Time is a river. Or it seems like it. Not because it flows in a proscribed direction. Not because it is vaguely, ethereally, linear. And not because it is impossible to reproduce in its individual moments. No. And though these insights from Heraclitus and Aurelius are intuitive and accurate, they are missing something.
They are missing the capacity of a river to dissolve the edges. F = MA. Water is incredibly massive. When moving it has enormous force. This force, over the years, decades, and centuries has a way of smoothing and polishing the rough things exposed to it.
Time does a similar thing. It constantly, inexorably, smooths the vertices, polishes the surfaces, and otherwise scrubs the jaggedness within it. Time seems, to me, to have mass. But the strange mass it has is abstract and wholly foreign to our limited sensibilities. It doesn’t have the weight of protons and neutrons in combination, but it does carry a certain ontological heft and seemingly infinite ubiquity. Sturdy stuff, indeed.
I left Istanbul after 10 days, pondering the role of time in smoothing the edges of Empire. I’ve also been considering the idea of Empire itself. I can’t really describe it in words, but if one’s head is in the right space and open to the idea, the huge, heavy immanence of the institution settles upon you like a weighted blanket. Very physical and tangible.
In America words like “empire,” “imperial,” “power,” “colonialism,” and the like, are code for oppression, injustice, otherness, patriarchy, and many other Post-modern (thus uselesss) “progressive” shibboleths, which exacerbate a Western community prone to victim-centric default. And to be fair, there are clearly instances and examples of horror, depravity, and monstrosity woven within the grand tapestry of any Empire and which should not be ignored.
But, God! The beauty, the art, the architecture, the actualization of diverse minds to construct an extended society and its artifacts which would endure in full flourish, while smoothing away the rough and unsavory spots…these are a function of Empire, artifacts of that critical mass, not an accidental emergence.
Point is, from the moment Ida and I arrived, I felt the Empire(s) around me. Not because I was an expert on Byzantines or the Ottomans, or anything; I'm not. But because our senses were assaulted by the contours of the land, the delicate geometries of the mosques, the worn stone streets, the ancient fisheries of the Golden Horn, the raw, dense commerce, and the seething mass of a people who knew and loved their heritage and their fortune of being in this place at this time. We would be a small and insignificant part of it for a bit over a week.
My travel day was very long, bouncing from Vermont to drop off Emmy, my dog, with my kind and overly accommodating ex, and son, Ethan. Then down to Lebanon, NH to catch a shuttle to Logan. From Logan it was Schipol in Amsterdam, where I enjoyed frittes with mayo and curry-catsup for breakfast, a layover, and then a 3 hour hop over to Istanbul. In Istanbul I took a relaxing cab ride with a gritty black-eyed driver who smiled at me like the Cheshire Cat. Perhaps he knew what I was in for. There is a certain deep wisdom on the street.
My enigmatic and beautiful partner, Nereida (Ida), had been in the city since noon, flying over from Tirana, Albania, her hometown. (Note: I could write a book about this woman...or poems, but that’s a different project, so you’ll just have to infer things from this telling.) Ida had been in Europe for two and a half weeks already, visiting her niece in Milan, her brother in Siena, and then extended family and friends in Albania. In fact, after spending our time in Turkey together, Ida would then travel back to Durres, Albania for some beach life, and soon after that to Nea Makri, Greece, to visit her cousin. Ridiculous. She got very tan.
I had made reservations at several AirBnBs for the trip. Ida checked in to our first place a couple of blocks away from Galata Tower and texted me, “This is Magic.” And it was. For her that enchantment was a function of the arched brick ceilings, the beautiful ceramics, the sensual art on the walls, the deep maroon accent paint, the couches and cushions, and the outdoor deck overlooking the tower and the incessant street bustle. But it was enchanting for me too because when I arrived, seeing her was a sight for sore eyes. And I was also famished. I'd been thinking we could go out for a quick kebap or something, but we didn’t have to. Laid out on the black marble kitchen countertop when I walked in was an array of comestibles that made me smile ear to ear. Ida did this because she knew I’d be exhausted. What a spread: feta cheese, tomatoes, local olives, fresh bread, cherries, just-picked figs, sausages, olive oil. It was incredible. We ate, laughed, chatted, looked at the pulsating late night crowd on the street below, and went to bed, ready to start things in earnest in the morning.
We had no plan. No day-to-day programme of timelined events. We both decided to make this as organic and emergent a holiday as we could. We had a list of things we knew we wanted to do and see, but no order, no imperative, no schedule.
We woke up, got ourselves together and then ambled out to search for a coffee shop. I think there must’ve been 35,000 coffee shops just on our block. The Turks love their coffee (and tea). The preference seems to be for espresso drinks but there were plenty of traditional Turkish coffee places around as well; but that potion was kind of thick, murky, and sweet for me. So, we chose a place, and enjoyed espressos together. But the process was entirely different from the usual American take on coffee. Here in the US, drinking coffee is a caffeine delivery method, done in the car, while walking, while answering e-mails. In Europe, it is a social event. So, though I had a mere double espresso, and Ida a macchiato, the event lasted an hour or so as we sipped, looked, commented, chatted, and came up with things we could do next.
In this case it was to take a cruise on the Bosphorus. We headed down to the port facility on the Golden Horn, bought tickets, went on board the vessel, and got underway. It was a 45 minute cruise which took us out into the Strait and passed ancient imperial (and imperious) buildings right on the waterline. There were palaces, schools, mansions, mosques, and so many swimmers on the shoreline. On the way back we cruised down the Asian side of Istanbul, past Uskudar, the area where we’d be staying in a few days. We then came back into port, disembarked, and off we went, exploring, people watching, speculating, and sharing comfortable silences. It was hot, the sun was fierce, and my hair is short. Note to self: get a hat.
Another routine that emerged for us was that every afternoon, at some random point, we’d stop somewhere for a beer. This usually entailed an extended conversation with the proprietor who wanted us to enjoy a full meal at his establishment as well. This would involve a personalized and complete review of his multi-page menu, stories of how delicious this particular aubergine meze was since it was his mother’s special recipe, his competitive prices and aesthetic sensibilities, compared to the 5 or 6 identical restaurants on this alleyway, and so on. We’d thank him, say it was too early for dinner or too late for lunch but that we’d be back and could we please, for the love of God, just have a beer.
The local beer is Efes, a crisp cold lager. Perfect for the weather. One day we sat down at a place where the manager spoke impeccable English, so I had a conversation about local beers with him. There are lager places and there are ale places in the Universe. Turkey is a lager place. One needs the cold, bready, heady lighter elixir on hot days. So refreshing. I saw a beer which I hadn’t seen before called Bomonti and ordered one. The guy stopped me and, with perfect diction, said, “You may not want that kind. It’s a “meme” beer. Teenage girls post pictures of themselves and their friends on Insta drinking it, to get likes. But only the popular girls.” So, because I am an enemy of Instagram, influencers, and our entirely too self-involved (global) culture, and I don’t want to be a popular girl, I went back to my bog standard Efes and talked to my girlfriend on matters of Life, Love, Family, Culture, Books etc, using real words and very much in-person.
These afternoon sessions became our routine and we continued to learn a lot about one another’s minds, dreams, souls, likes, dislikes, families, aspirations, and all the rest. This vacation of 9 days would be the longest time we’d have spent together thus far in our relationship. A big deal. Spoiler Alert: It was so easy! I found out later that Ida was a bit nervous about this trip. It was a really big deal for her (and me too, if I'm being honest.)
Heading back to our place at Galata, I decided to embarrass myself and order an ice cream cone in the packed square. Turkish ice cream cone stands are renowned for having good ice cream, but even better, for having a very public show where using various sleights of hand and many quick ruffles and flourishes, the customer ends up with, over the course of 30 seconds, an empty cone, a dab of ice cream on his nose, and a red face, not able to figure out what happened. You get the cone in the end, and the crowd gets a show. Ida was cracking up at me until I rudely forced her to get one too. Turnabout is fair play. The pistachio was very good.
When I went running for the first time it was an event. I thought I’d put together a decent 5 mile course taking me from Karakoy, where we were staying, over the Galata Bridge, and into the Old Town, along the waterfront, back over the Attaturk Bridge, and home. But it was not to be. Construction barriers forced me off my route and up into the town, where I meandered in what I thought was the general intended direction, dodging cars, Vespas, and girl gangs, only to find myself back at the Galata Bridge with a surly attitude and a vexatious gut, necessitating a visit to a water closet, which I found in a local restaurant. Thus relieved, I finished my run trying to intentionally get lost in the back streets and alleyways of Karakoy, which I did and where I discovered cheese shops, soapmakers, a Harley bar, 10,000 coffee shops, a burek purveyor or two, and, oddly, three or four lamp stores. Yes, I wondered about genies. But only because of an unhealthy obsession with Barbara Eden when I was young.
Freshly showered, Ida and I left our place mid-morning to take on the day. After our compulsory coffee shop experience we walked back over the bridge to the old town retracing my steps from the run. So many fisherfolk on that bridge, and also couples- lots and lots of couples. Turkey is a Muslim country, and the different modes of dress, especially amongst the women was so interesting. Some wore the full burka, but most wore the hijab. Women in burkas would typically walk and dine together, whilst women in hijabs would mix it up- some with their partners, some with other women. I was particularly fascinated with the posses of Muslim school girls we’d see. They were largely a homogenous group, made distinct from one another by the colors and patterns of their scarves. They’d talk amongst themselves, eye the boys walking nearby, whisper about them, and sometimes overtly flirt. Hilarious. Natural. Normal. So universally human.
Public affection is liberal and ubiquitous in Istanbul. Surprisingly so and far more demonstrative than that which I observed in Egypt back in ‘91. We’d see couples in traditional garb holding hands, canoodling, lolling about on tea room café cushions just enjoying each other’s company. Over the course of the trip we saw at least 10 Muslim newlywed couples roaming through the streets with their entourages, posing, taking pictures, looking striking, glowing. It was nice to see. Life is better when surrounded by happy people.
Ida unilaterally designated me navigator and tour guide, so when we did finally have some basic plan emerge it was my job to execute. I had no choice in the matter; she’s tough. This day would be busy as we set out to visit the Blue Mosque and the Hagia Sofia, and then close out in the evening by seeing a Dervish show at a local cultural center/museum. We crossed the Galata Bridge, Ida looking very Italian in her white linen and tasteful accessorizing, and me sporting a newly purchased blue Trilby from the night before so as to mitigate the skinferno. Paired with shorts and a linen shirt gifted to me from Milan, I looked like a Marcello or Gaetano. I experienced many a “ciao.”
We entered the waterfront region called Eminönü in the Old Town, passing a magnificent mosque on the harborside named Yeni Camii, which translates to “New Mosque.” Well, it turns out the “New” mosque was built in 1660. That’s 116 years before the founding of the United States. “New.” The more I travel and understand history, the more I realize that the Age of America is more like a rounding error compared to actual empires that existed. I have friends who would insist that America was and is an Empire and see the word (and world) through its lens. It’s a conversation. But myopia usually loses.
So onward we walked up a gradual hill weaving our way through bustling markets, adjacent to lively street shops, dodging trolleys, and people-watching. The density of commerce in this city is astounding. But it is raw and unbridled trade, not glossily managed transactions with sound MBA practices like you may see at a Target, an Amazon, or a Dunkin'. This street-emergent capitalism just is - not associated with an ideology or political party, not tending, teleologically, toward any theoretical end, just pure frenetic trade; and it was wonderful to participate in...and not as a dunderheaded and naïve consumer of souvenirs, novelties, and party tricks, but as a self-aware visitor trying to integrate, observe, and learn.
We continued climbing and arrived at the large area on the hill where sits the Hagia Sofia and the Blue Mosque- two mandatory sites to visit in Istanbul. Interesting that there were more Turkish tourists in the lines than other nationalities. The Blue Mosque, completed in 1616, was spectacular, festooned with domes and minarets and then the main interior a brilliant azur, glowing from the blue tiles covering most every surface. It is an active mosque so believers were worshipping as we walked around barefoot on the soft rug inside. Ida, and all other women covered their hair out of respect with a loaner hijab. It was a gorgeous space aesthetically and spiritually.
Quick aside on monuments and something worth unpacking. In America, we tend to tear down statues and other cultural artifacts which are associated with oppression in any form and however defined, and this is energized by: (1) emotional outrage (usually uninformed by logic); (2) obnoxious and strident voices that have a platform; (3) utter lack of consideration of alternative perspectives, and; (4) actual emotional discomfort. Most of the activist class, however, while generally big-hearted and with benevolent intent, is so far removed from the oppression, that it seems more a matter of lemminglike adherence to an ideology of grievance, than outrage come to honestly. Hypocrisy abounds. Point is, by their tortured logic, shouldn’t the world insist that the Hagia Sofia is torn down and demonized since it is an artifact of two empires, both of which practiced forms of systemic oppression? And yet there is no outcry to tear it down. Funny, that. Why?
Want to go get a beer? I’ll tell you exactly why.
We grabbed a roasted corn on the cob from a local vendor and maybe a simit (Turkish bagel) too, and headed over to queue up for the Hagia Sofia. This complex is absolutely, breathtakingly magnificent, made more so by the fact that it was built by Justinian and Theodora (the first true power couple, and seemingly so much in love) in 537 AD, as a church in the eastern Roman Empire. One looks at this structure and wonders if anyone could attempt to build it today. Aliens may have helped, I think. Like they did with the Egyptian pyramids and the Mayan temples. Probably the lizard people from Zeta Reticuli. We went in, the carpet was soft, people were sitting down just breathing in the massive and glorious inner chamber, and it was so quiet and peaceful. So peaceful. So quiet.
I laid back a bit on my elbows. Then I promptly fell asleep. But this was not appreciated by the roaming security guys and I was less than politely asked to stand-up and leave. At least that’s what I think. It was in Turkish. He may have said, “Good Afternoon, Respected Sir. Would you like to drink shots of raki and eat Adana kebabs with us? It is lunchtime.” Unlikely. I was mortified, hung my head, and shambled out.
Hand-in-hand we ambled on further, an hour to pass before the Dervish show, so we stopped for some conviviality to bide the time. Things were uttered. Smiles alit. Eyes were gazed into. We walked some more, marveling over seeing so many stray cats-there are 125,000 of them in the city. How did they stay alive and why weren't the lethargic dog chasing them? It must have been an interspecies détente. Or phenobarbital in the Alpo.
The Dervishes are a Sufi sect inspired and impelled by the mystical poetry of Rumi. Before the show we toured an historical display on the Dervishes which told us the story of their garb, their beliefs, their culture, and their unique ecstatic dancing. The demonstration, which was actual practicing Sufis conducting their ceremony, was very moving in both a figurative and literal sense. A traditional Turkish Sufi musical ensemble, replete with baglama, oud, and kaval opened with various set pieces aligned with Koranic scripture. The music was deep, dark, and moody. My buddy Jim would’ve loved it because he’s a crypto-Emo. Then the 5 dancers came out. The apex of the session was the spinning, or whirling (“Whirling Dervishes,” you see). Physiologically, I didn’t understand how what they did was even possible. They would spin for several minutes, stop and be still, then spin some more, cued by the music. One hand was splayed and held high, fingers heavenward; the other hand splayed and held low, symbolizing the connection of God to Man. But they never lost their balance, staggered, became nauseous, or seemed the least bit affected by the constant vortex of their belief. I was amazed. Then a couple of Dutch assholes sitting next to me got up in the middle of the magic, after whispering to one another about how bored they were and walked out. Rude and deserving of nut kicks and throat punches.
One day was all about the Grand Bazaar. But before that journey I went on another run across the bridge through the markets and up the hill to see the Suleymanye Cammi. From the pier side, this mosque dominates the view across the Golden Horn. It was so magnificent I initially thought it was the Blue Mosque when I first beheld the hillside vista over the water. I knew I had to climb to get to the place, but had no specific route, just a general direction. So, I entered one of the cobblestoned street markets and was immediately swarmed by a dense wave of humanity conducting vigorous trade. Tourists, some locals, all undulating in and out of the souvenir shops, the cheese purveyors, the spice mongers, the pillow seller, the clothing boutiques, the bakeries, the confectioners, the hardware kiosks, all of it. I was immersed and loving it for about half a mile and then I egressed and ended up in a neighborhood adjacent to the mosque, and made my way over. The structure, built in 1557, was striking and a bit intimidating, the grounds were well-kept, tidy, and filled with school kids there for a field trip. I love that Istanbul is such a core place/idea within the Turkish education system. They say that the capital, Ankara, has an inferiority complex.
After my return, and a shower, Ida and I walked back across the bridge to the Old Town and headed up the hill adjacent to the trolley line. Following signs to the Grand Bazaar, we finally arrived. We were in awe. It is one of the oldest continually operating markets in the world and it is huge, almost beyond description. It is completely covered and comprised of 61 streets, 4000 shops and sits on an area of around 31,000 square meters. There are purveyors of gold, furniture, leather, jewelry, carpets, clothes, linens, sweets, coffee, foods, and it seemingly never ends. After walking around in the maze of streets for a while, me being mistaken for an Italian and Ida for a Turk (again), we stopped for an espresso and had a nice conversation about why there are so many green eyes in Turkey. It was a pleasant respite from the vigorous retail and the espresso was grand. We also had a half hour high pressure carpet sales encounter with a charming man, who, let’s just say, respected my directness.
One day Ida and I took a long walk to Balat, the old Jewish section of Istanbul filled with steep hills and well known for its beautiful homes painted bright, lively colors. We stopped at a café and enjoyed a big chicken-stuffed gözleme whilst being serenaded by a toothless fiddle player and his jolly companion.
That night, walking back to our apartment I got scammed in the most smooth and wonderful way. We were walking up the steep hill about 5 feet behind a shoeshine guy. One of his brushes dropped onto the ground and I picked it up and said “Sir, Sir, you dropped this.” He thanked me profusely and then without missing a beat, had my shod feet on his box and he was cleaning my dusty shoes, speaking good English and asking me if I had ever been to LA. The patter was priceless. I was helpless; it was if I had no choice. Needless to say, I ended up paying for a shoeshine. Worth every penny of the two bucks it cost me. The next night, we followed another shoeshiner and watched him play the same game and take another tourist for a ride using the identical technique. Brilliant.
After a respite, at about 10:30 at night, we walked a mile up the road to the Taksim section of Istanbul, considered to be the city's pulsating heart. It was so alive, so vibrant, so interesting. The streets were jammed with shoppers, eaters, merry-makers, and people watchers like us. It’s like there is no down time in the city at all. It honestly doesn’t seem to sleep. We did notice in our daily excursions and reconnoitering Taksim that there weren’t any supermarkets around, just small shops. I’m sure they must exist somewhere, perhaps in residential neighborhoods, vice retail districts. Paging Trader Joe.
After a few days we left the European side of the City and headed over to Asia. We took a water taxi from the docks in Karakoy over to Uskadar, an ancient section of the city that has existed in some form since occupied by the Greeks, as Chrysopolis, from the 7thC BC. Disembarked, and enjoying the calming sound of the muessin’s call to prayer, we navigated our way to our next apartment, which turned out to be absolutely lovely. While the interior wasn’t as exotic as our place in Galata, it did feature an enclosed balcony nested up high, with spectacular views of the Bosphorus. In the mornings I would put on some mellow, Turkish music, make coffee and enjoy it with Ida while sitting on that balcony. There were freight ships, tour boats, recreational sail boats, and shore swimmers, all making their way on the water. But there was also a clean line of sight back to the European side where we had superb views of the Dolmabahçe Palace, several museums, and Bahcesehir University, all stunning and imposing sights. At night, late, and before bed, we’d watch the Bosphorus in the darkness and marvel at the calm beauty. It reminded me of being underway somewhere in the world, in my old Navy days. As peaceful and serene as it was there, it was hard to imagine that there is a furious hot war going on only 370 mi away.
Uskadar was less frenetic, more residential, and with far fewer tourists than Galata, Karakoy, and the Old Town. We’d enjoy our morning routine, and head out walking. The sightseeing highlight of that part of the trip was visiting the Sakirin Mosque. The long walk there involved a visit to a strangely serene circular library and photography exhibit (Istanbul fishermen in the late ‘50’s), more espresso of course, a walk through probably the most epic and colorful produce market I have ever seen, and a side trip to enjoy some freshly-made bureks as a snack, Ida’s favorite (and, btw, a feature of our second date, which is another tale.)
The mosque was remarkable. The most striking feature was a massive and gorgeous chandelier set within a highly contemporary structural form. The interior was composed by a female interior designer, Zeynep Fadillioglu, and with highly egalitarian features in mind, especially as concerns female worshippers. The men would be on the ground floor surrounded by the openness and the women were on the second floor in the direct glow of the chandelier’s incandescence. Ida and I were sitting very peacefully in the back of the mosque, observing the worshippers and just enjoying the silence, when in walked a horde of rambunctious Italian tourists, several of whom were Marxists (didn’t he say “Religion is the opiate of the masses?”), and who proceeded to make us laugh, as well as slightly harshed our mellow. Ida translated the hijinks for me as it all proceeded.
Then it ended and we went our separate ways.
This trip was revelatory. I learned about partnership. I learned about the power of Time. I learned about patience. Mostly I learned about moments, appreciating them, and how finite their number is, in this Life. There is power in our transience.
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