Destination: Istanbul

One of my favorite moments of 2008 was in Istanbul. The prayer service had just let out, and a sea of locals surged for the door. Being caught up in a crush of locals where the only way to get any personal space is to look up is, for me, a ritual connecting with humanity. I seek these opportunities out. It’s the closest I’ll ever come to experiencing the joy of body surfing above a mosh pit.

Going with the worshipping flow, I scanned the dark sky. That scene — one I had forgotten was so breathtaking — played for me again: hard-pumping seagulls powering through the humid air in a black sky, surging into the light as they cross in front of floodlit minarets.

Our society’s theme for 2009: change. I’ve been thinking about change and reflecting on the last year’s travels. Sometimes change is forced on you, as if caught in a teeming mob scene. Other times you plan for and dictate change — which seems like change, but is actually more of the same…just better designed.

 

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All societies morph with the push and pull of the times. Walking down to the Golden Horn inlet and Istanbul’s churning waterfront, I crossed the new Galata Bridge, which made me miss the dismantled and shipped-out old Galata Bridge — so crusty with life’s struggles.

Then I realized that, while the old bridge was gone, the new one’s been engulfed with the same vibrant street life — boys casting their lines, old men sucking on water pipes, sesame-seed bread rings filling cloudy glass-windowed carts.

Walking the new Galata Bridge and still finding the old reminded me how stubborn cultural inertia can be. If you give a camel-riding Bedouin a new Mercedes, he still decorates it like a camel. I remember looking at tribal leaders in Afghanistan — shaved, cleaned up, and given a bureaucrat’s uniform. But looking more closely, I see the bushy grey bearded men in dusty old robes still living behind those modern uniforms. I remember seeing a Californian who dropped out of the “modern rat race” in Katmandu — calloused almost-animal feet, matted dreadlocks, draped in sackcloth as he stood cane in hand before the living virgin goddess. Somehow I could still see Los Angeles in his eyes. The resilience of a culture can’t be overcome with a haircut and a shave — or lack of one — or a new bridge.

 

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On the sloppy adjacent harborfront, the venerable “fish and bread boats” were still rocking in the constant chop of the busy harbor. In a humbler day, they were 20-foot-long open dinghies — rough boats with battered car tires for fenders — with open fires grilling fish literally fresh off the boat. For a few coins, they’d bury a big white fillet in a hunk of fluffy white bread, wrap it in newsprint, and I was on my way…dining out on fish.

A few years ago, the fish and bread boats were shut down — they had no license. Now, after a popular uproar, they’re back. A bit more hygienic and no longer wrapping in newspaper — but they’re still rocking in the waves and slamming out fresh fish.

Regardless of where 2009 leads us (our retail sales, retirement accounts, stock market, the dollar versus the euro), we’ll still be rocking in the waves and slamming out fresh whatever-we-produce.

 

Istanbul is digging a tunnel from Europe to Asia under the Bosphorus. Enlarge photo

I’m done filming the last three TV shows of our new series (Denmark, Copenhagen, and Istanbul). Tomorrow my producer Simon flies home with the precious tapes. I just gave Simon my second bag (with my printer and extra wardrobe in it), getting me down to my usual light load. I’m heading for the airport — within a couple hours, I’ll be deep into Amsterdam guidebook research.

Driving along the coast in the taxi to the airport, I scan the Bosphorus. A hundred freighters fill the sea — a commotion of ships that reminds me of the force of the D-Day landings. Each is filled with cargo for thriving economies. Many are escorted by tough little tugs. One by one, they enter this maritime bottleneck, fueling this city of 15 million.

In the middle of the strait is a construction site — an industrial-strength pontoon island with heavy machinery digging down, and then out. Istanbul is well on its way to constructing its Bosphorus tunnel. I trace the city’s horizon, from the misty minarets spiking up from the old town, to a distant skyline of modern suburbs where tourists never venture — a forest of modern skyscrapers in league with Shanghai’s.

Yesterday we needed a better spot for our show’s opening shots. We had a reasonable one from the Galata Bridge, but it showed charming old fishermen and tour boats. Instead, I wanted to somehow capture the historic crossroads and contemporary might of this city.

Climbing with the camera crew to the rooftop of a toy store, we found a spot that showed off Istanbul as the churning metropolitan powerhouse where east meets west. Enlarge photo

Site selection had led to frustration. Mentally scanning all possible angles, it hit me: We needed a high-wide shot, almost an aerial, showing the freighter-filled Bosphorus just where it’s met by the Golden Horn inlet, with the teeming Galata Bridge, lumbering commuter ferries churning up the port, and a huge nondescript mosque in the foreground (we didn’t want to show the city’s icons — the Blue Mosque and Hagia Sophia — so early in the show).

We went to the spot I envisioned (above the “New Mosque,” near the famous Spice Market) and surveyed the zone. We spotted a restaurant with a shaded roof terrace, and went to check it out. It was perfect…except that as I spoke into the camera, there was no necessary sun on me. Next door, however, we noticed a toy company with offices that had a small open terrace. It was exactly what we needed. They welcomed us onto their roof and brought us tea. Grabbing a calm moment between the gusts, I gave my lines:

“Istanbul is one of the world’s great cities, period. For thousands of years, this point where East meets West has been the crossroads of civilizations. Few places on Earth have seen more history than this sprawling metropolis on the Bosphorus.”

Then we taxied to Ortaköy, a trendy café scene at the edge of town — too far away for tourists. It sits in the shadow of a Baroque mosque and one of the mighty modern bridges that cross the Bosphorus, lacing Asia and Europe together.

 

In Istanbul, where an awe-inspiring suspension bridges connects Europe and Asia, a modern skyline is emerging. Enlarge photo

I wanted to get more interaction on camera between me and the locals, and this was perfect — a gang of four charming young Turks joined me to pass around a hookah (big water pipe), sip chai, and play backgammon. Backgammon is the perfect way to create a jolly conviviality with new friends. At the neighboring table, we filmed two sisters — one secular and the other wearing a colorful but conservative Muslim head scarf — chatting as they passed the mouthpiece of their big water pipe. (I hoped this might make both a big water pipe and a scarved Muslim woman less scary to the more insular of my American viewers.)

Then, with the sun low and the chop of the Bosphorus carbonating the scene, I stepped out onto the ferry landing to film the closing shots of the show. The frilly mosque cut the harsh diagonal created by the mighty bridge reached for Asia. Just as a ship entered the frame, I looked into the lens and said:

“Like its bridge, Istanbul brings East and West together. With a complex weave of modern affluence, Western secularism, and traditional Muslim faith, it’s a dynamic and stimulating city, well worth a visit. Thanks for joining us. I’m Rick Steves. Until next time…keep on travelin’.”

Reaching the airport, I tip the taxi — selfishly holding back just enough local lira for a coffee. Enjoying a rare break with my iPod, I listen to Amy Winehouse (“They wanna make me go to Europe, I say yes…yes…yes”) while drifting through all the lines, immersed in the sea of people traveling. An old woman weeps as the security line slowly swallows up her son, with a reaching grandson in his arms. Water and shoes are okay to take through security here — but my watch and belt need to come off. With a thump, my passport is stamped.

In the terminal, I see the big green welcome of a Starbucks, and feel thankful that I no longer have to choose either Turkish coffee or Nescafé. I have 6.05 Turkish lire. A grande latte costs 6.25 (nearly $5). I beg. The Turkish barista says, “No problem.” I’m so happy — the frugal traveler is triumphant, leaving the country with exactly no local currency.

Nursing a good American latte, head buried in my Amsterdam book, I transcribe feedback notes into my work copy of the guidebook. Thinking back, I’m amazed how out of Turkey I already am — ready for the Netherlands.

I am so enthralled with Istanbul and excited about our TV production work that it is hard to make time for a blog entry. This is very rushed, but I’ve got to share a little walk around the block with you.

Last night I went out alone for dinner. On the street level, the restaurant was dead — but a TV monitor was showing the action up on the terrace, four flights up. I sat down to dinner with the domes of the Blue Mosque on one side of me; on the other side, a fleet of freighters were patiently waiting their turn to slip through the bottleneck of the Bosporus. My dinner grace was forced on me as calls to prayer rang out all around. It was surround-sound: Allahu Akbar— “God is great.”

 

Filming the muezzin singing at the base of the minaret, we attempted to put a face on the Muslim call to prayer. Enlarge photo

This round of the call to prayer was particularly vivid to me because just a few hours before, I’d had the privilege of sitting at the base of a minaret of the Blue Mosque, at the feet of the man who is perhaps Istanbul’s best singing hafiz (someone who has memorized all 6,000-plus verses of the Quran). He grabbed two old-fashioned microphones, put a hand on his ear, closed his eyes, and filled his neighborhood with a soulful warbling and highly amplified call to “come join the prayer, come join the salvation, God is great.” He covered me with goosebumps.

I was gazing at the Christmas-tree lights that draped the minarets spiking into the sky above my dinner table, when suddenly my waiter’s face filled my view and he plopped down a hot, fresh-out-of-the-oven loaf, a balloon of bread shaped like some Assyrian flotation device.

Tourists at the next table told me they were here to meet some students on a study ship cruising the Mediterranean. But because of the bomb here a couple days ago, the ship had been diverted to Egypt. (I wanted to scream at this example of nervous parental over-reaction — not only because it made no sense, but because Egypt has got to be many times more dangerous than Turkey anyway.)

I decided to walk home the long way, savoring the Istanbul night. A local couple was sucking on a four-foot-tall hookah, cuddled up on one of the sofas that’s so common these days in outdoor lounges in the Mediterranean, lost in each others’ gaga eyes.

I stepped into the Blue Mosque, as if to give it another chance. It was so touristy this morning, inundated with cruise-ship visitors. Now it was once again just the neighborhood mosque in action — not a tourist in sight. A window was open for ventilation. I peeked through to find it was the ladies’ prayer zone. I drew back, suddenly feeling a tinge of peeping-Tom guilt.

A family gathered around their little boy in his proud admiral’s outfit. It was his circumcision party — celebrated as Christians would celebrate a baptism, but even more joyous. (Turks call the circumcision party the greatest party — like “a wedding without the in-laws.”) The boy was all smiles…for now.

Looking up, I enjoyed a treat that sneaks up on me whenever I find myself under mosques after dark: the sight of soaring birds swooping past silhouetted minarets with their undersides floodlit.

I was regretting eating and drinking so much. In Turkey, I have sentimental favorite dishes from my student days as a backpacker here. Because of that (and a certain pride in being able to actually say the words in Turkish), I always order sutlac (rice pudding) and visnu su(cherry juice). Even if I’m not hungry or thirsty, I say the words, eat and drink…remembering my first tastes of Turkey as a teen.

Leaving the mosque, I came upon a big electronic reader board. It was evangelizing, constantly spooling out delightful, Muhammad-praising, “love thy neighbor” aphorisms in crawling red letters. After a few minutes pondering the verses, I thought, “Good religious marketing.”

In Istanbul the dervish comes to the tourists as a follower of Mevlana whirls. Enlarge photo

Just outside the gate, a man was drawing tourists’ names on plates, mesmerizing a small crowd with his gorgeous calligraphy. While Western tourists in Turkey tend to assume that anyone “foreign-looking” is a local, I’ve realized that in Istanbul’s touristy zones like this, many of the “exotic locals” are actually tourists from other parts of the Islamic world.

My day’s little victory lap was just about done. Tourists filled a big patio, enjoying a single dervish whirling on an elevated platform. I have a bad attitude about dervishes doing their whirl for tourists who have no idea what’s going on. That’s because I have enjoyed the good fortune of having a dervish actually explain the meaning of this meditational prayer ritual, and how it relates to the teachings of Mevlana. (You might call Mevlana the “Islamic St. Francis.”) But I buried my bad attitude and simply enjoyed the beauty of his performance there in the Istanbul night.

I had a 7 a.m. appointment with a Turkish bath (to get in with our camera crew before the baths open to the public), so I headed back to our hotel, climbed into bed, and enjoyed reviewing the memories generated by simply spending a few minutes walking around the block after dinner in Istanbul. It affirmed my love of this city, which I rank (along with Paris, Rome, and London) as one of Europe’s top four great cities.

I’m in Istanbul — floodlit minarets out my window in a hot and muggy room after a great first day of filming. I’m getting this blog entry up pronto because of the horrible bombing here 24 hours ago, which killed at least 17 people and injured more than 150.

Apparently, many Americans heading for Turkey saw the news and wonder if it’s still safe. The thought honestly didn’t even occur to me until I got back into the room tonight and read my email from our office saying some of the people signed up on our tours were concerned. My first thought was not to dignify the unfounded fear with a response. But that’s not fair. When you are half a world away and just watching the news, it is understandable that you might overreact. Let me just recount my day.

In this city of well over 10 million people, this is a tragedy. But (as I commented to Simon, my TV director, as we returned after 10 hours of shooting all over town today) I’m impressed by how I felt no tension on the streets because of this event. Of course, it’s on the Istanbul news big time tonight, but the city is as fun-loving and lofty as ever.

Our last shot of the day — looking from the Galata Bridge over a churning harbor at the Topkapi Palace sitting in a green bed of trees, with huge red Turkish flags flying and a skyline spiky with minarets — I commented to Simon that this city is uniquely graceful to the eye. Even though it’s rough…it still has the fragrance of a harem girl dancing for a sultan.

Istanbul is a far cry from Denmark, where I was just yesterday. Even at the Turkish Airlines gate at the Copenhagen airport, I knew we weren’t in Denmark anymore. The Turks talked louder and their kids were unruly. The flight was a bit of culture shock — horrible sound system, grainy 1980s-vintage video, families jabbering noisily as their children bounced all over. (Just between you and me, that’s why I enjoy traveling in Turkey more than Denmark.)

Riding the taxi in from Atatürk Airport, we drove along the Bosphorus — packed with ocean-going freighters, most Russia-bound. Passing along the harborfront, I remembered it a few years ago — littered with beggars, homeless people, shantytowns of immigrants camping out and in search of jobs. Today it’s a sleek European-style park. And, as it was Sunday evening, it was filled with families out wrapping up their weekend with a picnic.

This morning, as we set out to film, I met my friend and local guide Lale (who’s helping us with this shoot). She told me of the horrible bombing. We stopped by a government office to see if we had extra concerns with permissions and getting on public transit with a big camera and our gear. There was no change in our access for filming things in town.

I was hoping to be in the hotel all day, catching up on writing, while Simon and our cameraman got all the B-roll (beautiful exteriors). But a thunderhead sent the crew in, and we changed plans to shoot indoor things.

As usual, the script is too long. It could be two shows…but I think I’d rather do Istanbul dense in half an hour. Simon and I cut the home visit to Lale’s nice suburban condo in a gated community (where I hoped to show how modern Turks live, and introduce their little 14-month-old boy to our audience).

We also cut the fancy deli, and cut the attempt to film merchants in the Grand Bazaar pitching their goofy, sentimental, and clever sales lines. (“Don’t I know you? Love is blind but never mind. Can I sell you something you don’t need? Please, where are you from? Special price today…just for you, my friend.”) Most wouldn’t talk to the camera, as they seem to have been recently burned by TV cameras doing negative stories. One guy said, “You just want to make us look bad.” I said, “No, I want to make you look good. Are you bad?” He said, “We are bad, yes. But we don’t want to lookbad.”

In the far end of the bazaar, my favorite goldsmith did his thing — melting the off-cuts and sweepings into a little brick of solid gold — for our camera. In three minutes, it went from loose shavings to molten metal poured into a mold, cooled in a bucket of water, polished with newspaper, and into my hands. Being the first to hold that brand-new, four-pound brick of gold there in that funky, ramshackle, hot hole-in-the-wall was fun…and great TV.

We worked all day. The security was as tight as London’s (where I was a couple of weeks ago). Guards with metal-detecting wands did a cursory wave over us as we entered the Grand Bazaar and the Spice Market.

I was tuned into the people around us. At first, it was the cruise-ship people — filling the Hippodrome square and the main street in the Grand Bazaar. Then, simply stepping into the thriving market streets beyond the touristy zone, there were absolutely no tourists and a festival of telegenic local faces.

There are a lot of tourists in town. At lunch, I met an enthusiastic group who took our Turkey tour last year and have returned to explore the country again. I think I met more American tourists in Istanbul today than I did all last week traveling through the Danish countryside (outside of Copenhagen, which has lots of Yanks).

I’ve always wanted to film Istanbul’s fish boats cooking up their fish right on their bobbing deck, and serving it up in hunks of bread wrapped in newspaper. (This Istanbul fast food is a sentimental memory from my teenage visit here.) With the boats rocking wildly, we bought our sandwiches. As I sat down to eat mine, a bird strafed me. It was as if yellow mustard (the expensive kind, with the grains in it) just squirted out of the sky. A streak landed on my sleeve, and another on the thigh of my pants. I heard a third squirt land in the vicinity of my sandwich. When I surveyed my fried mackerel, it was the same rustic yellow — camouflaging whatever may have landed there. Lale said, “That’s why we don’t like pigeons.” Simon tried to comfort me, saying, “It’s probably mostly mackerel, anyway.” I still couldn’t finish my snack.

The slick new city tram — notoriously crowded through the day — was not jammed after rush hour. So we hopped on and filmed it as we returned to our hotel. We met a beautiful woman in an amazing black scarf covered with bangles (imagine I Dream of Jeannie at an Irish wake). I asked her man where they were from…thinking Oman or Sudan or Kilimanjaro or something really exotic. They said Istanbul. I said, “Çok güzel”(very beautiful), and thought, “I guess if you need to cover your head…you can do it with panache.”

Oh, back to my reason for the blog entry: Should you travel to Istanbul? Who am I to say? Some people will, and some people won’t. Those who won’t…can see a great show about it on public TV this coming October.

I intended to be finished with Turkey — but the vivid images blow like snow drifts against my mind. I can’t leave until I dig out.

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Each night during my six-night stay in Istanbul, I was drawn to the Ramadan street fair — the rollicking food fest after the fast. Six floodlit minarets rocket into black sky above hordes of people. Sticky treats shine under swinging lamps. Young girls make head scarves fashionable. Turkish coffee cooks in copper kettles buried deep in red coals. Hourglass-shaped tea glasses fit fists — Anatolian hand-warmers. All the little children know two phrases in English: “How old are you?” and “What is your name?”

Standing on a ledge overlooking the jammed mosque courtyard, I don’t understand this scene. I talk with a brother and sister. Their dad is an imam. I say, “Where I come from, pastor’s kids are trouble — we call them PKs.” The sister said that would not be her…but it would be her brother.

My guide said the ruins that break through the Istanbul cityscape come with a message: the vanity of all aspiration to empire. It made me think. She also explained how moustaches in Turkey make a political statement. I think it was, “up is communist, down is fascist.” I took a note to make political-statement moustaches along with turban fashion a conversation on a future radio interview.

Walking across the Blue Mosque front yard, a man in a colorful traditional outfit saw my book and opened it to the title page. There he was, pictured with his traveling tea service. I took his photo posing with the photo of himself (he didn’t know I was the author) and gave him a lira (worth a bit less than a dollar). Walking away, I heard the coin hit the sidewalk and the man say in a disgusted voice, “Toilet money!” He must make plenty of money off that photo. It was the rudest encounter of my Istanbul visit. (Or, perhaps, I’m just really clueless about what to tip tea boys for their photo.)

Travel teaches me how we are so different, yet essentially the same. For instance, out of all this Turkish wonder, my friend, co-author, and guide Lale drove me to her home — down an eight-lane California-quality freeway to a gated community of condo-dwellers that could have been suburban Dallas.

Lale’s mother (in from Ankara to help with the new baby) greeted us with the five-month-old baby, “Zu-zu,” in her arms. Lale took the baby, turned to me, looked over her glasses, and said, “I’m a very logical woman.

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I know how to separate facts from emotion. But when it comes to my baby, the world stops spinning. My doctor and I talked. He said for a mother, hormones rule the body and there’s no way to control them.”