Arrived In Istanbul

Friday, September 29, 2015

     The last time I was in Istanbul was late August and early September 2001.  I remember because Bill and I returned to New York on a Saturday and I was back at work Tuesday, when the planes crashed into the World Trade Center Towers.  I loved Istanbul and I'm glad to return, although Istanbul in 2015 is a sprawling mass of new hotels alongside the city I knew way back when.

     The wait for the airport passport check gave me a chance to observe the people on line.  The populations were, it seemed to me, more diverse than I am used to even in New York City: in front of me were two men from China, I think: one was tall and looked Han Chinese, but the other might have been Tibetan, judging from his rosy cheeks and features.  Behind me was a family from a Baltic republic, is my guess; ahead of me on line were Russians and Africans and Sri Lankans and Arabs.

     I did not know I needed a visa to enter Turkey.  At first I thought this would be a big problem, but all I needed to do was pay 25 Euros to the man at the visa desk, and I got a souvenir stamp put in my passport to let me through passport control.   Nationals of some countries (Switzerland and Russia among them) don't have to have visas to enter Turkey, but others (United States and Spain) do.

     At the baggage carrousel for my flight I quickly found Max and we exited to the taxi line.  The taxi line was chaotic --no one was in charge, and there was no line, just people approaching taxis at random.  We flagged one driver down, but he told us to go to the head of the line.  We jumped at a taxi that had a light on indicating it was available and got in.  We handed the driver the iPhone Max had dialed our airbnb host with, and he got specific instructions to the apartment: Istanbul is so large no one can know all of it and locals need help when they leave their familiar neighborhoods.

     The ride to the apartment took about an hour through heavy traffic: Istanbul must be one long traffic jam during all but the wee small hours of the morning.  Driving along on Ataturk Boulevard the neon sign of a hotel caught my eye: The Grand Oral Hotel.  --Could "Oral"  be how "Ural" is pronounced in Turkish?

     Seeing short, squat Turkish women on the plane I was reminded how remarkably ugly they can be, short and squat with moles on their faces and big noses.  Yet the young woman seated next to me reading a French thriller was beautiful: porcelain skin, light hazel eyes and honey-colored brown hair.  The eyes of Turks are either an unimpressive black or brown or they are exotically lovely: grey, pale blue, golden hazel, the latter colors frequently accompanied by naturally blond hair.  Which reminds me of the scene in Lawrence of Arabia where Jose Ferrer, playing the Turkish official with homosexual urges, looks over Peter O'Toole and asks him "Are you Circassian?"

     The apartment is exquisite, large and comfortable, with a huge terrace overlooking the Bosporus.  It is located on the European side of Istanbul: on the other side of the Bosporus is Asiatic Turkey.  The weather is warm and humid, and everyone is out.  The apartment is on a small side street at the top of a hill with a small cafe opposite.  To get anything to eat or to go to a supermarket it is necessary to walk down a steep set of steps.  However, the little grocery store at the hill's bottom has yogurt, nuts, juices, cheese and apricots, Turkey's pride.

     The dried apricots from Turkey are the best I have ever eaten: fat, succulent and with a sweetness like honey.  And this is just what we were able to find at a convenience store.

      The change of scene is welcome.