Originally Published in Time Out Istanbul magazine, 2004
From the street-wise combination of Turkish and English comes a new language and a better understanding of each other’s culture
By Aubree Galvin Caunter
Communicating with locals in a foreign country is a bit like becoming a mime: it’s all about the hand gestures. But, spend a few months, pick up a few words, and suddenly instead of flapping your arms wildly at the bread in the basket, you’ll be uttering your first, “Ekmek, please.” Congratulations, you’ve graduated to the land of language blending.
It’s not a new concept. The official term for a speaker communicating in non-standard grammar or vocabulary is called pidgin. But for the specific combination of Turkish and English, let’s dub it Turk-lish.
The use of this half-native lingo is an art form being perfected on the streets, yet Turk-lish acquisition traits are undefined as we each adopt words in respective importance to our daily lives. For instance, my first Turkish word was hayır, meaning “no” probably because I’m a glass-half-full kinda girl and I say no to everything. In sharp comparison, my husband’s first Turkish word was bira (beer) and don’t even think that his second word wasn’t daha (more!).
I have friends who’ve never taken a day of formal Turkish training in their lives who navigate successfully through Eminönü markets, bargaining away with merchants using Turk-lish. My favorite is, “That’s way çok pahalı (too expensive).” These are the same ladies who, despite my eight months of classroom-learned Turkish, run circles around me when speaking to locals. The secret is livability: their Turk-lish is simply more useful than mine. Whereas I learned to conjugate 100 verbs, they learned to finesse their delivery to better accommodate this bargaining-based culture.
You’ll notice, though, that these ladies are not going it alone: getting their point across has a lot to do with the mutual willingness of the native speaker. And Turks, I find, are the greatest of all populations when it comes to tolerating non-native speakers. They are happy to listen to you butcher their hard-fought language (instituted by Atatürk following the formation of the Republic in 1923) because they’re thrilled to have foreigners try at all. Turkish is one of the most difficult languages to learn for a native English speaker, with a complete reversal of sentence structure. Turks as a people are a generous bunch, and to their extreme credit, they extend the greatest courtesy to foreigners just getting a handle on their speech.
This works to the betterment of both locals and foreigners. Yes, we butcher our respective un-native languages, but in the end, we come closer to understanding where the other comes from. Like, I know now that Turkish and English speakers share some universal communication tendencies. Take, for example, a mud-covered van in a parking lot. No doubt kids in America would quickly seize the opportunity to use their finger to write “wash me” in the dirt. No different here: two weeks ago, I saw the same van driving through Beşiktaş with “beni yika” (wash me) written on it.
The spread of Turk-lish is aided by Istanbul’s adoption of overseas marketing terminology into its vernacular. Two months ago at the Starbucks in Akmerkez a chalk sign with the daily special hung above the counter: Venti Ekstra Caramelli Caramel Cream Frapuccino. Here, you have Turkish grammar (Caramelli, meaning “with caramel”) blended not only with English but with the maddeningly ubiquitous Starbucks-ese.
Perhaps when it comes to communication, the most telling detail is in the inflection of our voices. Because Turkish has a question word incorporated into its grammar, raising the pitch of your voice at the end of the sentence is moot. But we non-native speakers do it anyway, out of sheer force of habit. This use of intonation also plays a key in interpreting foreign sounds – a child on a playground in Istanbul sings the same teasing phrase as those in America: nah, nah, nah, nah, nah.
This is the universal truth of utterance. The sounds we make are rooted in our sheer humanness. When I grunt and point to the shrimp in the display case, clearly I want some seafood (now, determining how much I want necessitates the wild hand gesturing). Conversely, when the shrimp seller points at my money (all those lovely, confusing colors of Turkish Lira) I understand that he wants me to pay.
As Istanbul gains popularity as a vacation destination for North Americans, there’s no doubt that this language dance will continue to evolve. Perhaps, we may see more Turkish making its way to the States (as imagined in the merhaba-loving Chevy Chase commercials for Cola Turka). But in the meantime, on behalf of all native English speakers, let me say to all the Turks who so politely and encouragingly embrace us: “Choke Tesh Heck Her Eder Hem.”
Saturday, October 02, 2004
Sunday, May 02, 2004
There’s No Place Like Home
Originally Published in Time Out Istanbul magazine, 2004
It’s true what they say: absence makes the heart grow fonder. I needed to leave Istanbul to know that I wanted to stay.
By Aubree Galvin Caunter
A friend once told me that foreigners feel one of two ways about Istanbul: they either love it or they hate it. Indeed, Istanbul is not a city that inspires indifference.
Funny then that when I got off the plane and took that first hour-long traffic-jammed drive to our new home in Etiler, I knew that I would be able to call this city of 15 million ‘home’.
Don’t get me wrong: I was not an instant convert. It took several weeks before I was able to ride in a taxi on my own (despite eight months of Turkish training). I was baffled by the shelf-stable milk (what do you mean it doesn’t spoil?). And it was some months before I could bargain at the weekly markets (why spend so much time reducing the price of vacuum bags by only 1 million TL?).
But, slowly the daily grind of living in a foreign country started to give way to habit, and eventually, comfort.
For example: the fact that one simple errand takes all day, which used to drive me crazy – like the holiday trip to purchase of gift-wrap, which I can tell you is cheapest on a little cobblestone street behind the Spice Bazaar – is now a smell-the-roses, take-your-time-and-enjoy-it, Zen-like experience.
And, yes, the traffic on the Barbaros was frightening at first, with what should be three lanes of vehicles – if road lines are to be believed – all sharing up to five half-sized lanes. But, now I am one of the drivers shouldering my way through those fourth and fifth pseudo-lanes. I have even gotten used to the surprise appearance at my driver’s side window of the flower sellers and cell-phone accessory peddlers who walk between cars during rush-hour.
Cooking, too, was an interesting foray into the unknown, since vegetables here are only available in-season, a concept that eluded me for my first two months. “Where is the broccoli?” I wondered to myself, as I scoured the vegetable aisle in September. Now, I am taking advantage of the freshest foods and learning to cook with new spices.
But tackling these small hurdles of life in a foreign country, although invigorating, proved exhausting. So, when I booked my tickets to the U.S. for a short visit last month, it never occurred to me that, when it came time to finally get on the plane, I would not want to board.
To my surprise, I cried at the airport at the reality of leaving. “I will be away for only two weeks,” I said to soothe myself. “Istanbul will be the same, right? Probably no new customs will be invented while I’m gone.”
And for a time, it was good. I saw old friends and family. I ate all my favorite foods at my favorite restaurants. I bought clothes and shoes and toiletries. I watched television and caught up with my shows.
And then, it hit me. I woke up one morning craving my Istanbul breakfast of Turkish yogurt, honey and fruit. My mother, concerned with my atypical lack of enthusiasm for breakfast meat – sausage, bacon, pork roll – questioned me, but all I wanted to do was talk to my husband in Turkey.
I needed confirmation that my yogurt would still be there when I got back. That Istanbul, as I had left it, had not ceased to exist. That I had not, upon my first arrival six months prior, stumbled upon a mythical city in a parallel universe that disappeared the moment the wheels of my Lufthansa Airbus touched off. I missed our apartment, kebap restaurants and bazaar shopping. I missed our new friends: Turkish, English, German and Australian.
I had to wait seven hours for the answer – it was only 1 a.m. in Istanbul when I was having my breakfast-cum-panic attack in Baltimore – but my husband assured me, via a crackling trans-Atlantic call, that the city was indeed still there.
Thankful, I was able to enjoy the final days of my vacation, albeit with visions of Danone yogurt dancing in my head.
So, what makes Istanbul so special? Some of the things are easy: the view of Sultanahmet lights twinkling at night; the friendliness of the Turkish people, who try so hard to understand my pidgin Turkish; the juxtaposition of Euro-Asian cultures that gives the city its other-worldliness and out-of-time bravado.
But it’s the smaller things, those that are not easily explained to outsiders, that most define the meaning of this new home: my neighbor waving at me with a ‘Gun Aydin’ as she walks her tiny dog; the simitci calling, his voice echoing from the stucco buildings; the seagulls soaring high over the Second Bridge.
My old friends and former career are 4,000 miles away on another continent bordering a distant sea. And yet, here I am: at home. It is nothing like the city where I was raised, but the hills of Istanbul, arching into the sunset, presiding over the Bosphorus, are easily adopted. This is not a hard city to love.
It’s true what they say: absence makes the heart grow fonder. I needed to leave Istanbul to know that I wanted to stay.
By Aubree Galvin Caunter
A friend once told me that foreigners feel one of two ways about Istanbul: they either love it or they hate it. Indeed, Istanbul is not a city that inspires indifference.
Funny then that when I got off the plane and took that first hour-long traffic-jammed drive to our new home in Etiler, I knew that I would be able to call this city of 15 million ‘home’.
Don’t get me wrong: I was not an instant convert. It took several weeks before I was able to ride in a taxi on my own (despite eight months of Turkish training). I was baffled by the shelf-stable milk (what do you mean it doesn’t spoil?). And it was some months before I could bargain at the weekly markets (why spend so much time reducing the price of vacuum bags by only 1 million TL?).
But, slowly the daily grind of living in a foreign country started to give way to habit, and eventually, comfort.
For example: the fact that one simple errand takes all day, which used to drive me crazy – like the holiday trip to purchase of gift-wrap, which I can tell you is cheapest on a little cobblestone street behind the Spice Bazaar – is now a smell-the-roses, take-your-time-and-enjoy-it, Zen-like experience.
And, yes, the traffic on the Barbaros was frightening at first, with what should be three lanes of vehicles – if road lines are to be believed – all sharing up to five half-sized lanes. But, now I am one of the drivers shouldering my way through those fourth and fifth pseudo-lanes. I have even gotten used to the surprise appearance at my driver’s side window of the flower sellers and cell-phone accessory peddlers who walk between cars during rush-hour.
Cooking, too, was an interesting foray into the unknown, since vegetables here are only available in-season, a concept that eluded me for my first two months. “Where is the broccoli?” I wondered to myself, as I scoured the vegetable aisle in September. Now, I am taking advantage of the freshest foods and learning to cook with new spices.
But tackling these small hurdles of life in a foreign country, although invigorating, proved exhausting. So, when I booked my tickets to the U.S. for a short visit last month, it never occurred to me that, when it came time to finally get on the plane, I would not want to board.
To my surprise, I cried at the airport at the reality of leaving. “I will be away for only two weeks,” I said to soothe myself. “Istanbul will be the same, right? Probably no new customs will be invented while I’m gone.”
And for a time, it was good. I saw old friends and family. I ate all my favorite foods at my favorite restaurants. I bought clothes and shoes and toiletries. I watched television and caught up with my shows.
And then, it hit me. I woke up one morning craving my Istanbul breakfast of Turkish yogurt, honey and fruit. My mother, concerned with my atypical lack of enthusiasm for breakfast meat – sausage, bacon, pork roll – questioned me, but all I wanted to do was talk to my husband in Turkey.
I needed confirmation that my yogurt would still be there when I got back. That Istanbul, as I had left it, had not ceased to exist. That I had not, upon my first arrival six months prior, stumbled upon a mythical city in a parallel universe that disappeared the moment the wheels of my Lufthansa Airbus touched off. I missed our apartment, kebap restaurants and bazaar shopping. I missed our new friends: Turkish, English, German and Australian.
I had to wait seven hours for the answer – it was only 1 a.m. in Istanbul when I was having my breakfast-cum-panic attack in Baltimore – but my husband assured me, via a crackling trans-Atlantic call, that the city was indeed still there.
Thankful, I was able to enjoy the final days of my vacation, albeit with visions of Danone yogurt dancing in my head.
So, what makes Istanbul so special? Some of the things are easy: the view of Sultanahmet lights twinkling at night; the friendliness of the Turkish people, who try so hard to understand my pidgin Turkish; the juxtaposition of Euro-Asian cultures that gives the city its other-worldliness and out-of-time bravado.
But it’s the smaller things, those that are not easily explained to outsiders, that most define the meaning of this new home: my neighbor waving at me with a ‘Gun Aydin’ as she walks her tiny dog; the simitci calling, his voice echoing from the stucco buildings; the seagulls soaring high over the Second Bridge.
My old friends and former career are 4,000 miles away on another continent bordering a distant sea. And yet, here I am: at home. It is nothing like the city where I was raised, but the hills of Istanbul, arching into the sunset, presiding over the Bosphorus, are easily adopted. This is not a hard city to love.
Friday, January 02, 2004
Cold Weather, Hot Sights
Originally Published in Time Out Istanbul magazine, 2004
With a chill in the air, warm up to the city’s top attractions. Winter is the season to see Istanbul up close and personal.
By Aubree Caunter
Sightseeing in winter can be a whine-inducing proposition: it’s cold, wet and all-together miserable outside. In weather like this, venturing out of doors seems foolhardy.
But, with the frigid temperatures discouraging all but the most diehard travelers, now is the time to get a front-row seat to Istanbul’s most popular sights. When else will you get a private audience with Medusa’s Head in the Basilica Cistern or a no-queue entrance to the Harem in Topkapı Palace?
Be aware that winter sightseeing does require special organizational consideration. You’ll want to choose indoor locations grouped closely together, move quickly from one sight to another and minimize soggy door-to-door sprinting.
With these rules in mind, I set out one morning to offer an itinerary – and hopefully some inspiration – for a daylong, icy-weather foray into historic Istanbul.
08:30 – The Game Plan
My mother was a stickler for efficiency, especially when running errands around town. Her steadfast rule: no backtracking. I am even more neurotic when it comes to touring. When I get out my guidebook, I set a course that lays my destinations in the most direct possible path, with no overlapping routes.
This day, which dawned see-your-breath cold, there are two choices of where to begin: in the Bazaar Quarter heading northeast or in Seraglio Point heading southwest. Either way leads from one major historical site to another in quick succession, reducing exposure to the elements.
Since the sky is overcast but not yet raining, I opt to begin at Topkapı Palace (Topkapı Sarayı) in Seraglio Point where the grounds require some outdoor touring.
09:30 – Topkapı Palace
I am only one of two people awaiting the opening of the main doors. Right away, here is a benefit of winter sightseeing: having a magnificent palace like Topkapı practically all to yourself.
Sultan Mehmet II “The Conqueror” built Topkapı, the centuries-long government seat beginning in the mid-1400s, as a series of pavilions linked by four enormous courtyards, an architectural mirror of the tented camps from which the Ottomans rose. The result makes for a sprawling campus with countless nooks and crannies, chock full with priceless artifacts.
I head down one of the second courtyard’s paths (the first courtyard is outside the main gate where you can find the Byzantine church of Haghia Eirene and the Imperial Mint) to the kitchens which are stocked with Oriental bowls and urns brought to Turkey via the Silk Road. This long series of rooms also is home to the Imperial costumes and treasury, which I skip in the interest of time to explore the fourth courtyard with its magnificent view of the Sea of Marmara as it narrows to the Bosphorus.
Walking the gardens alone, wind coming fast off the water and gray skies threatening, Topkapı is the antithesis of its summer personality which is green and full of life. In winter, the palace is intimate, drawing itself in, leaving visitors to ponder the intricacies of daily Constantinople life. It is far easier to pretend you’re the Sultan, taking stock of your lands and lieges, when you stand quietly in the doorway of the Baghdad Pavilion than if you had to fight the fair-weather hordes with their maps and flashy cameras.
Invigorated, I join the half-hour guided tour of the harem rooms. Another bonus for winter touring: dawdling in the courtyards might have prevented me from seeing the harem in the summer when tours are often booked up quickly.
Note: Though I didn’t visit this day, the Archaeological Museum, which contains one of the world’s best collections of classical artifacts, is also on the same campus, just a short walk outside the main gates. With works spanning more than 5,000 years, the museum is a trove of antiquities. A Children’s Museum caters to youngsters while the permanent exhibit Istanbul Through the Ages sheds light on the city’s storied history.
11:30 – Haghia Sophia
Out the Imperial Gate toward Sultanahmet Square, I find Haghia Sophia (Aya Sofya), and with only five minutes’ walking in the now-rainy day, I am back inside the cozy warmth of an another architectural miracle.
For almost a thousand years, the Haghia Sophia was the physical symbol of Byzantium’s might and until the 16th century was the largest Christian church in the world. So powerful an icon, it was the first place the aforementioned Mehmet II visited after he conquered the city in 1453, when it was converted to a mosque. In 1935, Atatürk decreed that the site morph once again, into its current incarnation, a museum.
The first tour groups of the day are starting to line up just inside the main entrance, but they are few and sparsely occupied. A lone guide with two Spanish tourists pass through the Imperial Gate (same name as that which leads out of Topkapı, but here dedicated to the emperors who were the only worshipers allowed through its immense doors).
Again, I am nearly alone as I pass into the nave. Good thing, too, because as I stand with my head back gazing at the 56 meter dome, I walk slowly backwards marveling as one massive mosaic after another floats into view. Eyes still skyward, I skim off the velvet ropes that mark the Coronation Square, the crowning spot for emperors, before grazing the Spanish couple. If I were surrounded by more tourists, I wouldn’t have the luxury of staring at the ceiling, unaware of floor-level obstacles. Or, at the very least, I would do far more damage to strangers’ toes as I clod on them getting a better look at those calligraphic roundels.
The upper gallery is accessed by a well-worn, low-ceilinged stone ramp (resembling no less than the entrance to every vampire’s lair I’ve ever seen in the movies). I climb it and find a slanted winter sun passing through the frosted windows onto the yellow-painted ceilings. A student sketches in the far corner of the gallery, just above the sultan’s loge, while the few people whisper in awe.
In summer heat, tourists are driven into these dark places for relief and the whole building echoes with laughter from traveling school children. Now, Haghia Sophia is the restful place that shelters visitors in its serene space.
12:30 – Blue Mosque
Crossing Ayasofya Meydanı to the Blue Mosque (Sultan Ahmet Camii), I am asked by only two people if I would like to buy postcards or have a guided tour. Benefit No. 3 of winter trekking: if you’re not in the mood to be approached by street vendors, there are less on the prowl during foul weather.
Worshipers are washing their feet at the taps outside the mosque as I scurry up the stairs to the inviting courtyard. Quickly I remove my shoes (a helpful guide is there to hand visitors a bag to carry them with you) and move my neck scarf to cover my hair.
Inside, more than 250 windows flood the vast space with pale light. The dome floats on the İznik tile-adorned walls while the successive semi-domes dance downward and tease visitors with their mystic ability to stay afloat. Commissioned by Sultan Ahmet I and completed in 1617, it remains one of the world’s finest examples of classical Ottoman architecture.
13:00 – Hippodrome
Here’s one thing not to see when touring Istanbul’s great sites in the winter: the Hippodrome.
While in the summer the park is green and flowered, in the winter what is left of this 3rd century AD public square (which was subsequently enlarged by Emperor Constantine to house a stadium for 100,000 people) is mostly fallow gardens and sand bags.
The Egyptian Obelisk, Serpentine Column and Column of Constantine are spectacular. But you will never get an inkling of their former grandeur while standing ankle-deep in mud.
13:30 – Lunch
This neighborhood is rife with cafes, so I break for lunch with a hot cup of tea (çay) and savory pie (börek) filled with spinach and minced lamb.
14:00 – Basilica Cistern
From the Hippodrome area, I head back (though, I promise Mom, not retracing my steps) two blocks to a small street just off Sultanahmet Square. There, I follow the stairs down to the Basilica Cistern (Yerebatan Sarayı), surely one of the most unusual tourist attractions in Istanbul, no matter what the season. In winter, though, the cavernous subterranean hall feels like a secret.
Empty, save for one British couple touring sans camera and drifting wordlessly from one pillar to the next, the cistern is ghostly without guests. The back walls disappear into nothingness. The sound of water mixes with the piped-in classical music and the suspended walkways lead weaving paths through the 336 Corinthian columns.
Without the din of crowds, I am able to view and savor the famous Medusa heads with no interruption. I am left alone to wonder if, as legend goes, the Byzantines plundered these statues and placed them here as a shrine to water nymphs.
It is so quiet that I understand now – as I was unable to before – why this vast room could have been left undiscovered for so many years by the Ottomans, who only were alerted to its whereabouts by local residents who lowered buckets through holes in their basements to gather the fresh water.
15:00 – Grand Bazaar
Finally, the cold-weather destination to top all cold-weather destinations: the Grand Bazaar (Kapalı Çarşı).
No matter the time of year, the Grand Bazaar is packed, so touting the ability to shop without interruption would be a fib, but really, there’s nothing like ending a long day of sprinting through sleet to arrive in the warm streets of this covered marketplace.
If you’re a frequent visitor or first-time guest, the glow of neighborhood vendors calling you inside for an afternoon tea is like an elixir. I settle down in a carpet shop for a deserved break.
With a chill in the air, warm up to the city’s top attractions. Winter is the season to see Istanbul up close and personal.
By Aubree Caunter
Sightseeing in winter can be a whine-inducing proposition: it’s cold, wet and all-together miserable outside. In weather like this, venturing out of doors seems foolhardy.
But, with the frigid temperatures discouraging all but the most diehard travelers, now is the time to get a front-row seat to Istanbul’s most popular sights. When else will you get a private audience with Medusa’s Head in the Basilica Cistern or a no-queue entrance to the Harem in Topkapı Palace?
Be aware that winter sightseeing does require special organizational consideration. You’ll want to choose indoor locations grouped closely together, move quickly from one sight to another and minimize soggy door-to-door sprinting.
With these rules in mind, I set out one morning to offer an itinerary – and hopefully some inspiration – for a daylong, icy-weather foray into historic Istanbul.
08:30 – The Game Plan
My mother was a stickler for efficiency, especially when running errands around town. Her steadfast rule: no backtracking. I am even more neurotic when it comes to touring. When I get out my guidebook, I set a course that lays my destinations in the most direct possible path, with no overlapping routes.
This day, which dawned see-your-breath cold, there are two choices of where to begin: in the Bazaar Quarter heading northeast or in Seraglio Point heading southwest. Either way leads from one major historical site to another in quick succession, reducing exposure to the elements.
Since the sky is overcast but not yet raining, I opt to begin at Topkapı Palace (Topkapı Sarayı) in Seraglio Point where the grounds require some outdoor touring.
09:30 – Topkapı Palace
I am only one of two people awaiting the opening of the main doors. Right away, here is a benefit of winter sightseeing: having a magnificent palace like Topkapı practically all to yourself.
Sultan Mehmet II “The Conqueror” built Topkapı, the centuries-long government seat beginning in the mid-1400s, as a series of pavilions linked by four enormous courtyards, an architectural mirror of the tented camps from which the Ottomans rose. The result makes for a sprawling campus with countless nooks and crannies, chock full with priceless artifacts.
I head down one of the second courtyard’s paths (the first courtyard is outside the main gate where you can find the Byzantine church of Haghia Eirene and the Imperial Mint) to the kitchens which are stocked with Oriental bowls and urns brought to Turkey via the Silk Road. This long series of rooms also is home to the Imperial costumes and treasury, which I skip in the interest of time to explore the fourth courtyard with its magnificent view of the Sea of Marmara as it narrows to the Bosphorus.
Walking the gardens alone, wind coming fast off the water and gray skies threatening, Topkapı is the antithesis of its summer personality which is green and full of life. In winter, the palace is intimate, drawing itself in, leaving visitors to ponder the intricacies of daily Constantinople life. It is far easier to pretend you’re the Sultan, taking stock of your lands and lieges, when you stand quietly in the doorway of the Baghdad Pavilion than if you had to fight the fair-weather hordes with their maps and flashy cameras.
Invigorated, I join the half-hour guided tour of the harem rooms. Another bonus for winter touring: dawdling in the courtyards might have prevented me from seeing the harem in the summer when tours are often booked up quickly.
Note: Though I didn’t visit this day, the Archaeological Museum, which contains one of the world’s best collections of classical artifacts, is also on the same campus, just a short walk outside the main gates. With works spanning more than 5,000 years, the museum is a trove of antiquities. A Children’s Museum caters to youngsters while the permanent exhibit Istanbul Through the Ages sheds light on the city’s storied history.
11:30 – Haghia Sophia
Out the Imperial Gate toward Sultanahmet Square, I find Haghia Sophia (Aya Sofya), and with only five minutes’ walking in the now-rainy day, I am back inside the cozy warmth of an another architectural miracle.
For almost a thousand years, the Haghia Sophia was the physical symbol of Byzantium’s might and until the 16th century was the largest Christian church in the world. So powerful an icon, it was the first place the aforementioned Mehmet II visited after he conquered the city in 1453, when it was converted to a mosque. In 1935, Atatürk decreed that the site morph once again, into its current incarnation, a museum.
The first tour groups of the day are starting to line up just inside the main entrance, but they are few and sparsely occupied. A lone guide with two Spanish tourists pass through the Imperial Gate (same name as that which leads out of Topkapı, but here dedicated to the emperors who were the only worshipers allowed through its immense doors).
Again, I am nearly alone as I pass into the nave. Good thing, too, because as I stand with my head back gazing at the 56 meter dome, I walk slowly backwards marveling as one massive mosaic after another floats into view. Eyes still skyward, I skim off the velvet ropes that mark the Coronation Square, the crowning spot for emperors, before grazing the Spanish couple. If I were surrounded by more tourists, I wouldn’t have the luxury of staring at the ceiling, unaware of floor-level obstacles. Or, at the very least, I would do far more damage to strangers’ toes as I clod on them getting a better look at those calligraphic roundels.
The upper gallery is accessed by a well-worn, low-ceilinged stone ramp (resembling no less than the entrance to every vampire’s lair I’ve ever seen in the movies). I climb it and find a slanted winter sun passing through the frosted windows onto the yellow-painted ceilings. A student sketches in the far corner of the gallery, just above the sultan’s loge, while the few people whisper in awe.
In summer heat, tourists are driven into these dark places for relief and the whole building echoes with laughter from traveling school children. Now, Haghia Sophia is the restful place that shelters visitors in its serene space.
12:30 – Blue Mosque
Crossing Ayasofya Meydanı to the Blue Mosque (Sultan Ahmet Camii), I am asked by only two people if I would like to buy postcards or have a guided tour. Benefit No. 3 of winter trekking: if you’re not in the mood to be approached by street vendors, there are less on the prowl during foul weather.
Worshipers are washing their feet at the taps outside the mosque as I scurry up the stairs to the inviting courtyard. Quickly I remove my shoes (a helpful guide is there to hand visitors a bag to carry them with you) and move my neck scarf to cover my hair.
Inside, more than 250 windows flood the vast space with pale light. The dome floats on the İznik tile-adorned walls while the successive semi-domes dance downward and tease visitors with their mystic ability to stay afloat. Commissioned by Sultan Ahmet I and completed in 1617, it remains one of the world’s finest examples of classical Ottoman architecture.
13:00 – Hippodrome
Here’s one thing not to see when touring Istanbul’s great sites in the winter: the Hippodrome.
While in the summer the park is green and flowered, in the winter what is left of this 3rd century AD public square (which was subsequently enlarged by Emperor Constantine to house a stadium for 100,000 people) is mostly fallow gardens and sand bags.
The Egyptian Obelisk, Serpentine Column and Column of Constantine are spectacular. But you will never get an inkling of their former grandeur while standing ankle-deep in mud.
13:30 – Lunch
This neighborhood is rife with cafes, so I break for lunch with a hot cup of tea (çay) and savory pie (börek) filled with spinach and minced lamb.
14:00 – Basilica Cistern
From the Hippodrome area, I head back (though, I promise Mom, not retracing my steps) two blocks to a small street just off Sultanahmet Square. There, I follow the stairs down to the Basilica Cistern (Yerebatan Sarayı), surely one of the most unusual tourist attractions in Istanbul, no matter what the season. In winter, though, the cavernous subterranean hall feels like a secret.
Empty, save for one British couple touring sans camera and drifting wordlessly from one pillar to the next, the cistern is ghostly without guests. The back walls disappear into nothingness. The sound of water mixes with the piped-in classical music and the suspended walkways lead weaving paths through the 336 Corinthian columns.
Without the din of crowds, I am able to view and savor the famous Medusa heads with no interruption. I am left alone to wonder if, as legend goes, the Byzantines plundered these statues and placed them here as a shrine to water nymphs.
It is so quiet that I understand now – as I was unable to before – why this vast room could have been left undiscovered for so many years by the Ottomans, who only were alerted to its whereabouts by local residents who lowered buckets through holes in their basements to gather the fresh water.
15:00 – Grand Bazaar
Finally, the cold-weather destination to top all cold-weather destinations: the Grand Bazaar (Kapalı Çarşı).
No matter the time of year, the Grand Bazaar is packed, so touting the ability to shop without interruption would be a fib, but really, there’s nothing like ending a long day of sprinting through sleet to arrive in the warm streets of this covered marketplace.
If you’re a frequent visitor or first-time guest, the glow of neighborhood vendors calling you inside for an afternoon tea is like an elixir. I settle down in a carpet shop for a deserved break.
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