A laundry had been built on the side of the house… a haphazard afterthought.
And a fig tree grew in the middle of it.  There was no proper roof on the laundry, only a sort of terrace built of wood with a hole left for the fig tree to triumphantly emerge, so that in summer, it could spread its glory outside the bedroom windows.  In winter rain must often have come through but because it was only a laundry no one seemed to care. Only in Istanbul could such a lovely, enchanting thing be found.

~~Irfan Orga
~~Portrait of a Turkish Family

 … where can such a place be found, this Istanbul?

…an Egyptian market of spices …salt that tastes of lemon …peppercorns …sticky mountains of roasted chili’s and spices amicably ground together that both scorch and cool the tongue …saffron …cloves …fruit leathers studded with pistachios and tasting of cinnamon …the arabica coffee of Kurukaveci Mehmet Effendi Madumlari, an exotic aroma filling the street like temporal incense inviting sin.  They’ve put out their tiny cups on kitchen tables already to boil the thick, sugary brew and savor it secretively behind the privacy of closed doors …this long cue of penitents waiting and waiting for the square brown paper wrapped packets …the anticipation of a dark blessing of one more cup …only one more.  Apricots and sultanas and figs and dates piled sky high and pistachios …pistachios …pistachios …red diamonds of hard cinnamon sugar that dissolve into glasses of sherbet, Turkish relief through the long afternoon.  The spice market …sprawling to outskirts of every-conceivable-tool seller …  Rüstem Pasa Camii sandwiched in between …the hidden stone staircase …the outer balcony with a view of the street …and inside …handpainted tiles of incredible beauty in blue …the circles of light …an invitation to turn inward …and men praying Muslim prayers toward Mecca on soft, worn carpets of intricate patterns …all by the side of the sea.

…carpets everywhere …in museums …in shops …in bazaars …in the look in the eye of the desperate salesman on the street who follows passerby asking, “Where are you from?” …the world’s languages on his tongue …English and Spanish, Arabic and Turkish, Russian …French …German …his own Tower of Babel encoded in patterns of Seljuks, Kilims, Holbeins, Sparta and silk Hereke …tales of Anatolia woven in bright colors and secret gardens of silk in pastel.  Pick one.  Buy one at any price.  Simply fly away …they are all magic.  Look for the grizzled old man below with the look of a storyteller selling salted, toasted hazelnuts from a cart.  Buy some.  He’ll cheat you so charmingly with a wink of the eye, that you’ll smile with happiness as you munch and, then, take off on your carpet again.

 …the skull and hand of St. John the Baptist, the gold leaf and jewels peeled back to expose the delicate carpal …not far from a tooth of Mohammed, the Prophet …one hair from his beard …a clay footprint …a sword …his mantle in a gold casket in a Holy of Holies where the silence is heavy with ritual and prayer …old Korans with baroque bookbinding …calligraphy that catches the eye …carries it along hypnotically, a flowing pilgrimage, that cannot leave simply by way of a door …near a harem of labyrinthine rooms and windows with kafes hiding the preferred ones from view …the silk …famous eunuchs …the jewels …the golden salvers of fruits …a passage of tinkling, tossed gold coins as the sultan arrives and passes the beloved …the hollow shell of Ottoman splendor long past above the blue Marmara that sparkles like sapphires and, laughing, gives up its secrets of Suleyman the Magnificent and conniving Roxelana …Selim the Sot drowning in a tub of champagne and royal princes driven mad as they lived out their lives in cages.

…and Eastern gardens of cypress and cedar …and fountains …green parrots, wings flapping, and columns of marble …some broken …some chipped and wind worn …puzzle pieces of parapets strewn idly on the grass …places long gone and carried away …Roman statues in lovely detail that startle and smolder just behind the eye …and cuneiform writing …Hammurabi …Marcus Aurelius …necropoli discovered by a farmer with a sarcophagus telling tales of Alexander and his Greatness …and a Medusa in underground Justinian cisterns supported by Ionian and Corinthian columns …dark …dank and dripping as fishes swim in the eerily lighted pools …and, above, winter roses that bloom in the gardens …in monasteries among the graves …along the cobbled streets that twist and turn toward the magical.

 …an endless supply of lokum everywhere …the Turkish Delight tasting of rose …hazelnut …pistachio.  Istanbullus popping square chunks into their mouths …watch the tilt of a head …the moment of reflection …the realization of  flavor …the private smile of satisfaction …then, a sip of blistering, sweet, dark, tannin-rich tea drunk from tiny  glasses of hourglass shape encircled with gold and resting on white saucers painted in patterns of red and of gold …the clink of a tiny spoon on the glass …an opulence of afternoon that stirs the memory and makes the heart beat fast.

…and where but Istanbul can you find an 84 carat diamond …discovered in the garbage and sold for the price of three common spoons?

 …follow the tram road to the Grand Bazaar past mosques and tiny museums…past moldering graveyards …shops.  Shopkeepers yell, “How much of your money would you like for me to take from you today?”  Just laugh and talk in any foreign language …they will understand. Read the signs in the streets…”buffes” and cafes and “lokantas” …”kebapcis”…”koftecis”…they all have aromas of lamb served up with yogurt …vegetables …bread.  Munch on a “simit” bought from a man selling the round sesame breads on  a wooden pole for one lira.  Pass the perfume seller with his tiny bottles and funnels …scents of Arabia on a street corner that conjure camels and tents and sensual silk ….find the seller of incense …laurel and sandalwood and lavender …savor the smell that reminds and remains.  Enter the bazaar …sit with the sellers and palaver over glasses of sweet apple tea …they are Turkish and Kurdish and Armenian and Albanian …you will learn of their struggles and they of yours …buy something small and beautiful …a scarf that makes you feel like a bride …earrings of amber and a painted camel bone box just for the mere joy of giving them away.

…have lunch in the smallest of “lokantas” down a street where the less willing don’t go.  Enter …they will smile and invite you upstairs where the closed world of men are eating.  No one will notice as you savor the lamb in your corner …your glass of raki.  After lunch they will bring a glass of tea and wash your hands with lemon eau-de-cologne poured straight from the bottle.  You haven’t spoken a word, only pointed, so they wish you a “Dosvidanya” …a friendly “Po’ka” that you answer in your own sniggering version of Russian, “Cvevo xoroshevo”…as you take the kindness of their smiles that have mingled with yours out into the street.   Trail through dusty bookstores …buy many books with tales of Turkey and Persia …without thinking how heavy the suitcase …the long journey ahead …then, forget “you shouldn’t eat that” and turn in for pastries …”borek” and “baklavaci” …rice puddings called “firin sutlac” and babas that seem to pour out onto the street …enjoy one moment of the sublime.

…where but in Istanbul …three-hundred-year old hammams.  Lock up your belongings and the constraints of disguise you present to the world in the camekan of tiny rooms with brass-fitted wooden doors and frosted windows. Enter the hararet …warm and inviting.  Open the patterned brass taps to fill the stone bowl.  Pour the warm water over your head from the silver hammam bowl …pour and pour and pour again until you are slick with warmth ….lay on the warm marble plinth …an old, Turkish “dallak” will scrub and scrub until, like a three-year-old, the delight of cleanliness arrives like a mother’s surprise she pulls out of her bag on the rainiest of days …and then, after rinsing …she will scrub your scalp until it hurts.  Lay in the marble cooling room covering yourself with a colorful cotton pestemal in a sudden burst of modesty …leave your body there and trail up to the vaulted ceiling …imagine …imagine.  Drink tea in the camekan …take a nap …too soon it will be time to leave.

…find the Aya Sofia.  Stand beneath the Roman magic of the dome that seems unsupported.  Climb the cobbled switchback to the gallery …look down …imagine Zoe and Theodora in all of their glory …how Constantinople place changed into a world of Islam …then,  think of nothing and more nothing …walk across to the Blue Mosque …take off your shoes …put them on the worn wooden shoe stand, cover your head …enter the silence …the tiles …the stained glass …the circular lights …think of everything and then forget and, then, return again …listen for the call to prayer as you wander the streets …the prayer without ceasing that marks the beginning of the day …heralds the night …an endless cycle that shamelessly cries out an unfettered exaltation of pain and joy, forsaking all, for the love of Allah in our weakness …our vulnerability.  Stand beneath the full moon …consider them both in their lighted brilliance …the Aya Sofia …the Blue Mosque …are we really so different?  Must we see things with eyes of hatred in our constant, unrequited “istiyorum” …our wanting …our unsettled human need that scratches at the door of our dissatisfactions …and never seems to go away without wanting the more and the more that gives us the less and the less?

Open the casement windows at night.  Let in the cold winter’s air that smells sweetly of baking bread and of acrid, burning lignite. Look out through the bars on to the stone walls of the street.  Rest your head upon the cool marble sill and listen to the longing in the cry of the muezzin …hear your own and understand it …rest on the embroidered coverlets of the divans with a view of the garden …in the still darkness allow your eyes to rest upon the cypress that invites you into the garden and the volunteer that grows next to it….the spindly, young thinness has been supported by a bamboo pole placed there by such a careful gardener.  It has been allowed  just to be. It is welcome here. Weep at its tender beauty. You may only come this way but once, after all …just once.  The cypress point to the sky…there are stars and a bright, silver moon.  It’s time to rest.  It’s time to sleep.