Taking a Look

Saturday, August 13, 2011

A Tale of One City (on Two Continents)

Istanbul? It sits on two continents, refusing to commit to either one, guarding the Black Sea from outsiders wishing to pass through from the Aegean. It is a layered city, founded as Byzantium, rechristened Constantinople, and now dubbed Istanbul. History weaves through labyrinthine streets here, a modern bridge arches over storied waters, crumbling city walls intermix with skyscrapers and apartment buildings, and you feel the warm breath of the city. It is alive. It grows and changes and transforms before you, and should you try to understand its complexities, should you try to grasp it in your hands, you will fail. Istanbul will slip through your fingers like water, leaving you thirsty for more.

Our ship docks on a Friday morning; though we were so eager to get there we had to stop in the middle of the ocean so we wouldn’t arrive early. Turkish soldiers with coal black rifles slung over their shoulders issue us landing cards before we leave the port. We are told that these are more valuable than our passports; should we lose them, we will not be allowed on or off the ship. I’m still not sure which is a more chilling possibility. We are warned of potential terrorist strikes in crowded Istanbul streets. A group of radicals is displeased with the number of American tourists disrespecting the Turkish way of life.

And yet, we pass through the gates of the port and are greeted with smiles and friendly nods as we cautiously navigate the unfamiliar streets. Everyone runs for the ATM’s—soon our pockets are lined with Turkish lira and hope. Everyone is in disagreement about where to begin. Our number of things to do and see in Turkey is longer than a shopping list in December.  What are the ingredients to have a successful five days in Istanbul? What is needed to achieve that satisfied taste inside? We start with something spicy: the Grand Bazaar.

The Grand Bazaar sits on a hill in the center of Istanbul’s shopping district. Watch stores, mini-markets, and cell phone carriers line the many streets we criss-cross to find our way to the entrance, for the Bazaar is an indoor market. An enormous stone building that shelters three whole blocks of Istanbul all to its own, and houses more than three thousand shops, the Bazaar is guarded by armed security who wave magnetic batons over our personage to make sure the atmosphere and allure of shopping in the Bazaar is not disrupted by…I don’t know, a madman with a machine gun? An insane woman with a shiv hidden under her dress? Terrorists? None of us are sure. 

This momentary hesitation is all we can afford once we enter the Bazaar. After that, it’s game time. Amiable chaos greets us inside. A veritable sensory overload commences. Banners the color of sunset canopy the rows of shops. Like an optical allusion, the aisles of merchandise stretch beyond the eye’s limit, daring us to see what lies on the other side. Soft rose and lavender silks act as doors into jewelry cubicles. Dark patterned carpets are transformed into the walls between proprieties. Step here, and a crisp cinnamon scent hangs in the air, but take a step or two to our right across the slippery cobblestones and we inhale grilled corn, which sizzles and spits as the Turkish man simultaneously cooks and oversees an exchange with a Norwegian woman. He shouts in Turkish, a loud language filled with sharp shrills and shrieks, but somehow his voice makes a charming melody with the wind chimes that twinkle above the table of beaming Turkish lamps at the store down the row. 

Taking this in, it is awhile before we notice that we have been pushed, prodded, and shoved to a completely new section of the Bazaar. Direction is a fallacy here. The entrance is never the exit. Should you come here, expect to be discombobulated. Perhaps you will stop at a shop to buy a beautiful leather wallet, but five minutes later I guarantee you will somehow find yourself looking at antique rugs and brass candle holders three shops down. The Turkish salesmen glide through the Bazaar like Banshees, wailing and shouting to their friends and competitors as they effortlessly twist in between carpets and hanging fabrics to get your attention. “Come, come see my store. Please, please. I have what you want.” An instant later, you are seated on a stool that has materialized from between a stack of handmade leather journals and a table of jeweled animals. A diamond zoo. You blink, and a cup of apple tea rests in your right hand, while a decorated plate of pastries is balanced in your left. A procession of smiling salesmen show you everything from stone wine glasses to marriage robes. You could try to get up, try to find the original store with the original salesman with the original item you were interested in, but I guarantee: all of them will have somehow vanished into the whirling carpets and hookah smoke. If you are lucky, you may notice that the store in which you are currently held semi-hostage carries wallets, which are on display at the store’s entrance. After your second glass of apple tea, you will timidly ask to see them. The salesman will tell you that his partner, the man in charge of wallets, is saying his prayers at the moment and will return shortly. In the meantime why don’t you look at magnificent Evil Eye jewelry and scented candles? Welcome to the Grand Bazaar.

Speaking of prayers, you are likely to encounter this situation a lot. If you are not a patient person, avoid Istanbul. Often times a waiter or shop clerk will take a few moments to pray during the day (to be precise, five times a day) and should you happen to be a customer at that moment, silence and reverence are your only options for dealing with this situation. Turkey is a nation where 97% of the population practice Islam, thus the country is fairly conservative and even those who do not identify as Muslims expect dignity and respect from visitors. All this really requires is that your knees and shoulders be covered, especially if you are going to visit one of Istanbul’s incredibly stunning mosques. Shorts and tank tops are not only disrespectful, but they give you away as an American, and thus you are prey to scams, con artists, and anti-American sentiments.

What fascinates me about Americans, and what I have come to observe these past seven ports, is that wherever we go, we expect to be treated like kings. As if wherever an American steps, that plot of soil or patch of grass becomes theirs. They own it, and act accordingly. WRONG. If you are a traveler in a foreign country, you are a guest. Act accordingly to those standards. The fact that you have an American birth certificate to your name guarantees you nothing aside from a negative stereotype that all American travelers are loud, rude, obnoxious, and uneducated about the places they are visiting. I wonder where that came from? The American government only has so much power to protect you while you are abroad, and I have found that many Americans give far too much credit to the U.S. Embassy. Either respect the country that you are visiting, or get out. Americans are disliked enough as it is outside our borders.

I apologize for the rant, but some things just have to be said. A number of students on the voyage could be heard complaining about how rude and inconsiderate the Turkish people acted towards them. These same individuals left the ship in booty shorts, a bikini top, t-shirt, hoop earrings, and makeup that rivaled Ronald McDonald’s. In the United States, we call those kinds of people trashy. In Turkey, they call those kinds of people Americans.

I feel bad for these individuals, however, because if they had simply followed the dress code, they could have met some amazing people. In general, the Turkish people were some of the nicest men and women I have ever spoken to in my life. No matter where you wandered in Istanbul someone was greeting you with a smile, a friendly wave, or a cheerful “Hello.” People were more than happy to converse with us, point us in the direction of whatever palace or mosque we were visiting that day, or sit and drink apple tea with us while we talked about where we were from, what we thought of Istanbul, etc. 

And while Istanbul is grand, the rest of Turkey offers a more subtle beauty, should you choose to explore it. I took a trip to the ruins of the ancient city of Troy and the modern memorials at Gallipoli, which sits on the Asiatic side of the country (that’s right, I went to Asia). Troy is worth the hike if you are interested in history, but just knowing that the ruins are there seemed to be enough for most people. I personally enjoy visiting museums, ruins, and ancient sites because of the incredible stories they have to offer, and there seems to be no greater place to listen to a story than at Troy, a city of once mythic proportions. Evidently, Troy began as a miniscule village barely notable for anything, and expanded somewhere around nine times over the course of its existence, which has prompted excavators and archeologists to refer to certain settlements at the ruins as “Troy I,” “Troy II,” “Troy VII,” etc. The infamous Trojan War, which some scholars still debate the legitimacy of, was said to have happened during the time of Troy VI and brought an end to the Bronze Age.  

Now, Troy has been reduced to dust and rubble, with many artifacts and relics stored in a small museum nearby. There is something magical about walking where this Homeric city once stood, however. For being almost completely destroyed hundreds of years ago, a decent portion of Troy has been preserved and historians have deduced what a number of old sites once were in Troy’s glory days. Those stories in themselves are fascinating, but I believe that Troy’s greatest tale is one of perseverance. The city kept rejuvenating and bringing new life to itself, expanding, growing, and adapting to changes throughout the course of its existence, and even now parts of it still stand, refusing to give up. Therein lies a message I believe everyone can appreciate: even when you get knocked down, destroyed, and are on the brink of extermination, you can find a way to build yourself up again, this time bigger, better, and stronger. If you do this, you are bound to leave a lasting legacy.

I imagine my own legacy will be something similar to Gallipoli’s. In early 1915, British forces invaded the Gallipoli peninsula in Turkey in the hopes of gaining access to Constantinople, which they hoped to capture so as to relieve their ally Russia in the east. Turkey, though an ally of Germany during World War I, had been free of conflict since the Crimean War in 1854, but they were forced to set up defensive fortifications to combat the naval and army invasion of the Brits. The resulting standoff ended in tragedy for both sides. The British troops were given incorrect coordinates for their landings, and thus confusion ensued once they reached the beaches of Gallipoli, where they remained trapped as Ottomans rained down gunfire. Over the next eight months, the closeness of the front lines and an epidemic of dysentery resulted in 94,000 deaths between the Allied and Turk sides. In the end, the British forces gave up on the idea of conquering the Ottoman Empire and retreated. A valiant effort by both parties, but with a death count that high, I don’t think anyone could say one side won over the other. War is the only victor in war.

With that story fresh in our minds, our group arrived in Gallipoli and began a tour of the various memorials and cemeteries dedicated to the lives lost in one of the First World War’s bloodiest tragedies. We began at the cemetery where the young British soldiers who sacrificed their lives are buried. A marble slab marks the entrance to this quiet graveyard that rests on a lush green hillside right on the coast between a grove of trees on the side of an indiscriminate Turkish road. Inscribed on the slab are words dedicated to the families of these long lost British boys from the Turkish people. They express their sorrow that the grass of Turkey was stained red with the sons of England, and that from their premature departures there is a hope that man may someday learn to silence the gun and sheath the knife so that future generations of our world will not have to experience the brutality these men endured. The inscription ends saying that Turkey has welcomed these sons of England as their own children, and grieve deeply for their loss. 

I’m not sure if it was reading these heartfelt, genuine words of despair at the loss of people who had once attacked their own shores, or if it was seeing the epitaphs that bereaved mothers and widowed young women wrote for these men, or even the solemn beauty of the midnight blue waves lazily spilling onto the peach colored sands below the dewy grass dotted with rose, lavender, and bright gold under the shade of a gnarled and full pear tree, but something about Gallipoli gripped my heart. Sliding off my flip flops, I treaded lightly down each row, taking in the names and dates on the tombstones. Isn’t it strange that after all we accomplish in our lives, all that we do and see and learn, in the end, we are reduced to a name and, if we are lucky, a date? That’s how the story ends. That’s how all the stories end. With a name.  Private Futter. Sergeant Rawlings. Their stories were ended just when it was getting good. Pondering  this, I couldn’t help think of other young boys whose stories were violently concluded due to a different kind of human viciousness; Billy Lucas. Asher Brown. Tyler Clementi. So many potentially great tales cast aside by ignorance and cruelty. So many lives wasted.

~

I suppose my trip to Gallipoli was the bittersweet ingredient included in my recipe for a delightful Turkish experience. Speaking of delight, candy addicts (or Chronicles of Narnia fans, like myself) will enjoy the abundance of Turkish delight found in Istanbul. There are free samples on every street corner, and thousands of different flavors (fruits, nuts, chocolates) that you can mix and match for the perfect box. Istanbul is full of these little treasures which make the city sparkle. The Turkish baths are a simultaneously frightening and therapeutic experience where every inch of your body (and I’m talking EVERY INCH) is scrubbed down and washed with secret Turkish oils that relieve you of layers of dead skin (you still keep your tan) and apparently make your skin smoother than the day you were born. It’s just a tad awkward when two or three Turkish masseurs are pouring all sorts of oils and water on your naked body for close to an hour. But we all did it. It was one of those “must do’s,” and it really does make you feel alive again.

And of course there are the Sufi Whirling Dervishes, a sect of Muslim mystics who dance themselves into a trance that brings them closer to God. Men and women dress themselves in long, balloon-like rainbow garbs and twirl and lunge between one another, never touching, as they commit mind and body over to a spiritual presence. 

Being a primarily Islamic nation, spirituality is essential to life in Turkey. There are mosques in every Turkish neighborhood, which are the cells of the body of Istanbul. For even individual buildings in Istanbul exhale the dust of this layered history. The grand Hagia Sophia is one of the greatest attractions in the world, with one of the greatest layered stories as well. Designed as a church, converted into a mosque, and currently functioning as a museum, the Hagia Sophia has had quite the identity crisis. But that is what life is all about: questioning one’s identity, seeking out what one’s place in the world is, and finding out what one is best suited to do. Perhaps the Hagia Sophia took all these years to figure out what it was best suited for; what it was meant to do. And if the great Hagia Sophia can change its mind on what it wants to be, why can’t the rest of us? 

It was the Hagia Sophia that most sparked my mind into thinking about Istanbul as a living and changing city. Walking around the great former mosque I was very aware that I was looking at a presentation. A beautiful presentation, of a beautiful architectural feat, but nonetheless a presentation. I found it hard to discern what was original and what was reinforced construction. I kept thinking that if only I could have seen the Hagia Sophia in its “glory days,” the days when it actually functioned as a mosque, I should have had a much different experience. I imagine I would have found myself appreciating culture and the Islamic tradition more than appreciating beauty and the effects of good preservation. Gazing up at the intricate ceilings and working my way around the crowds of people, I found myself thinking of a favorite Thorow phrase of mine: “And what is left when spirits have fled from holy places?” Eventually, I realized that I was thinking of the Hagia Sophia in all the wrong terms. I was thinking of it simply as a museum, but the Hagia Sophia will never be just a museum. It has a history. It has a story. It has layers. Layers that were unfolding before my very eyes. Perhaps the holy spirits have left the Hagia Sophia, but they have left behind a rich history and an enchanting story that has the power to inspire just as much as any spirit can.

After leaving the Hagia Sophia, as I wandered the streets of Istanbul, becoming a thread lost in the labyrinth, I realized that Istanbul and I are one and the same. Like the great city of Istanbul, which refuses to be defined in singular terms, I too cannot be defined by one aspect, by one part of me. We both have layers and complexities that are deep and rewarding. I do not have to accept becoming defined by one part of my personality, by one aspect of my life; such a notion is as ridiculous as asking Istanbul to only emphasize one part of its culture, one part of its history. Such a task is not only ridiculous, it is impossible. Istanbul is too vast, too intricate, to ever accept only one part of its layers as true. I refuse to do the same. 

I have wondered why no other city on our journey this summer has inspired this revelation for me, for we have certainly visited a number of grand layered cities, from Rome to Dubrovnik to Athens. Perhaps it was that, for the first time, when we left Istanbul, I felt as though the mystery of the city still remained. That, despite keeping a tight schedule and exhausting myself thoroughly, I had seen only a fraction of the things I could see in Istanbul. I had only skimmed the surface, of that I was sure, and I knew I would experience difficulty when I attempted to write this blog and inform those of you reading at home about the magic of Istanbul, because I only knew part of it. It was like leaving the grocery store and knowing I’ve forgotten an essential ingredient, but I was unable to quite put my finger on what that missing piece was. I had only seen tiny parts of the great Istanbul. Likewise, there are people who only see select parts of others in the world. They only view one of layer of a person, when there are hundreds more to uncover.

If I am sure of anything, it is that I will someday return to Istanbul to continue searching for and experiencing all of its clandestine parts. For, in exploring Istanbul, I was exploring myself.  Istanbul and I are one. We have stories. We are growing and transforming and adding layers and telling our story as they happen. We are complex and intricate and unable to be defined by one aspect of our makeup. We are alive.




“Traveling can be one of the most rewarding forms of introspection”—Lawrence Durrell


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