<< oh the summer time's a-coming / and the leaves are sweetly turning >>

goodbye turkey -- we hardly knew ye. tonight flying to paris through slovenia.

last day in istanbul (5) : bigcity tiles

last day in istanbul (4) : finally!

<< baby i been waiting,
i been waiting night and day.
i didn't see the time,
now i waited half my life away --
there were lots of invitations,
i know you sent me some --


but i was waiting for the miracle to come >>

last day in istanbul (3) : street vendors

for the last two days astrid and i have been eating by grazing on all the different kinds of food that people sell in carts in the streets in the city here. here is just a sampling. can you taste it? can you hear the sizzle? can you feel the heat from the donair roasters?

(we did not eat the sneakers.)

last day in istanbul (2) : a study in silver

last day in istanbul : << i'm standing on a ledge / your fine spiderweb >>

last morning in istanbul, last morning in turkey.

this morning a blasting loud mambo gave tearing in through the hostel window from the apartment next door, played for five songs, lifting trumpet triplets, bells and drums, then stopped as quickly as it began.

a little anxious to be leaving turkey and to start making my way back home. two weeks left. dreamed last night of cat.

more to follow.

bigcity movement

the ten o'clock clatter as every shop opens its metal rollup shutters at once. the music in this hostel that unfortunately gets louder and louder.

the flesh of oranges and grapefruits being torn in juice presses, vendors misting cucumbers in streetside carts.

fat dripping down rotating donair skewers, the meat cut in a downward wedge to let the fat drip down, the meat rotating on big swords and cut by men with bulging muscles.

buses that drive with the doors open.

the sizzle of fish grills by the waterfront.

midday sun aligning with the obelisk.

people that move through the sidewalks and streets like water flows over stones, tracing a course that will let them move past those who move slowly.

vendors tearing the husks from cobs of corn to be roasted in red carts like theatre popcorn machines.

restaurant greeters who will do what it takes to put a menu in your hands. "yes please! table here! just drinks! maybe tomorrow!"

late afternoon twitching fish in yoghourt buckets at the feet of fishermen on the bridge leading into old istanbul.


by night the circling birds lit up from underneath, the yellow lights that shine up the minarets, and the rustle of cats hunting in plastic garbage bags.

kariye church : mosiacs

in the kariye museum the first impression is of ghostly whiteblue, plaster under dark turquoise frescos and mortar under sparkley gold mosaics all done with tiles the size of peas.

signs repeatedly warn you not to take pictures using camera flashes because the dyes in the frescos are sensitive to intense light, but close and bright spotlights shine on each one. security guards patrol with batons and handcuffs on their belts.







the nave (main hall) is a square configuration done in proportions of four, with sixteen windows in the arch overhead, four cut-in panels of coloured marble in each wall, square and rectangle panels in the floor, and two mosaics that frame the space. it is all done in cool marble, grey and white with coloured ornamental panels framed in pink marble scrollwork.




tile mosaics would have once covered the entire inside of the church, though they are mostly crumbled away now.


impossibly gold tiles.


very neat. got me thinking about letting things fall from use into disuse and what it must have been like to stand in this church when it was new, and things i have no use for now. more to follow.

full of stars

the underground cistern

beneath the sultanahmet (old istanbul) is an underground water cistern dating back to byzantine times. astrid and i went for a walk through it today in the afternoon when it was very hot. it is cool down there, a warm breeze on one side and a cool moist current of air moving through from the other.

everything echoes -- from somewhere they play music with strings and high trumpets whose reverberations that sketch out the vastness of the cavern. you hear droplets falling and hitting the surface of the water, spreading ripples into the red and yellow light that reflects from where coloured lights shine up the sides of the stone columns supporting the ceiling. the ceiling is four-way brick arches, swept-up triangles that meet in a point. footsteps reverberate and unintelligible syllables of a hundred conversations. there are carp in the water and smaller fish, and glittering coins.

in the very furthest corner, where you can see your breath fog in the cool absolute humidity, there are two enormous medusa's heads carved out of green stone, half submerged in water. beyond the wet floors the cavern recedes into darkness. this far back the fish are pale and blind.

<< don't want nothin' from nobody: ain't nothin' to take >>

it is early morning in world house hostel and they have fired up the reggae here. breakfast shortly. outside the open patio doors is the bustle of istanbul, the irregular paving stones, the scraggly cats, the orange- and blood orange-juice stands in the middle of the streets, the bosphorus-bound ships leeching oil and filthy smoke. i am first up among my dorm mates. on my table is a pinkish bottle of water because the tap water has a strange taste here, pinkish from low grade instant pomegrante drink mix they say can be served cold. the cars in the streets are noisy, even this early, and inside here they turn up the music overtop.

our hostel is at one end of istiklal caddesi which is a long street with a tramcar running up and down with a bell that clangs to get the peasants out of its way. many of the people here wear green, bright green. you see green t-shirts, green skirts, green belts, green canvas shoes. at the one end of istiklal is taksim square bus station with too few ins and outs for all the transit that needs to flow through. you can follow the tram tracks all the way to the other end where the road forks, one direction leading down to our hostel, one direction leading down to attatuk bridge that leads across to old istanbul, to the spice bazaar and the aquaducts and cisterns of the old city.

astrid and i share a dorm room with two girls from italy who each uniformly wear black, with black sandals and black handbags and dark shaded glasses. one of them has cleopatra bangs and cleopatra wrists and a cobra earring twisted through one ear, and silver jewelry in her mouth, lip and at the outside points of her collarbones. her hair is black and shiny under the streetlights like the evil eye i found made of opaque black glass and ringed with silver.

our dorm window looks straight into the loudspeaker of the minaret from a mosque next door. last night the prayer call was particularly beautiful, echoing and it seemed to have a kind of sparkle or flange effect on the cry, although i know that was the mood and the wistfulness.

as the day creeps in the traffic picks up and it has now started raining here. i am not sure what today holds. i am not sure what this week holds. this is alright.

tile patterns

in the museum of ottoman art, << bohemians (hanger-onners around the arts) >>

in the ottoman art museum there are recreations of 19th-century sitting rooms from istanbul, with ornamented furniture in the style of the french baroque, and mannequins with black string wigs, ladies seated in mandarin dresses with high collars and bone fasteners, and embroidered flowers that trace up the lines of sleeves. a small bed with cushions and black beadwork on a shiney grey bedspread. there are pink oil lamps painted with birds and lilies in the style that appeal to mehmet's father.

the house from bursa has bright blue carpets but otherwise subdued colours, dark browns and white and black. there are dark wood rafters from which hand strings of dried eggplants. a kneeling mannequin manipulates a copper coffee pot over a stove in the centre of the room, black metal, a podium that flares at the top and is full of jet black coal unburned. a tour guide pauses with his group and tells how when he was a child he had a stove such as that. "for coffee and chestnuts," he says, "excellent."

the museum itself feels like it is from an era past, with cement walls painted white, floors done in shiny red hexagonal brick, low doors with two steps leading down and through, and disused fireplaces.

astrid and i spent the afternoon walking separately through the museum obviously expressing interest in the different styles, philosophies, and esthetics of ottoman art represented here. i liked the geometric star patterns and the tile work. she liked the animal motifs and the birds. not for me, the birds, i said.

but here let me show a picture of a phoenix --



-- the bird that rose from its own ashes. this was on the fabulously ornate blade of a gold plated sword. the blade was gold except for the sharp edge that was made from steel, some kind of discolouring grey metal. there is gold calligraphy along the length of the blade. gold decorations woven and wrapped around, leaves around vines, buds, and the butt is made of marble. notice the pair of rubies to be the eyes of the bird and the snake.

astrid and i are often all talk. and through the museum we didn't even much talk. but we are learning.

<< bring me the passengers, i want them alive! >>

this morning in the world house hostel they are playing prince.

cool in the morning. breakfast coming soon. they say coffee is free with breakfast but WHERE IS THE COFFEE. i am displeased. darth vader saying "if this is a consular ship then where is the ambassador?" then he crushes the rebel scum's throat and gives a terrible order for the ship to be torn apart until the death star plans are found. i want some coffee.

welcome to istanbul -- watch yr back

at present sitting in the lobby of world house istanbul pleasantly sated on pilaf and looking at a fruit stand selling fresh fruit juices (including pineapple) through the open patio window where a couple sits playing backgammon, and fore to them a triplet of italian girls drinks turkish coffee and gesticulates under a wallboard portrait of a woman with red lips wearing a bathrobe against a brickwall background, washed out colours and her done-up-but-let-back-down black hair.

up the spiral staircase done in stone, going up to our eight-bed dorm, there is a map showing tourist attractions and someone has marked "sundance" on in pencil, near olympos. there is a sign in block lettering warning not to go with strangers to bars. the backgammon board smells like cigarette smoke and wood varnish.

istanbul has different kinds of businesses tucked into the nooks and crannies of the city. today we seemed to be wandering in the hardware store and machine parts district where little shops put floor models of huge industrial air compressors on out display in the already crowded sidewalks. there is a clothing district, the bazaar district, the leather district, the scuba district. our hostel is in the music shop district -- every other store has violins, ouds and tanburs on display.

evening now and it is cooling down.

very different than when i visited last. bustle in the streets, especially fruit vendors. fresh orange juice for a lira. sunny today and so hot that cats and dogs co-existed peacefully and sleepily in the limited shade. as well i am little bit able to get by in turkish. i know all the words on the vocabulary factoid card and then some, and i proffer them easily. people tell me my turkish is excellent. it is half bluff, but only half.

Act Three, Scene One : into istanbul

a night bus out of burhaniye, under a full moon, and in to istanbul by ferry at dawn. it will take me a bit to appreciate the texture of this sunrise.

black tulips

after the mevlana museum i rode the tram car to the bus station for a night bus to istanbul. an old man helped me on when my big backpack got stuck in the tram doors and everybody watched.

the bus to istanbul was stewarded by a man in an orange clip-on bow tie and a white undershirt showing through his white dress shirt, and a gold ring. he walked up and down the aisle bringing water in plastic cups with peelback lids like puddings, and instant coffee also served out of plastic cups.

whenever we stopped an attendent in yellow rubber boots would wipe down each stopped bus with a hose attached to the end of a long-handled broom. the hose ran and ran, leaving the asphalt wet and shiny. at the far side of the parking lot a tiny storebought playground with swings.

the bus had a 'fasten seatbelts' sign but no seatbelts. the steward walked up and down the aisle with a bottle of citronella perfume, dousing out perfume wearing a clear plastic glove. the PA made played annoucements that used Unchained Melody as background music.

morning came and an eight lane bridge took us into the european half of istanbul, over a bridge labelled No Bikes, No Pedestrians, No Horses, No Tractors.

to the bus station and from there in to the city on the #830. a short man with no hips rode part of the way: black pants, black tight t-shirt, black cap, black sunglasses, a silver ring. a gun: a security guard. wore a fancy futuristic wraparound watch of black leather and silver, to go with the gun.

i started to recognize where i was as the bus drew close to taksim square, near the hostel i stayed at last time. after a short period of waiting, grimey and hot, mo picked me up in the little alfa which has had a new paint job, and my time alone in turkey was over after nearly six weeks.

it was half a day's drive back to burhaniye. i will be back in the big city in two weeks. in istanbul the tulips are black.

going to bed tired

we had one final misfortune on the final leg of our drive home -- a big truck pulled out we thought to pass us, then slowed beside us, and pointed to the front tire -- flat.

not just flat, it turned out we'd broken the rim in the rutted mountain roads. while mo sussed it out ugur and i had tea in the filthy truck stop. ash, broken glass, dirty water on the floor, and a whole muddy half lemon. a man tried to sop up the water with a sodden dollar-store broom. then we went out to see what was happening. the mechanic was patching an inner tube for us to have. he put on one patch. then to see if it had taken he put the patched part under water. there was a bathtub outside that he used for this. it was all frozen over. he broke through the ice with his bare hands, lifted out the crust, and held the tube under the water for a minute watching for bubbles. then he turned the inner tube checking each section for leaks. when he'd finished his hands were red and puffy.

"that looks cold," i said.

"that definitely looks cold," said mo.

then he said, "it is amazing what some people will do to earn their living. and what did we do to deserve it," he said. "nothing. we are doing nothing."

"i've asked myself that question a few times on this trip, believe me," i said.

"you," said mo, "you are doing plenty, so don't say it."

i say, "you are doing plenty too."

neither of us really pushes the other on this point. it's not clear to me whether mo means i am doing lots to help him, or lots in life generally. i would debate each one but i do not. mo has debated it too.

there is a moslem saying that as long as you go to bed tired, allah is happy.

the old man is industrious. he wipes oil from his hands with snow. soon we are on our way. on the way home the necklace that mo got for ugur breaks -- the clasp catches in her seatbelt and the cord tears. but i have just the thing to fix it, spare necklace parts (seriously) left over from making a necklace out of my turkish blue fish. when we are home i fix it for her. thank-you, she says. you are welcome, i say.

turkish swag

we made it! we are back home. we stopped for grilled tripes on the way (a little squishy) and a glass of turnip juice (blech).

at the trade show we made out like bandits.


the total:

- serveral moist towelettes;
- bead bracelet with two nazar beads;
- heat-sensitive coffee mugs;
- single double-A battery;
- set of roman-looking coins (gold, silver, and bronze);
- two of persian blue beads;
- assorted lokum;
- trojan horse keychain -- this i'm going to gift to someone at burning man and i'm going to say, "think about it";
- keychain of monument on gallipoli battlefields;
- tobacco products;
- hamam slippers; and
- complimentary firelog.

this last one was useful. when we got home the house was COLD! upstairs you could see your breath. there was a bottle of raki in the freezer, and one on the counter. they were just about the same temperature to touch.

by far the coolest piece of swag is this -- there was a man doing calligraphy at the booth for the istanbul ministry of culture. you could get your name done, or the name of your business. so look!


very happy for this. sometimes i do things right.