Stolen Moments, Istanbul
Taxi drivers in Istanbul have two speeds: the resigned crawl that is enforced when all 2.7 million of Istanbul's cars hit the road at the same time; and the truly suicidal. Late night, clearly, draws out the latter.
I had arrived in Istanbul on the last flight out of London Heathrow (delayed of course). Fast off the plane with my hand baggage, I caught the only taxi waiting outside the airport and it bulleted out from the terminal so that I now found myself hurtling along the road which traces the ancient city wall, at 1:00 am. Normally a fairly unconcerned passenger, it was only on the third seemingly random, nervous tic of the tiny orange-yellow Fiat (a standard requirement of all Istanbul taxis) that I reached for the seat-belt. My driver was a short man, shapelessly round; a miniature Jabba The Hutt dissolving slowly into the seat. Being taller, and now considerably less relaxed, I sought out his eyes in the rear view mirror. All I could see were heavy lids beneath dark brows. The yellow missile buzzed angrily over another string of cats-eyes and then corrected its course. I began to rationalise that if we did hit something it probably wouldn't hurt much and I cleared my throat loudly. The eye-lids didn't flicker. I considered the appropriate, politely British escalation. An interested conversation on the historic sites which were melting into hyperspace had been ruled out at the off in his silent acceptance of my "Ritz-Carlton Hotel?" But then, I began to realise that we were not actually colliding with any fellow travellers. Red Lights were being observed, albeit with a last minute reluctance and, in fact, all was well. The Hutt was not asleep, merely in the deep reverie required to navigate near-empty streets at terminal speeds. Nonetheless, the hotel’s security barrier was a welcome sight.
I love the Ritz-Carlton. From the outside, it is a modern monstrosity dominating the skyline and mitigated only by a similarly monstrous football stadium which sits down the hill between the hotel and the Dolmabahçe Palace, the first European style palace built in Istanbul. Inside however, the hotel is an oasis of discrete calm peppered only by the snap of your feet on polished marble and the perfect, concerned English of the reception staff for whom the presentation of your passport is an (I.T.-enabled) opportunity to say, "Welcome back, Mr Munro".
My room was pleasantly sumptuous, clad in yards of restful sea-green-grey. Pictures and sculptures hinted at Ottoman opulence whilst the welcome card and gift demonstrated a genuine sense of hospitality. The bathroom was suitably large but the bed won me over with its “come hither” looks and it quickly absorbed my weary frame, absolved the minor sins of the day and I was sleeping soundly.
In the morning, I breakfasted in the restaurant, as the sun sparkled off the Bosphorus and tiny ox-pecker water taxis darted across the paths of rhinoceros container ships, tankers and war-ships.
Outside, the quality of light was distinctive; not the thin lemony light of home but, even at the start of an early June morning, a softer, more fulsome yellow which hinted of soft, warm days. The taxis ran at Option One as the sprawling, teeming city shuffled from home to work. On the streets, shop-fronts clamoured with faded signs and posters, flyers and ads. Above, the buildings teetered with air-conditioning units and shutters and shades. It all spoke of heat and dust but somehow, there was no real dust to speak of. I recalled my first trip to the city, a couple of years before, when geographic reality collided with celluloid fantasy. To that point, my mind had fostered an exotic, James Bond image; all stifling heat and tropical clothing. In fact, the city erupts from, and flows over, the closest physical point between the European and Asian land masses in the narrow valley of the Bosphorus Straits. The natural, but unexpected, consequence on that March evening had been a seemingly constant, howling draught. In winter, they have snow but on this gentle June morning, the sun was kind.
My day was full of meetings and conference calls but finally it was 8:30 in the evening and it was all done. I stole a couple of hours, boarded a little yellow missile and headed for Sultanahmet; the heart of the old city and of the ancient Ottoman Empire. Of course, it started to rain but a few, preciously squirreled hours like these are what make relentless business travel bearable, even enjoyable.
At the centre of the old city lies the Blue Mosque, magnificent if not terribly blue. I approached the mighty dome through courtyards paved in marble, slick with rain. Above, six impossibly slim fingers of minarets towered up towards the heavens. Inside, the vast open space is paved in prayer mats beneath the massive dome. Along the rear edge of the magnificence, simple wooden galleries line the walls for female worshippers. I collected my shoes, fended off the guide-book hawker to whom I’d foolishly said “later” to on the way in, and started to descend the steep hill. The continuing downpour encouraged me into the welcoming light of a carpet store. It was late and the rain had dampened down the buzz of tourists. The owner inveigled me into an enjoyable half-hour (an hour?) of education, apple tea and salesmanship. The depth of colour in the traditional, silk rugs is entrancing and the shades shimmered and shifted in the light as I learned that the patterns start with incredibly fine stitching at 64 double-knots per square centimetre. The level of detail, the concentration of stitches, the time and consequent cost advance from there. I left, suitably proud of my haggling, with a beautiful Anatolian carpet of deep blue silk neatly packed into a luggage friendly carry case. Sadly though, it came without a manual so I still have no idea how to fly the thing.
I was on the first flight out in the morning and haven’t been back since despite my best intentions. I need to visit the Grand Bazaar – for all of its inevitable tourist trap development. I want to visit the palaces and museums of the Ottomans who ruled for six hundred years and built one of the greatest empires known to man. I want to see the Crystal Staircase in the Dolmabahçe Palace. And I have an irrepressible urge to buy more silk carpets.