I was reading Mark Helprin’s brilliant “Winter’s Tale” when a small slip fell from the book. It was a plane boarding pass for a flight from Manchester – UK, to Philadelphia – USA. A warm feeling came over me, and I smiled. This is one of the reasons I absolutely love used books and especially love buying them when I’m traveling. I had bought “Winter’s Tale” from a used book store in Philly last June. And so I started thinking of the journey the book made from Manchester to Philly before its last reader sold it.
In August of 2006, I was in Muenster/Germany, and we made a quick trip across the border into the Netherlands, stopping in one tiny village. We were told it’s known for being a “Book Village” (I can’t for the life of me remember its actual name). Everything about it was tiny, except perhaps the windmills, and the number of small family-owned used book stores. Most book stores were part of some house - practically the family library compiled over the years and opened to the public. The one I entered had a small wooden door that opened to the kitchen, where a dog stood barking and an old woman was baking. The great thing about the Dutch is that they, unlike the German and French, take pride in their fluency in other languages. I bought about eight English and French books for only 20 Euros.
A few months later I visited Istanbul – and although I was there for only two days, I fell head over heels in love with that magical city. It’s so hard to explain what’s so captivating about Istanbul. I promised to blog about it last year but never did. Yesterday, I had a very interesting conversation with someone who has been living there, and after discussing the great contradictions of the city, Turkish nationalism, cultural identity crisis, visual richness, the Bosphorous, and the mystical air of all the elements the city brings together, I found myself deeply longing for Istanbul.
I had started reading Orhan Pamuk’s Istanbul before that trip, and the one thing that had stuck in my mind from the early chapters of the book was the Bosphorous. So once I dropped my luggage in the hotel room, I asked the guy at the reception where I could have a nice cup of coffee at some café overlooking the water. Without hesitation, he gave me a map and said “Ortakoy”. He said “take a bus that says ‘Besiktas’,” and I walked out from the hotel door into Taksim square, ready to take on the city and myself… no time constraints for the day, and no tourist guidebook must-sees in mind.
I walked and walked, stopping to stare at old abandoned Ottoman style buildings and to take in the surroundings. I walked past the Galata Saray Stadium before taking some random bus. No one spoke any English, so I ended up communicating with the driver in sign language before he dropped me off somewhere and kept blabbering in Turkish and pointing to the other side of the street. I found out later that I was in fact at Sultan Ahmet. I stood in the big square in front of the New Mosque watching the pigeons before venturing on, only to find myself at the Grand Bazaar.
The walk continued, but I can’t remember exact details of the path I took, or the busses I got on and off. I stopped to buy chestnuts on the street, eat some strange sea-food, and listen to some kid play the Accordion.
As the sun started setting I was at Besiktas, which turned out to be a street full of universities and colleges, and it was quite interesting to see all the students stepping out and walking down the street. While the area around Sultan Ahmet had resemblances to downtown Amman, at least in the way the people looked and the expressions on the faces of the old men and women, Besiktas looked very European, young people looking trendy, and couples holding hands and displaying affection without any reservations.
Since it was around the 10th of November, Turkey was commemorating its modern father, Ataturk, and there was some street exhibit about him.
I finally made it to Ortakoy, and the Mosque stood majestically by the Bosphorous, its lights glowing against the dark sky. The area was full of cafes and shops, and little stands of used books. I loved it, and I dug in looking for books on modern Turkish literature.
In August of 2006, I was in Muenster/Germany, and we made a quick trip across the border into the Netherlands, stopping in one tiny village. We were told it’s known for being a “Book Village” (I can’t for the life of me remember its actual name). Everything about it was tiny, except perhaps the windmills, and the number of small family-owned used book stores. Most book stores were part of some house - practically the family library compiled over the years and opened to the public. The one I entered had a small wooden door that opened to the kitchen, where a dog stood barking and an old woman was baking. The great thing about the Dutch is that they, unlike the German and French, take pride in their fluency in other languages. I bought about eight English and French books for only 20 Euros.
A few months later I visited Istanbul – and although I was there for only two days, I fell head over heels in love with that magical city. It’s so hard to explain what’s so captivating about Istanbul. I promised to blog about it last year but never did. Yesterday, I had a very interesting conversation with someone who has been living there, and after discussing the great contradictions of the city, Turkish nationalism, cultural identity crisis, visual richness, the Bosphorous, and the mystical air of all the elements the city brings together, I found myself deeply longing for Istanbul.
I had started reading Orhan Pamuk’s Istanbul before that trip, and the one thing that had stuck in my mind from the early chapters of the book was the Bosphorous. So once I dropped my luggage in the hotel room, I asked the guy at the reception where I could have a nice cup of coffee at some café overlooking the water. Without hesitation, he gave me a map and said “Ortakoy”. He said “take a bus that says ‘Besiktas’,” and I walked out from the hotel door into Taksim square, ready to take on the city and myself… no time constraints for the day, and no tourist guidebook must-sees in mind.
I walked and walked, stopping to stare at old abandoned Ottoman style buildings and to take in the surroundings. I walked past the Galata Saray Stadium before taking some random bus. No one spoke any English, so I ended up communicating with the driver in sign language before he dropped me off somewhere and kept blabbering in Turkish and pointing to the other side of the street. I found out later that I was in fact at Sultan Ahmet. I stood in the big square in front of the New Mosque watching the pigeons before venturing on, only to find myself at the Grand Bazaar.
The walk continued, but I can’t remember exact details of the path I took, or the busses I got on and off. I stopped to buy chestnuts on the street, eat some strange sea-food, and listen to some kid play the Accordion.
As the sun started setting I was at Besiktas, which turned out to be a street full of universities and colleges, and it was quite interesting to see all the students stepping out and walking down the street. While the area around Sultan Ahmet had resemblances to downtown Amman, at least in the way the people looked and the expressions on the faces of the old men and women, Besiktas looked very European, young people looking trendy, and couples holding hands and displaying affection without any reservations.
Since it was around the 10th of November, Turkey was commemorating its modern father, Ataturk, and there was some street exhibit about him.
I finally made it to Ortakoy, and the Mosque stood majestically by the Bosphorous, its lights glowing against the dark sky. The area was full of cafes and shops, and little stands of used books. I loved it, and I dug in looking for books on modern Turkish literature.
During the walk back to Taksim, I bought myself a small guide book and decided that since I only had one day left, it might not be a bad idea to have it roughly planned.
Lest this post turn into novel-length proportions, I will only mention one other part of my Istanbul explorations; the hunt for Cukurcuma. My guidebook said that it’s a small antique shop and artist gallery. It turned out to be in an area full of antique shops with all kinds of random objects from the Ottoman era scattered haphazardly. One place belonged to some artist (he had some guests at the store and they were engaged in a lively discussion over some painting. It was one of those (many) moments I wished I could understand Turkish). Amidst his collection lay a pile of old manuscripts and books, and the only thing I could afford was a tiny French dictionary in a beautiful brown leather jacket.
At that, I’ll go make myself a cup of coffee and enjoy my Friday afternoon reading. This Christmas Santa got me a coffee percolator, a book of William Blake poetry, and Aldous Huxley’s “The Doors of Perception”. I take it I was a good girl this year :)
Lest this post turn into novel-length proportions, I will only mention one other part of my Istanbul explorations; the hunt for Cukurcuma. My guidebook said that it’s a small antique shop and artist gallery. It turned out to be in an area full of antique shops with all kinds of random objects from the Ottoman era scattered haphazardly. One place belonged to some artist (he had some guests at the store and they were engaged in a lively discussion over some painting. It was one of those (many) moments I wished I could understand Turkish). Amidst his collection lay a pile of old manuscripts and books, and the only thing I could afford was a tiny French dictionary in a beautiful brown leather jacket.
At that, I’ll go make myself a cup of coffee and enjoy my Friday afternoon reading. This Christmas Santa got me a coffee percolator, a book of William Blake poetry, and Aldous Huxley’s “The Doors of Perception”. I take it I was a good girl this year :)
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