Returning to Istanbul for the first time since the mid-eighties releases an assault of memories – tastes, landmarks, sights, sounds, words – that leaves me flummoxed. How could I have forgotten the cherry juice that I used to drink every day? How could I have not recalled the names of the bridges, the Galata Tower and Taksim Square? The toasted cheese sandwiches wrapped in paper? Each resurrected memory is like unexpectedly finding a wad of ten pound notes in my back pocket, then pulling them out one after another after another and cashing them in for Turkish Lire.
I revisit some of the places I haven’t forgotten, such as the Blue Mosque, and Hagia Sophia – built in the 6th century and once the greatest church in Christendom.
I remember Kapalıçarşı – the Grand Bazaar, which fulfilled my Arabian Nights’ fantasies.
Within this labyrinthine cluster of narrow streets capped with hundreds of domes, I once haggled over a pair of lapis earrings but now I’m fascinated by the carpet shops – each one an art gallery. I don’t plan to buy, and I explain this to a shop owner over a glass of apple tea. He doesn’t seem to mind. He’s happy to chat, and proud to share the woven tales.
I return to the spice market, where everything is earthy and aromatic; it used to be the largest spice trading venue of the medieval world and business has been bustling here for the past 350 years. I savour the abundant stalls piled high with edible exotics, the bright colours, the cool pinks of the Turkish delight, the green pistachios, the red chillies hanging from the roofs, and all the time the shouts of the cheeky vendors. As I pass one man, he cries out, “Hello, let me I take your money,” the most honest and refreshing catch phrase I’ve heard yet, so I stop and buy some Iranian saffron.
I remember the friendliness of the Turkish people but surely English wasn’t so well and widely spoken? Of course not. The biggest change that strikes my uninformed mind is the huge numbers of tourists. I look up the figures and learn that Istanbul now welcomes over eight million foreign visitors a year, which makes it the fastest growing tourism destination in the world. In 1984, the total number of foreigners visiting the country of Turkey as a whole was only two million. So it’s more touristy now, but what the heck, Istanbul is still as breathtaking and as exciting as ever. A maelstrom of history and modern life, there is a surprise around every corner.
In addition to revisiting some of the famous landmarks, I notch up some new experiences – ascending to the top of the Galata Tower, for example, and allowing myself to be blown away by an extraordinary view of the city skyline, the bridges, the boats, the Golden Horn, and the busy Bosphorus Strait.
Under the streets of the old city, I venture into the Basilica Cistern, an enormous, man-made subterranean Byzantine reservoir, which once held over 80,000 cubic metres of water, pumped through over 40 miles of aqueducts from a reservoir near the Black Sea.
Huge carp chase the coins – which the visitors throw and wish upon – around the 336 towering columns that support the vaulted brick roof, while two carved heads of medusa scowl upside-down and sideways-on within the water.
I visit a traditional hammam, where I lie on a heated marble slab and have my body soaped, scrubbed and rinsed by a smiling, half-naked, older woman with a round belly and huge breasts.
I dip into a mezze feast in a street cafe,
and in a confectionary shop, I enjoy an outrageous two-in-one sugar fix by sampling both the baklava and the Turkish delight.
Later, at sunset in a restaurant on the Galata Bridge, I relish fresh fish baked in a thick crust of salt accompanied by the aniseed-flavoured firewater known as ‘raki’, Turkey’s national drink.
On my last evening, I take a ferry across The Bosphorus, re-entering Asia, to explore shadowy junkshops, a fruit and vegetable market displaying olives galore, and a cheese shop or four, before dining amongst hundreds of locals within a streetful of cafes.
On a final note, during my first visit to Istanbul in the 1980s, I remember being romanced by the call to prayer, but after years of living in Indonesia, the mystique of the microphones has long worn off. Yet, upon returning to this city of minarets, and hearing the simultaneous summons echoing around Sultanhamet, I am surprised to find the hairs on my arms are standing up on end…
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