That Time We Went to Istanbul

So as I was saying, like, a month ago, Alex and I went to Istanbul for the first time.  And I'm going to blog about it. 

The old part of the city, from across the Bosphorus

We arrived under dark wet skies, and at the wrong airport. Not just wrong in the sense that it was not Atatürk, where for some reason I thought we would land, but wrong in the sense that it was a million miles from our hotel in Kariköy. 

We found a well-appointed bus that took us down a crowded highway, stopping at neon-lit shopping centres along the way to let people out. There was a Burger King within sight of each bus stop, and also our little public transportation map from the airport was sponsored by Burger King and had a little logo to show every Burger King in town. Istanbul, brought to you by Burger King. 

We squinted through the raindrops on the window and tried to imagine how the hills and houses to the left and right would look in the summer, radiating heat. It was pretty hard to tell. 

Us. 

At the port in Kadiköy we picked our way through people and rain, and finally boarded a giant ferry. The main cabin was lit up like...well, like a Burger King, with comfortable but strictly functional seats that were not filled. Three young buskers started singing. A middle aged man sitting across from us fiddled with prayer beads and mumbled under his breath with his eyes closed. The ferry generated its own field of noise and light, and we rumbled placidly across the black water and black sky. We kept passing giant, grand mosques and I thought every single one was the Hagia Sophia. It felt like we were crossing the Styx in a jumbo jet. Alex and I were quiet and perfectly content, the way you are on the first day of a vacation in a brand new place, even if the sky is falling and your feet are wet. 

Fishing off the bridge is apparently an all-weather activity.

Our hotel was called The Vault, and it was beautiful. The whole building used to be a bank but had a recent and pretty lux restyling. We admired the view from our balcony and drank half a bottle of wine before heading off again. That night we ate fish in a nearby restaurant on the top of some other hotel on the waterfront, and looked out across a bustling bridge to the old part of the city. The mosques and buildings were lit so that the whole hillside looked like the altar of a church. We drank beer and we did not have to change any diapers or watch Elmo cartoons or fumble with a stroller. It was good. 

Trying not to shop.

In the morning, tourism happened. We went to the Spice Bazaar and the Grand Bazaar and overpaid for everything and wondered how so many people could make a living from selling little towers of roasted chestnuts. The bazaar, and basically a whole swathe of the old city is nothing but market, was filled with people. Deep-set shops with narrow storefronts were shoulder to shoulder up the entire hill, and the front of each store was hung with products from the ceiling to the floor. There were whole sections that sold nothing but underpants, or bedsheets, or knick-knacks. If a person is in need of, say, a headscarf, how the heck do they decide where to start looking? It was totally overwhelming. 

Over the next couple days, we visited the usual list of suspects. We went to the Hagia

Ayasofya, under construction.

Sophia and the Blue Mosque. At the Hagia Sophia we took a private tour, mostly because it meant we could cut the giant line. Our tour guide was a gregarious middle-aged man in a hat and sunglasses, and for the first fifteen minutes I despaired of ever making it into the building. He preferred to stand outside this grand old shamble and point in compass directions to give us a rundown of Istanbul/Turkish/Ottoman/Roman history, but in a sort of stream-of-consciousness fashion that led me to initially believe we had been swindled, not by a common crook but by a lunatic who actually thought he was a tour guide. 

More Hagia Sophia

"Over that way, some few hundred meters," he said, gesticulating toward a wall, "was where the emperors used to live and there were aquaducts that brought them water from here, where there are some hills" he said, pointing, "but have you heard of the University? You really must go, it is fascinating. It is over there. An amazing place, architecturally and historically! But anyway, just this way are the cisterns that collected the water from the aquaducts I just mentioned and the cisterns were built by the man who lived, like I said, over here but of course when Atatürk came to power over there, and he entered from this direction..." I was quite relieved when the call to prayer drowned him out for a few minutes. 

"Sorry," I said. "Does this tour actually take us inside the building? I'm quite keen to see it. It's just that you said the tour was thirty minutes long, and it's already been about twenty." 

My favorite.

"What? Of course we go inside," he said, a bit offended. "I'm just trying to provide information for background. We can go in."  

And then we passed through the enormous door into the interior. "This door," he said. "Touch it! Rub it! It is made of Noah's ark." And so we did. The tour actually turned out to be pretty wonderful--and lasted well over an hour. We had a rundown on the history of the building, and its partial restoration. He thoroughly covered the mythology surrounding various corners and pillars of the building, while still managing to transmit his very specific and occasionally alarming political views. 

("The Kurds will not have one. single. stone from our Ararat! Do you know about our beautiful mountain Ararat?" 

"Oh yes, isn't that where the Armenians--" 

"--Not one rock! We will die first!") 

At the end he gave us blessings, candy and his incredibly ornate if somewhat scrappy business card, which I politely inspected. 

"Wait, you speak Japanese?" I said. 

Hagia Sophia: the shitty bit. Seriously.
It was like they let the 11 year-old
apprentice do this wall.

He shrugged. "Yeah." 

As you'll know if you've been, the Hagia Sophia or Ayasofya was originally a Greek Orthodox church that became Roman Catholic and then again Orthodox, before becoming a mosque in the 15th century. Its mosque-ification involved painting over every single interior surface, because these had previously been (fairly glorious) mosaics of Christian figures and symbols. Of course, Islam forbade the representation of such things, not least the enormous and mystical looking representations of angels in the form of wheeling wings and eyes. Thus all of these majestic mosaics were painted over with okay-but-not-that-great patterns. Some of which have since been removed to show what was underneath. Overall, kind of meh, really. It is huge, enormous, and it kind of looks like the belly of an immense golden dragon, but one which is long dead and totally cold. It would look better if they'd restore all the mosaics (that would be something), or maybe just cover them up again--at the moment the place just looks like it has a skin disease. Which just goes to show that trying to make a banana into an apple is never going to be as awesome as just making an apple.  

Sultan Ahmet Mosque. So much wonderful.

The awesome apple, in this case, being the Sultan Ahmed Mosque (or Blue Mosque). Which was designed to be a mosque, is decorated as a mosque, and unlike the Ayasofya, which is a museum, actually continues to be a place of worship. Now THAT building knocked my damn socks off. Actually I had my socks on. We had our shoes off, though, like everyone else.  That building was astonishing from top to bottom, every tile and pattern perfect. A chandelier the size of my apartment hung in the centre. The whole space, which felt like an immense slice of sky captured in a jewelled box for the glory of God, resonated with the recitation of the Koran from the front of the building. It was moving and beautiful, tourist hordes notwithstanding. 

Amazing.

Alex and I also did some shopping. Actually, we did very little shopping and quite a lot of avoiding shopping, which was quite a feat. 

The shopkeepers in Istanbul's tourist area have really hit that date-rapey sweet spot between flattery, begging and outright bullying. For them, "no" just means "not yet". 

But at least many of them were funny. 

On one market street, a guy stepped out from his stall to block our path. "Spend your money," he demanded, without smiling. He pointed inside. "It is almost free! Just check."

One kid selling boat tours ran up to us on the street. "Hello hello! Romantic boat tour! Just like the Titanic!," he said, brandishing a flyer. "But without sinking." 

"Sie sprechen Deutsch? Ich auch! Ich bin in Stuttgart aufgewachsen! Ich sag es Ihnen, unser Lokum ist von der höchsten Qualität. Ohne Scheiss. Es ist tipp-topp."

The man who did end up with our money was a carpet salesman. We spent two seconds in his window and, without really knowing what happened, were sitting on cushions being given a broad rundown of carpet-making styles, techniques and regions in Turkey.

The cistern.

"Hey, can I get you some tea?" asked the young man, who spoke truly excellent English. "I'll get you some tea." He gestured to someone to bring us tea. 

"Well, now we are screwed, Alex," I said, jokingly. "This guy has trapped us good."

"No, no. Not trapped," said the young man, smiling as he calmly unfolded a rug on the floor. "We call it "Magic of the Grand Bazaar". Now. Do you like these colors, or something brighter? " 

On our last full day we took a boat tour of the Bosphorus. Because we did zero prior research and slept late, we missed the public ferry and had to select from among a number of dodgy private tours. The one we went with was probably no worse than any other. 

It really was "wonderful".

What was bad was that the heavens opened and unleashed all their fury on us the minute we left the pier, forcing us and our 15-ish fellow passengers to scurry under the deck. The boat pitched left and pitched right. Within three minutes there were a few people who looked like they were going to hurl. The windows fogged up so badly that we couldn't see out. The most motivated among us spent the whole time wiping them down with our sleeves, just so we could more clearly see the wall of fog and water hammering the sea. I compared the view (of nothing) to my brochure, which indicated that we were passing diverse sites of historical and architectural interest. We couldn't stop laughing offensively. 

The good news is, it stopped raining after half an hour. The skies cleared, birds soared. We climbed out onto the deck and felt pretty lucky to be looking at anything at all. 

And I'm going to go ahead and declare The End, because this was so long I've probably lost most everyone by now anyway. 

xxx

The boat after the rain.

Happy Everything: Part 1

Happy new year and a belated Merry Christmas, one and all! It has been a beautiful holiday season over here in Gumpen Village Street. My parents are here and so we are drowning pleasantly in Christmas cheer, and the Noodle has been spoiled rotten with a constant stream of toys, cookies and company. I am just super fat and on day five of a slow-motion post-holiday sugar crash that has left me slightly cranky and tired. Not in a bad way. Just kind of a flabby way. 

The magic of Christmas *drool*

Noodle didn't really get what Christmas is about, but she has definitely been enjoying the side benefits: sugar, toys and the presence of her smitten grandparents, whom she calls Nana and Gdod, or rather ..., since the "Gr" in "Granddad" appears to present a challenge so insurmountable that she doesn't even try. 

Decorated by Alex. In his defense, he's Jewish.

But while she doesn't understand what we were celebrating, she definitely did understand that it was awesome. Here are some of the highlights. 

First off, the Christmas tree. This is the first time Alex and I have gotten a real live dead tree for Christmas, since usually we aren't in Vienna at this time of the year.  We set it up one night after Nava had gone to sleep, and decorated with our brand new string of lights and ornaments purchased in a large box set. We forgot to get a tree topper, so Alex McGyver'd a Kenyan mask onto the top and fed lights through the eyeholes. This is how we celebrate multiculturalism. 

Miss Noodle doesn't know the difference, and was much enthused. 

"Mommy!" she said. "Wow!" And she ran over to the tree and started touching the ornaments, muttering "cookie" and "shaka," which is her way of saying "chocolate". At first I thought she thought the ornaments were made of candy, but I've sinced realized that "cookie" is simply the highest form of compliment she knows how to give. As in, damn this tree is cookie. It is SO chocolate. (This morning, for example, she found a yellow highlighter and pulled the lid off, exposing its fluorescent felt tip. Her eyes widened. You could see her wee brain awash with inspired ideas about surfaces that would benefit from the application of this glorious lazer-and-lightning-bolts hue, starting with Mommy's face. What did she say? "Coooookie.") 

Noodle's special ornament.

Nana and Gdod arrived here on the 20th, and Christmas exploded. We hung candy canes and had wonderful people over for Glühwein. We baked and ate stupid numbers of cookies. We ate several individuals from the avian world, naturally accompanied by red cabbage and dumplings. 

Dinner with Alex's sister, her family and his brother and their family was both delicious and educational, as it was the first time I ever witnessed the Austrian Christmas tradition, a la the Nutcracker: the grownups dismiss all the kids, arrange presents, light real live flaming candles and sparklers and then ring a bell to signify that little baby Jesus has visited. Everyone comes in and gawks at the spectacular sight. And I guess all the grown ups are just hoping that nothing catches fire, because that tree would go up like a roman candle. The noodle was given even more glorious gifts, plus also her awesome teenage cousin let her eat a bunch of said cousin's candy cane and also cookies (obviously). The rest of us drank mulled wine and contemplated the quantities of bird in our bellies. 

While spending time with family and friends is great, we all know that Christmas is really about getting heaps of loot. Noodle got many beautiful, occasionally educational but mostly noisy and shiny gifts. She has been playing with all of them--so thank you!--and is so overwhelmed by the amount of new stuff in our home that she doesn't even know what to do. 

The gift that keeps on giving. In non-girly colours, which makes it okay, right?

But of all the gifts, the one that has occupied most of her waking hours has been the toy kitchen.  This girl loves to pretend to cook and serve tea. I realize that this is the most gendered gift imaginable, but in our defence she effing LOVES TOY KITCHENS. She is drawn to them like a paper clip to a refrigerator magnet, like a pig to poop. She wallows in this kitchen.  

Another cheery force feeding.

It's been several days since Christmas, so Noodle has had time to develop a whole process for the kitchen, which sits beside her also-brand-new tiny chairs and desk. 

A visit to her restaurant begins with a command to sit. She points at her tiny chairs and says, "Sit." Her face is deadly serious. If you walk away, she will grow louder. "Sit sit sit SIT SIT SIT. Sit sit." If you do not sit because you have other things to do, like go to the bathroom or check your emails, or converse with another adult, you will be dead to her for at least a quarter of an hour. But the chef is forgiving. You will eventually be welcomed back into the fold with an order to SIT. 

Once you DO sit, you are treated to a warm and welcoming smile. Maybe even a mouth kiss or a pat on the hand. Then you are handed a cup and are spoon-fed delicious air from a tiny pot. Then you get a piece of toy pie or toast. Perhaps a second course of egg or carrot. These must be consumed rapidly and with gusto, because you may soon be encouraged to relinquish your tiny chair and sit on the floor so that Winnie the Pooh and other stuffed friends can have a seat at the table Chez Noodle. 

After the food courses, you will participate in an elaborate and confusing ceremony that involves pouring "tea" from one vessel to another while making the sound "Ssssss". In between you take sips and/or tip some into the mouths of other guests at the table, especially the furry and inanimate. 

If you leave too soon you will be told to sit. Sit. SIT. You can try to do your own cooking and feed the Noodle your concoctions, but as in real life she only accepts toast and pie. The plastic carrot and plush mushroom stew you slaved over for two minutes can go f*** itself. "Nein," she says, shrilly. "This nein!" Overall, at Noodle's Place the portions are small but aggressively presented, and the service is rigorous. The owner is pushy but generous, and non-threatening because very small. 

My parents have been dining at the wee tyrant's palace of culinary delights all day, every day since Christmas, bless them. Alex and I, though, did the smart things and begged off to fly to Istanbul for four nights, which I'll tell you all about next time. 

For now, please enjoy this video of Sesame Street's beloved Cookie Monster, who has been the patron saint of our 2014 holiday season.