My Year without Clothes : 58. Talking Turkey

The minarets glittered, the flowers opened and puffed their perfumes, the streets were swept meticulously so that every leaf and petal was scooped up, then so sweet were the aromas the city seemed doused with rose water. Sipping Turkish coffees, the waiters rewrote their culinary offers of the day and flirted through fans of eyelashes. The gulls swooped and cawed and the muezzins replied more musically. The sun flexed its rays, and the vendors flexed their negotiating muscles - it was a perfect day for a Bosphorus outing.

And an insight into the mind of a man who takes different people to the same place, day after day, after day after day after day.

On the cruiser, built for 50 but carrying 12, the guide was a small, nervous man with a short neck sticking through his ironed yellow shirt. “Today,” he began, talking softly into his microphone from some unseen spot in the boat, “I will tell you about Istanbul. There are many people. There you can see some boats. That is the bridge that was built by ships. There is a story about the Bosphorus and a girl but I forget. Over there you can see the Blue Mosque. It is very old. Over there - you can see some other things. Also very old.” Very soon we’d lost interest and just stared and wondered at the astonishing villas that lined both east and west sides of this most important avenue across the old spice trading route, where villas are now sold to very rich people and princes. His voice was buried under the toots and horns and chatter around us; but eventually we moored against the jetty of a magnificent castle on the banks of the river. “Inside, you must walk only on the right side. You must put these raincoats over your foots. Do not touch anything. Do not take photos. Do not leave the group.” We lined up like obedient school children with shower caps over our shoes.

Someone leaned for support on a door frame. “You must not touch anything! Walk on the red carpet. You will see a chandelier. It is very heavy. It is Murano glass, gift to the Sultan. If it falls on you, you will die. You will see that this room has a colour scheme. It is red. You will see that this room is symmetrical. Over there is a red vase. Over here is a red vase. In the middle is a table. This room is very symmetrical. Do not walk off the carpet. You must stay in the middle of the red carpet. Underneath the red carpet is original straw matting from Egypt. You must not touch. Stay on the red carpet. Here you will see another room. It has a colour scheme. The colour scheme here is pink. There is a pink chandelier. It is very heavy. It comes from Murano. There is a vase. You will see it is pink. Here also is a vase. You will see it is pink. The colour scheme in this room is pink. Everything is very symmetrical. Every carpet that you see here that is not new is old. Here is a bedroom. It has a colour scheme. The colour scheme is blue. This bedroom has a bed. People used to sleep in this bed. Do not walk on the carpet. This room is symmetrical. There is a blue vase here. And a blue vase there, if you look at the symmetrical. If you stand on the other side, stay on the carpet, you will see the room is symmetrical from the other side also.”

Bosphorous villa - yours for $20 million

We had three minutes in each symmetrical, colour coded room, accompanied by a grumpy uniformed guard. We were not allowed to touch the banisters as we trotted upstairs like a group of orange footed ducks, waddling behind each other. It was a very symmetrical visit to a very symmetrical palace. The only bit of information that veered from his expert patter was that which followed the talk of the guide in front, who told of the antique clock that stopped, short, never to go again, when Attaturk died. “This clock”, he began, thrilled to have some new information, which we had just heard from the other guide, “stopped when Attaturk died. You can see where the hands stopped. They are not going anymore. When he died, the clock stopped at that very moment and nobody make it go again.

“Must be a very symmetrical clock” one of our group commented.

“Now you will get on the boat. Now you will get off the boat. Twenty minutes that is not fifteen not twentyfive twenty minutes we leave.” And so on.

I got off at some little port and walked in the wind, watching the fisherman reeling in ten fish at a time on a sort of fishing washing line, their catches swinging in the breeze like little silver socks. Ancient walls that had protected Turkey for thousands of years crumbled above me. A crumpled man wearing a band of medals sat on a bench on the promenade, miming binoculars in his hand. In English he commented on what he saw - “A finch at twelve o’clock! I daresay a wren at three o’clock! Nine o’clock and there’s an egret!”

All I and the rest of the people on this peninsula could see were gulls. Good for you, old man. Keep smiling.