Istanbul My Love
Submitted by Lauren Ciesinski
It was hot. It felt like hitting a wall of heat. I walked right into it, taking a step back because it was so surprising, an invisible barrier. Oppressive and dense, it was like swimming through fog. Water seemed to sizzle and steam as soon as it hit the ground. The mass of people seemed to radiate heat, if one of them brushed up against me; I jumped back, like brushing up against a metal pan heating on the stove.The cobblestone sidewalks were smooth, worn down by the years of use by the pedestrians of the city. Cigarette butts scattered on the ground like feed thrown out for poultry. The buildings seemed to be settled in, the giant years pressing them into the ground. Occasionally a few would stand out like modern monuments towering over the old. Turning a corner a Goliath looms over the people that pass, a constant reminder of the past. Worn by age to a dusty pink the Hagia Sophia stands proudly in the middle of the bustle is Sultanahmet square, like a centurion keeping watch.
Food seemed to be everywhere. The smoky scent of roasted chestnuts. The sharp smell of onions. The tangy aroma of carefully cooked lamb. Slowly turning like clock hands the meat drips glistening fat that hisses on the hot grill that’s been growing ever since the early morning hours. There is a faint yeasty smell in the air from the simit that was made last night for the morning rush to work, school and errands. Spices too carry over the faint breeze from the Bosphorus. Cinnamon, ginger, cardamom and saffron fill the air with their exotic perfume.
A short walk under the blazing sun and then comes relief in the covered bazaar. It’s filled with sun burnt tourists carrying cameras close to their chests and business men walking side by side their heads close together in quiet confidence against the sounds of the crowd. I found myself being pulled into the maze of shops, sights, scents and silks. Everything feels cool to the touch. Glazed ceramics are smooth and cool with raised designs in paint. Slowly and without hesitation I moved further into the labyrinth.
Hands full and eyelids heavy I come to sit at a table. A glass of tea is pushed into my cupped palm. Indiscriminate languages fill the air that is heady, thick and stuffy from shisha and cigarette smoke.
Smoke fills the cabin. I am warm and uncomfortable in my coat that seems to swallow up my body. I get hit in the face with a puff of smoke from the small old man next to me. I cough and slowly inch towards a window. Closer and closer I feel life coming back into me. A cool crisp air revives my lungs and forces me to take long deep breaths. A mist of salt water sprays the side of the boat. I can almost make it out. I can almost see the skyline that I have been dreaming about since the summer. Slowly appearing through the fog that is settled on the water is Istanbul. I see the minarets like needle points in the sky. I see the bridge, a faint skeleton in the background. I sigh. It feels like coming back home.
The weather’s turned cold. A north wind blows in my face and my eyes tear up. I turn into the man walking next to me. He opens up his jacket and I fit inside like a cocoon. He smells like stale cigarettes and the wonderful spicy and smoky kebabs we just ate. It’s hard to walk like this one body four legs creature, so we huddle close next to one another and head forward.
A steel gray block of sky sits over the city. It hangs on the rooftops like left over ornaments forgotten. Smoke from the day’s fires sift, drift, ripple and curl over the tops of people and buildings. The once blazing sun is hidden, resting almost as if taking a holiday from the heat. The heat was gone, replaced by a cold that seemed older than the city itself. It knew all the weak points. It anticipated which corner you were turning and hit you square in the face like a prize fighter. It was a constant battle between your body and the cold.
Narrow alleyways gave way to bigger avenues that were once filled with people. It seemed so far away, this linen-clad ice tea drinking heat that made everyone duck for cover and shade. This was still my city. The sidewalks were still the same. They were still littered with cigarette butts, the remnants of the working men, a clue that there was still life here. Occasionally in small doorway sits a small man who, on a small fire is roasting chestnuts. He works diligently to scrape together a living and to keep from freezing. I toss over a couple of coins a politely refuse the offered goods. I turn back towards my companion and we continue.
Hagia Sophia still stands impervious to the cold, mocking the winter wind by surviving and prevailing over time and the city. Sultanahmet square is empty now. Only the birds wander through what was once full of life. Only the call to prayer breaks the settled silence. All at once there is a flutter of motion. The startled birds rustle and fly in protest to the intrusion. A few doors crack open and lithe shadowy figures slip out into the harsh cold.
A few more streets and we have made it back. All at once my senses are overloaded. The bazaar is full of life, motion, energy, warmth and smells. My body reacts to the contrast to the Spartan cold. I breathe in a see an immediate change in him. Both of us relax shake off the chill like shaking off water after a rain showers. Slowly the sharp scent of tea drifts into my nose and I follow. He follows me, no words needed to be exchanged. Past mountains of pashminas and vast plains of carpet and kilim we find the little café that we found on accident before.
It is different this time. No tourists, no undecipherable languages, just the thick swarthy lull of Turkish. Men only sit with their tea and their wrinkled packs of cigarettes. I fend off the stares and whispers and calmly order in Turkish. One by one the stares fade away. I lean into him and feel that relief welling up inside like a flood.
This place had gotten into my blood. Seeping through me like an infection until it took over. The only cure was coming back, was seeing it all again. It was different but the same. The sights, smells and sounds were haunting. The heartbeat of the city was a rhythm I couldn’t get out of my head. I had dreams of getting lost in the bazaar only to find some new and undiscovered treasure. I dreamt of walking on the cobblestones, each step connecting me to the city that had been there longer than any lifetime.
Our hands clasped, we walked slowly through the bazaar. One last look before we bundled up into the cold. I turned to him. A smile crept over his face and I knew. We both did. This was not the last time we would be here. Time would pass and winter would give way to spring and summer’s determination. There would be another birthday and another new year. It would be different too, never just us again. We were a part of the city now, a part of the story that passes from one person to the next.
Months later I sit in my room and listen. I listen for the next line, the next beat, the next phrase. I hear it and I listen. I hear the call to prayer breaking the silence of the winter’s day. I hear the calls of the traders in the bazaar. I hear the hum of traffic and the squeal of the tram-way. I hear the people talking, bartering, laughing and whispering. I hear the city and I must answer.
