Yesterday Rosemary, in her determination not to buy a Turkish rug, accidentally got us into the terrain of Brendan Shanahan’s book “In Turkey I am beautiful” and into the heart of a rugshop owned by a man with the face and hair of a grand Vizier. While I waited he gave me Shanahan's book to read (spotting a reader when he saw one, or just another ego heat-seeking a target?). In case I skipped over them he pointed out the opening descriptions of his sexual magnetism, his amazing eyebrows and his success with multiple girl-friends. For the record - he was rather dashing:
After hours of watching rugs being set alight to prove they really were wool or silk, and hours of crawling across carpets to feel which was cool (silk) and which was warm (wool) Rose finally succumbed and bought a really beautiful silk prayer rug with an unusual black pattern. I think she did very well, but the whole afternoon was consumed by the struggle. Eventually we were taken into a kind of bluebeard’s room tucked away behind a secret door and the grand Vizier lay enticingly upon a pile of kilims.
On Friday it began raining, so some of our plans to explore the old Roman pathways of Istanbul had to be modified. But we did get to Hagia Sophia:
And also to the Museum of Turkish and Islamic Art (the Ibrahim Pasha Palace). Ibrahim Pasha was the childhood friend of Suleyman the Magnificent and the first of his Grand Viziers. Sadly his friend the Sultan had him strangled at the behest of his powerful and jealous wife, Roxelana. The interior of the palace was as fascinating as the objects and carpets it displayed. The rooms and fittings have hardly been changed except for the obvious additions of electricity, and security cameras.
I began reading something of the history of Istanbul and was very taken with a man I misread as Basil the Bludger, something I thought all Emperors and Kings were by default. But Basil wasn’t a bludger he was quite energetic and a successful slayer of Bulgars. In fact he was Basil the Bulgar Slayer. Bludger Slayer has a pretty good ring to it as well.
We also went to an Ottoman village in the mountains near Bursa. This village is not only still inhabited but lived in without much in the way of a modern economy or modern technologies. The mountain runoff for example is dealt with by the simple means of curving the cobble-stones inwards down the middle of the street. There was also an Ottoman dog, with feet that turned out like carpet slippers and gave it a ballerina's walk. This may have been some sort of congenital defect of the sort I often saw in Istanbul. People with terribly clubbed feet or other physical problems which are remedied in our society were begging in the streets. I considered cynically that they're probably put out to work in this way as a bit of a cash cow around tourists and a source of ready money for the family.
The fish in Istanbul restaurants is wonderful. I’ve eaten it most nights. It tastes as though it's come straight out of the sea that day. Walking across the bridges at night you can see people lined up to reel in sardines, and I think also some kind of perch. The fish come intact to the table: head, spine, tail, everything. I’d forgotten what an art there is to eating a real fish. After my other brushes with permanent injury I was careful to eat very very slowly.
I'll finish with an out of focus pic - Rosemary and me eating, which turned out to be how we spent so much of our time.
I had the fish of course. I've been longing to put a cedilla in somewhere, because they're so pretty and so inescapable in the Turkish alphabet. So here you are:
Çıao çıao my friends. It's been a blast. Until we meet again..
