Friday was Cathy's first full day in Istanbul.
I wanted it to be amazing. I was still reeling from the fact that my camera wasn't working and was trying to process the lamentable blow in the most positive way I could --
What does it mean for you if your camera won't work? It means your life will be simpler. It means that you'll have less the carry. It means that you'll have to work harder to take decent pictures with what you have. It means that when you're supposed to have a good camera again, you will have a good camera again. Maybe this old Nikon not working simply means there's supposed to be space saved for something else.
-- but I'm still very much human and despite my positive thoughts, I struggled with containing/dismissing the sad. I really hope the sad didn't leak into the rest of the day (I did spend an inordinate amount of time staring at Nikon cameras through store windows).
It was great fun to watch my friend load her plate full of Turkish breakfast foods in the upstairs dining room. Egg, eggplant, tomatoes, cucumber, cheese, sausage, figs and simit (the ubiquitous seed-covered Turkish bagel I haven't been able to try). Between mouthfuls of white cheese and beef salami, we discussed the virtues of eating salad for breakfast.
The original to-do-list I'd sent Cathy had museums and mosques scheduled for Friday. As her hotel overlooks the Blue Mosque and is within walking distance of the Hagia Sophia and the Basilica Cistern, I figured it would be best to spend the first day working through the jet-lag (it's a formidable nine hour time difference between Istanbul and Grand Junction) with gentle activities. Like looking at minarets and pretty tiles and perhaps nibbling upon some meaty roasted chestnuts.
But my tough Colorado friend seemed chipper enough (Coloradans have a reputation for being robust) and the day was bright and warm. As the weather for the rest of the week looked positively abysmal, it seemed a shame to while away the sunshine inside mosques and under the ground.
"How would you like to do some outdoorsy things today and we can save the indoor sightseeing for another time when the weather is nasty?"
"Sounds good to me," my friend smiled gamely.
I love flexible people.
So we wandered through the grey Blue Mosque courtyard and past the dusty rose Hagia Sophia. We followed the tram in the direction of Kabatas and found our way into a family art shop wherein the heavily whiskered father proudly showed us his paintings as well as the art of his daughter, his son and his wife. I thought the pieces were poignant and expressive and appreciated the way this creative family used mixed media. We thanked the bearded man (who insisted that I would be famous someday. "A famous artist, why not?"), picked our way down the narrow stairs and recommenced our course beside the tram.
"Here's Gulhane Park," I said as we approached the entrance in the formidable stone walls. "The trees are mostly dead, but it's still a refreshing walk."
"I think trees are more beautiful in winter," Cathy turned into the park, striding ahead of me. "They are more defined."
So we strolled through the hibernating Gulhane Park and passed by all the tourists drinking expensive çay overlooking the sea.
Cathy took pictures of the view. I looked at the tourists drinking çay and wished I could take pictures of the old-fashioned Turkish teapots.
You have more space in your life. If your camera doesn't work, it just means more space.
After Gulhane, stopped at a newspaper stand in Eminonu to purchase an Istanbul Kart for Cathy.
"It will make traveling on buses and ferries and trams easier and a bit cheaper," I explained. "All you have to do is swipe it at the entrance and you can get on for any amount of time. It's pay as you go, so you can refill it whenever you run out of money."
Istanbul Kart safely tucked away in blue Marmot bag, we walked across the Galata bridge, dodging smelly fishermen and groggy simit sellers and young men carrying tea to the swarthy fishing Turks.
"These fishermen are always here. Rain or shine," I happily shared a tidbit of local culture.
"What's that mosque back there called?"
"Umm... I don't know. I haven't been in that mosque."
"Okay," Cathy cheerfully responded to my inexcusable ignorance.
Well, damn. I can talk about football and food and film and family life, but I'm hopeless when it comes to history.
We stopped at a few knick-knack and clothing shops on the way to the tower. Cathy purchased some felted scarves for her daughters and politely inquired about the price of bathrobes. The shopkeepers seemed thrilled to death that someone would willingly walk into their stores (as opposed to being wrangled in), but were disgruntled with my affable friend simply said, "Thank-you very much, I'll think about it," and walked back out.
"Do you want to climb up the tower?" I asked when we finally huffed our way to the top of the hill. "It costs a few lira and it's just for the view. I haven't done it yet because I'm perfectly content with other views, but it's something a lot of people do."
"No, I don't think we need to do that."
I should have asked on the way down. People never want to climb something tall when they've just arrived at what they think is the top.
So we moved on to another clothing shop that had some fun, hipster outfits I thought Janet might enjoy, but ended up just browsing and leaving. I think I've lost touch with my friends back home in more ways than a lack of communication. When I picked out pieces I figured could appeal to my old university classmate, her mother contemplated them briefly (because she's polite) and then said, "Well, it would look very cute on you, but it's just not Janet."
Argh. Either I'm completely out of touch or I've grown unbelievably self-centered.
"Do you want some pomegranate juice?" I redirected and regrouped as we walked further up the hill towards Istiklal Street.
"Maybe on the way back," Cathy demurred. "I'm still so full from breakfast."
mmmm, Turkish breakfast. You are completely debilitating until at least noon. Unless of course, you are served at noon. Then you are debilitating until after dinner.
We walked up and down Istiklal, popping in and out of particularly interesting looking shops on the way. Near the end of the stroll, Turkish breakfast finally started to wear off and mild pangs of hunger began to gnaw.
Hunger is always a sublime sensation when positively surrounded by delicious foodstuffs.
"You should try iskender kebap," I advised my famished friend. "It's a dish of thinly sliced doner on top of bread, covered with a red pepper/tomato paste, drizzled with butter and served with a massive spoonful of yogurt. Everything in Turkey is served with a massive spoonful of yogurt."
We found a restaurant that had iskender on the outdoor menu, but when we took our seats upstairs, we were disappointed to discover that the outdoor menu had been full of lies, as the only iskender this joint had to offer was in the form of iskender pizza (never have I been so upset at the appearance of Italian food).
"Do you want to leave?" I said after a few moments of silently searching the menu.
"Yes, let's go," Cathy rose to her feet without hesitation and we abandoned our table as the server leaped to take our order.
"Thank-you very much, but we're going somewhere else," my friend cheerfully called over her shoulder to the downtrodden and confused young man.
And the somewhere else we went proved to be a great introduction to Turkish food. We sat in front of the fire as the restaurant staff prepared plates of mixed grilled goodies and thinly sliced salads for us. Fatty, charred lamb pieces, grilled chicken and spicy adana kebap were consumed with pickles and onions and chili flakes. They tried to speak to us in their broken English, and it was a surprising and rewarding sensation to finally be the member who spoke more of the local language and to be able to translate bits and pieces of Turkish to Cathy.
"Order ayran," I advised. "Most people in Istanbul drink ayran with meat. Watered down yogurt with meat and tea or cola with fish." at least I know what Turkish people eat, I tried to make myself feel better for knowing so little of Istanbul's history. I understand the culture now... I just haven't the faintest idea about the culture two thousand years ago.
As the weather was too beautiful to squander inside the tram, we walked beside the tracks, passed by another gallery and ended up back at the hotel. Pomegranate juice and roasted chestnuts were bought and consumed (although Cathy nearly choked to death on the pulpy pomegranate juice. This was very alarming to me. I nearly killed my friend on a seemingly benign cup of juice on her first day in Istanbul) and we finished walking back down to the bridge.
She's dodging traffic much better than I did on my first day, I thought as the bundled up woman successfully navigated her way through congested and crazed city-center traffic.
I pointed out a few restaurants on the way back to the hotel where she could find a dinner of Turkish meze (salad) while I was out teaching my lesson near the airport. Then I put the apples to apples game in my bag, pushed "play" on my favorite podcast and set off to Florya.
The Friday airport guys (who are always so much fun) met me at THY Habom at six o'clock and whisked me away to a restaurant where we practiced English over dinner.
"In English, this is "parsley"," I pointed at the curly leaves in the communal salad.
"In Turkish, "maydanoz"," they responded as forks dove into the salad from every corner of the table.
"In America," I stuck my fork into the salad with the rest of them, "it would be rude to eat out of the main bowl. It is part of our culture to put the food we want on our plate and eat from there. I have to learn how to eat all over again in Turkey."
After all of the parsley and maydanoz had been described and consumed, I was dropped off at the metrobus and I bee-lined back to Cathy.
I have a friend. I have a friend who came all the way from Colorado to see me.
I felt giddy. I couldn't wait to ask what she'd had for dinner. If she'd met anyone while she was out. If she'd bought any Turkish lamps or spices or other touristic paraphernalia.
When I got to the door, the most outrageous of the staff (the one who was always flirting with Maud because she reminded him of his Dutch wife) asked if I was Cathy's daughter.
"No, I'm not her daughter."
"Oh," he looked concerned and intrigued. "Are you..." he motioned to his ring finger.
"No," I nearly bust a gut while I searched for the rest of the sentence. "She is the mother of my friend."
"Oh," he looked relieved and disappointed. "Thank-you. Thank-you very much."
Cathy was in her room directly in front of the elevator on the fourth floor, typing away to her family on her laptop at the small makeup table between the bathroom and the extremely firm bed. I collapsed into the small chair by the small window in the corner opposite the extremely firm bed. I turned around to start my barrage of "what did you do today?" questions, but was interrupted with --
"Do you need to eat?"
"No, they fed me. So much. But what did --?"
"Would you like me to make you a cocktail?"
"Umm... yes. Yes, I would love a cocktail."
And I forgot every question for the next few minutes, the only thoughts rolling around in my brain being --
I adore this lady. This is going to be a good week. A very, very good week.
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