Final Chapter: Turkey

 

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Okay, this is the final installment of my vacation recap. Thereafter, Funny Farm returns to insects, sheep and mutant fungus.

So… Istanbul… what a change of pace. As we emerged from the airport terminal into the glaring sun, Mom and I were both like, whoa….

Istanbul was clean. So clean. And cosmopolitan. And green. Slices of grassy parks, flowers brimming from courtyard planters and window boxes. And the city was walkable — genuinely pedestrian-friendly. And clean.

Did I mention clean?

Sorry Beirut, but Istanbul won the tidiness award, hands down. Beirut, you swept the culinary categories. Seriously, Lebanese food was the bomb. (and not the Syrian rebel variety.)

 

Istanbul was pleasant, pretty…

…with mosques-a-plenty.

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At last count 3,113 to be precise. No surprise, given that 99 percent of the population is Muslim.

Aside from the whole mosque-thing, the city, which straddles the Bosphorus, reminded me of San Francisco.

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Maybe it’s not apparent here, but if you closed your eyes and opened them, you’d see San Francisco.

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Mom and I were part of a crew of 16 who flew to Istanbul after the wedding. Each day a tour guide escorted us to must-see spots. We packed an astonishing number of attractions into a few days.

Please, don’t ask me where the next photo was taken. All these historically-significant edifices blurred together. A lady in our group constantly jotted details in a notebook. Now I understand why. This is a picture of somewhere…

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This is somewhere else. Trust me, very old and culturally important.

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Here’s a picture of Mom and my Uncle Bill donning mosque-friendly apparel…

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I photographed the Basilica Cistern but the dim lighting was difficult. Think 6th-century underground water system…

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My cousin Stuart and I stuck together a lot.  Frankly, we both suffered ice-cream headaches from gobs of spoon fed history.

Here we are, another mosque — hey, you two…smile!

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At first, Stu and I admired our tour guide’s limitless knowledge — she expounded the most minute facts on every pillar, every cornice, over several hours. But then our eyes glazed over and we resorted to swapping bathroom horrors stories, discussing burgers and beer, and pointing out freaky-looking passersby. But we plodded along. If Stuart tried edging away, I’d loop his arm and announce, “Hey! Where you going? There’s a must-see mosaic in the next room. You can’t miss it! The ceiling? Dates back to the 9th century. The mosaic of Jesus? Tiles made from hundreds of leetle cheeldren…ground into dust to create these vibrant colors…

We ODed on factoids.

What else? Shopping. There’s lots of shopping in Istanbul. Retail stores, funky boutiques and markets — the latter of which are touristy, but interesting. Here’s the spice market. See, spices…

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And we visited the Grand Bazaar, which sold anything and everything a thousand times over. I’m not exaggerating. There were thousands of booths.

Hooka, anyone?

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I must mention the cats. They were cats everywhere.

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Everywhere.

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I just glanced at the cats, but the women cloaked in black were another story. I don’t know how they withstood the nonstop sun and high temps. When possible, our crew scuttled to any sliver of shade and still, we were sweaty. I couldn’t imagine traipsing around like this.

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What made these women even more striking were their husbands. Each wife was squired by a man, typically clad in a tee-shirt, madras shorts, and flip-flops, with a camera dangling from his neck. How do you not stare at that? Joe Tourist and his black tablecloth-wearing wife? (Technically not a tablecloth. Not a burqa, either. It’s a niqab, covering the face, and abaya, the cloak.) I snuck photos, but mostly elbowed Stuart to add another to our freaky-people count. (This woman’s a tourist, not a local, by the way.)

And while we’re on the subject of women… sexism? Present.

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The above photo is a little misleading. Given the squatting, kneeling and bowing associated with Islam, perhaps it’s wise to separate the sexes in mosques.

But beyond places of worship… well… let’s just say the gender divide was palpable. I dismissed the blatant, interminable staring on the street, in restaurants and stores. In the hotel, out of the hotel. I even ignored the wandering hand move, the “whoops, I touched your butt” move, which mysteriously, always accidentally, occurred on many occasions. But by trip’s end, I was sick of being shoved off the sidewalk by passing men, or getting a door slammed in my face when a guy dashed in front and squeezed through.

I don’t mean to end this post on a sour note. I never planned to visit Istanbul, but I’m glad that I did. It was beautiful and really interesting.

I’d recommend it.

 

Just remember to BYOS.

Bring your own scarf… to cover your head.

Or your hairy legs. Madras shorts have their limits.

 

 

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Enfin!

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