istanbul

Our aircraft descended from the sunny skies through which we had been flying since we left Greece, and as we passed through a dense layer of clouds, Istanbul appeared.  The clouds stayed throughout our entire visit, low and heavy, making the contrast between that massive city and sunny Athens all the more stark, in spite of their proximity.

It was my first visit to a predominantly Muslim country, albeit a secular one, and the farthest east I have gone, aside from a visit to Russia a few years ago. Istanbul scrambles up either side of the Bosphorus, with one side in Europe and the other in Asia, and technically belongs to both continents. But it is not part of the E.U., and it feels very different from Europe. Actually, it felt quite like New York City. The first neighborhood we stayed in (for three hours before moving to another) was close to the Hagia Sophia, Blue Mosque, and Topkapi Palace, and reminded me for all the world of a cross between Canal Street and just west of Times Square. However, Istanbul is twice the size of New York City, and because of its age and potential for earthquakes the buildings are low, so it goes on as far as the eye can see.  The original urban/suburban sprawl.

 

As is likely true for many women who visit that part of the world, the moment we landed I suddenly became aware of my gender as a disadvantage.  Even though I knew, in theory, that it might be that way, it was different to feel it. In Greece, while Townsend, who is at that charmingly mischievous age of two, had definitely been a favorite with everyone, Violette had been treated with equal attention and affection. In Istanbul, though, Townes was constantly doted upon by all, and Violette, standing right next to him, seemed to be invisible. There were a couple of shopkeepers who made very sweet exceptions, but not many. 

Our hotel was full of women who wore, at the very least, headscarves, and many the full burka with veiled face, while their husbands wore jogging suits or jeans and shirts unbuttoned halfway to expose an appalling amount of chest hair.  On our day visiting mosques, I wore an ankle-length skirt and loose turtleneck out of respect, and yet found that this degree of modesty was irrelevant until my hair was covered, which I did any time we entered a mosque. It reminded me of my least favorite aspects of my own religion, that feeling of sometimes being without a voice or invisible, and, conversely, of the most vulgar aspects of our secular society, which so often views a woman solely in terms of her sexuality. I couldn't help feeling that being so insistent on covering any hint of a woman's form in such an extreme way, with the assumption that men are unable control themselves otherwise, is equivalent to Jay-Z's standing in a tuxedo next to his nearly nude wife onstage at the Grammys. Both present women as no more than the sum of their parts.  I realize that those of you who have lived or traveled more extensively than I in Muslim countries may see it differently, and I swear that I tried to see the burka as a symbol of those women's faith and devotion to God and not as something that was being imposed upon them, but I couldn't get rid of the pit in my stomach at their inability to interact with the world around them, and at being viewed as so far less than equal myself.

We did some shopping, mostly for hamam towels, which I can never get enough of and usually have to buy for twice the price on Etsy or at West Elm, and for clothing--Istanbul is fashion heaven for a modest Mormon girl on a budget. We had great food, most memorably sitting on the floor surrounded by cushions as we ate a sort of crepe stuffed with spinach and cheese, made right in front of us on enormous cast iron stoves by women wearing white robes and headscarves.  We also drank fresh pomegranate juice and ate way, way too much lokum (turkish delight), the local treat. As in Greece, there seemed to be a lot of protests going on--the disadvantage of not reading the language is that we had no idea what the banners were saying--and we saw the usual tourist sites.

When I look back on Istanbul years from now, I think it will be the sounds that will stay with me: the calls for prayer singing out from the minarets of the thousands of mosques throughout the city, and the evocative regional music that played in taxis and shops everywhere we went. I am also glad to have discovered the work of Orhan Pamuk, Turkey's Nobel Prize-winning novelist, who writes so poetically, even in translation. Otherwise, for all the interesting history of the region and the beauty of the mosques and palaces, I'm embarrassed to say that Istanbul didn't capture me in the way that I had hoped it would. Is it just that I am so deeply entrenched in my own cultural or religious bias that I can't truly internalize something beyond it? I loved Moscow and St. Petersburg; the Moorish Alhambra in Spain ravished my artistic soul more than any other building I have ever seen, and I cried at the Parthenon. So why did I walk through Istanbul's significant sites and feel...meh? Why did they not make me pause in awe? Was I so unable to get beyond my own gender discomfort? Have I been irrevocably brainwashed into insisting that everything aesthetically conform to the golden mean? I think it's going to take a lot more travel to find the answers.