Istanbul #1

March 9, 2013


Fourth floor of the Best Western Hotel, Akbiyak Cad #46, Sultanahmet, Istanbul. It is a turbulent, lively street, exactly the kind upon which I want my windows to open. It reminds me of Trastevere in Rome, except that the commercial life here is a little more aggressive. The room is fairly luxurious, with plates of dried fruit and nuts waiting for me. The hotel personnel is helpful and friendly, or obsequious, depending on how you look at those things. Everybody is darkly good looking. It was interesting to give the bartender a tutorial in making a vodka tonic, him with no English. . . or German. . . or Italian. . . me with no Turkish. Except I can say “Stop!” from looking at all the traffic signs in the drive from the airport. The drive from the airport was a solid hour, all of it through the city, which turns out to be colossal. The screens on the airplane suggested 13 million inhabitants, but the desk clerk said it was 17 million normally, and 20 million when the seasonal workers come in from Anatolia when the tourist season abates. Istanbul is “Europe” and the rest of Turkey is “Anatolia,” says what’s-his-name, the uncle of the second man last night who tried to sell me a rug. Osman dragged me into his restaurant and set up an appointment to see his carpets. The sell here is hard, and repetitious, but also buffeted by courtesies and delicious Turkish tea. I didn’t come with any idea of buying a rug, but I may, since it appears to be the thing to do.

Strolled about after my Osman dinner, and blundered into the Blue Mosque, its minarets stabbing up into the night, lit and all thronged about with wheeling gulls.  The gulls and the jackdaws here remind me of Ireland, and settled what apprehensions I may have had. The was I gaping at the Blue Mosque when I happened to turn in the little parking lot where I stood and saw, in the distance, but not too far, Hagia Sophia. I burst into tears. Byzantium was one of those places I thought was too exotic for me ever to see in the flesh. What a sacred place the land between those holy places is, and there is my little hotel! In a café I saw a dervish begin to dance. You’d think that would be a kind of sacrilege, but it wasn’t. The dervish was so beautiful and so beautifully transported that he blessed the occasion, whatever the thousand occasions in the café were. It rained all evening. I didn’t notice until I looked up where the gulls were flying in the lights.

Swissair is always giving one chocolates.