Cathy joined me for breakfast about an hour later. The woman in charge of setting out the food has already discovered that I like mornings and that I like coffee, and has changed her routine to accommodate me. When she strides up the stairs (around seven), she smiles and asks, "Coffee?" before starting the rest of her work.
The beds are stiff, the rooms are small, the elevator is disconcertingly temperamental and the lights in the room blink off and on every fifteen minutes, but the staff at this hotel are just so great. Even the man who is overly curious about my sexuality.
"I have to work with Dilara today," I told Cathy as I sipped my coffee. "Why don't I show you how to find the Grand Bazaar, perhaps we can walk through the Basilica Cistern and then I'll point you down to Eminonu where you can take a Bosphorus cruise for a couple of hours. I should be back around six this evening."
"Sounds good to me."
And so we bundled up and braced ourselves for a cold day out and about. As we walked, we talked about everything between the positives and negatives of having children and her tremendous eggplant crop in the summer of 2008 (most of which was devoured by yours truly). Cathy is a particularly useful/marvelous person to talk to because she's a patient listener who confidently says exactly what she thinks in the end. One of these days, I want to learn to listen like Cathy.
"Well," I heaved regretfully as we reemerged from the Basilica, "I should be going now because I need to be in Asia before one o'clock. If you keep following the tram line down, you should be able to -- "
*ring, ring, ring*
"Umit... one second," I pressed the green answer button and turned away from Cathy. "Umit, how are you? Oh. Well... Okay then. Next week. Not Monday or Tuesday though, okay? We have a food tour on Monday and I would like to take my friend to a market on Tuesday. Great. See you tomorrow."
I pressed the red hang-up button and turned back to Cathy. "Dilara's lesson is cancelled. Would you mind if I stayed with you for the rest of the day?"
So we boarded a cruise ship together and took the seats on the side that the obnoxious caller referred to as, "Obama's seats." We had an enjoyable conversation between his loud crowd hassling of "Bosphorus Tour! Come, come, come!" until he deliberately misunderstood and insulted a poor Arabic chap who only wanted to know when the tour would be finished.
"They are stupid people," he whispered not quite quietly enough to Cathy and me. "Arabs. They are like sheep. Baa, baa, baa," he hunched his shoulders and strutted back and forth on the upper deck before returning to his booming, "come, come come!"
I'm always caught off-guard by such unabashed displays or racism.
The cruise itself was cold and quiet -- but peaceful and refreshing. Again, I sank back into my "Obama seat" and wished I knew more about the history so that I could explain it to Cathy.
"It's a good way to understand just how big Istanbul is," I made a lame excuse for the otherwise uninformative tour.
Because my friend is so approachable, a young Russian chap parked himself next to her on the ride back and insisted on practicing his English, interrupting our conversation to throw in his practiced lines. The tourist seemed friendly enough, but after over five months of traveling in non-English speaking countries, I've grown rather impatient with strangers who talk to me only to practice a second language. It may be irrational, but it makes me feel used. They don't want to get to know me, per say -- they just want to get better at English.
But Cathy is far more patient than this worn-out English teacher, so she conversed with him encouragingly for most of the trip back.
That probably made his day.
I rushed off to relieve myself in the filthy bathroom under the Galata bridge as soon as we disembarked, and then Cathy and I tried to make our way up to the mosque of Suliman the Magnificent. We ended up getting turned around, lost and confused on a street full of camouflage clothes and hunting gear and visited a university and an unimpressive mosque that was most definitely not worth removing my impressive boots.
Breakfast worn off by walking up hills in search of mosques, we popped into a mezze/kebap place for lunch.
"You should try the kuru fasulye. It's a comfort food here -- maybe like chicken noodle soup in Colorado."
So Cathy ate a kebap sandwich, ayran, bean soup and salad. I thought she was perfectly Turkish except for the fact that she left her bread and bulgur uneaten.
Like me.
On our way back to the hotel, we passed by a shop selling börek (which isn't the most unusual phenomenon, as most shops sell börek) and I called Cathy over to the window.
"This is called "börek". It's made of a dough that's a bit thicker than phyllo and then stuffed with meat or cheese. A lot of Turkish people eat it for breakfast, but I've also seen my family here eat it for dinner. Kids love it. If you're ever feeling peckish, you ought to try some."
"Why not just stop now?"
"Great!" and I led us inside a shop that had a tray of the savory, flaky pastry in the window.
After one helping of börek (which looked large enough to feed a family of four), we journeyed back to the hotel to regroup. I grabbed fifty lira and my Nikon battery and hustled down to the street where I'd seen all the cameras for sale.
"Do you have a battery for a Nikon D60?" I asked the shopkeeper.
"Yes. 65 lira."
"Okay. I'll go to the store down the street. I found a battery there for 55."
"Wait. I will give you a different battery -- just as good, but not Nikon brand -- for 45. Okay?"
"It will work with my Nikon camera and charger?"
"Of course. It is only a different brand."
"Okay."
And I handed the vendor most of the remainder of my cash, giving myself a mental pat on the back for making a good deal.
I rushed back to the hotel and met Cathy and Cihan in front of the tram stop near the Blue Mosque. Cihan is a former student of Umit's who became a friend of mine through his sister and brother-in-law. He had graciously agreed to help Cathy get a good deal on some Turkish carpets, so the spry 18-year-old led us through a narrow alley and up a flight of stairs into a small room where his father sold carpets for wholesale prices. As I'd only seen Cihan around the dinner table and on the bus, it was an interesting experience for me to see the "salesman" version of my young friend. His father greeted us warmly, offered us tea and told Cathy to take the "boss" chair. He expertly unfurled carpet after carpet and eloquently waxed on about the virtues of each. I heard the words "handwoven" and "vegetable dyes" and "natural" and "perfect" and "best price" and "you will not regret" and I suddenly understood why Turkish carpets are so very popular in the states.
It's a craft. Not just the carpets -- the act of selling carpets is in and of itself, a craft. You have to be knowledgeable and enthusiastic. Just the right amount of pushy and just the right amount of poetic. You have to be able to read people well enough to know when to give space and know when to give an extra nudge in the direction of your wares. Cihan, as you grow up, you may grow into another business -- but you are a fine seller of carpets, my friend.
I only have about 3500 dollars left to my name and no room left in my bag, but I nearly bought a rug from this charming and persuasive Turk.
Cathy bought two rugs at wholesale price.
"Are you happy with them?" I asked as we waited for the credit card machine to charge.
"I always get buyer's regret," Cathy squirmed in the "boss's" chair. "I think I got a good deal, but I'm not sure."
"I'm sure you got a good deal," I reassured my fretful friend. "I trust Cihan, and if there's one thing I've learned about Kurdish people, it's that they are extremely loyal to family and friends. Cihan is Umit's friend. Umit is my friend. I'm Cihan's sister's friend. I would like to believe that Cihan and I are friends. You're my friend. So Cihan would do everything possible to give you a good deal because of the relationship."
Cihan and his father (and older brother) finally got the credit card machine revved up, Cathy swiped her card, we each downed one more tulip glass of instant apple tea (like instant coffee) and then the men rolled the carpets into tiny squares and packed them in a large black bag.
"Would you help us carry it back to the hotel?" Cathy asked the exuberant highschooler.
"Of course."
"What are your plans for this evening?" I asked Cihan as he lugged the twenty-five pound bag down the stairs.
"Have dinner with you?"
"Okay," Cathy acquiesced so quickly that the unwelcome thought flitted across my mind that she was already bored with my company. But then I remembered that the cool thing about Cathy is that she's just a game lady. Game for anything. Including spur of the moment dinners with friendly carpet sellers. And the work-in-progress thing about myself is that I'm insecure and always assume that people find my company boring.
So we dropped off the carpets at the hotel (the elevator wasn't happy to see the three of us bearing two heavy carpets) and then went to find some manti.
"When I ask Turkish children what their favorite food is, they always say manti or iskender kebap. So you should try both. I love iskender, but I can't eat manti because of the glutenous pasta."
As it was a little too early for dinner, we stopped at a bar so that Cathy could try the traditional Turkish drink -- raki. I drank a raki with her (even though I swore "never again" in a previous post) and Cihan sipped a latte.
"How do you like it?" I asked after Cathy had tasted the anise flavored drink.
"It's not my favorite," she contemplated the milky beverage. "I wouldn't order it again. It's funny how so many countries have an alcohol like this. Ouzo in Greece. Absinthe in America. Pastis in France."
"You're right," I nodded, thinking back to the time spent drinking pastis on the beach in Nice with Baris.
That was such a beautiful time. Ach. There have been so many beautiful moments this past year. Some unbelievably challenging moments. Some frightening moments. But some of the most beautiful experiences life has granted me thus far.
It is part of Turkish/Kurdish culture to pay for women at restaurants, so Cihan footed the bill (despite Cathy's protests) and we walked further up the street to where Cihan said one could get some excellent manti.
After a bit of confusion (the restaurant was out of manti, but decided to cook some fresh for Cihan and Cathy), dinner was served and Turkish style tortellini was devoured. Cathy paid the bill (Cihan looked remarkably uncomfortable at this turn of events) and we parted ways.
"You want a cocktail?" was the first question I faced after we dumped our bags on the bed.
"Yes. Yes, I would love a cocktail," I offered the same response as the night before.
I was so right. Amazing week with Cathy just beginning.
I inserted the newly charged battery into my camera and jumped to my feet with elation.
"IT WORKS!" I hugged Cathy rather frantically. "AH! I'm so happy. Oof. I can't believe it actually works."
I felt like something that was long dead had just been resuscitated. So I immediately went back out into the cold and tested my new lens.
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| One of the many sahlep carts |
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| People make wishes and then release these into the sky.They do something similar to this in Copenhagen at Christmas. |
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| Our hotel |
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