Freitag, 7. September 2012

Travels with my Aunt, Part 3 - Tante Trude in Istanbul


With the London Book Fair, summer holidays and so on, I still haven’t told you about the rest of Tante Trude’s and my adventures in Istanbul. Here you are.

The day after our arrival, sight-seeing began in earnest. Tante Trude wanted to see it all, but that is simply impossible. You wouldn’t know where to start. So my friend Celal and I decided we’d do it chronologically, which is a good idea, because Byzantium, Constantinople, Istanbul has such a very long history. Most of it is centred around the Golden Horn, which was used as a safe harbour for thousands of years, and from where the Bosporus could be controlled.

The sights of Istanbul are well known, so I will spare you a description of our itinerary. Tante Trude was enchanted and entranced. She ooh’d and aaah’d, and she loved every minute of it.

After three days of sightseeing and a certain amount of judicious shopping in the Grand Bazar, Tante Trude and I sat in a little café by the Bosporus, drinking tea and eating baklava.
 Sighing a little, she slipped her shoes off underneath the table and said:

“Well, dear boy, those were three interesting days. I don’t think I’ve seen so many lovely things in such a short time before. But now my feet hurt. I wonder why I never find a pair of really comfortable shoes.”

I didn’t like to tell her that her aching feet might have something to do with the weight they had to support. Instead I said:

“I know the very thing for weary bones. Let’s go to a hamam this afternoon.”

“A hamam? Is that like a sauna?”

Tante Trude doesn’t trust saunas because she thinks that they lead to all sorts of sinful doings, with men and women cooped up together (naked!!) in a hot room.

“No no, not at all,” I assured her, “a hamam is strictly divided between male and female sections. This is an Islamic country, after all. And I know the loveliest one in Istanbul. It’s the Cemberlitas Haman. It was built in 1584 by the famous architect Sinan, who also built the Fatih and the Süleymaniye Mosque and many other amazing places.”

So, on that afternoon, our driver dropped us at the sunken entrance to the hamam. It was built for the mother of Sultan Murad III, Nurbanu, and is situated on the Divanyoglu, the road leading to the Hagia Sofia and the Topkapi, at the entrance of the Grand Bazaar. We paid and Tante Trude was led to the women’s section, looking slightly apprehensive. I was given a tiny room with a couch in it, where I found a large “pestemal”, a cotton towel, which I wrapped myself into after undressing. The room was then locked and I went off to the “hot” area. The “sicaklik” contains a huge, heated marble platform, the “göbektasi (navel stone)” and is surrounded by twelve elegant arches. Marble screens inscribed with poetry enclose “halvets”, the even hotter private bathing chambers. This domed hall is one of a pair. Tante Trude was bathing in equal splendour next door.

I lay down and began to melt. Occasionally, one of the “tellaks” would empty a large bowl of hot water over me. When I was practically comatose, a wiry Turk arrived and began working up a huge lather with a “kese”, a rough sort of glove made from goat’s hair. He washed me from head to foot, using copious amounts of hot water and lavender-scented lather. After that he began a massage I’ll never forget. He new exactly where every muscle was, and kneaded it. It was painful in a relaxing way. After that I just lay there for a while, feeling utterly content. After a while I arose, somewhat groggily. I was swathed in many more pestemal and went to sit in the cool area. Here I was given tea and slices of oranges. I was utterly content, a feeling that the Turks call “keif”. When it became time to go and I was dressed again, and after the usual bakshish to all the people involved, I met Tante Trude in the foyer. She looked pink and scrubbed, and seemed to steam a little.

“Dear boy” she trilled “ I don’t think I’ve ever felt so clean before! That was marvellous! I’m so relaxed! And that nice fat massaging lady even spoke a little bit of German. We must do that again soon! And now I’m hungry.”

So I took her to a little restaurant behind the Süleymaniye Mosque, where they serve only a very special kind of bean soup, which is, as my friend Celal says, the best bean soup in Istanbul. I told her about Lady Mary Wortley Montagu who was the wife of the English ambassador at the Sublime Porte, and who also had only the highest praise for the hamam, and for the beauty of the women she had seen there. At this, Tante Trude grinned a little, and muttered something not too complimentary. Undaunted, I led on to Helmut von Moltke’s experience with the rejuvenating effects of the hamam in his “Letters on Conditions and Events in Turkey, 1835-39”, mentioned Joseph von Hammer-Purgstall, Mrs. Walker’s “Eastern Life and Scenery”, all of which praise the Turkish Bath in the highest terms. I was just drawing breath to go on with Leyla Saz’ “Imperial Harem of the Sultan” and Freya Stark’s “Sketch of Turkish History”, when Tante Trude said:

“Stop showing off, dear boy, and order me a Turkish coffee, sweet, and some halva.”

I did, and as we sat sipping our coffee, Tante Trude looked at the mosque, at the lovely graceful minarets and at the people of all the races of the world walking by and said:

“It was a lovely holiday. The things I saw! Really, Istanbul is a crossroads of the world. A modern European city and a Middle Eastern one at the same time. And the things they offer you!  What you can’t get here is not worth having. But I’ll bet you can’t get a pair of really comfortable shoes here either.”


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