Christmas with Sophia, Alexander, Stephen, and St. Nik

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I just got back from the capital of Bulgaria, Sophia, where I spent Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and St. Stephen’s Day (Dec. 26). I went to Sophia because I wanted to spend those days in a Christian country, and I wanted to visit Alexander Nevsky Cathedral. (I’m a cathedral junkie, a "collector" -- I’ve quite a few under my belt, and even more hanging over my belt). In December in Istanbul, one sees the occasional decorated tree, or a snow man (kardan adam in Turkish -- interesting that their generic word for man is "adam"), even a Santa, but that’s it. I was sure the rare Christian congregations had their crèche scenes up, but the general atmosphere was just not there here, here there, whatever.
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There were two Masses scheduled at Alexander Nevsky Cathedral on Christmas Day, one in the morning, one in the evening. I decided to sleep in and watch Christmas Day on TV. Luckily, I found three Masses: one from Moscow and two from Rome. I say luckily because if I hadn’t found the broadcast from Moscow, I would have spent over two hours standing shoulder-to-shoulder in a huge crowd of freezing Bulgarians and tourists, doing nothing, seeing nothing but frosted breath and candles melting, while all the action took place behind a curtain. I’ve been to Orthodox Masses before but never at Christmas. On TV, both Roman Masses began after and ended before the Orthodox Mass. But the broadcast took us behind the curtain and I got to witness the liturgy from the priestly point of view. Here’s what I learned:
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The more senior a member of the clergy happens to be, the bigger, fancier and heavier the hat he gets to wear. So the older a priest gets, the more he has to bear on his head (there’s a metaphor there, but I’m not going to chase it). When he had his hat on, the poor old archbishop had to be helped by two large acolytes (the only people behind the curtain who did not sport elaborate vestments -- they wore simple black cassocks and did not get to wear metal hats).
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The ritual is very trinitarian: the priests cross themselves in threes, they kiss the icons three times, they take three hits from the chalice (which was huge and barnacled with gold and precious stones -- the communicants had to grip the base with both hands while another priest helped heft it up to their mouths). When it finally came time for the congregation to receive the Eucharist, it became a friendly mob with two options: 1) crowd around a priest with no hat who handed out a crumbly piece of bread from a huge gold-plated platter, kiss the hand that fed them (the hand was never wiped clean, so there must have been a great feast of saliva-based bacteria celebrating there), then press your forehead against and kiss an icon of the Virgin and Child (which was also not wiped clean); or 2) wait before another priest (also sans hat), and be given a morsel of bread soaked in wine dipped from a reasonably sized chalice on the end of a long, slender silver spoon. Interestingly, the latter option was the favorite of parents within children in arms, who all got spooned.
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The choir (located in a balcony behind which the lay people cannot see, and dressed in winter coats with scarves and gloves) sings almost non-stop throughout the entire service. They function responsorially to chants from the priests (during those rare times when they come out from behind the curtain), acting, I assume, as the voice of the congregation; they sing the Ordinary of the Mass; and they sing anytime the priests are not chanting. They sing in that full-throated Russian style, sopranos and tenors warbling stentorially above the vodka soaked basses, while the altos dig musical potatoes. The music itself would put me to sleep if I didn’t find it so irritating. The harmonic rhythm is at best lugubrious, and the changes are turgid and predictable. The only surprises are sudden dynamic changes. It is all a cappella, which is delightful, unless everything sounds the same, which everything does. I believe the intent of this style of composition is to lull the untutored and illiterate into a trance, aided by the beautiful icons, magnificent vestments, fragrant incense and big hats.
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I’m glad I didn’t go. Instead, I investigated the neighbor (boring), drank good coffee, read and rested. I did not hear a single siren or car horn all day. Sunday was St. Stephen’s Day. Stephen was the first Christian martyr, so his saint day is placed next to the Christ Mass in honor of his sacrifice. (He was a Roman soldier who refused to recant, so they tied him to a tree and let the archers use him for target practice.) I took a taxi to Alexander Nevsky Square, which is round. The cathedral is a magnificent example of neo-Byzantine architecture -- soaring, gold-capped towers, harmonious exterior detail, exquisite balance -- begun in 1888, the year of Bulgaria’s independence from the Ottoman Empire. The interior was a disappointment because it was too dark to see the frescoes at any distance. I was struck by the ones I was able to get close to, however, because they are in Art Deco style. Upon reading more about the cathedral, this made sense, as the building was completed in the 1920s, and the frescoes are usually the last things added.
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I then crossed the circular square to an open park where vendors had set up tables. The Bulgarians had the best spots, and were hawking icons painted in garish colors, making them anciently modern kitsch to my eye. I was more interested in what the Russians were offering further back into the park. On rickety card tables I found entire tables dedicated to ball-point pens, or cheap watches, but most were a potpourri of bracelets, coins, knives, scarves, hats, cast off Russian military paraphernalia, etc. Very eclectic. I stopped and watched two men playing chess. It was like being in Istanbul except for the different game, different clothing, different language, but the banter between players and kibitzers was identical.
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I discovered an artist selling prints of his drawings, largely surrealistic images, which I love. I searched through his offerings and even named a few that were based on classical images (Sisyphus pushing a giant pumpkin uphill, Hamlet at a dead-end cross road). He was impressed. We chatted awhile; I bought two and he gave me one free. If you want to see his stuff, go to www.boyans.com.
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As I turned to go, I looked up and saw a beautiful gold-capped tower not far away. An unexpected treat! This turned out to be the church of St. Nikolaj the Miracle Worker. Also begun in 1888, it is in classical Russian Orthodox style with four small towers (for the apostles) surrounding a soaring, ornately decorated central tower (Jesus). The interior was small and could have stood a congregation no larger than 50-60. Even so, there has a ground level choir stall in the rear, a mere eight paces from the screen.
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So, I spent Christmas 2010 with Sophia, Alexander, Stephen and St. Nik. But I missed all of you.

Deported

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In mid-November, 2010, my Turkish Residence Permit expired. Due to a clerical snafu, several teachers found themselves in the same predicament. We were told by the school that the only solution was to deport us at different times, so that we could re-enter the country as tourists for three months, during which time our Residence Permits would be renewed. Since then we have all been teaching in Turkey illegally.
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On November 11, a school day, Amy Feeley and I were deported. Amy is a Londoner, 20-something, who teaches biology. We climbed into a 15 passenger school van and were driven by Savas Bey (Mr. Savage, how comforting) to the city of Edirne, the capital of Edirne province, which has over 400,000 occupants, most of whom appeared to be employable males sitting along the sidewalks, smoking, drinking sweet tea and playing backgammon. Edirne sits at the borders of Turkey, Greece and Bulgaria, and its name is derived from Adrianopolis, from back when the Greeks had the most guns. It is reputed to be one of the best preserved Ottoman cities, but were not able to stop and investigate. I plan to go back. I did see its famous mosque, built by the greatest of all Ottoman architects, Selim, the Greatest of All Ottoman Architects, who also architected the Blue Mosque in Istanbul. Edirne is the also center of the national sport of Turkey, grease wrestling, the championship bouts of which take place on an island between two local rivers. June, 2010, witnessed the 649th grease wrestling championship. I was in Turkey then; if I’d only known!
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We drove through the city and down a beautiful cobbled lane that ran straight for over a kilometer -- Roma (Gypsies) passed by on two-wheeled, horse-drawn carts -- small, careworn , dirty faces, adults and children huddled together against the cold -- beautiful, orange leaves fell from the trees -- Puccini rang from the radio -- a very cinematic moment. We crossed a river over a beautifully conceived stone bridge and onto a country lane that led us to the border with Greece.
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Our driver walked us to a window and conversed with the occupant of the booth who was sitting in a uniform behind a pane of glass. Amy and I fidgeted. Uniform Guy asked for our Residence Permits. What!? Why should I have brought an expired Residence Permit? It seemed incriminatory: “Yes, Officer, here is undeniable proof that I am definitely living and working in Turkey illegally.” I turned in astonishment to Amy, who had brought her expired Residence Permit, and she said, “Didn’t they tell you?” (I think “Didn’t they tell you?” must be the most famous of the infamous Famous Last Words -- Brutus to Julius Caesar in the Forum; John the Baptist to Jesus in the River Jordan; Jim Bowie to Davy Crockett at the Alamo: “Didn’t they tell you?”) Savas Bey muttered, “Problem.” My guts turned to jelly.
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Luckily, since it was a school day, the office secretaries were at work and were able to find the necessary photocopies of my document, the numbers from which satisfied Uniform Guy. Savas Bey pointed us to a fenced alleyway, and told Amy to call him on her cell phone when we had returned from Greece so that he could pick us up for the return trip to Istanbul. We set off warily, passing gates guarded by soldiers in full combat gear, bearing semi-automatic weapons, passing machine gun nests protected by barbed wire and sand bags, passing silently through a no-man’s-land of wire fences topped by concertina wire. No birds sang. The only sound was the crunching of gravel under our feet. I turned to my favorite mental channel -- Martin and the Luthiers. Amy felt uneasy enough to call Mr. Savage. That’s when she realized she had left her phone in the van. Talk about feeling alone ...
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At the end of no-man’s-land was a simple barricade. A kid on a skateboard could have ducked under it easily. We handed our passports to the young, uniformed guard who stamped them without compunction. We entered Greece. It was like being in an episode of Twilight Zone. Empty apartments and offices lined a single street that seemed to lead to nowhere. The buildings looked new or refurbished, but there were no vehicles moving or parked. No faces peeked from behind curtains. No cats or dogs. Just us.
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We walked for half an hour before we encountered any living thing -- four men engaged in a game of backgammon. They stared at us. I stared back. They didn’t back down, nor did I, even after we’d past. I’m stubborn at stupid times. We had both been given $25 for expenses. Once we found an open restaurant, they would not take USD. So, after walking into Greece for an hour, we turned around and walked out, not having seen a single ancient ruin. We re-entered Turkey, got our passports stamped with tourist visas and were driven home, after a delightful lunch at a riverside café in view of the aforementioned beautifully conceived stone bridge.
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Amy and I are now legal aliens teaching in Turkey illegally.

The Prisoner of Mustafa, Part 2

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The next day, the heat wave that had been building since the beginning of July finally sat down on Istanbul and decided to stay.
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The situation was perfect for what happened next: the telephone and internet connections went down, and the water service stopped. I was now stuck with no water, no telephone, no internet, no TV, and I could only leave the apartment at considerable risk of not being able to get back inside because the outside lock would not accept my key. All I could do was read, nap and sweat inside in solitude.
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I discovered the water problem after having done my morning ‘business.’ I depressed the flush button and heard ‘klunk’. Klunk? I pushed again. Klunk. I pushed again, harder. KLUNK! Obviously, there was no water in the tank. I calmly arose, closed the lid and walked away. I called Mustafa several times. No answer = no Mustafa = no key = no food shopping and no water = stinky everywhere = PRISONER!
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The following morning, Mustafa called, asking about the lock. I was less than cordial when I explained my situation regarding the toilet and lack of personal hygiene. He responded immediately.
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Eight hours later I could flush the toilet and take a shower.
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The next day, clean but hungry, desperate for human contact since I had not been able to communicate with anyone without the internet since the telephone was connected to the same infernal device as the TV and internet, I developed a cunning plan by which I would be able to get out of the building with a fair hope of being able to return. ‘Forget the toilet paper, it’s too visible,’ read my thought bubble. ‘Tape down the lock with several layers of that sturdy packing tape you used in the move from Kurucesme!’ This worked great for one day, just long enough for me to get trapped outside on a Saturday night. The Kuafur was closed. No Kuafur = no keys, and after several calls, no Mustafa.
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I sat on the warm bricks again, tired, humid and unable to read because Mustafa’s building had no entrance light. After about an hour (during which I began seriously entertaining thoughts of smashing out a pane of glass in the door, grabbing enough stuff to survive and disappearing into the night), a man’s head, unlit cigarette in mouth, popped out of a window two feet from where I sat. Our eyes met. We nodded and exchanged greetings in Turkish. He lit up. I returned to my escape fantasy.
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He finished his cigarette and ducked back inside. Soon he came out a door a storey below where I sat, accompanied by another man who was carrying a knife. They politely shooed me aside, and the guy with the knife started cutting away at the molding around one of the smaller panes of glass in the door (the one I had been fantasizing about breaking). Cigarette Guy asked me if I would like some tea. I innocently declined the offer.
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(Note: Westerners like to drink cold drinks when they are enduring hot weather. Such drinks cool the palate but not the body. Turks drink hot tea during such times because it makes them sweat, by which every slight breeze becomes a heavenly breath of relief.)
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After several minutes of scraping, Knife Guy was able to wedge his blade under the pane and pry it up far enough to get his fingers under it. Then he slid the pane up within its ornamental wrought iron frame, reached under it with his left arm, flipped a toggle which he somehow knew was there (invisible to me), then swung the window casing open far enough that he was able to tilt the pane horizontally and pull it out. Finally, after handing me the pane, he reached through the opening and popped open the lock. Greatly relieved, I shook both men by the hand, whereupon they walked back downstairs. I never saw either of them again.
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The following afternoon, while napping during the enervating heat, the apartment was lashed with a sudden flurry of wind and rain. I was awakened by the slamming of windows and doors throughout the building. I lurched to my feet and ran around closing windows against the driving rain. (Note: This was the only rain Istanbul experienced in the entire month of July, one violent gasp.) Then the electricity went out.
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Most of the electric devices I needed for amusement, communication and enlightenment were not working anyway, but I still needed refrigeration and light. My prolonged imprisonment due to the faulty key had left the refrigerator bare, and now the stairwell had become a spiral pit of blackness - slippery marble steps, no matter what the hour of day. Luckily, I had purchased a pocket-sized flashlight while in Kurucesme to accompany me on my nightly meanderings with Rufus, and this became my saving grace.
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My last days in this apartment were spent reading, negotiating the steps by flashlight to buy necessities, and missing my wife.

The Prisoner of Mustafa, Part 1

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For most of July, I lived alone, free of charge in an apartment in a small row of buildings welded together by years of corroding cement. This apartment is rented by a married couple of fellow MEF teachers. The husband is French, the wife English; they have a boy toddler, and are spending the month in France with family. They offered their apartment to Nancy and me since our lease in Kurucesme ended at the end of June, and we could not move into our new school-provided apartment until August.
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Nancy left for the US on the 7th, and all I was expected to do was keep the apartment clean, stay out of trouble, and water the plants. Reduced to bachelor status for the first time in decades, I am proud to say that I kept the plants watered, I think.
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We were given a single set of two keys, one to open the door to the building, the other to open the apartment, which is quite lovely, sitting on the top floor above two others, with a partial view of the Bosphorous, and a soothing cross breeze whenever the breeze decides to cross through, which was rare, as it has been very hot in Istanbul and the building is not air-conditioned. But I am long-suffering, not one to complain about such things, especially when the lodging was free, and all I had to do is keep the place clean, stay out of trouble and water the plants. (Note to self: don’t forget to water the plants.)
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Immediately upon moving in, we began having difficulty with the outside lock. The key would enter the lock but not engage, rotate left (which did nothing) then resist until it eventually turned right (after much urging and under-the-breath cursing) and usually get stuck again, so that the whole process had to be repeated (as the cursing became less and less under-the-breath) until eventually, for whatever reason, the lock gave that reassuring ‘click’ that admission had been gained. We thought nothing of it; after all, why complain about a sticky lock when you’re living rent free?
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As soon as Nancy left, however, the apartment sensed my vulnerability—the telephone became unreliable, the television (which boasts hundreds of channels, including international rugby, my favorite) would only give me international news, and the internet went down. ‘Fine,’ I thought. ‘I’ll just read, play Bach on the electronic keyboard, and watch TV as Al Jazeera, BBC and CNN try to convince me how exciting the Tour de France is, wait for Nancy to call and, if there’s time, maybe read.’ Back to the lock.
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(Note: Greg is a patsy for any frustration created by his inability to manipulate simple, inanimate objects, like can openers and screw drivers. In the past, this lock problem would have turned him into a frothing, profane lunatic. Wait, isn’t that in his resume?)
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The lock would seize up the minute I began coming up the steps. I could hear its gears linking arms and muttering, “OK, boys, scrum down and hold fast.” I was apparently the only person living in the building, since no one ever answered my door buzzings. For the first week though, the lock eventually gave in to my efforts and epithets. Inevitably, one afternoon the lock would not budge. My impotent struggles eventually got so bad that they began to attract the attention of the neighbors.
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First to approach were the street boys. As I slumped physically and emotionally exhausted in the July heat on one of the brick shoulders of the porch, one boy after another would drop his bike on the curb and go up to the door without making eye-contact or saying a word, grab the keys that I had left dangling from the lock, pull them out, invert them and jab at the keyhole. They all thought I was an idiot who didn’t know how to put a key in right side up. One by one, they would struggle with the key, shrug, reinsert it and walk away to give the next guy chance to turn the key over and repeat the routine.
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Next came the teenage girls, usually having to abandon younger children in their charge. They always had the courtesy to murmur a shy a greeting, then commenced heaving on the door and pressing the apartment alert buzzers before trying the key. Unsuccessful, they apologized and left. Last were the mothers, who had been observing and discussing the street theater from a distance. Once convinced that their children’s efforts had been thorough, they went into action.
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The first time no one could force the door open, a mother descended some stairs to an adjacent building. She returned smiling, followed by a young woman who waved at me and said, “Come.” I was soaked in sweat, smelly (what’s new?) and embarrassed, so I waved and deferred. ‘I’ll just wait until the other lodger comes home,’ I thought. ‘There’s a bit of a breeze now, and some shade, so I’ll just sit here and read.’ (I always carry a book, for just this kind of emergency.)
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The girl shrugged and went back inside. By the time I had opened my book, she was back and insistent. “Come, come,” she waved irritably. I returned the book to my satchel and followed. We passed through a few domestic back rooms and emerged into a beauty parlor (kuafur): five padded chairs facing a wall of mirrors, and a side room with two chairs and sinks. Three women were being colored/quaffed/ shampooed/manicured, etc. by two men and one girl assistant. The proprietor, a middle-aged, bleached blond in a white, tight, sleeveless top and jeans, sat smoking beneath a no smoking poster.
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All conversation stopped when the large, defeated, sweat-stained stranger entered.
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One of the women, having black goo swabbed unto her hair with a small brush by a small man, spoke broken English, and asked why I was there. After my answer and her translation, I handed the proprietor the phone number of the building owner, Mustafa. She dialed, connected and handed the phone to me. Mustafa spoke enough English that he could understand that my key did not work. He said he would call me back and everything would be OK. I remained in the Kuafur, reading and sweating. The goo-haired women eventually asked me why I was still there. I told her I was waiting for Mustafa to call back.
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Mustafa did not call back. After an hour, I went outside, played with a cat and then walked around the block, back to my former perch. Another mother noticed my return, descended into the Kuafur and soon the small man who had been dabbing goo on the English-speaking woman’s head appeared with a ring of keys. His black-stained fingers immediately opened the door. He could have done this at any time. ‘Why,’ I asked myself, ‘if they had the keys all along, had I been sitting there all this time?’ It still makes no sense to me.
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Inside, I immediately called Mustafa and told him of my frustrations. I can imagine his thought process: guest = no money for me = give him just enough service so as not to alienate the renters. He light-heartedly explained that he had misunderstood -- he thought the key problem involved getting into the apartment, not into the building. His solution was simple: tape some toilet paper over the male end of the lock so it would not engage when I left the building. I had thought of that, of course, but didn’t want run afoul of the law by leaving the building open without permission. “Thank you, Mustafa!” I said, setting down the phone. I could now go outdoors safely and get some groceries.
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The next morning, my wad of toilet paper was still taped neatly in place, so I decided it would be a good opportunity for me to stroll around Istanbul while the temperature was still cool. No problem -- when I got back, the door swung open and everything was good. ‘Let’s do this again tomorrow,’ we said to ourselves in the royal plural. It was not to be.
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The next morning, my wad of toilet paper had been ripped loose, dangling from the lock mechanism like an orphaned Kotex. Was this the result of deliberate action or merely an accident? I will never know. I called Mustafa but there was no answer, neither did he have an answering device. ‘What kind of landlord doesn’t receive messages?’ my mind fumed. From the moment on, I did not dare leave the building. I felt trapped, an uninvited, unwelcome prisoner of Mustafa.

Istantidbits III

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More Turkish Delights:
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UNSPED
A delivery service.
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TOP MODELS
Sadly, a shop featuring remote controlled toys
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ORGANIC TOPLESS
While I have always preferred toplessness to be organic, this is unfortunately only a fashionable clothing shop for women in Ortakoy.
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TITIZ
North America has Hooters, but Turkey has Titiz. While Hooters has a large, varied menu, Titiz specializes in chicken, our favorite being slowly spit-roasted birds, scissor-snipped in half before being wrapped in heat-retaining aluminum/paper foil. Clearly, both franchises depend heavily upon breast meat.
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Random Observations:
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1. No Squirrels in Istanbul: Whether it is due to the sustained human presence here, the lack of enough large green spaces, or the millions of feral cats, I have yet to see a squirrel, despite my many hours spent reading in the Kurucesme cemetery.
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2. T-Shirts: These are favored apparel among the younger set. What is striking is that the inscriptions are almost universally in English. The most popular include invented American colleges (Univ. of Cal. South, Texas Univ., etc., but never Notre Dame), and variations on Abercrombie and Fitch: A & Fitch, Abc. & F, A & F, Fitch, usually with dates in the 1920s. The lettering is frequently raised and frayed, to give it that "authentic" 1920s T-shirt look.
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3. DURACAK: When you are about to reach your bus stop, you struggle your way to your feet, fighting gravity, inertia and overcrowding, and press a red button on one of the metal rails that surround the interior of the vehicle. This alerts the driver of your intention to leave the bus. A lighted panel comes on above his head, reading DURACAK, and gives him an approximation of the exit door nearest to where you pushed the button. It also lets other passengers know that they were correct in waiting for you to fight their way up to push the button.
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Here’s my problem: “Duracak” is pronounced ‘doo-rah-jock’, so every time I push the button and the little sign lights up above the driver’s head, my brain sings, “Hit ‘doo-rah-jock,’ an’ don’t’cha come back no mo,’ no mo, hit ‘doo-rah-jock,’ an’ don’t’cha back no mo.’” ARRGGH!
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More Fonetik Spelinj:
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Akustik = Acoustic
Akvaryum = Aquarium
Biyoloji = Biology
Deterjan = Detergent
Dizayn = Design
Ekselans = Excellence
Etiket = Etiquette
Fisikal = Physical
Ingilizce = English
Kokteyl Sosis = Cocktail Sausage
Konferans = Conference
Konsantre = Concentrate
Lobi = Lobby
Meksika = Mexico
Milyon = Million
Pasifik = Pacific
Portekiz = Portuguese
Promosyon = Promotion
Ritim = Rhythm
Sosyal = Social

Meanderthal
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He walks at night, solitary, senses on edge. His eyesight, dim during the daytime, is enhanced by the darkness. His occasional companion is a large neighborhood dog (male, Golden Lab-Mastiff mix) that he has named Rufus. The Meanderthal has never given Rufus anything but love. Others leave him food, but shoo him away when he comes near. When the Meanderthal is walking with Rufus and others dogs or humans approach, Rufus growls a deep, menacing warning. Meanderthal has a friend.
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On a clear night, the Asian side of the Bosphorous looks to the Meanderthal like a huge black opal pendant viewed horizontally through a magnifying glass. The lights from the thousands of artificial light-sources behind the hills (east) create a sparkling, undulating skyline. From there to the water, the sharp colors of daytime blend into the softer hues of beige, orange and blue. Celebratory fireworks from behind the skyline add frequent, silent accents.
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The Bosphorous Bridge offers a free light-show every night. It is a huge suspension bridge, with an aerodynamic deck hanging on zigzag steel cables. Upon completion in 1973, it was the world’s longest suspension bridge outside the U.S.A. The pillars and all the cables are covered with alternating lights in primary colors. Therefore, the colors can be manipulated to blend into secondary and tertiary colors. The lights can also be flashed or tiled in different sequences, vertically, horizontally, diagonally, or in waves that change color several times in differing combinations of color and direction. All this takes place while vehicles are moving over the bridge at speed. If he were driving, the Meanderthal would not survive due to acute artistic distraction.
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Rufus visits Meanderthal during the daytime, when he is reading in the cemetery. For such a large dog, Rufus moves very quietly, and frequently surprises Meanderthal when he suddenly appears on a grave above him, snuffling a moist welcome. Meanderthal puts down his book (he’s been rereading Tolstoy's "War and Peace") and vigorously scratches Rufus under the chin. If Meandertahl returns to his book before Rufus feels he’s had enough scratching, he lets Meanderthal know by softly whining and nudging his shoulder with drool. Rufus is never refused more attention.
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Meanderthal has moved to another temporary shelter, away from his favorite haunts. He still walks at night, but without the black opal pendant, the lighted bridge and, especially, without Rufus.

The Floating Island

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Almost directly below our hilltop vantage point is a floating island, a large, rectangular, commercial platform anchored to the shale floor of the Bosphorous. This artificial island was constructed by an organization supporting a local, wealthy professional football team, Galatasaray (a compound word with five "A"s!). Galata* is a district of Istanbul on the north-eastern tip of the Golden Horn, originally a Genoese enclave. Saray is the Turkish word for "palace."
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The floating Galata Palace features four restaurants, a disco (with lights that flash so intensely that I worry for the epileptics), and an Olympic-sized swimming pool (empty in winter, illuminated with blue lights in summer; although I have seen people jogging around the decks, I have never seen anyone swimming in the pool). There must be all sorts of things I cannot see from my perch on the cliffs above. Maybe the Divine Ms. N. and I will make a visit before we move to Ulus (a district closer to the school) in July. All we have to do is make a reservation at one of the restaurants, walk down to the water, climb aboard one of the constantly circling shuttle boats, step aboard the Palace, announce our restaurant reservations (pretending to be tourists), then find unobtrusive reasons to go exploring. (I’m very good at doing this sort of thing very badly, but I apologize and blush well, and have yet to be arrested.) We’ll see ...
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Now that summer has arrived, the Galata Palace has become the host to frequent, annoyingly loud outdoor concerts. Hundreds of chairs are set up on the Asian side of the floating platform. A stage is constructed during the day and taken down the next morning (unless there is another cacophonausea event scheduled for the following evening). The stage, situated at the southern end of the platform, consists of three walls mounted with huge video screens that show ... what? Flashes of live performers? Videos from a simultaneous off-platform concert? I don’t care ...
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So many people attend these events that entrepreneurs consider it worth the expense to send out illuminated billboards aboard small motor boats. These craft feature brightly lit signs that scroll up and down with alternating advertisements. I cannot see what they are peddling, but it’s a good guess that chocolate is in there somewhere.
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*Being Christians, the citizens of Galata unsuccessfully tried to protect Constantinople during the siege of 1453 by stretching a heavy metal chain across the mouth of the Horn, preventing the Ottoman navy from entering this vital estuary. The chain worked for the simple reason that the Genoese ships, designed for deep waters and wind power, rose much higher above the water than the Turkish vessels. The Turkish boats had sails but depended more upon oar power (provided by slaves who were chained to their benches). So whenever the Turks approached the chain, the Genoese would rain down a hail of arrows on them that would thwart the attack. This tactic worked until Sultan Mehmet Fatih (Mehmet the Conqueror) ordered that the Turkish boats be hauled overland and refloated in the Golden Horn at its brackish western end. After that, Galata was doomed, the large sailing vessels trapped by their own chain. Pieces of the chain can still be found (and touched) at different museum sites around the city.

How to Park a Boat Along the Bosphorous

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Nancy and I have lived in a cozy apartment in a cliff-top hamlet (sans ham) above the Bosphorous for almost nine months now, and we have watched many boats and ships slip beneath us in the world’s most famous trans-continental waterway. We have crossed above the channel on its two great bridges many times (always slowly -- traffic is horrible here), and churned over its turbulent surface aboard ferries.
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In addition, I frequently walk along the European shoreline between the bridges, and have even ventured into the Sea of Marmara on an unplanned visit to the Prince’s Islands. Based upon these observations, I am now prepared to declare that there exists no such thing as a marina along the Bosphorous between the second bridge and the Sea of Marmara. FACT: boats along the Bosphorous must park perpendicularly.
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Huge vessels such as international tour ships (those gigantic, floating castles that, like bloated seafaring fairy godmothers, appear and disappear in the night) are allowed to sidle up to the shore and park in a parallel fashion. Also, the many state-run ferries and some gigantic yachts are permitted to park parallel to the concrete shores for two reasons: 1) If they parked perpendicularly, they would jut out too far into the Bosphorous and endanger other water traffic; and 2) I don’t know, but I’m sure a lot of money is involved.
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Boat Parking Procedures
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1) Small Boats (mostly independent fishers, but some serve as private water taxis; composition -- wood with cabin; crew, 1-2)
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Slowly approach the concrete shoreline until the bow makes a soft contact. Leave the motor running and the rudder straight. Carefully climb off the boat and tie it to the shore using the ropes you left there near the ancient, rusted cleats jutting from the concrete. Make sure your boat has a few sealed plastic bottles almost full of filthy brown water hanging from both sides; this will avoid lateral damage from the other small boats next to which you have parked when the winds increase. Climb back aboard, turn off your motor and then disembark the vessel, leaving it to the stasis of barnacle growth, mold, wood rot, and the curious currents above (carrying the cormorants and gulls), and below (carrying the jellyfish and plastic pollution).
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2) Medium to large-sized boats (almost always for rent from waterside agencies) or privately-owned motor launches, but including many multilevel, double-masted sailing vessels with bars on every deck, flat-screen TVs, and cheerfully seating more than the law permits; crew size is determined by the number of bars/renters.
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The following scenario takes place at night:
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Skipper: Turn on both forward and rear spotlights. (In the really cool boats, the rear lights include submerged black-lights, operating whenever the boat is ‘on.’ When such a boat is stationary, the jellyfish make a spectacular, southbound, luminescent parade of palpitating parachutes.) Slowly approach the rented buoy assigned to your parking slot. (The buoy is a metal, brightly painted, cone-shaped bobber larger than a 50-gallon oil barrel anchored to the floor of the Bosphorous by a thick metal chain).
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Deck Hand: Stand poised at the prow wielding a long pole with a hook at the end. Once the buoy is in sight, alert the Skipper.
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Skipper: At the Deck Hand’s call, shift the engine into neutral gear.
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Deck Hand: Carefully lunge for the clasp until you snag the buoy. This may take several passes, considering the winds and currents. Eventually attach the bow rope to the buoy. Remove the hook from the buoy clasp and replace the pole to its secured position.
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Skipper: Carefully begin backing the vessel toward your rented niche, pulling up the slack buoy rope.
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Deck Hand: Scamper aft, heaving the large, attached plastic bumpers overboard on one side. Wait until the boat is close enough to the shore for you to leap off safely. Jump ashore. Attach the stern ropes to the shore clamps. Jump back aboard before the Skipper shifts forward.
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Skipper: Shift forward and tighten the stern ropes.
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Deck Hand: Scurry forward, heaving the bumpers overboard on the other side, then pull in the slack from the bow rope.
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Skipper: Shift into reverse and tighten the bow rope.
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Deck Hand: Scamper back and tighten the stern ropes.
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Skipper and Hand: Repeat this procedure until the boat is securely triangulated between the buoy and the shore clamps.
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Deck Hand: Lower the gangway.
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Skipper: Turn off the engines, but leave the black-lights on so the departing guests can enjoy the jellyfish parade passing between the boat and the concrete shore.
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Skipper and Hand: After the guests have left the vessel, drink raki and smoke cigarettes. Don’t forget to turn off the black-lights.