Friday, July 09, 2004
Part 2 - The Grand Tour
The non-stop tour of Istanbul continues. One of the participants in K's conference, a native Turkish woman studying Ottoman architecture, has offered to lead everyone on a walk though Old Istanbul, and unlike most of K’s official activities, this time I'm invited. Sounds like a wonderful introduction to the most fabled part of town, but ends up being a bit of a challenge. She's not a guide by trade, and one quickly realizes how much skill tour-guiding really requires. It doesn’t help that she’s hardly been blessed with an easy audience: a group of thirty fairly self-important academics (most of whom feel they already know Istanbul to some extent), wandering along, giving their own little mini-commentaries and leading factions off in opposite directions. In the end, we just meander in little groups through the streets, amongst the towering minarets and narrow market lined alleys, poking our head into one mosque after another.
Even here, at the center of Ottoman Islamic architecture and the home of some of the most famous mosques in the world, things seem so much more laid back than any Muslim country I’ve been to. Most women make a token effort at covering their hair, but short sleeves go unnoticed. Headscarves are the exception, not the rule. The atmosphere inside the mosques, even during prayer, is astonishingly relaxed. Children dash about, playing games as half-a-dozen men kneel at the front. And this is Friday afternoon! In the center of Istanbul.
We skip the massive, modern (1597) Yeni Cami (the one I walked to yesterday, opposite the Galata tower and across the bridge in Eminönü) and instead head straight to the "important" mosques, passing through the bustling Misir Çarşisi ("Spice Bazaar”) on the way. In Ottoman times, every mosque had a çarşisi (covered market) and a Hamam (bathhouse) attached as an integral part of the architectural complex, with a take of the profits supporting the mosque. This market, whose name translates literally as the “Egyptian Market”, bears only a passing resemblance to the immobilizing claustrophobia of Egypt’s khans and souks. The markets are privately owned now, and the nearly subterranean tunnels feel like age-old shopping malls, with store after store after store lining both sides of the arched tunnels.. A few spice vendors still remain in the “spice” market, but mostly touristy souvenirs and rug shops dominate, mixed with the odd electronics store selling mobile-phones and vacuum cleaners. Already it's hot outside, and you can understand why the markets all have their impressive vaulted-stone coverings - in the afternoon, this would have been a cool place to do the shopping and escape the heat. And it still is.
We emerge near the Nuruosmaniye Camii, and despite its youthful heritage (completed in 1755 for Osman III) we ask if we can pop inside. I rather like its open feeling and long, narrow design, but we're told by our guide that it is “a bad mosque" because of it's lofty ceilings: it's vertical proportions are too high, too much like a church, not like the formal ideal of a wide, open mosque. I later mention (in confidence to a few trusted companions) that I actually enjoyed it, and those in the know explain that it's very fashionable to look down on Nuruosmaniye, in favor of "masterpieces" like the Sultan Ahmet Camii (The Blue Mosque) and Süleymaniye, but that many others thing it’s an interesting place. Academics…
Next we head semi-underground again, to the mecca of Turkish shopping, Kapali Çarşi - The Grand Bizarre. It’s bigger and older than the Misir Çarşisi, but its origins as a market for metal are as subverted as the spice market’s, and now it’s just more of the same. Still, the labyrinthine passages are pleasant in their cleanliness and relative lack-of-hassle, and many of our company mention how much things have calmed down since their prior visits – how the pushy salesmen and beggars seem to have been carted off somewhere, replaced by more “modern”, orderly equivalents: salesmen who smile but don’t leap down your throat and shoe-shine boys that buzz about but don’t latch onto you until you relent.
Much more interesting to me is the tiny little Sahaflar Çarsişi – the book bazaar – a cozy little square lined with jumbled bookstores that date to the Byzantine Period. This doesn’t keep them from selling plenty of books on Java Script and C++ programming. But there are a few old manuscripts to be found, lots of shade, and a bust of Ibrahim Müteferrika, the 17th century printer who I’m told is the Guttenberg of the Islamic world.
Eventually we snake our way up to one of the city’s crown jewels, the largest mosque in Istanbul: the Süleymaniye Camii - completed in 1557 according to the designs of legendary architect Sinan, under the reign of the greatest Ottoman Sultan of all, Süleyman the Magnificent. Süleyman was, it seems, the Medici-like patron of the greatest and most lasting Ottoman accomplishments.
To get there, we navigate a narrow, picturesque street up to the mosque complex as the academics spout off their individual commentaries: why they feel this complex is superior or inferior, how it’s changed since their visit in 19xx or how the locals do/don’t appreciate what they have. A little mini-van blocks most of the corridor-like stone street that leads up to the mosque, and our camera-laden companions grumble about now it’s spoiling their photos. One particularly loquacious jargon-speaker begins to muse on the nature of dual temporalities and Foucault’s concept of past versus present and (tangentially) how tourist photography is cultural rape of the subject… I just climb atop a block in the road, try to squeeze the van out of frame, and rape the biggest mosque in Istanbul as best I can.
(A quick mea culpa: I admit that I often play with this pretentious “intellectual” vernacular, but usually just in fun. These people speak this way all the time…)
We're told repeatedly to appreciate the genius of the architect Sinan, and it doesn't take much convincing. What Christopher Wren was to London, Sinan is to Turkey (sorry to mix metaphors – I know I just liken him to Michelangelo…). He designed over 200 official buildings for the great sultan in the 16th century and it feels as if we’re going to visit all of them.
But the Süleymaniye complex is impressive: magnificent views of Topkapi, the Bosphorus, the Golden Horn. Süleymaniye himself is buried here in a modest tomb which we visit, and where I’m admonished a little because I’ve run out of small change to tip the ever-present shoe attendant, sitting by the door and guarding our footwear. So I leave my overgrown hiking boots just outside the door and proceed to spend my time inside the tomb wondering if they’ll be pinched before I can properly appreciate Sinan’s subtle design work in the funerary chapel. I don’t know anyone who’s ever had their shoes stolen from a mosque, and it seems like a line of sacrilege few theives would cross, but the fact that there’s always guard naturally instills a sense of insecurity. If shoes aren’t guarded, they’re vulnerable.
After a relief-filled reunion with my boots (trusty companions across four - soon to be five - continents), we all regroup. It’s the end of the day and people are growing testy and annoyed. This is a difficult group to please, and they've had an over-scheduled first week already. All this dual-temporal dialectic and cultural rape can wear out even the most robust travelers.
There’s a faction that floats a “back to the hotel for dinner” agenda, but our "guide" insists that we board the bus and make one last stop. We cross back over the water via the Ataturk bridge, drive up the Golden Horn, then cross back over the Haliç bridge to a steep hill called Eyüp. From a distance the drastic gradient seems impossibly busy with little white houses, but as we draw near, I realize it's a sprawling cemetery. Eyüp, we’re told, is one of the holiest sites in all of Islam. According to the locals, it's the third most holy sight for Muslim Pilgrimage. Clearly this is a contested ranking, and their rivals Jerusalem, Najaf and Karbala are getting much more press these days, but it's an important place nonetheless. (And the souvenir stands surrounding the site back this up – what pilgrimage would be complete without Eyüp bath-towels and t-shirts?)
The Mosque is closed, but we hike up the hill to more magnificent views, take a çay at the renowned Pierre Loti Café, a hilltop tea garden that’s apparently quite the romantic destination, perched here high up in the middle of a cemetery. Forest Lawn may have a gift shop, but does it have a terraced restaurant suitable for marriage proposals?
The Eyüp market is coming alive with Friday night celebration. A few wedding parties parade around the grounds, the happy couple’s hands died red from the traditional henna ceremony the day before. One couple spots K watching them with a smile, and asks her to pose with them for a photo. This begins a trend and everyone wants a picture with the six-foot giant of a model. K’s hot and sweaty from a long, long day of hiking up and down the hills of Constantinople, but no-one else seems to mind. Little boys dressed in lavish Sultan-outfits, “partying” before their circumcision (and they’re not that little – maybe 11?) join in and have their photos take with K. She very much wants photos herself, but it seems she’s become the subject, not the photographer. The victims have turned the tables… I hope K can handle the violation.
Finally it’s back onto the bus, and a ride along the 5th century city battlements (now serving as rear-walls for countless houses and restaurants nestled up against the ancient brick) and once more under the Aqueduct of Valens.
It’s been a long day. And I haven’t had a good-night’s sleep since leaving LA. As if I ever sleep there, anyway.
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Even here, at the center of Ottoman Islamic architecture and the home of some of the most famous mosques in the world, things seem so much more laid back than any Muslim country I’ve been to. Most women make a token effort at covering their hair, but short sleeves go unnoticed. Headscarves are the exception, not the rule. The atmosphere inside the mosques, even during prayer, is astonishingly relaxed. Children dash about, playing games as half-a-dozen men kneel at the front. And this is Friday afternoon! In the center of Istanbul.
We skip the massive, modern (1597) Yeni Cami (the one I walked to yesterday, opposite the Galata tower and across the bridge in Eminönü) and instead head straight to the "important" mosques, passing through the bustling Misir Çarşisi ("Spice Bazaar”) on the way. In Ottoman times, every mosque had a çarşisi (covered market) and a Hamam (bathhouse) attached as an integral part of the architectural complex, with a take of the profits supporting the mosque. This market, whose name translates literally as the “Egyptian Market”, bears only a passing resemblance to the immobilizing claustrophobia of Egypt’s khans and souks. The markets are privately owned now, and the nearly subterranean tunnels feel like age-old shopping malls, with store after store after store lining both sides of the arched tunnels.. A few spice vendors still remain in the “spice” market, but mostly touristy souvenirs and rug shops dominate, mixed with the odd electronics store selling mobile-phones and vacuum cleaners. Already it's hot outside, and you can understand why the markets all have their impressive vaulted-stone coverings - in the afternoon, this would have been a cool place to do the shopping and escape the heat. And it still is.
We emerge near the Nuruosmaniye Camii, and despite its youthful heritage (completed in 1755 for Osman III) we ask if we can pop inside. I rather like its open feeling and long, narrow design, but we're told by our guide that it is “a bad mosque" because of it's lofty ceilings: it's vertical proportions are too high, too much like a church, not like the formal ideal of a wide, open mosque. I later mention (in confidence to a few trusted companions) that I actually enjoyed it, and those in the know explain that it's very fashionable to look down on Nuruosmaniye, in favor of "masterpieces" like the Sultan Ahmet Camii (The Blue Mosque) and Süleymaniye, but that many others thing it’s an interesting place. Academics…
Next we head semi-underground again, to the mecca of Turkish shopping, Kapali Çarşi - The Grand Bizarre. It’s bigger and older than the Misir Çarşisi, but its origins as a market for metal are as subverted as the spice market’s, and now it’s just more of the same. Still, the labyrinthine passages are pleasant in their cleanliness and relative lack-of-hassle, and many of our company mention how much things have calmed down since their prior visits – how the pushy salesmen and beggars seem to have been carted off somewhere, replaced by more “modern”, orderly equivalents: salesmen who smile but don’t leap down your throat and shoe-shine boys that buzz about but don’t latch onto you until you relent.
Much more interesting to me is the tiny little Sahaflar Çarsişi – the book bazaar – a cozy little square lined with jumbled bookstores that date to the Byzantine Period. This doesn’t keep them from selling plenty of books on Java Script and C++ programming. But there are a few old manuscripts to be found, lots of shade, and a bust of Ibrahim Müteferrika, the 17th century printer who I’m told is the Guttenberg of the Islamic world.
Eventually we snake our way up to one of the city’s crown jewels, the largest mosque in Istanbul: the Süleymaniye Camii - completed in 1557 according to the designs of legendary architect Sinan, under the reign of the greatest Ottoman Sultan of all, Süleyman the Magnificent. Süleyman was, it seems, the Medici-like patron of the greatest and most lasting Ottoman accomplishments.
To get there, we navigate a narrow, picturesque street up to the mosque complex as the academics spout off their individual commentaries: why they feel this complex is superior or inferior, how it’s changed since their visit in 19xx or how the locals do/don’t appreciate what they have. A little mini-van blocks most of the corridor-like stone street that leads up to the mosque, and our camera-laden companions grumble about now it’s spoiling their photos. One particularly loquacious jargon-speaker begins to muse on the nature of dual temporalities and Foucault’s concept of past versus present and (tangentially) how tourist photography is cultural rape of the subject… I just climb atop a block in the road, try to squeeze the van out of frame, and rape the biggest mosque in Istanbul as best I can.
(A quick mea culpa: I admit that I often play with this pretentious “intellectual” vernacular, but usually just in fun. These people speak this way all the time…)
We're told repeatedly to appreciate the genius of the architect Sinan, and it doesn't take much convincing. What Christopher Wren was to London, Sinan is to Turkey (sorry to mix metaphors – I know I just liken him to Michelangelo…). He designed over 200 official buildings for the great sultan in the 16th century and it feels as if we’re going to visit all of them.
But the Süleymaniye complex is impressive: magnificent views of Topkapi, the Bosphorus, the Golden Horn. Süleymaniye himself is buried here in a modest tomb which we visit, and where I’m admonished a little because I’ve run out of small change to tip the ever-present shoe attendant, sitting by the door and guarding our footwear. So I leave my overgrown hiking boots just outside the door and proceed to spend my time inside the tomb wondering if they’ll be pinched before I can properly appreciate Sinan’s subtle design work in the funerary chapel. I don’t know anyone who’s ever had their shoes stolen from a mosque, and it seems like a line of sacrilege few theives would cross, but the fact that there’s always guard naturally instills a sense of insecurity. If shoes aren’t guarded, they’re vulnerable.
After a relief-filled reunion with my boots (trusty companions across four - soon to be five - continents), we all regroup. It’s the end of the day and people are growing testy and annoyed. This is a difficult group to please, and they've had an over-scheduled first week already. All this dual-temporal dialectic and cultural rape can wear out even the most robust travelers.
There’s a faction that floats a “back to the hotel for dinner” agenda, but our "guide" insists that we board the bus and make one last stop. We cross back over the water via the Ataturk bridge, drive up the Golden Horn, then cross back over the Haliç bridge to a steep hill called Eyüp. From a distance the drastic gradient seems impossibly busy with little white houses, but as we draw near, I realize it's a sprawling cemetery. Eyüp, we’re told, is one of the holiest sites in all of Islam. According to the locals, it's the third most holy sight for Muslim Pilgrimage. Clearly this is a contested ranking, and their rivals Jerusalem, Najaf and Karbala are getting much more press these days, but it's an important place nonetheless. (And the souvenir stands surrounding the site back this up – what pilgrimage would be complete without Eyüp bath-towels and t-shirts?)
The Mosque is closed, but we hike up the hill to more magnificent views, take a çay at the renowned Pierre Loti Café, a hilltop tea garden that’s apparently quite the romantic destination, perched here high up in the middle of a cemetery. Forest Lawn may have a gift shop, but does it have a terraced restaurant suitable for marriage proposals?
The Eyüp market is coming alive with Friday night celebration. A few wedding parties parade around the grounds, the happy couple’s hands died red from the traditional henna ceremony the day before. One couple spots K watching them with a smile, and asks her to pose with them for a photo. This begins a trend and everyone wants a picture with the six-foot giant of a model. K’s hot and sweaty from a long, long day of hiking up and down the hills of Constantinople, but no-one else seems to mind. Little boys dressed in lavish Sultan-outfits, “partying” before their circumcision (and they’re not that little – maybe 11?) join in and have their photos take with K. She very much wants photos herself, but it seems she’s become the subject, not the photographer. The victims have turned the tables… I hope K can handle the violation.
Finally it’s back onto the bus, and a ride along the 5th century city battlements (now serving as rear-walls for countless houses and restaurants nestled up against the ancient brick) and once more under the Aqueduct of Valens.
It’s been a long day. And I haven’t had a good-night’s sleep since leaving LA. As if I ever sleep there, anyway.
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