Saturday 14th: Encounter outside the tower
Sweep slides on my stereo
Photo by me with Canon7D
After 4.5 hours of sleep loaded with confused nightmares and stranger dreams (shouts came from fast moving people and those eyes kept coming back to me) I woke up, quickly got ready and off I went to explore the city. I reckon it was a nice thing to do, to get the same amount of rest my Brousin was getting; a way to support and sympathise for him. And I must say that, everything taken into account: Boulevardiers, countless cigarets, burning the midnight oil, those three full Sleeping Cycle made me feel fairly fresh. Or perhaps it was recalling the amusing previous night that made me feel good.
Galata Tower was the first city-sight on the list. Here the queue was wearingly long, so I found a shady low wall, sat on it and re-arrange my thoughts while getting fully awake. The Turkish coffee by my side would have a chance to prove its fame. I slowly and deliberately took a few sips, trying to assess its quality and flavour: not bad flavour-wise; but I doubted it can deliver the same caffeine kick an espresso so efficiently provides.
For the longest time I sat there pondering on the taste of coffee, the lack of sleep, the headache induced by the hangover, the city exploration, those eyes…
Almost mindlessly I took out a Lucky Strike from the soft packet and brought it to my lips. “Smoking is not going to make you fell any better.” a nearby voice commented with a grin.
I was so spaced out that I had to direct my attention to the source of that affirmation to get my head around it.
It came from an elderly man who had sat himself down next to me; for some reason I wasn’t aware of him until then. Out of good manner I replace the cigaret back into its case and nodded politely.
A soothing smile welcomed me as soon as I laid my eyes on his paternal face. “Where you from young man?” he cheerfully inquired.
Heart warmed, I returned the smile and replied: “I’m from Italy sir, and you?”
“Oh Italia eh? Sono appena tornato da Roma. Molto bella. I like to chit chat to people when am traveling, you know, specially with locals. But unfortunately not a lot of people can have a conversation in English in this city. But you looked like someone who could”. Alfredo, who will be 80 years old in October (but he wanted to point out that he’s still 79), has a really clean and relaxed face with just few wrinkles, and even less, short hair on each side of his otherwise bald, egg-shaped head. He had lively eyes with the colours of a shallow turquoise lake.
What struck me, apart of his direct, fearlessly approach, was his encouraging, broad smile. I have to confess he remind me of my grandfather. He explained that he’s a German-Jewish born who moved to Argentina at the age of 3 because Nazis where taking over the country and live was getting too harsh for his family and him. “My sister couldn’t go to school anymore, and my parents decided to run away before something happened to us. But it was long time ago.. How about you? What do you do here? And how come that an Italian has such a good english? How old are you?”
“I’ll be 26 in August, but I’m still 25 now days, you know what I mean?”
“25?” he enquired rhetorically while staring at not any prices point in space; a mix of admiration and jealousy seemed to had find its way through his look.
His eyes adjust their aim and lock themselves on mine: “The World is your!”
I was puzzled for few seconds. My head spun so fast that I actually felt dizzy.
To hear those over-used words pronounced by such a well-seasoned travelled and young spirit, it stunned and bewitched me at the same time; different feelings and emotions stirred up inside me…
Proud, for what I was doing: travelling, exploring new places and meeting new people, made me feel great and blessed to being able to do those things.
Humbleness: reminded me I still had much more to see and do;
Good sense: advised not to put pressure on my life;
Savoir faire: taught me that talking with rando it’s possibly the most import aspect of traveling;
Intuition: suggested that somehow, people we meet on the path of life are, fortuitously, the right folks, at the right moment, in the right place.
Alfredo’s sentence sparked a healthy sense of empowerment in me: and although I always had this desire (or dream) to see the World, now it became more defined, more vivid.
If I really wanted to see the World, then all I have to do is to set out and start the journey. If I don’t take action, I won’t have any results. I know it might sound obvious and reductive; but it can be grounded down to a simple equation:
if “nothing” is done -> “nothing” will happen ⇒ if “something” is done -> “something” will happen.
Meeting him, with his passion to converse with strangers, his aplomb to put aside any insecurity and his tender manners of communication was a profound eyes-opening experience for me. It was one of those moments when I reflect: -how’s possible that everything happens in such a perfect, mystical, even magical way? It can’t be sheer coincidence, or can it?
That’s what some people call destiny, or Divine Draw, The Masterplan. Pure and plain Universal Chaos would do it too.
In any case, I felt I was using my life in a right way; at least according to a travelled traveler. Truth to be told, I also felt a bit sorry for him, for his age; but it didn’t seem to bother him that much (how could it? nobody could constantly be bother about his or her own age); in a way it gave me a bit of confidence regarding the aging matter.After wishing each other “mucha suerte” I left my new friend and kept my exploration tour going.
A sensation of wellness rushing through my whole body; in Italian we have an expression for this type of tickle: “essere preso bene”.
sweep slides on my stereo
Once crossed Galata Bridge and reached the Egyptian Market area, I could confirm the notion I had on the bus the previous day: traffic it is crazy here; proper chaos.
And I don’t mean just the traffic on the streets; even getting around by foot it’s a challenge: you are swamped with the hurly-burly, the mayhem and turmoil that permeates in and around everything in this city. Istanbul is a snake pit.
Vendors shout out in all directions with their charming, powerful language; men smoke on every corners either cigarettes or narghiles; folks push around big trolleys overloaded with huge mysterious boxes. On every side of the road, countless shops sell any variety of odds and ends, from water pipes to electrical parts, from metal parts, to plastic parts, souvenirs, wires, silk, hardware, wood, tobacco, shoes, shirts, clothes, bags, belts, jewellery, fruits, narghiles, and so forth. Beautiful, colourful, loud, ardent chaos.
I was looking for Süleymaniye Camii which, being the largest mosque in town and perched on the top of the Third Hill, I assumed it wasn’t going to be hard to find it.
Well, I was terribly wrong. From where I were, I could clearly see its majestic distinctive dome shape, comfortably resting up yonder. To reach it however, getting actually there, turned out to be quite a hurdle. Fatih District is like a labyrinth.
Stairs are in every nook and cranny; endless, nameless alleyways are in any direction you look at; illegible (for me) signs hung seldomly here and there, bringing more confusion than comfort. Were they supposed to help?
It seems there is no sense at all. Maps are utterly useless.
You’ve no choice but to get lost. So, I got lost.
Venturing in this warren of tiny backstreets made me think of the rich, turbulent past of this city. How many lives have passed through and around here? How many mysteries and murders must have happened in these very same streets? Why was I think about murders though, I could not tell.
The day was scorching hot. The sun was beating down fiercely, like a blacksmith hits the sizzling iron, which I guess is not any colder than my current temperature. I was parched like the Atacama desert in mid-summer.
I don’t know for how long I was lost in this part of town; it certainly felt longer than what it actually was. Time might even have gone back to those Constantinople-an years for how I felt. I felt thirsty and dry. Really thirsty and really dry. As dry as when spending a night at Paolo’s house smoking weed and suddenly (out of the green) register that you don’t have enough saliva to close the last joint. “It feels like I licked a very porous wall.” Someone mumbled from somewhere. Or it came from my memory? Be that as it may, if I’d tried to spit no liquid would reach the ground. That’s how dry I was.
Thankfully, and rather unexpectedly I found a kiosk selling water: 1₺? Wasn’t it 0.5₺ down at the Egyptian Bazaar? That’s good sing I reasoned; the Mosque mustn’t be too far off. And looking at the horizon, I discovered I was on the top of a hill; a stone’s throw away awaited the Mosque.
I took a sip of this providential water to be sure it wasn’t an hallucination. Damn it was cold! If water freezes at 0℃ this must have clocked at 0.05℃, or somewhere very closed to that temperature; slightly above freezing point.
I never really enjoyed excessively cold water, and even on such a hot day like today it was no exception.
I mixed the pricy extra cold water with the one I bought in the morning around Galata Tower, which was by-then extra warm. The result? It magically came out at the perfect temperature. I am a skilful bartender after all, and temperature is a critical matter when it comes to any beverage. I enjoyed the water at the ideal temperature and properly rehydrated my whole self. I felt better right away.
I decided to take a restorative break on the front yard. Or maybe it was the back yard; as far as I was concerned it could also have been either the left or the right yard, it did not matter. Albeit for a split of a second, I questioned whether it might all have been a mirage, in that case it would have matter, but luckily it wasn’t the case.
I laid down under a favourable, overshadowing tree to get my body temperature back to a more human one. Before long, a deep sleep took over me. A sleep full of chants, belly dancers with henna-painted arms, mosques, mendicants, and merchants. All of a sudden, it started to rain. I must find a shelter I though; I don’t mind to get a few sprinkles of rain here and there, but I don’t want my camera to get wet. As I start to look for a undercover place, it occurred to me that it was raining only in the dream. Here, on one of the Süleymaniye’s yards, sun was still shining hot enough to keep the clouds at bay. I, on the the other hand, had to take a leak.
After the regenerating nap and the liberating pee, it was time to resume my exploration. I took a couple shots of this historical monument and headed back to where life was in constant motion: the Grand Bazaars.
short wave ride my rodeo
Cribo Vagabond 