As a reward for sending a slew of CVs and cover letters yesterday, and because today is, if not technically at least in reality, the last day of vacation, I decided to explore an area of Istanbul I had never seen. In the current issue of Cornucopia, an upscale magazine about Turkey (some think it’s too chichi, I like the photos) there is a short article on Itfaiye Caddesi. Running parallel to Atatürk Bulvari, it is apparently a place where many from Southeast Turkey have immigrated. According to the article, you can hear Arabic spoken in the neighborhood. Additionally, it is peppered with Byzantine churches. Most importantly perhaps, there you can find excellent honey in the comb. These are three things that please me: listening to Arabic, (I don’t understand a thing, but I’m used to it) Byzantine churches and the honey I have just recently learned to appreciate.
I armed myself with a detailed map of the area ripped out of a magazine. Often, maps are useless to me. I couldn’t find my way out of many bathrooms with one. I always have to turn them upside-down or sideways to match the direction in which I am going. My sense of direction is nearly hopeless so I rely on large monuments to guide me. Still, when I successfully follow a map, I pat myself on the back.
There was no back patting today, not yet. As I was walking down Itfaiye Caddesi (I got there by accident) I stopped to locate a museum which was across the street on my torn out map. An old man clutching prayer beads stopped and asked me where I wanted to go. After several attempts at telling him, he motioned to his ears, shook his head, took a folded piece of paper out of his canvas case, and motioned for me to write. Haaaa (this means “now I understand"). He’s deaf. I wrote the name of a Byzantine church for which I was also looking. I didn’t want to look stupid because the museum was within sight just across the street. Regardless, or possibly because of our difficulty communicating, he took the map from my hands, motioned for me to follow him and stepped out into traffic. Unable to tell him that my PTSD (due to being struck by a car several years ago) now and then rears its ugly head, I followed. Apparently there is a god who protects small children and elderly deaf men. And me, but only by association. He stopped a man standing in a store front to ask directions. The man didn’t know, but closed the door and took us down the street to what I believe was an emergency vehicle station. The emergency vehicle man looked carefully at the map, circled a place on it, gestured as he gave us directions and wished us a good day. I could pinpoint the moment he understood that before him was a Tarzan-Turkish-speaking foreigner being led by a deaf man by the subtle change in his expression. There was no disrespect, just curiosity. I had an image in my head of three blind cartoon mice.
My new friend and I ventured, he with a slight limp, a tilt, an occasional stumble and a giggle, across Atatürk Bulvari. Clearly, he is not fazed by regular suicide missions. I was pretty sure the church was in the other direction, but he was already halfway across the street. We stopped frequently to ask the location of the old neighborhood church. He stuck his head in several stores, loudly declaring "Yaaabanci (yabanci means foreigner) wants to know…" I think he was enjoying his position as tour guide. At one point, he walked into an open door onto someone’s private property. Unaware of the barking German shepherd and the house owner, he tried to get directions from a woman and small child. The owner looked at me quizzically. I pointed to my guide, my ears and shook my head. After the man gave us directions he left, only to pull up beside us in his car. All of us had a good laugh before we were deposited at a parking lot facing a small, brick, Byzantine church turned mosque. It was lovely and unexpected, with remnants of mosaics in the small pumpkin domes. The interior was painted a pristine white. It was not, however, Zeyreki Kilisesi.
I armed myself with a detailed map of the area ripped out of a magazine. Often, maps are useless to me. I couldn’t find my way out of many bathrooms with one. I always have to turn them upside-down or sideways to match the direction in which I am going. My sense of direction is nearly hopeless so I rely on large monuments to guide me. Still, when I successfully follow a map, I pat myself on the back.
There was no back patting today, not yet. As I was walking down Itfaiye Caddesi (I got there by accident) I stopped to locate a museum which was across the street on my torn out map. An old man clutching prayer beads stopped and asked me where I wanted to go. After several attempts at telling him, he motioned to his ears, shook his head, took a folded piece of paper out of his canvas case, and motioned for me to write. Haaaa (this means “now I understand"). He’s deaf. I wrote the name of a Byzantine church for which I was also looking. I didn’t want to look stupid because the museum was within sight just across the street. Regardless, or possibly because of our difficulty communicating, he took the map from my hands, motioned for me to follow him and stepped out into traffic. Unable to tell him that my PTSD (due to being struck by a car several years ago) now and then rears its ugly head, I followed. Apparently there is a god who protects small children and elderly deaf men. And me, but only by association. He stopped a man standing in a store front to ask directions. The man didn’t know, but closed the door and took us down the street to what I believe was an emergency vehicle station. The emergency vehicle man looked carefully at the map, circled a place on it, gestured as he gave us directions and wished us a good day. I could pinpoint the moment he understood that before him was a Tarzan-Turkish-speaking foreigner being led by a deaf man by the subtle change in his expression. There was no disrespect, just curiosity. I had an image in my head of three blind cartoon mice.
My new friend and I ventured, he with a slight limp, a tilt, an occasional stumble and a giggle, across Atatürk Bulvari. Clearly, he is not fazed by regular suicide missions. I was pretty sure the church was in the other direction, but he was already halfway across the street. We stopped frequently to ask the location of the old neighborhood church. He stuck his head in several stores, loudly declaring "Yaaabanci (yabanci means foreigner) wants to know…" I think he was enjoying his position as tour guide. At one point, he walked into an open door onto someone’s private property. Unaware of the barking German shepherd and the house owner, he tried to get directions from a woman and small child. The owner looked at me quizzically. I pointed to my guide, my ears and shook my head. After the man gave us directions he left, only to pull up beside us in his car. All of us had a good laugh before we were deposited at a parking lot facing a small, brick, Byzantine church turned mosque. It was lovely and unexpected, with remnants of mosaics in the small pumpkin domes. The interior was painted a pristine white. It was not, however, Zeyreki Kilisesi.
We stopped to look at two tombstones; one of the poet Necati Beyin Kabridi (I think), the other of the historian/ philosopher Katip Celebi. My guide silently uttered a short prayer.
On the other side of the boulevard and up the hill, I noticed a Byzantine dome. I gestured to it. My friend started to cross the busy street without looking again, so I pulled on his sleeve and pointed to an underground passage. Up the hill, around a café and past a series of ancient columns. This indeed was the correct church. We attracted enough attention – my friend speaks very loudly – so that, although the church turned mosque turned museum was closed, the man holding the key agreed to let us enter. According to a sign, the building has been recognized as a UNESCO Heritage Site, and I have recently learned that restoration on it has been halted due to lack of funds. Unfortunately, photographs of the interior are forbidden. I would love to have images of the brick walls and high domes, all in various states of decay. There are seven extant original floor mosaic motifs, one of which is visible when a sort of fake grass colored rug is pulled aside, a padlock is unlocked, and a small wooden door is raised. This one is of Samson getting his hair cut.
My guide and I silently agreed on a sort of communication by writing on a piece of paper, nodding and gesturing. I learned that he is 76, has been in Istanbul for 55 years but had never seen Zeyreki Kilisesi before, studied law and became deaf sometime during a bout of meningitis and TB. The whole time, I kept hoping that he would not ruin the experience by asking if I had a husband, if I had kids, or telling me about an estranged wife. An Italian man of the same age would give me a sad marital story before giving me a wink and a nudge. As if. As far as I can tell, there was no hint of such hopes on this fine day. For that, I was very grateful, particularly because this man apparently has no fear.
Following a short bus ride, we went to another small Byzantine church turned mosque. He motioned for me to follow him behind the building to look at brickwork, a bit of sculpted marble and the height to which the ground has risen since the church was built. As I was taking photos, he motioned me to a building across the street with a cultural center in it. After climbing four floors – the man is quite nimble for one with a slight limp and a tilt - he knocked on a few doors until someone opened for us. Apparently, we interrupted some kind of meeting, but were welcome after I was introduced as a teacher who wanted to take pictures from the balcony. We were offered tea and a mercemek köfte, a kind of meatball made with red lentils. One of the men in the meeting gave me a quick tour of the center, pictures of folk dancers and their website address.
Sensing that I might otherwise find myself in all of the Byzantine churches turned mosques in the near vicinity and needing to buy dirt and hay before the stores closed, (a person needs hay for bunnies and more dirt to grow parsley for them) I wrote that I was going to Taksim to meet friends. Certainly, my grammar was far from perfect, but he understood. Since I can’t pat myself on the back for my map-reading skills, I will for my level of Turkish. I realized that I know more than I thought, and might actually be able to use the future tense correctly every once in a while. But I wasn’t allowed to leave quite yet. Across the street from the church is a Federation for the Deaf where I was introduced to a group of men who clearly have respect for my new friend. Tea in a café followed (Simitizza anyone?). Soon, we were writing bits and pieces on the paper. We finally introduced ourselves, and Remzi wondered why I have a Jewish name if I’m not. He also wrote me a little note, part of which I understood and concerns visiting the buildings designed by Mimar Sinan. I have been instructed to have a Turkish friend translate the whole thing for me. Not one wink or nudge.
Oh, I did hear Arabic spoken in a garage-like structure where several men were building cheap particle board desks, but I didn’t have the chance to buy any honey.
2 comments:
What an adventure! Who needs honey when there's such beautiful byzantine architecture?
So if little old ladies are lol's, are little old men lom's?
What fun! You had me laughing out loud, especially at the notion of god protecting you by association!
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