After a harrowing journey, including eleven hours with our knees in our noses in coach on Lufthansa (never again,) we arrived in Istanbul.
The Old City of Istanbul, known as Sultanahmet, blankets a small hill overlooking the Bosphorus, the strait that bisects Istanbul, separating the European and the Asian sides of the city. Our silent cab driver steered his sweaty taxi along the banks of the river, and then wound up the hill of the walled city. Up and around we went, until we reached the peak of the hill, dominated by the Haya Sofia and the Blue Mosque. Our hotel, the Ottoman Imperial Hotel, overlooks the side of the Haya Sofia, and we congratulated ourselves on an excellent location. To be in the center of things was certainly convenient when we had so little time to explore Istanbul. We would live like locals, we told ourselves, and really get to know this place from the inside, if only for two days. (more on that later.)
Although so many friends had told us that Istanbul is the most cosmopolitan of the Muslim countries, we donned our sweaters and scarves and went out to explore. Fortunately it was cool out. Tentatively, we walked around, marveling at the strangeness of the landscape - the minarets and palm trees, the tourist shops bursting with scarves, rugs, and charms to ward off the Evil Eye. Snack shops sold pomegranates cut to look like they had burst from ripeness. We marveled at everything, but we were hesitant. Would we inadvertently break some sort of social rule that was unknown to us? What would the consequences be? (It didn't help that my husband called incessantly to make machete jokes.) We walked around the square at the center of town, but not with our usual abandon, afraid to really throw ourselves into the mix.
Hungry for dinner, we sat at a cafe to have a Turkish coffee and browse the internet for the perfect restaurant. With only two dinners here, we could not afford to take a chance. Have you had turkish coffee? Real Turkish coffee? It is served like an espresso, in a tiny cup, and the first half of the drink is palatable, if taken with enough sugar. Halfway down, it turns to sludge, the dregs of the Bosphorus. Drink no further. Trust me.
We decided on dinner at the Armada Hotel, halfway down the hill. The lobby was quiet and empty like a Chinese restaurant, except a strange fountain teeming with small turtles. With an American couple, we rode the world's smallest elevator to the rooftop restaurant. There we found a very different Istanbul.
The rooftop deck was dark, lit by candles on each table. To one side, the hill rose up, topped by the eerily lit Blue Mosque. To the other, the city rolled down to the shores of the river, the Asian side of the city twinkling across the water. From where I sat, I could see how this city on a hill armed itself against attack. Although, let’s be honest, they didn’t do a very good job, did they? Istanbul has changed hands more times than a dollar bill.
We marveled at the setting, enjoying a glass of Raki, which is essentially Turkish Ouzo, which is taken with a spash of water and an ice cube. A little too much black licorice flavor for my taste, but after a few sips, my mouth was so numb, I didn’t really care.
The mezze plate came with chickpeas, aubergine, tzaziki, parsley, some sort of bean similar to a fava, tomatoes, cucumber, all familiar Greek recipes but with heady doses of cinnamon and cardamom - decidedly arab flavors.
For a moment my lightly grilled fresh fish and view of the water lulled me into thinking that I was in a Mediterranean country, until the Greek-Arab influenced techno dance beat that was playing was interrupted by a loud horn, and a voice that sounded like the Canter on Yom Kippur. The voice droned on over a loudspeaker that reached every corner of the walled city of Istanbul and, I am certain, much farther. It reverberated against the restaurant's strange techno music until the radio was respectfully turned down.
The man on the mic, I assume coming from the Blue Mosque, continued his chant, in words and notes that escape Western understanding. That was a moment I will never forget, sitting on a rooftop in Istanbul, eating fish caught that same day, with the black night sky stretching from the lights of the Blue Mosque out over the river. The man chanting for all the city to hear, over the modern euro techno music, the greek food, cooked with arab flavors. It was so foreign, and beautiful and magical.
Until he started in again at 5 in the morning.
