Buying Silver

My latest obsession is buying silver beads to make earrings and other beautiful things. I usually buy them at the Tavuk Pazaar, near the Grand Bazaar. Tavuk means “chicken.” There aren’t any chickens in the bazaar anymore, but there are lots of silver and bead shops. Recently, I was disoriented (well, I’m often disoriented. I got myself lost and found yesterday for about 20 minutes between here and there. At least I was in an interesting place.) while looking for the bazaar. A random man sitting on a stool in the middle of the sidewalk asked if I wanted to go to the Grand Bazaar. I asked for directions to the Tavuk Pazaar. Another random man in a bright red sweatshirt asked me why I wanted to go there. When I told him, he said he had a silver atelier in the area. If I went with him, he would then take me where I wanted to go.
I assessed the situation quickly. I decided that if he tried anything, a good public “Shame on you!” would suffice to get rid of him. He took me across the tram tracks, down a side street, into an ugly building, up the ugly building stairs and buzzed us into the workshop. A group of men were working on various parts of silver rings, “Turkish Bulgari.” After a tea, a chat about teaching English and a gander through their catalogue of relatively ugly merchandise (the rings were nice), Aslan guided me to the Chicken Bazaar.
After I had purchased a handful of silver beads, I managed to communicate that I wanted some silver wire. Aslan steered me down a smaller side street to his friend’s workshop. We walked into a dirty corridor and entered a small room where four men were working diligently. One was carving the final details into molded silver crosses. Another was shining something. Yet another was using a huge punch press to make Turkish flag symbols, the crescent moon and star, out of a narrow sheet of silver. Each moon and star fell neatly into a box.
Aslan spoke to his friend who measured a few meters of wire. It was too thick, so we ventured to another side street to an even dirtier little room. His friend put the rolled wire onto a metal thing and fired it up with a blow torch. Then he attached it to a machine that spun and stretched the wire. After I deemed it perfect, I paid the man a whole YTL and we made our way to the street.
About this time, Aslan started to take my arm and repeat my name. Time for my exit. My usual line for anyone trying to sell me something or for whenever I really want to leave is “My friends are waiting for me in Taksim.” Sometimes, I have to repeat this line several times before I can disentangle myself. Aslan headed me toward the tram and on his merry way back to work.

A Visit

My parents came for a visit recently. It’s strange to see family and friends here, but strange in a good way. Usually I go to see them, or describe to them the places I find interesting. In many ways, we have no idea what each others’ lives are like. It’s a relief, in fact, that my mom and dad have seen where I live, and now know that I’m no more in danger of contracting bird flu or being attacked by terrorists than they are. Now they really know I don’t live in the Middle East. What’s normal to me, though, is sometimes little surprising, and maybe sometimes uncomfortable for them. For example, my dad often remarked upon the number of mosques and had many questions about Muslims. At times I found it kind of frustrating, yet on the other hand it’s understandable. We have a very unbalanced view of Turkey in the US. (Frankly, I never thought about Turkey much before I moved to Istanbul, except to be jealous of friends who came here on archaeological digs, and to want to see Haghia Sophia after having taught about it so many times.) More importantly, I think they now understand why I want to stay. Instead of thinking that maybe I’m running away from something, I actually have a place here and (big gasp) a purpose for staying.

Walking with Nevzat Photos

The door on the left is to a chapel, on the right, a church.

Inside the church

The yellowis bit is part of a cross, now damaged, on the ceiling. It's surrounded by medallions and what appear to be twisted vines.

The church door.

Nevzat showed me where his family has land, where he used to ride on the thresher when he was a kid because it was fun. This little church is on one of those plots. You can still tell where fruit s and vegetables were planted on the now relatively abandoned land. He said that when his grandparents were alive, the church was intact, therefore the interior wasn't exposed as it is now. One day, part of the church fell down. They cleared the rocks from the church wall, and continued farming. Unfortunately, there are no photos of the undamaged church.
If you look carefully, you can see that the small windows are blocked. Clever little birds made their mud nests in them, with a little entry tunnel.

I refused to climb into this chapel. To be precise, my knees refused. Nevzat found toe-holes and made it up the slope without trouble. Most Turkish names mean something; rain, freedom, warrior... I think in the remote past, Nevzat meant slightly crazy goat.

I asked how the monks managed to get up the hill. Apparently, it was much easier these many centuries ago because the ground level has sunk considerably.

Nevzat took this picture. I can't take credit for it.

Rock formations

The lower floor was used for bees.

In a chapel

A chapel dome

I can't tell you the names of the little churches and chapels because they have none.

A house

Once a chapel, then a dove cote, now eroded.

Looking towards Uchisar

A four-story dove cote in Pigeon Valley

Walking with Nevzat

While my parents rested at the hotel, I took another walk with Nevzat. We started in Pigeon Valley, looped around Uchisar, crawled in cave homes, up and overlooking valleys with vastly different rock formations, crossed through water tunnels, passed little springs, rambled through the trees and climbed into churches and chapels. The fruit flowers were blooming, little birds were singing and the tortoises were procreating. It doesn’t look like a comfortable thing for them, but they did it with gusto, clacking their shells against each other’s. We said hello to people working in their gardens, some of them in the middle of nowhere. I wondered how they got their produce to their homes. When the ground was a bit slippery or steep, Nevzat held his hand out for me, palm up. I felt like a lady. I wondered if anyone saw us from a distance, and what they thought of such a delicate gesture.
For four and a half hours, we walked. I’m most interested in the chapels and churches, the buildings sculpted out of rock, the thought and planning that has to go into extracting rather than adding material to form a little dome, a pilaster, an altar space. Some of the chapels had little tombs cut out of the rock floors, the bodies long gone. Some had painted walls and ceilings. I try to imagine the depth of faith a monk had to have to carve out a space and isolate himself from the world, or of the coming and going of people in the landscape. Four and a half hours later, I returned to the hotel, sunburned, sore and very happy.

Balloon

I could go on and on about what an inexplicable experience a sunrise balloon ride in Cappadocia is, about how vertigo isn’t an issue because the ground gently falls away from you, about nearly touching trees, about floating in silence except for the gush of gas and flames and hot air, about heat on the back of your neck. I could. But I won’t.

Tulips

Every Spring, Istanbul has a Tulip Festival. Thousands of tulips are planted along the roads and in parks. The flowers and the return of the herons to Gulhane Park are signs that a new season has finally begun. Here’s to Spring.