Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
My hotel's inviting terrace was open at night, ideal for gazing past floodlit husks of
forts and walls, out at the sleepy Bosphorus, with Asia lurking just across the inky straits.
The strategic waterway was speckled with the lights of freighters at anchor stretching far
into the distance.
Noticing the power of the moonlight shimmering on the water, I recalled the legend
of the Turkish flag—a white star and crescent moon reflected in a pool of bright-red blood
after a great and victorious battle. From my perch, it seemed that now the crescent moon
shone over not blood, but money: trade and shipping…modern-day battles in the arena of
capitalism.
At breakfast, the same view was lively, and already bright enough to make me wish I
had sunglasses. An empty oil tanker heading for a Romanian fill-up was light and riding
high. Its exposed tank made its prow cut through the water like a plow—a reminder of
how, today, trade is sustenance and oil is a treasured crop. As I scanned the city, it occurred
to me that Istanbul is physically not that different from my home city. I could replace the
skyline of domed mosques and minarets with churches and steeples, and it could be the
rough end of Any Port City, USA.
Rather than my standard bowl of cereal, for my Turkish breakfasts I go local: olives,
goat cheese, cucumbers, tomatoes, bread, and a horrible instant orange drink masquerad-
ing as juice. Gazing at my plate, I studied the olive oil. Ignoring the three olive pits, I saw
tiny, mysterious flakes of spices. They were doing a silent and slow-motion do-si-do to a
distant rhythm with lyrics that told of arduous camel-caravan rides along the fabled Silk
Road from China.
Later that day, I immersed myself in Turkey, collecting random memories. Wandering
under stiletto minarets, I listened as a hardworking loudspeaker—lashed to the minaret as
if a religious crow's nest—belted out a call to prayer. Noticing the twinkling lights strung
up in honor of the holy month of Ramadan, I thought, “Charming—they've draped Christ-
mas lights between the minarets.” But a Turk might come to my house and say, “Charm-
ing—he's draped Ramadan lights on his Christmas tree.” I marveled at the multigenera-
tional conviviality at the Hippodrome—that long, oblong plaza still shaped like the chari-
ot racecourse it was 18 centuries ago. Precocious children high-fived me and tried out
their only English phrase: “What is your name?” Just to enjoy their quizzical look, I'd say,
“Seven o'clock.” As I struggle to understand their society, I guess my mischievous streak
wanted them to deal with a little confusion as well.
