Saturday, March 5 - Istanbul
And so begins our second full day in Turkey. Granted, we no longer refer to it as Turkeyturkeyturkey--some of the giddiness has died down--but every minute I spend outside, I still think Wow it’s so beautiful here. I’ve never enjoyed 40-degree weather so much. They have sun. And grass.
Most of yesterday was spent on a guided tour, including Hora, the Blue Mosque, and Ayasofya. We ate like kings for lunch, prepared in a kitchen behind a travel agency, and spent most of the afternoon in the various bazaars. Toma and I had dinner, once again, at the restaurant across the street where our good friend Kadir works. Kadir’s buddy Ali Baba (real name: Ahmad) was the third person in one day to ask if I was Turkish. That makes me feel good, for whatever reason, and made me think about how relatively well I’d get along in Israel, compared to Prague or Vienna, or here. I spoke to an American next door yesterday, Danya, about the birthright trip, and I think it’d be a great experience. Great, and free. And I’m not so sure I’ll have a paying job this summer.
Breakfast is a particular treat. In the mornings we climb up the narrow spiral staircase, the spine of the hostel, to the terrace on the roof. There is an open deck next to a glass-walled room where we eat. Half the view is rooftops, the other half the golden Bosporus. It must be to the east; I have to squint and shield my brow to make it through the glare from the low morning sun. The staff here is immeasurably nice, not in a polite way, but in an open, joyous way. They brought us a fruit bowl and a bottle opener while we drank in the room last night, have offered to lend us money out of their pockets, and their “Good mornings” are loud.
At breakfast, and in most every Turkish establishment, we hear Turkish pop music. This is a unique listening experience; first, it’s not until halfway through the song that you’re aware that it’s playing. By then, its repetition has sunk itself into your brain, your toes. You start to notice the details: a Middle Eastern beat with unintelligible vocals and bubbly synthesized pop noises. You know there are some slight changes in the song form, but you can’t hear them. The repetition then starts to agitate you, and just as it’s about to peak, the song is over and another one starts, not different but different enough to fend off irritation. And then you ignore the first half of the song as you busy yourself with something in real life.
So I’ve been putting my camera to some good use. I got it just before coming to Prague, and in my film class, we watched a fitting movie, a Polish film called “The Amateur.” The details aren’t relevant, but the main character buys a movie camera. Soon, he doesn’t see anything not worth capturing on film. It’s very easy to slip into this mindset, to view everything in a frame. You can always find some symmetry, some parallelism, some interesting subject for a photo. I took about 80 pictures yesterday, but only 5 today. Two of them were of a man balancing a basket full of bread on his head.
The first day as a tourist is always nerve-wracking; it’s a maddening balance between enjoying the moment and making sure you have something to remember it by. I think it’s best to do it at once, all day, while it’s exciting, before you’re tired. Speaking of which, I’m tired. It’s late afternoon, and everyone here is snoring. I’ll lay down a while.
Most of yesterday was spent on a guided tour, including Hora, the Blue Mosque, and Ayasofya. We ate like kings for lunch, prepared in a kitchen behind a travel agency, and spent most of the afternoon in the various bazaars. Toma and I had dinner, once again, at the restaurant across the street where our good friend Kadir works. Kadir’s buddy Ali Baba (real name: Ahmad) was the third person in one day to ask if I was Turkish. That makes me feel good, for whatever reason, and made me think about how relatively well I’d get along in Israel, compared to Prague or Vienna, or here. I spoke to an American next door yesterday, Danya, about the birthright trip, and I think it’d be a great experience. Great, and free. And I’m not so sure I’ll have a paying job this summer.
Breakfast is a particular treat. In the mornings we climb up the narrow spiral staircase, the spine of the hostel, to the terrace on the roof. There is an open deck next to a glass-walled room where we eat. Half the view is rooftops, the other half the golden Bosporus. It must be to the east; I have to squint and shield my brow to make it through the glare from the low morning sun. The staff here is immeasurably nice, not in a polite way, but in an open, joyous way. They brought us a fruit bowl and a bottle opener while we drank in the room last night, have offered to lend us money out of their pockets, and their “Good mornings” are loud.
At breakfast, and in most every Turkish establishment, we hear Turkish pop music. This is a unique listening experience; first, it’s not until halfway through the song that you’re aware that it’s playing. By then, its repetition has sunk itself into your brain, your toes. You start to notice the details: a Middle Eastern beat with unintelligible vocals and bubbly synthesized pop noises. You know there are some slight changes in the song form, but you can’t hear them. The repetition then starts to agitate you, and just as it’s about to peak, the song is over and another one starts, not different but different enough to fend off irritation. And then you ignore the first half of the song as you busy yourself with something in real life.
So I’ve been putting my camera to some good use. I got it just before coming to Prague, and in my film class, we watched a fitting movie, a Polish film called “The Amateur.” The details aren’t relevant, but the main character buys a movie camera. Soon, he doesn’t see anything not worth capturing on film. It’s very easy to slip into this mindset, to view everything in a frame. You can always find some symmetry, some parallelism, some interesting subject for a photo. I took about 80 pictures yesterday, but only 5 today. Two of them were of a man balancing a basket full of bread on his head.
The first day as a tourist is always nerve-wracking; it’s a maddening balance between enjoying the moment and making sure you have something to remember it by. I think it’s best to do it at once, all day, while it’s exciting, before you’re tired. Speaking of which, I’m tired. It’s late afternoon, and everyone here is snoring. I’ll lay down a while.