Istanbul, dark and light

Oct. 28, 2008

It was a long, hard journey to Istanbul and I arrived in a city that seemed steeped in melancholy. There was a hard edge to the sounds of the city and the streets amplified by a light but steady falling rain. The scowls of the kebap sellers and fruit vendors in the Beyoglu district mirrored my own blue mood.

During the night on the Dostluk/Filia Express from Thessaloniki, I was wrenched out of a dreamy sleep by the sound of banging on the sleeping compartment door.

"Passports, visas," yelled a Turkish border control officer. The young Greek woman in the bunk below me handed over her passport which the officer glanced at and then handed back. She sighed and turned over in bed and back into sleep. I, however, joined all the other Americans and Australians who were marched off the train and onto the tracks in the cold, pre-dawn hours. In pajamas and with sleep in all our eyes, about 20 of us shivered as we waited to pay for our visas into Turkey.

The next morning as the train rumbled through Istanbul's outer limits, through the slums built up against the ruins of a city that was once the center of the Ottoman empire, past herds of wild dogs roaming the streets, and tired buildings that looked abandoned but had laundry strung from the balconies, I was struck by what Turkish author Orhan Pamuk calls the huzun of the city. The word is Turkish for melancholy, but a vast melancholy felt by the individual but shared by an entire people.

Pamuk mentions one Turkish scholar, Burton, who in his 1,500 page tome Anatomy of Melancholy accepts it as a positive affliction, "one that paved the way to a happy solitude, because it strengthened his imaginative powers."

I can relate to Pamuk's observation. All my writing here and in my journal is done when I am alone, feeling usually somber and reflective about travelling from friendship to friendship.

"It didn't matter if melancholy was the result of solitude or the cause... solitude is the heart of melancholy," writes Pamuk. Then quoting Burton, he adds "All other pleasures are empty/none are as sweet as melancholy."

I tried to remember and embrace those ideas as I trudged through Beyoglu looking for a place to do laundry. Dirty clothes are definitely a negative affliction.

Don't ever go to Istanbul with dirty laundry. The Turkish people don't have laundromats anywhere. I asked at my hostel where I could get my clothes washed. The young man at reception pointed to an alley across the street that led to a second-hand clothing store. I walked in to the store bewildered to find that it was more like a dusty attic than a proper place of business. Clothes, shoes, costume jewelry was strewn everywhere without reason. Two cats licked each other sitting atop a pile of velvet dresses.

"Uh, I need to do laundry and I was directed here," I said to a hippie-ish looking young man.

"Oh, but it rains today. You can not wash your clothes," he said.

"Oh, but I really need to. Really really," I said.

"They will not dry. We have no dryer," he said. "We hang them on the rooftop to dry."

Exasperated but down to my last pair of clean underwear I said it didn't matter. I'd find my own way to dry them.

I paid the man 10 Turkish Lira and came back an hour later to collect my soggy clothes. Then making no friends in my hostel room, I hung my clothes from every available bar or door corner. Above my bottom bunk, I hung T-shirts and socks and my towel creating what resembled a child's fort around my bed. Listening to the rain and the splashing of cars through the puddles, I fell asleep within the cocoon of clothes awaking later to the sunset call to prayer.

The next day was a different story. It was sunny and bright and warm. I awoke in a better mood knowing I wouldn't be mired in my own solitude much longer. An Aussie friend, the one I visited in London, would be meeting me later that day.

Istanbul is a city of dichotomies. Built on two continents, its people and society are influenced by both. As much as Istanbul may be influenced by Europe and resemble in certain ways more western cities, it is tied to its Middle Eastern and Muslim history.

Everywhere little boys run around selling tissues, pleading with their dark eyes for a couple lira. The young people go out at night in Beyoglu sitting outside cafes and bars down the back alleys of the main streets clapping and singing along to the fiddle and flute-heavy Turkish pop music. Fruit vendors sell fresh, frothy pineapple and pomegranate juices. Cats and dogs laze about, asleep on sidewalks and ship decks, gnawing on fish heads or rummaging through trash cans. Despite the number of strays, the streets are kept clean of their droppings by the Istanbullus who discreetly pick up the waste of the homeless but beloved animals.

In the Egyptian bazaar close to the tourist attractions Topkapi Palace and the Blue Mosque, men sell fresh fish and spices and Turkish Delight. Shoe shiners hold their posts on nearly every random street in the city. Fishermen line the bridges and sell their fresh catches to cooks who fry up the fish and sell sandwiches for four lira along the docks of the Golden Horn.

The blue eye, or evil eye symbol is everywhere. Shopkeepers hang them above their doors and people wear necklaces warding off evil spirits and other general malevolence. When I was very young, a friend of mine who had lived for several of her earliest years in Turkey, had her childhood room filled with the evil eyes hanging from shelves. They used to scare me, especially at night. But now I find them beautiful and haunting and a reminder of that long ago friendship.

The Istanbullus in the markets work hard to make their living. Though there are hawkers among the crowds, most in the markets are good businessmen who will barter and haggle but won't over pressure you to buy anything. And they maintain a light-hearted sense of humor. Robbie and I were so struck by the professionalism of one particular spice seller, we returned the next day to buy tea and meat flavoring.

One of our days in the city, we took the ferry up the Bosphorus to mouth of the Black Sea. The boat docked at the foot of hill atop which stands the ruins of a citadel. As I stepped off the ferry, I realized that it was my first time walking on Asian soil.

Our first few nights, Rob and I struggled to find good cheap food. We asked the receptionist at the hostel for some suggestions and he accompanied us across the street to a small, local kitchen where he spoke a few Turkish words to the owner. I explained to a young man who spoke a little English that we wanted a big, hearty meal for 15 lira. He smiled and told the cook what I'd said.

We were served a brilliant, spicy meal of falafel, skewered meat, peppers and other vegetables and salads that we were never quite able to identify. They also gave us yogurt drinks to temper the fire of the food.

Later we found a cafe where we smoked apple-flavored nargila and sipped thick, delicious Turkish coffee.

There was a lot we didn't do in the city. We missed the Whirling Dervishes and didn't visit a hamam, or Turkish bath. But the city of darkness and light, of poverty and plenty, is a place to which I would like to return. I will remember the sadness and solitude I felt, but I'll also recall the old men sitting on stools and sipping their tea outside cafes, their smiles and their laughter.