Tag Archives: Istanbul

Others may be willing to stand in line for an hour or more to trudge through Sultan Ahmed Mosque, but if you rise before dawn as we did, you can get there with a silvery crescent moon still high in a deep blue sky. Removing your sandals on the marble steps outside, you would enter without a guard or cashier telling you where to go or what to pay/ Leaving those sandals on a varnished wood shelf, you would wander at will, your eyes drawn to a second story tiled in an exquisite variety of intricate woven patterns, or perhaps to the marvel of stained glass through which the light of a new day will soon send rays of blue and ruby, emerald and amber. Then, the blue and green tiles, which give this mosque its common name of Blue Mosque, will shimmer. The massive scalloped pillars will seem to lean toward you with the weight of the centuries. In the hush before the next call to prayer, you might detect a million whispered secrets floating in the 43-meter high dome. And you would be alone.

So, that was my morning.

But let us not forget that on our travels, we also investigate the uncommon sites. That’s why I can tell you a little bit about Alman Havanesi, otherwise known as German Hospital. It’s in none of the tourist guides, but thankfully it is on the maps. Since Bernard’s been sweating a fever for the past five days, we spent Wednesday there getting to know a friendly senior physician and an extraordinarily efficient lab staff who drew blood, tested it for all kinds of things, and pronounced Bernard somewhat under the weather with an indeterminate virus. Or possibly malaria. Whatever they did worked, because he hasn’t had any fever since. The hospital itself was more elegant than most hotels I’ve stayed in, with inlaid marble floors, gold filigreed scrollwork around all the desks and walls, tea service to all the doctors from the elegant cafeteria, and truly enviable efficiency.

We have also been doing our duty food-wise. I have sampled a garishly blue and green mango cocktail. Bernard has tested a number of different Turkish coffees and pronounced them excellent. Together we perused an alley sweet shop and selected a variety of things to try. I assured Bernard they were nougat, but they turned out to be something similar to stale marshmallow studded with green bits of pistachio. Bernard, all on his own, happily opened a tiny pot of what he assumed was plum jam, only to wind up dribbling what turned out to be molasses all across the breakfast table. The Turkish sour yogurt is fabulous, the various fetas salty and pungent with sheep flavor, the ripe green figs lush and richly sweet, and the softball-size peaches dripping with juice.

Although we are staying on the “modern” side of the Bosphorus, the area is as quaint and filled with car-free alleys and tiny shops as one could wish. We have been charmed by the quantity of cats that roam the streets, cared for by all. But that has naturally made us suspicious of the obvious dirth of street dogs. Where have the latter gone? And how is it that the former have come to, more or less, rule the roost here? Perhaps I can find the answer in Ankara, where we’re headed next.

We have met our comrades in the drive, shared drinks, mutually inspected cars and had a wonderful dinner preparatory to our departure for the Great Game Rally tomorrow morning. Everyone seems excited and ready for whatever the road may offer. Please remind me I said that should I start to whinge later on.