Istanbul: a digital postcard

Returned

Sometimes it’s easy for me to forget that, most of the time, when I travel, it is because I have a job to do! I get so swept up in the adventure. In the early days, as a freelance choral singer, I used to feel frustrated because we’d jet off to all these fabulous cities (yes, ‘jet’: always red-eye flights on budget airlines) but never have time to explore them. These days everything is much more civilised: I’m often spending a few days somewhere, either rehearsing with a local ensemble or performing something with a complicated set-up that requires advance days in the venue. The chance to explore a new place like this is a luxury.

And so to Istanbul. I did, indeed, get swept up in the hoped-for adventure of an epic train journey, but the whole adventure came about because of an invitation to perform in the New and Newer Music Festival. Held at the very stylish Arter museum/gallery/cultural space (they themselves avoid pinning down the definition), the festival launched just weeks before the pandemic stopped us all in our tracks. So this year was officially its fifth edition, but was really more like its second. It’s still building an audience, but there’s a lot to be excited about here: two great spaces in the beautiful building, adventurous curation, incredible hospitality from the team and a very engaged public.

Before work began, though, I had a glorious 36 hours of tourism. Upon arrival, Mark (my duo partner and intrepid travelling companion) and I hit the wayfaring hard, beginning with a cocktail, which led to a really very good meal at Yeni and then a late-night Raki-fuelled spontaneous and undoubtedly misguided improv session at a little bar. The owner kept saying to Mark “Brahms, please. Brahms!” with his hand on his heart and a longing look in his eyes. Mark dutifully played Schubert and then a bit of Satie, I think, but then the owner got out his Darbuka and it all got a bit wild. (I would tell you the name of the bar but his wife was filming the whole thing, and if we’ve gone viral it could only be for the wrong reasons so I really don’t want to know.)

The next day we had booked a private guide. I’ve never done that before, and it’s quite pricey, but my goodness, it was brilliant! Duygu of Istanbul Tour Studio tailored the itinerary to our priorities, helping us get to grips with the old city in 6 hours. We began early, at the Sultan Ahmed mosque (the Blue mosque), then took Turkish coffee in a madrasa before exploring the Topkapi Palace, bemoaning the current fate of the Hagia Sophia (from the outside), and suffering sensory overload at the Grand Bazaar and the spice market. Duygu dropped us at the ferry terminal from where we did a short trip to Kadiköy, on the Asian side of the Bosphorus. Back in the Galata district, we went on the hunt for the finest baklava known to man, and did some pretty thorough testing at Güllüoglu.

The Blue Mosque (outside and in), inside the harem of the Topkapi Palace & the obelisk of Theodosius (c.15C BC).

Apropos of my previous post, none of that was wayfaring, really. It was mediated and orderly. The wayfaring came two days later. I love the moment when I feel I know a city well enough to put away the maps and brave the public transport, and that’s what we did. We followed our noses to the Museum of Innocence, Orhan Pamuk’s thought-provoking flight of fancy, and then hopped on a tram to get hopelessly, wonderfully lost in the Grand Bazaar. I found my way back to one particular stall in the spice market and bought a LOT of Turkish delight and halva. I may well eat it all myself.

Istanbul is a great city. It has extreme contrasts side by side — awful glassy ‘90s towers beside ancient beauties; high-end commerce beside ramshackle stalls — and cats everywhere. Weirdly, though, it has no postcards. So I didn’t send any. It also has a roaring trade in ‘medical tourism’. Enjoying one’s breakfast is challenging when confronted by a parade of men with bandages or rubber bands on their brutalised heads, having just had hair transplants. The women, apparently, come for lip augmentation. It all makes me a bit queasy.

Whilst there I was reading The Turkish Embassy Letters, written by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, whose husband was the British ambassador to the Sublime Porte (1716-17). Her letters document her journey there and back BY CARRIAGE (which makes my train journey sound positively speed-of-light)! In one letter, she visits a hammam in Sofia and is moved by all the beautiful and varied naked female bodies whilst remaining in full eighteenth-century (Western) dress. Finally, she reports, she deigned to unbutton her shirt and show her ‘stays’ which, apparently, gave the local women proof of Western ladies’ unemancipated state. As ever, it’s all a question of perspective.

I’m now back on the trains, on my way to Cologne. Don’t expect many posts like this — I’m not trying to become a travel writer — but I thought I’d better wrap up the whole “I’m going to Istanbul!” saga with some sort of report.