the last

I am sure Istanbullus are quite tired of hearing this, but I still marvel at the fact that Istanbul is the only capital that stretches itself over two continents (and its marathon, the only one to begin in Europe and end in Asia).

The skyline on the Golden Horn still excites, the sea of people seemingly barreling down on you as you walk along Istiklal Caddesi still amazes, and the glass of apple tea has grown sweeter still (I read somewhere that the tea tradition is new in Turkey, popularized after coffee became scarce during WWII).

After a week of Golden Horn-seeing, tea-drinking, and Istiklal-wandering. tomorrow is my last day here. As per usual, I am sad to leave, but not grief-struck, knowing that I will definitely be back.

Museum of Innocence

“Excuse me, I am looking for the Museum of Innocence”

“It’s in here.”

(score!)

I had been walking around the neighbourhood known for its antique shops (cukurcuma) for a few hours now. I knew that Orhan Pamuk was building a Museum of Innocence (an actual museum based on his eponymous novel) somewhere in this neighbourhood, but the narrow streets and the all-too-common dead ends were pitting me on the edge of giving up and calling it a day.

And so as I was walking towards a main road that would lead me back to Galata tower, I spotted a building standing just off the side street, painted in red from top to bottom, with surveillance cameras where there seemed not much to survey. I saw two Danish looking girls (they were German, I would later learn) smoking a cigarette – with touques, skinny jeans and all – and thought to myself, this must be it.

Alas, before I could gather myself to approach them, they quickly finished their cigarettes, and disappeared through the red doors. All I could do was walk around the bend and come back to see if there might be more friendly strangers on their smoke break.

And friendly they were. A Turkish man welcomed me inside.

They told me that the Museum would be opening some time this summer (June, I think), to which I responded that I would not be here. If not a little begrudgingly, a woman offered to give me a tour of the place.

The two German girls introduced themselves as artists from Berlin who had been working on this project for “over two years now.”

What followed were three storey of floor to ceiling wooden shelves all with its own pieces of paper that read “Orhan’s painting,” or “Orhan’s photo,” or some other variation of Orhan’s this and Orhan’s that.

They seemed to be still in the bare-bone structure stages – figuring out the electrical wiring and building the shelves that made the space look much more smaller than it really was.

There wasn’t much to observe or inquire into otherwise, as the team was a tight ship of two artists, two workers, a woman who seemed to be in charge, and a man whose sole responsible seemed to be making sure everyone had enough tea and cigarettes, while keeping an eye on the surveillance videos to ensure that intruders like me would not be barging in on them the way I had.

Not wanting to overstay my welcome, I thanked the workers and walked out into the light.

Dolmabahce

At Dolmabahce Palace. I cannot say I have never seen anything like it – I have – but the combination of the Bosphorus and the stunning gold on white marble architecture is intoxicating. Wide open expanse of water is a major source of happiness for me. What beautiful city.

The building itself has historical significance. As every good Turk will tell you, this is where Mustafa Kemal Ataturk – the first president and founding father of the Turkish republic – drew his last breath on 10 November 1938, at five past nine in the morning, a moment in time which is observed by traffics halting and sirens blaring.

(Ataturk, from the little I know of him, seem like an interesting man. During the course of his life, he adopted twelve daughters and a son, many of who would go on to become the first Turkish this or the first Turkish that.)

The guided tour (your only option) takes you through the ambassador’s hall, where the sultan would greet visitors from foreign lands. Up along the staircase with crystal banisters, we end up at the grand hall, where a bohemian crystal chandelier that weighs 4.5 tonnes rests (it takes 1 month to clean the crystals, the tour guide tells us). Thought to be a gift from queen Victoria, it turns out that the sultan had had it made in London. “We have found the receipt,” deadpans the guide.

As if reminding the visitors not to be fooled by all the baroque design, that we are still in Istanbul, all along the corridors are carpets (sultan had his own carpet factory, we learn). When you peer closely, the engravings on the wall prove to be Arabic scriptures from the Koran.

The second leg of the tour includes the harem, which, despite its notoriously negative connotation, is an innocuous enough a word used to describe the private quarters of the sultan and his wives and mistresses.

Of course, at the mention of mistresses, the questions start flooding in: how many wives did the sultans have? And mistresses? (answer: 4 official wives, 40-100 mistresses depending on who was in charge.)

Now, off to Nisantasi.

(Travel notes: I really only went in hopes of miraculously catching a glimpse of Orhan Pamuk, a resident, but the district of Nsantasi is well worth poking around even if you don’t have a blatant agenda to hunt down the Pamuk Apartment. Here I spotted Italian fashion houses that do not even bother having show rooms in Toronto, shops selling nightingale’s eyes (Pasabahce), and ambience (House Café).)

SantralIstanbul

Tearing myself away from the adorable cat Berdoush (see above for photographic evidence), I headed for Pera Palas, an old hotel-turned-museum. They had an exhibition of Frida Khalo and Diego Rivera which seemed like a good excuse to take a stroll. The exhibition itself was quite small, comprising of two floors of a five storey building, but you could tell that some thought went into coordinating the colour, the light, the feel for the space.

Afterwards, one doesn’t exit through the gift shop, but through the hotel lobby, where a plaque tells those who care to stop and read that dignitaries the likes of Greta Garbo, Agatha Christie, and the Shah of Iran, all used to stay here.

(I have always enjoyed smaller galleries: Phillips Collection in Washington, even the Whitney, which, everyone in New York love to hate.)

I then hailed a cab and headed for SantralIstanbul.

SantralIstanbul is a former power plant that was purchased by a private university (Istanbul Bilgi), and renovated into a contemporary art space and an Energy Museum. Walking into this steel-and-glass complex, a receptionist asks, “Are you here for the reception?”

By now, life has taught me that the only appropriate answer to such a question should be a resounding: yes.

(Travel notes: If you want to save the $10 on cab fare, head to Taksim Square, from where a shuttle service runs every 15 or so minutes to SantralIstanbul.)

I spotted an equally out of place French girl and we made friends and faced the sea of Istanbullus head strong and red wine happy. The reception, as we gradually learned, was in honour of the Turkish artists of the 21st century, and with some artists in attendance, and the Minister of Culture in attendance, someone told me that this was one of the largest society event in the city.

The best part for me, was when I realized that they were playing Erik Satie – one of my favourite composers. It seemed to be a small gift from the city, to me, beckoning me to stay a while longer.

in-stanbul

flying into istanbul, the gentleman seated next to me teases, and says “you sleep for a long time!” i must have slept the entire way across the atlantic.

after two hours of bureaucratic hassle of getting a turkish visa on my canadian passport (why must canadians, haitians, and kuwaitis pay $60 while americans and bahrainis pay $15 i ask? the visa official is not amused), i am united with my friend cagil. we had worked together at the daily star – some days sitting side by side literally inches apart – and had also shared the horror that is the lebanese/syrian border crossing some summers ago.

the kofte/kebab dinner is followed by a nightcap at a bar where the bartenders are harmless flirts and cagil a favourite. we do the whole where-are-you-from-no-where-are-you-really-from and when they discovered that my family hails from south korea, one of the bartenders tells me that turkish soldiers fought in the korean war. somehow i remember that turkey played south korea during the 2002 world cup, and that the announcer had opened his commentary with this fact. we are at once friends.

they make me a warm drink called salep (made with orchid roots) and insist that we come back so we can try out ice cream made from goat milk – specialty of a town they come from.

walking back home, passing streets that remind me of copenhagen (cobbled streets?), with stores vaguely reminiscent of paris (patisseries?) and pedestrians that could be from anywhere (pristina?), i realize why every account of this city shared by my friends has always ended with a “you would love it t/here.”

descending the french steps where cagil shares a flat with the Most Adorable Cat Ever, i learn that the turkish government changed its name to “algerian steps” after france recognized the armenian genocide. politics is in the air.