Istanbul Part IV: Cats

Just pictures for now. Words coming soon.

Istanbul Part III: Sultanahmet

My first impression of Sultanahmet comes in the back of a shuttle van, on my way to the hotel from the airport. I am startled by the narrowness of the streets - barely enough room for two cars to pass each other - and by the fact that we don't hit any of the stray cats on the way, because there are cats on literally every corner. The buildings are fairly tall and narrow, most of them stretching up five or six stories high in an effort to get that money-making view of the Marmara Sea from the top floor. Almost every establishment has a top floor dining room/terrace/dance floor/etc. And it's worth it, because the view is gorgeous, as I discover the next morning from the breakfast terrace of our hotel.




And while we're on the topic I think the breakfast menu is worth noting: sesame bread rolls, goats'-milk cheese, sliced tomatoes and cucumbers, green and black olives, sliced oranges, yogurt, jam and honey, hard-boiled eggs, and pound cake, washed down with Nescafe, cherry juice, and orange Tang! Obviously, right? Because what would breakfast be without some Tang?

Shortly after arriving, my mom and I are sitting in the hotel room, debating our dinner options, when we get our first sharp reminded that we are very far away from home. The call to prayer, called adhan, begins for the fifth and final time of the day around 7:30 pm. The first time I hear it, it's profoundly spooky. I run to the window half-expecting to see men dropping to their prayer mats in the streets. I don't see this, of course, because most of Istanbul's population, though Muslim, is not terribly devout. Most of the population attends the Friday afternoon service, and prays then, sort of like a Christian who attends church only on Sunday mornings. The adhan does become one of my favorite things about Istanbul. I even wake up for the 5am call, the first of the day, and sit at the window with my head leaning out in the dark.






When we first set out to explore the neighborhood, we quickly discover that it's difficult, if not impossible, to walk up the street without getting sucked into a conversation with one of the hundreds of men standing in front of their stores and restaurants. I suppose it would be possible if you were cold-hearted and/or dead inside, but I personally find it charming, so I tend to allow myself to be sucked in. Everyone wants to know where we were from, and the response "California" tends to result in much admiration, as well as a number of responses such as:

"Oh, I've been to California, but only once... do you know of Emeryville?"
or
"My cousin lives in California, perhaps you know his town... it's called Lafayette."

Obviously two of the COOLEST towns in California, right? I don't meet anyone who has been to San Francisco, actually, but a lot of people seem to have a very magical image of it in their heads. I do not try to dissuade them of its awesomeness.

Aside from wanting to know our hometowns, these men are also eager to offer any number of camels to my mother in exchange for me. This is a typical Turkish turn of phrase (joking of course). Sometimes they preface their proposal with a touch of flattery for Mom, such as "Oh, what a lovely little sister you have!" Alas, no one has access to enough camels to satisfy my demanding mother, and so I am denied the acquisition of a husband on this trip. I do, however, learn to love the banter from the shopkeepers and restaurateurs:

"Hello lady, yes please, would you like to have a look at my menu? We have terrace upstairs..."
"Oh, Mama, such a pretty daughter - look at those eyes! Please come inside, we have pashmina..."
"Ladies, would you like to see my carpets? I will make a deal just for you..."

By the end of the trip, we are in the shop at the corner every night, enjoying tea and the nargileh with Ibrahim, Ugur, and Hakan. It almost feels like we're locals.

It is far and away my favorite part of Istanbul. Everyone is incredibly friendly. I find myself wanting to live here forever: waking up at 5 to hear adhan, eating goat cheese and cucumbers for breakfast, drinking tea in a carpet shop, petting the stray cats, smoking the nargileh on a terrace overlooking the Sea of Marmara, eating a sesame ring outside the Blue Mosque, drinking raki and eating meze... So don't be surprised if I disappear, because this is where you will probably find me.

Istanbul Part II: The Spice Bazaar

The Spice Bazaar is much smaller than the Grand Bazaar, and the salesmen are a little less aggressive... but only a little. It feels a bit more exotic, for lack of a better word, than the Grand Bazaar, as well. As someone who grew up driving to Safeway if I needed some vanilla extract to bake cookies, the concept of going to a special bazaar to pick up some saffron to make dinner is a bit wild. Of course, you can find more than just spices there. There's also dried fruit, baklava, Turkish delight (in every flavor from rose to pomegranate), sausages, mushrooms, and obviously, even more evil eye ornaments, just in case you didn't buy enough at the Grand Bazaar. There is also quite a range of teas, which are listed by the specific physical ailments they're intended to treat. There's Eczema Tea, Arthritis Tea, and the ever-popular Gynecological Diseases Tea (I made sure to bring back a lot of that one). But perhaps most delightful of all is the much-advertised Turkish Viagra, which, as far as I could tell, was just an "aphrodisiac" treat somewhat akin to baklava. It does, however, guarantee "5 TIMES IN THE NIGHT," so who am I to be skeptical. Alas, I bought nothing more exciting than a bag of dried apricots and a pepper grinder for McKenna. But the apricots were delicious.

Istanbul Part I: The Grand Bazaar

We approach the Grand Bazaar (Kapah Carsi) through the courtyard of the Nuruosmaniye Mosque, in the midst of the Bazaar District. As we walk under the arches, we see men selling spangled fezes and evil eye ornaments on one side, and men seated at the edge of the mosque, washing their arms and feet for prayer on the other side. Since it's Friday, the Muslim holy day, there are more people than usual going in and out of the mosque. Just outside the entrance to the Bazaar is a stand selling pashmina shawls, and topping the immense stacks is a pair of cats. It takes some convincing on my part before the salesman realizes that I'm genuinely not going to buy anything, that I really am stopping just to pet the cats. "If you don't want pashmina, maybe you want cat, yes?" he suggests. "Cat is free, no money for cat! Please take!" (I will find myself to be the recipient of this generous offer many times throughout the week. But alas, the threat of US customs officials and the constraints of my studio apartment prevent me from returning with any free cats.)


Moving into the Bazaar, I'm surprised by how modern it looks. I don't know what I expected; rows of dilapidated tents, perhaps? But in fact, it's an enormous building with gorgeous arches, tiled ceilings, and winding corridors lined with little shop fronts. The complicated space is divided into segments by the different wares, with gold, leather, carpets and textiles, silverware, and other items all clustered together in their own sections. This may seem detrimental to sales - more immediate competition - but it's advantageous to the buyer. You can compare prices and quality, and it makes bargaining far easier. If they don't take your lower offer, the threat of you making your purchase elsewhere is much more imminent when that purchase can be made two feet away, from another eavesdropping salesman already offering you that lower price. In fact, I prove to be at least mildly adept at bargaining. An exchange over a small ceramic owl might go something like this:

Julia: How much?
Salesman: Fifteen (New Turkish Lira).
Julia makes a face as though to quote such a price is utterly blasphemous, and eyes the item in her hand critically, as though suddenly doubtful of its value, and thus its appeal to her.
Julia: Will you take 8?
Salesman: [Looking shocked] 8? That is impossible. No less than 13.
Julia: [Firmly] 10.
Salesman: I tell you, 13. No lower.
At this point Julia sighs and shakes her head, as though she is immensely disappointed in his poor business skills, and sets the item down.
Julia: [Turning to walk away] No thank you, then.
Salesman: [Now chuckling and waving her back] Ok, ok, I give it to you for 10. But only because I like you!

Or some such thing. In the end, bargaining doesn't shave that many dollars off the total amount of money I spend on the trip, but it makes me feel momentarily powerful and business-savvy, so I insist upon attempting it, much to my mother's embarrassment.


After much meandering through the ever-complicated maze of hallways, we hear the midday call to prayer, and the stores begin to close. Men seated in front of their shop finish off their tulip glasses of tea and moves their spreads inside before rushing off to the various mosques in the area. Many of them are actually running. Upon exiting, we find ourselves facing into the back courtyard of the same mosque, where men are gathering (women prayer elsewhere, the two sexes aren't allowed to pray together), kneeling on their prayer rugs. A service is beginning, as we can hear over the loudspeakers of the mosque (they all have loudspeakers to send out the call to prayer). It is surreal to see fifty or so men praying in a courtyard in the midst of largely developed and cosmopolitan city. After staring and gaping for a minute, we begin our trek to the Spice Bazaar in Eminonu, near the ferry buildings.