Paradise Post, CA
March 17 2005
Want a unique holiday? Try Turkish delight!
By April Blankfort
Photos by Lowell Blankfort
The enormous 16th century Mosque of Suleyman the Magnificent, with
its multiplicity of domes and four towering minarets, adjoins
Istanbuls exotic great market and overlooks a port on Bosphorus,
where boats take visitors an hour away to the Black Sea.
Looking for a very special holiday this year? Try Turkey. Former Post
co-owner Lowell Blankfort and his wife April, who’ve been to lots of
places, did last year and discovered it was among the most
fascinating, varied and exotic tourist meccas on earth,
There are many Turkeys to choose from, depending upon one’s travel
tastes and budgets. The following article is intended to give you the
flavor of how it was for one couple, the Blankforts, traveling
independently. Read on
Jottings from a Turkish notebook
The Ciragan Palace Hotel is, perhaps, Istanbul’s most sumptuous. A
sultan’s palace in the 19th and early 20th cemturies when Turkey’s
Ottoman Empire ruled much of the world, it sprawls along the banks of
the Bosphorus whose waters lap at its terrace steps. Its rooms are
luxurious and shut out the noise from the busy streets outside. Their
price can be negotiated down from the stratospheric to the possible.
Not so the prices on the menus. This is the trap we found ourselves
caught in on the first night of our three weeks in Turkey.
Unwilling to consider paying the equivalent of $16 for a bowl of
soup, we sought pity from the hotel concierge. Where to eat on a
budget? He condescended to draw a map and, after a short walk, we
found a street crammed with small restaurants. Lured into one by the
view, we had a table on a balcony from which we could watch, from
Europe, the ferries arriving from the Asian shore of the city across
the river.
Lights twinkled onto the dark surface of this ancient waterway and,
in the distance, brilliantly colored wedding fireworks etched the
night sky. The platters of fresh seafood kept coming until we could
eat no more. Even counting the wine, the cost per head was little
more than the Cirgan’s bowl of soup.
In the morning, finding that breakfast was a wallet-blowing $36 per
person, we hit the road again. This time we took the opposite
direction. Twelve minutes of walking took us to an area beneath the
Galata bridge that sweeps from our European side to the Asian.
Narrow streets led to the water’s edge with plenty of open-air cafes.
Sleepy waiters swept the cobbles and set out tables and chairs. It
was too early for Turks, but we were ready for the small cups of
bitter coffee and plates of white cheese, black olives, bread and
tomatoes that constitute a good Turkish breakfast.
This area is called Ortakoy and it is worth seeking out for it sums
up the richness of Turkey’s history and culture. Coexisting
peacefully within its confines are a mosque, synagogue and church.
Surrounding them are newly renovated old houses now turned into
trendy boutiques, art galleries and caf-bars.
Sometimes it is worth staying at an impossibly expensive hotel where
you are driven out to find your own way to food and drink.
Once we discovered a way to survive starvation we could concentrate
on exploring Istanbul. Old etchings of the city had made it familiar
to me from my English childhood. The domes and minarets of the
mosques, the vaulted lanes in the bazaars, the little boats sailing
the Bosphorus are still there.
To me, Istanbul is still one of the most beautiful cities in the
world. To sit on the caf terrace of the Topkapi Palace will convince
even the harshest critic. This was the residence of the sultans until
the 19th century. Spread beneath your view is the Bosphorus with
ferry boats bustling between Europe and Asia. The tiled roofs of old
houses cascade down the hillsides mingling with flowering trees and
untidy gardens.
Nevertheless, you have little time to linger at a table – history is
calling.
Turkey is a wonderful tangled ball of history’s wool. To begin with
it is split by the Bosphorus, the fabled waterway that divides Europe
and Asia. Nine thousand years ago the earliest urban culture
flourished there. Later civilizations from the Hittite to the Greek
and Persian paraded through, leaving plenty to furnish the present
museums and fill the history books.
North of Manchuria, in the emptiest of wastelands, the Chinese took
note of a people called “Tu-kueh,” the Turks. It took 7,000 years of
history before the present inhabitants arrived. Compared with other
Mediterranean nations they are newcomers.
Turks are concerned with identifying themselves. The Armenian we meet
in the bazaar is one of them. Sitting amidst his gleaming stock of
antique brass and copper, he says he is both Turk and Armenian. Close
to a million of his Armenian forebears died in battles with the Turks
early in the last century.
“The Armenians survive by toughness. We give no quarter,” says our
merchant friend. “There is always discrimination against us despite
laws against it. Sure, we can apply to join the army or police. But
when we take the exams and pass, they don’t employ us. Still, we go
on applying. After all, we are Turks too.”
It takes the best part of a long day to tour the Topkapi palace
although some laggards only want to look in on the Treasury with the
famed dagger (from the movie of the same name). You can’t blame them
because an 86 carat diamond is hard to pass by. Still, I find it hard
to be too impressed; the sheer quantity of jeweled vessels, weapons,
gilded cabinetry, as well as their size, makes it hard to take it all
in. An interest in minimalism overtakes me and I slink away to
inspect the rest of this massive palace which really served as both
haven and prison for the sultan and his fabled harem.
In this maze of courtyards and tiled rooms intrigues flourished.
Heirs to the throne were strangled with a silken thread and
concubines died from boredom. Black eunuchs, the uglier the better,
were employed to rule the ladies and keep them chaste from all except
the sultan. In such an effete system it is hard to believe that the
Ottomans lasted as long as they did – more than 400 years..
The mosques are the beauty marks on the face of Istanbul.
One of the loveliest is the Blue Mosque built in 1619 by Sultan
Ahmet. Famed for its magnificent blue Izmik tiles, it is like
standing inside a monumental sapphire.
Ahmet flouted convention and insisted on six minarets, previously
allowed only in the holy city of Mecca. For penance, his abject
architect had to make a trip to Mecca to build a seventh following a
storm of protest from the faithful. Still, the six minarets make it
easy to find your way when you get lost in the muddle of streets and
alleyways of old “Stamboul”.
The great Mosque of Suleyman the Magnificent sits proudly like a
crown on the head of the city. It is the icon with which the city is
most identified. After the feverish decoration of Topkapi, its
simplicity is as refreshing as a cool lemonade on a hot day.
But it is not an original mosque that fascinated me most but a former
church. Turkey is an Islamic republic and all around reminds you of
this until visiting Santa Sofia, built by Emperor Justinian in the
6th century and once the greatest church in Christendom. It remained
so until Islam took it over in the 15th century and turned it into a
mosque.
Turkey has a wonderful way of bringing opposites together: sweet and
tart in food, curves and lines in architecture and diverse religions.
Despite damage over the centuries, it is surprising to find Christian
art surviving in such a public place of Muslim veneration.
There is still an outstanding and massive mosaic of the Virgin
cradling Jesus with Emperor Constantine offering her the city, then
named Constantinople after him.
Thanks to modern Turkey’s founder Kemal Ataturk, who restored the
mosaics in 1933, they survive under what has been described as the
most superb dome in Europe.
Surely, this is what the world now seeks – a place where Muslim and
Christian spiritualities connect. Thanks to Turkish Muslims this
great church still stands and inspires.
The best way to experience the Bosphorus is to do what we do – take a
water bus.
We buy tickets for a three-hour journey and our driver will meet us
to take us back to the city. No industry or developers have yet
spoiled the lovely waterside. Wooded hills, little villages and old
Ottoman houses line the banks.
We buy cold drinks from the boat’s kiosk and sit with other
passengers. Children hang over the railings and wave to people
lunching in the cafs on land. A wandering vendor sells simit. This
golden, sesame crusted ring of bread keeps hunger at bay and is sold
everywhere from morning till night.
The boat points up towards the Black Sea and we pass merchant ships
sailing down from Ukraine. Narrow as it is, the Bosphorus is an
international waterway.
We pass five former Ottoman palaces, including our own hotel, plus
four castles and picturesque villages, only one of which we have time
to visit. Here we found our idea of a castle in Rumeli Hisar. Its
solid stone walls and towers that once guarded these waters from
Turkey’s enemies climb the hillside.
We clamber up and down the chiseled stairs feeling like Harry Potter
characters in yet another adventure. However, there is nothing more
threatening than the flower and trees. The place is empty of tourists
and we have it to ourselves.
***
A good guide is a traveler’s eyes and ears; he or she also becomes
your nanny and guardian. In over 30 years of traveling together,
Lowell and I have had our share of the good, the bad and the ugly.
Our trips are complex. We seldom join groups and we need a lot of
organization on the ground, even though some trips are planned a year
in advance.
Enter Beko, a 38-year-old man with the face of a merry pixie and grin
from here to there. He is an absolute genius who meets us at the
Istanbul airport and mollycoddles us for almost three weeks when he
waves goodbye. Beko was provided us by Ghingis (“Chuck”) Aras, at Flo
USA Turkish tour agency in Heathrow, Fla., who acted as our pre-trip
adviser and arranger.
Beko, whose real name is Berkant Topal, has degrees in archaeology
and economics. He has registered half a dozen archeological sites.
English is his second language but he speaks it better than many
native Americans. He has been the guide for three American presidents
visiting Turkey, both George Bushes and Bill Clinton. (Of these, he
says the first George Bush was the most attentive and knowledgeable).
History and his little son are Beko’s passions. His wife also could
be a passion but, sadly, she could not live with a man who is always
somewhere else. When not enthusing over ancient ruins or political
venues, he is on his cell phone organizing dinner at a special
restaurant or checking that the next hotel has the amenities we want.
When we take off for Diyarbakir without him, he whiles away our four
days’ absence meeting and greeting a U.S. tour group and taking them
to the famous World War I battlefield, Gallipoli. Fresh as a daisy,
the same day he bids them farewell he welcomes us and heads back to
Gallipoli on another three-hour car trip with us.
There is little in which Beko is not knowledgeable and interested.
Africa is our next trip and I wish he could be our eyes and ears
there too.
***
Cappadocia, a fairytale-like region in central Turkey, is a magnet
for tourists. Cappadocia is full of caves. It is a region formed by
three erupting volcanoes 10 million years ago. Over time it has
become a lunar landscape of soft porous stone called tufa. Tufa has
been sculpted by wind and rain into fascinating shapes, many called
“fairy chimneys.” The inhabitants found tufa easy to work with and
cut out caves to live in.
Christians living there made cave churches. When Arab armies came
thundering through in the seventh century, the people went
underground into their caves and survived by rolling stone wheel-like
doors across the entrances. Although many people have left their
caves because of dilapidation, there are still plenty to see and
visit.
Lowell wanted to stay in a cave. One with a bathroom, hot water and
comfortable beds. We found it in a hotel carved into the tufa. The
rooms were high-ceilinged and cozy with plenty of room. There was no
sign of anything sinister. No creepy-crawlies. No bears. Just hot
water, electricity and a good shower.
Although the area looks barren and dry, the mineral-rich soil is
fertile and forms a prime agricultural region with orchard and
vineyards. The latter produce good wines; Turks pay little attention
to Islamic strictures against drinking alcohol.
***
In Cappadocia we experience true Turkish hospitality. Our hosts are
the family of Ghengis Aras, the Florida fount of Turkish wisdom.
Theirs is a charming house set in a garden in the town of Kayseri.
Upstairs they usher us onto a wide balcony that runs along the width
of the building . On this balcony a shaded table awaits. It is laden
with dishes of food and baskets of breads.
There seem to be hundreds of stuffed vine leaves, tiny eggplants
stewed with tomatoes and onions and delicately spiced char-broiled
vegetables. There are flaky pastry pies and a wonderful soup to begin
with. There is something that looks like a gigantic pizza covered
with ground lamb that has to be cooked in a special oven which they
take me to see in the kitchen. The dishes never seem to empty and
they bring fresh plates piled with little cakes made with honey,
walnuts, pistachios and rose water.
Our hostess has prepared all this with help only from her daughter.
She hardly sits through the meal always checking that we and her
family are eating without cease. Afterwards, someone brings a tray of
tiny cups filled with sweet, black coffee. They offer cigarettes of
fragrant Turkish tobacco. Politely, we decline but in smoke-filled
Turkey it isn’t yet politically correct to ignore smoking.
***
Dyarbakir in Turkey’s southeast is like taking a magic carpet into
the past. Cities like Istanbul and Ankara are modern, full of
Western-style buildings and shops so it is easy to feel at home. But
in Dyabakir we are in the old Turkey of myth and fairy tale.
The ancient Tigris river flows by its monumental black city walls,
wending its way toward Iraq and Baghdad. Traditional life flourishes
in its narrow streets. Old men wear old-fashioned baggy pants and
many women wear headscarves and a few are veiled, openly flouting the
secular law against this.
The population is mostly Kurdish. The Kurds chafe at Turkish rule and
are cautious in dealing with foreigners. However, courtesy is always
present. Seeing our camera, one elderly man, a prize photo subject
with his twirling moustache, voluminous pants and elegant shirt,
draws up, shoulders back. After the camera clicks he gravely salutes
the photographer and proudly marches away.
Our window on the third floor of the Class Hotel looks straight onto
the street running past the market. Early each morning I stand by it
to watch. At first the shops are shuttered and the occasional
pedestrian saunters past. One by one shopkeepers arrive and the
shutters clatter up announcing that business is beginning.
Men struggle with barrows top heavy with the largest watermelons I
have ever seen. Small boys with trays of sesame bread rings balanced
on their heads trot by briskly with shrill cries of ” Simit! Simit!”
Shopkeepers sit on small stools outside their doors sipping tea and
motion the simit boys to bring them breakfast.
Later on, elderly couples, the woman lagging behind, arrive with
shopping bags. Young women carry their prune-eyed babies and
disappear into the dark market beyond. People shop each day for fresh
vegetables, fruits and meat. Frozen dinners are not on the menus
tonight or any other night.
Now I know that I am in the Orient I have always loved. This is
Turkey’s Asian face and bears scant resemblance to its European
sliver a thousand miles to the east.
***
It is early evening and we sit with others in what used to be an inn
for travelers. The walls are thick and high and there is very little
light. We are waiting for the Dervishes to perform their ceremony. In
the West we call them “Whirling Dervishes” and from afar their
practice seems mysterious and perhaps a little frightening. This
small group has come from a distant town and we are fortunate to be
here on this night.
Dervishes are the followers of the Persian poet and philosopher Rumi.
They believe that their way is the way to seek and achieve a mystical
union with God.
In the half dark the mostly-male group silently enters dressed in
floor-sweeping black cloaks and tall white hats. All in white, in
their full skirts in the gray light, they look like ghosts.
In the West people think the Dervishes whirl madly, lose control and
end in a kind of seizure. They don’t. As they whirl, their skirts
blow out into large white bells. The men’s heads rest dreamily on
their shoulders, eyes half-closed, a gentle expression on their
faces. There is no frenzy, no loss of control. The music ends. They
return to their line. The black cloaks are slipped on. Softly the
dancers disappear into the dark.
***
Snapshots from my mind’s
camera:
The graves in Gallipoli where the dead lie from both sides, Turkish
and Australian, in that devastating World War I battle. The quiet
beats in our ears like muffled drums. There is only the sad splash of
the sea falling like tears onto the beach below.
Lowell and I tripping on one of Ankara’s notoriously uneven
sidewalks. He falls first and my legs tangle with his. As we are on a
slope, gravity pulls us down into a heap. It’s like a comedy routine.
I have to laugh but not so the passersby. We are picked up, dusted
down, queried as to our well-being. It’s as if we are precious
treasure. Turks care.
The elegant man sitting next to me on the plane from Dyarbakir to
Ankara. His English is minimal but his charm well-versed.
“How old you are?” he asks. “Forty-eight?”
I laugh. “I wish.”
Later, I use my lipstick. When I finish, he taps my arm.
“Ah, now 42!”
Mehmet, the masseur in Ankara’s Gordion Hotel. About 5 feet tall and
3 feet wide, he hands me the towels.
I am a massage junkie and have been pummeled from Bali to Swaziland
No one has ever bettered Mehmet. His hands take no prisoners. I am,
literally, putty in his hands.
When I totter out an hour later, every ache and creak accumulated
from three weeks of sitting in cars and planes has been left behind
on his table …
***
FINAL WORD: I have to admit that I was forever prejudiced against the
Turks. When I began to travel in my 20s I heard of Turkish atrocities
from Egyptians who pointed out how Turks had damaged their
archeological sites. Then horror stories from the Greeks, the
Armenians, the Syrians, the Albanians. Were they liked anywhere?
Then, lured by cheap, colorful vacations, Westerners began to
“discover” Turkey. They regaled me with tales of the friendly Turk.
Still, I was doubtful. How could they be? Weren’t they the “terrible
Turks” who took no prisoners in the Korean War? The thieving Turks of
yesteryears?
Well. I stand corrected. My friends were right. Throughout our three
weeks we encountered nothing but kindness and care.
There was the man hurrying to us when we stopped the car to rest near
a vineyard. We feared he was coming to beg. What a joke! His hands
were full of bunches of grapes to refresh the foreign visitors.
And then there was the wife of a minor official we were interviewing.
She had brought us tea and the usual honey-soaked cakes. Then, as we
stood to leave, she gave me a parcel of tissue paper. Inside was an
exquisitely crocheted shawl of soft gray wool flecked with silver.
She had made it herself for her daughter but wanted me to have it.
“I make for her another,” she laughed. Now, her shawl keeps me as
warm as the friendship of that gesture.
Do I like Turks? Does a duck quack?
From: Emil Lazarian | Ararat NewsPress