The Birds of Kurucesme

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We live in a large district on the European side of Istanbul called Besictas (Besh-ik-tosh), in a neighborhood called Kurucesme (Koo-roo-chesh-may), which sits atop a steep cliff situated between the two great Bosphorous bridges. Our apartment is near a barely-protected, panoramic precipice hundreds of feet above the water. The view includes the lights of Asia across the strait, the huge bridges to north and south, constant international freighter ships and tankers passing north in the morning and south after noon, and busy waterfront traffic below.

Except for rare stagnant periods (during which the neighborhood reeks of coal and wood smoke), the air is in brisk motion, coursing from the Black Sea to the Sea of Marmara and back, sweeping forcefully up the cliff-face from the water. I frequently stand gazing at the Bosphorous for motionless periods, meditating on “Be still, and know that I am God,” watching and listening to the birds. Though the spectacle I am about to describe is in black-and-white, the choreography is endlessly fascinating.

Gulls: Upon this reliable tide of Bosphorous winds glide the seagulls, their stiff, perfectly aerodynamic wings motionless. Their heads and eyes are constantly in motion, however, scanning for opportunities to eat. The gulls generally circle from north to south along the rim of the cliff in an oblong loop, diving down to inspect the waterfront, then sweeping swiftly up to soar past my vantage point -- we meet eyes, they glide past and dive again. Others fly against the wind, flapping to maintain position, but moving slower; these gulls are able to see better and attack the scrums that occur around food sources along the hillside and waterfront. The males are white with gray-black accents; the females are smaller and have mottled brown camouflage.

Crows: The crows look different from those in the Americas. They are mostly black, but with gray vests that cover the breast and back. The crows of Istanbul are ubiquitous, sound similar, and act alike. They are therefore just as annoying to the humans they depend upon for survival as they are anywhere. Along the cliffs of Kurucesme, the crows are able to soar with the wind for short distances, but their shorter wings and softer feathers require more motion for them to remain aloft. They therefore flap a lot more than the gulls but have better mobility. When an eating opportunity arises on shore, the crows always get there before the gulls.

While the gulls tend to congregate in areas of opportunity, the crows are solitary opportunists. When they see another crow perched on a promising vantage point, they will bluster in and chase it off, only to be chased away moments later by another crow. Promising vantage points are seldom occupied by the same crow for very long. The gulls are more civil about positioning. When one gull sees another gull standing on the corner, watching all the gulls go by, he will land, do some head bobbing, and sidle toward the desired spot. The first gull will usually acquiesce and waddle or fly away. Sometimes they will squabble, but the second gull usually prevails. Moral: the early bird may get the worm, but the second gull gets the perch.

Despite all the competition, there is one time when these two clans cooperate, and that is when a raptor is present. The raptors usually circle high above the gulls’ and crows’ cruising range, but when they drop down low enough, they are under immediate arial assault. The gulls and crows join forces to relentlessly attack from above (they’re not stupid; they know the enemy’s beak and talons are on the bottom side) in an improvised synchronization that is thrilling to watch: single swoops, tandem inter/intra-species engagements, mass assaults. Meanwhile, the falcon occasionally flinches, but patiently continues its solitary hunt. Eventually, it will tire of the pestering and ascend to calmer skies.

I will write another time about the other birds I watch here, the pigeons, sparrows, starlings, cormorants, a beautiful jay-like bird I saw for the first time yesterday, and (my favorite) the parrots.

Real Snowmen Have Three Balls

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The outlook was not optimistic. Dusseldorf Flughafen, Germany’s third largest airport, was closed due to bad snow and ice conditions; incoming flights were intermittent, outgoing flights were cancelled. This was the night before our flight plans, made months before, assured us that we would be in Essen for Christmas. Bummer.

Next morning, after arguing about what/not to take and how to pack it (a ritual Nancy and I have shared throughout our international adventures, extending back to before we were even married), we awaited a taxi at the top of our apartment driveway. As I struggled up the slope pulling all the heavy stuff, Nancy, astride the crest of the hill, framed in the Islamic mist like a hooded artic goddess in purple, raised a daintily gloved hand and, ever so gently, cupped a tiny snowflake.

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"A snowflake?" I thought. "If it’s snowing in Istanbul, what the hell’s awaiting us in northwestern Germany?"

Snow-laden, horizontal surfaces awaited us. The evenly regimented highways and roads were clear, but the uniform sidewalks, steps and curbs were treacherous. The snow, however, was of the right variety for creating snowballs and snowmen. I made a snowball and looked around for an appropriate target. There it stood, a snowman! But he only had two balls. He looked sad, dwarfish, deflated. I empathized. I dropped the snowball and walked up the evenly spaced, similarly shaped steps to our host’s home.

Something felt different, and I soon realized what it was: Predictability. With a little scrutiny, I could figure out what the signs meant; I could walk at a hasty tempo, letting my feet fall without having to look down in case I was about to step into a hole or onto a sleeping dog. I had become accustomed to the irregularity of life here in Istanbul. The quirky had become the norm. To my shock and dismay, Germany was boring.

Then there was Bach. In English speaking countries, the holiday season is wreathed in performances of Handel’s Messiah, the composer’s most famous and least typical oratorio, never intended to be performed outside of Lent. In German speaking countries, Bach’s Weihnachts Oratorium (Christmas Oratorio) is the normatorium. Dennis (bass), Margaret (alto), Nancy (soprano) and I (tenor) formed a complete quartet, so we muscled our way into the center of the chorus of 300 or so and sat together at the internal corners of each section.

Bach’s opus is not a real oratorio, consisting instead of six cantatas intended to be performed on feast days between Christmas and Epiphany. We sang cantatas I (Christmas), IV (New Year) and VI (Epiphany), with an excellent orchestra and soloists. The audience was seated around and among the chorus. Some even stood up with us when we arose to sing. Everybody either brought their own score or ‘rented’ one: a deposit was paid, to be refunded at the return of the score. “Jauchzet, frohlochet; erschallet Ihr Lieder” ("Shout" or "rejoice," "make merry" or "be happy;" "sound forth your songs" or "resound in song," whatever). Whatever, it was a spiritual, cathartic experience, singing great music with dear friends in a crowd that loved, knew and could perform Bach’s brilliant music.