Izmir, Ephesus, Sirinçe, Oh My!

Leaving the heavy chaos of Istanbul and the constant discovery of a new mosquito bite was a relief. We arrived in Izmir and met our host, Ezgi, who promptly sat us down for a home cooked meal and introduced us to her friends.  Incredibly fascinating and intelligent, with ranging English abilities, they welcomed us into their conversations as they would an old friend.  We met another ex-pat who was studying for her Ph.D.

We were taken to a cafe and bar in which all the waitstaff seem to be professional Lindy Hoppers.  They escorted each of us out to the dance floor and patiently repeated, "slow, slow, quick-quick." My partner gave up after a dance and I was happy to sip on a drink and watch the professionals get it.

The next morning, armed with directions from Ezgi and our new friend Ahmet, we took a train to the town Selçuk, near Ephesus.  You know, biblical Ephesus.  We ranged the ancient ruins and witnessed some ongoing excavations.  Being too cheap to hire a guide, we eavesdropped near some tours and caught snippets of their spiels.  It was incredible to walk around a city with so much history.  The ruins are so vibrant, you can almost see the ghosts out of the corner of your eye. 

We negotiated a cab ride (previously unthought of) to a nearby town, Sirinçe.  The "S" is supposed to have a squiggly line underneath it, but apparently my keyboard is not cultured enough. The squiggle is supposed to denote an "h" sound after the consonant.  Therefore, "Sirinçe" is pronounced "shu-rin-cha."  We found this town mentioned in a couple of sentences on a regional map.  It's a quaint town tucked in the hills, known for its 19th century houses and local wine.  Count us in. 

Sirince is a lovely village, with narrow, steep cobblestone streets where everything is in genteel disrepair.  The entire town looks as though it could use a good sweeping, some mortar and a new coat of paint.  But, that would detract from the picturesque, if slightly rotting, feel.  We sniffed our way to a wine store run out of a cellar in the basement of a 600 year old church.  What better place to sell booze? We made friends with a couple of the shopkeepers, who were generously pouring samples of their wines and fruit wines.  The sales strategy of being slightly flirtatious, buying us some tea and coffee at a cafe upstairs, and plying us with lots and lots of wine, works.  Slightly tipsy, we saddled ourselves with 3 bottles of red wine, a bottle of blackberry wine and a bottle of pomegranate champagne (my favorite).  We sloshed our way to a proffered restaurant and stuffed ourselves with the local cuisine.

A slightly harrowing bus ride (sharp turns and steep drops), an hour long train ride and a 45 minute walk with the heaviest wine bottles known to man, and our day came to a close.

Samir.

We met Samir in the Spice Market.  He was slinging spices and was very nice.  He asked if we wanted to grab dinner with him, to which Kristina said we would think about it.  I was skeptical, which I am about everything and everyone.  He only had eyes for Kristina and I worried about the implications of two foreign girls agreeing to go to dinner with a local.  Besides, it's a tad annoying to make a comment and have the recipient answer Kristina as though she had said it and I weren't there. 

In any case, Kristina overrode me, and I'm very happy she did.  Once we met at the agreed location of Galata Tower, Samir was polite, courteous and a perfect gentleman. 

Samir is a refugee from Syria. He told us that he was a lawyer, but had to leave a few years ago.  Syria, like many countries in this corner of the world, has mandatory military service for all men.  Occasionally, one can delay it or skip altogether if they are attending university.  However, with Syria in a civil war, that doesn't exactly apply right now.  Samir told us (some of this could be muddled due to the language barrier, even though his English is pretty solid) that he decided not to serve.  He said that he refused to kill a fellow countryman just because his government told him to.  I guess the government considers him a terrorist for refusing to serve.  So he immigrated to Turkey.

I felt a strong sense of sympathy for this man.  He is one day older than Kristina.  He had a great career that he loved, making great money.  He is intelligent, speaks several languages, and well informed of current events.  He is curious and asks good questions.  He is a good listener.  And now he slings spices to tourists in a foreign country while sending money home to support his aging parents and sister.

Sometimes I forget just how lucky we are.

A Complicated City

Istanbul is a complicated city.  We've heard population estimates everywhere from 14.5 to 20 million people.  For reference, New York's boroughs plus the metropolitan Chicago areas combined fall within that range.  On the low side.  There are so many people packed into this town; it's nuts.  It seems to be divided into three broad areas (this is my very ignorant perception); two sides on the European side, separated by the Bosphorus River, and another portion that is on the Asian side.  We were staying in the Beyoglu area.

When we arrived (finally), we met with Juliet, an ex-pat whom I was put into contact with through her mother.  I met Eve in San Luis Obispo when she hosted me earlier this year on Airbnb. She was fabulous, and I figured anyone as great as that must have a wonderful daughter.  I was right.  Juliet met us outside the Swedish Consulate and immediately took us out for drinks. We met an 80's classic rock cover band singer named Nikki. He was Turkish, but had bleached hair and spoke wonderful English. A group of passing Americans heard us speaking English and stopped to say hello.  We made fast friends with these naive 20 year olds and one older sister (even though I almost slapped on of them for being a Dick American) .  Juliet took us all for dinner at a local place. What a wonderful experience and a great first night.  We didn't get home until 3:30 am, which was maybe not the brightest of all traveling decisions we've ever made.  Because we slept until 3:30 the next afternoon. 

We awoke and made it out to the main pedestrian street in Istanbul that leads to Taksim Square.  Think 16th street mall, but with about 10,000 people.  No joke. Every where we went, there are men standing in front of restaurants, bars, clubs, trying to hand you a menu, get you to come in. We buckled a couple of times.  We ate shish lamb sweetbreads (insanely good), drank Turkish tea and were talked into going into a local bar. A young man was playing acoustic guitar and singing Turkish songs.  It was clearly a local bar because everyone sang along, and we stood out like a tall blonde thumb. 

We were followed twice that night, on that main strip.  Once was by a short, grayed, and bespectacled man.  I looked at him, smiled and nodded and kept walking.  Later we dropped into a book store, where I noticed he was perusing a random book nearby.  We left and continued on our way; we stopped to look at a store and he nearly ran into us, he was so close.  I pulled Kristina aside; he went around the corner to stare at us through a store window, but quickly got bored and walked away.  The second time was on our way home, still on this crowded street.  Kristina had noticed him earlier; we stopped to look at a building and this man got about 3 inches from my face and said something in English before continuing on his way. 

On Sunday we succeeded at waking at a reasonable time.  We made our way to the spice market on the other side of the Bosphorus.  It's an enclosed market with stalls selling open spices in bulk, smaller pre-packaged goods and anything else random or touristy that you could imagine.  The crush of people is incredible.  Here we met Samir, a Syrian refugee who was a lawyer in his homeland, and now hustles spices. He is seeking asylum because he refused to serve his mandatory term of service in the military. 

We got lost and took about an hour to find a Turkish bath; the walk should have taken about 20 minutes or less.  The streets were emptier because it was a Sunday, which was nice.  Cemberlitas Hamami was built in1584.  There are separate mirror entrances for men and women.  The women on our side simply took us by the arm, pointed us in the direction we should go and pushed us off instead of bothering with too many words.  We unrobed and timorously stepped out clad in nothing but a very thin towel. We were once again pushed through a couple of doors and into a large round room not unlike a sauna with an octangular marble slab in the middle, surrounded with small rooms that had fountains with warm water running from the aging taps.  We discovered they included bikini bottoms in the deal, phew.  Otherwise, it was surprisingly liberating to lay on this warm slab, surrounded by relaxed and topless women, topless ourselves.  There existed no feeling of judgment or evaluation, just hot and heavy air forcing us to relax.  At length, a slightly overweight, slightly middle aged Turkish woman waved me to lay on the edge of the slab. She went to her work with verve and determination, scrubbing at my breasts with the same matter-of-factness (and pressure, one might add) that she did my back or my legs.  I was horrified at the amount of dead skin that came off with that first scrub.  A quick rinse, then I was motioned to lay down, where she gave me a soapy "massage."  I can hardly call this a massage, but more of an insistent demand to relax.  She washed my hair for me, which is the first time in probably 25 years that I've had anyone do that.  My newly dyed hair turned the soap and water a startlingly bright purple.  We drank some tea, got a facial, took a shower, and emerged back into the humid, noisy, dirty city.

In a train station, a company uses a spare room to put on performance thrice weekly of Whirling Dervishes.  It's about an hour long and is a religious ceremony.  Five musicians played on various foreign instruments while one man warbled in the most beautiful fashion.  Another five men come out and, for lack of a better descriptor, twirl.  They twirl in very flowy skirts over their pants.  And not a single one fell over.  Between getting only a few hours of sleep the previous night, the rhythmic music and chanting, and the hypnotism of the men spinning, I found myself fighting sleep the entire time.  Luckily, I seemed to not be the only person this happened to.  It was odd, endearing, and fascinating. 

Along the first few days, we discovered that, despite the research I'd done saying that Istanbul was well accustomed to foreigners and the way they dress, it definitely behooved us to cover the fuck up.  If our decolletage was showing, men were pushier, louder and more insistent.  The prices went up and the quality went down. We became targets, in a most uncomfortable way.  By our third day, we were dressing much more conservatively.  There was still no doubt we were foreigners, but our path became inexplicably easier. 

The Grand Bazaar is both Grand and Bizarre.

On Monday, we arrived at the Grand Bazaar with trepidation and excitement.  Armed with minimal research, Spice Market experience, and several hundred lira tucked in our purses, we entered the infamous gates.

Our Googling had informed us that early was a good time to arrive.  The merchants have to walk a fine line; they must reach their daily minimum income, and also earn their own commission.  Therefore, earlier in the day is the best time to haggle, as they are more willing to fluctuate the price in order to meet their daily goals.  But, too early, and you're likely to encounter a gruff Turk who has not had time for his morning tea or to greet his neighbors.

We arrived about 9:30, half an hour after opening.  This afforded us time to get acquainted with the market (it's 60 streets of chaos and cacophony) without too much hassle from the merchants or the crowds. 

I was in the market for a famed Turkish rug.  Long before leaving, I decided I would splurge on something special that I could keep the rest of my life.  I was invited to come into a shop to "just look, miss, you don't have to buy!"  Our research had informed us that we would be invited in, shown the goods, given tea, and begin to haggle.  I had to inform the man that I couldn't buy one of his giant rugs that covered the entire length of the wall (now I shudder to imagine the cost), because I would be flying home with said rug.  He immediately started pulling out the most luscious hand-knotted silk rugs.  When silk is used in both the warp, weft and the knots, it changes colors in the most magical way.  I'm afraid the poker face I'd been cultivating completely evaporated when presented with these creative masterpieces. I attempted to casually ask how much a rug was, as I hadn't come across any hard-and-fast rules about the cost.  It went something like this:

Him: "1500 Turkish Lira."  (approximately $750)

Me: stunned silence.

Him: "How much do you want to spend?"

Me: stunned silence.

Me:  "Oh."  Quick calculation, realization that I can't do math when in sticker shock.  "Um, 200 lira?"

Bad move.  I low-balled him right out of negotiations.  He started to pull shitty wool rugs and start throwing them at me.  Not literally, but literally at the ground at my feet.  I'm sure, in the presence of less remarkable rugs, these would have been pretty.  Beautiful, even.  But, in the given environment, these looked like the sad, ugly, spinster step-sister of the glowing bride. 

I awkwardly excused myself, told him we would think about it and be back, and bodily dragged Kristina out of the shop. 

Out in the light of day, I started to reevaluate what "splurging" meant and how much was too much.  We got a quick bite to eat, I steeled myself, and reentered the market. 

The second shop we went into was much smaller, but felt much better.  The keeper was much more polite, gave us a magnifying glass to look at the knots (shockingly regular and meticulously knotted).  This time, with a better outlook, negotiations went much more smoothly.  I had read to expect somewhere from 30-50% off, but usually closer to 30%.  Which, considering the rug started at 1550, I was more than pleased when we settled for 1100 lira. 

The big purchase out of the way, I relaxed into the cadence and noise of the market.  We wound our way through the winding, ever-more crowded streets.  The market is covered and blissfully cool in the humidity and heat.  Men yell from their shop doors, step in front of you, waving their wares in your face and  imploring you to, "come, look!" "let me help you buy something you don't need!" and, in Kristina's case, "are you angel?  Please, stop!" It's very overwhelming, but easy to get lost in the crush of people and colors and movement.  Around two, we started to feel overwhelmed but the noise and heat and smell of so many people.  Kristina read somewhere that 250,000-400,000 people might visit the Grand Bazaar on any given day.

We exited into the hot Turkish sun, feeling exhausted but happy.  Just how I like to feel.