2001 February Trip - Istanbul

Table of Contents

The Flight (5-6 Feb)

The ground staff seemed completely overwhelmed, as if they hadn't had to deal with re-routing customers before. Although they were hopeless in the face of the weather: they couldn't predict what the snowstorm was going to do. Here I had been willing to pay a bit extra for a somewhat more direct flight, but it ended up not being worth it. Remember for next time: fly into a more temperate airport (such as London or somewhere further south in the US) to avoid this sort of thing in the future.

They kept announcing new delays. I couldn't really work on getting another flight, since the entire airport was closed. I turned into one of those bummed-out travellers you see on TV, sleeping anywhere available in the airport. My hope is that I don't have to miss a night in Istanbul (looking likely).

The flight from New York finally boarded around 11 (it was supposed to leave at 7) and didn't get airborne until almost 1 in the morning. To be fair, the delays were all due to the weather. The flight to Paris was only half-full, I ended up having 3 seats to sleep on.

On arrival in Paris, the airline staff dumped me into the small holding pen that they called the B transfer concourse. It was full of other tourists with those crazy hairstyles you get from sleeping in a small seat for several hours. People were pacing back and forth, oscillating between the two overpriced cafes at each end. I contemplated getting some francs there to buy a meal, but the smug grin of the agent at the bureau de change, and the high rates, turned me away. So I walked out through passport control, and into the main airport.

This was airport Roissy Charles deGaulle, a large sprawling hive of concrete and glass. It should have been ugly and oppressive, but I found it quite spacious, and oppressive only in a cool Terry Gilliam Brazil kind of way. Much of it reminded me of the space-like walkways at O'Hare.

In the Paris airport. Woo-hoo.

I looked for a decent restaurant, but was only able to find one, and they insisted on loading everything, even the salads, with meat. So I stopped off at a small cafe, where they had pre-prepared baguettes which were still pretty good. After the sleep on the flight, and a beer and a sandwich, the travails of travel seem much more tolerable. For a while they were playing some deliciously crap pop music, kind of a cross between Britney Spears and Barry Manilow, in French. But they stopped it, and I kind of missed it.

On the flight I finished "What If?", a collection of essays, all counterfactuals in military history. Things like "What if Xerxes had defeated the Greeks at Salamis?" and "What if Suleyman had conquered Vienna?" Turkey featured quite prominently in many of the scenarios. Obviously, Xerxes and Suleyman were no strangers to the Bosphorus. Also, Turkey was viewed as a key for Hitler winning World War II. Apparently, the crazed egomaniac should have violated Turkish neutrality and launched a massive thrust for the oil-rich Middle East, Iraq and Iran particularly, instead of taking on the Soviet Union right away. All this is according to John Keegan, whose authority I do not doubt. Fortunately Hitler didn't have access to Keegan's sense of priorities.

I called the hotel in Istanbul to let them know I'd be late. The receptionist sounded rather surprised. "Sir, we're open 24 hours, it's no problem." I was worried that they'd cancel my reservation if I didn't show, but on the contrary he seemed almost insulted that I'd even called. I suppose losing one's room reservations is only a real problem in the high season.

I wasn't expecting this stop in Paris, otherwise I would have put my French dictionary in my carry-on bag. Even so, it was good practice in French. I ordered a hot chocolate and a raisin croissant, although I think I saw the waiter wince, so I may have ordered "the bread of reason."

Finally I arrived in Istanbul. The flight arrived around 11 pm, and my backpack actually arrived before I did--it must have made the connection in New York that I missed. I stopped off to get some cash. As far as I could tell, the exchange rate was close to 700,000 Turkish lira to an American dollar.

The Hotel (6 Feb)

The cab driver asked me how much I was paying for my room. I actually got a great deal on the room, but I didn't want to betray the trust of the hotel by broadcasting my rate (or so I reasoned to myself quickly). So I gave him a figure somewhat higher than what I was really paying. That was a mistake. He expressed astonishment. "That much?" he asked. "Are you joking?"

I realized that he was going to try to slot me into a different hotel, and probably charge either myself or the hotel a commission. Fortunately his English wasn't great (although better than my Turkish, obviously), so he was limited to quoting me a rate ($15 dollars a night, which is believable but I decided before I left that I wasn't going to skimp on hotels). He also handed me a small stack of brochures for competing hotels. I thanked him but insisted on my original hotel, where after all I had a reservation waiting for me.

Traffic wasn't bad, but in my opinion he drove like a maniac. He had cut out the seat belts in the back seat, so I clutched the empty passenger seat in front of me. I couldn't actually see the spedometer, all I can guess is that he averaged 20 miles an hour or more faster than other traffic on the road. He would never pass a vehicle on the right (which is probably a good thing). When- ever there was a vehicle in the left lane, he would drive up until we were a couple of feet from the other car's bumper, and flash his lights. The scariest point was when he intimidated a small van into switching into the right lane, just when another car was entering the road. So the three vehicles had to share two lanes, the van honking madly at us. But a few seconds later we had left them far behind.

Entering a city at night makes it impossible to get a good feel for the character of the place. Much of the road to the old city was along the coast, and the rich smell of the Mediterranean permeated even through the fumes of automobile traffic. At times we passed beautiful parks with manicured trees, or a bit of the old town wall with a ruined guard tower. Other times we passed junkyards and fading billboards.

The Old City (or what I could see of it) was beautiful, and very European. Stately houses crowded each other around narrow, twisting streets. One house I thought was particularly well-maintained, and I briefly speculated as to its use (high-class bed + breakfast? fine restaurant?) before seeing the sign saying it was the UPS headquarters.

The driver had looked somewhat respectable at the airport, but of course you can never tell. The hotel ploy, although not terribly annoying, worried me somewhat. Was he going to try to cheat me on the fare? But the cab fare was under 9 million lira, or around 13 dollars, which was on the low end of the guidebook's expectations. I gave him a decent tip, and walked up to the hotel.

I was at the Blue House (Mavi Ev) hotel, positioned right in the center of the Old City. Outside of my window was the Blue Mosque, which in the glitzy tradition of Athens I expected to be brightly lit in blue, but it sleeps in the shadows at night. I took a picture from my hotel room window, but the digital camera was unable to resolve anything.

Then I searched the room for a plug, to recharge my laptop. I found a socket I could appropriate, but none of my 9 adapters ("Covers the world!" said the website where I bought them) seemed to fit. So my laptop occupied a position of high status in the room, sitting on the toilet as it recharged from the shaving socket. Note to self: bring along an extension cord next time.

Topkapi Sarayi (Sultan's Palace - 7 Feb)

On the 7th I woke up rather late (considering I didn't get to sleep until almost 2 in the morning), and strolled up the road to Topkapi Sarayi. It was a very quick walk, I didn't believe the map when it said I was already in the first courtyard.

I walked in through the main gate and looked around. The guidebook said to head straight for the harem, since tours tend to fill up right away. But in low season I didn't think I'd have much to worry about. I wandered up to the Gate of Felicity, which separated the public and private areas of the palace.

Through the gateway was the third court, where the sultan lived (apparently).

I wandered around a bit, in the early sun. There was a light haze everywhere (which I believe was fog, not smog), and although there were tantalizing glimpses of the Bosphorus as I had walked up to the palace, from the grounds themselves you couldn't see anything of the city. Like all large palaces, despite the grandeur you could see cracks in the walls, scuffmarks on the walk- ways, leaves blown into corners. The haphazard construction of the palace added to the overall effect. I could believe that as a Sultan it would be a great place to live, but on the whole I would have preferred somewhere smaller and more comfortable.

I walked back to the Harem entrance, paid for my ticket, and waited to go in. A young Turkish woman announced that the tour was about to start. A tall well- dressed guard went with us as well, to make sure that no one wandered off into other parts of the complex.

A gateway inside the harem.

We blazed through the rooms. We saw perhaps 20% of the rooms, in quick succession. Even the guard was laughing "Is express tour, no?" he asked her when no one else was around.

I managed to get a number of photos, but I tended to be the last person in the group. The guard didn't seem to mind, so long as I didn't delay things too much.

A small courtyard in the harem, the Tower of Justice above.

We moved through the various waiting chambers, the valide sultan's baths, and then through some of the Sultan's quarters. I never got a sense of how everything was connected. Surely visitors wouldn't be brought through the queen mother's baths in order to see the Sultan? But that was how we did it.

The Sultan's receiving room in the harem.

I started to be impressed by the kiosks, however. These were large rooms lined with cushions, with a brazier in the center, lit by large stained glass windows. There was a double kiosk right next to the favorite's courtyard, with rich blues and reds.

A kiosk in the harem.

After the courtyard, it was a quick walk up the Golden Road (actually a long corridor with no gold that I could see) and out of the Harem. Not bad.

The Gate of Felicity (separating the 2nd and 3rd courts).

I walked around and took a few more pictures. The Gate of Felicity, and on to the palace kitchens. The kitches were now used for display. The first one I went to had several sterile cases of the ceramic ware use by the Sultan. That didn't interest me so much as the rooms themselves, tall vaulted ceilings with deep walls, interrupted only occasionally by a window. With ovens going, and with spices and meats hanging from the ceiling, it must have been a fragrant place.

In the kitchens.

My favorite piece was a large ceramic amphora held up by some very businesslike turtles, but I don't think the picture really came out.

After that, I wandered up the small kitchen courtyard. A small sign beside a nondescript door mentioned silver and porcelain, so I went in. This was a far better display than the main kitchens, but not advertised at all. I could hear the throngs of tourists walking by outside, but no one came in here. The lower floor was all silver items, tea sets and jewelry but also large models of sailing ships and mosques, carefully crafted in pure silver.

A silver ship and mosque.

Upstairs was the porcelain. Here my favorite was another amphora, this time with a bright and detailed picture of two companies of horsemen meeting.

The china + porcelain.

A porcelain hunting scene.

Then it was back out, near the Harem again, to look at the Council Chambers. Here the Sultan's advisors would meet and discuss the administration of the empire, while the Sultan eavesdropped from a small grill in the wall.

The Council Chambers (the grill where the Sultan would listen is

The guidebook mentioned that you could get into the Tower of Justice (not huge as towers go, but the tallest tower at the palace). I went up to the Harem ticket booth and asked for a ticket to the Tower. He looked at me for a second, then gave me a regular Harem ticket with a special stamp.

When the next Harem tour started, I handed my ticket to the guard, and he took it and waved me through.

"Tower" I said, and he looked at the ticket again.

"Okay, wait here." So I waited while the rest of the tour went through the door. The guard started talking to the other workers, I guess they had to scrounge up another guard to take me through the tower.

I went in through the main doors, to the beginning of the Harem complex again. Another guard, this one the same as on the morning tour, motioned for me to wait. "Two minutes" he said.

It turned out they didn't want to broadcast the presence of the tower to the other tourists. I waited out of sight until the tour groups had gone by. Then another guard came back, and unlocked a massive padlock across the doors. He motioned me up the stairs of the Tower of Justice.

Looking down from the other side of the grill.

We walked by the other side of the grill where the Sultan listened in on the council of ministers. The guard said "Sultan!" and pointed to the grill, and made a cupping motion by his ear.

Looking up the tower steps.

A room halfway up the tower.

We walked up the stairway, further up the tower. We walked through a small chamber halfway up, with a comfortable-looking couch and some glass tables and shelves. The stairway finally ended at a cupola, a tall, airy room with large glass windows in each of the four walls. From here you had commanding views in all directions, across the Bosphorus, and into town. We stayed for a couple of minutes, looking at the view. The fog had burned off, leaving a residue of smog.

Looking from inside the top of the Tower of Justice,

Finally the guard asked "Okay?" and we headed back down.

I was quickly hustled outside of the Harem (I had only paid to visit the tower, not the Harem again), and I made my way to the fourth court. I was rewarded with more views of the city.

A kiosk in the 4th court.

A private balcony above the garden in the 4th court.

The best part of the fourth court was all the kiosks. Time and time again, you'd round a corner and enter a small building, the interior of which was spacious and lined with cushions. Around and above you, light would stream in through stained glass windows. This was when I started to appreciate the palace. Now you could imagine the nobles of the court, moving through the courts and congregating in the kiosks. The kiosks served as meeting rooms, studies, and classrooms.

Another kiosk.

Yet another kiosk.

I walked back up to the third court, and into the Sacred Safe Keeping Rooms, which contained religious relics. There were scraps of parchment, apparently letters written from Mohammed. There were swords belonging to the original Sultans. And in one room were some artefacts belonging to Mohammed, including his robe. I heard some chanting, and I thought that the taped music was a little tacky but appropriate. Then I turned and saw that in fact, an imam was in a small glass box, chanting passages from the Koran. The atmosphere was great, although slightly diminished by a band of chattering Turkish school children who came through.

After the third court, I moved back into the second court again, this time to the armory. It was a good display of the weapons and armor used during the Ottoman times, from the 15th to the 19th century.

Weapons.

Before I left the Topkapi Sarayi, I made a small detour to look at the Imperial Stables. I was ready to leave, but decided that I should check out the one last corner I hadn't visited yet. The stable yard itself wasn't terribly interesting, but a door on the far side promised some pictures of tents, so I went in. Sure enough, behind the door was a quiet room with pictures of paintings of the Sultan's tents, arrayed either for pleasure or for battle. It was kind of interesting. I moved to the next room.

Here I was blown away. It was a dark, cold, carefully climate-controlled large chamber, and they had set a number of tents up. The tents were actually mobile palaces, complete with tented walls and smaller complexes for lesser nobility. You could see the tents where the Sultan received visitors, and where the Harem stayed in comfort when travelling. Given the pictures, and the tents in front of you, it was easy to understand why Vienna was dismayed when the Sultan set up camp for his seige--an entire city appeared, with soldiers and craftsmen dedicated to capturing this jewel of Europe. "What If?" But like the mongols before him, Suleyman the Magnificent didn't take Vienna.

The Touts (7 Feb)

I walked outside, to rest and eat before tackling the Aya Sofya. I decided to head for a small cafe that was recommended by the guidebook, only a block or two away. I was accosted five times by friendly young Turks with something to sell.

Inevitably, the conversation goes the same way. A friendly young man asks if you're American (or Australian or Canadian, they always guessed you were from an English-speaking country). They act surprised and delighted when you say you're an American, as if they haven't gotten over the novelty. They never have anything to sell (at first), they just want to practice their English. Later they try to surreptitiously weave in a sales pitch.

My favorite was two kids in the Hippodrome. They were maybe 16 years old.

"Mister, you American?"

"Yes."

"Want postcards?"

"No, thank you." I already had a number of postcards.

"Shoeshine?"

"No, thank you." I was wearing cross-trainers, mostly nylon mesh.

They seemed to lose interest, and walked away. Then one of them apparently thought of something else he could sell, and came running back, surprising me as I was looking in my book for directions again.

"Mister, you have wife?"

"No."

"You have friends?"

"No friends."

He looked perplexed.

"Gay?"

I started laughing.

"No."

He walked away, finally defeated.

I had lunch at the cafe, sitting outdoors at a small table. Turks walked by, along with a few tourists. I wrote some postcards, and relaxed a bit.

The staff at the restaurant were talkative, and like most restaurant staff they had very passable English.

"What do you do?"

"I'm a software engineer."

Blank looks.

"Computers" I said, making typing motions.

"Ahh, computers. You have web page?"

Afterwards, I headed across the street to the Aya Sofya.

Aya Sofya (7 Feb)

Travels in Europe always involve looking at churches. I figured that I'd spend a quick half-hour in Aya Sofya, just so I could say I went.

Inside the Aya Sofya.

But the Aya Sofya has a lot going for it. Architecturally, while the outside is somewhat chaotic, the inside is striking. It was built in the 6th century by the Emperor Justinian, and it set the standard for cathedrals for a thousand years. At least, that's what my guidebook said, and judging by the many mosques I saw that obviously used Aya Sofya as a source of inspiration, I'd have to agree.

Looking up at the galleries and ceiling.

The Coronation Square: here the Emperors of the Eastern

Justinian had Aya Sofya built in five years, according to my guidebook. Given that cathedrals constructed in the middle ages took over a century to complete, that said a lot about the manpower involved.

Lying on the floor, looking through one of the light

The view from the gallery.

There was a huge tower of scaffolding in the center of the dome, for restoration work. But most of the main floor, and all of the gallery, was open. The combination of Islamic symbols, and Christian images, was somewhat strange (and controversial I'm sure).

Mosaics in the gallery.

More Touts and an Internet Cafe (7 Feb)

After Aya Sofya, I walked across the street to a 16th century bath house that had been converted to a government-run carpet shop. The prices were posted for their carpets, which is probably helpful if I ever decide to buy a carpet myself (although I doubt I will...). They quoted $160/m^2 for most carpets, $450/m^2 for high-quality carpets (4 knots and 6 knots per cm, respectively). So a 4'x6' carpet would run you anywhere from $360 to $1000. The prices and quality are guaranteed (which is more than you can say for the average carpet shop here), but the downside is that the prices are (supposedly) higher than the average carpet shop.

In the old bath house, now a government carpet shop.

I decided to look for an Internet Cafe. I found one, but the connection was abysmally slow. So I moved on, up the touristy Divan Yolu, looking for a cash machine and another Internet Cafe. I found both.

On the way, I was stopped by Mehmet, a young man in front of (of course) a carpet shop.

"You looking to buy a carpet?"

"No."

"Why not?" This was a typical question to ask. What's the point of going to Turkey if you don't buy a carpet? You could protest that you'd bring back memories, or pictures, but for all carpet touts you had to bring back something tangible, and there was no better representation of Turkish culture than a carpet.

Or so they said.

"My friend, if you aren't going to buy a carpet, let me just educate you. I will tell you about carpets."

"I'm on my way to meet some friends," I said, which I always said, but in fact I was just killing time until dinner.

"It will just take a minute. Look here," he said, and so I let him tell me about carpets. I thought his introduction was pretty good, far beyond what even my hip guidebook was able to tell me.

Even in the store window, there were pleny of examples. Very expensive (and small) silk carpets, tightly woven wool carpets, new carpets, ancient (close to 100 years old, he said) carpets.

I followed him into the store, where he turned up the sales pitch a bit. He went from stack to stack, pulling off carpets as an example of colors or craftsmanship.

"This takes 6 months to make. In village in countryside."

"Ah."

"You like colors? Americans like darker colors, no? Reds, blues, like this, yes?"

"I guess."

"You want another color?"

"I'm just looking."

At this point a boy ran up with a glass of tea, and offered it to me.

"No thank you." One thing I'd read in multiple places is that you should never accept an offer of food or drink unless you're serious about making a purchase. Mehmet pretended not to notice.

"This one. How old do you think this one is? Just guess."

"50 years." I had no clue.

"80 years," he said, holding the carpet with what I thought was sincere respect. To me, as a carpet novice, it just looked worn and frayed.

"What do you do?"

I had decided earlier in the day, after several other encounters with carpet touts, not to mention that I had anything to do with computers. I decided to pick a profession that would convey a sense of poverty.

"I'm a writer."

"Where do you work?"

"I do freelance work."

"Ah." He seemed to know what that meant, and even if he didn't, I was glad not to elaborate.

I eventually extracted myself from Mehmet's shop, with my usual excuse that I had to leave to meet people, but with the promise that I was staying in the area and so would be back.

After stopping off at the Internet Cafe to send a few quick messages home (disappointingly, the cafe didn't actually serve any food or drinks), I went in search of a restaurant for dinner. I remembered one that I'd passed by earlier in the day, where (of course) a young Turk tried to entice me to go in. At the time, I had politely declined, but in retrospect I realized that his sales pitch was far less annoying than most of the other touts I'd met that day. So I returned there for dinner.

Dinner + Seduction by Poetry (7 Feb)

When you travel alone, you are far more approachable. The downside to this is that every tout who sees you will pester you as you walk. The upside is that dining alone, which I found somewhat uncomfortable in many parts of Europe (and America), is not a solitary experience. Both the young man who tried to sell me lunch, and my waiter, were eager to talk (and there were few other patrons that night).

The waiter wanted my help in picking out a love poem to send to his girlfriend, who I assume was either American or British, since the poem was in English, and she must have lived some distance away.

"I want her to read poem, hop on next plane to see me!"

"That's a tall order," I said, laughing. He had a book of Valentine's Day poems, and he was browsing through it, reading in broken English. I flipped through the book. My favorite was a somewhat debaucherous poem by Keats, but it probably wouldn't get his girlfriend into a cab, much less on a plane.

"This one?" he asked. It was a long poem by Emily Dickinson.

"Too long," I said.

"Just part?"

So I ran through the stanzas, and found one I thought would do the trick. [Sadly, I can't find it now]

The waiter seemed happy with that, and marked it with a pen.

"How about a coffee on the house?"

"Sure." It was my second coffee, but after an appetizer, main course, bread, and two glasses of wine the caffeine was welcome. I was also developing an addiction to Turkish coffee, which was to last for the rest of the trip.

The meal cost just under 20 million Turkish lira, or around 30 dollars. Eating like that every night would blow my food budget, but on the whole I didn't mind.

Night cruise across the Bosphorus (7 Feb)

I said goodbye, and wandered off to catch a night ferry across the Bosphorous. It was a short walk down to Eminonu, the part of town from which many ferries embark. There were hardly any tourists here, it was mostly Turks on their way home from work or play. The quayside was alive with vendors, selling everything from grilled fish and Turkish bread to toys and clothing.

I finally found the ferry to Uskundar, and approached the ticket booth. Two young boys were standing at the window pestering travellers for change. I ignored them, as did everyone else.

Behind the window, the ticket seller was talking with friends.

"Uskundar?" I asked.

A man quickly stuck his hand past me, into the window, dropped off some money and picked up a token, then left.

"Uskundar return?" I asked again.

The ticket seller looked at me briefly, then turned back to his friend. Another commuter squeezed past me to put down some money and pick up a token. The boys kept pestering me for change.

I plopped down the money (around 80 cents) and grabbed a token.

The ferry was full of smoking Turks. I stood at the end of the ship, on a covered deck, where I had a decent view of the city and the smoke wasn't too oppressive. The deck was full of people, a few of them talking but most were commuters who sat and either read or looked around.

The ferry departed almost immediately (I had arrived just in time), and we cruised off, across the Golden Horn and Bosphorus, to arrive at Uskundar. The city's mosques were well lit, as was the Topkapi Sarayi (Sultan's Palace). Boats moved to and fro, large cargo vessels and other small ferries. Above, a few stars shone through the haze and city lights. I could make out Orion.

We passed Kiz Kulesi, a tower sitting on a tiny island in the straights. The Bosphorus bridge span was a string of lights across the dark water.

At Uskundar, people started piling out even as the dockside worker was still tying up the ship. I hesitated for a moment, then decided to disembark and see if this ferry returned or not. I followed the crowd out of the dock, to the street. I looked around briefly, then made my way to the ticket booth here.

"Eminonu?" I asked. The man behind the ticket window (again talking to two friends) nodded. I bought a token, and wound up back on the exact same ship, at the exact same spot. I had paid just to walk around the dock and board the ship again.

From the ferry, looking at Uskundar.

After a few minutes, the ferry headed back to Eminonu. It was far less crowded in this direction, there was no on else on the deck. A young man walked through and asked if I had a light, it was his bad luck that the only passenger here was a foreigner who didn't smoke. He must have finally found some method of ignition, I saw him smoking on the lower deck.

A view of the mosque from the water.

So we sailed back to Eminonu, where I hiked back to my hotel. It wasn't until I was in my hotel room that I realized that my brief foray through the Uskundar dock was the first time in my life I'd ever set foot in Asia.

The Blue Mosque at night (from my hotel).

Sultan Ahmet Camii (Blue Mosque - 8 Feb)

On the 8th I woke up somewhat earlier, and had a long breakfast in the hotel. I got a fair amount of writing done.

Then it was off to the Blue Mosque, Sultan Ahmet Camii. The guidebook warned me not to just walk to the mosque from Aya Sofya (which was roughly the path from my hotel). Instead, it begged me to swing around and approach it from the north as the architect intended. So I did.

The guidebook (as usual) was correct. The six minarets and the domes lined up in beautiful symmetry from that direction. I walked forward (shaking off around three touts) into the courtyard.

Looking up at the Blue Mosque.

I walked around a bit, then entered. It was free to look around, although you did have to take off your shoes and carry them around with you in a plastic bag. A man approached me as I walked towards the entrance, carrying my shoes.

"You want guide?"

"Sure." He quoted a price, around five dollars, which was a hell of a lot of money but I didn't have anything smaller than a five million bill anyway, and it felt weird to haggle down a price and then have to make change. And I've always regretted not getting a local guide at the Parthenon.

"I tell you about my religion."

So we went into the mosque.

The interior of the Blue Mosque.

The mosque itself was beautiful. It was (of course) modelled loosely after the Aya Sofya, with a large central dome and a gallery. The gallery (and most of the main floor) was off-limits to tourists. Once in a while a muslim would come in and pray on the main floor.

The guide (who had an amazing name that I had him repeat twice but was still unable to remember) told me mostly what the guidebook told me, but I was able to ask him questions.

He said in the old days you had to have six muezzins, each calling to prayer from a different tower. "Now, is easy, have microphone."

Shoes off.

Prayer times are 6 am, 12:30 pm, 3pm, 5pm, and 7pm. At those times the call to prayer echoes throughout Istanbul. I think that the muezzins all agree on the pitch, since the calls from different mosques never clash (at least, not to my ear). I hate alarms in general, but waking to the call to prayer from the Blue Mosque is rather pleasant.

Blue tiles everywhere.

The mosque is called "blue" because it features a lot of blue tile--twenty-two thousand tiles in all, 170 different patterns. Blue is considered a good-luck color (said my guide), and green is the holy color. Certainly here and in Aya Sofya, the circular signs with Allah's and Mohammed's names were green with gold script.

There were low shelves all over the mosque, where the faithful would place their shoes. Tourists weren't allowed to go in or out through the main doors, that was for muslims only.

I asked the guide how many people in Istanbul were Muslims. He said that many were (he quoted no figure), but complained that most (particularly the young) didn't pray five times a day. He was from the countryside, he had moved to Istanbul several years ago ("Istanbul is like New York in America, yes?").

Yerebatan Saray (Cistern - 8 Feb)

After the Blue Mosque, I wandered up to the Cistern (Yerebatan Saray).

I had passed the Cistern's entrance many times before, right next to Aya Sofya and some cafes. It was a small square building, looking remarkably like a small public restroom. I gathered that the Cistern was an interesting but tiny room with water on the floor.

They wanted 4 million lira to go in, which struck me as a lot. But how often am I going to be in Istanbul?

It was well worth it. The Cistern was huge, extending many city blocks in all directions. Massive columns and arches supported the ceiling, which dripped water down to the floor, which was around a foot deep in water. They had built raised walkways for tourists. Stravinsky's "The Rite of Spring" was playing. They were probably playing it through some tinny speakers, but the reverb in the Cisterns is a recording engineer's dream. It echoed everywhere, you could hear the strings of the violins sustaining well beyond what a sane player would tolerate.

Different sections of the Cistern had different lighting effects. A lot of couples were strolling around dreamily. I've had wet basements before, and they never struck me as particularly romantic, but this was.

In the western corner were two pillars with medusa's heads at their base. No description was given in my guidebook or (that I could see) at the Cistern itself. Given that the orientation of the heads was random, I suppose that Justinian had the heads lying around somewhere and decided to use them for *something*.

A medusa's head (the camera was struggling with the light here).

I emerged, blinking and slightly wet (it was the first time I actually needed my flashy new waterproof jacket). The exit was about a block away from the entrance, a little door that I hadn't noticed before.

Kapali Carsi (Grand Bazaar - 8 Feb)

From there I marched onwards to the Kapali Carsi, the covered market or Grand Bazaar. It reminded me a bit of parts of the Public Market in Seattle, only a couple of orders of magnitude larger. I just wandered around for several hours, getting lost in the twists and turns of the bazaar.

Here, of course, the touts were everywhere. It reminded me of surfing (keeping in mind I've only been body surfing a couple of times), where you patiently wait in the water, gauging the waves, looking for one to ride back to the shore. When you saw a promising wave, you'd set yourself up in position, and at the right moment launch yourself to catch the wave as it was cresting.

The touts did the same thing. They would spot you coming through the crowd, and quietly set themselves up to approach you, trying to be inconspicuous about it. Then, when you were at a proper distance, they'd casually start walking out so that they'd intersect your path right in front of their store.

"Hey, are you Turkish?"

"You want to see nice carpet?"

"Are you interested in fine leather jackets?"

"Let me show you a tea set."

"How much did you pay for those shoes?"

And so on.

But the bazaar was cool. The crowd was predominantly Turkish, it didn't scream "tourist trap" at me (although the touts didn't help). Everything was for sale, from (of course) carpets to tea sets to beautiful Arabic script (excerpts from the Koran, I assume), pictures, carved wooden boxes, clothes of all descriptions, tobacco, porcelain, an entire street of jewelry shops. It was all overwhelming. I stopped at a nice-looking cafe and had some sandwiches and very red orange juice, writing postcards and watching the traffic.

From the bazaar, I walked just another block to the north, to get to the Shahaflar Carsi, the used book bazaar. I was hoping to find a dusty shop with old books, say early printings of Voltaire or Euclid or *something*. On the whole, the used book bazaar was pretty typical of a second-class used bookstore in the States. The first stall I went by had used books on C++ and Visual Basic, which is what I was here to escape.

I found one bookstore (not surprisingly, one of the few recommended by my guidebook) that had a large selection of very old books. Most of them were in Turkish or Arabic, so I was at a loss there. I found a couple of old books in English, one was a late 18th century (1785, I believe) translation of a French count's experiences in Turkey and the Middle East. But on the whole I didn't see anything I wanted to bother with shipping back.

So I thought I'd look for reading material for myself, since I'm only a few chapters away from finishing my last book, Sagan's "The Dragons of Eden." But the few English books I could find were pretty run of the mill, Tom Clancy or Steven King or Harlequin romance or worse. So I'll have to keep looking.

I was hoping that there would be bookshop touts.

"Hey, you like Existentialism? I give you special price."

"American? You like Steinbeck?"

"Let me show you some bound Ibsen. Top-quality leather."

But there weren't any.

From the old book bazaar I headed back to the Internet Cafe, and checked my email again. Being in the Internet Cafe is a weird experience, for many reasons. First of all, this particular cafe (as I noted before) doesn't serve any food or drinks--all they serve is the Internet. The bathrooms are even out of order. Secondly, the place is full of young Turks, checking email or surfing or playing networked computer games, which is contrary to my mental image of Istanbul. Either the Internet broadcasts American culture even more pervasively than Hollywood, or else it is so universal that its culture can't be identified as belonging to any particular country. The third reason it was a weird experience is that I would check up with friends and family, and even follow up on job-hunting, so in effect it transported me away from Turkey, back to Seattle.

The Hippodrome (8 Feb)

Out of the cafe, I headed back to the Hippodrome. It had been two days of walking back and forth and inside Old City landmarks, so I decided to sit somewhere and read. I found a vendor selling Turkish bread (a large platter stacked a foot high, carefully balanced on his head), and then secured a bench in the sun, not far from the Obelisk of Theodosius (which is 3500 years old, transported in 380 AD from Egypt, and still looks brand new). I read a chapter or so more of "The Dragons of Eden," and was mercifully pestered by only a few touts. I think if you stay in one place, the local touts pester you once and then leave you alone.

Looking down the Hippodrome.

The only surreal experience was a young boy, maybe 8, who tried to sell me a small package of tissues.

"Hundred thousand." He wanted a hundred thousand Turkish lira for it, around 16 cents.

"No, thank you."

"Hundred thousand."

"No."

"Hundred thousand. Hundred thousand." He kept repeating it in a singsong, over and over. I said "No thank you" a couple more times, then ignored him. He kept it up for another minute or two before an irritated Turk barked angrily at him, and waved him off.

"The Dragons of Eden" is a strange book. It's well presented (so far as I can tell, I haven't finished yet), with a fresh viewpoint on the evolution of human intelligence, well backed up from recent (circa 1976) developments in biology and genetics, as well as information theory. I was particularly moved by some of his very simple numeric arguments for how extra-genetic (basically brain- and mind-based) information dominated genetic (DNA-based) information only very recently in the development of life on Earth, and only for some mammals. His narrative of the evolution of human beings, from the viewpoint of brain size and its relation to the use of tools, was very gripping. Having read "The Selfish Gene" and "The Third Chimpanzee" last year, for me this was a neat segue into some of the finer aspects of human evolution, and the beginnings of the mind. I can see why it won the Pulitzer.

But Sagan throws in some startling theological and mythological statements. I say "startling" because they usually appear with no justification and with only a tenuous relation to the text around them. I can't figure out what he was trying to accomplish.

For instance, in his argument about the number of bits in the brain, Sagan notes that with around 10^13 neural bits, there are 2^(10^13) possible configurations, a mind-bogglingly large number that certainly explains why even identical twins are very different in personality and behavior. But Sagan ends the paragraph with the statement "This large number of configurations is an ethical justification for the sanctity of human life." I had to laugh at that point. The hard drives in modern computers are approaching 10^13 bits, should I cherish my laptop as if it was human? Even in 1976, did Sagan really believe that a bit count was enough to qualify as human? Given his obvious intellectual capacity, I don't believe that's the case. So why throw in that sentence? Was he trying to water down a book about evolution with some conciliatory statements to Christians, perhaps he was trying to reconcile the hard science with his own religious beliefs? Or was it a calculated attempt to increase the appeal of his book, with simple and almost demagogic statements that less critical minds could sieze on?

Later on, he speculates that our mythology about gnomes, elves, dwarves and giants might be genetic memories from our ancestors 2-3 million years ago, as hominids of various sizes competed for survival on the African savannah. I mean, come *on*. Why and how would these memories be preserved in our genes? And in any case, these sorts of myths are unique to Western cultures, you don't see gnomes or elves in Aztec or Mayan or Kalahari tribal myths. Even Sagan must have known he was being ridiculous, what was he trying to do?

And he mentions the myth of Eden, and guesses that its popularity stems from how well it ties into the evolution of human intelligence (here he qualifies his statement to refer only to the West). His theory is that evolution is such an ingrained part of culture that people have accepted Biblical notions of creation because they agree so well with science? That's obviously ludicrous, typically the followers of Biblical and scientific explanations are at loggerheads. Again, I can only suppose that Sagan was trying to console or cajole Christians into accepting current scientific thought. Here I can only wish him luck, but these random statements keep surprising me. On the whole I don't think they detract from his main line of reasoning.

After reading for a while, I headed back to the hotel. My intention was to relax for a second, regroup and head out for more walking and some dinner. Instead, I fell asleep. I was arguing with myself beforehand.

"No, don't sleep, not even for a second. You won't wake up until midnight."

It was around 4:30 in the afternoon.

"I'll just sleep for a half-hour or so, a power nap."

"No."

"This is a vacation, damn it." That line of reasoning won the argument, and I lay down to sleep.

I woke up at 10:30, cursing myself. I don't even know if Turkish restaurants are even open after 11.

The hotel has a restaurant on the roof that the guidebook recommended, at least for its views. So I wandered upstairs (it was just one more floor up). The terrace was open, but it was empty. I guess they don't bother setting up the restaurant until the summer. But the view was beautiful. I looked around, decided I wasn't hungry enough to bother looking for a restaurant, and went back down to my hotel room. I wrote for a while, read a bit more of Sagan, and went to sleep.

Day cruise up the Bosphorus (9 Feb)

On the 9th I woke up even before the call to prayer. I lay there, trying to get a few more winks in, but I was grateful when the muezzin started chanting, and I had an excuse to get out of bed.

Before heading to breakfast, I decided to see if the rooftop terrace door was still open. It was, and I was treated to some amazing pre-dawn vistas of Istanbul. The Blue Mosque and Aya Sofya were bathed in red light. Ships moved back and forth in the Sea of Marmara as the sun rose over Asia.

The Blue Mosque at dawn (that white thing is the moon).

Sunrise over the Sea of Marmara.

After breakfast, I walked off to catch the ferry up the Bosphorus. It was the same walk to Eminonu as on Wednesday, only now in the daylight.

Once at the waterfront, I walked down the docks. The Bosphorus and the Golden Horn have been the primary corridors for Istanbul since Byzantine times. Here at Eminonu the horde of ferries put Seattle to shame.

The crowds were far denser than at night, although between ferries it quieted down somewhat.

Bruce Lee and Jackie Chan on the quay.

I came to an unyielding mesh fence, and realized I'd walked the length of the docks without finding the ferry I was looking for. I asked a dock worker, and he pointed me way down towards the other side.

Ferries at Eminonu.

I found the ferry, and had 45 minutes to kill before it left. I walked around and took some pictures. I made my way across the Galatay bridge, past rows of fishermen.

Ferries maneuvering in the Golden Horn, a mosque in the background.

Fishermen on Galatay bridge.

I boarded the ferry. Half the passengers were Turkish, the other half were tourists.

The ferry spent an hour and a half wandering up the straights, stopping occasionally at small docks built between the waterfront houses, mosques, and palaces.

A fortress on the European side.

The Bosphorus, especially near Istanbul, was lined with fine houses right down to the water. Fine Viannese-style houses stood shoulder-to-shoulder with ruined fortresses and ugly 1960's concrete monstrosities. But on the whole, it was a pleasant shoreline. As you moved away from the city, you started to see more estates: large houses with a wide swathe of land.

Houses on the water.

It all reminded me of Seattle's Lake Union, Montlake cut, and Lake Washington. But with the addition of 4th century castles, mosques, and knowledge that the land across the water was another continent.

The Turkish passengers seemed to get on and off at random. The tourists, however, disembarked at only two locations: Sariyer (a fishing village on the Eurpean side) and Anadolu Karagi, a small village topped with the ruins of a medieval castle, on the Asian side. I got off at Anadolu.

This time I was fully conscious that I was setting foot on Asian soil for only the second time in my life. I stepped off the ferry with great anticipation, but no fireworks went off and I didn't pee my pants or anything. So I just kept walking like everything was normal.

I was moving with a great mass of tourists, basically everybody that was left on the ferry, since this was the last stop. Ahead on the Bosphorus was the Black Sea, and both sides of the straights north of here were military grounds, off- limits to us civilians.

We all walked up the dry barren hillside in the hot February sun. I know that sounds strange, but in fact it was quite warm (hot by winter standards) and I miss the warmth as I write here freezing at an outdoor cafe.

I walked a few steps out of the village, then remembered that I had only a bottle of water with me. We had almost three hours here, I would need something to eat. None of the other tourists were carrying food or water that I could see. Did they know something I didn't? Was there a cafe or shop near the ruins at the top of the hill?

I decided not to risk it. I headed back down into the village. 30 cents got me a huge flat loaf of bread, topped with sesame seeds and pepper. With more water and some mystery cheese, I started back up the hill.

I passed groups of struggling tourists (struggling with gravity, not each other) and finally reached the top. As the guidebook promised, I was greeted with panoramic views of the Bosphorus, and the Black Sea. Was this where Kruschev claimed he could see nuclear missiles from his Dacha in Odessa? I saw no missile silos, just empty gun emplacements which to my untrained eye looked like they pre-dated World War II.

The central towers of the fortress had no stairs, but they were a fairly easy climb in their ruined condition. No other tourists had attempted it yet, mainly because the last section of climbing was just a flat wall. But once I had scaled this final obstacle, two more tourists attempted it.

They were from Malaysia, working for the national airline. They told me that I should visit Malaysia, I'd like it there. I said I would. And I will.

They headed back down, and I sat in the sun on the top of the ruins, and had lunch. The mystery cheese smelled terrible, but tasted great.

On top of the fort at Anadolu. Asia in foreground, Europe in back.

The fortress from below.

After lunch, I too climbed down (which sucked: I find it far easier climbing up than down) and strolled around the fortress, taking more pictures. Then I found a large patch of grass in a lower courtyard, and read more of Sagan's book. It reminded me of the summer in Seattle, where I spent many afternoons in a city park reading a book in the sun.

Looking back down at the town + Bosphorus.

Sometime after 2 (the ferry left at 3) I decided I should head back down the hill.

This is when a light depression set in--leaving the fortress felt like leaving Istanbul. I had no more major items on my tourist agenda here, and I had to start planning my time in Tunisia. So as I boarded the ferry and we returned down the Bosphorus, I felt like I was saying goodbye to the city.

Coming back in to Eminonu.

I loved Italy and Greece, but I never felt any desire to live in either country.

Istanbul was different. Watching the houses glide by on the Bosphorus shore, I contemplated moving here and setting up a software company. Istanbul had many of the advantages of a large city, access to shops and an airport and tele- communications. But it also had charm and beauty and (even better) a low cost of living.

The last place I felt like moving to was Zimbabwe, in 1997. Given that since I visited there, President Mugabe has variously appeased and incited extremists, to the point where the entire country is now sliding into anarchy, I have to question my judgement on these matters.

After the ferry docked in Eminonu, I headed back to the Internet cafe to check email and follow up on job leads. On the way, I passed some bookstores, and went in. Only two had any books in English. One had a selection of 19th century classics, but I didn't know if I had the stomach to sit down and read "A Tale of Two Cities" on this trip, even though I feel I ought to eventually.

The other shop, as I found out after browsing, was strictly Islamic. The English titles (other than an English-Turkish dictionary) were all about reading and interpreting the Koran. Some of the Turkish books, as far as I could tell from the covers, were gilt versions of the Koran, and a picture book showing how to dress small children for prayer.

So I still need to buy myself some books. Apparently (according to my all- knowing guidebook) Tunisia suffers from a dearth of English books.

I spent another hour at the Internet cafe. I think they had 20 machines all sharing a single dialup connection--it was slow. But I managed to check my messages and even my finances online. I'm not sure how much chance I'll get in Tunisia.

The ferry had docked just before 5, so by the time I got out of the cafe, it was dark. I wandered back down the Divan Yolu to the Hippodrome, and then the hotel.

The bed in the hotel room beckoned to me, but I resisted. I attempted to call the hotel in Tunisia, but all I got was a recording of loud Arabic music, with a woman speaking so softly in French that I couldn't make out any of the words.

Dinner (9 Feb)

I headed out to one of the best restaurants recommended in the guidebook, some distance away from the hotel. After getting slightly lost in the back streets of the Old City, I finally found the restaurant. A number of Turks were just going in, which was a good sign. But when I looked in, the place was lit by harsh flourescent lights, and filled with blue smoke. No matter how good the food was, it wasn't an atmosphere in which I could eat.

So I wandered back to another recommended restaurant. On the whole I've been disappointed by vegetarian fare at Turkish restaurants. I'm reduced to eating a bunch of appetizers, or the sole vegetarian entre that all restaurants serve: vegetable kebabs. Here I stuck to a bunch of appetizers, which were quite good.

The guidebook lauded the restaurant's interior, but for some reason I asked to be seated outside. I think I wanted to watch the locals pass by, but it was a stupid decision: it was pretty cold that night. Across from me was a carpet store. The salesmen would eye me hungrily once in a while, but the touts never bother you when you're at a cafe or restaurant.

I finished Sagan's "The Dragons of Eden." It's pretty clear that he was NOT an apologist, as far as I can tell the many theological and mythological references were just for effect. The main argument of the book (that our consciousness is influenced by the physiology of the brain, various processing layers that have built up on top of each other over the millenia) was well presented and I suppose still valid. Some of the science was a bit dated; it was written in 1976. But I think Dawkins' "The Selfish Gene", written years before "The Dragons of Eden", still seems very contemporary. But on the whole Sagan's work was a very good book, and finding another of similar quality to read would be difficult.

Last Morning - Buying a Carpet (10 Feb)

Stravinski's The Rite of Spring was playing during breakfast, which reminded me of the Cistern. My goal for the morning, before I left for the airport, was to find some bookstores and (sigh) buy a carpet.

I had very little luck buying books. I did find a decent bookstore but the only book that inspired me was a collection of Umberto Eco's essays: "How to Travel with a Salmon". A good read, but I was hoping for one or two more books.

The carpet, however, was another matter. I knew from the government-run carpet shop that a 4x6 carpet would be anywhere between $360 and $1000, depending on quality. I figured I'd stop by and see Mehmet, and if I didn't feel comfortable with his carpets I'd just buy one from the government shop.

On the way back from the bookstores, coming up the now-familiar road from Eminonu, I passed a carpet store I'd seen before. It had a sign in the window: "Princess Approved", meaning that the Princess Cruise Line company had somehow certified it safe for their passengers, whatever that meant. So I thought I'd run in and check their prices.

A saleslady was just stepping outside for a smoke when I walked in, and she brightened up measurably. She tossed away her cigarette and faced me.

"How can I help you?"

"I was interested in looking at carpets."

She got very excited, and gestured to a nearby guard. The two of them escorted me to a nearby elevator, the guard talking in rapid Turkish into his walkie- talkie. Here I thought I would just step into a carpet shop, but it turned out this was a kind of mini-bazaar, an emporium of wares targeted at the rich tourist. We passed displays of jewelry and porcelain. How the hell was I going to get out of this?

On the other hand, the place was deserted. Or at least, there were no other tourists visible. This was low season, and it was also fairly early in the morning (by Istanbul shop standards).

At the elevator, the saleslady motioned to the guard.

"You follow him," she said to me, and disappeared, presumably to have her smoke.

The guard opened the elevator, and waved me in. He didn't follow me, instead he pushed a button.

"Someone will meet you on the third floor," he said, smiling in excitement. The look on his face seemed to say "You're going to love what's about to happen." The doors closed.

Oh shit.

The doors opened on the third floor, and as promised an eager young carpet salesman awaited me. Another large floor, again with no other customers in sight. It looked deserted.

"Um, I was just interested in looking at carpet prices--"

"Please follow me." He led me back towards a small door. He opened it, and inside were two Turks, dressed in jeans, playing backgammon. An older salesman yelled at them in Turkish, and they quickly put the backgammon set away. This older salesman approached me.

"How do you do, sir," he said, in very good English. He looked like a Turkish Harvey Keitel.

"I'm fine, I was just curious about carpet prices."

"This way, sir." So off we went, me and my carpet entourage. There was the older salesman, obviously running the show, the junior salesman, and two flunkys holding up the rear.

We wandered back around the elevators, into a dark room. The salesman flipped on the lights, revealing a very large carpet-viewing room. It was empty, a light hardwood floor with low benches on the walls. Stacks of carpets were in one corner, and in nearby rooms.

"What kind of carpet?"

"I was looking for a wool-on-wool carpet." At least Mehmet had taught me something.

"What size?"

"Around 4 by 6."

"Four feet by six feet, yes sir." He clapped his hands, and spoke loudly in Turkish. One of the flunkys dashed out, and returned almost immediately with several carpets in his hand. He quickly set them down on the floor, so I could have a look at them.

"Which ones do you like, sir?"

They had a wide variety of carpets. I preferred (as Mehmet predicted) some of the brighter colors. I pointed to one.

"I like the colors on that one."

He nodded. "You want me to ship it out to you?"

*Jeezus*.

"No, no," I said, laughing. "But I do like those colors."

"Okay, I will bring more." Again he barked sharply in Turkish, and again the flunky procured more carpets. Other carpets with muted or pastel colors were spirited away.

"Have you tried our apple tea?"

"Um, no." I wasn't prepared for that one.

"Well, let me bring you some."

"Oh, no thank you."

"Please."

"No."

"It is our custom, our tradition. Do not say no."

I hesitated. He barked in Turkish again, and another flunky appeared with tea.

Oh shit.

I put the tea down on one of the benches, without drinking any. I tried to make it look like I just wanted to keep my hands free so I could examine the carpets. I didn't want to offend anyone, but I didn't want to take the fateful sip of tea that might indicate I'd really buy a carpet.

The problem was that I really liked some of the carpets. Unlike those I'd seen in Mehmet's or the government-run shops, there were a few here with great colors and intricate, detailed patterns. I had no way of knowing if these were mass- produced by some computerized loom in the suburbs, or if--

"These were woven by women in the Turkish countryside. Six months of work." Yeah. How could I possibly tell?

I knelt down as the older salesman kept the patter up. I looked at the back, it was a nice tight consistent weave. I didn't see any cotton anywhere, but I didn't know if I'd be able to tell if they slipped any polyester in.

Still, the shop did have the stamp of approval of several cruise lines. The price might be high, but I could at least be sure of the quality. Right?

"How much are these?" I asked.

"Eight-hundred and fifty dollars."

That was less than the high-end carpets at the government shop. But I couldn't tell if that was really a fair price or not.

"A carpet appreciates in value, sir. If these carpets were 50, 100 years old, I'd be asking 15 or 20 thousand dollars."

Yeah right. I had this mental image of him selling a threadbare carpet to some cruise line retirees for 20 thousand dollars. The sad thing was that he might be right, I had no experience pricing carpets.

He kept the banter up, and I decided to make an offer on one of the carpets. But first I had to strengthen my bargaining position. I took a sip of the tea, which by the way is some of the best tea I've ever had. Although a real tea afficionado might have dismissed it as warm apple juice.

"Eight hundred and fifty dollars," I said, wincing. "These are nice carpets, but that's a lot."

The lead salesman nodded, not revealing anything. He was waiting for me to name a price. I sighed for effect.

"Do you have any smaller carpets?" He didn't flinch.

"Yes, we have smaller." For a second, I thought he'd called my bluff. But he didn't bark at a flunky. Instead, after a second he asked: "What were you hoping to spend?"

So the bartering began. I brought the price down by maybe 40%. It was hard to be sure, since the final price included tax and shipping, and I wasn't sure how much that was, or if it had been included in the original $850 or not.

At the time, I thought I'd scored a deal. I thought I'd leveraged my youth and their desperation to get a great price. But as I walked out, I was hit by buyer's remorse. Maybe I'd spent well over $500 for a $200 carpet?

I suppose I'll find out eventually. In 10-12 weeks the carpet will show up at my doorstep, and maybe I can do some web research or something. For the moment, I'm inclined to trust the salesman's word regarding the quality, as naive as that sounds. And after all, it's only money.

[Postscript: The carpet finally arrived. It looks pretty good in my room.

The Turkish Carpet.

And I checked with some carpet shops in Seattle--I paid a fair price. If you're in Seattle, there are some decent shops on 1st Ave, just south of Pioneer Square.]

I walked back to the hotel, guiltily skirting Mehmet's shop. One of the shoe- shine boys waved at me as I crossed the Hippodrome. He was shining a local's shoes.

"Hey," he called, "do you remember me?"

"Yes, I remember you."

"You want shoeshine today?"

"No thank you."

I checked out of the hotel, and caught a taxi ("taksi") to the airport. Traffic was very heavy, so the taxi driver kept a reasonably safe speed through the city. As we approached the airport the traffic thinned out, and he was able to push the speed up again. There were a few sphincter-tightening moments, but on the whole it wasn't as frightening as the ride from the airport.

And this time I had been careful to sit in the front seat, where there was a seat belt.

A shop for men: cameras, stereos, calculators, and guns.