Istanbul – June 2004

The Arrival:
The previous day I had wished for a hot shower and a glass of cold juice. I had gotten both. On Thursday I wished for a truck to stop and to take us and the bikes to Istanbul. Stephane told me I was dreaming. “Okay, then,” I said, “let me have my dreams.” But in the back of my mind, I kept secretly hoping that it would come true. After all, we had gotten lucky so far. When we were hungry, we were given food; when we were thirsty, we were given something to drink; when we were tired, we were offered a place to sleep. The grocer at the market stuffed extra food into our bag. The Turks were a hospitable people. Why shouldn’t a truck be there when we needed one? My legs were feeling like jelly, and the remaining 110 km. to Istanbul seemed like the other end of the world. The wind and traffic were demoralizing.

Then…just as we were celebrating the 5000 km. mark on our odometer…a car pulled up beside us. “Istanbul?” its driver asked. “Evet!” (yes!) we responded. “Hop in,” the old man said in Turkish. I didn’t need a second invitation. We piled the bags into the back of the car and tied the bikes to the top. We climbed into the back seat of his fancy Mercedes, out of the hot sun and into the cool car, and settled into the comfy cushions, very aware of the contrast with the hard bike seats.

The two-hour ride was enjoyable. The man pointed out all of the cities and the interesting sights. We passed towns along the Sea of Marmara, old houses in close proximity, new neighborhoods under construction, and large mosques with their minarets pointing towards the sky. At noon, our driver turned on a tape cassette of the noontime prayer. We listened to the chanting voice. The traffic became intense as we neared the city. I noticed that there was no shoulder on the road here. Biking would not have been fun. With each steep hill that we passed and with every honking horn, I turned to Stephane and said, “You see what we would have had to do?” He just laughed at me. I was so happy.

Our driver asked us our destination, and took us to the right neighborhood, practically to the doorsteps of the hostel. “You see how lucky we were,” I said to Stephane. “I ask for a shower, and I get one, I ask for juice and I get some, I ask for a ride to Istanbul and it comes.” He said it must be because of the four-leaf clover that he had found and taped to my bike the day before!

The City:
Our arrival in the city was exciting. I had dreamt of coming to Istanbul for almost 20 years, every since I had read “Murder on the Orient Express” by Agatha Christie as a child. This was one of the cities I had most been looking forward to.

As we were riding into the city, we noticed the heavy traffic, the trucks and the passenger buses. The dense living quarters, houses and apartment buildings in close proximity. The enormous billboards advertising brand-name clothing. The Sea of Marmara on our right-hand side, and the Straits of Bosphorus. The lone woman wearing a black chador, crossing an overhead pedestrian bridge. Other women wearing headscarves. The mosques with their domed roofs and tall minarets on every hillside and in every neighborhood. And the crowds of people. There are 14 million people in Istanbul – 75% more than in New York City! The sheer size is impressive, and a little bit overwhelming at first.

Istanbul is a colorful city, both in terms of the things and the people who populate it. Men sell fruit and vegetables in wooden pushcarts along the residential and commercial streets. Red cherries, ripe bananas and melons, fresh strawberries, mouth-watering peaches. They push carts filled with nuts of every variety. Yellow corn is grilled on the street and served in its husk. Cafes and street vendors have piles of oranges and grapefruits, which they squeeze into a refreshing, pulpy juice. Men in gold-embroidered red vests dip ice cream from metal spoons one-meter long (the Turks love ice cream – they even have their equivalent of the McDrive – it’s the McSundae window!). Gyro shops are in every corner of the city, the beef or chicken meat revolving on a metal spit, greased in its own fat, and waiting to be carved off and served with bread or pita, cucumbers, tomato, and lettuce.

All along the streets were little kiosks and wooden carts with a bread called “summit,” a round, seeded bread a little like an unsalted pretzel. And the Turkish love their sweets. There are many baklava shops catering to those with a sweet tooth. Also, shops selling only nuts and candies: chewy, honeyed candies, heavily syropped; almonds covered in a chewy, caramel wrapping; Turkish delights (a sort of marshmallow with green or pink fillings).

Istanbul is a city on the water – the Sea of Marmara, the Bosphorus Straits, the Golden Horn. The Black Sea is not far. It is a port city. Consequently, fish is plentiful. As are mussels. One of my favorite things to do in Istanbul is to wander along the port where the Golden Horn and the Bosphorus Straits meet, watching the long lines of fishermen cast their rods amid the large ships and eat grilled fish sandwiches, which are served on a roll with onions and lemon juice. The freshly-caught fish is grilled on small boats which bob up and down frightfully on the large waves, and eaten either standing up or on knee-high plastic tables. The mussels sold on the bridges and by the port were also fabulous. They are cooked and stuffed with rice, then closed up again until you buy one, whereupon it is opened up and covered generously in lemon juice. You could buy them for 10 cents a piece, if you negotiated!

The streets are busy. Men get their shoes shined on the street at all hours of the day or night. Many shops are open late into the night, especially the carpet shops, which are sometimes open past midnight. The sound of rolling dice is common, as men sit in front of backgammon games, on the sidewalks, in outside cafes, in game rooms. There are many small barbershops, open late into the night, where men get lathered up and shaved. There are tramways and a lot of buses and taxis; there are no cyclists and there are millions of pedestrians. Most of the people in the street are men. Only the men work in the stores (although some women do study and have careers, as well). The women work at home or work in hotels or family-run guesthouses. When you do see women in the street, it is rare to see them alone. They are either accompanied by their boyfriends or husbands or in larger groups of women.

Despite its rich history which goes back several thousand years, Istanbul is at once a very modern city, as well as one steeped in tradition. Although it is no longer the capital of Turkey, it has remained the hub of the country – its largest port and its economic and cultural center. It is a lively city, and a noisy city. There is the cry of the street vendor, the horns of ships in the port, the cry of seagulls, the musical jingle of the vendor who sells gas for the home. There is the Arabic chant calling the faithful to prayer that rings through the air five times a day. It is the music against the background noise of the busy city.

Sultanhamet:
We stayed in the Sultanhamet section of the city, near the Blue Mosque and the Hagia Sofia Cathedral – turned mosque – turned museum. It is where all of the hostels are located. It was unfortunately also the most touristy area of the city. We, as tourists, were bombarded on all sides by men speaking English: “Hello…Australia?” (Apparently all blond tourists here are thought to come from Australia). “Where are you from?” “Lady, you want…?” “Ah, tu es francais? Ooh la la!” “Come here!” “See you later, alligator!” “Yummy, yummy, good for tummy!” “Hello! Hello! Hello!”

It was a constant noise. Constant insistence – and persistence – to get you to come to their restaurant, to buy their products, to look at their rugs. It was the carpet sellers who were especially tenacious. It seems as if every other person in Sultanhamet sells carpets. We already had a pocketful of business cards at the end of the first afternoon. They try all kinds of tactics to get you to enter their shop. You can get many a cup of Turkish tea out of it, if you wished, as it is the Turkish custom to bargain over endless cups of tea. “My friends, what happened? You said you’d be back in an hour, and I was waiting for you. Come in for some tea, and I’ll show you my carpets.” “No, no,” you insist, “that wasn’t me. I’m not interested in buying a carpet.” “Well, even if it wasn’t you, come in anyway.” Or, “What color would match your house?” “We don’t have a house, we live in a tent.” A tent? It wasn’t the standard response, and that stopped some of them for a minute – but never for very long. From what we’ve heard, the Turks in Istanbul love Americans because they are “the only people on Earth who don’t negotiate.” Bargaining is a way of life here.

Jewellery is a big item as well. Especially turquoise (from Turkey or Egypt) and amber (from Russia). And omnipresent – on jewellery, as well as other objects – was the blue “evil eye,” which is supposed to protect you from evil and misfortune. Ceramic pottery and dishes are also popular. Some sellers try to pressure you: “Be a good husband and buy your pretty wife a nice present.” Stephane was thinking that maybe he should tell them that he would be beaten by his pretty wife if he put a hole in the wallet with an expensive gift!

Outside of Sultanhamet:
Once we got out of Sultanhamet there were fewer tourists, and consequently, less carpet sellers and the like. You were left on your own to more or less blend into the crowd. And the Turkish people really are very friendly. On the more residential streets not visited by tourists, it is not uncommon to be offered tea, fruit, or nuts as you walk by. The Turks like to talk. And they like to talk to foreigners. It’s a nice way to pass the time. As one young man explained to us as he shared his soda with us in a park, he was halfway-through his 15 months of mandatory army service, and feeling a little bit lonely because his family and friends were far away in his small village. He, like many others, just genuinely wanted to talk. He had even brought several plastic cups along, seemingly in case he would find someone to share with. Talking over a cup of tea or soda, even with strangers, seems to be the Turkish way of doing things.