My view from the room overlooks the northern part of the Bosporus and the Bosporus Bridge. It’s quite an engineering feat as huge ocean going tankers are moving effortlessly at quite a speed up and down from the Black Sea. Across the water is Asia – seems odd that you can stand in one continent and gaze upon another.
This morning I decided that a quick whiz round the city was needed so I have persuaded the concierge to organise a local taxi with an English speaking guide, rather than one of their limos which I think they prefer to use.
Said is the driver of a small fiat, ugly taxi, but it does offer a good view all round.
First stop is off to the Suleymaniye Mosque over in the old district.
Not sure that this gets enough credit and it is certainly in the shadows of the Sophia and Blue Mosques. Primarily the mosque is in the centre of the complex surrounded by kitchens, hospitals, asylums and soup kitchens, although these are not in use in the same way. It was like a huge charitable institute when it was finally completed in 1557. On entering the complex you see a row of concrete/marble stools facing brass water taps from the walls. This is the cleaning process prior to prayer and there are half a dozen men preparing themselves.
It’s very damp and there is a slight precipitation in the air – it’s raining, that’s not planned or supposed to happen.
Entering the courtyard the four sides are ringed by ancient columns with cupola, which are heavily decorated. It was Sinan who designed and built this mosque as well as a further 131 mosques and 200 other buildings. Busy man but I guess he managed to keep his head as he apparently nearly lasted 100 years, which is hard to believe in those times.
Writing this in the Club Lounge I can see way up the Bosporus and across to the commercial centre with all its high-rise buildings, sun reflecting off the glass and concrete spires, whilst lighting up all the lower red-roof buildings. Quite pleasant now as the sun is setting.
The mosque was beautifully laid out with symmetrical domes and minarets, light still pouring in although it was overcast. Clever trick is that all the large doors have massive heavy leather covers falling down across the doors. You have to pull these to one side to get in.
There are long strings of light bulbs hanging from vast chains that run right up to the roof and around the domes. The access area to the tourists is limited by a wooden barrier across one third of the mosque. There are mainly French and Spanish tourists and this is evident when later in the day I am addressed firstly in Spanish, then French and finally English.
You can also tell by the type of footwear removed at the mosque entrance. Garish leather designs just not right for the wanderings around cities. Surprisingly they didn’t seem to get upset with the women not wearing shawls, although they did provide them.
The network of streets around the mosque are quite narrow, giving just enough access to one parked vehicle and one passing, although the bus couldn’t get round the corner at one point.
I love the way that the streets and bazaars are associated with the type of products. One street is just saucepans and stainless steel wares. Makes window displays rather void of any life unless there’s plastic fruit on some of them.
I wonder what Ernest Hemingway thought of this place back in the twenties – how come he gets everywhere. He’s like the Kate Adie of his time.
Said is missing as I get back to the car – I did give him a time but he’s obviously amiss. In fact to be fair he turns up within a minute most apologetic. From here we rejoin the chaos and head down towards the hustle. Each great monument is sited on a hill. I expect there are bound to be seven, there always are. Down by the shore of Sariyerburnu district we stop so I can have a quick look around the Egypt Bazaar. It’s midday and the familiar calling to prayer from the local mosque is very clear.
I have twenty minutes, as the parking is limited, so I am off up the side road and into the depth of the bazaar. It’s the usual chaos but it always seemed well organised. Heavily loaded trolleys with young waif-like men groaning under their weight pulling them through the crowds that separate only just at the last minute and swallow them as quickly.
Like a magnet I stop at a huge pile of Turkish delight where the shop owner is stacking them into a gigantic mound. Yup I’ll have some of those about 2 Turkish lire are enough for me = £1.
Said gets me up to the Topkapi Palace and reminds me that it will close at 4 p.m. but as its raining I will probably be through fairly quickly. So much for zipping through – the palace is made up of four different courts all with their own entrance. The fourth court is the furthest and this is where Suleiman and his closest family resided. This main court ante room is richly decorated and apart from a grilled single window in one wall it has little furnishings. I would expect this to be full of cushions, seating, and carpets during its heyday – now it’s full of Mexicans. Well they are all wearing bright red and green shell suits as if it’s a uniform, and across the back of them its emblazoned Mexico. Not quite fuzzy felt but pretty close.
The guidebooks are very thorough about the palace area. Doesn’t really say anything about the numbers of Italians – they must need their sun fix – won’t get much of that today.
I’m sitting in a roof top café just a few storeys above the main artery that goes down to the Ataturk Bridge. As far as the eye can see are red roofs, mosques and minarets. What strikes me is the sheer number of satellite dishes. On an apartment block there are as many as 20 – 30 all facing the same direction harnessing the invisible power of the media. The weather is a lot better than yesterday with clear blue sky and a brown dusty aura where the sky meets the city.
Back to Topkapi where the Spanish and Italians have moved on and now there are maybe six different school groups all with their own entourage. The noise is deafening but at least they are organised in their pairs walking, skipping and chatting from one part to the next.
Eventually from the palace we head back down through the narrow streets shared by the new tram that links the old and new part of European Istanbul.
Later that evening I head out of the hotel to see what is around and to get some local supper; this after having been warned of the unscrupulous people, mainly men who will lead you to a good club and help spend lots of money.
Obviously I don’t blend in as someone comes along side asking the time. Indicating he has no watch I just shrug and walk on Please English, then all the other languages. In my best pig Latin, which he is perplexed about, I walk on… he gives up. The street is more abuzz than earlier with most people heading to the Istanbul equivalent of the Ramblas. Couples and lots of men holding hands walk the street occasionally interrupted by the odd tram parting people like Moses and the Red Sea.
Still the guys bother me until I take refuge in a small café off the main street.
That evening its worth getting up to the 18th floor for a drink just to take in all the views.
Tomorrow it’s going to be an early start. Really having problems sleeping tonight – I’m either too hot, restless or all out of synch.