When I was young I was enamored with adventure stories. From Indiana Jones films to Phantom comics, I dreamed about hacking my way through the jungle, canoeing up the Amazon, walking through forgotten temples, and finding ancient treasures, all the while dodging pirates and assorted angry natives armed with bows and arrows. Which, of course, was the reason I had to carry a .45 in my fantasies. And maybe an AK 47, too. (I was never sure about that one - it seemed heavy and awkward even in my imagination.)
Of course, the irony was that a stone's throw outside my house was literally a real jungle, with real waterfalls and real tribes of natives armed with bows and arrows, but I preferred sitting inside my house, in a comfy armchair, and dreaming of the deserts and jungles I would someday traipse through. I suppose this was my first clue that deep down I have an aversion to sweat and mosquitoes, dirt under my fingernails and blisters and leeches on my feet which outweighs the vague "love of adventure."
The last three weeks I have lived in one of the most exotic and historical cities in the world. The alleys abound with photo opportunities, the bazaars and side-shops overflow with old brass antiques, and every neighborhood has tangible links to the past. A few days ago as my wife and I were walking toward the coast, I looked up at the old retaining wall we were winding our way around, and realized that this wall was the end of the hippodrome, the old race track, the colliseum of Constantinople. You would never know it now, as it has a cafe located at the bottom which stores unused umbrellas and ice-cream freezers in its arches, and the top has been filled in, and a school built on top of it. You would never know it, but there it was. I knew this was it, because I had seen it on TV two days before.
Ever since we had moved here, I have spent the days glued to the sofa, avidly watching hour after hour of National Geographic and the history channel. (Oh, and the Olympics, too.) And in those three weeks I have seen a number of documentaries on Istanbul. They feature the historical remains of the city, and tell the stories behind them. And I sit, enthralled, on my sofa, and watch, amazed, and stuff fried peanuts into my mouth, thinking, "Wow. How cool it would be to be there."
So, occasionally, after a few days of doing nothing, (usually at Cynthia's instigation,) we will venture outside to do something, like visit a fish market, or the archaeological museum. And every time I make it 20 yards outside the house, I am struck with an influx of energy, and a sense of the boundless opportunities a city like this presents, and an amazing sense of my own good fortune to live in such a beautiful place. Bustling and crowded and noisy and beautiful Istanbul.
The waiters of the restaurants stand outside, and greet you and beg you to "come inside, look at the menu? Excuse me, sir, can I give you my card? Maybe for later?"
The shoe-shine men carry their shoe-shine stands over their shoulders, and as they walk in front of you, they swing the stand just right so that the brush, hanging on the back, falls off at your feet. Then they walk on, oblivious. And you, if you are wise, smile, and also walk on.
The men in the bazaar invite you into their shops - "buy a pretty lamp, how about a carpet, best quality!" "We have soaps, to wash your body! My sponges are so good you will feel my fingers cleaning you, sir!" "The best Turkish delight, and sweets!"
Then there are the men who stand in the middle of the passageways with nothing more than a box and a board, or a cloth upon the ground. On it may be plastic toys from China, or simply socks. Or small flashlights. These sellers do not address individuals, or try to sell the features of their goods. Instead, in an ear-splitting, piercing voice, they constantly yell "Bir Lira, bir Lira, bir Lira!!!" ("One Lira, one Lira . . . ") on the assumption that where quality may lack, low price may yet compensate.
But of all the sellers, I prefer the vegetable markets. The sellers are a little more sedate, and spend most of their time helping customers. And the vegetables, oh, the vegetables and fruits, are stacked, arranged, and presented in a way I never witnessed in Poland. In Spain they might do it similarly, but not nearly so well. They create small works of art out of some of their stands. There are tomatoes in pyramids, and spices piled up in cones. There are pistachios, and figs, walnuts and grapes, (and you can taste them - don't ask, just reach out, and take one, pop it into your mouth, and look like you are thinking of buying. Then try another.) There are peaches piled high and avocadoes in rows. The fish sellers arrange their glistening wares on ice, and the olive sellers float theirs in glistening brine. The cheese sellers sell hard, aged cheeses, and fresh, crumbly white cheeses. My favorite is the salty string cheese, which I could munch on forever, but I know that obesity lies down that path.
And then there are all the countless bakeries, selling golden baklava, weighted down with dripping honey, layers upon layers of fine pastry and ground nuts, and glistening green pistachios crumbled across the top. Kofte shops sell small patties of a spiced red meat, halfway between a patty and a meatball, which you can buy and take home, or they will put into a large piece of bread, (half a loaf, in fact,) with tomatoes and lettuce, and off you go, munching away. The corn sellers also cry out the price, "One Lira, one lira!" for sweet corn, boiled or roasted, your choice, heavily salted, for just one Lira.
Cynthia recently solved the mystery of the orange balls for me. After seeing carts go by, loaded with small orange balls reminiscent of Cartman's cheesy poofs, I asked her if she had any insight into what it might be. She guessed peanuts. I guessed cheesy poofs. Later she bought some and we found they were indeed peanuts, coated in some breading, and fried into an obscene orange color. Mystery solved.
But the greatest mystery is posed by the small meat stands, which bring a literal meaning to the term "mystery meat." The most common is the Kebab, with a long, upright metal spit turning an enormous cone of sizzling meat in front of a stack of gas heaters. The chicken kebab is easy to recognize. The other may be beef, but is probably lamb. In one heated cabinet Cynthia noticed a pile of fried potatoes and small chunks of . . . lamb? We asked and a small boy told us, yes, it was lamb. Being a great fan of frying in general, and potatoes and meat in any form, we bought a sandwich of it, and I proceeded to consume half before realizing that politeness might dictate offering a small portion to the person who had brought it to my attention and suggested we buy it. She took her bite, and after some time I asked her if she would like another. No, thanks, she said. In her bite she had encountered a piece of liver. I considered this a one-off, and continued eating. After another bite or two, I felt an unmistakeable bitter greasiness on my tongue, and a taste in the back of my throat like bile, and I knew she was right. Suddenly all my taste buds were on edge, probing, exploring each bite. What had been a very pleasant sandwich became a slow exploration of a minefield. I felt like Homer Simpson, unable to enjoy his sandwich, and unable to put it down. As I neared the end of the sandwich I began feeling queasy, then downright nauseous.
I knew no bacteria could work that fast - anything that can make you sick 10 minutes after you ingest it must be a really potent one, so I chalked it up to either psychology, or my stomach just doesn't appreciate liver. We walked on for twenty minutes or so, with my stomach churning and my skin sweating and odd burps emerging, before as suddenly as it had come, it passed.
Which just goes to show - I may not have discovered ancient deserted temples, and I don't particularly like the jungle, buy I may have a small sense of adventure left in me, at least as far as meat products are concerned. And Istanbul is full of small culinary adventures just waiting for my intrepid intestines.
One particular adventure that still remains are the many small, wheeled carts I see, coals in the bottom, and a horizontal spit, on which what looks like one hundred slices of mini-bologna. They seem popular along beaches and in alleys and not so much in the shops. We are told these small slices are gut and organ material, and are best avoided. But the question remains whether we are going to take advice, or try it for ourselves.
I bet sooner or later we buy one.
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