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?
