Questing for Olden Times on the Iberian (Portugal-Part 1 of 6)

A Quick “Why?”

I’m here on this trip because:

 (1) I crashed and burned on the Appalachian Trail.  I was attempting my second thruhike, injured my hip somehow and it was too painful to continue. Disappointing, but we must move on. That gave me plenty of time and some resources to expend wisely.

(2) My youngest son, Ethan, is taking care of my place.  He shifted his life around to come down, support me, and stay in Burlington while I was on the AT. He was planning to work, live, mind things, help my Mom when needed,  and continue to work on his music in the studio he built in one of my guest rooms.  I didn’t want to compromise that experience for him after coming off trail. So I flew away.

(3) I wanted to.  I like to travel. (I’d much rather my favorite traveling companion and native European, the lovely Nereida, were with me, but she’s still working hard as an educator, so will only be able to join me for the Morocco piece). Plus, I retired a bit early just so I could enjoy life while I’m still robust enough. This is that.

When the AT hike ended, I expected lacerations of self-pity and a difficult recovery from the disappointment. That lasted all of 24 hours.  I was not slashed and exsanguinating from the failure.  I was punctured, it was uncomfortable, I didn’t bleed much, and then I recovered.  Move on, don’t dwell. Now I have some time and a little treasure unused on the AT.  What’s next?  I began brainstorming travel ideas and settled on the itinerary I’m on.  

Where I’m Going & Kinda How

Portugal-Morocco-Vietnam-Singapore-Malaysia. (as of the writing this is in flux because my Morocco to SEA flights have been canceled due to the Iran conflict. I'll sort it out and report back but it may entail adding Istanbul and Bangkok, and shortening stays in Vietnam.) Almost 2 months on the road. I have rejected the overzealous planner in myself, and decided to take this trip as it comes.  Sure, I have foods to eat, sites to visit, and sights to see, but I’ll plug those into my days as the mood strikes.  I also want to run in these places because that is a great way to learn about a city, possibly get lost, act pathetic, plead for directions, and so doing get invited into locals' houses to drink and eat and otherwise assimilate. I also intend to write about what interests me whether it does or does not directly relate to where I am on the journey. So, this series of posts may be a bit of a Rochester Garbage Plate full of loose themes, broken connections, and random musings, all thrown in a blender. Apologies ahead of all that.

I love getting there.  I despise going there.  Travel days are worse than a blood draw from a drunken phlebotech. So many things can go wrong:  infinite lines, delays,  cancellations, noisy construction, document drama, losing things, weak-ass customer service, expensive Old Fashioneds, immigration officer attitudes, lack of sleep, jet lag, undelicious and hyper-priced airport meals, repetitive announcements,  broken patellae from flight cart collisions, and generally being surrounded by those souls who have similar angst. Those things. But, once the preemptive handwringing is over, one must simply commit to the inevitable ass pain. And I did, because there would be a lot of that on this journey. I packed my carry-on (nothing checked, Ida-style), threw my computer in my little backpack and, passport in hand, departed the pattern.

Ethan dropped me off in Waterbury to catch the train to Grand Central. It was March 17, St Patrick’s Day.  Other than my less than charitable opinion of that gritty city, it all went to plan. I was greeted at GC by drunken and shouting revelers, very few of whom seemed like the typical phosphoresent white Irishman one expects; but I was taken by how much a Bengali guy in a hockey shirt could imitate one. I walked outside for a while before catching the LIRR to Jamaica and was delighted by the numerous interactions an old Asian NYPD traffic cop had with taxi drivers.  I couldn't stop watching. The language was salty. The encounter was sweet. Navy cursing is one thing and I appreciate the masters of the craft; though I decry the coarsening of the world, generally, and to which I contribute too frequently.  But that has less to do with swearing and more to do with the fact that no one reads Hardy’s poetry anymore.  Thomas, not Tom, though my attitude was Venomous.  Anyway, NY cabbies have mastered the color of oaths more effectively than Monet mastered that of paint. I got to JFK early and without incident.

My focus in Lisbon would be to just walk and explore and observe.  And eat and drink.  There were certain comestibles I had to try, and did. I skipped out on the octopus though because I don’t eat problem solving aliens, as a life rule.  

The Diplomat’s Wife

But, before I get into the Lisbon part of THIS trip, let me share a funny anecdote from the last time I was in town. This is the one about the time, three decades ago, when I was younger and stupider and made a big, bold pass at a beautiful woman. Right here in Lisbon. Actually right here off the coast of Lisbon, on the Rio Tagus, at a party on a US warship, the USS Guam (LPH-9), in the summer of 1996.

We were at the end of a deployment which had taken us into the Med and entailed visits to Naples (pizza, pasta, and a Sasquatch sighting), Trieste (we played drinking games with the angelic chaplain and had to carry him back to the ship), and Malta (we ate rabbit and searched for a local milk stout named Lacto).  I also led a visit to the Russian carrier, FADM Kuznetsov, as part of that trip, but that is a too long a story and shall be told another day. But it was peppered with hilarity, ribald toasts, and an fighter pilot transfixed by an underdressed woman on a Zippo lighter.  All this happened within the first 2 ½ months or so, then we were sent down to Liberia which was in the midst of yet another uprising. So the Navy, partnered with our USMC brethren, had to evacuate diplomats from Liberia, lest they die. 

So we did that.  We were down there off West Africa sailing around in boxes in the East Atlantic for about 3 months while our Marines were saving the day in the capital, Monrovia. When we were finally ordered to come home the government asked us to stop by Lisbon and have a party. Specifically, we were tasked to host a 4th of July party for Portuguese politicians and international diplomats.  We received special dispensation to serve alcohol on the ship, so the Supply Officer set up a bar on the flight deck. There were banners, flags, flowers, lanterns, and other decorative delights festooned around the party area. 

Our officer corps was invited to attend and there was a lot of excitement around it because: (1) it was a needed party after a long and grueling deployment, and (2) we were heading home.  Spirits were up. Mine was for sure, apart from the fact that my marriage was crumbling and I knew it was doomed.  It ended soon after I got back to Norfolk.  Hala was a force of nature, and together we created our beloved son, Alexander Gavin Hakim. She died a few years ago, in Cairo. God rest her soul. 

Officers were ordered to wear our service dress white uniforms.  For Navy guys this is what we call “choker whites,” the one Richard Gere wore in An Officer and a Gentleman. And honestly, they are an incredibly sharp fit - its white giving the illusion of moral purity, and the stiff neck collar implying integrity and forthrightness. An approximation of Truth, in my case back then. I'm slightly better now.  Even Steve Buscemi could score wearing that thing.

Greg, a good friend and my counterpart with the embarked Marine contingent and a strictly fundamentalist and devoted Christian (Young Earth Creationist, so hardcore - oh the discussions we had!), attended the party together. He did not drink. I may have had a beer or two before we began making our rounds in and amongst the beautiful people. 

I look across the flight deck to the bar area.  There was a line.  It was July in Lisbon so it was hot and humid. People needed refreshment.  Standing alone, demurely, quietly, serenely, and dressed in a form-fitting plum dress, was a woman who could have been Hera, had this been a dream. On an impulse, confident in my ridiculous suit, and emboldened by a couple of cocktails, depressed about my marriage and needing validation,  I strode over there and said, “Excuse me, Madame,” at this point she looked at me with massive brown eyes set into a smooth, tan, gently lived-in face, with smile lines as subtle as peach hair, and I, barely able to speak, continued, “ I am compelled to tell you that you are, without question or ambiguity,  the singularly most beautiful woman at this gathering tonight, and the fact that you are alone, is a tragedy and an insult.” She held my eyes, and responded, her breathy utterance informed by a distinctive and mysterious accent,  “Commander, that was a brazen and courageous entrance.  And were I not married to the <edited, Ha!> Ambassador, who happens to have run off to the rest room, I would be very interested to have you fetch my cocktail and continue the conversation in a quieter space.”  I wasn’t chastened.  I was delighted in a very strange way.  I bowed, walked away, and the evening progressed.

Lisboa and Its Things

That was that time. This time I arrived in Lisbon pretty much on-sked and presumably more emotionally mature.  The flight, a redeye, was fine, even though I didn't sleep well and was surrounded by 7th graders from NYC on a French field trip to Morocco.  Lucky ducks. They weren’t loud but their collective obsession with The Instagram was troubling.  Lots of 12 year old girls swiping, tittering, and pouting for photos. The boy sitting next to me, Jude, was on the spectrum and a sweet kid trying to interact, however awkwardly, with his classmates. 

Took an Uber into Belem to my apartment, and promptly napped. So deeply.   I rose after a couple of hours and went for a walk down by the river. The Tagus.  I hadn’t eaten so enjoyed a bifana, a simple spiced tender pork sandwich, on light-bodied bread, best served slathered with mustard, and a Superbock, brewed up in Porto (SUCH a rivalry between Lisbon and Porto, I later discovered). On my way down to the river I passed the Portuguese School of Equestrian Art.  I actually saw a Lusitano!  They are the global boss of war horses. Such bold and proud creatures. If Jack Kirby were to draw a horse it would be one of these.  He was being ridden by a guy in full 18thC regalia.  I liked the tri-corner hat and I want one.  The leotards I can do without because I already have running tights.

Over a few days I did a lot of walking and running around town. There were certain things I knew I “had to have.”  The bifana on the Belem waterfront was one.  Simple and delicious. One day I accidentally (that’s the best way) discovered a very moody, stony, narrow thoroughfare way back in the hidden regions of town called Green Street.  I went into a tiny establishment and had a less than stellar Old Fashioned (Luxardos, people. Please be civilized!), but that was countered by a couple of excellent fresh shrimp tacos and bolinhos de bacalhau.  Not overwhelmed with the volume of food but the quality was high, the flavors powerful, yet subtle. Cod, huge in Portugal, is mild, substantial, and healthy.

One cold and drizzly afternoon, I stumbled across another little closet-tavern and had chouriço assado, an inappropriately gigantic spiced sausage link flame-roasted in what seemed an ancient clay plate shaped and fired by the Gallaeci themselves. Fantastic, but wish they had served bread with it.  I also endured an unambiguous come-on at that place by two inebriated British women on holiday, one of whom was from Essex. I could tell from the pint of lip gloss she applied and the spackled-on adobe-colored. My final big meal in Lisbon was the bacalhao a bras, which is a delicious concatenation of cod, onions, very fine and crispy shoestring potatoes, all bound together by an egg.  They say it is the iconic Ronaldo’s favorite dish. The footballer though,  not the Portuguese McDonald’s icon, which would have been ironic, if not iconic.

I absolutely lose control when I am confronted with fresh crusty bread, good cheeses, cured meats, olive oil, and briny herbed olives. Helpless. It is my kryptonite. Sweets have never been a real temptation for me, though when I do eat them, I have a hard time not going stupid big. Why have one cannoli? Why a single sfogliatella? It doesn't make sense. And the chocolate-nut combo? This can also be challenging. Portugal tested me on this front. Their signature sweet pastry is called a pasteis de nata. It is essentially a finger-held mini-custard pie, sprinkled with cinnamon and powdered sugar. But the crust is a slightly denser version of a flaky croissant shell, and the custard is the most addictive, perfectly spiced, flame-crusted, ideally-bodied exemplar of decadent delectability in this country. Flan is good, but it can be too firmly gelatinous. Vanilla pudding is good but it can have a too sebaceous a mouthfeel. This threads the needle perfectly and consistently. And these temptation tarts are everywhere. This is something any discerning traveler must try. But beware, it may break you.

Riding Tram 28 on its full route between Praça Martim Moniz and Campo Ourique is another thing many travelers have raved about, so I thought I’d give it a try, the plan being to run a couple of miles from my place in Belem to pick it up in Campo, ride it to the other end, and then run back. Great plan, and got me 7 or so miles in the morning.  Crowds are notorious for the ride, and locals resent it because they actually have lives and need to go to work.  So, I went early.  I got to the stop and the only people there were a Norwegian Mom and her daughter.  We got on, and began the journey.

I’d highly recommend this.  It has a very “days-of-yore" feel to it with the aesthetics of the tram itself- the yellow color with numbers in a non-Arial font, the driver’s compartment, which was a Steampunk dream, and the aural landscape consisting of goose honks from the horn, banshee-like screeching of the brakes, and the clanking of the brass hand-turned throttle.  Super cool.  The route gives you a superb full scan of the city, complete with monument views, riverscapes, museum facades, and VERY close contact with pedestrians walking on the narrow channelized streets.  I could have easily stolen some guy’s hat, and I would have if it were a tri-corner.  And I should have because I may be a hat guy. Still not sure.  Been thinking about it since Istanbul in ‘23. Maybe a Trilby.  The only part of the ride I didn’t like was when an elderly lady came aboard and she was wearing tight leather pants. Too tight.  Too leather.  She was at least 75.  It was troubling to my innocent eyes.  I think we should unify as a global community and enact very clear international laws around phenomena such as this, and it would also, most obviously, apply to the appalling Speedo phenomenon - an egregious violation of the common man's sense of decorum.  To help recover from this insult, later in the day, I enjoyed a sweet cherry liqueur called, ginjinha. It looked like Cherry Nyquil, but tasted like Michigan, with a kick.

The Port of Porto and the Porto of Port

After a few days I took a train up to Porto, which would be the majority of my stay in Portugal. It was an easy, smooth, lovely ride made the more interesting by a pair of rambunctious identical twins alternating between racing rowdily in the aisle and watching, transfixed, a couple of teenage girls sitting a row across from me who were hand-painting ovos de páscoa, or Easter Eggs.  It was one of the most adorable things I’ve seen. These twins watching and cooing with wonder, and the girls gently, calmly, seemingly maternal well beyond their years, and while they continued painting, explaining to the kids exactly what they were doing and why. 

Playing Porto loose and free, I had nothing really on the docket hardwired up front, apart from doing my morning run, and walking hither, sometimes yon. Sure,  I had things on my list I wanted to see (bridges, churches, museums, towers) and eat, of course, but no real plan. This city is absolutely breathtaking. It’s architecture, its terrain, its design, its very clear relationship to the river. Its pride. It is a palpable thing. In some places people live in a city. In others people are part of the city's DNA.

My researches indicated that Porto is the home of the most beautiful bookstore in the world, Livrario Lello.  One needs tickets to get in (shocking, yes?) and the cash value of the ticket could be applied to a book purchase in the store.  Sweet business model.  I had a 12:15 appointment to get in, and of course I was there at 11:30 (Ida, you can stop laughing now).  So, with that 45 minutes, realizing I needed to take the edge off of my hunger, I went into a nearby restaurant and essentially inhaled a charcuterie board and small beer. The cured meats here are phenomenal and they must be tried.  I had presunto, smoky chouriço, spicy linguiça, and salpicão, accompanied by a goat cheese, a sheep cheese, fresh bread, briny green olives, and a dollop of fig jam.  A wonderful Iberian lunch before my literary excursion.  

The multi-story shop was indeed breathtaking, replete with soaring curvy staircases (legend has it that these stairs inspired the ones in Hogwarts, but this has been found to be false), Baroque woodwork, stained glass, shiny brass, and stacks and stacks of well-curated books in Portuguese, English, French, German, and Spanish. The architecture reflected the open space of ideas rather than a linear and logical order designed to contain. Libris cathedra.  Go to there.

I discovered that authentic Port wine is a treasure.  I had no idea.  I learned this because one of my Porto days was a wine tour well outside of the city, and into the mountain valleys. Bottom Line:  I loved it. But it was a scratchy start to the day.  The plan was to rally in the morning, travel by bus to visit a vineyard, stop for an hour long river cruise on the Douro, and cap it off with a farm-to-table dinner at another vineyard.  The day pretty much played out like that.  Except for the morning.  It was at once a laugh riot, and a claustrophobic fever dream.  We were to meet at 11:00 at the provided dot on the map, check in with the guide, mount the bus, and take off for the day.  Simple.  Well, apparently there was a problem with the on-line platform we used to register, and all of us missed the e-mail that said, “Hey, we’re going to be an hour late (...something to do with the boat trip)".  So we were there at 10:30 per the original instructions.  The gathering point was in front of a city theater, which apparently was open for business.

So we are waiting there.  A bus pulls up around 10:45 and we’re thinking, “Hey, maybe they solved it and we’re going to be on time.  Yay us.”  But no.  The doors opened up and out flowed a chaotic herd of 7th graders. They are shouting, poking, grabassing, all the things they do. So, it wasn’t our bus.  The kids, teachers futilely trying to control them, get into a cacophonous cluster they pretended was a line.  They are going to the theater. Five minutes pass.  Another bus pulls up, another platoon of hormonal tweens debarks.  This happens at least five more times until we have a deployed regiment of loud awkward students surrounding us and closing in.  We gather together like Leonidas’ troops at Thermopolyae poised for either an attack or the arrival of reserves to rescue us.

The bus came and we mounted up with no reported casualties. Our guide, Luis, was apologetic and gave us all a free bottle of wine at the end of the day.  The day was full.  We visited the Vinho Verde region where we got a wonderful tour of a vineyard from the suave and snarky owner/winemaker and snacked on fresh farmhouse bread and cheese while enjoying a fresh white, a sparking pink (he refused to call it a rosé), and a big bold smooth red.  Delicious.  From there we traveled to Pinhão and took a boat tour along the Douro, led by our loquacious and sassy captain, Lilly, who kept our glasses full of wine and our heads full of lore, one bit of which involved a Texan named TV Munson basically saving Port grapevines from a nasty aphid infestation, back in the 19th century.  Then we headed out to another mountainside winery to finish the evening with a beautiful fresh dinner of pork, salads, bread, cheese, fruit, and incredibly, and surprisingly, complex Port wines.  

The hostess, a full-on sommelier, was fantastic and I finagled a one-on-one with her for a tasting. I know very little of substance in this life, but lots of meaningless drivel, and I'm even better at speculation.  And I can bullshit and improvise with the best. Here’s the dialogue:

Her:  (She pours an ounce or so, delicately) “Smell deeply, notice the richness, notice the complexity.  Tell me what you feel.”

Me: “I feel the end of the world is nigh, but it just may be countered by the fig, the apricot, the plum, and the elderberry I am detecting right now and I feel more optimistic having encountered its scent."

She smiles, knowing I am full of it.

Her: “Now taste.  Let it wash over your tongue and breathe it in. Tell me what it says to you.”

Me: “It is quite verbal. Oh, what an inspired and refined tawny tease this is. At once surly and gentile, this unicorn sweat adds a point of IQ with every sip. I came here bewildered by Gen Z memes and depart having mastered Derrida. Bold notes of ripe apples, sage, and dry raw honey are nicely undergirded by a well-bodied, delicately balanced demerara punch.   This should be enjoyed at a forest picnic, a gathering of friends around a summer fire, or at a museum. It makes me want to dance and sing.  And I neither dance nor sing.” Or words to that effect. I wish I could have said it in Portuguese.

She laughed, knowing I know nothing. So that was fun. Cheers to that.

Run to Eat. Eat to Run.

I'd mentioned before that one of the ways I like to learn about a city is to run it. And I've done plenty of that in Portugal. Probably 80 or so miles to date. But one day in Porto, I splurged and went on a 15K "run tour" with a local company managed by local racers. My guide and companion for the morning was Paulo, and man was it worth it. Paulo loves his city (but has a secret passion for Madeira, where he ultimately wants to end up), and even more, loves to share it with guests. We ran all over the place, seeing ancient churches, beautiful gardens, a Michelin 2-star restaurant, the local historic train station, Port wine processing warehouses, soaring bridges, towers, hidden stone back-alleys. It was terrific.

And of course, other than the tripe stew, which I have no interest in after having had a bad experience with that befoulment in Romania one time, Porto has a couple of classic dishes:  The Francesinha, a monster of a cheese sauce-covered multi meat-layered sandwich crowned with an egg and sitting on a bed of fries (batatas), and The Cachorrinho, a Porto version of a hot dog consisting of a split local sausage, cheese, piri piri sauce, all forced into a light and airy roll and pressed like a panini and cut with surgeon-like precision so you can match each bite with a swig of beer. The Cach was a snack.  The Fran was a project that I waited until 4 days into the Porto leg and after a long-ish run to try.  Every person I mentioned that sandwich to said a version of, "Have it for lunch.  It is too much, too heavy for late in the day.  You'll never sleep." Good advice.  They were both tasty, unique experiences I will remember and share until dementia hits.

The Longing

Portugal has been wonderful.  But there is no one experience or location, or food that will conjure this country for me.  Rather it is a word, a concept, an idea. It begins and ends with "Saudade." This is a word I never knew, but encountered as I began to look into the country and put my general plan together. I saw it referenced after listening to a playlist of Portuguese Fado music.  Fado, a music unique to Portugal, reflects a deeply felt melancholy.  The chords on the stringed instruments, inevitably minor, combined with the throaty, intense vocals which seem at times almost non-biological, evoke a soulful existential despondence, but peppered, however slightly, with hope.

Saudade is, at its root, longing. But an existential longing which is nowhere close to simply wanting or desiring. It is to wanting what ennui is to boredom. I enjoyed talking with Portuguese locals about this. Portugal was an incredibly important sea-faring nation. A force in world history. They had ships everywhere. They say that the idea of saudade is directly linked to that and the longing the sailors felt for home when they were at sea and the longing their loved ones felt while they were awaiting a safe return from these long voyages. But it grew into more.

Portugal was a global empire. Far flung and exotic and enabled by its maritime excellence. Galleons, carracks, caravels - these ships dominated the oceans and its commerce for most of the 16th century. But it weakened. It withered. It collapsed. Yet the Portuguese today still dream of reestablishing those days of power, of reputation, of dominance. And so saudade reflects this intense historical longing as well. It is not taught, a man told me. It is absorbed by living here, and it grows over time in a person. So when a Portuguese person listens to Fado, for example, they simply get it. No analysis required. Beautiful

I love this concept.  It is very real, arguably very vague, and subjective, yet it almost transcends language to signify a fundamental Truth.  It resonated with me very deeply.  It makes me think about the general longing people (most definitely including Thine Truly) have for Truth, for a tonic to the Chaos, for Love, for God.  This latter point, my personal explorations into religious practice, is one I will attempt to unpack in a later post. Suffice to say that I have, and have had, an intense longing to uncover the Source of the Good, the Source of the Moral, the Source the Idea of Human Perfectibility.  I’ll leave it at that for now.  But, I depart Portugal with gratitude for giving me better language to deploy. Also those pastries.

Thanks for reading.

 

The Byzantine Brutality of Being Human

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.