





No, not that.
How much is it anyway?
Too much.
Do you have something for less?That one has pink in it as well.
Too yellow.

Ilker is sweating, which is strange because he is not the one lifting carpets. Both he and my daughter look discouraged. I am offered apple tea.





We talk prices again. I tell him my bottom line. My daughter looks at me. Are you supposed to reveal your bottom line? Should you visit only one carpet dealer? Aren’t I doing this all wrong?

We continue. Workman one brings out another roll and another. Workman two may have decided to quit, I don’t know, he’s gone. Ah, there he is – we are now on round two of tea. Turkish tea. A step up, perhaps?





How about something lighter, bigger, cheaper, and something that will go with my brick loveseat?

Ilker brings out a carpet and then he takes another to imitate a brick love seat placed right on it.





To me, it looks perfect.

I lie down on the floor next to it (really). I place a cup of tea on it, just for visual effect.




Still perfect.

Bottom price? Ilker comes up with a price considerably lower than his first offer. Too high. We have been here the entire afternoon and now I am about to walk out on the perfect carpet.

I remember the words from my book on how to do Istanbul the right way: squabble if you must; worry about the thread content, the dyes, the authenticity, the right price, but in the end, if you like that particular rug and that one only, buy it.

And so I buy it.

Everyone is happy. I save money on not shipping it. Of course I can carry a 9 x 6 carpet with me – to the restaurant for dinner, to the airport, to Paris, to France, to Chicago – hearty Polish peasant stock here.

The carpet is put in a satchel. We are set to go.




Ilker looks troubled.

Where are you eating tonight? Oh, the Balikci Sabahattin? He nods approval.That’s just a little way down, not too far from here. That has the best fish! Straight from the sea. You cannot walk there with this carpet. I’ll have Workman no. 3 drive you there.

We gratefully accept, but not just yet. I am in a daze. I need several hours to recover.

We walk to the Great Bazaar, looking at soaps and shawls and coffee urns, trying hard to steer clear of carpets.





Up one aisle, down the next, allowing ourselves to get lost in the chaos of soaps and textiles, tea sets, and hookah pipes. Finally, we are ready for dinner.

At the Balikci Sabahattin, we sit in an alley beneath grape vines. Small dishes (meze) are brought to us and we select what looks best: marinated sea bass, roasted eggplant, rice with mussels.





I let the waiters guide us in the fish selection. You like them grilled? Yes, yes, a simple preparation, it is always the best for fresh fish.





The waiter hovers. When I take a picture of my daughter, he is right there beside her. I am thinking that maybe he, too, will want to marry her and I consider if this would be a better choice than a carpet salesman. The man knows all about fish and olives and roasted eggplant.





The meal ends with fresh cherries and stewed figs. No espresso here. This is a place for fish and wine and roasted eggplant. A wonderful wonderful spot to bring your 9 x 6 carpet to after a long day.

We are ready to head back to Asia. They call us a taxi and we speed across one bridge, then another. The sun is just now setting over the mosques. The birds circle over the waters, screeching, dipping, on their last spin around Istanbul tonight.

from Istanbul: sultans, harems and salt

At some point you have to turn your back to the markets, the maze of streets, the mosques, the food vendors and enter the gates of Topkapi.





Residence of the sultans and their staff (are concubines considered “staff”?) for most of the time of the Ottoman Empire, it is the palace of palaces, the jewel, the throne, the dagger (of movie fame), the place of great kitchens, home to the women of the harem.

All this for the price of a ticket. (Okay, if you want to see the harem rooms, that’s another ticket. Few groups do this – I have to think it’s for reasons other than the added cost.)

The grounds are so spacious that even tour groups and the countless Turkish families who make the trip up here do not really disturb your own contemplation of the palace and what it represented.

We take a moment to admire the gracefulness of the buildings, from a quiet corner:





And of course, I spend some time peering into kitchen pots:





Most of the people scoot over to the treasury. Thrones and flasks and swords, studded with emeralds and diamonds are the draw here (no photos allowed). That’s all fine and beautiful, but for me, the walk through the harem quarters puts the needed stamp of a sultan-era reality to the place.

I’m still not entirely sure how it is that you made your way to be the mother of the future sultan, or the favorite concubine for that matter. And what duties did you perform as such? What took place here was veiled. In secrecy.

Today, as you walk from one room to the next, from the private sultan baths to the receiving rooms, all you can grasp is the beauty of the art…





…and the prison like feeling of closure for the women who lived here.

Outside, the afternoon sun is still more forceful. Turkish families seem unaffected by it, maybe because this is only spring. In the summer, the heat intensifies.

I watch people take their own pauses. Couples. Families. Mothers and sons. So warm, they must feel so warm.





In the late afternoon, we take the ferry back to the Asian coast. The quiet coast. Before the two bridges went up, the residents stayed put or traveled by boat to the city. Not surprisingly, the towns along the coast feel very removed from Istanbul proper.





At dusk, we travel even further north on the Asian side for dinner. In the small bay of Korfez, just past the second bridge linking Asia to Europe, a restaurant serves wonderfully fresh seafood, a mere step from the water’s edge.

Small boats pull up and people disembark right into the dining area. We watch these arrivals with amusement. Istanbul people. A hefty trip for them, but well worth it for the sense of quiet and intimacy here, in Korfez.





Omer, the owner and chef is a charmer. He chats with me about his own love of photography, his relentless pursuit of pictures of people, of the perfect views.

You’ve been doing this restaurant stuff a long time? – I ask.
Yes, really a long time. You’re staying just down the road, aren’t you? And you are from America? I like New York!
But the food here is so good!
There too! My favorite meal was at Balthazar!

Balthazar. Trendy Balthazar. And Korfez, where the waiter brings out a salt-encrusted sea bass, flames it, knocks off the salt and serves the most incredible pieces of fish for you, all in the flash of fire and tenderness, against the backdrop of the Bosphorus.





Such foods they have here! Add a bottle of Turkish white, a baklava for dessert, a strong espresso. Perfect satisfaction. Thanks, Omer.

from Istanbul: spice of life

The day begins and ends at a table, just at the edge of the water, with exotic juices and foods placed in succession on it. One table (breakfast) is on the Asian side of the Bosphorus, the other (dinner) is in Europe.



breakfast




dinner


Ah, but in between those two events – what riches!

We take a ferry to European Istanbul – to the heart of the ancient city. The approach is dramatic. You point, you look, you stare in wonder.










It’s hard to take in the huge span of time over which layers have been added to this city. Empire building adds riches for the tourist years later. (Though what a lesson in how quickly sweet success can disappear! The empire falls, the global eyes turn elsewhere. Until this century when Istanbul is given serious consideration once more.)

Still, the center of town – the Sultanahmet horn that juts into the sea – has it all, compressed into a maze of streets which defy maps and tourists and me.

You could just make one stop here – at the Haga Sophia, and there you’d feel it all: the vastness of time, the infinite wealth of those who are at the helm.

A Byzantine splendor. For hundreds and hundreds of years, the largest building on earth. Once a center of Christian faith, then of Islamic belief, more recently – a museum.










How do you even look at a mosaic from the 11th century? Can you put yourself in the shoes of Empress Zoe, who would insist that the mosaic with her in it would contain also the face of her husband? Changed to her second spouse when the first died? And then her third?





Most of the visitors here are Turkish: families, school groups, probably from outside Istanbul. It’s a mixed up world, here at Hagia Sophia. Women in black veils are in the minority, but women wrapped in colorful scarves and clothed in long coats are the norm. Then you have us – the tourists, the urban presence, the young (well, not in my case). We pass through as visitors, admirers. We stare, take photos, and we leave.

Out in the hot sun again, the reality of everyday sets in. In our case – it is thirst for water. In the case of so many around us – it is hunger for a good life.

A stunningly handsome man comes up to me and says: you have such a beautiful daughter! May I marry her?
I smile and say no. She nudges me to watch my purse.
He responds, equally earnestly: will you at least visit my carpet store?
She stifles a laugh. I decline his invitation and a hundred other similar ones.

But these men that want you to come look, come buy, they are not offensive to me. They are part of Istanbul. They are the sellers and in Istanbul, buying is a fulltime, daylong sport.

Before wandering into the alleys and passages of the hub of Sultanahmet, we turn toward the Blue Mosque.





Here the distinctions between visitor and faithful are sharply obvious. We, the tourists, enter at the side. We wrap ourselves in covers – knees, arms concealed and we tip toe barefooted across carpets.

Inside, the vastness is beautifully ornamental (thousands of decorative tiles, blue in tone) rather than numbingly grand.






A handful of men engage in the stand-bend-kneel-touch-ground-with-forehead prayer ritual (women pray elsewhere, to the side), but mostly, the central spaces (cut off for visitors) are empty. The communal prayer, announced by the male chanting voice, loudly, from each mosque (in much the same way bells call to prayer in western religions) will bring in hordes. But that prayer not for gawkers. Non-Muslims will be asked to leave. They (we) are a distraction, a loud presence, annoying in the way we clumsily adhere to the rules, but not really.

Again we watch the Muslim families come to inspect this gorgeous interior. Little boys are sometimes dressed in Sultan robes. Grandmothers, mothers take pictures of them. Tourists take pictures of them as well. Little heroes already. Future kings and leaders. At the very least, carpet sellers.

Outside, our water bottles are empty. A reminder that it’s time to sit down and refresh.

Endless choices here. I’m ready for a salad, my daughter is ready for a baklava. We pick a sidewalk eatery and are at once hovered over by a waiter who loves, loves to practice his very few English words. Americans? Wow. From Texas maybe? No? Washington? No? He’s sorry, he doesn’t know any other American places.

We eat and people watch and waiter watch. The thirst gradually diminishes. The muscles relax.





A good thing, because the market is before us. I cannot describe the Grand Bazaar and the streets and alleys leading up to it. Miles and miles of shops: carpets, lamps, clothing, ceramics, most everything.






We stroll, overwhelmed from the very first step.

And it gets better. As we approach the water, we enter the Spice Bazaar: candies, nuts and barrels of spices, so colorful, so aromatic that the only way you can bear to leave is to promise yourself at least two more returns. So forgive future photographic forays here. I am at this point dazed, over the top. Still, my finger is good for a few squeezes on the shutter release, just for a taste now:









And now we move again toward the waters of the Bosphorus, first along the small fish market, then, further up, to a restaurant specializing in a fusion of sorts – of the past and present. Traditional flavors: fish in earthen pots, skewered meats, but done with such perfect regard to the fresh ingredient that you have to believe that this is science and history, for once not in conflict with each other.





Shoreline colors turn from gold to orange to pale pink and suddenly the day is done.




Over the bridge and to our room in Asia. Still and peaceful. So that the senses can recover.

from Cengelkoy, Turkey: looking out

The flight comes into Istanbul close to 2 a.m. The airport is not at all empty, even at this late hour. Other passangers haggle over visa lines and passport clearance, but we zip through effortlessly, visas in hand from our previous entry.

A car picks us up and quickly speeds forward. A bullet zipping through dimply lit roads. Finally, we cross one of the two bridges that link Europe with Asia.

It used to be the longest until the one in Denmark went up, our driver says. This one changes its colors with different lights. I hate this combination!

But wait, it's blue and yellow!

We are on the Asian side of the Bosphorus.

A tunnel is being built, you know. For trains, like under the English Channel.


But the Bosphorus is not like the English Channel. It is uniquely Turkish -- a corridor between two seas, with neighbors that know too much about political shake ups and earth tremmors in the region.

We pull up to our small hotel -- on old distillery turned into a restaurant with rooms. Modern rooms, sleek, gray tones, all nice, but the best, by far, is the row of windows. We fling one open and look out.

Blue and yellow. Linking continents.

from Oslo, Norway: oh, children

They stand out. I see them on the boats, in the parks, on the streets. Always cool to watch, often smudged, with drips of ice cream on their chins. Sometimes extremely well tended.

A last morning in Oslo. An afternoon flight to Amsterdam, an evening flight to Istanbul. Landing in Turkey in the middle of the night. Somehow finding our way to the Asian side of the Bosphorus. It adds to the mystery of the place.

One last photo from Norway. Of children – brother and sister in this case. They’re coming out of the theater, walking hand in hand, preoccupied with something important, like maybe a crack in the sidewalk.





More tomorrow, from Istanbul.

From Oslo, Norway: vessels

So what images best present Norway? They would have to include ships and fjords and glacial waters. And Oslo? Cafés and ferries and children with very very light hair. And boats. Everywhere – boats.

My admiration for the Vikings was only half serious two days ago when I rowed my own wooden boat up and down the Hardengenfjord. Today, I gave them a more thorough consideration.

We sailed over, via ferry, to the Viking Museum, where we could stare endlessly at the boats that, more than 1000 years ago, carried the Vikings to sea.

Impressive. And beautiful.





And although my little boat had been designed to imitate the looks of a Viking dinghy, hands down, the ancient boat would have walked away with a “best of show” in a competition between the two.





Daughters are predisposed to reassure parents of their abilities and exceptional strengths and thus I was told that I probably had Viking blood in me in that I could well manage on a boat and trip requiring that degree of stamina. In truth, I’d only go out if someone promised to pull on the oars should the winds fail. And I would insist on a decent night’s sleep at a nice seaside inn, with a fresh and honest dinner to cap the day.

I’m not sure that was in the offering back in the year 900 A.D.

Zipping back on the ferry, we noted the tankers that hauled crates of goods from China…





…and the small shrimp boats that, each morning, brought in large quantities of fresh sea critters for Oslovians to devour right that day (these are parked right in front of the Nobel Peace Center)…





…and, of course, there were other things out there on the water. Things that require paddles of a different sort.





Is it oxymoronic to speak of Norway as the land of the sea?

Late in the day (or is it night? ), a different set of vessels demonstrated once and for all that Norwegians really do know how to work with food. Watermelon and tomato soup, turbot filets, crayfish, tenderloin and an array of strawberry presentations were brilliantly executed. A regional, seasonal menu done in a northern country with a short growing season. Absolutely inspired.

Here's an example (this is the crayfish and asparagus in a lobster sauce, with Jerusalem artichole chips; I like the frothy ocean look and of course, the vessel):





So, my admiration is quite genuine. For Norwegian boatmen and cooks who take on challenges that make me feel small. Okay, I may feel small for other reasons, too. The shrimp besides the lobster. The dinghy beside the ship. You get the point.

from Oslo, Norway: heat wave

People who hate the hot summers of the south, think of the Scandinavian peninsula as a breath of fresh, cool air. The highest temps hover in the sixties and the nights are crisp. Too crisp, sometimes. Pack a sweater. A jacket, gloves maybe. It’s a nippy land.

This week in June, you would have been fine with a sundress and sandals.

Yesterday’s six hour train ride to Oslo was brutal. Without air conditioning and with only two tiny slits at either end permitting fresh air, the car quickly heated up to a nice, steady broil.

And, even though the entire week we have been experiencing sunny days and high temps (in the eighties), people refuse to process this. It is so incongruous, so completely at odds with our perception of how it ought to be that we continue to pack that sweater, just in case. I look at the passengers, with tucked in shirts, long pants and thick socks and I think – take it off, all of it, you’re making me sweat just looking at you!

The conductor suggests that we all exit at the next station. It’s a three minute pause. Get some fresh air – he tells us. We do. The platform is hot. We stumble back inside and close the window curtains. Forget the stunning view. Survival trumps view.

But ask the Norwegians and they grin at the wonderfulness of it all (expect those working in the heat traps). Yes, isn’t it nice?

These people are sun deprived. Welcome, sun. Mmmm, more is good. Keep laying it on.

Sunday in Oslo.

We walk down to the pier, through the castle park, up the main street, tracing the steps now not of Grieg, but of Ibsen and Munch (Ibsen, the pampered, adored writer, Munch the looker, the haunted painter).

Endless walking. Past the the port, the palace, to the food fair (refreshed by Norwegian cloudberry ice cream), up the old Oslo blocks, collapsing finally in a warm hotel room because, you know, this country doesn’t need air conditioning.

I hate too much air conditioning and so I am not the complainer now. And who would want to complain anyway. The day of sun (or is it that it’s Sunday?) brings out every last Oslovian. Endless people watching opportunities.

A sample of the sights and tastes – of a Sunday in Oslo:



Oslofjord: castles and ships




revealing, listening - with a sweater, just in case




cool statues, cool fountains, cool people




fast food




a cigarette break




food fest




a path with a view




café life




old Oslo




dinner




in the evening sun: enjoying one daughter, missing the other