219 - Wandering the 'Bul (Istanbul, Turkey)
AFTER MY MEDICAL ADVENTURE, I WENT INTO HIDING. Abysmal weather (i.e. cold and rainy) forced me to catch up on the blog. With two months of pictures and journal notes to sift through, there was much to do. I hunkered down in a rented apartment and let the updating begin.
I dined in and, at least in the beginning, barely left my lair. In all, I rented three apartments within walking distance of Taksim Square, the heart of Istanbul, and a great place to feel the city's pulse. I wasn’t a complete misanthrope. I made a few friends via Couchsurfing.org and spent a fair amount of time with them. Between updating the bloggy blog, carousing with my new pals, and wandering the streets solo, I whiled away the days.
I defy you to visit Istanbul and not drink a shit ton of tea or smoke an assload of hookah. It’s a cultural hotbed of social interaction and almost feels like a requirement, though a pleasant one at that… until you make yourself nauseous from tobacco. Also, I’m surprised I have any teeth remaining after guzzling tea equal parts sugar and water.
If Taksim Square is Istanbul’s heart, then Istiklal Avenue is its main artery. One can find anything and everything—shops, restaurants, cafes, bars, theaters, galleries, etc. I patrolled this thoroughfare no less than 1.32 million times. With Istanbul being the cosmopolitan “East meets West nexus,” anonymity is easy to attain, even for a 6’4” goofball American.
Istiklal in particular, and Istanbul in general, are always busy. All the time. Every day. All night. If you’re a night owl, this is a place for you. Had I been more sociable, I would’ve made it a point to while away a sleepless night or two haunting the streets. It’s a little like the inside of a Vegas casino: Perpetual consciousness. There’s always a crowd... somewhere.
Even after a few hundred laps around the center, I never grew tired of getting lost and navigating my way through the 'Bul's endless labyrinth. In the end, I saw a mere fraction of the city. With a population of over thirteen million and a total area of over 2,000 square miles (5,000 km) spanning two continents, getting to “know” Istanbul requires multiple lifetimes. If only I were a vampire… who didn't have to kill people… or drink blood… or have skin as white as snow… or razor-sharp canines…
I reacquainted myself with a journalist (Simla) I'd met in Tbilisi, Georgia, seven months earlier. She is a highly educated, well-informed Turk, and so I found our exchanges compelling. Over buckets of tea and half an acre of tobacco, our discussions broached a myriad of subjects—the current political climate, the Armenian “Genocide”, the Iraq War, Turkish/American culture, freedom of the press, religion, etc. An afternoon stretched into the evening when she invited me to a birthday celebration for a friend on Istanbul’s Asian side.
I stuck out like a sore thumb painted neon green with a bell attached. The restaurant was no tourist haunt, so there was zero chance of blending for this gringo. My shoddy attire and travel-weary aura did nothing to assist. The place was a local favorite and the atmosphere most convivial. All were friendly and courteous. A jovial male oud player provided excellent entertainment. He appreciated my presence and threw in some lyrics (in Turkish) for my benefit. The highlight entailed the birthday girl showcasing her vocal ability via an impromptu concert with said oud player. In a word: Magnificent. Those are the moments that make travel worthwhile. To experience an unadulterated slice of local life is a remarkable gift.
There were other diversions. At an Istiklal café, a fortune teller revealed my future after inspecting leftover coffee grinds from the cup I’d just emptied. The psychic spoke no English, so I was at the mercy of a friend's translation. My friend (an M.D.) was proficient but not enough to clear the mist surrounding my fate. Some problem I had would work itself out, and then I will meet someone, do something, and all will be peaches and sunshine. Or was it cherries?
Through Couchsurfing.org, I met Selin, a Turkish woman who tapped me into the expat social pipeline. That’s how I met a fellow American with whom I shared a similar past… law school. He graduated from Fordham in NYC. (I'm a Tulane man myself). We'd both practiced law for the same length of time (i.e. never) and likened the experience to smashing our heads with cinder blocks while burning an obnoxious pile of money. The law, or more accurately, the practice of law, is an acquired taste… like arsenic.
Selin organized a group visit to the Istanbul Museum of Modern Art. The Body Worlds exhibit was in town, and I was eager to get a look. Ever wonder what your body would look like after undergoing plastination? How about a horse? A man on a horse? A giraffe? A gymnast? Dudes playing poker?
“Plastination is a technique or process used in anatomy to preserve bodies or body parts, first developed by Gunther von Hagens in 1977. The water and fat are replaced by certain plastics, yielding specimens that can be touched, do not smell or decay, and even retain most properties of the original sample.”
The human body like you've never experienced it. Fascinating. Informative. Grotesque. Disturbing. It blew my fucking socks off. Some exhibits focus on veins and arteries, some on the nervous system, some on muscular composition, and so on and so forth. Feel free to donate. Maybe I’ll have my balls plastinated and bronzed after I pass.
In between encounters and hibernation, I followed my whim. I dined at upscale restaurants. I noshed on street fare. Watched fishermen fish. Drank coffee. Sipped tea. Smoked hooka. Ogled street performers. Pondered the Bosphorus and Sea of Marmara. Photographed mosques. Photographed nothing. Boat trip. Ferry rides. Political demonstrations…
Istanbul has its fair share of scammers. Once, while walking through the hoighty-toighty hotel district just off Taksim Square, a grubby-looking gentleman approached and struck up a conversation. He asked me where I was from and what I was up to. Didn't take long to devolve into an offer of beer and women. I knew what was happening but, for reasons I can't explain, I love talking to these misguided fools. The scam works like this: He brings me to a house of ill repute for a drink and possible “oh la la” frolic with a local temptress. Regardless of what occurs, at some point I’m presented with an inflated bill along with a counteroffer to rearrange my face should I take issue. When Grubby made the pitch, I feigned interest but declined in light of a fictitious previous engagement. He mumbled something unintelligible and told me to fuck off. I wasn’t upset but felt frisky, so I replied with a hardy “Fuck you”, then bought a street doner kebab, and giggled all the way back to my apartment.
Courtesy of Timelab Pro
Courtesy of Wanderlust Travel Videos