Day 20: Santorini. Woah.

Apparently I have a thing for volcanic islands. After Indonesia, an entire volcanic archipelago, I am in Santorini. Those of you who have been here will laugh at this, but I had read references to "the caldera" and "hiking the caldera" in guidebooks, so I had visions of driving to the volcano and maybe hiking around it a little. I didn't realize until I got to the top of the island and looked down: Woah. This whole island, and the smaller ones out in the bay, ARE the rim of the volcano. The caldera? The entire bay. This is a giant, giant thing- looking at a map, it's vaguely noticeable that these islands form kind of a circle. Standing here and looking down on it, though, the situation is really clear. These precipitous jagged hills I'm staring at are so obviously the rim of a volcano, and I'm looking 1000 feet down into it's crater. When this thing blew, 3,000 years ago, it shattered the rim and the Aegean Sea came flooding in. There are a couple of burned little islands at the center of this bay- still smoking. Technically these might be the cinder cone? Or, at the very least, the volcano's way of gradually rebuilding itself from the inside out? The volcanic sea floor here is unstable; over centuries, ephemeral islands have risen and sunk out there. And submerged near the core is supposed to be- wait for it, my friends- ATLANTIS. I think that is super freakin' cool. The last time one of these islets emerged, and slowly submerged again a couple of hundred years ago, they actually found evidence of Roman buildings on it. Again. Woah.

I have spent the day with my rental car, driving Santorini from end to end. It's not very far, maybe 15 miles, but with enough twists and turns and side roads and villages to keep you busy for a day or so. Santorini, unfortunately, is closed. And I mean, whole villages right now are ghost towns this time of year, except for the occasional construction site where guys are futzing about with wheelbarrows. Ia, at the north end of the island, is where I think 95% of Greece's postcards and tourist images originate. I invented a new game in Ia called, "Try to Take a Bad Picture." Seriously, I dare you, try it. Can't be done.

Architeture detour, those of you whose eyes glaze over at this kind of thing, feel free to skim. The architecture, aside from the caldera view, is why you come here. The steep side of the island has all these zig-zag stone walkways you'd typically negotiate with the help of a donkey- and seriously, I saw 3 today, and there are no tourists here, so it's real. The thick walls make sense against the summer heat, or the winter chill; the close-knit fabric and the high walls had something to do with defense against pirates, historically, among other things. It all seems pretty dicey in light of the seismic situation, though. Stone ceilings and walls are not what you'd want in the event of a tremor. A percentage of the island's buildings are still in ruins from the last major event, in 1956. Lots of people moved in lieu of rebuilding, and it's surprising that, given the value of this real estate, you can still pick your way through rubble in spots, 50 years later. The buildings are woven so closely together with lanes threaded through in all directions that it's difficult to tell what is public walkway, and what is someone's front porch. And, a detail I just love, there seems to have been a consensus early on about what colors everyone would use, everywhere. The whitewashing, I suppose, was a purely practical decision, especially to reflect the summer sun. What makes it splendid, though, is the blue. Mostly it's cobalt, on doors and gates and domes; a few have gone wild and used cerulean, or baby blue, or a splash of turquoise. Against the unbelievably blue water, and the bluer sky, it is stunning. There are a few freckles of green, on stray fence posts. Anything that's not white, in terms of the walls, is ochre; washed in shades from butter to almost canary yellow. Everything is a little sunbleached. Glorious.

And, glorious, but empty. Wandering Ia this afternoon, there was one shop open, a handful of construction workers, and two other tourists. Everything is padlocked, and the padlocks are bubble wrapped, then strapped with duct tape for good measure. Same with the street lights. Windows are papered over. This place is lonely and windswept, in a way I haven't seen since I visited the Bronte house on the moors of Yorkshire, years ago. And people, that was the setting that inspired Wuthering Heights, and there were still street festivals and people everywhere. This: quiet. I drove back to the main village, Fira, and found a cafe which housed about 4 people- quite the crowd. I had a sandwich out on the balcony, and the wind blew the tomatoes off my sandwich before I closed it and weighted it down. This is, unquestionably, a tough time of year here. The guy who rented me the car today told me that people here work 14 hours a day all summer, and sleep all day during the winter. "People? There are people here??" I wanted to ask. And there are a few. And they are all giving me funny looks. I feel like I have shown up very early, or very late, for a party. But when I did that last year at a dessert party my dear friends John and Andie threw, showing up an hour early by mistake, they were fabulous- they offered me dinner and let me play with their adorable baby and help arrange the cheese tray. Here: awkward.

So, to end on a happy note: I got here on the ferry last night, too late to go very far on foot before the daylight ran out, but far too early to call it a night at like 5 pm. I was feeling blue for the first time since I left home, mainly because I was not in Istanbul, and fresh off an 8 hour ferry ride, and it was the first time in weeks I'd gone for more than an hour or two without a conversation, and I had a scratchy throat and a cold. (I am not actually complaining about any of this- my cold and I, after all, are in Santorini. But it sets the scene.) I was finding nothing other than the stray convenience store open, and dreading the long dark walk back to my guest house, when- as it seems to happen these days- a cozy little corner cafe lit up out of nowhere. There were little blue chairs on the patio, and real live people inside, and a huge chalk sign written in English that proclaimed: CHICKEN SOUP. Oh, thank you thank you. Giant bowl of homemade soup with fresh herbs on top, mounds of chicken, and a good handfull of rice.

I keep looking for evidence, lately, that things will turn out as they should, and that the world is inherently safe and good and kind. This is mainly because I have to go home and job hunt during a recession, which is kind of terrifying, and it was a leap of faith to take this time to travel, not knowing how long I'll be unemployed when I get back. There are a couple of sayings rattling around in my mind these days. The first is something like, "Luck is where preparation meets opportunity," and I am trying to trust that we've all done the preparation part, and the hard work to get us where we need to go. The other saying is, "Leap, and the net will appear." I don't know about nets, really, or jobs; but I do know that chicken soup will, when you have a cold, or streets full of lamps, when you're lost in the dark, and beautiful things, at just the right moment, and fabulous friends, too. Things have been appearing lately, unbidden, exactly when I need them- anyone else finding little bits of serendipity everywhere?

Day 17: Leaving Istanbul

Last day in Istanbul. Visited a couple of Sinan mosques, but mostly walked all day- my pedometer (I am a complete travel dork) says 9.6 miles. Nothing is worn out but my ankles, though, from climbing up and down all these lovely steep cobblestone streets. On the advice of Jessica C, who wisely told me that if I didn't buy one of those lovely hanging lamps, I'd regret it as soon as I left the city, I bought a lamp. I drank tea on the rooftop terrace upstairs, took the tram one last time, and did my favorite walk back across the bridge to the Spice Market at dusk, and I drank a glass of fresh-squeezed pomegranite juice, which is the reddest thing I have ever seen.

Despite all the theatrics in the street, and all of these very entertaining Istanbul men feigning heartaches at every turn, the truth is this: the only heart actually breaking as I pack to leave Istanbul is mine. Sigh.

I am depending on Athens and the Greek Isles to cheer me up. I have started reading Ovid's Metamorphosis to prep me for being in the land of Mt. Olympus and all the stories that go with it. Much busier travel week ahead- planes and ferries and a couple of islands to visit, not to mention the Acropolis. Miss everyone back home! Send news!

Day 16. Walk walk walk.

One of the things I really, really love about traveling: everyone assumes I am a simpleton. And, seriously, as a tourist, I am. I don't know the language, I don't know how to buy a tram token, I don't know what any of the food on the street is until I taste it. Yesterday, when I gave somebody correct change, he smiled and clapped with surprise, as if I'd done a party trick. I am shamelessly taking advantage of the shillers on the square- if we are going to to the "we are all about Turkish Hospitality" thing, I am going to let them walk me to the tram token window and give me directions. After all these years of being expected to know everything, it is so nice when nobody expects anything at all. Architecture is really damn hard- with every design decision you have to consider solar orientation, environmental impacts, the effect of your building on the public realm, the context of the city, the structural system, material interactions, the digital and physical representation, the graphic design of your presentation, the speech you will give to defend your decisions to your jury- it's exhausting. There's a good reason that, even with a master's degree, I'll have to intern for years before I can sit for licensing exams. Sitting in a cafe eating gozleme (scrumptious salty crumbled cheese pancake, thank you Kristen Hawk) I am totally in the dark about everything going on around me: conversations over the backgammon boards, the lyrics to the music videos playing on the tv, and how to order one of those baklava rolls piled up in the window dripping with honey. This is so fabulous.

So. I have a huge crush on the guy at the kebap shop, on the corner next to Galata Tower. The first time I passed him I was lost, and it was dark, as I headed downhill and stumbled onto the streets of light sellers. He gave me a piercing look as I passed and said, "Hello." The next day, wandering down Istiklal Street, I realized that it dead-ended at the tower, just around a curve. If I'd known the trick of walking straight uphill, from any direction, I would have found it 50 feet away. So again, tumbling downhill, same shop, same hello, same piercing look. I am not flattered by this piercing look, dearly though I would love to be. If you had this man's eyes, my friends, you would not be able to give a look that was not piercing, to anyone. He looks, but exactly, like Luka from E.R. Anyone? Anyone else have a crush on Luka? It is totally him. He is beautiful. I want to go back there and drop something in front of him, like the shoe-shine guys do. They know if they drop something in your path, and you stop to help them pick it up, you have already formed a bond....

On to today. I have gotten into a really nice routine- get up whenever I wake up, linger over breakfast at my lovely pension (fluffy bread, olives, cucumbers, tomatoes, and a boiled egg) and then strike out to see some culture. I am limiting myself, for the most part, to one monument/mosque/museum per day, in order to avoid traveler's burnout. The rest of the time I spend exploring the city. This morning I went with my new Australian friend, Sarah, on a marathon walk while her boyfriend stayed behind to play backgammon in a cafe. We ended up at Dolambache Palace, which I think is fascinating because it was built for sultans to use, but not until the 1800's. It's relatively modern- the harem situation seems a little bit jarring here among the Versailles-style furniture. We wandered up the waterfront, where Sarah had a shoe-shine forcibly administered, before turning back- great fun. After hours of walking, I did some present shopping in the Grand Bazaar- prices tend to drop at sunset when the vendors sense a "last sale of the day" coming on.

In ths Spice Bazaar at dusk: still my favorite. Lured into a tea shop, because the bins of flowery tea and spices were gorgeously piled high in little pyramids, and because the guys out front said, "MICHAEL JORDAN!" when I said Carolina.

"I am not letting you buy Love Tea," sas Kilic.
"I am totally buying Love Tea, Kilic," I say.
"No, no, no. Don't need. You buy Lemon Tea. You buy Rose Tea. You are too beautiful for Love Tea. You just live in the wrong place."

Did I mention, I love Istanbul?

And I did buy Lemon Tea, and Rose Tea, and Love Tea. The Love Tea is for the kebap man in front of Galata Tower. Kilic drew a big heart on my Love Tea with a Sharpie. If all else fails, I am going to drop THAT in front of the kebap man who looks like Luka and see if he takes the hint. Our courtship has progressed dramatically- yesterday we made it to a three-sentence conversation. I walked past and he made a giant ruckus clapping and stamping his feet from the cold.

"Cold today!" I said.
"Yes! Cold today- but tomorrow hot!"

And damned if he didn't manage to give me a piercing look again, while laughing and stomping his feet.

Day 15: Hamam. My dignity is gone (but I don't really miss it.)

Note: This is not for the easily scandalized. Or, Mom. : )

Today: Hamam. Turkish Bath. Does not include modesty...but really, you sort of have to do it if you come to Turkey. Finding this place in the rain was an adventure; I arrived chilled through, and actually wet from the knees down. My hands were raw. I first stopped at the main entrance- women, as it turns out, are sent around the corner, down a little alley to an inauspicious little door that looks like a service entrance, with a battered sign. I followed a cold little stairway up to a wooden room, with cubicles like phone booths all along the perimeter.

I had, from this point on, some idea of what was to happen. I have friends who have visited hamams. I am aware of the age-old tradition of public baths. I sat next to Virginia all semester as she designed a lovely hamam combining new and old traditions. But if you are not familior with the hamam, here is how it goes down:

A matronly, plump lady with her grey hair in a bun gives you a key and shows you to your cubicle.

"Everting oft."

"Everything?" you say.

"Everyting."


Inexplicably, the little changing booth has textured glass for privacy on three sides. The side facing the main entrance: totally transparent.

You are given a small wrap, lock the door, and put on a pair of clompy wooden sandals. You are led to a marble room, maybe 20' X 20', lined with basins and faucets. Overhead is a dome inset with pieces of colored glass, which is beautiful. In the center, taking up about 80 % of the space, is a marble slab. A hot, hot marble slab.

Lady with the bun: "Oft."

She whips off your wrap, which she spreads out on the hot marble. "Down," she says. You are not alone on the slab, which is big enough to hold about 5 people. If, like me, you are 6" longer than your wrap, the marble is hot enough that your toes, wrap-free, feel like they're on fire. You are left to melt, in a really pleasant way, on the slab. There is soft ancient music playing in the background, and all around you is the sound of dripping, from the sauna heat. The warmth seeps in.

A different hammam attendant, the scrubber, wearing a scrap of fabric twisted into a bandeau as a top, comes in and starts very kindly bossing you around. Up. Over. Rinse. Head here. You start at one of the basins, dumping hot water head to toe from a copper bowl. Back to the slab- where you are scrubbed with something scratchy, until you can see down two or three layers of skin. More rinsing and bowls of hot water. The most fun: The scrubber uses some sort of pillowcase to fluff out hot bubbles, head to toe. you are massaged and scrubbed and flipped and bubbled several more times- still lying on the hot slab. After the bubbles- more rinsing, and then your hair is washed. It's not a gentle sort of Robert Redford/Meryl Streep in Out of Africa waching- but a good scrub with many buckets of water dumped unceremoniously over your head. It's actually awesome. After that, you go lie on the slab as long as you like, before you go back to the transparent changing room to dress. This is not the Umstead Spa, for sure- it's pretty gritty, no fluff, no cushy robe, no careful rearranging of the spa sheet to preserve your comfort and privacy. No hairdryer, so you are walking back out onto Istaklal Street with wet hair.

The whole process is terrifying enough that I knew I had to do it. I don't even like changing at the Y, so being in the altogether in a room full of strangers, one of them manhandling me with a loofah, was a bit out of my comfort zone. Deliberately so. People of all ages, shapes, and sizes- nothin' to see here, folks, just going about our shampooing. Really, a very nice tradition.

Day 14. True Love.

I have fallen head over heels in love. They say you never know exactly how and when love will find you...but sometimes it really is love at first sight. I know, already, that this is a bad idea. This particular love affair will cost me too dearly. It won't last. It will start to fray, and wear thin in places, and won't get me as far as I need to go. It will slow me down, and it will leave me with too much baggage. And yet...for a brief and shining moment, it will be glorious....and I'm not sure I have the strength to resist.

I have found The One. Except, The One is actually two- a pair of handmade embroidered Turkish suzani boots. Knee-high, black, with a kaliedoscope of brightly-colored flowers. Waiting for me in the Grand Bazaar. Even if I have the nerve to haggle a little, they are 3 days' worth of spending money on my backpacker budget. But they are SO my type....

What say you, people? Should I take the plunge? To boot? or not to boot??

Day 13: Snippets from the street

ONE: 9:15 a.m. "I could not find you on Facebook!" is the first thing I hear upon leaving my hotel for the Palace. Ozgur, one of the guys hanging on the square, has launched a campaign to have a beer with me. He says he is not shilling- just hanging out with his friends who are shilling- but he is. He is so darn likeable , though, I might have a beer with him anyway. But I am not going into any carpet shops.

TWO: 9:30 a.m. I realize, with no small shame, that I would probably toss aside all of my feminist ideals if somebody invited me to live in the Topkapi Palace harem.

THREE: 2 p.m. Grand Bazaar. I stopped outside in one of the winding lanes leading out of the labyrinth of the Bazaar, in front of a push cart with a giant samovar. I held up a finger for "one please!" expecting tea, but something white came out, steaming hot. The man with the samovar fussed over it for a minute, sprinkling spices on top, and fished out some coins from the change in my hand. Sweet heavenly deliciousness. It was like drinking a cloud. Not a "nog," not a custard, not an "au lait" of any kind- just thick milky cinnamon-y bliss.

FOUR: 2:10 p.m. Grand Bazaar. I am flagged down by a long-haired Turk outside a leather shop. He is pretty entertaining- I am invited in to this impossibly small space, already occupied by four people smoking and drinking tea. A computer is playing Dire Straits on Itunes. I am given a plastic stool, after a round of photographs. Abdullah, the shopkeeper, instructs me to tell all of my friends back home that I have just met Turkey's Antonio Banderas. (Consider it done.) Apparently he is half Spanish. He proceeds to clean my shoes, covered in salt from the slushy streets. As a leather goods salesman he instructs me that, from here on out, I should carry them over my head to protect them. He also makes me read my future in the dregs in a coffee cup. This is some kind of Turkish Rorshach test. I see absolutely nothing resembling anything- and I am a designer, people- and I say quizzically, "That part kind of looks like a bird? Maybe flying? Maybe a trip?" And Abdullah looks at me and says with his eyes, "You are not very good at this game."

FIVE: 4 p.m. I have decided to live in the spice Bazaar. I got hungry walking towards the big bridge, and figured it was my best chance at a cheap meal. I love this place. Today I found the row of cheese sellers- they are each screaming at the top of their lungs like it's a bar fight, but I think they're just saying "CHEESE! CHEESE!!" I stopped at a "kebap" stand. The kid behind the counter said, "Germany?" And I said, "USA." And he said, "America? OBAMA!" and I said yes, and he said, "Obama good! Yes? Yes!" And I proceeded, for 2 lira, to have one of the best meals I've ever eaten. The sliced meat was in a soft puffy pita kind of thing, with fresh parsley and pepper, and something in there was also perfectly deliciously crunchy. I am going back tomorrow.

SIX: 6 p.m. Went up the ancient Galata Tower, across the water. Gorgeous sunset view. I came down and had a vague intention of wandering towards Istikal Street, but with the winding streets leading straight downhill in approximately eight directions, I was immediately confounded and lost. And it was dark. And cold. (I had two maps, actually, but those are for dire emergencies.) I started walking down a pleasant little lane, figuring I'd have to find a cab...and rounded the corner onto a street of light sellers. Both sides gloriously lit up by thousands of beautiful lamps, as far as the eye could see. And I wandered from lane to lane, downhill towards the water, and lane after lane was filled with lights. Surely, a reminder that, even lost in the dark, an improbable plentitude of lights will appear to show you the way home?

Istanbul: This is what the head cheerleader must feel like.

Istanbul: magical snowy wondrous fairy-tale city. I can't even describe how lovely it is- but I arrived in a gorgeous snowstorm. I'm staying between Hagia Sofia and the Blue Mosque; I was out the door in no time to start taking snow pictures. Quaint winding streets and minarets everywhere; beautiful Turkish language, spiral strings of lanterns hanging from doorways, windows full of rolls and cubes and sugary stacks of Turkish delight. And snow!

I'm having a different sort of tourist issue here than in Indonesia. I have been warned by numerous people about attracting attention from all of these Turkish men; I was not warned that it would be this much fun. These gentlemen are charming, every last one- not remotely lecherous, more "I am falling over because your American beauty has pierced my heart" kind of thing. I mean seriously, when was the last time anyone kissed my hand? Most of them, of course, are trying to sell me a carpet, or a leather jacket. Two different guys tried to engage me in a snowball fight. Some just call you princess, or look stricken and whisper that you are beautiful. The most severe cases actually blush and stammer while trying to entice you for a drink somewhere. I do not have this affect on American gentlemen, mind you. And I also don't care that it's a sales tactic- I'm going to enjoy the flattery. My self esteem could use a boost. And have mercy, these men are devastatingly handsome. I have instituted a policy of not looking into their eyes- snake-charmer eyes, mesmerizing, for sure. One of my all-time favorite movie lines, from Moonstruck, when Cher has just slept with her finace's brother: "You got them bad eyes, like a gypsy, and I don't know why I didn't see it yesterday!" I totally get it. I have to look away.

In more cultural news, I spent the morning at Hagia Sofia. Difficult to overstate the scale; I've never been in a space that huge that wasn't a giant stadium. It has the huge central dome, flanked by two half-domes; seriously, they've made some good educated guesses, but I don't think anyone's sure exactly how that ceiling stays up. It is spectacular. My favorite thing, apart from the domes, is the twisty stone ramps that wind their way to the top instead of staircases. Hagia Sofia, I think, is Turkish for "beautiful unheated building." I sketched for about an hour in the same spot, and had to stop because I realized my fingers were blue and I couldn't feel my feet. Worth it- I'm sure I'll have to go back.

After thawing: decided to go wandering, a habit that drives my mother insane, but it's the only way to get to know a place, as far as I'm concerned. There's no great risk of getting lost here; I'm staying 150 from one of the great landmarks of world civilization, so if I get in a jam I will hand some Lira to a cab driver and say clearly, "HAGIA SOFIA." Anyway, followed the tram line on foot till it reached the waterfront, and accidentally reached a bridge to the other side of the city, just as the sunset turned everything on the far shore golden. Unbelievable vista. I crossed the bridge just for fun so I could visit the other side for a minute, then walked back at dusk into the Spice Bazaar. Riotously beautiful. So glad to be staying a few more days.....