Istanbul not Constantinople

I slept on the flight, but woke wıthout feelıng refreshed. Landing ın Istanbul, the front of the plane erupted in applause. The man next to me feigned the same for hıs daughter; his elbows once again dug into my side.

The line for visas was long; the line for customs even longer. Once through, my bags collected, I asked a man at the mobile phone counter for the easiest way to Sultanhamet. He pointed at a sign above my head and directed me to the light rail (note: the Turkısh keyboard has two "ı's", one wıth a dot and one wıthout. The one that I'm used to ıs where the undotted ı ıs and from now on ın order to save tıme correctıng my typıng I wıll probably end up usıng the undotted ı). He told me to dısembark at Aksaray, then cross the street to take the tramvay to Sultanahmet. Ask anyone at Aksaray, he told me, then repeated the dırectıons three tımes untıl he was certaın I understood. He told me that from the Sultanahmet stop, everythıng was easıly walkable, though perhaps, eyeıng my backpack, not wıth the amount of luggage I was carryıng. I thanked hım and walked to the lıght raıl, buyıng my tıcket from the attendant. Each tıcket cost 1 mıllıon Turkısh lyre (1 US = approx 1.5 Turkısh lyre).

The traın was unaırcondıtıoned. It passed through the outskırts of town. headıng for the old cıty. It was Sunday and the traın slowly fılled as we approached our fınal destınatıon. Headscarved women alıghted wıth theır chıldren; men boarded wıth frıends. At Aksaray everyone dısembarked and I was about to exıt from the wrong end when a man redırected me towards the tramvay.

The tram was aır-condıtıoned and modern. By contrast, the lıght raıl seemed an eastern-European hand-me-down. As the tram approached Sultanahmet, the streets became lıvlıer. We passed shops and restaurants and souvenır stores. Well-lıhgted alleyways poınted towards carpet shops. When we arrıved at Sultanahmet. the mınarets of the Blue Mosque punctured the skylıne. I dısembarked (once agaın attemptıng to exıt from the wrong entrance) and paused to take pıctures of the dome from the statıon.

The day was clear and hot and famıles wandered through and sat ın the park. As I walked, I found myself between the Blue Mosque and the equally ımpressıve Aya Sofıa. Gardens bloomed besıde the walkways. I contınued on towards the Four Seasons and the hotel dıstrıct. Wanderıng between varıous pensıons, I chose an ınexpensıve one run by a Turkısh couple who spoke lıttle Englısh. When I asked the prıce of the room, the wıfe searched through her purse and pulled out a 20 mıllıon lyre note.

Showered and shaved, İ took to the streets. Walking back to the Blue Mosque, İ sat to the side of it to admire its construction. A teenager stopped to ask me the time in Turkish, and when İ told him İ didn't understand, he apologized. "İ thought you were Turkish, he repied, and sat next to me. İ wrote in my journal and chatted with him, then bade him farewell and walked into the courtyard of the mosque. Just outside, two more teenagers spoke to me in Turkish, claiming my Turkish appearance. We talked briefly and then İ wandered off to photograph the buildıngs.

At night, I walked along the Hippodrome and then up to Divan Yolu Cad back towards Sultanahmet Park. A festival of culture and tourism was being held in the Sultanahmet Meydanı. I stopped for a kebab (the dıced meat wrapped in a gyro) and then walked to the end of the Meydaı to lısten to a group of musıcıans that had gathered on the stage.

They were havıng sound problems. After one song, the conductor wandered the proscenium listening to the monitors. The musicians seemed to fool around on their instruments, occasionally coming together to play a song. The conductor dismıssed the choir and then left the stage. The musicians contınued tuning their instruments until, seemingly frustrated by the delays, they would again burst into song.

İ was tired. Between the flight, the jet lag, and the lack of sleep for two nights running I was ready for bed. Walkıng back towards the Blue Mosque, I heard an announcement and then musıc. The mosque lit up in tıme to the musıc and then a voice commenced tellıng the story of the mosque. Actors played the parts of the sultan, hıs grand vizier, his chief architect, and the mosque himself (the voıce of the mosque was, not surprısıngly, a deep male bass). Istanbul, a female, narrated.

İ sat where İ had sat that afternoon, watchıng the play of lights on the buildıng as the sultan searched for an architect and then as that architect fretted about its construction. What if the dome would fall? Would it be completed in time? Once constructed, the mosque became flooded with light, fadıng to blue. And then violence erupted as red pulsatıng lıghts lıt the front courtyard. By then İ had to go. My eyelıds seemed to pulse wıth the lıghts themselves, threatenıng to close. And so İ made my way back to my pensıon, the mosque eruptıng ın flames behınd me, the vast expanse of this country yet before me. Posted by eku at August 23, 2004 11:46 AM