Istanbul: mini Europe and Asia

Istanbul first caught my sight as my plane ascended slowly and soared toward Israel. Gradually, the city's bright light captured my attention outside the little plane window. The higher the plane flew, the more of the city I was able to see. A bustling expanse of yellow lights, shining and straddling the tips of two world continents. I liked it as soon as I saw it.

Four days later, I would have another opportunity to see the city from close up. Transiting in Ataturk International Airport, I had around six hours before my onward flight. A friend of mine told me I would be risking it if I rushed to the city centre and did some sightseeing and then rushed back to catch my flight. But then again, he did not know how good I am with directions, and he certainly did not know how acute my 'rat' senses are in finding my way around foreign places.

Within half an hour of landing, I was riding the light railway toward the Sultanahmet. The elevated train passed commercial parks, highways, and apartment blocks, between which huge Turkish flags draped and flew majestically in the wind. Like Israel, this was another country where patriotism is a national hobby, and where insulting the country or Turkish identity is (in)famously liable for a hefty prison sentence. Thankfully there was no for me mention the Armenian Genocide.

Transferring to the city tram that would snake further toward my destination was a easy, as I seem to have a natural affinity with public transport systems in whichever city. I stood there, amid rush hour traffic, blending into the crowd of commuters of veiled women, business men in suits, and trendy youngsters on their way to school. Outside, the scenery reminded me of any other large European city, the only difference being the language, and this indescribably sense of vibrancy and energy that hung in the air. Of course, this was only Istanbul, and not at all representative of the whole of Turkey. But I did not feel a stranger here more than anywhere else I have been in Europe. And is this diversity and acceptance of difference what many Europeans fear? Yellow taxis vied with buses, automobiles and motorcycles for limited spaces on the congested narrow streets. The modern public tram seemed to leave this all behind, as it swiftly moved forward.

I searched for a good place to get off... should I go take the ferry first, or go see the renowned Blue Mosque? Or perhaps the Great Bazaar, or take the old funicular railway up the hill? In the end, it was my hungry stomach, and the sight of a long queue outside a bakery that made the decision for me. Within minutes, I was munching on croissant-like buns, and washing it down with freshly squeezed carrot juice. Believe me, four days of eating nothing but matza crackers, matza buns, matza everything, any bread, especially freshly baked and still warm in your mouth, was a heavenly delight.

Spilling my carrot juice all over myself I wandered the streets of Istanbul. The wind was freezing, and I had only a light hoody and sweater on, which meant I was shivering on the outside, but excited on the inside. The mighty Bosphorus called with its winds and waves, and I was attracted to it immediately. Close to the embankment, I could see the city with its split personality, sprawlingly divided on three shores. Ferries rode the waves to and fro, as trams and buses rushed on the roads and pedestrians swarmed the pavements, hurrying on their way to unknown destinations. I stood and watched all this buzzing energy around me, as the city and its life started to grow on me and entice me even more.

I boarded a random ferry, and set sail with the seagulls that flew next to me, escorting me out into the open waters. On the map, it seemed like no more than a broad river that separates the city into two, but out there on the mighty waves and in the fierce winds, you could not but be awed by the immensity of this channel that not only marks the physical divide between Asia and Europe, but also links the Black Sea with the Marmara and Mediterranean. Behind us, the ferry trailed a white confusion of bubbles and foam. Around us, in the distance not so far away, lay a fascinating mixture of ancient fortresses matching descriptions in 1001 Arabian Nights. Here and there, dotted the soaring minarets of majestic mosques next to swarms of colourful buildings of all shapes and sizes, of origins Oriental and Occidental, with in the background a host of towering modern skyscrapers. Normally, before visiting a place I would have all the history and background of famous buildings mapped out in my head, but this ignorance from not knowing what I was looking at was a strange form of bliss. I could just sit back, relax, pull on my clothes to keep warm, and enjoy the scenery.

I wandered through the cobbled streets, unsure where I was going. But my feet somehow took me to a mosque (which I later learned was the New Mosque, built in 1663). Never have I been so close to a mosque before, and I carefully tread into the hallowed grounds. I looked up, admiring the beautifully carved domes, the sharp spires of the minarets, and the gilded crescent moon, visible behind a flock of lowflying pigeons... Suddenly, I felt something brush against my feet, which immediately gave me the creeps. I looked down, and saw a pair of green eyes look back at me, softly and seeking attention. A sweet brown and white cat had parked herself on my feet, and was butting against my knees with her head, miouwing softly. My first and only friend in Istanbul, who seemed to want to follow me wherever I went. Except, she somehow knew not to enter the mosque when I did.

The high domed roof and glass-stained windows, colourfully decorated tiles on ceilings and walls, exotically carpeted floors, gilded railings and attractive calligraphy inscriptions together were beyond words. In the serenity of the mosque, I felt I was intruding, but then again my lonely presence was rivalled by the commotion of a group of tourists that entered as I turned to leave.

I ventured in an unknown direction, letting my feet and instincts lead the way. In a grass field were dazzling blooming tulips, right before me in the land where they originated from (thus not the Netherlands, despite common misconception). Going further, I was led into narrow alleyways that fed into other sidestreets, which flowed into yet other lanes that were full of shoppers. All sorts of merchandise, from fresh food to cloth to daily appliances to delicatessens to souvenirs were on display, and lead the way towards the famous Grand Bazaar. If going to the local market in The Hague was exciting, the experience in the Bazaar was bewildering. All those smells, sights and sounds was dizzying to experience at once, and I was torn between slowly admiring it all and the urge to soon find a way to the tram that will shuttle me to catch my flight. After haggling for some cheap souvenirs, and increasing my luggage load, I sped toward the exit, into the lazy midday sun, pushing past crowds of shoppers and vendors, and eventually found the stop where I needed to be.

On I went to the airport, on my way home. But I made it a promise to myself that one day soon I would come back here again.