After a painfully long 24-hour flight and a confusing connection through Shanghai (take note: it’s a policy of the airport that all passengers have to pass through a ‘special’ immigration, collect their baggage and then re-check in for international connections) I finally landed in Istanbul in the early hours of the morning. After transferring to the Best Western President Hotel just down the road from the Grand Bazaar - an upgrade for a backpacker like myself who’s more accustomed to rugged guesthouses and 12-bed dorm rooms – and catching up on a little sleep, I took to the city in the afternoon to get a feel for the place.
My first impressions of Istanbul turned me into a blushing schoolgirl, such was its unabashedly cheeky charm. Charm is something Istanbul is bursting with; it oozes from its every pore. From the ever-helpful waiters to the chatty taxi drivers to the playful banter of the vendors in the bazaar, each one flashing the same mischievous grin.
I’m not exactly new to this attention. It’s the same for foreigners (especially single females) in many countries: the smiles, the blush-inducing compliments, the of-course-I’m-joking-except-I’m-not-really proposals, and the constant stream of invitations to parties and offers of tea. But Istanbul succeeds where so many others fail, for these tricks and quips seem none-the-less genuine. The smiles, persistent and never-ending, seem genuine.
I learn this as I intuitively accept an invitation to join a gentleman for tea whilst strolling through the Grand Bazaar. In the stew of tourists that is the Bazaar, I was certainly not the first person he had approached that afternoon. I was, however, the first to accept, and I admit, as I clambered up the stairs of his little carpet shop I prepared myself for the inevitable – the sales spiel, the guilt-inducing hard sell or, worse, the diatribe about how ‘beautiful’ I am and how I should be married, at which point a son or cousin, single of course, would promptly appear with more tea. Before you begin to question the size of my ego, let me assure you that my fears are well placed – this has happened, not only to me, but to many a backpacker, on many previous occasions, and not, I’m afraid to say, because of my overwhelming charm or beauty.
But here’s the strange thing – none of the
above happened. Not at all. We drank sweet apple tea and talked about our
lives. We discusses my host, Ersin's, travels throughout Europe and about my
own reluctance to stay in one place. He carefully pronounced Turkish phrases
for me that I scribbled into my notebook. On hearing my tales of my hopeful
writing career he presented me excitedly with a copy of National Geographic
Traveler from March 2007 where his carpet store was featured in an article and
I laughed at the irony of finding the only carpet salesman that had made it
into the pages of the magazine I would most like to be published in.
Not once was I offered a carpet. Not once
was I interrogated about my (lack of) marital status, although of course the
question was asked. Instead he simply gave me his card and told me to call him
if I ever got into any trouble in Istanbul. “You need anything, you have any
problem, anyone hassles you, you call me,” he reassured me and I wandered off
into the market feeling like I had genuinely made an ally in this crazy city.
After my encounter and lunch at a crowded
café where, being starving and jetlagged I chickened out of mystery food and
ordered spaghetti bolognaise (a delicious yet distinctly un-bolognaise
concoction of minced beef and freshly chopped salsa), I hit the streets again to
get my bearings.
Istanbul has the kind of streets that sweep
you up in their arms and carry you deep into the maze. Before you know it
you’re tripping over cobbles and clambering steep slopes, getting more and more
lost. Which is exactly how I spent my first afternoon, weaving through the
backstreets that seemed to intersect at all angles; wandering through bustling
squares where kids were buying little plates of grain to feed the pigeons and
ducking through market stalls and shops that appeared to sell everything under
the sun.
Miraculously - and perhaps this is another
element of Istanbul’s unfailing charm - after a good few hours of wandering
aimlessly and breathlessly through streets unknown and starting to get that
sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that tells me I really should figure
out where the hell I am, I found myself stood at the foot of the Istanbul
University. Just across the street from my hotel. Beginners luck, good
intuition or a plain miracle, my meandering had somehow taken me in a big loop,
all the way from my hotel through the Bazaar to the riverside, past a zillion
beautifully decorative mosques and now, right back where I started. I can’t
help but think that Istanbul has something more than just charm; there’s an odd
magic underfoot, seemingly guiding me through its folds. Guess I’ll just have
to sit back and let it sweep me off to wherever it wants to take me.
