Visiting Istanbul: In Light of Reflections

“I have no wish to see a sky alone. Thankfully there are many eyes who love horizons as dearly as I do.” – Old Sean

The Solitude of Cities

Currently, Saudi Arabia is undergoing the month of Ramadan, a period of deep spiritual reflection over the course of a lunar month for those of the Islamic faith. 

However, being an individual without family in the region and no personal affiliation with Islam, I’ve struggled to maintain a good mindset during Ramadan. Since the vast majority of facilities are closed for the daylight hours, I’m hampered from doing anything outside my home and work. And since work is ongoing during daylight hours, I’m unable to transition into a night owl, thus taking advantage of open facilities. 

I never realized how completely I relied on daily visits to nearby cafes in Riyadh for my mental wellbeing. Without them, I’ve turned reclusive, spending the bulk of my time in various stages of drowsing and actually sleep, often for more than 15 hours a day. 

I can recognize the onsets of strain. So I did what I’ve always done. I fled to a horizon. 

Impromptu Plight

Without any solid plans, I decided to go visit friends in Istanbul. A short conversation with a woman named Nancy urged me into a single-person exodus. 

I didn’t bother packing or planning. My toothbrush, wallet, shampoo and phone charger went into a small, waterproof bag. My wallet, passport and phone were slipped into pockets. As an afterthought, I grabbed my Istanbul transit pass used during my last visit. I found a place on Airbnb, re-download an eSIM and double checked my flight. 

And just like that, I was in Istanbul at 8 AM, on the Metro heading towards Kabataş. During the train ride, I read The Museum of Innocence by Orhan Pamuk, a novel which uses Istanbul as its setting. As soon as I felt myself tap into motion again, my soul settled like a racehorse dipping from gallop to canter to trot to grazing. 

Sometimes I worry about my soul. Is peace so evasive for me without wandering?

But those were questions for later. I’d arrived. 

A Rainy Morning in Pera

I found myself in the area around Galata Tower, Pera, relishing the small downfall of rain on the cobbled roads. I was still dressed in semi work attire with black slacks, a button down and tie, all under a ratty hoody. My hair was a tangled sin with dewdrops resting on waves. I hadn’t brought an umbrella, as mine in Riyadh has been broken from windstorm for some time. 

But I kicked through a puddle and smiled. There were places open and quaint. I soon seated myself at a white, beautiful little shop called Pera Bakery, where I ordered a humble breakfast and excellent coffee, breathing in the curls of steam. I continued to read my book and occasionally glance into the distance to people-watch or gaze into the calming drizzle.

I can’t adequately express how fantastic it is to sit in a coffee shop while the sun is up and be given a proper drink to sip while reading. It was one of my few pleasures in Riyadh and the city has lost any respite for me since I’ve been effectively halted from my preferred pastime.

Amusingly, I generally like reading in Istanbul, Chicago and Paris more than other cities. Odd, isn’t it?

Merry Me, City

After my coffee, I heard from my friend Nancy that she was heading my direction to meet me around Pera. It ensured I had a solid hour to simply walk around. 

So that’s exactly what I did, scuffing my boots through puddles and pausing to appreciate storefront windows. I ate a hearty second breakfast as all my imaginary hobbit friends applauded and browsed a bookshop, where I was forcefully reminded that my reading list has fully exceeded my time left on Earth. 

I wandered to churches, down shopping avenues, past trollies, into free entry museums and up steep hills. I melded with the limited morning crowds and said hello to every cat I met. 

Finally, I turned to reach my rendezvous location with Nancy, a shop called “Mornings In Pera.” I stood at the mouth of the alley for some time, humming off-kilter tunes that were far better in my head. 

Nancy naturally appeared moments later with her natural dawn of radiance, smile already on her face. 

I have a large number of blessings instilled in me, far more, I believe, than the average human. Among these is a history of knowing a pantheon of very fine, enduringly lively people. But another is the ability to fall into conversation without the slightest hitch, no matter how many days, weeks, months or years have passed. Having Nancy to speak with was a balm for my settling soul. 

Relightened

We quickly entered the cafe restaurant to escape the slight mist of rain still sifting in from above. The interior of the shop was cozy, bordering on cluttered. But the smells were delectable and a gallery of pastries made my mouth water more than a little. 

Nancy and I were seated, missing our chance to order twice as we talked past the acceptable time to prepare for an order. We eventually managed to get our meals, which were splendid. 

Once we were finished eating, we went for a walk around the city without an entirely central plan. Mostly, we were angling towards Karaköy, where there are few hills and plenty of restaurants. 

Breeze on the Waterside

Upon reaching Karaköy, we spent some time along the waterside, watching the ships drift past. Fluffs of breeze ruffled by until we walked to Istanbul Museum of Modern Art (Istanbul Modern Sanat Müzesi).

I didn’t exactly plan to visit the museum, but I’m glad we did. There was a spectacular photo gallery of Istanbul during its major technological transition period in the fifties and sixties, when electricity and Western influences began rushing into a predominantly Islamic nation. 

I recall once seeing an interview with director Peter Jackson about his astonishing film project, They Shall Not Grow Old. The project took black and white film from World War One and masterfully restored its motions, adding in color. 

The transition was wrenching. Enlightening even. The soldiers were far, far removed from ideals, they became flesh-and-blood humans again. In my mind, WWI historical figures are now-extinct embodiments of an honor-bound, nearly poetic class of soldier, hailing from Napoleonic valor philosophies. They were brought into the most total, horrific meat-grinder, modern weapons experiment of all human history. Impressions of deeper humanity and the mortal spirit mostly arises in legends like the Christmas Truce. 

But that’s unfair and They Shall Not Grow Old slammed me with that, over and over. These were humans, people I might have called family, neighbors, brothers or even others if not for the gulf of time between us. 

For me, that’s what black and white film grants me. Distance, especially temporal distance, allowing me to narrate what I see rather than let it immense me in the time. The grand photo display made me feel far away, very far away, from the people in those images. This was not my time period. Nor was it my country. Nor do I have any claim to Istanbul beyond the modern version which has treated me so lovingly through my many visits. 

But that’s unfair again. Photos of people are profound. They have function and honesty. I personally very rarely take photos of people during my forays into photography, preferring to fixate on the shape of the world, rather than the shapers. The masses render me irate. Individuals fascinate and mystify me. And capturing individuals on film in any meaningful way is a skillet beyond me. 

So the images at the Istanbul Modern struck me in angles that were unusual, forceful and difficult for me to process until later. 

By Snapshots and Seagulls

After visiting the photo gallery, Nancy and I moved on to see a modernist section of the museum utilizing digital artworks for new abstract comprehension pieces. 

It would be acceptable to call this portion of the museum the AI experimentation wing. Many of the motion oriented artworks within were reliant on AI technology to crunch huge amounts of data to create a visual effect. 

There was a map of Istanbul which compiled digital newspaper articles and online responses to measure the collective mood from neighborhood to neighborhood. Another section tracked sounds of the Karaköy neighborhood, using wave generators over topographical designs to showcase where traffic, footfalls, birds, waves and other nouns lent themselves to noise. 

Another portion showed a quarantine manipulation box with an interior projector similar to those used by astronauts when handling irradiated material on the International Space Station. 

Another layered objects of Istanbul in a conglomeration until it resembled an abstract page from the classic iSpy book.

Overall, it was a trippy experience. I needed a few minutes to blink past it, but by then, Nancy and I were speaking quietly while exploring the modern paintings section of the museum. 

Nancy enormously enjoyed the dark background piece which showcased a pair of poised cats that mirrored the patterns of her own kittens. I was partial to a piece with strange, warped sunburst of light and darkness in uneven portions. 

Both of us were amused and charmed by the sleeping figure of a woman covered in the snoozing forms of tawny furred animals. We were further intrigued by a freestanding shelf of minerals, most especially the obsidian stones. 

Finally, Nancy and I rose to the rooftop of the museum. This area is a special treat. Not only does it offer refreshing views of the skyline in all directions with a useful map for distinct landmarks, the area is also home to a lovely, glass like expanse of shallow water. Flocks of baby seagulls roost there, reflecting in the shimmering pool, occasionally taking flight, much to the delight of tourists. 

Once the chill had seeped into us a bit, Nancy and I visited the giftshop before heading downstairs to reclaim my waterproof backpack. Odd as it might seem, I hadn’t even checked into my hotel by this point. I was traveling so light, there wasn’t even the necessity yet. 

Afterwards, Nancy and I looped around the coast, ducking back into the shelter of the city interior when the wind grew brisk. We warmed up while eating Turkish wraps before hiking up the steep hill to Bryoğlu Tünel, at which point we said our farewells and headed to our respective lodgings. 

It was, by all metrics, a splendid welcome to Istanbul. 

Far Nightly

I soon made my way to Çemberlitaş, where my hotel was located. My host, a man from Azerbaijan, graciously provided me my keys and an upgraded room with a rainfall shower. 

I spent only moments in my accommodations. Night had fallen in Istanbul and I was eager to stretch my legs a little more. 

My night jaunt took me to many nooks. I saw whirling dervish performances in a cafe, motions with graceful pivots that defy the biology of inner ears and equilibrium. I visited mosque after mosque where Muslims had gathered for prayer. At Sultan Beyazıt, I greeted a pride of tumbling city cats and petted the ones who drew near. I walked on silence through Laleli Mosque, eventually pausing to capture a video of traffic causing a shift of light over the elaborate walls of Pertevniyal Valide Sultan Mosque. 

From here, I turned north to visit İBB Saraçhane Archeology Park in the hopes of seeing The Aqueduct of Valens. And while I certainly did, the park was far more active than I had expected. 

Currently, election season has made itself known in Istanbul. And Istanbul doesn’t slouch when it comes to elections. There are flags, banners, colored posters, ads, slogans, musical cars and, in the park, flashy popcorn-and-sweets handouts. 

On one hand, it’s impressive. On the other, there’s a fairly limited amount of peace in the realm. I still enjoyed myself tremendously, but I was happy to find my archeological site before slipping away into the night. 

Glutton Scam

At this point, I gradually trekked back to my hotel area. 

Fairly peckish from my day of collecting 35,000 steps, I sought put a restaurant I won’t name for reasons I’ll explain shortly. 

This little place was nice and fortifying. It served traditional bread and Turkish spread. I ordered sparkling water and a spectacular Turkish styled pasta. But while there, I ordered some fried shield fish for 250 lira. 

There weren’t any available, however, so the restaurant staff made another suggestion, briefly showcasing their menu to me. I nodded along, happy to try a replacement dish. 

However, the dish in question wasn’t 250 lira. It was 1,800 lira, a whopping 50 US Dollar difference from my expected price. 

That was a scam, of course, smoothly done. But it wasn’t a exactly a dishonest or unskillful scam. They showed me the menu, however briefly. They didn’t state the price or point to it clearly, but I could’ve inquired. In the end, I’m not going to write bad reviews or grow huffy over fifty dollars. I ate the replacement meal after all, and enjoyed it.

In some scams, the fault rests on the lack of attentiveness of the target. Not morally, but certainly in terms of fostering personal weariness. 

I feel like an idiot, as I do everything I’m conned into such distasteful results. But I don’t mind losing money to a well-performed trick. And I won’t go online and slander the name of the restaurant when I bear, at least partially, some of the fault.

As such, someone in Istanbul had a wealthier night. And the cynic in me grows ever louder and more world-weary. 

So goes the part of the never ending process of growing up. 

Slumber Eyes

I returned to my hotel for a long night under a hot shower followed by a late night of reading in bed. Once finished, I snoozer fitfully, waking up late in the morning for another shower. 

I had originally planned on making time to visit the Princes’ Islands, which are a favored hiking ground of mine. But since this entire vacation is dedicated to the restoration of the soul, I was pleased enough to lounge, eventually checking out to go enjoy coffee at a small shop with a resident cat and numerous, strange, sphinx-like statues. 

It took some time and a few YouTube clips from the Canadian comedy Letterkenny, but eventually I felt alert enough to start my day. 

Shop Walls

One of the things I’m utterly trash about achieving is rooted in the idea of souvenirs. 

I personally dislike souvenirs. I’ve been living out of a backpack for a decade now and the idea of adding weight to my artfully ultralight burden causes my shoulders to slump. The non-necessities I travel with are astonishingly few and hold a bucket’s-worth of emotional joy. 

For example, I have a set of Islamic prayer beads from a dear friend. A thin, leather keychain commemorating my bygone days in China. A small etching on a stone from storytelling tribes in the States. The Greek evil eye from my intense journey through Europe. A miniature Pikachu from my sister. A multi-tool amulet which had a twin with my brother. A three-legged pig from a wonderful woman from Taiwan. A set of metallic green-and-gold D&D dice dedicated to my all time favorite pastime. 

But all of this fits in a single, metal gaming tin gifted to me by my gaming group in Ecuador, the beloved Knights Reborn of Cuenca. In practical terms, it weighs nearly nothing at all. 

So souvenirs have never been my forte. But upon returning to Riyadh, I wish for some gifts to pass along to my current coworkers. So I entered the Grand Bazaar for a shopping spree. 

I found a few things there, but nothing worth purchasing. So I relegated another shopping spree for later in the day and wandered off again. 

The Cyclorama

One of the things I’ve consistently failed to visit during my time in Istanbul is the cyclorama, namely the one found at Panorama 1453 History Museum in Topkapı Parkı.

Cycloramas were very popular in the late 19th century, originally invented by Irish painter Robert Barker in 1787. They use a rounded wall and dome to immerse a viewer, using the space between the center and wall to add additional props to enhance the immersion technique. The surviving cyclorama of Istanbul is a marvelous masterwork which depicts The Fall of Constantinople.  The piece showcases an immense amount of diversity and detail, especially regarding the cannons, which were famously cast by Ottoman forces in preparation for this campaign. 

If one were to put a two by two foot frame anywhere within the cyclorama, they would have a standalone masterpiece. But by adding an entire scenery across the room, the masterworks compile upon one another, creating a physically overwhelming and awe inspiring impression on the mind. 

It’s a bit like virtual reality, rendered with paints, dirt and props alone. 

While I would’ve been happy with just the painting (the attention to detail is stellar), the display also has an modern sound and light sequence. The first portion just has the background sounds of battle while the second uses projectors to narrate the historical event. 

Additionally, there is a nice touch when guests leave the museum from the gift shop area. By clever placement of directions, visitors end up facing the actual old city walls outside, a haunting, ghostly mirror of the painting one has just viewed. 

As a side note, I recommend bringing earplugs if anyone goes. The volume of the projection sequence was uncomfortably loud. Still, very interesting, immersive and entertaining overall.

Visiting cycloramas is a small, offshoot hobby of mine. There are very few surviving examples left. I’ve witnessed a glorious beach scenery at The Hague and an impressive artwork in Atlanta, USA. But they remain a scarce and delightful form of art that I enjoy seeking out. 

Stormwall and Stormedwall

After my time looking at the cyclorama, I moved into Topkapı Park, following winding trails to seek out flitting sparrows. 

I knew I had to make my jaunt brief. A swell of threatening clouds had formed overhead and it seemed like a downpour was inbound. 

But despite myself, I could only stroll. There were cherry blossoms to photograph, cats to follow and lush, green grasses to run my fingers along. I followed the base of the Wall Ruins and spent time seated near the fountain. I looked at butterfly sculptures and browsed other nearby parks, even when drizzles arrived. 

It took me half an hour to realize I was stalling. I knew my day was nearly done and I would need to return to the airport to fly to Riyadh again soon. In fact, if I wanted to go shopping, I was already cutting things a little close. 

With purposeful reluctance, I hoped back on the Metro and moved back into the central part of the city to do further shopping. 

The Cobbled Strays

I’ll spare readers the monotony of my shopping spree. There are writers in the world which can make shopping an engaging, compelling experience full of choice, discovery and triumph.

But I’m not one of them. Shopping is less than a chore for me; it’s a time-slayer. I usually do it with plodding steps when I’ve run out of productive fodder to pursue. 

Nonetheless, I purchased what I needed. Traditional soaps, gift bags, decorated little pouches, Turkish Delights and other snacks.

I’m sure everyone back in Saudi will be mildly pleased. 

Fairly Went

At this point, it was time to begin the long journey back to SAW Airport. But after shopping so swiftly, I had plenty of moments left to me. 

So I hummed through Gülhane Park. I scuffed past cobbled roads. I greeted all cats I came across, especially a delightfully friendly black kitten who butted her head repeatedly on my chest, chin, hands, stomach, elbows and all other portions of the human body capable of receiving a headbutt. 

I eventually nabbed a ferry to Üsküdar, watching the shore slip past. A escort of seagulls flocked behind our vessel, eyes eager for handouts, a heckling cape against the sunset. 

In Üsküdar, I ducked past the unending election flags, stopping briefly to breathe at a few cafes. I then decided on a long, nonsensical walk to Ayrılık Station, simply to fully stretch my legs before my flight. From there, I hopped on a Metro and raced towards the SAW Airport.  

Dreadly Return

I confess, I didn’t make a stringent effort to reach my flight. I’m not looking forward to returning home. 

Istanbul was a glorious gift and restoration. But I’m not fully healed. The idea of spending my next month in quiet solitude is, perhaps ironically, disquieting. 

But this is the hand I’ve chosen and the cards which have been dealt came from the deck I handpicked. 

So off to Riyadh again I go. 

Many harmony find all my readers and may the Ramadan season grant insights and happiness to many. 

Best regards and excellent trails,

Old Sean

Written Saturday, March 16th, 2024 

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