Bourdain’s footsteps

I’m sitting outside at a spot that Anthony Bourdain visited. It’s near Taksim Square, a bustling area in Istanbul. I have a lamb kebab plate inbound. Across the cobblestone road is a beautiful old decaying building — crumbling roof, falling to pieces. There’s much commotion around me. A table full of young men and women in suits, eating kebabs and drinking ayran. I’m drinking it too — the salty yogurt beverage that’s popular in Turkey.

It’s wild that Bourdain was here. I believe the only other place I’ve been to that Bourdain has visited is a pub in Dublin — John Kavanagh The Gravediggers pub, next to Glasnevin cemetery. That was one of the most memorable experiences of my life. It was a rainy day in Dublin. I hiked through the city to visit the cemetery and adjacent pub. I got there, and rainbows adorned the sky above the cemetery — quite the juxtaposition, although I find cemeteries beautiful, and worth visiting when traveling. I got an impromptu tour from an enthusiastic local who seemed to just want somebody to share his obscure knowledge with, then had a Guinness next door, at the pub where Bourdain recommended the pig’s feet dish. He wrote in the visitor’s book, “Heaven looks like this.”

Bourdain — one to get down and dirty on his forays into the unknown. I think would be proud of where I’ve been and what I’ve done.

The wrong team

My friend and I get tickets to a soccer match for one of the local Istanbul teams, Beşiktaş J.K. To save a few shekels, we get tickets to sit in the away section. After circumnavigating the entire stadium trying to find our way in, we finally reach the away section, high in the stands, surrounded with a cage. We stick out like sore thumbs. A slew of local cops sit in the section with us, wearing helmets and holding riot shields (although they themselves are quite laid back, eating candy and chatting).

Sensing our tension, one of the cops gives us both a cookie. That makes us feel better. However, when trying to leave ten minutes before the end of the match to beat the rush, we’re barred exit by more cops, saying that we have to wait for the entire stadium to clear before we can go.

The away team wins the game in a thriller, 2–1. I don’t know whether this is good or bad. Good, since we’re with the winning fans. Bad, since we’re in the city of the losing fans.

We have to wait forty-five minutes in the exit hall with this rowdy away crew, who chant and bang drums, while we, buttoned up and out of place, stand off to the side, awaiting our release.

Lesson learned: don’t skimp on the home team tickets.

Colors of the mosque

In the afternoon, I pass across the Golden Horn — the waterway that splits the European side of Istanbul in half. I pass the fishers lined up on the bridge, all vying to catch the small fish drifting below. Once on the other side and into the old city, I climb through shadowed passageways where vendors sell nuts, desserts and spices, ranging in color from pastel white to auburn red and chestnut brown. The pathways are crowded and smoky. Light filters through the makeshift roofs, shining in our eyes. It’s a mess. I’m glad when I’m out. After climbing up several roads lined with shops selling junk, unsure of where I’m going, I finally arrive at a lovely mosque.

A place of solace. The majestic structure is surrounded by green lawns and cats relaxing in the sun. It’s peaceful. The cats run through the marble statues and tombstones like it’s a playground. Flowers stand out against the subdued hues of white decaying marble, more beautiful because of the time that’s passed.

I get here, and of course, there are some girls with a tripod taking photos in front of the mosque. Babies crying. Lots of people strolling. I take a seat on the outer wall. Exhausted after the long walk. After relaxing for a bit, just looking at the mosque, admiring it, and taking a photo, I realize I’m sitting in some gathered water.

The woman next to me is just looking at me, as if wondering what I’ll do. I kind of smirk. My hat is wet, and my bandana, and the bottom of my pants. I don’t really care. That’s what happens. These are the kinds of moments where you just don’t know what’s gonna happen when you’re traveling. The kind of moments where you go through a stressful period, and then you find a place that’s beautiful, and you find you can just relax. Take a breath. There’s nothing to do. Nothing you have to see. You don’t have to take a photo. Don’t have to go inside. I may just sit there on the outside, admiring the architecture, taking in the sun.

After a bit, I stroll to the other side and sit in a stone window of the outer wall, crisscrossed with hushed green iron bars. The leaves and trees are honey yellow against the crisp blue sky. Autumn leaves lay scattered across the grass. Black crows caw; I’m nourished by the dark pine trees and fresh air.

Lots of beautiful color today. Dark red — of brick walls and the ubiquitous fluttering Turkish flag; emerald green lawns and hanging grapevines over charming cafes; the sky a brilliant blue, and the top of mosques a deeper blue, like the sea. I like the color of the mosques, stone white.

I take in the view of the city and think about how the water feels like the heart of Istanbul. I look at it as if at a painting from the mosque on the hill that I really love. The central point of the city, to me, feels like it’s in the middle of the river, and the land and the people converge around it. It’s really interesting.

Fish wraps and ayran

Wraps are big here in Turkey. Kebabs, with whatever meat you want, and fish wraps, which I don’t know if they’re just an Istanbul thing. But they’re found all over by the river.

On our first day, we luckily stumbled upon what seems to be the best one. Famous, the guy running it told my friends and me. Well, after two weeks here and probably ten of these things, I’m homies with the fish wrap guy, dappin’ him up when I walk in. He smiles when he sees me enter the line behind many tourists. When I get to the front, I tell him I tried another fish wrap spot — I had to compare another one to this one. Yours is the best, I tell him. He goes, number one. I think it might be. I get ayran with the fish wrap and eat in the alleyway, off to the side, as tourists and locals cruise on by.

Shakshouka and Turkish tea

I just had a fish wrap at the spot, with ayran. I’m planning on going to Moda, across the river on the Asian side, but what’s the rush? So I stop for tea at a hole in the wall — literally five-by-five feet, just a kitchen and room for a couple of tiny tables. I’m sitting at one of these little tables drinking tea, and I take out my phone to take notes, but then I put it away. I’m here to write in my journal, not on my phone. The man running the shop has a big smile on his face that I’m in here. He asks if I want the shakshouka and points to the wall with the picture. I can’t really resist. Sure.

He notices me writing in my journal and smiles, then speaks Turkish. He then shakes my hand, smiling big. The black Turkish tea is lovely. It’s not too bitter, and I really like the little glass cups they come in. Black tea in these hourglass-shaped glasses are ubiquitous all over Istanbul, and probably Turkey.

A young man walks in, smokes a cigarette. He makes me more tea, probably the other man’s son. Then another man comes in. The space is right on the street, basically part of the sidewalk. The man’s wearing a blazer, aviator shades, looking dapper. He sits down on the little stool and is served tea without asking. He sits and sparks a cigarette and starts playing with his red worry beads. I’ve been looking around the city to get some for myself. I got some in Greece when I went after college for my graduation trip. You see older gentlemen just walking around with them in their hands. I feel like it’s a comfort to them. But you could buy them at any little tourist shop. I wanted to find a special one. But if I don’t find them, it’s okay.

The shakshouka comes. It looks homemade. Hot, delicious, sizzling in a metal pan. A big plate of bread too, soft and warm. I mop it up completely, every bite. Another guy shows up, and they all start talking quickly in Turkish. I’m just eating the shakshouka, dipping the warm bread. I can’t tell whether they’re arguing. I think this is just the way their conversations are.

The prayer plays in the background, loudly. I’m still getting used to that. If you just saw me in this scene, everyday life in Istanbul, the guys just talking amongst themselves, the prayer blasting through the city, and then me, sitting on this little stool, drinking tea, my journal on the table, and mopping up some shakshouka, it would be pretty funny. This is the shit that I love.

The guys eventually notice, perhaps, that something is different. Who am I? And I didn’t think they spoke English, but the dapper gentleman asked me where I’m from. I say USA. He smiles. I think he respects that I’m in here too. It does not seem like a place where tourists come, because local experiences like these are intimidating — but they’re the best.