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.
Friday, January 02, 2004
Sunday, November 02, 2003
A Dog's Life
Originally Published in Time Out Istanbul magazine, 2003
Moving to a new country can raise many questions, but I had only one: if my dog gets run over by a plane, do I get a free ticket home?
By Aubree Galvin Caunter
I had been in Istanbul a total of 30 minutes when I learned that my dog was loose on the runway. Having just landed at Atatürk International Airport after a marathon 24-hour travel day, the occasion marked the first time we would set foot in the country where we would be living for the next four years.
Now, let it be said: I am not the most calm of doggie moms to begin with. We don’t have any children yet, so Duncan is more like a child than a pet. He’s positively spoiled rotten with toys and treats, but he’s a good, well-trained dog and everybody that meets him, loves him (or at least that’s what they tell me).
So, when it came time for my husband and me to move to Istanbul six weeks ago, it was with the utmost care that we prepared Duncan for the big trip. He did not need to be quarantined at either end, but flight travel itself can be hard on dogs and especially hard on overly anxious owners.
I’d been hysterical in Chicago when I’d finally been forced to give up the dog at the oversized baggage window and I was still crying when we took off, badgering the flight attendant and making her to swear that he’d be alright. I’d been a bit more calm in Frankfurt but spent the majority of the boarding period with my face pressed up against the window trying to catch a glimpse of Duncan’s travel crate.
By the time we landed safely in Turkey, I figured we were home free. Aye, but there’s the rub.
When we got off the plane, no dog. When we walked through passport control, no dog. When we claimed our baggage, no dog. All along we were being reassured that he was “coming up just now.”
Until then everything had gone as smoothly as possible considering we’d moved our whole selves and dog to a new country. The wheels hadn’t fallen off the car from Cleveland to Chicago. The plane had taken off on time from Chicago to Frankfurt. We caught our connecting flight in Frankfurt with 30 minutes to spare and we were in Istanbul a whole 10 minutes early.
Contrary to my pessimist nature, I had been looking for things to keep going right. So, when the man on the scooter (honest, a scooter) rolled up to us, smiling from ear to ear, I figured he was a part of some quirky welcoming committee. He said something to me, then giggled.
“What did he say,” I asked our Turkish friend.
“He said your dog is running around outside,” my friend answered.
I had a big laugh and punched my husband in the arm to show what a good sport I was. This must be some kind of welcome-to-Istanbul practical joke: tell the new people that their dog has escaped and is in mortal danger of being sucked into a jet engine and turned into runway mulch. Ha ha.
But each time we asked if he was telling the truth, and each time he answered yes, we came closer to realizing it was true. Duncan had been let out of his crate – by accident or circumstance – by a baggage handler and was at present running around on the tarmac. From an airline manager, who’d come out to help, we heard that he’d been surrounded and almost caught, but had bitten a worker and run off again.
It was one of those situations where you couldn’t move quickly enough. There were immediately two security guards at our side who took us down a hallway to the elevator. My husband and I were let out at the bottom floor into a service building next to the runway. We were motioned into a waiting car and the driver took off. Turkish pop music played on the radio and the security guard spoke quickly on his radio, presumably to other roving patrols.
We were on the service roads skirting the runways, which were clear. No planes were taking off or landing. They must be holding air traffic, I thought. Even the most experienced pilot doesn’t want to try to land if there’s possibility of a jet-lagged dog bolting across the flight path.
Our car stopped and another car pulled up going in the opposite direction. By gestures and hand signals we were told that this driver had seen the dog most recently. We leapt into the new car and sped away toward a field at the end of the runway.
Up ahead, I saw something move in the tall grass. I had only a second to think of what I would do if anything had happened to Duncan. I silently decided I would go home right away. I wouldn’t even leave the airport or uncheck my luggage. I would just buy a ticket home and be done with Istanbul. It has to be a bad omen to move to a country, sight unseen, and have your dog run away at first blush.
“Dur,” I managed to yell. “Stop, please.”
The car was still moving as I opened the door and jumped out, running toward the blonde lump in the grass. It was Duncan. But he wouldn’t come to us. We tried calling him by name and said all the funny things you keep private, like referring to ourselves in third-person as “Mommy” and “Daddy.”
He didn’t seem to recognize us, which I didn’t blame him for, considering he’d just been on his first plane ride, bitten his first person and shut down his first airport. (Aw, shucks, baby’s first international incident. We’re so proud.)
Then, something shifted in his eyes and he lopped towards us, crossing the 20 meters and falling in the tall grass at our feet. I fell, too, and so did my husband. The three of us collapsed in that grassy patch just left of the runway.
My husband had remembered in the excitement to bring Duncan’s leash, and so we put it on him and attempted to stand. My legs were still shaky and the dog looked exhausted, but he was not visibly injured. I noticed then that we were surrounded by people – all manner of airport workers, all with big smiles and looks of relief on their faces. We thanked them with as much Turkish as we could muster and got back into the car.
Up at baggage claim, Duncan would not return to his travel crate for the short trip out of the airport. Again, I don’t say as I blamed him. So, we all walked out together and got into the car to go to home.
Despite his unusual start to life here in Istanbul, I’m happy to report that Duncan, though recently beat up by a street cat, is doing fine now and living very happily in his new neighborhood.
Moving to a new country can raise many questions, but I had only one: if my dog gets run over by a plane, do I get a free ticket home?
By Aubree Galvin Caunter
I had been in Istanbul a total of 30 minutes when I learned that my dog was loose on the runway. Having just landed at Atatürk International Airport after a marathon 24-hour travel day, the occasion marked the first time we would set foot in the country where we would be living for the next four years.
Now, let it be said: I am not the most calm of doggie moms to begin with. We don’t have any children yet, so Duncan is more like a child than a pet. He’s positively spoiled rotten with toys and treats, but he’s a good, well-trained dog and everybody that meets him, loves him (or at least that’s what they tell me).
So, when it came time for my husband and me to move to Istanbul six weeks ago, it was with the utmost care that we prepared Duncan for the big trip. He did not need to be quarantined at either end, but flight travel itself can be hard on dogs and especially hard on overly anxious owners.
I’d been hysterical in Chicago when I’d finally been forced to give up the dog at the oversized baggage window and I was still crying when we took off, badgering the flight attendant and making her to swear that he’d be alright. I’d been a bit more calm in Frankfurt but spent the majority of the boarding period with my face pressed up against the window trying to catch a glimpse of Duncan’s travel crate.
By the time we landed safely in Turkey, I figured we were home free. Aye, but there’s the rub.
When we got off the plane, no dog. When we walked through passport control, no dog. When we claimed our baggage, no dog. All along we were being reassured that he was “coming up just now.”
Until then everything had gone as smoothly as possible considering we’d moved our whole selves and dog to a new country. The wheels hadn’t fallen off the car from Cleveland to Chicago. The plane had taken off on time from Chicago to Frankfurt. We caught our connecting flight in Frankfurt with 30 minutes to spare and we were in Istanbul a whole 10 minutes early.
Contrary to my pessimist nature, I had been looking for things to keep going right. So, when the man on the scooter (honest, a scooter) rolled up to us, smiling from ear to ear, I figured he was a part of some quirky welcoming committee. He said something to me, then giggled.
“What did he say,” I asked our Turkish friend.
“He said your dog is running around outside,” my friend answered.
I had a big laugh and punched my husband in the arm to show what a good sport I was. This must be some kind of welcome-to-Istanbul practical joke: tell the new people that their dog has escaped and is in mortal danger of being sucked into a jet engine and turned into runway mulch. Ha ha.
But each time we asked if he was telling the truth, and each time he answered yes, we came closer to realizing it was true. Duncan had been let out of his crate – by accident or circumstance – by a baggage handler and was at present running around on the tarmac. From an airline manager, who’d come out to help, we heard that he’d been surrounded and almost caught, but had bitten a worker and run off again.
It was one of those situations where you couldn’t move quickly enough. There were immediately two security guards at our side who took us down a hallway to the elevator. My husband and I were let out at the bottom floor into a service building next to the runway. We were motioned into a waiting car and the driver took off. Turkish pop music played on the radio and the security guard spoke quickly on his radio, presumably to other roving patrols.
We were on the service roads skirting the runways, which were clear. No planes were taking off or landing. They must be holding air traffic, I thought. Even the most experienced pilot doesn’t want to try to land if there’s possibility of a jet-lagged dog bolting across the flight path.
Our car stopped and another car pulled up going in the opposite direction. By gestures and hand signals we were told that this driver had seen the dog most recently. We leapt into the new car and sped away toward a field at the end of the runway.
Up ahead, I saw something move in the tall grass. I had only a second to think of what I would do if anything had happened to Duncan. I silently decided I would go home right away. I wouldn’t even leave the airport or uncheck my luggage. I would just buy a ticket home and be done with Istanbul. It has to be a bad omen to move to a country, sight unseen, and have your dog run away at first blush.
“Dur,” I managed to yell. “Stop, please.”
The car was still moving as I opened the door and jumped out, running toward the blonde lump in the grass. It was Duncan. But he wouldn’t come to us. We tried calling him by name and said all the funny things you keep private, like referring to ourselves in third-person as “Mommy” and “Daddy.”
He didn’t seem to recognize us, which I didn’t blame him for, considering he’d just been on his first plane ride, bitten his first person and shut down his first airport. (Aw, shucks, baby’s first international incident. We’re so proud.)
Then, something shifted in his eyes and he lopped towards us, crossing the 20 meters and falling in the tall grass at our feet. I fell, too, and so did my husband. The three of us collapsed in that grassy patch just left of the runway.
My husband had remembered in the excitement to bring Duncan’s leash, and so we put it on him and attempted to stand. My legs were still shaky and the dog looked exhausted, but he was not visibly injured. I noticed then that we were surrounded by people – all manner of airport workers, all with big smiles and looks of relief on their faces. We thanked them with as much Turkish as we could muster and got back into the car.
Up at baggage claim, Duncan would not return to his travel crate for the short trip out of the airport. Again, I don’t say as I blamed him. So, we all walked out together and got into the car to go to home.
Despite his unusual start to life here in Istanbul, I’m happy to report that Duncan, though recently beat up by a street cat, is doing fine now and living very happily in his new neighborhood.
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