Istanbul – Clara Hsu

Walking Down The Heart

Loaded with sugar, Istiklal, the wide boulevard that leads to Taksim (the heart) swells to its fullest in the evening. Invisible currents push backs and feet and the crowd is a river that runs in all directions. Eddying into drums and baglama and a didjeridu, street music pulsates with the brightly lit shops selling everything from electronics, baklavas to the latest fashion. Here are Burger king, Gap and Starbucks. Here, Pizza Hut butts head with the Turkish equivilant ‘pide’. Here, women in high heels and stylish clothes do the cat walk that rivals New York and Paris. Only the Greek embassy in the middle of the boulevard is stoicly barricaded, refusing to participate in its liveliness.

At Taksim the crowd is drained into and poured out of the metro and buses. Always, there is a political demonstration of some sort. On May Day, one can get an extra dose of tear gas. But I’m here in November, meeting my friend Peter at the tram station. He finds me, a little breathless after a half hour struggle upstream. We dive back into Istiklal to find that little hole in the wall in one of its capillaries, where a quiet evening of dinner is promised.

Still, I’m A Donkey

A billboard in Sultanahmet: I carrying books since years, but could not stop to be a donkey.

There are just too much out there. As I peck away I’m in awe of how little I know. And yes, the donkey is a good reminder of my ignorance.

My outlook is to take in something here and there and never mind if the learning is incoherent. Experiencing a little is better than not experiencing at all. A patchwork quilt is afterall, a quilt, no matter how fractured it seems.

The business people in Sultanahmet speak multiple languages, enough to lure a customer from any part of the world into their establishment.

“It is how I learn about life, and so will my children.” My ever philosophical friend Murat said to me. His son, Cemal, spoke no English when he started working at Murat’s shop. For four years he ran up and down the cobblestone street chasing cats, pouring tea, watching and listening to his father interacting with customers. This time when I see him, Cemal is speaking adequet English from continuous tourist exposure.

“The world comes through my street. I don’t have to go anywhere.” Murat sprints from where we are sitting back to the shop when he notices some customers approaching.

I turn back to another page of my book.

Photo by Joe Pyrek

Night Guardians

With a turn of fate we left Istanbul to find ourselves back in her arms before the end of the day. With all the mishaps the message is clear: We’re not to be in Antakya as planned. Who can say if this is a good or bad thing. Stranded or not, I have come to believe in fate and not to scorn it.

Six dogs the size of German Shepherds appeared as we made our way back to our hotel. Two walked beside me. Two in the back and one in front. One hopped along a little way in the back. When I crossed the cobblestone street slowly with my luggage they waited patiently for me. As I walked, my right hand nearly touched a nose. It gave a soft growl and backed up a little.

With my entourage we arrived at our hotel. The dogs sat down in attention until the hotel’s night manager opened the door.

“Thank you.” I turned to them. They watched us go in before they wagged their tails and took off.

“Many dogs in Istanbul.” The manager said.

Many night guardians in the city of mosques.

photo credit: wideawakeinwonderland.com/tag/istanbul-marathon/

The Mole

Sitting next to the wall of Topkapi Palace, my friend Murat served Turkish coffee after a delicious meal of Adana kebap. I observed the crumbling wood pile in front of me and remembered the single inhabit in that house.´

‘What happened to the man who used to live here?’ I asked Murat.

‘He is living inside the palace now.’

‘How?’

‘Well, this structure was falling apart. He found a hole in the palace wall that was big enough for him and moved there. I give him food. We all give him things. He is fine there. Doesn’t need much.’

‘What about the authority? The police? ‘

‘He is not normal, you see, but he is not hurting anyone. I had wanted to help him get money from the government but he didn’t want it. He saves the government lots of money. No one minds him staying in the hole.’

That was the story. I patted one of the cats sitting next to me—a baby, one and a half months old.

‘The other day I put seven cats in my car and drove them to the fish market.’ Said Murat. ‘They get run over by cars around here. But at the fish market they have food and I don’t have to worry about them.’

Murat puffed his cigarette heavily. They cannot smoke inside their businesses anymore. It’s against the law.

Istanbul in November

Istanbul with its first rain, wet and glistening. The cooler weather has driven most tourists away and with them, the hustlers too. Walking up the tramtrack in Sultanahmet, I came upon an old friend (owner of a restaurant). He was the first person to greet me when I arrived for the first time in 2004. He didn’t call out to me in Chinese, like he did to all Asian tourists, but gave me a big warm smile. In the past seven years he had been to jail, built four restaurants, a bed and breakfast inn, and now, his ‘final’ project is to own a three-star hotel.

‘After this I will retire.’

An unlikely story. People here work. That’s what they do.

I ate at his new restaurant. He had to go to see his father in the hospital. His nephew took over the administration. He is training him to be his successor.

A glass of Turkish tea. Two cubes of sugar stirred to dissolve with a silver spoon.

O Istanbul

Its name carries a myth and the city never disappoints me. Its melancholy permeates the streets and its people. There is a dark side that wears like an old sweater, and the mood can be further mellowed by the sweetness of baklavas. Attractive men with curly black hair. Beautiful women in oriental dresses. I have friends who call me from time to time. “When will you come back?”

I know the streets. I know the people who run the little gift shops, the hawkers in front of the restaurants and in the parks. But it has been three years since I was there. Will I see the same people doing the same things when I go back? Chances are: I will. I can count on them being there pouring tea or raki into little glass cups and wave a welcome as if I have never left.

A friend writes, “See you in November.”

How to Make Menemen

Feasting in Murat's dress shop with Menemen in the foreground

It’s tomato season. The farmers market down at Alemany has stall after stall of ravishing beauties. They have been ripened in the sun (not machine) and their sweetness naturally flavor whatever dish that I cook.

This is the time for Menemen, the Turkish scrambled eggs. When I was in Istanbul I befriended two shop keepers—Murat and Mehmet— and hung out with them whenever I could. We sat on the sidewalk of the narrow street in front of their shops and drank Turkish tea with lots of sugar. They boiled water using a propane stove. Upon hearing that I like Menemen, Murat brought his frying pan out and Mehmet made it for me.

The trick, is ripe tomatoes. The secret ingredient is paprika. Combine with a little cumin, salt and pepper, cook the chopped tomatoes down to a medium thick sauce and pour beaten eggs over it. Since then, scrambled egg has a new meaning in my life and I hope it will to yours too.