SO, back to Istanbul, and what took me away from the blog for ten days.
Shopping. Shopping, shopping and more shopping. The Devil Wears Prada. And handmade ancient kaftans. Sex in the City didn't have time, in spite of a thousand propositions, as there were wallets to be emptied and bags to be filled. "I'll have what she's having!" became our catchcry. Magic carpet rides were sniffed at with disdain as the two Pretty Women practised their seriously obscene fossicking techniques in minute shops tended by dazed keepers from Afghanistan and Anatolia.
Aromatic sheesh kebabs were gobbled from low tables with an eye on the ticking clock in the ancient souks as Confessions of a Shopaholic were shared over fresh pomegranate juices. When we lost track of time and how quickly we could spend Brewster's Millions, the accurate muezzins pulled us into line. Over piles of silk scarves, old ikats, Turkoman, Uzbekistan and Bukhara bounty, we linked pinkies and promised this was not to be our Last holiday as we ensured Wall Street wouldn't collapse. Arms breaking, legs buckling, we wished more than any handsome Turkish boys for some Blank Checks to help us kick The Habit. Nothing worked. There was so much to buy. So much to see. So many ATM's to keep warm.
Istanbul is gorgeous, exotic, exciting, mystical, crowded, religious, serene, insane: one of the most ancient and also busiest ports in the world, the heart of the Silk Route, it's a conduit for everything you can imagine from culture to history, beauty and arts and back again Beds of voluptuous tulips burst from the cracked soil into the marginally spring days as people buried deep in scarves, coats and gloves rush from mosque to church to bazaar or restaurant and hotel. From every visual point on the compass there are spires, pinnacles, domes, minarets .... and people. Istanbul is a river of people, a tide of humanity, and over 400,000 of them enter the Grand Bazaar ... every single day.
We stayed initially at the quaint Hotel Niles as we'd had BIG problems finding accommodation before we got there: Anzac, Gallipoli and Easter combined to fill every room in the city. The room was enormous and even though we had our own marble hamam in the bathroom, we had no idea how it worked, and besides, we were too cold to undress and hang around scrubbing our toenails and exfoliating our eyebrows (though they sadly needed a lot of attention) while there was shopping, shopping and more shopping to be done.
Marrakech's medina is shadowy, aromatic, noisy and chaotic with donkeys and peanut brittle sellers and toppling carts of dates. In contrast, the Capala Karsi is, in the main avenues, like walking down some very ritzy streets in Paris, lined with exotic shops with famous names. Then down the side lanes, past the fountains where men wash before prayer, are the smaller, older shops, crammed to knee level with buckets and barrels and containers of jewellery - from alpaca to balouch to bukhara and Turkoman, in such abundance that it's mind boggling. Always, in amongst what looks like rubbish, are the fabulous pieces, the really old, and fabulously worn pieces ...and we immediately get the story of high silver prices, and difficult to get pieces, and lessening availability and how far their family had to go into the villages to get these unusual pieces ...
And although we'd donned black armbands in a futile promise NOT to buy anything on the first day ... Luda found some glorious children's tunics, adorned with mangled and battered pieces of silver, tassels, buttons and beads, which are worn to give the children strength. She also found an Uzbek headdress, equally adorned with baubles, tassels, pendants, coins and embroidery. The carpet shop owner swore they came from his village; the headdress was worn during weddings and ceremonies, and his uncle went back every few years to get these pieces which were becoming more and more scarce and valuable. How fascinating! we exclaimed as he wrapped them up, wiping mock tears from his eyes and tearing his own sleeves as he parted tragically with cultural icons of his village - whose name had temporarily fled his memory. I was muttering along the lines of ... I don't have a HOME, never mind a SHOP! Where the flotsam am I going to put these? But they're rare, he silently sobbed, bundling them into a day old newspaper and a garbage bag. I've ruined myself giving them to you for such prices! I wouldn't even consider this discount to the traders of Turkmenistan!I
Well, la di da! Carrying our KILOS of trashed silver stitched to polar fleece and rayon - obviously invented in the late 1800's in Uzbekistan, but not having reached civilization until the 21st century, we looked up to the carved, painted domes, the Arabic calligraphy, the thousands of stained glass lanterns, the hanging carpets, and the hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of jewellery emblazoned rare and wonderful and culturally extinct children's tunics and wedding crowns.... down every lane and on every corner. STUNG! But we were laughing. Wherever we went, we were laughing. We were like two man magnets, drawing them to us in droves, like wasps to honey pots. They grabbed, they held on, they nuzzled, they whispered throatily of their desires.
And I got my ear tongue-washed by the Turkish Delight who sold me a pair of knock off Valentino jeans that seriously did have the best fit in the world, as the vendor demonstrated as he ran his hands over my bum, his hands up the insides of my thighs, and tried to show how little space there was in the waistband. How he got his sloppy tongue into my ear while I was fishing for Lira in my purse is a mystery ... but the hand sanitizer carried for this whole trip quickly had a whole different use.
Three days and three nights of space at the Niles, then we had to move hotels. We were shipwrecked in a hideous dive, sister to the Niles, where we barely made a dent on the beds before we rushed out into the streets to find one more suitable - this time the contemporary Hotel Faros, right on the main road, with mosques in every direction, and the tram line on our doorstep. And a waiter who took one look at Luda and decided she was The One. And he never left his post until she left for Sydney a few days later, hoping she'd give up her worldly goods and drive off with him somewhere. When he tried to get her alone, I told Luda to tell him that I was epileptic and that she had to look after me. Or she told him that I was epileptic and she couldn't leave me alone. All the same, I saved her from a fateful encounter.
Aromatic sheesh kebabs were gobbled from low tables with an eye on the ticking clock in the ancient souks as Confessions of a Shopaholic were shared over fresh pomegranate juices. When we lost track of time and how quickly we could spend Brewster's Millions, the accurate muezzins pulled us into line. Over piles of silk scarves, old ikats, Turkoman, Uzbekistan and Bukhara bounty, we linked pinkies and promised this was not to be our Last holiday as we ensured Wall Street wouldn't collapse. Arms breaking, legs buckling, we wished more than any handsome Turkish boys for some Blank Checks to help us kick The Habit. Nothing worked. There was so much to buy. So much to see. So many ATM's to keep warm.
Istanbul is gorgeous, exotic, exciting, mystical, crowded, religious, serene, insane: one of the most ancient and also busiest ports in the world, the heart of the Silk Route, it's a conduit for everything you can imagine from culture to history, beauty and arts and back again Beds of voluptuous tulips burst from the cracked soil into the marginally spring days as people buried deep in scarves, coats and gloves rush from mosque to church to bazaar or restaurant and hotel. From every visual point on the compass there are spires, pinnacles, domes, minarets .... and people. Istanbul is a river of people, a tide of humanity, and over 400,000 of them enter the Grand Bazaar ... every single day.
We stayed initially at the quaint Hotel Niles as we'd had BIG problems finding accommodation before we got there: Anzac, Gallipoli and Easter combined to fill every room in the city. The room was enormous and even though we had our own marble hamam in the bathroom, we had no idea how it worked, and besides, we were too cold to undress and hang around scrubbing our toenails and exfoliating our eyebrows (though they sadly needed a lot of attention) while there was shopping, shopping and more shopping to be done.
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| Watching the world outside Hotel Niles |
Marrakech's medina is shadowy, aromatic, noisy and chaotic with donkeys and peanut brittle sellers and toppling carts of dates. In contrast, the Capala Karsi is, in the main avenues, like walking down some very ritzy streets in Paris, lined with exotic shops with famous names. Then down the side lanes, past the fountains where men wash before prayer, are the smaller, older shops, crammed to knee level with buckets and barrels and containers of jewellery - from alpaca to balouch to bukhara and Turkoman, in such abundance that it's mind boggling. Always, in amongst what looks like rubbish, are the fabulous pieces, the really old, and fabulously worn pieces ...and we immediately get the story of high silver prices, and difficult to get pieces, and lessening availability and how far their family had to go into the villages to get these unusual pieces ...
And although we'd donned black armbands in a futile promise NOT to buy anything on the first day ... Luda found some glorious children's tunics, adorned with mangled and battered pieces of silver, tassels, buttons and beads, which are worn to give the children strength. She also found an Uzbek headdress, equally adorned with baubles, tassels, pendants, coins and embroidery. The carpet shop owner swore they came from his village; the headdress was worn during weddings and ceremonies, and his uncle went back every few years to get these pieces which were becoming more and more scarce and valuable. How fascinating! we exclaimed as he wrapped them up, wiping mock tears from his eyes and tearing his own sleeves as he parted tragically with cultural icons of his village - whose name had temporarily fled his memory. I was muttering along the lines of ... I don't have a HOME, never mind a SHOP! Where the flotsam am I going to put these? But they're rare, he silently sobbed, bundling them into a day old newspaper and a garbage bag. I've ruined myself giving them to you for such prices! I wouldn't even consider this discount to the traders of Turkmenistan!I
Well, la di da! Carrying our KILOS of trashed silver stitched to polar fleece and rayon - obviously invented in the late 1800's in Uzbekistan, but not having reached civilization until the 21st century, we looked up to the carved, painted domes, the Arabic calligraphy, the thousands of stained glass lanterns, the hanging carpets, and the hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of jewellery emblazoned rare and wonderful and culturally extinct children's tunics and wedding crowns.... down every lane and on every corner. STUNG! But we were laughing. Wherever we went, we were laughing. We were like two man magnets, drawing them to us in droves, like wasps to honey pots. They grabbed, they held on, they nuzzled, they whispered throatily of their desires.
And I got my ear tongue-washed by the Turkish Delight who sold me a pair of knock off Valentino jeans that seriously did have the best fit in the world, as the vendor demonstrated as he ran his hands over my bum, his hands up the insides of my thighs, and tried to show how little space there was in the waistband. How he got his sloppy tongue into my ear while I was fishing for Lira in my purse is a mystery ... but the hand sanitizer carried for this whole trip quickly had a whole different use.
Three days and three nights of space at the Niles, then we had to move hotels. We were shipwrecked in a hideous dive, sister to the Niles, where we barely made a dent on the beds before we rushed out into the streets to find one more suitable - this time the contemporary Hotel Faros, right on the main road, with mosques in every direction, and the tram line on our doorstep. And a waiter who took one look at Luda and decided she was The One. And he never left his post until she left for Sydney a few days later, hoping she'd give up her worldly goods and drive off with him somewhere. When he tried to get her alone, I told Luda to tell him that I was epileptic and that she had to look after me. Or she told him that I was epileptic and she couldn't leave me alone. All the same, I saved her from a fateful encounter.
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| Let go of pasts and take up new opportunities - so Saith The White Rabbit |
The weather was freezing; the skies grey, the air drizzly, the bazaars packed. My camera didn't come out of its bag. I managed to drag Luda from shopping for long enough to get to Topkapi Palace but the crowds drove us away - queues that would take hours to clear, and on the way back down the ancient lanes with the Bosphorus to one side and the Hippodrome to the other, we had our fortunes told by a rooster and a rabbit. Look, okay, perhaps it was the apple teas, or the muezzins, or the wintry air, or the novelty, but the rabbit nibbled a piece of paper for each of us and told Luda something along the lines of letting go of the past, and I was advised to take up new opportunities.
We lived on sheesh and gosleme and kebabs, and watched the Whirling Dervish Mevlanas in the Old Printing Building. I found a marvellous place to have tea, but didn't get further than the entrance when Luda realised it was a graveyard. She's SO not a sightseer .. sigh! So back to the bazaars for more fixes.
After trudging bleakly from hotel to hotel looking for accommodation after Luda was due to leave for Sydney, I finally found one on line ... a bleak little place quite a walking distance from the main sights, but at least I had a place to rest my head if not hang my hat for a few nights. We'd dispatched another parcel of treasures via TNT to Sydney. Sarah called and asked me to come to England to spend some time with her family. A few clicks, a few skypes, and I had my ticket. The hotel was creepy, with a creepy manager, but I watched the Royal Wedding Shindig, then I trudged the streets yet again knocking on doors until I found a more friendly hotel. I left some luggage there until my return. I bought a small case and some thermals as my clothes were getting stinky. I found a public laundry and when they returned, ironed and grey, I tossed them in the bin because I was sick of them and everything they represented.
We lived on sheesh and gosleme and kebabs, and watched the Whirling Dervish Mevlanas in the Old Printing Building. I found a marvellous place to have tea, but didn't get further than the entrance when Luda realised it was a graveyard. She's SO not a sightseer .. sigh! So back to the bazaars for more fixes.
After trudging bleakly from hotel to hotel looking for accommodation after Luda was due to leave for Sydney, I finally found one on line ... a bleak little place quite a walking distance from the main sights, but at least I had a place to rest my head if not hang my hat for a few nights. We'd dispatched another parcel of treasures via TNT to Sydney. Sarah called and asked me to come to England to spend some time with her family. A few clicks, a few skypes, and I had my ticket. The hotel was creepy, with a creepy manager, but I watched the Royal Wedding Shindig, then I trudged the streets yet again knocking on doors until I found a more friendly hotel. I left some luggage there until my return. I bought a small case and some thermals as my clothes were getting stinky. I found a public laundry and when they returned, ironed and grey, I tossed them in the bin because I was sick of them and everything they represented.
I went to England, via Frankfurt, in the Princesses new clothes, driving in a Mercedes to the airport at a 3.30am, watching the medieval walls that protected the city crumble past me; happy that when I returned, the weather would be warmer, I'd have a nice hotel, and I could get back into the souks with a renewed eye.
And so I'm here in England.
And so I'm here in England.
dear Sue,quick quick while the little one is a sleep;0) i've been meaning to write many times before!just wanted to let you know how much i am enjoying your journals;you write so beautifuly such a natural entertaining funny and unpretentious way,made me cry and be in stitches(a specially the story of wandering fingers and mad cab driver in nepal)more please!hahaha little Benjamin wants to contribute to childrens school,i want to hear some dirty stories,have to catch up on past 4 weeks as been sick and away.you look beautiful Sue and radiant happy with you lovely friend.i want to join up on the shopping,keep having fun and teasing those men.i sencerely love reading your stories such a joy.xoxo Martina(avalon)
ReplyDeleteThank you for staying in touch with all your armchair travellers and for being brave enough to live this dream when many cannot at this stage of their lives. You are doing your bit for the humanity team.
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