Istanbul
The City
On the flight back from Turkey I began reading Orhan Pamuk's The Black Book. This Nobel laureate's mid 90's take on Istanbul is dark, beautiful and Joyce-like in its weight. I wanted to throw the book away after the first three pages but when I found the rhythm to Pamuk's words and tuned myself into the contradictions of the city, I'm now saying that this might be the best book I have ever read in my life. Istanbul is a contradiction: east and west, once the seat of both the world's major religions, harsh and soft, uninhabitable and warm. I have a quarter to go in The Black Book and will relate my favorite bits here when I regrettably finish.
The first cup of Turkish coffee in Mihran's parent's living room after
we arrived. Apparently KLM is notorious for forgetting baggage in
Amsterdam. We lost all our luggage but it was a fair price to pay
for a kind airline that ran absolutely on time. In the two days
that followed with me wearing the same clothes and realizing that I
really didn't need half the junk I packed, we were regaled with horror
stories from everyone whose aunts, sisters and cousins had lost luggage
for weeks on the same flight. I felt like I was a part of a new
club whose membership is decided by a dark room where all lost things
go.
Mihran's paternal grandmother Epraksiya. We live in her winter
house, a block from Mihran's parents in Kurtulis as she travels across
the city to her summer home in Buykdere on the water. The traffic
made this ten mile journey stretch to hours so we didn't get to visit
her as often as we would like. Mihran loves this house more than
any place in the city, from the giant fig tree in the back to the view
from her balcony. He spent most of his childhood here.
View from Epraksiya's balcony. In this primarily Greek section of
the city (his grandmother is Greek and Yugoslavian with the most
beautiful green eyes I have ever seen) the church bells from the ancient
Orthodox school chime the hour along with the call to prayer from the
minarets. Both Mihran's grandmothers enjoy speaking to me in
Turkish, or Greek, or Armenian with a very serious expression as if I
will suddenly start understanding a language, any language. They
will then squeeze my cheeks or kiss me and then break out in peals of
laughter. Laughter I can understand in any country. I love
them. We also understand drinking coffee and sharing cigarettes.
As Mihran prepared coffee and Epraksiya laughed he translated, "See that
blue ship in the water? She says it's been there all day because the
captain is in love with her and doesn't want to go."
The view from the back of the house.
Mihran's other grandmother, Nadia. She lives in the flat above his
parents.
They behaved very nicely for a time but this is a better representation
of Mihran and the women in his life.
Imagine this stretching for miles on two continents and you get a fair
view of just how huge Istanbul really is.
Saint Anthony's Church in Taksim / Beyoglu - where one can often find
people of all religions burning candles in the ancient alcoves.
