Istanbul (not Constantinople)

Turkey is a geographically diverse and historically significant country. It is home to Troy (the setting for Homer’s timeless epic “The Iliad”), and the city of Ephesus, whose Christian population received a letter from St. Paul which later became “Ephesians” – the tenth book of the New Testament. Turkey straddles Asia and Europe with the Bosphorus, a narrow strait running through Istanbul, demarcating the official boundary between the two continents. The Bosphorus was extremely important in ancient times as it is the only maritime route between the Black Sea and the Mediterranean and Aegean Seas, giving the empire or country that controlled it a huge trade advantage.

The small European part of modern Turkey west of the Bosphorus was known to the ancient Greeks and Romans as Thrace. Thrace was part of the Roman Empire until its demise in AD 476, making way for the ascendance of the Byzantine Empire in Eastern Europe. Constantine, the first Roman emperor to adopt Christianity, had left Rome after his conversion in AD 330 and made Byzantium, the capital of the Byzantine Empire, his new home. He decided to rename the city after himself (I guess he missed all the sermons about humility), and Constantinople was born.

The Byzantine Empire held sway until the 14th Century when a new movement spread westward from Anatolia – the ancient name for the Asian part of Turkey. The Ottomans rose up from the dusty planes and created an empire which would eventually span from the eastern border of Austria to the Persian Gulf, taking in a large swath of North Africa along the way. For 600 years the Ottoman sultans ruled over this huge area until the First World War finally took their empire down. The title of Ottoman Sultan was eliminated in 1922 and the new Republic of Turkey was formed the following year. Turkish leaders wanted to leave every vestige of their imperial past behind and consequently decided to rename Constantinople, their largest city, Istanbul – a new name for a new country.

Istanbul is a sprawling cosmopolitan city with some seventeen million inhabitants. My husband Douglas and I visited there in 1985. We had initially planned on only spending a couple of days in the city before heading east into the interior of the country, but it was so packed with historically significant buildings and sites that we ended up staying a full week. The first place we decided to visit in Istanbul was Topkapi Palace, the opulent home of the Ottoman sultans.

We went to the Istanbul bus station and joined the line for the bus we were pretty sure would take us to the palace. When it was finally our turn to board, I asked the driver if this was indeed the Topkapi bus. He responded by lifting his eyebrows and tilting his head up and back in a gesture which I’d always known to mean, “Yes. Come ahead.” I climbed the first step and was immediately stopped by the driver who had abruptly straightened his arm and thrust the palm of his hand in my face. Confused, I again said, “Topkapi?” Once again he jerked his brows and head back, and I began to take the second step when his flattened hand reappeared inches from my nose. I looked back at Douglas in utter confusion when a man further back in the line told us in halting English that a head raised in reply to a question in Turkey meant “no.” Seemed counter-intuitive to me, but there it was. The man then pointed us towards the correct bus and we thanked him for his help.

The facade of Topkapi Palace is comprised of a large door recessed in a massive stone arch, topped with crenelations (zig-zag stonework designed to allow archers defending the castle a clear shot at the enemy), and framed by two tall towers crowned with shingled spires. The designers clearly took their cue for this exterior from medieval European castles rather than from traditional Muslim fortresses – it looks more like a small version of the Disney castle than an eastern sultan’s palace. Inside, however, the design is thoroughly Islamic, with arched ceilings, scrolled panels, and stunning tile-work throughout. The sultans' wives and concubines were housed in the seraglio (harem), a sequestered part of the palace overseen by eunuchs – castrated servants whose sole purpose was to care for the sultans’ women. Topkapi also has a glorious central courtyard overflowing with fragrant flowers and ornate fountains, all surrounded by beautifully apportioned colonnades (exterior hallways featuring a series of paired columns marching down either side).

As impressive as the building itself is, the artifacts it contains are even more breathtaking. There are solid gold tea services, candle sticks, pitchers, bowls, and trays. Actually, picture just about any kitchen item in solid gold and you’ll start to get an idea of the breadth of Topkapi’s gold collection. Then there is the weaponry – innumerable daggers and swords all housed in lavishly decorated sheaths. As beautiful as all these items are, they pale in comparison to the Sultan’s Jewels. This part of the collection is comprised of scads of jewelry covered in various combinations of precious stones along with small chests overflowing with gems of every description as well as individual rubies and emeralds and sapphires so enormous as to strain credulity. This assemblage put me in mind of the treasure Daffy Duck loses his mind over in the old Looney Tunes cartoon “Ali Baba Bunny” – vast, varied, and of absolutely unimaginable value.

Istanbul is home to Hagia Sophia. Originally built as a Christian Cathedral in the 6th Century by the Byzantine emperor Justinian, Hagia Sophia was converted into a mosque in 1453 by the Ottomans. It eventually became a museum in 1934 in an effort by the newly minted Republic of Turkey to placate Orthodox Christians and Muslims alike, both of whom rightfully view it as a holy place. Turkish President Tayyip Erdogan recently overturned the 1934 decision and reestablished Hagia Sophia as a mosque, which has outraged the 300 million Orthodox Christians worldwide whose leadership resides in Istanbul. Secular factions fear that this change may incite violence because the deconsecration of Hagia Sophia has helped to keep the peace between two otherwise antagonistic religions for the past eighty eight years. The UN also objects to this change because the building is a World Heritage Site, and they would consequently prefer that it have no specific religious affiliation.

Hagia Sophia was not only a museum when Douglas and I visited, but also a venue for the arts. It so happened that The Academy of St. Martin in the Fields, under the direction of Sir Neville Marriner, was holding a series of afternoon concerts in Hagia Sophia the very week we were in town. Naturally we bought tickets. We were overjoyed at the prospect of seeing a world-class orchestra in such an historic building, and doubly pleased because we managed to snag tickets for a performance of Vivaldi’s “The Four Seasons” – one of my all-time favourite classical compositions.

The sky was dark grey that Wednesday afternoon, but nothing could dampen our high spirits as we took our seats under Hagia Sophia’s multi-domed vaulted ceiling. We settled in and began gazing around the building, marvelling at the glorious architecture and the ancient Christian iconography on the walls. The orchestra was already in place and a hush fell over the audience as the oboe played the tuning note. Then Sir Neville came out to thunderous applause. He motioned the musicians to rise, they all gave a brief bow, and the concert began as soon as they had retaken their seats. The acoustics were bright and perfect, and the orchestra was masterful and emotive.

Sharing a live performance often prompts me to experience a sense of kinship with everyone in attendance, artists and audience alike. This feeling of connectivity began mounting in me as the Vivaldi concerti continued, along with one of extreme personal well-being. At one particularly breathtaking moment, the lead violinist was holding an exquisitely pure high note when a single shaft of brilliant sunlight burst through the clouds. It came flooding in one of Hagia Sophia’s upper windows, piercing the gloom of the building’s interior and illuminating in its path a single white dove which had suddenly taken flight from the ceiling rafters. I count that moment among one of the handful of times in my entire life when I have felt truly, transcendently euphoric.

The day after this sublime experience in Hagia Sophia, Douglas and I felt we needed some more prosaic fare so we decided to lunch at a local dive recommended in our “Daily Planet” guidebook. This particular place only served two things – lamb and bread. We were sceptical that such a meagre menu could prove sufficient, but our trusty guidebook had never led us astray so we put our doubts aside and tracked the place down. At first glance it appeared to be a tiny storefront containing two empty tables, but in reality that was just the façade. No sooner had we entered the building than a Turkish man standing in the back waved us forward. We followed him to the rear corner of the room and turning to our left saw a circular stone staircase recessed into the wall. He led us up the stairs and onto a spacious rooftop patio. Picnic tables covered in rustic clothes were scattered about, and the man indicated we should sit at a table where several people were already enthusiastically mowing down their lunches.

No sooner had we sat than two waiters appeared – one with a couple of plastic cups and a pitcher of cool water, and the other with a large platter containing huge hunks of roasted lamb and a generous stack of warm, freshly baked pita. The food and drink was unceremoniously plunked down in front of us and the waiters hustled off, presumably to make their next delivery. No silverware, no napkins - just meat, bread, and water. I think Douglas and I must have looked a little perplexed by the whole thing because one of the men opposite us caught our attention and began ripping pieces of lamb and bread from his platter and shoving them into his mouth. The men around him picked up on his intention and they all began cramming huge wads of food into their mouths, smiling and silently giving us permission to do the same. We began tentatively tearing apart our food, but the lamb was so succulently delicious and the bread so perfectly warm and yeasty that soon we were gobbling up our meals as unabashedly as our ravenous table mates. Our faces, hands, and arms up to the elbows were covered in lamb grease, and our bellies were full to bursting when we finally finished our feeding frenzy. The meat and bread had been indescribably good, the water cold and refreshing, but what made this meal so exceptional was the visceral thrill of feeling our food with our hands and unreservedly satisfying our hunger. Very Neanderthal, and very gratifying.

Douglas and I left Istanbul the day after this meal, looking forward to the adventures that lay ahead in the Asian part of Turkey. We could only hope that the rest of our time in this historic land would live up to the wonderful introduction provided by this amazing city.