Atlantica - 01.01.2006, Blaðsíða 28

26 AT L A N T I CA
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Alone without a plan, I decided to sample the perfect Turkish treat to
lift me up – baklava, a sweet honey- and nut-filled pastry, found through-
out the Middle East. As I shoveled the delicacy into my mouth on the
cobblestone streets I wandered back towards my hotel.
The Galata bridge connects the old district of the Sultanahmet to the
more residential Beyoglu neighborhood. Trolleys and cars carry people
past the fishermen who crowd the edges of the bridge in search of lunch
or dinner. Alongside the fishermen are vendors who sell steamed mus-
sels to Turks on the run. Customers take a few minutes to squeeze a
little lemon on the shellfish and slam their bit of seafood down before
rushing off to work or home. I tried to speak with some of the fisher-
men and vendors, only to be told in broken English to leave them alone.
They weren’t interested in small talk with a reporter passing through. If
I wasn’t buying, they weren’t talking.
SPOILED, AND REFRESHED
The next day, after failing at my cultural interchange, I decided to
indulge in the city’s famous Turkish baths. I joined the tour group I
arrived with, and headed over to Çemberlitas to get scrubbed clean with
brushes and sudsy soap. I wasn’t disappointed. Laying on the hot marble
floor, or gobek tasi, I stared up at the dangling incandescent light and
globules of condensed water that lined the ceiling.
Here, my lack of Turkish and my bathers’ lack of English wasn’t an
impediment. When it was my turn for the rub-a-dub, my stout, swarthy
washer just slapped me on the back and motioned to the ornate marble
fountain against the wall.
There, he soaked me with water and began to wash my cares and
tensions away. He scrubbed harder and harder and said loudly, “Dirty!”
From his intonation and volume I am sure he would have said “Filthy,”
if he had had the word at his disposal.
I took the rest of the day easy. I wandered the back streets of the old
district, dodging the main sights in search of an Istanbul that I couldn’t
read about in my guidebook. Descending the cobbled streets of the
Sultanahmet, I saw young boys walking arm in arm as male friends do
in Turkey. I marveled at the late Ottoman wooden houses that reminded
me of Victorian-style homes in San Francisco.
As I made my way out of the Byzantine streets of the neighborhood
towards the Bosphorous, I caught sight of three men on a rooftop. They
were standing next to a pigeon coop and watching as their white doves
flew around the surrounding hills. With my spirits buoyed by such a
picturesque scene, I headed towards the water.
The rocks along the shore were packed with young and old fisher-
men, threading worms onto their hooks and hoping to catch their mid-
day meal. One man was wearing a wet suit and hovering in the shallow
waters with a harpoon in his hand. Resul Çelenli, 27, floated to the
surface and waved at me as I spoke with his brother Kâmil and his cousin
Omer Aydan about the day’s catch.
Aydan, 26, pointed at his bucket and sighed. There were two fish
about the size of a human hand. Not much for three young men to
chomp on for their lunch.
A few minutes later I came to a party of five Turkish men in their fif-
ties and sixties. They had a fire going and several large fish cooking on
the grill. It seems they had been luckier than Çeleni with his harpoon.
The men, all graying and sporting scruffy salt and pepper beards, insist-
ed I join them. After feigning the obligatory “I can’t eat all your food,” I
settled on the edge of a boulder and dug into the grilled fish and roasted
vegetables. This improvised lunch of seafood and hand gestures ended
up being the perfect way to see Istanbul. a

“I wandered the back streets of the old district, dodging the main sights in search of an Istanbul that I couldn’t read about in my guidebook.”
024-29ATL106 Istanbul.indd 26 16.12.2005 12:26:47