Through Streets That Follow Like a Tedious Argument

 

 

I spotted this rooftop terrace café from the #5 Top Spot in Istanbul (as identified by The Lonely Planet), the Ottoman Sulemaniye Mosque. The best part: a mango iced tea is the same price, whether you are drinking it down on the street or with this view.

OK, look at the blue bridge at the bottom, left-hand corner. That is the Galata Bridge, where fisherman stake out spots in the early morning, and where there are scores of bobbing boats and touristy restaurants serving mainly one thing - a fried fish sandwich on thick French bread, topped with salad greens and onions. On an inside tip from my other guidebook (Istanbul Select - a textile covered book written by a local - which I picked up at Powell's in Portland) said, "Go to the other side of the bridge and buy your sandwich from a cook at the fish market." I do as I am told when directions for a fish sandwich are that specific. Out of a line of cooks, I chose him:

(I was disappointed that he removed his cigarette before the shot.) The sandwich was fine. It involved a lot of bread, but there were no tourists at this fish market, which made it taste great (to me). Here is a shot from behind my table on the terrace, of the mosque:

Had a rocky start this morning - not because of the supposed Ramadan morning drummer (never heard him), but because Istanbul conspires against a full night's sleep by a 4 am call to prayer. This call to prayer was beautiful, apparently sung by two men who placed huge speakers right outside my bedroom window. When the call to prayer concluded, a cacophony of birds took over the conspiracy. So with just a few hours of sleep, I headed out to discover the old part of Istanbul at about 7 am - I had read that it was best to visit the Grand Bazaar before the crowds arrived, and that opened an hour after the Spice Bazaar.

Mounds of spices, curry pastes, baklava and Turkish delights is just about ALL the Spice Bazaar holds, and I was about as sugar high as I could get within just a few minutes, since I had to try all of the Turkish delight flavors. Usually, I am quite savvy to being duped by vendors, but I consistently have to re-learn this lesson on the first day of any trip. So I let this Turkish Delight seller charm me into buying "Love Tea" for way too much. I knew what he was doing and I knew I was walking right into his trap, but I just let it continue. Oh well, got that out of the way and am only out about $10. And I am bringing home Love Tea.  Here's one baklava table (I tried most of these and none of them were anywhere close to Tanya's):

After the spice market is when I decided to look for a water closet (WC), and this is where Istanbul continued to conspire against my basic needs this morning. Three of the water closets I found led only to a men's WC. No women's in sight. Three more had both men and women's, but the women's were locked with padlocks. As I made my way through the Grand Bazaar - through "streets that follow like a tedious argument" is what I kept thinking (T.S. Eliot) - I followed sign after sign for "WC's" that led to nothing. The Grand Bazaar is huge - I guess the biggest market in the world - and makes the chaos of the Ben Thanh market look like a warm-up. But with only an open women's WC on my mind, I took very few pictures of it. Here's one of a man bent over with a load of fabric on his back - these men were swarming the streets in the early morning - heading up one of a million quarrelling streets that lead to the (covered) GB:

Finally, I gave up. Istanbul, you win. I will walk a half an hour back to my apartment in my local neighborhood, where my women's bathroom is OPEN. But I chose to walk along the waterfront (instead of taking a left at the ancient Aquedect of Valeris),

and along the waterfront, countless poor families, wrapped in colorful scarves and loose clothing, lived on blankets by the tourist buses. Between the need to urinate, the smell of urine, the sight of hungry women holding small babies (were they Gypsies?), and my sudden jet-lag... well, let's just say it was a low moment on my first full day. I finally got home and collapsed into my bed - after using only one of my two glorious toilets - where I slept for four hours - until another call to prayer (sung by the same men through speakers at my bedroom window) woke me up at two in the afternoon.

But I made the most of it by getting the sandwich from the fish market and visiting the mosque and the terrace café. Then I read about a place that "foodies needed to go" - a place called "Little Urfa" - for a Syrian-influenced feast. When I arrived, I was one of about ten guests in a very large restaurant. My waiter explained that - because of Ramadan - everyone would show up and feast when the sun went down. So I became friends with the whole wait staff, who all became seriously invested in making sure I knew my way home.

"'Through this neighborhood is the quick way, but you go - how you say? - zig zag - through, but keep in this direction," (my waiter pointed). As I headed off through the backstreets, my Syrian waiters all waved goodbye and wished me luck. I made it, no problem.

Oh, and here is what I ate:

And your question: What about eggplant? See this tray of mezzes that go along with the kofta (hand-mixed meat, onions, etc.) The dip at about 12 o 'clock is eggplant.