Lovely Turkish Airlines. On my way to Kiev to find anything remaining about my paternal grandparents, I missed my connection. Notwithstanding the complaining Israelis in line behind me (have I ever met an Israeli traveler that wasn't complaining about something?), their whisking of more than 80 travellers who had missed their connections or had long layover times to a local hotel near the airport was a treat I wasn't expecting.I should be writing from Kiev tonight, but instead I've just returned from the best Baklava in my life and rose-scented (covered in rose petals) Turkish delight, riding the very last trolley home in cars and cars full of polite, beautiful Turkish men to the next to last stop, after spending the evening roaming the old city and the outside perimeter of the Hagia Sophia and the Sultan Ahmed Mosque. The other travellers I came to the hotel with chose to stay and dine, and then fall asleep for the few brief hours before the 2:30am wake up call to go back to the airport. But why waste time in a hotel when you could be walking the cobbles of Istanbul, standing at the edge of the Bosphorus that divides Europe from Asia, stepping on the worn marble stairs at the entrance to the mosque? No sleeping for me.
Highlights:
The cup of fresh squeezed pomegranate juice, street-side. He waited until my cup was half empty and then filled it again.
A quarter cup of Saffron given to me by a Syrian; it is from Iran, he told me. We are in the cradle of the world.
The three piece drum and horn and clarinet-type instrument band that played to patio patrons of a local bar. Beautiful, Persian melody. A thin man sitting at a table rose and began dancing to the song. He kicked his heels behind him like a rooster, rolling his shoulders and throwing his head high. Another woman joined him. When I gave the musician 5 lira, he wiped it across the bottom of his chin and smiled. Too much? Too little? Who knows.
The expansive gardens and chestnut sellers under the trees in the plazas between the mosque and the Sophia. The filigree wrought iron fences, the mosaics on the walls, the arching courtyards as the last call of the Muezzin sounded.
The peaceful feel of the people. The laughter. Late at night the city is all tungsten light and balconies and a dozen languages, as people eat fish and sweets and goat and tahine and shining vegetables. I had two Raki with a side of ice, a liquorice liquor wonder that turns white when water is added.
And now I have a Turkish visa, and so could return easily, if my research ends when I think it will.
What a delightful way to start the trip. One need only embrace the unexpectedness that comes and the rest is honey and roses and giant moustaches.
