Upon My Second Birthday in Istanbul (February 10, 2011)

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"‘I’m more likely to get hit by a motorcycle on this sidewalk than I am by crossing the street," I thought as I made my way to the bus stop. It was a beautiful Thursday, cold and clear. I was on my way to visit an exhibit that had caught my interest over a year ago, but which I had yet to see. It was billed as the "1453 Panorama", 1453 being the year that Constantinople fell to the Ottoman Turks and became Istanbul. The exhibit was just outside a stretch of some of the remaining Theodosian walls, magnificent structures that had protected Constantinople for centuries until the Turks finally created cannons powerful enough to bring them down, while the Western Christians refused to provide any reinforcements.
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The bus was, as usual, quite warm, but today it felt good. After a while it filled up to a point that someone had to sit beside me. Turks do not like to invade the space of foreigners until there is only one choice: stand or sit. They know I am a foreigner because of my mutton-chop beard and the fact that I wear Birkenstocks with socks in cold weather. (They stare at my feet. If my feet were breasts, maybe I could understand better how women must feel when trying to carry on a conversation with a lusty male.) Also, women do not sit next to men until the same choice has to be made. A well-attired woman chose to sit next to me. After a reasonable time, not wanting to appear over-eager or aggressive, I asked if she spoke English. She said “No.”
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I turned my attention to the ever-changing city. I noticed that Doritos was offering heart-shaped chips in honor of Valentine’s Day (never mind that Valentine was a Christian martyr, sainted in 500 AD). I noticed for the first time that there were huge nests high up in the trees inside the Topkapi Palace complex, big enough for herons. (Topkapi means "cannon ball," which is pertinent to our 1453 theme). I noticed that there were no guards stationed in the Plexiglas cubicles outside Dolmabahce Palace, probably because it was too cold. Normally there would be two formally attired guards with polished steel helmets and ceremonial automatic weapons, no matter how hot it was in direct sunlight, stationed outside the Dolmebahce (pronounced dole-meh-BAH-jeh, meaning a garden built on reclaimed land) Gate, a vigorously ornate barrier that couldn’t stop a motorcycle that had accidentally jumped the curb and had actually come down onto the street for a change. My mind wandered. My current students think Glee is real. They refuse to believe that American high schools are not inhabited by 20-somethings with perfect teeth, nor that all schools do not have million dollar budgets for stage productions.
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I asked the woman still seated next to me, auf Deutsch, if she spoke German. She said “Nein.” My keenly honed interpersonal skills alerted me that she didn’t want to talk.
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Upon arriving at the exhibit, I was surprised to see that there was a cue of people outside. That was fine, because I always carry a book (currently "Invictus" -- history and rugby, the perfect combination) just for such contingencies. The entry fee was 10TL, but my teacher pass got me in for 5. Once in the building, I spent the other 5 on an electronic device that would speak to me in English. I slipped it around my neck and went to stand in another line and reopened my book. I then slipped my valise over my shoulder so that it wouldn’t get jostled off when the line finally moved forward.
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When the line finally moved forward, we ascended a dark, winding staircase and came out under a large dome painted with scenes depicting the glorious Turks killing the infidels. I struggled to get the English translating device to my ears, but its cords had become so entangled in the straps of my valise that they had created a macramé on my chest. I knew that there was a time limit to my visit, having seen previous crowds being ushered out en masse. I had to work fast. My disentanglement struggles were heightened by Turkish children head-butting my private regions. I finally got the cords free and the speaker phones onto my ears in time to hear a brilliant, succinct description of the actions depicted on the huge, convex mural in TURKISH!
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There was a large fellow standing beside a control panel wearing the costume of a Janissary (the Sultan’s personal guards -- slaves, formerly Christian children). I gestured at the device, said “Ingilizce” (English) and he calmly punched some buttons, each of which I had just pushed to no effect, and English flooded into my ears. I had made it to the second station when the announcement to exit sounded. UNFAIR! I hung in there. One scene depicted the interior of Constantinople, and the narrator said I should be able to see Hagia Sophia in the background. I looked and looked. Then I realized that I didn’t recognize it because it did not have minarets yet! It was just a distant bulge on the horizon. I lingered for as long as I could, then I cautiously dribbled down the stairs like the last drop swirling down a drain.
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On the way home, I got off the tram in Gulhane (meaning "place of roses"), just outside the North Shield Pub, a venue that carries international rugby on TV. The paper announcements that were adhered to the brick exterior informed me that I now have birthday presents awaiting me this weekend: on Saturday, England vs Italy, and Scotland vs Wales; on Sunday, Ireland vs France.
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Then I walked on to Sirkeci (pronounced SEER-keh-jee, meaning something to do with a circus) Main Station, which was the last stop of the Orient Express. The foundation stone was laid in 1888 (one year before Washington became a state, and Germany became unified under Bismarck). The station opened in 1890. The first voyage of the Orient Express departed from Paris to the sounds of Mozart’s "Turkish March" (which Nancy plays so well, but which I can no longer stand, since it seems to be the only piece by Wolfgang that Turks know or play. It is constantly ringing in my music building, making me long for “Chopsticks” or “Heart and Soul”). The train passed through Strasbourg, France; Karlsruhe, Stuttgart, Ulm and Munich, Germany; Vienna, Austria; Budapest, Hungary; Bucharest, Romania; Rousse and Varna, Bulgaria; and terminated in Sirkeci, Istanbul. The Orient Express stopped running in 1977, the year my son, Matthew, was born (I think). [EDITOR'S NOTE: Yes, that's correct. -- MV.]
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