The 5am start to get out to Heathrow was
mollified by the exceedingly happy memories of our last trip to Turkey and the chance to watch the sunrise over the runway over my bowl of Pret
porridge in shiny terminal 5. And against the odds of a non-reclining chair
(tut, tut BA…) I slept like one of those nodding ducks most of the way there.
Arriving in Istanbul we were shepherded first through the visa line before passport control and eventually bag collection. You need a visa for Turkey – a lovely colourful sticker that makes a welcome addition to my increasingly crowded passport pages – that you need to pay for and how much that is depends on how much the country of your origin has pissed off Turkey. EU and UK are a paltry 15 Euro. Aussies? 45. God only knows what we’ve done now but it made for a slightly disgruntling start.
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| Less than impressed with the Blue Mosque... |
Lovely Boy had found us a great little
hotel near Taksim Square, on the European side, down a narrow street that led
to other narrow streets full of quirky restaurants and ivy-strewn junk shops.
It was a fabulous location and getting there was a total breeze once we’d
hopped off the bus and got our bearings.
Given the early start our first order of
business was a nap. And after a nap, a wander around Beyoğlu and the streets
criss-crossing the famous 19th century boulevard Istiklal Caddesi –
an overwhelming river of pedestrians - before taking up residence on Nevizade
street, a narrow strip of bars and restaurants for a couple of drinks before
dinner.
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| The grill at Zübeyir Ocakbași |
Tor had lent us her equivalent of a Lonely
Planet – a gem of a book called Istanbul
Eats. Exploring the Culinary Backstreets (they have a blog here too) and
this was our other guide throughout the entire trip. Though I think you’d
struggle to find terrible food in Istanbul, we wanted the best. And first night
Istanbul – we wanted some of the best shish we could find.
Zübeyir Ocakbași is down a not-as-busy
street from the heaving Istiklal Caddesi, which meant already we were happy.
Not having a reservation they seated us anyway, upstairs and right next to the
grill, with its ornate copper hood funnelling the heat and smoke upward and
away from us. We had these ridiculously good dips – a killer pumpkin and yogurt
combo and a roasted aubergine that were so good Lovely Boy and I ended up
negotiating a game of tactical marriage diplomacy over who would get to eat the
last bits. And this was before the shish. And the baklava that oozed with
sticky pistachio goodness, welding fingers and lips together in flaky pastry
bliss. It was not an altogether terrible way to end our first night in
Istanbul.
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| Inner courtyard of the Sultanhamet (Blue) Mosque |
Having two full days in Istanbul ahead of
us we decided, like all good sensible tourists, to do the Big Things on the
first day – the Blue Mosque, the Haghia Sofia, the Basilica Cisterns, the Grand
Bazaar and Topkapi Palace. And against all odds, we managed to do all that, and
at a reasonably leisurely pace.
First stop was the Blue Mosque, where a
line of patiently waiting people hug the outer wall of the inner courtyard,
filing in slowly one by one after losing their shoes and occasionally gaining a
square of hospital blue fabric to drape over immodest shoulders or around the
waists of too-short shorts. Inside, most of the mosque is cordoned off for
those who visit to pray and not gawp. One very small corner of the mosque,
behind an ornate wooden fence, is the women’s prayer section. I’m still not
sure how I feel about that to be honest – but some sort of uncomfortable. The
domes of the mosque are quietly breathtaking with their tiled mosaics and there’s
an ornateness but not a pomp grandiosity to it which I found quite surprising –
but that could just be my ignorance about Islamic architecture and Islam
generally.
The Haghia Sofia, facing off against the
Blue Mosque at the other end of the square also required a bit of a wait to get
in. I really wasn’t expecting the boatloads of tourists that were swarming all
over the city – thousands of OAPs and middle class Americans shipped in and
shipped out on enormous cruises that blight the view across the Bosphorus.
It gave
the city a slightly odd Disney feel but then I suppose any major hub of historic
import is going to be heavy on the tourists. And, yes, I know we were also tourists on the Istanbul ride – but we weren’t
wearing numbered turquoise Princess of
the Sea stickers and tuned in to a guide via a portable radio device slung
about our necks. And, yes, I’m a vulgar cultural snob. Deal with it.
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| Haghia Sofia |
I thought the Haghia Sofia was just
beautiful, though I think that’s because it spoke to my love of all things shabby
chic. Despite the major multi-million lira renovations, the building maintains
a worn aesthetic where the layers of history – Christian and Islamic – exist
side by side. There’s so much to appreciate about the architecture and history,
even just on a purely aesthetic level. Which is where I exist most of the time…
From here, we ducked into the Basilica
Cisterns, appreciating the cool darkness as much as the feats of engineering
before heading to lunch. We ended up at a bustling, unpretentious restaurant remarkably devoid
of tourists, where kofta was house speciality. When I asked Lovely Boy his
highlight of the day later that evening, after an excess of cultural and
historical excursions he said, without giving a moment more to think about it –
the meatballs. So take that Blue Mosque.
And from here, it was to the Grand Bazaar.
I had had visions of hours spent here, haggling for all sorts of treasure but
as it was I left empty handed. Basically because I forgot how shit and totally
reluctant I am to negotiate with vendors (those summers manning my stall at
Bondi markets have clearly left an impression…) but also because I just
couldn’t find anything I couldn’t live without. Lots of noise, lots of
same-same-but-different, lots of people – it’s basically a 15th century Westfield selling hookah pipes and knock-off jeans. Actually, we did
buy one thing – a freshly squeezed, tart tasting pomegranate juice in a lurid
shade of pink.
By now it was mid-to-late afternoon and we
decided to chance the crowds at Topkapi Palace. A stroke of tactical genius
that turned out to be – at 4pm there are no crowds at all. It’s still busy but
there’s no waiting for tickets, no waiting to get in, no waiting for the chance
to explore the famous Harem. A lot of
people had said if we saw nothing else at Topkapi that we see the Harem, the
exquisitely tiled warren of rooms that once bore witness to some of the
grimmest experiences of women ever throughout history. Sex with sultans might
sound like a brilliant Mills and Boons-esque read but god was the reality
sobering. Violence, subjugation, death, power struggles – the horror so hard to
imagine as you wander from one beautiful room to another.
What did surprise me about the palace
generally were the scrubby artless gardens. For all the patterns and symmetry
and colour of the tile-work and architecture, the gardens felt ad hoc and ill-conceived,
if conceived at all. I suppose it just played into the many wider, subtler
cultural contradictions about Istanbul that we encountered throughout our stay.
Which again, is not a criticism, just something kind of fascinating that I
still find myself mulling over when reaching for an overarching impression of
the city beyond simply “great”.
By now it was veering towards sunset and
armed with another Tor suggestion, we went in search of a rooftop bar pimping
views of the Blue Mosque and Haghia Sofia. The views were, impeccable - my
decision to order a cocktail instead of a glass of wine? Well,
regrettable. I couldn’t finish it it was
that was awful. I’m not sure when cosmopolitans came with coconut juice (?)
that hung around in the glass like snow in a shakeable dome but really it was
the lingering taste of cough medicine that made it truly unpalatable. If only
someone hadn’t told me years ago about the calories and bloated feeling that
comes with beer, life would be so much easier when it came to ordering drinks
in foreign countries.
Heading back across the Bosphorus to our
hotel, we emerged in Taksim Square to a protest about something we couldn’t
decipher – not being fluent readers or speakers of Turkish – but we took our
cues from the relaxed, slightly ambivalent riot police loitering nearby that it
wasn’t anything to be overly concerned about in a “call the embassy and get me
out of here” kind of way.
Dinner that night was Turkish pide in an
unassuming little café not far from our hotel – another from our culinary
guidebook. The pide at Şimşek Pide was the kind of good that even when you’re
full to bursting and say out loud (as if saying it out loud will actually then
make it happen) that you’re full and you can’t eat another mouthful that well,
you eat another mouthful. Or four.
Friday was about two things: Beyoğlu and
boats - in that order. The morning was spent wandering the back streets of
Istanbul’s antiques district – and by antiques I mean antiques and junk and
vintage and more junk, all chaotically, wonderfully jumbled together along
winding steep cobbled streets, strewn with ivy. It reminded me in some respects
of Berlin – though more shabby and less hipster, though I can easily imagine
that that balance of things will change as more and more tourist dollars arrive
in the city.
In one little shop on a not busy street I
found these exquisite strands of beaded embroidery that in a previous existence
had decorated the hems of shawls. Beyond the tactile and aesthetic pleasure
they bring, it was fascinating to learn that the different styles of embroidery
and beading reflect the different parts of Turkey from which they originated –
Kurdish, Aegean, Istanbul etc. I’m not quite sure what I’m going to do with the
nearly 8m of colourful delicate history I’m now in possession of, beyond drape
them excessively around my neck. But there are bigger problems a girl could
have.
Making our way back towards Istiklal
Caddesi, the pedestrian momentum was like riding the tide – trying to carve
your own path through the masses was exhausting and so ultimately you end up
just ambulance chasing behind someone bigger and faster than you – and quickly,
before the gap closes. Istiklal Caddesi is strewn with gorgeous architecture
made cheap by European chain stores but eventually it spits you out near the
Galata Tower and from there it’s a short walk across the Galata bridge strewn
with fisherman and fishy buckets to the harbourside at Eminönü where all the
boat tours depart from.
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| If you have to fish, fish comfortably... |
A trip up the Bosphorus was another Must Do
from those who’d gone before and so we spent the afternoon cruising up towards
Anadolu Kavaği where we were left for a couple of hours to have lunch before
another leisurely cruise back. I think it’s safe to say that Anadolu Kavaği ,on
the Asian side of Istanbul, relies heavily on tourist traffic for its livelihood
and you’re not even off the boat before you’re accosted by fishmongers wanting
you to eat at their establishment. We relented pretty quickly – path of least
resistance and all that – but were rewarded for our compliance with a table
right on the water.
When it came to lunch it was fish or fish
and having been dragged to the icebox to pick which fish we wanted, it was
nevertheless still startling when it then turned up on the plate – still
looking exactly like the fish we’d nominated to send to the grill. It was all a
bit much for me – I had to cover its little fishy head with some lettuce, it’s
accusatory eyeball way too distracting, never mind the bones and spine. I left
with a renewed appreciation for ready crumbed fish fingers let’s just say that.
Making the most of two hours of gentle
swaying in the breeze, I napped most of the way back and before a dinner of
delicious Iskinder, was spoiled by Lovely Boy with two pairs of earrings I’d
spotted earlier in the day that had loitered in the memory since.
It was a great day - cruisey (bad pun not really intended) and a lot of fun – a
perfect antidote to the stimulating busy day before.
And then it was Saturday. All that was left
on my list was a visit to Istanbul Modern and given the god-sent sunshine we’d
been blessed with since arriving, we decided to walk. More winding streets,
more junk shops to peer in, more strange Istanbullian culinary treats for
Lovely Boy to consume (wet hamburger, anyone?), it was pretty lovely.
I didn’t expect to spend hours at Istanbul
Modern. Despite its international reputation, it’s a modest size and beyond
their permanent exhibition documenting the evolution of Turkish art, which I
quite enjoyed, there wasn’t a whole lot to see.
A small photographic exhibition on portraiture and a couple of remnant
works of past biennials. THIS I liked. The Richard Wentworth installation, False Ceiling is from the 1995 biennial
and was popularly re-instated in 2005. It’s installed outside the library and is
just so very beautiful. Hundreds of Turkish and Western books are suspended
from the roof, like a canopy of literate birds and there was something
inherently comforting about the experience – a literal feeling of being under
the covers.
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| Richard Wentworth, False Ceiling, 1995-2005 |
The work’s title has different connotations, playing on ideas of
learning and education as being not necessarily liberating but I found it a
joyous, inspiring encounter. One that we rewarded with an extended sit on the
café’s balcony enjoying the view and the warmth and a cold diet coke.
And that was that. Lovely Boy wanted to
walk back to the hotel (UP THE HILL). I did not. And so we walked back up the
hill (VERY grumpily). And then it was bags and buses and back to the airport
where our last Turkish lira were spent on boxes of Turkish delight.
I really loved Istanbul. Its easiness
surprised me. Its Venetian seaside feel surprised me. It’s compelling mix of
history and contemporariness surprised - and inspired – me. It’s a dirty,
scruffy, ancient city with a 21st century cosmopolitan feel that I
think aptly reflects its current, largely promising socio-political situation.
I’d love to come back and explore the city during it’s next biennial – to see
how contemporary art is inserted into the ancient cracks and modern existences
of the city (I’m thinking of Doris Salcedo’s work from 2003 here).
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| Doris Salcedo, Istanbul Biennial, 2003 |
I don’t know
if I’ll get the chance to do that but if this early flirtation is any measure
of things, I think Istanbul is somewhere I could grow to really love.
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