Upon Attending a Christian Men’s Breakfast in Istanbul

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It wasn’t my first time. I knew the ordeals and rewards that would await me:

I would have to jump out of bed Saturday morning by 8am, grab my umbrella (just in case), throw a coat over a t-shirt and jeans, and rush (stagger-jump-slip) downhill to catch an infrequent bus.

The downhill journey would involve negotiating several steep, serpentine alleys and ancient, uneven cobblestone stairways. My knees would ache. I would pass by a 2000 year old well that is buried under a Greek orthodox church. (Our district derives its name from this well: Kurucesme, meaning ‘dry well.’ Legend has it that St. John visited the dry well and it started flowing again. Devout pilgrims once traveled great, dangerous distances to visit the well, seeking succor for their ailments and the blessings of the saint; now, people fill up their plastic water bottles.)

I would have to try to stay awake in an overheated bus packed with people who felt that the moderate outside temperature was so frigid that they needed to keep the few window slats closed while they tightened the woolen scarves around their necks.

(Side note: Turks appear to loathe any temperature less than warm. When it gets cool enough to produce frosty breath, they will wear ski gloves and clutch cloths to their faces to protect their mouths and noses from the coolness. While waiting for a bus, they will huddle together, stocking caps, earmuffs and fleece-lined hoods pulled tightly around their heads, making smoking and talking on cell phones awkward.)

I would be jolted awake when the bus reached its terminus, Taksim. I would know I had reached Taksim because the wall of bodies that had been holding me upright would begin to yield. I would groggily limp down to the asphalt. I would pull down the brim of my old-fashioned wool hat, stuff my hands into the pockets of my scruffy,flaking leather jacket, then, dodging between the honk-happy cars and buses, cross several lanes of busy traffic, to reach Taksim center.

(Side Note: Taksim is Istanbul’s international center. It is where all the significant political protests take place. I frequently walk past rows of policemen wearing protective armor, holding automatic weapons, standing in front of large, black vans equipped with bulletproof glass and water cannons. I have even been caught in the ‘bow wave’ of a protest march, unable to find safety until I ducked down a side alley.)

I would now have the choice of either walking briskly down Istiklal Caddesi, a wide, tourist and hawker-heavy street, or catch the funky little tram. If I were to walk, I would march down the middle of the street, inside the tram tracks, because the tourists tend to walk along the sides, looking into shop windows. Those tourists looking up would be easy to spot ahead and dodge. The ones who would suddenly stop to peer into a shop or down a pasaji (passage) would be they that I run into. I would reach my destination within 15 minutes. If I were to take the tram, I would step back in time to the 1920’s, and rattle and clang down the street, while teens would run alongside and hitch free rides until the conductor shooed them off.

Once I reached Union Han, the building where the meetings occur, I would pass through a huge, heavy, black wrought-iron gate, walk down a narrow passageway, climb up some marble steps, pass through a tall wooden doorway and begin climbing five steep sets of stairs. The building dates from the 1880’s, so there is no elevator. (But then, my school dates from the 1990’s and it also has no elevators. I have to climb up exactly 107 steps to get to my classroom, a journey I make at least twice per school day, usually more like six times daily.) At last, winded, I would reach the meeting.

The gathering would involve about a dozen men of all ages. Saturday’s meeting had two Americans, a Canadian, a Namibian, a South African, a Hollander, an Australian, among others I did not meet. Breakfast is prepared by different guys, and usually features some form of that rare delicacy in Turkey, pork. (Fellowship be damned -- I’m there for the meat!) Then a facilitator would lead the meeting/discussion. In all, the whole thing would last about an hour and a half.

Then I would walk out onto the roof terrace and be treated to one of the best views in Istanbul. I would be looking southward. Directly below me would be the Galata Tower, and beyond that the Golden Horn. To the east I could watch the waters of the Bosphorus flow into the Sea of Marmara. Across the water would lie Asia and the Princes Islands. On the European side would rise the opulent Topkapi Palace complex. Scanning west, there would be the magnificent domes and minarets of Hagia Sophia and the huge Blue, Suleiman and New mosques. Dozens of other mosques and minarets would punctuate the skyline. There would be a crisp February breeze, and I would be very happy to be alive in this place at this moment.