nobody's business but the Turks'
25.6.07
At the airport in Venice a flight to Russia is canceled and a riot almost breaks out. A mob forms and begins acting something like a horde of crazed gorillas, except instead of poo, they fling expletives. The jungles of Moscow must be hard. A large male in pointy loafers (obviously the silverback) thrusts a Fauxlex watch in the face of an apathetic security guard. Fake Gucci sunglasses are thrown, as is the gauntlet. A siren goes off.
I abandon my Jane Goodall fantasies and board my plane.
After a bit of sweet nostalgia during a stopover in Prague, I touch down in Istanbul at 3:42am and am somehow shocked by the realization that I know nothing. What was I thinking? I take an expensive 'taksi' to my hostel (the public bus looked rough and the driver, inebriated - peace of mind is a costly thing) and attempt to get some sort of bearings en route. I search for anything familiar and find only 1) the smell of fish water and, 2) Sean Paul on the radio. Neither does much to alleviate my mounting anxiety. I catch a glimpse of the Aya Sofya across the Bosphorus, lights blazing in the night sky, and get a bit giddy. Now I find myself vacillating between feeling like a giddy, overstimulated child and feeling like a, well, child. Either way, I'm pretty much helpless.
I'm so scared of everything that I don't know which, here, is everything - more scared than ever before (maybe? It feels that way in the back of this taksi, hurtling through the dark toward I-don't-know-what). But, also, I'm more excited.
We find the hostel in an alley, recognizable immediately by the cluster of burnt-out hippies sitting on the stoop. The whole building is garish and smells altogether unkempt. My room is seven flights of stairs up, no elevator. I'm so glad to be young and foolish enough to think this is all too funny.
Nerves, the heat of my top-floor closet-cum-room, and the unsettlingly frequent noise of shrieking cats drifting up from the street combine to ensure that I don't sleep. I spend hours staring at the curtains, which are actually a pair of sheer pants.
The curtains are actually a pair of sheer pants.
26.6.07
Awake at eight, anxiety convinces me to stay in bed until ten, when the mounting heat index finally pushes me out the door. Today, I will find out later, is the hottest day in the recorded history of Istanbul. I charge out into the street with no idea what to do, where to go. I loose myself in the winding streets that carry me down to the waterfront. Language fails me. Signs and conversations around me are pure noise. Neon lights flicker on and off, dust rises behind carts piled high with old clothes or trash or fruits, dogs lie panting in the shallow gutters that line the streets. Old men sit on squat little stools, drinking hot tea from tulip-shaped glasses and playing backgammon. Black-veiled women float through the stone streets like solid shadows, appearing suddenly in the doorways of posh boutiques and vanishing somewhere among the minarets in the distance. Their brows are sweaty.
Everything feels parched, a dry cough.
Lokum - Turkish Delights - glow from glass cases, thick jellies packed tight in powdered sugar. I buy a couple of handfuls and carry then down, down to the Bosphorus. Pistachio, cherry, pomegranate, something white with nuts (I think...), orange, something else, pistachio again. Gummy and warm. I save the last one to eat before bed. As I fall onto my cot it melts away and I am altogether satisfied with this first day and hungry for more just like it.
Istanbul, City of the World's Desire
At the airport in Venice a flight to Russia is canceled and a riot almost breaks out. A mob forms and begins acting something like a horde of crazed gorillas, except instead of poo, they fling expletives. The jungles of Moscow must be hard. A large male in pointy loafers (obviously the silverback) thrusts a Fauxlex watch in the face of an apathetic security guard. Fake Gucci sunglasses are thrown, as is the gauntlet. A siren goes off.
I abandon my Jane Goodall fantasies and board my plane.
After a bit of sweet nostalgia during a stopover in Prague, I touch down in Istanbul at 3:42am and am somehow shocked by the realization that I know nothing. What was I thinking? I take an expensive 'taksi' to my hostel (the public bus looked rough and the driver, inebriated - peace of mind is a costly thing) and attempt to get some sort of bearings en route. I search for anything familiar and find only 1) the smell of fish water and, 2) Sean Paul on the radio. Neither does much to alleviate my mounting anxiety. I catch a glimpse of the Aya Sofya across the Bosphorus, lights blazing in the night sky, and get a bit giddy. Now I find myself vacillating between feeling like a giddy, overstimulated child and feeling like a, well, child. Either way, I'm pretty much helpless.
I'm so scared of everything that I don't know which, here, is everything - more scared than ever before (maybe? It feels that way in the back of this taksi, hurtling through the dark toward I-don't-know-what). But, also, I'm more excited.
We find the hostel in an alley, recognizable immediately by the cluster of burnt-out hippies sitting on the stoop. The whole building is garish and smells altogether unkempt. My room is seven flights of stairs up, no elevator. I'm so glad to be young and foolish enough to think this is all too funny.
Nerves, the heat of my top-floor closet-cum-room, and the unsettlingly frequent noise of shrieking cats drifting up from the street combine to ensure that I don't sleep. I spend hours staring at the curtains, which are actually a pair of sheer pants.
The curtains are actually a pair of sheer pants.
26.6.07
Awake at eight, anxiety convinces me to stay in bed until ten, when the mounting heat index finally pushes me out the door. Today, I will find out later, is the hottest day in the recorded history of Istanbul. I charge out into the street with no idea what to do, where to go. I loose myself in the winding streets that carry me down to the waterfront. Language fails me. Signs and conversations around me are pure noise. Neon lights flicker on and off, dust rises behind carts piled high with old clothes or trash or fruits, dogs lie panting in the shallow gutters that line the streets. Old men sit on squat little stools, drinking hot tea from tulip-shaped glasses and playing backgammon. Black-veiled women float through the stone streets like solid shadows, appearing suddenly in the doorways of posh boutiques and vanishing somewhere among the minarets in the distance. Their brows are sweaty.
Everything feels parched, a dry cough.
Lokum - Turkish Delights - glow from glass cases, thick jellies packed tight in powdered sugar. I buy a couple of handfuls and carry then down, down to the Bosphorus. Pistachio, cherry, pomegranate, something white with nuts (I think...), orange, something else, pistachio again. Gummy and warm. I save the last one to eat before bed. As I fall onto my cot it melts away and I am altogether satisfied with this first day and hungry for more just like it.
Istanbul, City of the World's Desire
I've heard that the Turkish people are fine craftsmen. A friend of mine brought back some dishes and clothing from Turkey and I was really impressed with it's beauty and quality. I'm sure everyone around the world would "desire" some of their products if they saw them for themselves.
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The whole building is garish and smells altogether unkempt. My room is seven flights of stairs up, no elevator.
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